grisly ferryman, frightful and foul—Charon; his chin an
uncleared forest of hoary hair; his eyes a mass of flame;
while his uncleanly garb hangs from his shoulders, gathered
into a knot. With his own hand he pushes on the craft 10
with a pole, and trims the sails, and moves the dead
heavily along in his boat of iron-gray, himself already in
years; but a god’s old age is green and vigorous. Towards
him the whole crowd was pouring to the bank: matrons
and warriors, and bodies of mighty heroes discharged of 15
life, boys and unwedded maidens, and youths laid on the