Does not Homer tell us how, when Poseidon was helping the Greeks, the Queen of Heaven, the Lady Here, who was also on their side, saw her lord Zeus grimly watching from the heights of Ida over the Trojan host? How to close his eyes and gain time? The God of Sleep she suborns by promising to give him as his bride the beloved of his heart, the youngest of the Graces, fair Pasithae. The Goddess is Queen of all Majesty, yet she has but too good reason to know that Majesty by itself has lost its power over the Cloud-compeller; so she begs of Aphrodite the loan of her cestus, the magic girdle which holds the secret of all those alluring charms which make love irresistible. Armed with this and having Sleep as her ally, she seeks her lord, and with sweet dalliance beguiles him into oblivion on the mountain-top. “Then the divine earth sent up a carpet thick and soft of newly-budding grass, dew-sprinkled lotos, crocus and hyacinth” (Iliad, XIV.). Homer must have seen this wonder and invented the pretty fable of Here’s wiles to account for this unexpected garden of wildings. To deny Homer or Shakespeare is a crime of high treason against the Majesty of Genius. For my part, in these days of acute criticism, when all faith is shattered and torn to shreds, I am not ashamed to confess that I am yet old-fashioned enough to believe in Homer, and to love the old fables of the gods and goddesses, call them sun-myths or moon-myths, or what you will. To me Agamemnon, Achilles and Ajax; Priam, Hector, Andromache, Paris and dear, beautiful, naughty Helen, _teterrima belli causa_, are still real actors on the world’s stage, who among these glades and forests and sweetly watered dells and plains played their parts in a great drama which has been the joy of countless generations and will be the joy of generations that are yet to come. Of how much pleasure and beauty does not too much learning rob us! Is it not enough that a thing is beautiful? Why turn diamonds into charcoal? If we might reverse the process there would be some sense in it. At a pass on the top of a spur of the mountain range we came upon an excellent illustration of the eight-hours’ system. At a point where caravans cross the mountain there was a little hut with a tiny vegetable garden. It was occupied by three Zebecs, guardians of the peace, and in some fashion customs officers. They divided the twenty-four hours between them. While one slept, another mounted guard, and the third robbed any unarmed travellers who might pass that way. We had luncheon in their hut; the coffee and cigarettes were of the best—manifestly the spoils of the Egyptian. Refreshed and enriched with a store of happy memories, we came down upon the Bay of Adramyttium. The richly wooded gorges of the southern slope of the mountain were, if possible, even more beautiful than the Trojan side. We slept at Ardjelar, and next day took boat to Assos.