Very different were the conditions of life in the Homeric age. Then
the wealthy man's house was a little world in itself, capable of
supplying all the simple wants of its inhabitants. The women spun wool
and flax, the produce of the estate, and wove them into cloth and
linen, to be dyed and wrought into garments by the same skilful hands.
On the sunny slopes of the hills within sight of the doors the grapes
were ripening against the happy time of vintage, when merry troops of
children would bring them home with dance and song to be trodden in
the winepress. Nearer at hand was the well-kept orchard, bowing under
its burden of apples, pears, and figs; and groves of grey olive-trees
promised abundance of oil. In the valleys waved rich harvests of wheat
and barley, which were reaped, threshed, ground, and made into bread,
by the master's thralls. Herds of oxen, and flocks of sheep and goats,
roved on the broad upland pastures, and in the forest multitudes of
swine were fattening on the beech-mast and acorns.
And the owner of all these blessings was no luxurious drone, living in
idleness on the labour of other men's hands. He was, in the fullest
sense of the word, the father of his household. His was the vigilant
eye which watched and directed every member in the little army of
workers, and his the generous hand which dealt out bountiful reward
for faithful service.
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