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BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY
THE AGE OF FABLE
Revised by Rev.E. E. Hale
CONTENTS
Chapter I
Origin of Greeks and Romans. The Aryan Family. The Divinities
of these Nations. Character of the Romans. Greek notion of
the World. Dawn, Sun, and Moon. Jupiter and the gods of
Olympus. Foreign gods. Latin Names.-- Saturn or Kronos.
Titans. Juno, Vulcan, Mars, Phoebus-Apollo, Venus, Cupid,
Minerva, Mercury, Ceres, Bacchus. The Muses. The Graces.
The Fates. The Furies. Pan. The Satyrs. Momus. Plutus.
Roman gods.
Chapter II
Roman Idea of Creation. Golden Age. Milky Way. Parnassus.
The Deluge. Deucalion and Pyrrha. Pandora. Prometheus.
Apollo and Daphne. Pyramus and Thisbe. Davy's Safety Lamp.
Cephalus and Procris
Chapter III
Juno. Syrinx, or Pandean Pipes. Argus's Eyes. Io.
Callisto Constellations of Great and Little Bear. Pole-star.
Diana. Actaeon. Latona. Rustics turned to Frogs. Isle
of Delos. Phaeton. Palace of the Sun. Phoebus. Day.
Month. Year. Hours. Seasons. Chariot of the sun. People
of Aethiopia. Libyan Desert. The Wells Dry. The Sea
Shrinks. Phaeton's Tomb. The Heliades
Chapter IV
Silenus. Midas. Bacchus's Reward to Midas. River Pactolus.
Pan Challenges Apollo. Midas's Ears. Gordian Knot. Baucis
and Philemon. Aetna. Perpetual Spring. Pluto carries off
Prosperine. Cere's Search. Prosperine's Release. Eleusinian
Mysteries. Glaucis changed to a Fish. Scylla
Chapter V
Pygmalion's Statue. Dryope and Iole. Lotus Tree. Venus and
Adonis. Anemone or Wind Flower. Apollo and Hyacinthus. Game
of Quoits. Flower Hyacinthus. Ceyx and Halcyone. Palace of
the King of Sleep. Morpheus. Halcyon Birds.
Chapter VI
Hamadryads. Pomona. Vertumnus. Iphis. Cupid and Psyche.
Zephyr. Temple of Ceres. Temple of Venus. The Ant. Golden
Fleece. Pluto. Cerberus. Charon. The Treasure. Stygian
Sleep. Cup of Ambrosia. Birth of Pleasure. Greek name of
Psyche.
Chapter VII
Cadmus. Origin of City of Thebes. Tyrians. Serpent.
Dragon's Teeth. Harmonia. Serpent Sacred to Mars. Myrmidons.
Cephalus. Aeacus. Pestilence Sent by June. Origin of
Myrmidons.
Chapter VIII
Minos, King of Crete. Nisus, his purple hair. Scylla's
Betrayal. Her Punishment. Echo. Juno's Sentence.
Narcissus. Love for his own image. Clytie. Hopeless Love
for Apollo. Becomes a Flower. Hero and Leander. Hellespont
Chapter IX
Goddess of Wisdom. Arachne. Her Challenge with Minerva.
Minerva's Web. Arachne's Web. Transformation. Niobe Queen
of Thebes. Mount Cynthus. Death of Niobe's Children. Changed
to stone. The Gray-haired Sisters. The Gorgon Medusa. Tower
of brass. Danae. Perseus. Net of Dicte. Minerva. King
Atlas. Andromeda. Sea Monster. Wedding Feast. Enemies
Turned to Stone.
Chapter X
Attributes of Monsters. Laius. Oedipus. The Oracle.
Sphinx. The Riddle. Oedipus made King. Jocasta. Origin of
Pegasus. Fountain of Hippocrene. The Chimaera.
Bellerophontic Letters. The Centaurs. The Pygmies.
Description of the Griffin. The Native Country. One-Eyed
People
Chapter XI
The Ram with the Golden Fleece. The Hellespont. Jason's
Quest. Sowing the Dragon's Teeth. Jason's Father.
Incantations of Medea. Ancient Name of Greece. Great
Gatherings of the Greeks. Wild Boar. Atalanta's Race. Three
Golden Apples. Lovers' Ingratitude. Venus's Revenge.
Corybantes
Chapter XII
Labors of Hercules.-- Fight with Nemean Lion.-- Slaughter of the
Hydra. Cleaning the Augean Stables.-- Girdle of the Queen of the
Amazons.-- Oxen of Geryon.-- Golden Apples of Hesperides.--
Victory over Antaeus.-- Cacus Slain.-- Hercules, Descent into
Hades.-- He Becomes the Slave of Omphale.-- Dejanira's Charm.--
Death of Hercules.-- Hebe, Goddess of Youth
Chapter XIII
Theseus Moves the Fated Stone, and Proceeds to Athens.--
Procrustes's Bedstead.-- Tribute to Minos.-- Ariadne.-- Clew of
Thread.-- Encounter with the Minotaur.-- Theseus Becomes King of
Athens.-- Friendship of Theseus and Pirithous. The Theseum.--
Festival of Panathenaea.-- Elgin Marbles.-- National Greek
Games.-- The Labyrinth.-- Daedalus' Wings.-- Invention of the
Saw.-- Castor and Pollux.-- Argonautic Expedition.-- Orpheus's
Harp.-- Gemini
Chapter XIV
Destruction of Semele.-- Infancy of Bacchus.-- March of Bacchus.-
- One of the Bacchanals taken Prisoner.-- Pentheus.-- Worship of
Bacchus Established in Greece.-- Ariadne.-- Bacchus's Marriage.--
Ariadne's Crown
Chapter XV
Pan.-- Shepherd's Pipe.-- Panic Terror.-- Signification of the
Name Pan.-- Latin Divinities.-- Wood Nymphs.-- Water Nymphs.--
Sea Nymphs. Pleasing Traits of Old Paganism.-- Mrs. Browning's
Poem.-- Violation of Cere's Grove.-- Erisichthon's Punishment.--
Rhoecus.-- Water Deities.-- Neptune's Symbol of Power.-- Latin
Name for the Muses, and other Deities.-- Personification of the
Winds. The Harpies.-- Worship of Fortuna
Chapter XVI
Transformation of Achelous.-- Origin of the Cornucopia.-- Ancient
Meaning of fight of Achelous with Hercules.-- Aesculapius.-- The
Cyclops. Antigone.-- Expedition of the "Seven against Thebes."-
- Antigone's Sisterly Devotion.-- Antigone's Burial.-- Penelope.-
- Statue to Modesty.-- Ulysses.-- Penelope's suitors.--
Penelope's Web
Chapter XVII
Orpheus's Lyre.-- Unhappy Prognostics at Orpheus's Marriage.--
Eurydice's Death.-- Orpheus Descends to the Stygian Realm.--
Orpheus Loses Eurydice Forever.-- Thracian Maidens.-- Honey.--
Aristaeus's Loss and Complaint.-- Cyrene's Apartments.-- Proteus
Captured.-- His Directions to Orpheus.-- Swarm of Bees.--
Celebrated Mythical Poets and Musicians.-- First Mortal Endowed
with Prophetic Powers
Chapter XVIII
Adventures of Real Persons.-- Arion, Famous Musician.--
Description of Ancient Theatres.-- Murder of Ibycus.-- Chorus
Personating the Furies.-- Cranes of Ibycus.-- The Murderers
Seized.-- Simonides.-- Scopa's Jest. Simonides's Escape.--
Sappho.-- "Lover's Leap"
Chapter XIX
Endymion.-- Mount Latmos. Gift of Perpetual Youth and Perpetual
Sleep.-- Orion.-- Kedalion.-- Orion's Girdle.-- The Fatal Shot
The Pleiads.-- Aurora.-- Memnon.-- statue of Memnon.-- Scylla.--
Acis and Galatea.-- River Acis
Chapter XX
Minerva's Competition.-- Paris's Decision.-- Helen.-- Paris's
Elopement.-- Ulysses's Pretence.-- The Apple of Discord.-- Priam,
King of Troy.-- Commander of Grecian Armament.-- Principal
Leaders of the Trojans.-- Agamemnon Kills the Sacred Stag.--
Iphigenia.-- The Trojan War.-- The Iliad.-- Interest of Dods and
Goddesses in the War.-- Achilles's Suit of Armor.-- Death of
Hector.-- Ransom Sent to Achilles.-- Achilles Grants Priam's
Request.-- Hector's Funeral Solemnities.
Chapter XXI
Achilles Captivated by Polyxena.-- Achilles' Claim.-- Bestowal of
Achilles' Armor.-- The Hyacinth.-- Arrows of Hercules.-- Death of
Paris.-- Celebrated Statue of Minerva.-- Wooden Horse.-- Greeks
Pretend to Abandon the Siege.-- Sea Serpents.-- Laocoon.-- Troy
subdued.-- Helen and Menelaus.-- Nepenthe.-- Agamemnon's
Misfortunes.-- Orestes.-- Electra.-- Site of the City of Troy
Chapter XXII
The Odyssey.-- The Wanderings of Ulysses.-- Country of the
Cyclops.-- The Island of Aeolus.-- The Barbarous Tribe of
Laestrygonians.-- Circe.-- The Sirens.-- Scylla and Charybdis.--
Cattle of Hyperion.-- Ulysses's Raft.-- Calypso Entertains
Ulysses.-- Telemachus and Mentor Escape from Calypso's Isle
Chapter XXIII
Ulysses Abandons the Raft.-- The Country of the Phaeacians.--
Nausicaa's Dream.-- A Game of Ball.-- Ulysses's Dilemma.--
Nausicaa's Courage.-- The Palace of Alcinous.-- Skill of the
Phaeacian Women.-- Hospitality to Ulysses.-- Demodocus, the Blind
Bard.-- Gifts to Ulysses
Chapter XXV
Virgil's Description of the Region of the Dead.-- Descend into
Hades.-- The Black River and Ferryman.-- Cape Palinurus.-- The
Three-Headed Dog.-- Regions of Sadness.-- Shades of Grecian and
Trojan Warriors.-- Judgment Hall of Rhadamanthus.-- The Elysian
Fields.-- Aeneas Meets His Father.-- Anchises Explains the Plan
of Creation.-- Transmigration of Souls.-- Egyptian Name of
Hades.-- Location of Elysium.-- Prophetic Power of the Sibyl.--
Legend of the Nine Books
Stories of Gods and Heroes.
Chapter I
Introduction
The literature of our time, as of all the centuries of
Christendom, is full of allusions to the gods and goddesses of
the Greeks and Romans. Occasionally, and, in modern days, more
often, it contains allusions to the worship and the superstitions
of the northern nations of Europe. The object of this book is to
teach readers who are not yet familiar with the writers of Greece
and Rome, or the ballads or legends of the Scandinavians, enough
of the stories which form what is called their mythology, to make
those allusions intelligible which one meets every day, even in
the authors of our own time.
The Greeks and Romans both belong to the same race or stock. It
is generally known in our time as the Aryan family of mankind;
and so far as we know its history, the Greeks and Romans
descended from the tribes which emigrated from the high table-
lands of Northern India. Other tribes emigrated in different
directions from the same centre, so that traces of the Aryan
language are found in the islands of the Pacific ocean.
The people of this race, who moved westward, seem to have had a
special fondness for open air nature, and a willingness to
personify the powers of nature. They were glad to live in the
open air, and they specially encouraged the virtues which an
open-air people prize. Thus no Roman was thought manly who could
not swim, and every Greek exercised in the athletic sports of the
palaestra.
The Romans and Grecian and German divisions of this great race
are those with which we have most to do in history and in
literature. Our own English language is made up of the dialects
of different tribes, many of whom agreed in their use of words
which they had derived from our Aryan ancestry. Thus our
substantive verb I AM appears in the original Sanscrit of the
Aryans as ESMI, and m for ME (MOI), or the first person singular,
is found in all the verbal inflections. The Greek form of the
same verb was ESMI, which became ASMI, and in Latin the first
and last vowels have disappeared, the verb is SUM. Similar
relationships are traced in the numerals, and throughout all the
languages of these nations.
The Romans, like the Etruscans who came before them, were neither
poetical nor imaginative in temperament. Their activity ran in
practical directions. They therefore invented few, if any
stories, of the gods whom they worshipped with fixed rites. Mr.
Macaulay speaks of these gods as "the sober abstractions of the
Roman pantheon." We owe most of the stories of the ancient
mythology to the wit and fancy of the Greeks, more playful and
imaginative, who seized from Egypt and from the East such
legends as pleased them, and adapted them in their own way. It
often happens that such stories, resembling each other in their
foundation, are found in the Greek and Roman authors in several
different forms.
To understand these stories, we will here first acquaint
ourselves with the ideas of the structure of the universe, which
the poets and others held, and which will form the scenery, so to
speak, of the narratives.
The Greek poets believed the earth to be flat and circular, their
own country occupying the middle of it, the central point being
either Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods, or Delphi, so famous
for its oracle.
The circular disk of the earth was crossed from west to east, and
divided into two equal parts by the SEA, as they called the
Mediterranean, and its continuation the Euxine.
Around the earth flowed the RIVER OCEAN, its course being from
south to north on the western side of the earth, and in a
contrary direction on the eastern side. It flowed in a steady,
equable current, unvexed by storm or tempest. The sea, and all
the rivers on earth, received their waters from it.
The northern portion of the earth was supposed to be inhabited by
a happy race named the Hyperboreans [this word means "who live
beyond the north" from the word "hyper," beyond, and boreas, the
north wind], dwelling in everlasting bliss and spring beyond the
lofty mountains whose caverns were supposed to send forth the
piercing blasts of the north wind, which chilled the people of
Hellas (Greece). Their country was inaccessible by land or sea.
They lived exempt from disease or old age, from toils and
warfare. Moore has given us the "Song of a Hyperborean,"
beginning
"I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens glow,
Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow."
On the south side of the earth, close to the stream of Ocean,
dwelt a people happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans. They were
named the AEthiopians. The gods favored them so highly that they
were wont to leave at times their Olympian abodes, and go to
share their sacrifices and banquets.
On the western margin of the earth, by the stream of Ocean, lay a
happy place named the Elysian Plain, whither mortals favored by
the gods were transported without tasting of death, to enjoy an
immortality of bliss. This happy region was also called the
"fortunate fields," and the "Isles of the Blessed."
We thus see that the Greeks of the early ages knew little of any
real people except those to the east and south of their own
country, or near the coast of the Mediterranean. Their
imagination meantime peopled the western portion of this sea with
giants, monsters, and enchantresses; while they placed around the
disk of the earth, which they probably regarded as of no great
width, nations enjoying the peculiar favor of the gods, and
blessed with happiness and longevity.
The Dawn, the Sun, and the Moon were supposed to rise out of the
Ocean, on the western side, and to drive through the air, giving
light to gods and men. The stars also, except those forming
Charles' Wain or Bear, and others near them, rose out of and sank
into the stream of Ocean. There the sun-god embarked in a winged
boat, which conveyed him round by the northern part of the earth,
back to his place of rising in the east. Milton alludes to this
in his "Commmus."
"Now the gilded car of day
His golden axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream,
And the slope sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing towards the other goal
Of his chamber in the east."
The abode of the gods was on the summit of Mount Olympus, in
Thessaly. A gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named the
Seasons, opened to permit the passage of the Celestials to earth,
and to receive them on their return. The gods had their separate
dwellings; but all, when summoned, repaired to the palace of
Jupiter [Or Zeus. The relation of these names to each other will
be explained on the next page], as did also those deities whose
usual abode was the earth, the waters, or the underworld. It was
also in the great hall of the palace of the Olympian king that
the gods feasted each day on ambrosia and nectar, their food and
drink, the latter being handed round by the lovely goddess Hebe.
Here they conversed of the affairs of heaven and earth; and as
they quaffed their nectar, Apollo, the god of music, delighted
them with the tones of his lyre, to which the muses sang in
responsive strains. When the sun was set, the gods retired to
sleep in their respective dwellings.
The following lines from the Odyssey will show how Homer
conceived of Olympus:--
"So saying, Minerva, goddess azure-eyed,
Rose to Olympus, the reputed seat
Eternal of the gods, which never storms
Disturb, rains drench, or snow invades, but calm
The expanse and cloudless shines with purest day.
There the inhabitants divine rejoice
Forever.:" Cowper
Such were the abodes of the gods as the Greeks conceived them.
The Romans, before they knew the Greek poetry, seem to have had
no definite imagination of such an assembly of gods. But the
Roman and Etruscan races were by no means irreligious. They
venerated their departed ancestors, and in each family the
worship of these ancestors was an important duty. The images of
the ancestors were kept in a sacred place, each family
observed, at fixed times, memorial rites in their honor, and
for these and other religious observances the family hearth was
consecrated. The earliest rites of Roman worship are supposed to
be connected with such family devotions.
As the Greeks and Romans became acquainted with other nations,
they imported their habits of worship, even in early times. It
will be remembered that as late as St. Paul's time, he found an
altar at Athens "to an unknown god." Greeks and Romans alike
were willing to receive from other nations the legends regarding
their gods, and to incorporate them as well as they could with
their own. It is thus that in the poetical mythology of those
nations, which we are now to study, we frequently find a Latin
and a Greek name for one imagined divinity. Thus Zeus, of the
Greeks, becomes in Latin with the addition of the word pater (a
father) [The reader will observe that father is one of the words
derived from an Ayan root. Let p and t become rough, as the
grammarians say, let p become ph, and t th, and you have
phather or father], Jupiter Kronos of the Greeks appears as
"Vulcanus" of the Latins, "Ares" of the Greeks is "Mars" or
Mavors of the Latins, "Poseidon" of the Greeks is "Neptunus" of
the Latins, "Aphrodite" of the Greeks is "Venus" of the Latins.
This variation is not to be confounded with a mere translation,
as where "Paulos" of the Greek becomes "Paulus" in Latin, or
"Odysseus" becomes "Ulysses," or as when "Pierre" of the French
becomes "Peter" in English. What really happened was, that as
the Romans, more cultivated than their fathers, found in Greek
literature a god of fire and smithery, they transferred his
name "Hephaistos" to their own old god "Vulcanus," who had the
same duties, and in their after literature the Latin name was
used for the stories of Greek and Latin origin.
As the English literature came into being largely on French and
Latin models, and as French is but a degraded Latin and retains
Latin roots largely, in our older English poets the Latin forms
of these names are generally used. In our own generation, with
the precision now so much courted, a fashion has come in, of
designating Mars by his Greek name of "Ares," Venus by her name
of "Aphrodite," and so on. But in this book, as our object is to
make familiar the stores of general English literature which
refer to such subjects, we shall retain, in general, the Latin
names, only calling the attention of the reader to the Greek
names, as they appear in Greek authors, and in many writers of
the more recent English schools.
The real monarch of the heavens in the mythology of both Greece
and Rome is Jupiter (Zeus-pater, father-Jove) [Jove appears to be
a word derived from the same root as Zeus, and it appears in the
root dev of the Sanscrit, where devas are gods of different
forms. Our English word devil probably comes from the French
diable, Italian diavolo, Latin diabolus, one who makes division,-
- literally one who separates balls, or throws balls about,--
instead of throwing them frankly and truly at the batsman. It is
not to be traced to the Sanscrit deva.]
In the mythological system we are tracing Zeus is himself the
father of many of the gods, and he is often spoken of as father
of gods and men. He is the father of Vulcan [In Greek
Hephaistos], of Venus [in Greek Aphrodite], of Minerva [in Greek
Pallas Athene, or either name separately], of Apollo [of
Phoebus], Diana [in Greek Artemis], and of Mercury [in Greek
Hermes], who are ranked among the twelve superior gods, and of
many inferior deities. But Jupiter himself is not the original
deity in these systems. He is the son of Saturnus, as in the
Greek Zeus is the son of Kronos. Still the inevitable question
would occur where did Saturnus or Kronos come from. And, in
forms and statements more and more vague, the answer was that he
was born from Uranus or Ouranos, which is the name of the Heaven
over all which seemed to embrace all things. The Greek name of
Saturn was spelled Kronos. The Greek name of Time was spelled
Chronos. A similarity between the two was imagined. And the
whole statement, when reduced to rationalistic language, would be
that from Uranus, the infinite, was born Chronos, Time,-- that
from Time, Zeus or Jupiter was born, and that he is the only
child of Time who has complete sway over mortals and immortals.
"The will of Jove I own,
Who mortals and immortals rules alone."
Homer, II.xii
Jupiter was son of Saturn (Kronos) [The names included in
parentheses are the Greek, the others being the Roman or Latin
names] and Ops (Rhea in Greek, sometimes confounded with the
Phrygian Cybele).
Saturn and Rhea were of the race of Titans, who were the children
of Earth and Heaven, which sprang from Chaos, of which we shall
give a further account in our next chapter.
In allusion to the dethronement of Ouranos by Kronos, and of
Kronos or Saturnus by Zeus or Jupiter, Prometheus says in
AEschylus's tragedy,--
"You may deem
Its towers impregnable; but have I not
already seen two monarchs hurled from them."
Thee is another cosmogony, or account of the creation, according
to which Earth, Erebus, and Love were the first of beings. Love
(Eros)_ issued from the egg of Night, which floated on Chaos. By
his arrows and torch he pierced and vivified all things,
producing life and joy.
Saturn and Rhea were not the only Titans. There were others,
whose names were Oceanus, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Ophion, males;
and Themis, Mnemosyne, Eurynome, females. They are spoken of as
the elder gods, whose dominion was afterwards transferred to
others. Saturn yielded to Jupiter, Oceanus to Neptune, Hyperion
to Apollo. Hyperion was the father of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn.
He is therefore the original sun-god, and is painted with the
splendor and beauty which were afterwards bestowed on Apollo.
"Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself." Shakespeare
Ophion and Eurynome ruled over Olympus till they were dethroned
by Saturn and Rhea. Milton alludes to them in Paradise Lost. He
says the heathen seem to have had some knowledge of the
temptation and fall of man,--
"And fabled how the serpent, whom they called
Ophion, with Eurynome (the wide-
Encroaching Eve perhaps), had first the rule
Of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driven."
The representations given of Saturn are not very consistent, for
on the one hand his reign is said to have been the golden age of
innocence and purity, and on the other he is described as a
monster who devoured his own children [This inconsistency arises
from considering the Saturn of the Romans the same with the
Grecian deity Chronos (Time), which, as it brings an end to all
things which have had a beginning, may be said to devour its own
offspring.] Jupiter, however, escaped this fate, and when grown
up espoused Metis (Prudence), who administered a draught to
Saturn which caused him to disgorge his children. Jupiter, with
his brothers and sisters, now rebelled against their father
Saturn, and his brothers the Titans; vanquished them, and
imprisoned some of them in Tartarus, inflicting other penalties
on others. Atlas was condemned to bear up the heavens on his
shoulders.
On the dethronement of Saturn, Jupiter with his brothers Neptune
(Poseidon) and Pluto (Dis) divided his dominions. Jupiter's
portion was the heavens, Neptune's the ocean, and Pluto's the
realms of the dead. Earth and Olympus were common property.
Jupiter was king of gods and men. The thunder was his weapon,
and he bore a shield called AEgis, made for him by Vulcan. The
eagle was his favorite bird, and bore his thunderbolts.
Juno (Hera)[pronounce He-re, in two syllables] was the wife of
Jupiter, and queen of the gods. Iris, the goddess of the
rainbow, was her attendant and messenger. The peacock was her
favorite bird.
Vulcan (Hephaistos), the celestial artist, was the son of Jupiter
and Juno. He was born lame, and his mother was so displeased at
the sight of him that she flung him out of heaven. Other
accounts say that Jupiter kicked him out for taking part with his
mother, in a quarrel which occurred between them. Vulcan's
lameness, according to this account, was the consequence of his
fall. He was a whole day falling, and at last alighted in the
island of Lemnos, which was thenceforth sacred to him. Milton
alludes to this story in Paradise lost, Book I.
"From morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer's day; and with the setting sun
Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,
On Lemnos, the AEgean isle."
Mars (Ares), the god of war, was the son of Jupiter and Juno.
Phoebus Apollo [this is a Greek name of a Greek divinity, who
seems to have had no Roman resemblance], the god of archery,
prophecy, and music, was the son of Jupiter and Latona, and
brother of Diana (Artemis). He was god of the sun, as Diana, his
sister, was the goddess of the moon.
Venus (Aphrodite), the goddess of love and beauty, was the
daughter of Jupiter and Dione. Others say that Venus sprang from
the foam of the sea. The zephyr wafted her along the waves to
the Isle of Cyprus, where she was received and attired by the
Seasons, and then led to the assembly of the gods. All were
charmed with her beauty, and each one demanded her for his wife.
Jupiter gave her to Vulcan, in gratitude for the service he had
rendered in forging thunderbolts. So the most beautiful of the
goddesses became the wife of the most ill-favored of the gods.
Venus possessed an embroidered girdle called the Cestus, which
had the power of inspiring love. Her favorite birds were swans
and doves, and the plants sacred to her were the rose and the
myrtle.
Cupid (Eros), the god of love, was the son of Venus. He was her
constant companion; and, armed with bow and arrows, he shot the
darts of desire into the bosoms of both gods and men. There was
a deity named Anteros, who was sometimes represented as the
avenger of slighted love, and sometimes as the symbol of
reciprocal affection. The following legend is told of him:--
Venus, complaining to Themis that her son Eros continued always a
child, was told by her that it was because he was solitary, and
that if he had a brother he would grow apace. Anteros was soon
afterwards born, and Eros immediately was seen to increase
rapidly in size and strength.
Minerva (Pallas Athene), the goddess of wisdom, was the offspring
of Jupiter, without a mother. She sprang from his head,
completely armed. Her favorite bird was the owl, and the plant
sacred to her the olive.
Byron, in "Childe Harold," alludes to the birth of Minerva thus:-
-
"Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
And freedom find no champion and no child,
Such as Columbia saw arise, when she
Sprang forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar
Of Cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?"
Mercury (Hermes), was the son of Jupiter and Maia. He presided
over commerce, wrestling and other gymnastic exercises; even over
thieving, and everything, in short, which required skill and
dexterity. He was the messenger of Jupiter, and wore a winged
cap and winged shoes. He bore in his hand a rod entwined with
two serpents, called the Caduceus.
Mercury is said to have invented the lyre. Four hours after his
birth he found the shell of a tortoise, made holes in the
opposite edges of it, and drew cords of linen through them, and
the instrument was complete [From this origin of the instrument,
the word "shell" is often used as synonymous with :"lyre," and
figuratively for music and poetry. Thus Gray, in his ode on the
"Progress of Poesy," says,-- "O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! The
sullen Cares And Frantic Passions hear thy soft control."] The
cords were nine, in honor of the nine Muses. Mercury gave the
lyre to Apollo, and received from him in exchange the caduceus.
Ceres (Demeter) was the daughter of Saturn and Rhea. She had a
daughter named Proserpine (Persephone), who became the wife of
Pluto, and queen of the realms of the dead. Ceres presided over
agriculture.
Bacchus (Dionysus)_, the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and
Semele. He represents not only the intoxicating power of wine,
but its social and beneficent influences likewise; so that he is
viewed as the promoter of civilization, and a lawgiver and lover
of peace.
The muses were the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory).
They presided over song, and prompted the memory. They were nine
in number, to each of whom was assigned the presidency over some
particular department of literature, art, or science. Calliope
was the muse of epic poetry, Clio of history, Euterpe of lyric
poetry, Melpomene of tragedy, Terpischore of choral dance and
song, Erato of love-poetry, Polyhymnia of sacred poetry, Urania
of astronomy, Thalia [Pronounced Tha-lei-a, with the emphasis on
the second syllable] of comedy.
Spenser described the office of the Graces thus:--
"These three on men all gracious gifts bestow
Which deck the body or adorn the mind,
To make them lovely or well-favored show;
As comely carriage, entertainment kind,
Sweet semblance, friendly offices that bind,
And all the compliments of courtesy;
They teach us how to each degree and kind
We should ourselves demean, to low, to high.
To friends, to foes; which skill men call Civility."
The Fates were also three Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their
office was to spin the thread of human destiny, and they were
armed with shears, with which they cut it off when they pleased.
They were the daughters of Themis (Law), who sits by Jove on his
throne to give him counsel.
The Erinnyes, or Furies, were three goddesses who punished crimes
by their secret stings. The heads of the Furies were wreathed
with serpents, and their whole appearance was terrific and
appalling. Their names were Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera.
They were also called Eumenides.
Nemesis was also an avenging goddess. She represents the
righteous anger of the gods, particularly towards the proud and
insolent.
Pan [the name Pan means everything, and he is sometimes spoken of
as the god of all nature] was the god of flocks and shepherds.
His favorite residence, as the Greeks describe him, was in
Arcadia.
The Satyrs were deities of the woods and fields. They were
conceived to be covered with bristly hair, their heads decorated
with short, sprouting horns, and their feet like goats' feet.
Momus was the god of laughter, and Plutus the god of wealth.
ROMAN DIVINITIES
The preceding are Grecian divinities, though received also by the
Romans. Those which follow are peculiar to Roman mythology.
Saturn was an ancient Italian deity. The Roman poets tried to
identify him with the Grecian god Kronos, and fabled that after
his dethronement by Jupiter, he fled to Italy, where he reigned
during what was called the Golden Age. In memory of his
beneficent dominion, the feast of Saturnalia was held every year
in the winter season. Then all public business was suspended,
declarations of war and criminal executions were postponed,
friends made presents to one another, and the slaves were
indulged with great liberties. A feast was given them at which
they sat at table, while their masters served them, to show the
natural equality of men, and that all things belonged equally to
all, in the reign of Saturn.
Faunus [there was also a goddess called Fauna, or Bona Dea], the
grandson of Saturn, was worshipped as the god of fields and
shepherds, and also as a prophetic god. His name in the plural,
Fauns, expressed a class of gamesome deities, like the Satyrs of
the Greeks.
Quirinus was a war god, said to be no other than Romulus the
founder of Rome, exalted after his death to a place among the
gods.
Bellona, a war goddess.
Terminus, the god of landmarks. His statue was a rude stone or
post, set in the ground to mark the boundaries of fields.
Pales, the goddess presiding over cattle and pastures.
Pomona presided over fruit trees.
Flora, the goddess of flowers.
Lucina, the goddess of childbirth.
Vesta (the Hestia of the Greeks) was a deity presiding over the
public and private hearth. A sacred fire, tended by six virgin
priestesses called Vestals, flamed in her temple. As the safety
of the city was held to be connected with its conservation, the
neglect of the virgins, if they let it go out, was severely
punished, and the fire was rekindled from the rays of the sun.
Liber is another Latin name of Bacchus; and Mulciber of Vulcan.
Janus was the porter of heaven. He opens the year, the first
month being named after him. He is the guardian deity of gates,
on which account he is commonly represented with two heads,
because every door looks two ways. His temples at Rome were
numerous. In war time the gates of the principal one were always
open. In peace they were closed; but they were shut only once
between the reign of Numa and that of Augustus.
The Penates were the gods who were supposed to attend to the
welfare and prosperity of the family. Their name is derived from
Penus, the pantry, which was sacred to them. Every master of a
family was the priest to the Penates of his own house.
The Lares, or Lars, were also household gods, but differed from
the Penates in being regarded as the deified spirits of mortals.
The family Lars were held to be the souls of the ancestors, who
watched over and protected their descendants. The words Lemur
and Larva more nearly correspond to our word Ghost.
The Romans believed that every man had his Genius, and every
woman her Juno; that is, a spirit who had given them being, and
was regarded as a protector through life. On birthdays men made
offerings to their Genius, women to their Juno.
Macaulay thus alludes to some of the Roman gods:--
"Pomona loves the orchard,
And Liber loves the vine,
And Pales loves the straw-built shed
Warm with the breath of kine;
And Venus loves the whisper
Of plighted youth and maid
In April's ivory moonlight,
Beneath the Chestnut shade."
"Prophecy of Capys."
N.B. It is to be observed that in proper names the final e and
es are to be sounded. Thus Cybele and Penates are words of three
syllables. But Proserpine and Thebes have been so long used as
English words, that they may be regarded as exceptions, to be
pronounced as if English. Hecate is sometimes pronounced by the
poets as a dissylable. In the Index at the close of the volume,
we shall mark the accented syllable, in all words which appear to
require it.
CHAPTER II
Prometheus and Pandora
The Roman poet Ovid gives us a connected narrative of creation.
Before the earth and sea and the all-covering heaven, one aspect,
which we call Chaos, covered all the face of Nature,-- a rough
heap of inert weight and discordant beginnings of things clashing
together. As yet no sun gave light to the world, nor did the
moon renew her slender horn month by month,-- neither did the
earth hang in the surrounding air, poised by its own weight,--
nor did the sea stretch its long arms around the earth. Wherever
there was earth, there was also sea and air. So the earth was
not solid nor was the water fluid, neither was the air
transparent.
God and Nature at last interposed and put an end to this discord,
separating earth from sea, and heaven from both. The fiery part,
being the lightest, sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was
next in weight and place. The earth, being heavier, sank below,
and the water took the lowest place and buoyed up the earth.
Here some god, no man knows who, arranged and divided the land.
He placed the rivers and bays, raised mountains and dug out
valleys and distributed woods, fountains, fertile fields and
stony plains. Now that the air was clear the stars shone out,
the fishes swam the sea and birds flew in the air, while the
four-footed beasts roamed around the earth. But a nobler animal
was needed, and man was made in the image of the gods with an
upright stature [The two Greek words for man have the root an,
"up], so that while all other animals turn their faces downward
and look to the earth, he raises his face to heaven and gazes on
the stars [Every reader will be interested in comparing this
narrative with that in the beginning of Genesis. It seems clear
that so many Jews were in Rome in Ovid's days, many of whom were
people of consideration among those with whom he lived, that he
may have heard the account in the Hebrew Scriptures translated.
Compare JUDAISM by Prof. Frederic Huidekoper.]
To Prometheus the Titan and to his brother Epimetheus was
committed the task of making man and all other animals, and of
endowing them with all needful faculties. This Epimetheus did,
and his brother overlooked the work. Epimetheus then gave to the
different animals their several gifts of courage, strength,
swiftness and sagacity. He gave wings to one, claws to another,
a shelly covering to the third. Man, superior to all other
animals, came last. But for man Epimetheus had nothing,-- he had
bestowed all his gifts elsewhere. He came to his brother for
help, and Prometheus, with the aid of Minerva, went up to heaven,
lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down
fire to man. With this, man was more than equal to all other
animals. Fire enabled him to make weapons to subdue wild beasts,
tools with which to till the earth. With fire he warmed his
dwelling and bid defiance to the cold.
Woman was not yet made. The story is, that Jupiter made her, and
sent her to Prometheus and his brother, to punish them for their
presumption in stealing fire from heaven; and man, for accepting
the gift. The first woman was named Pandora. She was made in
heaven, every god contributing something to perfect her. Venus
gave her beauty, Mercury persuasion, Apollo music. Thus
equipped, she was conveyed to earth, and presented to Epimetheus,
who gladly accepted her, though cautioned by his brother to
beware of Jupiter and his gifts. Epimetheus had in his house a
jar, in which were kept certain noxious articles, for which, in
fitting man for his new abode, he had had no occasion. Pandora
was seized with an eager curiosity to know what this jar
contained; and one day she slipped off the cover and looked in.
Forthwith there escaped a multitude of plagues for hapless man,--
such as gout, rheumatism, and colic for his body, and envy,
spite, and revenge for his mind,-- and scattered themselves far
and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the lid; but, alas! The
whole contents of the jar had escaped, one thing only excepted,
which lay at the bottom, and that was HOPE. So we see at this
day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never entirely leaves us;
and while we have THAT, no amount of other ills can make us
completely wretched.
Another story is, that Pandora was sent in good faith, by
Jupiter, to bless man; that she was furnished with a box,
containing her marriage presents, into which every god had put
some blessing. She opened the box incautiously, and the
blessings all escaped, HOPE only excepted. This story seems more
consistent than the former; for how could HOPE, so precious a
jewel as it is, have been kept in a jar full of all manner of
evils?
The world being thus furnished with inhabitants, the first age
was an age of innocence and happiness, called the GOLDEN AGE.
Truth and right prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was
there any magistrate to threaten or punish. The forest had not
yet been robbed of its trees to furnish timbers for vessels, nor
had men built fortifications round their towns. There were no
such things as swords, spears, or helmets. The earth brought
forth all things necessary for man, without his labor in
ploughing or sowing. Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up
without seed, the rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow
honey distilled from the oaks.
"But when good Saturn, banished from above,
Was driven to hell, the world was under Jove.
Succeeding times a Silver Age behold,
Excelling brass, but more excelled by gold.
Then summer, autumn, winter did appear,
And spring was but a season of the year.
The sun his annual course obliquely made,
Good days contracted and enlarged the bad,
Then air, with sultry heats, began to glow;
The wings of winds were clogged with ice and sno
And shivering mortals into houses driven,
Sought shelter from the inclemency of heaven.
Those houses then were caves, or homely sheds;
With twining osiers fenced; and moss their beds.
Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke,
And oxen labored first beneath the yoke.
To this came next in course the Brazen Age:
A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage,
Not impious yet! . .
. . . Hard Steel succeeded then;
And stubborn as the metal were the men."
Ovid's Metam, Book I. Dryden's Translation.
Crime burst in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor fled. In
their places came fraud and cunning, violence, and the wicked
love of gain. Then seamen spread sails to the wind, and the
trees were torn from the mountains to serve for keels to ships,
and vex the face of ocean. The earth, which till now had been
cultivated in common, began to be divided off into possessions.
Men were not satisfied with what the surface produced, but must
dig into its bowels, and draw forth from thence the ores of
metals. Mischievous IRON, and more mischievous GOLD, were
produced. War sprang up, using both as weapons; the guest was
not safe in his friend's house; and sons-in-law and fathers-in-
law, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, could not trust
one another. Sons wished their fathers dead, that they might
come to the inheritance; family love lay prostrate. The earth
was wet with slaughter, and the gods abandoned it, one by one,
till Astraea [the goddess of innocence and purity. After leaving
earth, she was placed among the stars, where she became the
constellation Virgo The Virgin. Themis (Justice) was the mother
of Astraea. She is represented as holding aloft a pair of
scales, in which she weighs the claims of opposing parties. It
was a favorite idea of the old poets, that these goddesses would
one day return, and bring back the Golden Age. Even in a
Christian Hymn, the Messiah of Pope, this idea occurs.
"All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale,
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend." See, also,
Milton's Hymn on the nativity, stanzas xiv, and xv] alone was
left, and finally she also took her departure.
Jupiter, seeing this state of things, burned with anger. He
summoned the gods to council. They obeyed the call, and took
The road to the palace of heaven. The road, which any one may
see in a clear night, stretches across the face of the sky, and
is called the Milky Way. Along the road stand the palaces of the
illustrious gods; the common people of the skies live apart, on
either side. Jupiter addressed the assembly. He set forth the
frightful condition of things on the earth, and closed by
announcing his intention to destroy the whole of its inhabitants,
and provide a new race, unlike the first, who would be more
worthy of life, and much better worshippers of the gods. So
saying he took a thunderbolt, and was about to launch it at the
world, and destroy it by burning it; but recollecting the danger
that such a conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he
changed his plan, and resolved to drown the world. Aquilo, the
north wind, which scatters the clouds, was chained up; Notus, the
south, was sent out, and soon covered all the face of heaven with
a cloak of pitchy darkness. The clouds, driven together, resound
with a crash; torrents of rain fall; the crops are laid low; the
year's labor of the husbandman perishes in an hour. Jupiter, not
satisfied with his own waters, calls on his brother Neptune to
aid him with his. He lets loose the rivers, and pours them over
the land. At the same time, he heaves the land with an
earthquake, and brings in the reflux of the ocean over the
shores. Flocks, herds, men, and houses are swept away, and
temples, with their sacred enclosures, profaned. If any edifice
remained standing, it was overwhelmed, and its turrets lay hid
beneath the waves. Now all was sea; sea without shore. Here and
there some one remained on a projecting hill-top, and a few, in
boats, pulled the oar where they had lately driven the plough.
The fishes swim among the tree-tops; the anchor is let down into
a garden. Where the graceful lambs played but now, unwieldy sea-
calves gambol. The wolf swims among the sheep; the yellow lions
and tigers struggle in the water. The strength of the wild boar
serves him not, nor his swiftness the stag. The birds fall with
weary wing into the water, having found no land for a resting
place. Those living beings whom the water spared fell a prey to
hunger.
Parnassus alone, of all the mountains, overtopped the waves; and
there Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha, of the race of Prometheus,
found refuge he a just man, and she a faithful worshipper of
the gods. Jupiter, when he saw none left alive but this pair,
and remembered their harmless lives and pious demeanor, ordered
the north winds to drive away the clouds, and disclose the skies
to earth, and earth to the skies. Neptune also directed Triton
to blow on his shell, and sound a retreat to the waters. The
waters obeyed, and the sea returned to its shores, and the rivers
to their channels. Then Deucalion thus addressed Pyrrha: "O
wife, only surviving woman, joined to me first by the ties of
kindred and marriage, and now by a common danger, would that we
possessed the power of our ancestor Prometheus, and could renew
the race as he at first made it! But as we cannot, let us seek
yonder temple, and inquire of the gods what remains for us to
do." They entered the temple, deformed as it was with slime, and
approached the altar, where no fire burned. There they fell
prostrate on the earth, and prayed the goddess to inform them how
they might retrieve their miserable affairs. The oracle
answered, "Depart from the temple with head veiled and garments
unbound, and cast behind you the bones of your mother." They
heard the words with astonishment. Pyrrha first broke silence:
"We cannot obey; we dare not profane the remains of our parents."
They sought the thickest shades of the wood, and revolved the
oracle in their minds. At length Deucalion spoke: "Either my
sagacity deceives me, or the command is one we may obey without
impiety. The earth is the great parent of all; the stones are
her bones; these we may cast behind us; and I think this is what
the oracle means. At least, it will do no harm to try." They
veiled their faces, unbound their garments, and picked up stones,
and cast them behind them. The stones (wonderful to relate)
began to grow soft, and assume shape. By degrees, they put on a
rude resemblance to the human form, like a block half finished in
the hands of the sculptor. The moisture and slime that were
about them became flesh; the stony part became bones; the veins
remained veins, retaining their name, only changing their use.
Those thrown by the hand of the man became men, and those by the
woman became women. It was a hard race, and well adapted to
labor, as we find ourselves to be at this day, giving plain
indications of our origin.
The comparison of Eve to Pandora is too obvious to have escaped
Milton, who introduces it in Book IV, of Paradise Lost:--
"More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods
Endowed with all their gifts; and O, too like
In sad event, when to the unwiser son
Of Jupiter, brought by Hermes, she ensnared
Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire."
Prometheus and Epimetheus were sons of Iapetus, which Milton
changes to Japhet.
Prometheus, the Titan son of Iapetus and Themis, is a favorite
subject with the poets. AEschylus wrote three tragedies on the
subjects of his confinement, his release, and his worship at
Athens. Of these only the first is preserved, the Prometheus
Bound. Prometheus was the only one in the council of the gods
who favored man. He alone was kind to the human race, and taught
and protected them.
"I formed his mind,
And through the cloud of barbarous ignorance
Diffused the beams of knowledge . . . .
They saw indeed, they heard, but what availed
Or sight or hearing, all things round them rolling,
Like the unreal imagery of dreams
In wild confusion mixed! The lightsome wall
Of finer masonry, the raftered roof
They knew not; but like ants still buried, delved
Deep in the earth and scooped their sunless caves.
Unmarked the seasons ranged, the biting winter,
The flower-perfumed spring, the ripening summer
Fertile of fruits. At random all their works
Till I instructed them to mark the stars,
Their rising, and, a harder science yet,
Their setting. The rich train of marshalled numbers
I taught them, and the meet array of letters.
To impress these precepts on their hearts I sent
Memory, the active mother of all reason.
I taught the patient steer to bear the yoke,
In all his toils joint-laborer of man.
By me the harnessed steed was trained to whirl
The rapid car, and grace the pride of wealth.
The tall bark, lightly bounding o'er the waves,
I taught its course, and winged its flying sail.
To man I gave these arts."
Potter's Translation from the Prometheus Bound
Jupiter, angry at the insolence and presumption of Prometheus in
taking upon himself to give all these blessings to man, condemned
the Titan to perpetual imprisonment, bound on a rock on Mount
Caucasus while a vulture should forever prey upon his liver.
This state of torment might at any time have been brought to an
end by Prometheus if he had been willing to submit to his
oppressor. For Prometheus knew of a fatal marriage which Jove
must make and by which he must come to ruin. Had Prometheus
revealed this secret he would at once have been taken into favor.
But this he disdained to do. He has therefore become the symbol
of magnanimous endurance of unmerited suffering and strength of
will resisting oppression.
Byron and Shelley have both treated this theme. The following
are Byron's lines:--
"Titan! To whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise,
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain;
All that the proud can feel of pain;
The agony they do not show;
The suffocating sense of woe.
"Thy godlike crime was to be kind;
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind.
And, baffled as thou wert from high,
Still, in thy patient energy,
In the endurance and repulse,
Of thine impenetrable spirit,
Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit."
PYTHON
The slime with which the earth was covered by the waters of the
flood, produced an excessive fertility, which called forth every
variety of production, both bad and good. Among the rest,
Python, an enormous serpent, crept forth, the terror of the
people, and lurked in the caves of Mount Parnassus. Apollo slew
him with his arrows weapons which he had not before used
against any but feeble animals, hares, wild goats, and such game.
In commemoration of this illustrious conquest he instituted the
Pythian games, in which the victor in feats of strength,
swiftness of foot, or in the chariot race, was crowned with a
wreath of beech leaves; for the laurel was not yet adopted by
Apollo as his own tree. And here Apollo founded his oracle at
Delphi, the only oracle "that was not exclusively national, for
it was consulted by many outside nations, and, in fact, was held
in the highest repute all over the world. In obedience to its
decrees, the laws of Lycurgus were introduced, and the earliest
Greek colonies founded. No cities were built without first
consulting the Delphic oracle, for it was believed that Apollo
took special delight in the founding of cities, the first stone
of which he laid in person; nor was any enterprise ever
undertaken without inquiry at this sacred fane as to its probable
success" [From Beren's Myths and Legends of Greece and Rome.]
The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere [From the
Belvedere of the Vatican palace where it stands] represents the
god after his victory over the serpent Python. To this Byron
alludes in his Childe Harold, iv. 161:--
"The lord of the unerring bow,
The god of life, and poetry, and light,
The Sun, in human limbs arrayed, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight.
The shaft has just been shot; the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might,
And majesty flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity."
APOLLO AND DAPHNE
Daphne was Apollo's first love. It was not brought about by
accident, but by the malice of Cupid. Apollo saw the boy playing
with his bow and arrows; and being himself elated with his recent
victory over Python, he said to him, "What have you to do with
warlike weapons, saucy boy? Leave them for hands worthy of them.
Behold the conquest I have won by means of them over the vast
serpent who stretched his poisonous body over acres of the plain!
Be content with your torch, child, and kindle up your flames, as
you call them, where you will, but presume not to meddle with my
weapons."
Venus's boy heard these words, and rejoined, ":Your arrows may
strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike you.:" So
saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and drew from
his quiver two arrows of different workmanship, one to excite
love, the other to repel it. The former was of gold and sharp-
pointed, the latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden
shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river god
Peneus, and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart.
Forthwith the god was seized with love for the maiden, and she
abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in woodland
sports and in the spoils of the chase. Many lovers sought her,
but she spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking thought
neither of Cupid nor of Hymen. Her father often said to her,
"Daughter, you owe me a son-in-law; you owe me grandchildren."
She, hating the thought of marriage as a crime, with her
beautiful face tinged all over with blushes, threw her arms
around her father's neck, and said, "Dearest father, grant me
this favor, that I may always remain unmarried, like Diana." He
consented, but at the same time said, "Your own face will forbid
it."
Apollo loved her, and longed to obtain her; and he who gives
oracles to all in the world was not wise enough to look into his
own fortunes. He saw her hair flung loose over her shoulders,
and said, "If so charming in disorder, what would it be if
arranged?" He saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and
was not satisfied with only seeing them. He admired her hands
and arms bared to the shoulder, and whatever was hidden from view
he imagined more beautiful still. He followed her; she fled,
swifter than the wind, and delayed not a moment at his
entreaties. "Stay," said he, "daughter of Peneus; I am not a
foe. Do not fly me as a lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk.
It is for love I pursue you. You make me miserable, for fear you
should fall and hurt yourself on these stones, and I should be
the cause. Pray run slower, and I will follow slower. I am no
clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter is my father, and I am lord of
Delphos and Tenedos, and know all things, present and future. I
am the god of song and the lyre. My arrows fly true to the mark;
but alas! An arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my heart! I
am the god of medicine, and know the virtues of all healing
plants. Alas! I suffer a malady that no balm can cure!"
The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered.
And even as she fled she charmed him. The wind blew her
garments, and her unbound hair streamed loose behind her. The
god grew impatient to find his wooings thrown away, and, sped by
Cupid, gained upon her in the race. It was like a hound pursuing
a hare, with open jaws ready to seize, while the feebler animal
darts forward, slipping from the very grasp. So flew the god and
the virgin he on the wings of love, and she on those of fear.
The pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and
his panting breath blows upon her hair. Now her strength begins
to fail, and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river
god: "Help me, Peneus! Open the earth to enclose me, or change
my form, which has brought me into this danger!"
Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness seized all her limbs;
her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became
leaves; her arms became branches; her feet stuck fast in the
ground, as roots; her face became a tree-top, retaining nothing
of its former self but its beauty. Apollo stood amazed. He
touched the stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark.
He embraced the branches, and lavished kisses on the wood. The
branches shrank from his lips. "Since you cannot be my wife,"
said he, "you shall assuredly be my tree. I will wear you for my
crown. With you I will decorate my harp and my quiver; and when
the great Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal pomp to the
Capitol, you shall be woven into wreaths for their brows. And,
as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green, and
your leaf know no decay." The nymph, now changed into a laurel
tree, bowed its head in grateful acknowledgment.
Apollo was god of music and of poetry and also of medicine. For,
as the poet Armstrong says, himself a physician:--
"Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels disease, softens every pain;
And hence the wise of ancient days adored
One power of physic, melody, and song."
The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets.
Waller applies it to the case of one whose amatory verses, though
they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the
poet wide-spread fame.
"Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion and approve his song.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He caught at love and filled his arms with bays."
The following stanza from Shelley's Adonais alludes to Byron's
early quarrel with the reviewers:--
"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true,
Who feed where Desolation first has fed.
And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled,
When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled! The spoilers tempt no second blow;
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go."
PYRAMUS AND THISBE
Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden,
in all Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents
occupied adjoining houses; and neighborhood brought the young
people together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would
gladly have married, but their parents forbade. One thing,
however, they could not forbid that love should glow with equal
ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed by signs and
glances, and the fire burned more intensely for being covered up.
In the wall that parted the two houses there was a crack, caused
by some fault in the structure. No one had remarked it before,
but the lovers discovered it. 'What will love not discover? It
afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages used to pass
backward and forward through the gap. As they stood, Pyramus on
this side, Thisbe on that, their breaths would mingle. "Cruel
wall," they said, "why do you keep two lovers apart? But we will
not be ungrateful. We owe you, we confess, the privilege of
transmitting loving words to willing ears." Such words they
uttered on different sides of the wall; and when night came and
they must say farewell, they pressed their lips upon the wall,
she on her side, he on his, as they could come no nearer.
One morning, when Aurora had put out the stars, and the sun had
melted the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot.
Then, after lamenting their hard fate, they agreed that next
night, when all was still, they would slip away from watchful
eyes, leave their dwellings and walk out into the fields; and to
insure a meeting, repair to a well-known edifice, standing
without the city's bounds, called the tomb of Ninus, and that the
one who came first should await the other at the foot of a
certain tree. It was a white mulberry tree and stood near a cool
spring. All was agreed on, and they waited impatiently for the
sun to go down beneath the waters and night to rise up from them.
Then cautiously Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by the family, her
head covered with a veil, made her way to the monument and sat
down under the tree. As she sat alone in the dim light of the
evening she descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent
slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. Thisbe
fled at the sight, and sought refuge in the hollow of a rock. As
she fled she dropped her veil. The lioness, after drinking at
the spring, turned to retreat to the woods, and seeing the veil
on the ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth.
Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of
meeting. He saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the
color fled from his cheeks at the sight. Presently he found the
veil all rent and bloody. "Oh, hapless girl," said he, "I have
been the cause of thy death! Thou, more worthy of life than I,
hast fallen the first victim. I will follow. I am the guilty
cause, in tempting thee forth to a place of such peril, and not
being myself on the spot to guard thee. Come forth, ye lions,
from the rocks, and tear this guilty body with your teeth" He
took up the veil, carried it with him to the appointed tree, and
covered it with kisses and with tears. "My blood also shall
stain your texture," said he, and drawing his sword plunged it
into his heart. The blood spurted from the wound, and tinged the
white mulberries of the tree all red; and sinking into the earth
reached the roots, so that the red color mounted through the
trunk to the fruit.
By this time, Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not
to disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking
anxiously for the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had
escaped. When she came to the spot and saw the changed color of
the mulberries she doubted whether it was the same place. While
she hesitated she saw the form of one struggling in the agonies
of death. She started back, a shudder ran through her frame as a
ripple on the face of the still water when a sudden breeze sweeps
over it. But as soon as she recognized her lover, she screamed
and beat her breast; embracing the lifeless body, pouring tears
into its wounds, and imprinting kisses on the cold lips. "Oh,
Pyramus," she cried, "what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it
is your own Thisbe that speaks. Hear me, dearest, and lift that
drooping head!" At the name of Thisbe, Pyramus opened his eyes,
then closed them again. She saw her veil stained with blood and
the scabbard empty of its sword. "Thy own hand has slain thee,
and for my sake," she said. "I too can be brave for once, and my
love is as strong as thine. I will follow thee in death, for I
have been the cause; and death, which alone could part us, shall
not prevent my joining thee. And ye, unhappy parents of us both,
deny us not our united request. As love and death have joined
us, let one tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of
slaughter. Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our
blood." So saying, she plunged the sword into her breast. Her
parents acceded to her wish; the gods also ratified it. The two
bodies were buried in one sepulchre, and the tree ever after
brought forth purple berries, as it does to this day.
Moore, in the Sylph's Ball, speaking of Davy's Safety Lamp, is
reminded of the wall that separated Thisbe and her lover:--
"O for that lamp's metallic gauze,
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire!
"The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss),
Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other, but not kiss."
In Mickle's translation of the Lusiad occurs the following
allusion to the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, and the
metamorphosis of the mulberries. The poet is describing the
Island of Love.
" here each gift Pomona's hand bestows
In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair
Than e'er was fostered by the hand of care.
The cherry here in shining crimson glows,
And stained with lover's blood, in pendent rows,
The mulberries o'erload the bending boughs."
If any of our young readers can be so hard-hearted as to enjoy a
laugh at the expense of poor Pyramus and Thisbe, they may find an
opportunity by turning to Shakespeare's play of Midsummer Night's
Dream, where it is most amusingly burlesqued.
Here is the description of the play and the characters by the
Prologue.
"Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;
But wonder on, till truth makes all things plain.
This man is Pyramus, if you would know;
This lovely lady Thisby is certain.
This man with lime and roughcast, doth present
Wall, that vile Wall, which did these lovers sunder;
And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper. At the which let no man wonder.
This man, with lanthorn, dog and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,
By Moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.
This grisly beast, which by name Lion hight.
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,
Did scare away, or rather did affright;
And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall,
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,
And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain;
Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
He bravely broached his boiling bloody breast;
And, Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,
His dagger drew and died."
Midsummer Night's Dream, v.1,128, et seq.
CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS
Cephalus was a beautiful youth and fond of manly sports. He
would rise before the dawn to pursue the chase. Aurora saw him
when she first looked forth, fell in love with him, and stole him
away. But Cephalus was just married to a charming wife whom he
loved devotedly. Her name was Procris. She was a favorite of
Diana, the goddess of hunting, who had given her a dog which
could outrun every rival, and a javelin which would never fail of
its mark; and Procris gave these presents to her husband.
Cephalus was so happy in his wife that he resisted all the
entreaties of Aurora, and she finally dismissed him in
displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful mortal, keep your wife,
whom, if I am not much mistaken, you will one day be very sorry
you ever saw again."
Cephalus returned, and was as happy as ever in his wife and his
woodland sports. Now it happened some angry deity had sent a
ravenous fox to annoy the country; and the hunters turned out in
great strength to capture it. Their efforts were all in vain; no
dog could run it down; and at last they came to Cephalus to
borrow his famous dog, whose name was Lelaps. No sooner was the
dog let loose than he darted off, quicker than their eye could
follow him. If they had not seen his footprints in the sand they
would have thought he flew. Cephalus and others stood on a hill
and saw the race. The fox tried every art; he ran in a circle
and turned on his track, the dog close upon him, with open jaws,
snapping at his heels, but biting only the air. Cephalus was
about to use his javelin, when suddenly he saw both dog and game
stop instantly. The heavenly powers who had given both, were not
willing that either should conquer. In the very attitude of life
and action they were turned into stone. So lifelike and natural
did they look, you would have thought, as you looked at them,
that one was going to bark, the other to leap forward.
Cephalus, though he had lost his dog, still continued to take
delight in the chase. He would go out at early morning, ranging
the woods and hills unaccompanied by any one, needing no help,
for his javelin was a sure weapon in all cases. Fatigued with
hunting, when the sun got high he would seek a shady nook where a
cool stream flowed, and, stretched on the grass with his garments
thrown aside, would enjoy the breeze. Sometimes he would say
aloud, "Come, sweet breeze, come and fan my breast, come and
allay the heat that burns me." Some one passing by one day heard
him talking in this way to the air, and, foolishly believing that
he was talking to some maiden, went and told the secret to
Procris, Cephalus's wife. Love is credulous. Procris, at the
sudden shock, fainted away. Presently recovering, she said, "It
cannot be true; I will not believe it unless I myself am a
witness to it." So she waited, with anxious heart, till the next
morning, when Cephalus went to hunt as usual. Then she stole out
after him, and concealed herself in the place where the informer
directed her. Cephalus came as he was wont when tired with
sport, and stretched himself on the green bank, saying, "Come,
sweet breeze, come and fan me; you know how I love you! You make
the groves and my solitary rambles delightful." He was running
on in this way when he heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of
a sob in the bushes. Supposing it some wild animal, he threw hie
javelin at the spot. A cry from his beloved Procris told him
that the weapon had too surely met its mark. He rushed to the
place, and found her bleeding and with sinking strength
endeavoring to draw forth from the wound the javelin, her own
gift. Cephalus raised her from the earth, strove to stanch the
blood, and called her to revive and not to leave him miserable,
to reproach himself with her death. She opened her feeble eyes,
and forced herself to utter these few words: "I implore you, if
you have ever loved me, if I have ever deserved kindness at your
hands, my husband, grant me this last request; do not marry that
odious Breeze!" This disclosed the whole mystery; but alas!
What advantage to disclose it now? She died; but her face wore a
calm expression, and she looked pityingly and forgivingly on her
husband when he made her understand the truth.
In Shakespeare's play just quoted, there is an allusion to
Cephalus and Procris, although rather badly spelt.
Pyramus says, "Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true."
Thisbe. "As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you."
Moore, in his Legendary Ballads, has one on Cephalus and Procris,
beginning thus:--
"A hunter once in a grove reclined,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind
To cool his brow with its sigh.
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still, 'Sweet Air, O come!'
While Echo answered, 'Come, sweet Air!'"
Chapter III
Io and Callisto. Diana and Actaeon. The Story of Phaeton
Jupiter and Juno, although husband and wife, did not live
together very happily. Jupiter did not love his wife very much,
and Juno distrusted her husband, and was always accusing him of
unfaithfulness. One day she perceived that it suddenly grew
dark, and immediately suspected that her husband had raised a
cloud to hide some of his doings that would not bear the light.
She brushed away the cloud, and saw her husband, on the banks of
a glassy river, with a beautiful heifer standing near him. Juno
suspected that the heifer's form concealed some fair nymph of
mortal mould. This was indeed the case; for it was Io, the
daughter of the river god Inachus, whom Jupiter had been flirting
with, and, when he became aware of the approach of his wife, had
changed into that form.
Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer, praised its
beauty, and asked whose it was, and of what herd. Jupiter, to
stop questions, replied that it was a fresh creation from the
earth. Juno asked to have it as a gift. What could Jupiter do?
He was loth to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so
trifling a present as a simple heifer? He could not, without
arousing suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was not yet
relieved of her suspicions; and she delivered the heifer to
Argus, to be strictly watched.
Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep
with more than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io
constantly. He suffered her to feed through the day, and at
night tied her up with a vile rope round her neck. She would
have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but she
had no arms to stretch out, and her voice was a bellow that
frightened even herself. She saw her father and her sisters, went
near them, and suffered them to pat her back, and heard them
admire her beauty. Her father reached her a tuft o gras, and she
licked the outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known
to him, and would have uttered her wish; but, alas! words were
wanting. At length she bethought herself of writing, and
inscribed her name it was a short one with her hoof on the
sand. Inachus recognized it, and discovering that his daughter,
whom he had long sought in vain, was hidden under this disguise,
mourned over her, and, embracing her white neck, exclaimed,
"Alas! My daughter, it would have been a less grief to have lost
you altogether!" While he thus lamented, Argus, observing, came
and drove her away, and took his seat on a high bank, whence he
could see in every direction.
Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress,
and calling Mercury, told him to go and despatch Argus. Mercury
made haste, put his winged slippers on his feet, and cap on his
head, took his sleep-producing wand, and leaped down from the
heavenly towers to the earth. There he laid aside his wings, and
kept only his wand, with which he presented himself as a shepherd
driving his flock. As he strolled on he blew upon his pipes.
These were what are called the Syrinx or Pandean pipes. Argus
listened with delight, for he had never heard the instrument
before. "Young man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on
this stone. There is no better place for your flock to graze in
than hereabouts, and here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds
love." Mercury sat down, talked, and told stories until it grew
late, and played upon his pipes his most soothing strains, hoping
to lull the watchful eyes to sleep, but all in vain; for Argus
still contrived to keep some of his eyes open, though he shut the
rest.
Among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which
he played was invented. "There was a certain nymph, whose name
was Syrinx, who was much beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the
wood; but she would have none of them, but was a faithful
worshipper of Diana, and followed the chase. You would have
thought it was Diana herself, had you seen her in her hunting
dress, only that her bow was of horn and Diana's of silver. One
day, as she was returning from the chase, Pan met her, told her
just this, and added more of the same sort. She ran away,
without stopping to hear his compliments, and he pursued till she
came to the bank of the river, where he overtook her, and she had
only time to call for help on her friends, the water nymphs. They
heard and consented. Pan threw his arms around what he supposed
to be the form of the nymph, and found he embraced only a tuft of
reeds! As he breathed a sigh, the air sounded through the reeds,
and produced a plaintive melody. The god, charmed with the
novelty and with the sweetness of the music, said 'Thus, then, at
least, you shall be mine.' And he took some of the reeds, and
placing them together, of unequal lengths, side by side, made an
instrument which he called Syrinx, in honor of the nymph."
Before Mercury had finished his story, he saw Argus's eyes all
asleep. As his head nodded forward on his breast, Mercury with
one stroke cut his neck through, and tumbled his head down the
rocks. O hapless Argus! The light of your hundred eyes is
quenched at once! Juno took them and put them as ornaments on
the tail of her peacock, where they remain to this day.
But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated. She sent a
gadfly to torment Io, who fled over the whole world from its
pursuit. She swam through the Ionian Sea, which derived its name
from her, then roamed over the plains of Illyria, ascended Mount
Haemus, and crossed the Thracian strait, thence named the
Bosphorus (cow-bearer), rambled on through Scythia and the
country of the Cimmerians, and arrived at last on the banks of
the Nile. At length Jupiter interceded for her, and, upon his
promising not to pay her any more attentions, Juno consented to
restore her to her form. It was curious to see her gradually
recover her former self. The coarse hairs fell from her body,
her horns shrunk up, her eyes grew narrower, her mouth shorter;
hands and fingers came instead of hoofs to her forefeet; in fine,
there was nothing left of the heifer except her beauty. At first
she was afraid to speak for fear she should low, but gradually
she recovered her confidence, and was restored to her father and
sisters.
In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following
allusion to the story of Pan and Syrinx occurs:--
"So did he feel who pulled the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
* * * * * * * *
Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph poor Pan how he did weep to find
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain."
CALLISTO
Callisto was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno, and
the goddess changed her into a bear. "I will take away," said
she, :"that beauty with which you have captivated my husband."
Down fell Callisto on her hands and knees; she tried to stretch
out her arms in supplication,-- they were already beginning to be
covered with black hair. Her hands grew rounded, became armed
with crooked claws, and served for feet; her mouth, which Jove
used to praise for its beauty, became a horrid pair of jaws; her
voice, which if unchanged would have moved the heart to pity,
became a growl, more fit to inspire terror. Yet her former
disposition remained, and, with continued groaning, she bemoaned
her fate, and stood upright as well as she could, lifting up her
paws to beg for mercy; and felt that Jove was unkind, though she
could not tell him so. Ah, how often, afraid to stay in the
woods all night alone, she wandered about the neighborhood of her
former haunts; how often, frightened by the dogs, did she, so
lately a huntress, fly in terror from the hunters! Often she
fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that she was now a wild
beast herself; and, bear as she was, was afraid of the bears.
One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and
recognized him as her own son, now grown a young man. She
stopped, and felt inclined to embrace him. As she was about to
approach, he, alarmed, raised his hunting spear, and was on the
point of transfixing her, when Jupiter, beholding, arrested the
crime, and, snatching away both of them, placed them in the
heavens as the Great and Little Bear.
Juno was in a rage to see her rival so set in honor, and hastened
to ancient Tethys and Oceanus, the powers of ocean, and, in
answer to their inquiries, thus told the cause of her coming; "Do
you ask why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly
plains and sought your depths. Learn that I am supplanted in
heaven,-- my place is given to another. You will hardly believe
me; but look when night darkens the world, and you shall see the
two, of whom I have so much reason to complain, exalted to the
heavens, in that part where the circle is the smallest, in the
neighborhood of the pole. Why should any one hereafter tremble
at the thought of offending Juno, when such rewards are the
consequence of my displeasure! See what I have been able to
effect! I forbade her to wear the human form,-- she is placed
among the stars! So do my punishments result,-- such is the
extent of my power! Better that she should have resumed her
former shape, as I permitted Io to do. Perhaps he means to marry
her, and put me away! But you, my foster parents, if you feel
for me, and see with displeasure this unworthy treatment of me,
show it, I beseech you, by forbidding this guilty couple from
coming into your waters." The powers of the ocean assented, and
consequently the two constellations of the Great and Little Bear
move round and round in heaven, but never sink, as the other
stars do, beneath the ocean.
Milton alludes to the fact that the constellation of the Bear
never sets, when he says,
"Let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear."
Il Penseroso
And Prometheus, in James Russell Lowell's poem, says,
"One after one the stars have risen and set,
Sparkling upon the hoar-frost of my chain;
The Bear that prowled all night about the fold
Of the North Star, hath shrunk into his den,
Scared by the blithsome footsteps of the dawn."
The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Pole star,
called also the Cynosure. Milton says,
"Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
While the landscape round it measures.
* * * * * * * *
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes."
L'Allegro.
The reference here is both to the Pole-star as the guide of
mariners, and to the magnetic attraction of the North. He calls
it also the "Star of Aready," because Callisto's boy was named
Arcas, and they lived in Arcadia. In Milton's Comus, the elder
brother, benighted in the woods, says,
"Some gentle taper!
Through a rush candle, from
the wicker hole
Of some clay habitation,
visit us
With thy long levelled rule
of streaming light,
And thou shalt be our star of Aready,
Or Tyrian Chynsure."
DIANA AND ACTAEON
It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either
goal, when young Actaeon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the
youths who with him were hunting the stag in the mountains:--
"Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our
victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and tomorrow we
can renew our labors. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let
us put by our instruments and indulge ourselves with rest."
There was a valley thickly enclosed with cypresses and pines,
sacred to the huntress-queen, Diana. In the extremity of the
valley was a cave, not adorned with art, but nature had
counterfeited art in its construction, for she had turned the
arch of its roof with stones as delicately fitted as if by the
hand of man. A fountain burst out from one side, whose open
basin was bounded by a grassy rim. Here the goddess of the woods
used to come when weary with hunting and lave her virgin limbs in
the sparkling water.
One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her
javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another,
while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale,
the most skilful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale,
and the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the goddess was
thus employed in the labors of the toilet, behold, Actaeon,
having quitted his companions, and rambling without any especial
object, came to the place, led thither by his destiny. As he
presented himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing
a man, screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide her with
their bodies. But she was taller than the rest, and overtopped
them all by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset
or at dawn came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by
surprise. Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned
half away, and sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As
they were not at hand, she dashed the water into the face of the
intruder, adding these words: "Now go and tell, if you can, that
you have seen Diana unapparelled." Immediately a pair of
branching stag's horns grew out of his head, his neck gained in
length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his
arms long legs, his body was covered with a hairy spotted hide.
Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero fled.
He could not but admire his own speed; but when he saw his horns
in the water, "Ah, wretched me!: he would have said, but no sound
followed the effort. He groaned, and tears flowed down the face
that had taken the place of his own. Yet his consciousness
remained. What shall he do? Go home to seek the palace, or lie
hid in the woods? The latter he was afraid, the former he was
ashamed, to do. While he hesitated the dogs saw him. First
Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal with his bark, then
Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape, Tigris, and all the
rest, rushed after him swifter than the wind. Over rocks and
cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he
fled, and they followed. Where he had often chased the stag and
cheered on his pack, his pack now chased him, cheered on by his
own huntsmen. He longed to cry out, "I am Actaeon; recognize
your master!" But the words came not at his will. The air
resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on
his back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their
master, the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in
his flesh. He groaned, not in a human voice, yet certainly not
in a stag's, and, falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and
would have raised his arms in supplication, if he had had them.
His friends and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and looked
every where for Actaeon, calling on him to join the sport. At
the sound of his name, he turned his head, and heard them regret
that he should be away. He earnestly wished he was. He would
have been well pleased to see the exploits of his dogs, but to
feel them was too much. They were all around him, rending and
tearing; and it was not till they had torn his life out that the
anger of Diana was satisfied.
In the "Epic of Hades" there is a description of Actaeon and his
change of form. Perhaps the most beautiful lines in it are when
Actaeon, changed to a stag, first hears his own hounds and flees.
"But as I gazed, and careless turned and passed
Through the thick wood, forgetting what had been,
And thinking thoughts no longer, swift there came
A mortal terror; voices that I knew.
My own hounds' bayings that I loved before,
As with them often o'er the purple hills
I chased the flying hart from slope to slope,
Before the slow sun climbed the eastern peaks,
Until the swift sun smote the western plain;
Whom often I had cheered by voice and glance,
Whom often I had checked with hand and thong;
Grim followers, like the passions, firing me,
True servants, like the strong nerves, urging me
On many a fruitless chase, to find and take
Some too swift-fleeting beauty, faithful feet
And tongues, obedient always: these I knew
Clothed with a new-born force and vaster grown,
And stronger than their master; and I thought,
What if they tore me with their jaws, nor knew
That once I ruled them, brute pursuing brute,
And I the quarry? Then I turned and fled
If it was I indeed that feared and fled
Down the long glades, and through the tangled brakes,
Where scarce the sunlight pierced; fled on and on,
And panted, self-pursued. But evermore
The dissonant music which I knew so sweet,
When by the windy hills, the echoing vales
And whispering pines it rang; now far, now near
As from my rushing steed I leant and cheered
With voice and horn the chase; this brought to me
Fear of I knew not what, which bade me fly,
Fly always, fly; but when my heart stood still,
And all my limbs were stiffened as I fled,
Just as the white moon ghost-like climbed the sky,
Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud,
With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam;
And when I strove to check their savagery,
Speaking with words; no voice articulate came,
Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throng
Leapt swift upon me and tore me as I lay,
And left me man again."
In Shelley's poem Adonais is the following allusion to the story
of Actaeon:--
"Midst others of less note came one frail form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness;
And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey."
Adonais, stanza 31.
The allusion is probably to Shelley himself.
LATONA AND THE RUSTICS
Some thought the goddess in this instance more severe than was
just, while others praised her conduct as strictly consistent
with her virgin dignity. As usual, the recent event brought
older ones to mind, and one of the bystanders told this story.
"Some countrymen of Lycia once insulted the goddess Latona, but
not with impunity. When I was young, my father, who had grown
too old for active labors, sent me to Lycia to drive thence some
choice oxen, and there I saw the very pond and marsh where the
wonder happened. Near by stood an ancient altar, black with the
smoke of sacrifice and almost buried among the reeds. I inquired
whose altar it might be, whether of Faunus or the Naiads or some
god of the neighboring mountain, and one of the country people
replied, 'No mountain or river god possesses this altar, but she
whom royal Juno in her jealousy drove from land to land, denying
her any spot of earth whereon to rear her twins. Bearing in her
arms the infant deities, Latona reached this land, weary with her
burden and parched with thirst. By chance she espied in the
bottom of the valley this pond of clear water, where the country
people were at work gathering willows and osiers. The goddess
approached, and kneeling on the bank would have slaked her thirst
in the cool stream, but the rustics forbade her. 'Why do you
refuse me water?' said she; 'water is free to all. Nature allows
no one to claim as property the sunshine, the air, or the water.
I come to take my share of the common blessing. Yet I ask it of
you as a favor. I have no intention of washing my limbs in it,
weary though they be, but only to quench my thirst. My mouth is
so dry that I can hardly speak. A draught of water would be
nectar to me; it would revive me, and I would own myself indebted
to you for life itself. Let these infants move your pity, who
stretch out their little arms as if to plead for me'; and the
children, as it happened, were stretching out their arms.
"Who would not have been moved with these gentle words of the
goddess? But these clowns persisted in their rudeness; they even
added jeers and threats of violence if she did not leave the
place. Nor was this all. They waded into the pond and stirred
up the mud with their feet, so as to make the water unfit to
drink. Latona was so angry that she ceased to feel her thirst.
She no longer supplicated the clowns, but lifting her hands to
heaven exclaimed, 'May they never quit that pool, but pass their
lives there!' And it came to pass accordingly. They now live in
the water, sometimes totally submerged, then raising their heads
above the surface, or swimming upon it. Sometimes they come out
upon the bank, but soon leap back again into the water. They
still use their base voices in railing, and though they have the
water all to themselves, are not ashamed to croak in the midst of
it. Their voices are harsh, their throats bloated, their mouths
have become stretched by constant railing, their necks have
shrunk up and disappeared, and their heads are joined to their
bodies. Their backs are green, their disproportioned bellies
white, and in short they are now frogs, and dwell in the slimy
pool."
This story explains the allusion in one of Milton's sonnets, "On
the detraction which followed upon his writing certain
treatises."
"I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known laws of ancient liberty,.
When straight a barbarous noise environs me
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee."
The persecution which Latona experienced from Juno is alluded to
in the story. The tradition was that the future mother of Apollo
and Diana, flying from the wrath of Juno, besought all the
islands of the Aegean to afford her a place of rest, but all
feared too much the potent queen of heaven to assist her rival.
Delos alone consented to become the birthplace of the future
deities. Delos was then a floating island; but when Latona
arrived there, Jupiter fastened it with adamantine chains to the
bottom of the sea, that it might be a secure resting place for
his beloved. Byron alludes to Delos in his Don Juan:--
"The isles of Greece! The isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!"
PHAETON
Epaphus was the son of Jupiter and Io. Phaeton, child of the
Sun, was one day boasting to him of his high descent and of his
father Phoebus. Epaphus could not bear it. "Foolish fellow,"
said he "you believe your mother in all things, and you are
puffed up by your pride in a false father." Phaeton went in rage
and shame and reported this to his mother, Clymene. "If," said
he, "I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother, some proof
of it, and establish my claim to the honor." Clymene stretched
forth her hands towards the skies, and said, "I call to witness
the Sun which looks down upon us, that I have told you the truth.
If I speak falsely, let this be the last time I behold his light.
But it needs not much labor to go and inquire for yourself; the
land whence the sun rises lies next to ours. Go and demand of
him whether he will own you as a son" Phaeton heard with delight.
He travelled to India, which lies directly in the regions of
sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence
the Sun begins his course.
The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering
with gold and precious stones, while polished ivory formed the
ceilings, and silver the doors. The workmanship surpassed the
material; for upon the walls Vulcan had represented earth, sea
and skies, with their inhabitants. In the sea were the nymphs,
some sporting in the waves, some riding on the backs of fishes,
while others sat upon the rocks and dried their sea-green hair.
Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as
sisters' ought to be. The earth had its towns and forests and
rivers and rustic divinities. Over all was carved the likeness
of the glorious heaven; and on the silver doors the twelve signs
of the zodiac, six on each side.
Clymene's son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls
of his disputed father. He approached the paternal presence, but
stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear.
Phoebus, arrayed in a purple vesture, sat on a throne which
glittered as with diamonds. On his right hand and his left stood
the Day, the Month, and the Year, and, at regular intervals, the
Hours. Spring stood with her head crowned with flowers, and
Summer, with garment cast aside, and a garland formed of spears
of ripened grain, and Autumn, with his feet stained with grape
juice, and icy Winter, with his hair stiffened with hoar frost.
Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun, with the eye that sees
every thing, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and
splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand.
The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless world, Phoebus, my
father, if you permit me to use that name, give me some
proof, I beseech you, by which I may be known as yours." He
ceased; and his father, laying aside the beams that shone all
around his head, bade him approach, and embracing him, said, "My
son, you deserve not to be disowned, and I confirm what your
mother has told you. To put an end to your doubts, ask what you
will, the gift shall be yours. I call to witness that dreadful
lake, which I never saw, but which we gods swear by in our most
solemn engagements." Phaeton immediately asked to be permitted
for one day to drive the chariot of the sun. The father repented
of his promise; thrice and four times he shook his radiant head
in warning. "I have spoken rashly," said he; "only this request
I would fain deny. I beg you to withdraw it. It is not a safe
boon, nor one, my Phaeton, suited to your youth and strength.
Your lot is mortal, and you ask what is beyond a mortal's power.
In your ignorance you aspire to do that which not even the gods
themselves may do. None but myself may drive the flaming car of
day; not even Jupiter, whose terrible right arm hurls the thunder
bolts. The first part of the way is steep, and such as the
horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle is
high up in the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without
alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea stretched beneath
me. The last part of the road descends rapidly, and requires
most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me,
often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to all
this, the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the
stars with it. I have to be perpetually on my guard lest that
movement, which sweeps everything else along, should hurry me
also away. Suppose I should lend you the chariot, what would you
do? Could you keep your course while the sphere was revolving
under you? Perhaps you think that there are forests and cities,
the abodes of gods, and palaces and temples on the way. On the
contrary, the road is through the midst of frightful monsters.
You pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and
near the Lion's jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms
in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor will you find it
easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire which
they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. I can
scarcely govern them myself, when they are unruly and resist the
reins. Beware, my son, lest I should give you a fatal gift;
recall your request while yet you may. Do you ask me for proof
that you are sprung from my blood? I give you a proof in my
fears for you. Look at my face,-- I would that you could look
into my breast, you would there see all a father's anxiety.
Finally," he continued, "look round the world and choose whatever
you will of what earth or sea contains most precious, ask it
and fear no refusal. This only I pray you not to urge. It is
not honor, but destruction you seek. Why do you hang round my
neck and still entreat me? You shall have it if you persist,
the oath is sworn and must be kept, but I beg you to choose
more wisely."
He ended; but the youth rejected all admonition, and held to his
demand. So, having resisted as long as he could, Phoebus at last
led the way to where stood the lofty chariot.
It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan; the axle was of gold, the
pole and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat
were rows of chrysolites and diamonds, which reflected all around
the brightness of the sun. While the daring youth gazed in
admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the
east, and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars
withdrew, marshalled by the Daystar, which last of all retired
also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow, and
the Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the
horses. They obeyed, and led forth from the lofty stalls the
steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the
father bathed the face of his son with a powerful unguent, and
made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set
the rays on his head, and, with a foreboding sigh, said, "If, my
son, you will in this at least heed my advice, spare the whip and
hold tight the reins. They go fast enough of their own accord;
the labor is to hold them in. You are not to take the straight
road directly between the five circles, but turn off to the left.
Keep within the limit of the middle zone, and avoid the northern
and the southern alike. You will see the marks of the wheels,
and they will serve to guide you. And, that the skies and the
earth may each receive their due share of heat, go not too high,
or you will burn the heavenly dwellings, nor too low, or you will
set the earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best. And
now I leave you to your chance, which I hope will plan better for
you than you have done for yourself. Night is passing out of the
western gates and we can delay no longer. Take the reins; but if
at last your heart fails you, and you will benefit by my advice,
stay where you are in safety, and suffer me to light and warm the
earth." The agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect and
grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his
reluctant parent.
Meanwhile the horses fill the air with their snortings and fiery
breath, and stamp the ground impatient. Now the bars are let
down, and the boundless plain of the universe lies open before
them. They dart forward and cleave the opposing clouds, and
outrun the morning breezes which started from the same eastern
goal. The steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was
lighter than usual; and as a ship without ballast is tossed
hither and thither on the sea, so the chariot, without its
accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. They rush
headlong and leave the travelled road. He is alarmed, and knows
not how to guide them; nor, if he knew, has he the power. Then,
for the first time, the Great and Little Bear were scorched with
heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the
water; and the Serpent which lies coiled up round the north pole,
torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage
revive. Bootes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his
plough, and all unused to rapid motion.
When hapless Phaeton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in
vast extent beneath him, he grew pale and his knees shook with
terror. In spite of the glare all around him, the sight of his
eyes grew dim. He wished he had never touched his father's
horses, never learned his parentage, never prevailed in his
request. He is borne along like a vessel that flies before a
tempest, when the pilot can do no more and betakes himself to his
prayers. What shall he do? Much of the heavenly road is left
behind, but more remains before. He turns his eyes from one
direction to the other; now to the goal whence he began his
course, now to the realms of sunset which he is not destined to
reach. He loses his self-command, and knows not what to do,
whether to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgets
the names of the horses. He sees with terror the monstrous forms
scattered over the surface of heaven. Here the Scorpion extended
his two great arms, with his tail and crooked claws stretching
over two signs of the zodiac. When the boy beheld him, reeking
with poison and menacing with his fangs, his courage failed, and
the reins fell from his hands. The horses, feeling the reins
loose on their backs, dashed headlong, and unrestrained went off
into unknown regions of the sky, in among the stars, hurling the
chariot over pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down
almost to the earth. The moon saw with astonishment her
brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds begin to
smoke, and the mountain tops take fire; the fields are parched
with heat, the plants wither, the trees with their leafy branches
burn, the harvest is ablaze! But these are small things. Great
cities perished, with their walls and towers; whole nations with
their people were consumed to ashes! The forest-clad mountains
burned, Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and OEte; Ida, once
celebrated for fountains, but now all dry; the Muses' mountain
Helicon, and Haemus; AEtna, with fires within and without, and
Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to
part with his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to
Scythia, Caucasus burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than
both, Olympus; the Alps high in air, and the Apennines crowned
with clouds.
Then Phaeton beheld the world on fire, and felt the heat
intolerable. The air he breathed was like the air of a furnace
and full of burning ashes, and the smoke was of a pitchy
darkness. He dashed forward he knew not whither. Then, it is
believed, the people of AEthiopia became black by the blood being
forced so suddenly to the surface, and the Libyan desert was
dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The
Nymphs of the fountains, with dishevelled hair, mourned their
waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanais
smoked, and Caicus, Xanthus and Meander. Babylonian Euphrates
and Ganges, Tagus with golden sands, and Caijster where the swans
resort. Nile fled away and hid his head in the desert, and there
it still remains concealed. Where he used to discharge his
waters through seven mouths into the sea, there seven dry
channels alone remained. The earth cracked open, and through the
chinks light broke into Tartarus, and frightened the king of
shadows and his queen. The sea shrank up. Where before was
water, it became a dry plain; and the mountains that lie beneath
the waves lifted up their heads and became islands. The fishes
sought the lowest depths, and the dolphins no longer ventured as
usual to sport on the surface. Even Nereus, and his wife Doris,
with the Nereids, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for
refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his head above the
surface and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth,
surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders
bare, screening her face with her hand, looked up to heaven, and
with a husky voice called on Jupiter.
"O ruler of the gods, if I have deserved this treatment, and it
is your will that I perish with fire, why withhold your
thunderbolts? Let me at least fall by your hand. Is this the
reward of my fertility, of my obedient service? Is it for this
that I have supplied herbage for cattle, and fruits for men, and
frankincense for your altars? But if I am unworthy of regard,
what has my brother Ocean done to deserve such a fate? If
neither of us can excite your pity, think, I pray you, of your
own heaven, and behold how both the poles are smoking which
sustain your palace, which must fall if they be destroyed. Atlas
faints, and scarce holds up his burden. If sea, earth, and
heaven perish, we fall into ancient Chaos. Save what yet remains
to us from the devouring flame. Oh, take thought for our
deliverance in this awful moment!"
Thus spoke Earth, and overcome with heat and thirst, could say no
more. Then Jupiter Omnipotent, calling to witness all the gods,
including him who had lent the chariot, and showing them that all
was lost unless some speedy remedy were applied, mounted the
lofty tower from whence he diffuses clouds over the earth, and
hurls the forked lightnings. But at that time not a cloud was to
be found to interpose for a screen to earth, nor was a shower
remaining unexhausted. He thundered, and brandishing a
lightning-bolt in his right hand launched it against the
charioteer, and struck him at the same moment from his seat and
from existence! Phaeton, with his hair on fire, fell headlong,
like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness
as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and
cooled his burning frame. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for
him, and inscribed these words upon the stone:
"Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaeton,
Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.
He could not rule his father's car of fire,
Yet was it much so nobly to aspire."
His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate were turned
into poplar trees, on the banks of the river, and their tears,
which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the
stream,
One of Prior's best remembered poems is that on the Female
Phaeton, from which we quote the last verse.
Kitty has been imploring her mother to allow her to go out into
the world as her friends have done, if only for once.
"Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire."
Milman, in his poem of Samor, makes the following allusion to
Phaeton's story:--
"As when the palsied universe aghast
Lay .... mute and still,
When drove, so poets sing, the sun-born youth
Devious through Heaven's affrighted signs his sire's
Ill-granted chariot. Him the Thunderer hurled
>From th'empyrean headlong to the gulf
Of the half-parched Eridanus, where weep
Even now the sister trees their amber tears
O'er Phaeton untimely dead."
In the beautiful lines of Walter Savage Lando describing the sea-
shell, there is an allusion to the sun's palace and chariot. The
water-nymph says,
" I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and things that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave.
Shake one and it awakens; then apply
Its polished lip to your attentive car,
And it remembers its August abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."
Gebir, Book 1
Chapter IV
Midas. Baucis and Philemon. Pluto and Proserpine.
Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old school master and
foster father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking,
and in that state had wandered away, and was found by some
peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized
him, and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days
and nights with an unceasing round of jollity. On the eleventh
day he brought Silenus back, and restored him in safety to his
pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of whatever
reward he might wish. He asked that whatever he might touch
should be changed into GOLD. Bacchus consented, though sorry
that he had not made a better choice. Midas went his way,
rejoicing in his newly acquired power, which he hastened to put
to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found that
a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold
in his hand. He took up a stone it changed to gold. He
touched a sod it did the same. He took an apple from the tree
you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the
Hesperides. His joy knew no bounds, and as soon as he got home,
he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast on the table.
Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it
hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his
teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his throat
like melted gold.
In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to
divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately
coveted. But all in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He
raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus,
begging to be delivered from his glittering destruction.
Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to
the river Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there
plunge in your head and body and wash away your fault and its
punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the waters
before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river
sands became changed into GOLD, as they remain to this day.
Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the
country, and became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields.
On a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music
with that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre to a
trial of skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the
mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took his seat and
cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given
signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave
great satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower, Midas,
who happened to be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward
the sun-god, and all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his
brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian
purple swept the ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and
with his right hand struck the strings. Ravished with the
harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of the
lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He
dissented, and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would
not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the
human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy,
within and without, and to become movable, on their roots; in
short, to be on the perfect pattern of those of an ass.
Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled
himself with the thought that it was possible to hide his
misfortune, which he attempted to do by means of an ample turban
or headdress. But his hairdresser of course knew the secret. He
was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire
punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he found it too much
for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went out into the
meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered
the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds
sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth,
began whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that
day to this, with every breeze which passes over the place.
The story of King Midas has been told by others with some
variations. Dryden, in the Wife of Bath's Tale, makes Midas'
queen the betrayer of the secret.
"This Midas knew, and durst communicate
To none but to his wife his ears of state."
Midas was king of Phrygia. He was the son of Gordius, a poor
countryman, who was taken by the people and made king, in
obedience to the command of the oracle, which had said that their
future king should come in a wagon. While the people were
deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son came driving his
wagon into the public square.
Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the
oracle, and tied it up in its place with a fast knot. This was
the celebrated GORDIAN KNOT, of which, in after times it was
said, that whoever should untie it should become lord of all
Asia. Many tried to untie it, but none succeeded, till Alexander
the Great, in his career of conquest, came to Phrygia. He tried
his skill with as ill success as the others, till growing
impatient he drew his sword and cut the knot. When he afterwards
succeeded in subjecting all Asia to his sway, people began to
think that he had complied with the terms of the oracle according
to its true meaning.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
On a certain hill in Phrygia stand a linden tree and an oak,
enclosed by a low wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh,
formerly good habitable land, but now indented with pools, the
resort of fen-birds and cormorants. Once on a time, Jupiter, in
human shape, visited this country, and with him his son Mercury
(he of the caduceus), without his wings. They presented
themselves at many a door as weary travellers, seeking rest and
shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the
inhospitable inhabitants would not rouse themselves to open for
their reception. At last a humble mansion received them, a small
thatched cottage, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband
Philemon, united when young, had grown old together. Not ashamed
of their poverty, they made it endurable by moderate desires and
kind dispositions. One need not look there for master or for
servant; they two were the whole household, master and servant
alike. When the two heavenly guests crossed the humble
threshold, and bowed their heads to pass under the low door, the
old man placed a seat, on which Baucis, bustling and attentive,
spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down. Then she raked out
the coals from the ashes, kindled up a fire, and fed it with
leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty breath blew it into a
flame. She brought out of a corner split sticks and dry
branches, broke them up, and placed them under the small kettle.
Her husband collected some pot-herbs in the garden, and she shred
them from the stalks, and prepared them for the pot He reached
down with a forked stick a flitch of bacon hanging in the
chimney, cut a small piece, and put it in the pot to boil with
the herbs, setting away the rest for another time. A beechen
bowl was filled with warm water that their guests might wash.
While all was doing they beguiled the time with conversation.
On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed
with sea-weed; and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but
old and coarse enough, was spread over that. The old woman, with
her apron on, with trembling hand set the table. One leg was
shorter than the rest, but a shell put under restored the level.
When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling
herbs. Upon it she set some olives, Minerva's-fruit, some
cornel-berries preserved in vinegar, and added radishes and
cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. All were served
in earthen dishes, and an earthenware pitcher, with wooden cups,
stood beside them. When all was ready, the stew, smoking hot,
was set on the table. Some wine, not of the oldest, was added;
and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all,
friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.
Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to
see that the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself
in the pitcher, of its own accord. Struck with terror, Baucis
and Philemon recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their
knees, and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for their poor
entertainment. There was an old goose, which they kept as the
guardian of their humble cottage; and they bethought them to make
this a sacrifice in honor of their guests. But the goose, too
nimble for the old folks, eluded their pursuit with the aid of
feet and wings, and at last took shelter between the gods
themselves. They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these
words: "We are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay the
penalty of its impiety; you alone shall go free from the
chastisement. Quit your house, and come with us to the top of
yonder hill." They hastened to obey, and staff in hand, labored
up the steep ascent. They had come within an arrow's flight of
the top, when turning their eyes below, they beheld all the
country sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing.
While they gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate
of their neighbors, that old house of theirs was changed into a
TEMPLE. Columns took the place of the corner-posts, the thatch
grew yellow and appeared a gilded roof, the floors became marble,
the doors were enriched with carving and ornaments of gold. Then
spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman
worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor
have you to ask of us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few
moments; then declared to the gods their united wish. "We ask to
be priests and guardians of this your temple; and since here we
have passed our lives in love and concord, we wish that one and
the same hour may take us both from life, that I may not live to
see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her." Their prayer was
granted. They were the keepers of the temple as long as they
lived. When grown very old, as they stood one day before the
steps of the sacred edifice, and were telling the story of the
place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and old
Philemon saw Baucis changing in like manner. And now a leafy
crown had grown over their heads, while exchanging parting words,
as long as they could speak. "Farewell, dear spouse," they said,
together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their
mouths. The Tyanean shepherd long showed the two trees, standing
side by side, made out of the two good old people.
The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a
burlesque style, the actors in the change being two wandering
saints and the house being changed into a church, of which
Philemon is made the parson The following may serve as a
specimen:--
"They scarce had spoke when, fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
The chimney widened and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below;
In vain, for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course;
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower;
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turned round so quick you scarce could see 't:
But slackened by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side.
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares
By a shrill voice at noon declares.
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews,
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep."
PROSERPINE
Under the island of Aetna lies Typhoeus the Titan, in punishment
for his share in the rebellion of the giants against Jupiter.
Two mountains press down the one his right and the other his
left hand while Aetna lies over his head. As Typhoeus moves,
the earth shakes; as he breathes, smoke and ashes come up from
Aetna. Pluto is terrified at the rocking of the earth, and fears
that his kingdom will be laid open to the light of day. He
mounts his chariot with the four black horses and comes up to
earth and looks around. While he is thus engaged, Venus, sitting
on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid, sees him and says: "My
son, take your darts with which you conquer all, even Jove
himself, and send one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who
rules the realm of Tartarus. Why should he alone escape? Seize
the opportunity to extend your empire and mine. Do you not see
that even in heaven some despise our power? Minerva the wise,
and Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is that daughter of
Ceres, who threatens to follow their example. Now do you, if you
have any regard for your own interest or mine, join these two in
one." The boy unbound his quiver, and selected his sharpest and
truest arrow; then, straining the bow against his knee, he
attached the string, and, having made ready, shot the arrow with
its barbed point right into the heart of Pluto.
In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which
screen it from the fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground
is covered with flowers, and spring reigns perpetual. Here
Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and
violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them, when
Pluto saw her from his chariot, loved her, and carried her off.
She screamed for help to her mother and her companions; and when
in her fright she dropped the corners of her apron and let the
flowers fall, childlike, she felt the loss of them as an addition
to her grief. The ravisher urged on his steeds, calling them
each by name, and throwing loose over their heads and necks his
iron-colored reins. When he reached the River Cyane, and it
opposed his passage, he struck the river bank with his trident,
and the earth opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus.
Ceres sought her daughter all the world over. Bright-haired
Aurora, when she came forth in the morning, and Hesperus, when he
led out the stars in the evening, found her still busy in the
search. But it was all unavailing. At length, weary and sad,
she sat down upon a stone and continued sitting nine days and
nights, in the open air, under the sunlight and moonlight and
falling showers. It was where now stands the city of Eleusis,
then the home of an old man named Celeus. He was out in the
field, gathering acorns and blackberries, and sticks for his
fire. His little girl was driving home their two goats, and as
she passed the goddess, who appeared in the guise of an old
woman, she said to her, "Mother," and the name was sweet to the
ears of Ceres, "why do you sit here alone upon the rocks?" The
old man also stopped, though his load was heavy, and begged her
to come into his cottage, such as it was. She declined, and he
urged her. "Go in peace," she replied, "and be happy in your
daughter; I have lost mine." As she spoke, tears or something
like tears, for the gods never weep fell down her cheeks upon
her bosom. The compassionate old man and his child wept with
her. Then said he, "Come with us, and despise not our humble
roof; so may your daughter be restored to you in safety." "Lead
on," said she, "I cannot resist that appeal!" So she rose from
the stone and went with them. As they walked he told her that
his only son, a little boy, lay very sick, feverish and
sleepless. She stooped and gathered some poppies. As they
entered the cottage they found all in great distress, for the boy
seemed past hope of recovery. Metanira, his mother, received her
kindly, and the goddess stooped and kissed the lips of the sick
child. Instantly the paleness left his face, and healthy vigor
returned to his body. The whole family were delighted that is,
the father, mother, and little girl, for they were all; they had
no servants. They spread the table, and put upon it curds and
cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While they ate, Ceres
mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When night came and
all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping boy, moulded
his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a
solemn charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His mother,
who had been watching what her guest was doing, sprang forward
with a cry and snatched the child from the fire. Then Ceres
assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all around.
While they were overcome with astonishment, she said, "Mother,
you have been cruel in your fondness to your son. I would have
made him immortal, but you have frustrated my attempt.
Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men
the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from
the cultivated soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her,
and mounting her chariot rode away.
Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to
land, and across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to
Sicily, whence she at first set out, and stood by the banks of
the River Cyane, where Pluto made himself a passage with his
prize to his own dominions.
The river-nymph would have told the goddess all she had
witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only ventured
to take up the girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her flight,
and waft it to the feet of the mother. Ceres, seeing this, was
no longer in doubt of her loss, but she did not yet know the
cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land. "Ungrateful
soil," said she, "which I have endowed with fertility and clothed
with herbage and nourishing grain, No more shall you enjoy my
favors" Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the
seed failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too
much rain; the birds stole the seeds, thistles and brambles
were the only growth. Seeing this, the fountain Arethusa
interceded for the land. "Goddess," said she, "blame not the
land; it opened unwillingly to yield a passage to your daughter.
I can tell you of her fate, for I have seen her. This is not my
native country; I came hither from Elis. I was a woodland nymph,
and delighted in the chase. They praised my beauty, but I cared
nothing for it, and rather boasted of my hunting exploits. One
day I was returning from the wood, heated with exercise, when I
came to a stream silently flowing, so clear that you might count
the pebbles on the bottom. The willows shaded it, and the grassy
bank sloped down to the water's edge. I approached, I touched
the water with my foot. I stepped in knee-deep, and not content
with that, I laid my garments on the willows and went in. While
I sported in the water, I heard an indistinct murmur coming up as
out of the depths of the stream; and made haste to escape to the
nearest bank. The voice said, 'Why do you fly, Arethusa? I am
Alpheus, the god of this stream.' I ran, he pursued; he was not
more swift than I, but he was stronger, and gained upon me, as my
strength failed. At last, exhausted, I cried for help to Diana.
'Help me, goddess! Help your votary!' The goddess heard, and
wrapped me suddenly in a thick cloud. The river-god looked now
this way and now that, and twice came close to me, but could not
find me. 'Arethusa! Arethusa!' he cried. Oh, how I trembled,
like a lamb that hears the wolf growling outside the fold. A
cold sweat came over me, my hair flowed down in streams; where my
foot stood there was a pool. In short, in less time than it
takes to tell it I became a fountain. But in this form Alpheus
knew me, and attempted to mingle his stream with mine. Diana
cleft the ground, and I, endeavoring to escape him, plunged into
the cavern, and through the bowels of the earth came out here in
Sicily. While I passed through the lower parts of the earth, I
saw your Proserpine. She was sad, but no longer showing alarm in
her countenance. Her look was such as became a queen, the
queen of Erebus; the powerful bride of the monarch of the realms
of the dead."
When Ceres heard this, she stood for a while like one stupefied;
then turned her chariot towards heaven, and hastened to present
herself before the throne of Jove. She told the story of her
bereavement, and implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the
restitution of her daughter. Jupiter consented on one condition,
namely, that Proserpine should not during her stay in the lower
world have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her
release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent, accompanied by Spring,
to demand Proserpine of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but
alas! the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her,
and had sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds. This was
enough to prevent her complete release; but a compromise was
made, by which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and
the rest with her husband Pluto.
Ceres allowed herself to be pacified with this arrangement, and
restored the earth to her favor. Now she remembered Celeus and
his family, and her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. When
the boy grew up, she taught him the use of the plough, and how to
sow the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged
dragons, through all the countries of the earth, imparting to
mankind valuable grains, and the knowledge of agriculture. After
his return, Triptolemus build a magnificent temple to Ceres in
Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the
name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and
solemnity of their observance, surpassed all other religious
celebrations among the Greeks.
There can be little doubt but that this story of Ceres and
Proserpine is an allegory. Proserpine signifies the seed-corn,
which, when cast into the ground, lies there concealed, that
is, she is carried off by the god of the underworld; it
reappears, that is, Proserpine is restored to her mother.
Spring leads her back to the light of day.
Milton alludes to the story of Proserpine in Paradise lost, Book
IV.:
"Not that fair field
Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis (a name for Pluto)
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world,
. . . . might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive."
Hood, in his Ode to Melancholy, uses the same allusion very
beautifully:
"Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
In woe to come the present bliss;
As frightened Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis."
The River Alpheus does in fact disappear under ground, in part of
its course, finding its way through subterranean channels, till
it again appears on the surface. It was said that the Sicilian
fountain Arethusa was the same stream, which, after passing under
the sea, came up again in Sicily. Hence the story ran that a cup
thrown into the Alpheus appeared again in Arethusa. It is this
fable of the underground course of Alpheus that Coleridge alludes
to in his poem of Kubla Khan:
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree,
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea."
In one of Moore's juvenile poems he alludes to the same story,
and to the practice of throwing garlands, or other light objects
on the stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards thrown
out when the river comes again to light.
"Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!
Like him the river-god, whose waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have decked his current, as an offering meet
To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,
What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
Each lost in each, till mingling into one,
Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
A type of true love, to the deep they run."
The following extract from Moore's Rhymes on the Road gives an
account of a celebrated picture by Albano at Milan, called a
Dance of Loves:
"'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth
These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth,
Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath,
Those that are nearest linked in order bright,
Cheek after cheek, like rosebuds in a wreath;
And those more distant showing from beneath
The others' wings their little eyes of light.
While see! Among the clouds, their eldest brother,
But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss,
This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss."
GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA
Glaucus was a fisherman. One day he had drawn his nets to land,
and had taken a great many fishes of various kinds. So he
emptied his net, and proceeded to sort the fishes on the grass.
The place where he stood was a beautiful island in the river, a
solitary spot, uninhabited, and not used for pasturage of cattle,
nor ever visited by any but himself. On a sudden, the fishes,
which had been laid on the grass, began to revive and move their
fins as if they were in the water; and while he looked on
astonished, they one and all moved off to the water, plunged in
and swam away. He did not know what to make of this, whether
some god had done it, or some secret power in the herbage. "What
herb has such a power?" he exclaimed; and gathering some, he
tasted it. Scarce had the juices of the plant reached his palate
when he found himself agitated with a longing desire for the
water. He could no longer restrain himself, but bidding farewell
to earth, he plunged into the stream. The gods of the water
received him graciously, and admitted him to the honor of their
society. They obtained the consent of Oceanus and Tethys, the
sovereigns of the sea, that all that was mortal in him should be
washed away. A hundred rivers poured their waters over him .
Then he lost all sense of his former nature and all
consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself changed in
form and mind. His hair was sea-green, and trailed behind him on
the water; his shoulders grew broad, and what had been thighs and
legs assumed the form of a fish's tail. The sea-gods
complimented him on the change of his appearance, and he himself
was pleased with his looks.
One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of
the water-nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a
sheltered nook, laving her limbs in the clear water. He fell in
love with her, and showing himself on the surface, spoke to her,
saying such things as he thought most likely to win her to stay;
for she turned to run immediately on sight of him and ran till
she had gained a cliff overlooking the sea. Here she stopped and
turned round to see whether it was a god or a sea-animal, and
observed with wonder his shape and color. Glaucus, partly
emerging from the water, and supporting himself against a rock,
said, "Maiden, I am no monster, nor a sea-animal, but a god; and
neither Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I. Once I was a
mortal, and followed the sea for a living; but now I belong
wholly to it." Then he told the story of his metamorphosis and
how he had been promoted to his present dignity, and added, "But
what avails all this if it fails to move your heart?" He was
going on in this strain, but Scylla turned and hastened away.
Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the
enchantress, Circe. Accordingly he repaired to her island, the
same where afterwards Ulysses landed, as we shall see in another
story. After mutual salutations, he said, "Goddess, I entreat
your pity; you alone can relieve the pain I suffer. The power of
herbs I know as well as any one, for it is to them I owe my
change of form I love Scylla. I am ashamed to tell you how I
have sued and promised to her, and how scornfully she has treated
me. I beseech you to use your incantations, or potent herbs, if
they are more prevailing, not to cure me of my love, for that I
do not wish, but to make her share it and yield me a like
return." To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to
the attractions of the sea-green deity, "You had better pursue a
willing object; you are worthy to be sought, instead of having to
seek in vain. Be not diffident, know your own worth. I protest
to you that even I, goddess though I be, and learned in the
virtues of plants and spells, should not know how to refuse you
If she scorns you, scorn her; meet one who is ready to meet you
half way, and thus make a due return to both at once." To these
words Glaucus replied, "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of
the ocean, and seaweed on the top of the mountains, than I will
cease to love Scylla, and her alone."
The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither
did she wish to do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned
all her wrath against her rival, poor Scylla. She took plants of
poisonous powers and mixed them together, with incantations and
charms. Then she passed through the crowd of gambolling beasts,
the victims of her art, and proceeded to the coast of Sicily,
where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the shore to which
Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day, to breathe the air
of the sea, and to bathe in its waters. Here the goddess poured
her poisonous mixture, and muttered over it incantations of
mighty power. Scylla came as usual and plunged into the water up
to her waist. What was her horror to perceive a brood of
serpents and barking monsters surrounding her! At first she
could not imagine they were a part of herself, and tried to run
from them, and to drive them away; but as she ran she carried
them with her, and when she tried to touch her limbs, she found
her hands touch only the yawning jaws of monsters. Scylla
remained rooted to the spot. Her temper grew as ugly as her
form, and she took pleasure in devouring hapless mariners who
came within her grasp. Thus she destroyed six of the companions
of Ulysses, and tried to wreck the ships of Aeneas, till at last
she was turned into a rock, and as such still continues to be a
terror to mariners.
The following is Glaucus's account of his feelings after his
"sea-change:"
"I plunged for life or death. To interknit
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff
Might seem a work of pain; so not enough
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
Forgetful utterly of self-9ntent,
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
I tried in fear the pinions of my well.
"Twas freedom! And at once I visited
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed."
Keats.
Chapter V
Pygmalion. Dryope. Venus and Adonis. Apollo and Hyacinthus.
Ceyx and Halcyone.
Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to
abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a
sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so
beautiful that no living woman could be compared to it in beauty.
It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be
alive, and only prevented from moving by modesty. His art was so
perfect that it concealed itself, and its product looked like the
workmanship of nature. Pygmalion admired his own work, and at
last fell in love with the counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he
laid his hand upon it, as if to assure himself whether it were
living or not, and could not even then believe that it was only
ivory. He caressed it, and gave it presents such as young girls
love, bright shells and polished stones, little birds and
flowers of various hues, beads and amber. He put raiment on its
limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a necklace about its neck.
To the ears he hung earrings and strings of pearls upon the
breast. Her dress became her, and she looked not less charming
than when unattired. He laid her on a couch spread with cloths
of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a
pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their
softness.
The festival of Venus was at hand, a festival celebrated with
great pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked,
and the odor of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had
performed his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar
and timidly said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give me, I
pray you, for my wife" he dared not say "my ivory virgin," but
said instead "one like my ivory virgin." Venus, who was
present at the festival, heard him and knew the thought he would
have uttered; and, as an omen of her favor, caused the flame on
the altar to shoot up thrice in a fiery point into the air. When
he returned home, he went to see his statue, and, leaning over
the couch, gave a kiss to the mouth. It seemed to be warm. He
pressed its lips again, he laid his hand upon the limbs; the
ivory felt soft to his touch, and yielded to his fingers like the
wax of Hymettus. While he stands astonished and glad, though
doubting, and fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a
lover's ardor he touches the object of his hopes. It was indeed
alive! The veins when pressed yielded to the finger and then
resumed their roundness. Then at last the votary of Venus found
words to thank the goddess, and pressed his lips upon lips as
real as his own. The virgin felt the kisses and blushed, and,
opening her timid eyes to the light, fixed them at the same
moment on her lover. Venus blessed the nuptials she had formed,
and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city, sacred
to Venus, received its name.
Schiller, in his poem, the Ideals, applies this tale of Pygmalion
to the love of nature in a youthful heart. In Schiller's
version, as in William Morris's, the statue is of marble.
"As once with prayers in passion flowing,
Pygmalion embraced the stone,
Till from the frozen marble glowing,
The light of feeling o'er him shone,
So did I clasp with young devotion
Bright Nature to a poet's heart;
Till breath and warmth and vital motion
Seemed through the statue form to dart.
"And then in all my ardor sharing,
The silent form expression found;
Returned my kiss of youthful daring,
And understood my heart's quick sound.
Then lived for me the bright creation.
The silver rill with song was rife;
The trees, the roses shared sensation,
An echo of my boundless life."
Rev. A. G. Bulfinch (brother of the author).
Morris tells the story of Pygmalion and the Image in some of the
most beautiful verses of the Earthly Paradise.
This is Galatea's description of her metamorphosis:
"'My sweet,' she said, 'as yet I am not wise,
Or stored with words aright the tale to tell,
But listen: when I opened first mine eyes
I stood within the niche thou knowest well,
And from my hand a heavy thing there fell
Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear,
But with a strange confused noise could hear.
"'At last mine eyes could see a woman fair,
But awful as this round white moon o'erhead,
So that I trembled when I saw her there,
For with my life was born some touch of dread,
And therewithal I heard her voice that said,
"Come down and learn to love and be alive,
For thee, a well-prized gift, today I give."'"
DRYOPE
Dryope and Iole were sisters. The former was the wife of
Andraemon, beloved by her husband, and happy in the birth of her
first child. One day the sisters strolled to the bank of a
stream that sloped gradually down to the water's edge, while the
upland was overgrown with myrtles. They were intending to gather
flowers for forming garlands for the altars of the nymphs, and
Dryope carried her child at her bosom, a precious burden, and
nursed him as she walked. Near the water grew a lotus plant,
full of purple flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered them to
the baby, and Iole was about to do the same, when she perceived
blood dropping from the places where her sister had broken them
off the stem. The plant was no other than the Nymph Lotis, who,
running from a base pursuer, had been changed into this form.
This they learned from the country people when it was too late.
Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had done, would
gladly have hastened from the spot, but found her feet rooted to
the ground. She tried to pull them away, but moved nothing but
her arms. The woodiness crept upward, and by degrees invested
her body. In anguish she attempted to tear her hair, but found
her hands filled with leaves. The infant felt his mother's bosom
begin to harden, and the milk cease to flow. Iole looked on at
the sad fate of her sister, and could render no assistance. She
embraced the growing trunk, as if she would hold back the
advancing wood, and would gladly have been enveloped in the same
bark. At this moment Andraemon, the husband of Dryope, with her
father, approached; and when they asked for Dryope, Iole pointed
them to the new-formed lotus. They embraced the trunk of the yet
warm tree, and showered their kisses on its leaves.
Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her tears
still flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she could she
spoke. "I am not guilty. I deserve not this fate. I have
injured no one. If I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with
drought and my trunk be cut down and burned. Take this infant
and give him to a nurse. Let him often be brought and nursed
under my branches, and play in my shade; and when he is old
enough to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and to say
with sadness, 'My mother lies hid under this bark' But bid him be
careful of river banks, and beware how he plucks flowers,
remembering that every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise.
Farewell, dear husband, and sister, and father. If you retain
any love for me, let not the axe wound me, nor the flocks bite
and tear my branches. Since I cannot stoop to you, climb up
hither and kiss me; and while my lips continue to feel, lift up
my child that I may kiss him. I can speak no more, for already
the bark advances up my neck, and will soon shoot over me. You
need not close my eyes; the bark will close them without your
aid." Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; but
the branches retained, for some time longer the vital heat.
Keats, in Endymion, alludes to Dryope thus:
"She took a lute from which there pulsing came
A lively prelude, fashioning the way
In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay
More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child."
VENUS AND ADONIS
Venus, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with
one of his arrows. She pushed him away, but the wound was deeper
than she thought. Before it healed she beheld Adonis, and was
captivated with him. She no longer took any interest in her
favorite resorts, Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in
metals. She absented herself even from Olympus, for Adonis was
dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed and bore him
company. She who used to love to recline in the shade, with no
care but to cultivate her charms, now rambled through the woods
and over the hills, dressed like the huntress Diana. She called
her dogs, and chased hares and stags, or other game that it is
safe to hunt, but kept clear of the wolves and bears, reeking
with the slaughter of the herd. She charged Adonis, too, to
beware of such dangerous animals. "Be brave towards the timid,"
said she; "courage against the courageous is not safe. Beware
how you expose yourself to danger, and put my happiness to risk.
Attack not the beasts that Nature has armed with weapons. I do
not value your glory so highly as to consent to purchase it by
such exposure. Your youth, and the beauty that charms Venus,
will not touch the hearts of lions and bristly boars. Think of
their terrible claws and prodigious strength! I hate the whole
race of them. Do you ask why?" Then she told him the story of
Atalanta and Hippomenes, who were changed into lions for their
ingratitude to her.
Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot drawn by
swans, and drove away through the air. But Adonis was too noble
to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from his
lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the animal with a
sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws,
and rushed after Adonis, who turned and ran; but the boar
overtook him, and buried his tusks in his side, and stretched him
dying upon the plain.
Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached Cyprus,
when she heard coming up through mid air the groans of her
beloved, and turned her white-winged coursers back to earth. As
she drew near and saw from on high his lifeless body bathed in
blood, she alighted, and bending over it beat her breast and tore
her hair. Reproaching the Fates, she said, "Yet theirs shall be
but a partial triumph; memorials of my grief shall endure, and
the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my lamentation
shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall be changed into a
flower; that consolation none can envy me." Thus speaking, she
sprinkled nectar on the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose
as in a pool on which raindrops fall, and in an hour's time there
sprang up a flower of bloody hue like that of a pomegranate. But
it is short-lived. It is said the wind blows the blossoms open,
and afterwards blows the petals away; so it is called Anemone, or
wind Flower, from the cause which assists equally in its
production and its decay.
Milton alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his Comus:
"Beds of hyacinth and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th'Assyrian queen."
And Morris also in Atalanta's Race:
"There by his horn the Dryads well might know
His thrust against the bear's heart had been true,
And there Adonis bane his javelin slew"
APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS
Apollo was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. He
accompanied him in his sports, carried the nets when he went
fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his
excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him his lyre and
his arrows. One day they played a game of quoits together, and
Apollo, heaving aloft the discus, with strength mingled with
skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched it as it flew,
and excited with the sport ran forward to seize it, eager to make
his throw, when the quoit bounded from the earth and struck him
in the forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as
himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and
retain the flitting life, but all in vain; the hurt was past the
power of medicine. As, when one has broken the stem of a lily in
the garden, it hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth,
so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell
over on his shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," so spoke Phoebus,
"robbed of thy youth by me. Thine is the suffering, mine the
crime. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not
be thou shalt live with me in memory and in song. My lyre shall
celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt
become a flower inscribed with my regrets." While Apollo spoke,
behold the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the
herbage, ceased to be blood; but a flower of hue more beautiful
than the Tyrian sprang up, resembling the lily, if it were not
that this is purple and that silvery white (it is evidently not
our modern hyacinth that is here described. It is perhaps some
species of iris, or perhaps of larkspur, or of pansy.) And this
was not enough for Phoebus; but to confer still grater honor, he
marked the petals with his sorrow, and inscribed "Ah! Ah!" upon
them, as we see to this day. The flower bears the name of
Hyacinthus, and with every returning spring revives the memory of
his fate.
It was said that Zephyrus (the West-wind), who was also fond of
Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the
quoit out of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus. Keats
alludes to this in his Endymion, where he describes the lookers-
on at the game of quoits:
"Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side, pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
Who now ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain."
An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in Milton's
Lycidas:
"Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe."
CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS
Ceyx was King of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace without
violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the
glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the
daughter of Aeolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him.
Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and
direful prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as
if the gods were hostile to him. He thought best therefore to
make a voyage to Claros in Ionia, to consult the oracle of
Apollo. But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife
Halcyone, a shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew
deadly pale. "What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned
your affection from me? Where is that love of me that used to be
uppermost in your thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the
absence of Halcyone? Would you rather have me away?" She also
endeavored to discourage him, by describing the violence of the
winds, which she had known familiarly when she lived at home in
her father's house, Aeolus being the god of the winds, and having
as much as he could do to restrain them. "They rush together,"
said she, "with such fury that fire flashes from the conflict.
But if you must go," she added, "dear husband, let me go with
you, Otherwise I shall suffer, not only the real evils which you
must encounter, but those also which my fears suggest."
These words weighed heavily on the mind of king Ceyx, and it was
no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could
not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered,
therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and finished with
these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star,
that if fate permits I will return before the moon shall have
twice rounded her orb." When he had thus spoken he ordered the
vessel to be drawn out of the ship-house, and the oars and sails
to be put aboard. When Halcyone saw these preparations she
shuddered, as if with a presentiment of evil. With tears and
sobs she said farewell, and then fell senseless to the ground.
Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped
their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and
measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw
her husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her. She
answered his signal till the vessel had receded so far that she
could no longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the
vessel itself could no more be seen, she strained her eyes to
catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared.
Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary
couch.
Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays
among the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their
sails. When half or less of their course was passed, as night
drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the
east wind to blow a gale. The master gives the word to take in
sail, but the storm forbids obedience, for such is the roar of
the winds and waves that his orders are unheard. The men, of
their own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to
strengthen the ship, to reef the sail. While they thus do what
to each one seems best, the storm increases. The shouting of the
men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of the waves,
mingle with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems
lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds;
then sinking away to the bottom assumes the color of the shoal,
a Stygian blackness.
The vessel obeys all these changes. It seems like a wild beast
that rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in
torrents, as if the skies were coming down to unite with the sea.
When the lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add
its own darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash,
rending the darkness asunder, and lighting up all with a glare.
Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to come on every
wave. The men are stupefied with terror. The thought of
parents, and kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their
minds. Ceyx thinks of Halcyone. No name but hers is on his
lips, and while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her
absence. Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of
lightning, the rudder broken, and the triumphant surge curling
over looks down upon the wreck, then falls, and crushes it to
fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and
rise no more; others cling to fragments of the wreck. Ceyx, with
the hand that used to grasp the sceptre, holds fast to a plank,
calling for help, alas, in vain, upon his father and his
father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the name of
Halcyone. His thoughts cling to her. He prays that the waves
may bear his body to her sight, and that it may receive burial at
her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks.
The Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not leave the
heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds.
In the mean while Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors,
counted the days till her husband's promised return. Now she
gets ready the garments which he shall put on, and now what she
shall wear when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent
incense but more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no
more, she prayed incessantly; that he might be safe; that he
might come home; that he might not, in his absence, see any one
that he would love better than her. But of all these prayers,
the last was the only one destined to be granted. The goddess,
at length, could not bear any longer to be pleaded with for one
already dead, and to have hands raised to her altars, that ought
rather to be offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said,
"Iris, my faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of
Somnus, and tell him to send a vision to Halcyone, in the form of
Ceyx, to make known to her the event."
Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tingeing the sky with
her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the
Cimmerian country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god,
Somnus, Here Phoebus dares not come, either rising, or at
midday, or setting. Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the
ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The bird of dawn, with
crested head, never calls aloud there to Aurora, nor watchful
dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs the silence. (This
comparison of the dog and the goose is a reference by Ovid to a
passage in Roman history.) No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch
moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the
stillness. Silence reigns there; and from the bottom of the rock
the River Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep.
Poppies grow abundantly before the door of the cave, and other
herbs, from whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she
scatters over the darkened earth. There is no gate to the
mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor any watchman; but in the
midst, a couch of black ebony, adorned with black plumes and
black curtains. There the god reclines, his limbs relaxed with
sleep. Around him lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as
many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the
seashore grains of sand.
As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that
hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god,
scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard
upon his breast, at last shook himself free from himself, and
leaning on his arm, inquired her errand, for he knew who she
was. She answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer
of minds and soother of careworn hearts, Juno sends you her
commands that you dispatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of
Trachinae, representing her lost husband and all the events of
the wreck."
Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not
longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness
creeping over her, she made her escape, and returned by her bow
the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous sons,
Morpheus, the most expert at counterfeiting forms, and in
imitating the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even
the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of each. But he
only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate birds,
beasts, and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a
third, who turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other
things without life. These wait upon kings and great personages
in their sleeping hours, while others move among the common
people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers, Morpheus, to
perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and
yielded himself to grateful repose.
Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to
the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the
form of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked,
he stood before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed
soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks.
Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do
you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much
changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your husband's shade,
instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me nothing.
I am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my
return. The stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea; waves
filled my mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain
messenger tells you this, no vague rumor brings it to your ears.
I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate. Arise!
Give me tears, give me lamentations, let me not go down to
Tartarus unwept." To these words Morpheus added the voice which
seemed to be that of her husband; he seemed to pour forth genuine
tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.
Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her
sleep, striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air.
"Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? Let us go together."
Her own voice awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly
around, to see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed
by her cries, had brought a light. When she found him not, she
smote her breast and rent her garments. She cares not to unbind
her hair, but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause
of her grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers; "she perished
with her Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and
dead. I have seen him. I have recognized him. I stretched out
my hands to seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it
was the true shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed
features, not with the beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and
with his hair wet with sea-water, he appeared to wretched me.
Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood," and she looked
to find the mark of his footsteps. "This it was, this that my
presaging mind foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me to
trust himself to the waves. O, how I wish, since thou wouldst
go, that thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been far
better. Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend
without thee, nor a separate death to die. If I could bear to
live and struggle to endure, I should be more cruel to myself
than the sea has been to me. But I will not struggle. I will
not be separated from thee, unhappy husband. This time, at least
I will keep thee company. In death, if one tomb may not include
us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes with thine, my
name, at least, shall not be separated." Her grief forbade more
words, and these were broken with tears and sobs.
It was now morning. She went to the sea-shore, and sought the
spot where she last saw him, on his departure. "Here he lingered
and cast off his tacklings and gave me his last kiss." While she
reviews every moment, and strives to recall every incident,
looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object
floating in the water. At first she was in doubt what it was,
but by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and it was plainly the
body of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of some
shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears,
saying, "Alas! Unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy
wife!" Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she more and more
nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it
approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. It
is her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it,
she exclaims, "O, dearest husband, is it thus you return to me?"
There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break
the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She
leaped upon this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so)
she flew, and striking the air with wings produced on the
instant, skimmed along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird.
As she flew, her throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and
like the voice of one lamenting. When she touched the mute and
bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-
formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak.
Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether it was only the action of the
waves, those who looked on doubted, but the body seemed to raise
its head. But indeed he did feel it, and by the pitying gods
both of them were changed into birds. They mate and have their
young ones. For seven placid days, in winter time, Halcyone
broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea. Then the way is
safe to seamen. Aeolus guards the winds, and keeps them from
disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his
grandchildren.
The following lines from Byron's Bride of Abydos might seem
borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it were
not stated that the author derived the suggestion from observing
the motion of a floating corpse.
"As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,.
Then levelled with the wave "
Milton, in his Hymn for the Nativity, thus alludes to the fable
of the Halcyon:
"But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of light
His reign of peace upon the earth began;
The winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean
Who now hath quite forgot to rave
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave."
Keats, also, in Endymion, says:
"O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
Till it is hushed and smooth."
Chapter VI
Vertumnus and Pomona. Cupid and Psyche
The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Among them was Pomona, and no
one excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit.
She cared not for forests and rivers, but loved the cultivated
country and trees that bear delicious apples. Her right hand
bore for its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning knife. Armed
with this, she worked at one time, to repress the too luxuriant
growths, and curtail the branches that straggled out of place; at
another, to split the twig and insert therein a graft, making the
branch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care, too, that
her favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of
water by them that the thirsty roots might drink. This
occupation was her pursuit, her passion; and she was free from
that which Venus inspires. She was not without fear of the
country people, and kept her orchard locked, and allowed not men
to enter. The Fauns and Satyrs would have given all they
possessed to win her, and so would old Sylvanus, who looks young
for his years, and Pan, who wears a garland of pine leaves around
his head. But Vertumnus loved her best of all; yet he sped no
better than the rest. Oh, how often, in the disguise of a
reaper, did he bring her corn in a basket, and looked the very
image of a reaper! With a hay-band tied round him, one would
think he had just come from turning over the grass. Sometimes he
would have an ox-goad in his hand, and you would have said he had
just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a pruning-hook, and
personated a vine-dresser; and again with a ladder on his
shoulder, he seemed as if he was going to gather apples.
Sometimes he trudged along as a discharged soldier, and again he
bore a fishing-rod as if going to fish. In this way, he gained
admission to her, again and again, and fed his passion with the
sight of her.
One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair
surmounted with a cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the
garden and admired the fruit. "It does you credit, my dear," she
said, and kissed Pomona, not exactly with an old woman's kiss.
She sat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with
fruit which hung over her. Opposite was an elm entwined with a
vine loaded with swelling grapes. She praised the tree and its
associated vine, equally. "But," said Vertumnus, "if the tree
stood alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would lie
prostrate on the ground. Why will you not take a lesson from the
tree and the vine, and consent to unite yourself with some one?
I wish you would. Helen herself had not more numerous suitors,
nor Penelope, the wife of shrewd Ulysses. Even while you spurn
them, they court you rural deities and others of every kind that
frequent these mountains. But if you are prudent and want to
make a good alliance, and will let an old woman advise you, who
loves you better than you have any idea of, dismiss all the
rest and accept Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as
well as he knows himself. He is not a wandering deity, but
belongs to these mountains. Nor is he like too many of the
lovers nowadays, who love any one they happen to see; he loves
you, and you only. Add to this, he is young and handsome, and
has the art of assuming any shape he pleases, and can make
himself just what you command him. Moreover, he loves the same
things that you do, delights in gardening, and handles your
apples with admiration. But NOW he cares nothing for fruits, nor
flowers, nor anything else, but only yourself. Take pity on him,
and fancy him speaking now with my mouth. Remember that the gods
punish cruelty, and that Venus hates a hard heart, and will visit
such offenses sooner or later. To prove this, let me tell you a
story, which is well known in Cyprus to be a fact; and I hope it
will have the effect to make you more merciful.
"Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved
Anaxarete, a noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He
struggled long with his passion, but when he found he could not
subdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion. First he told his
passion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster-
child to favor his suit. And then he tried to win her domestics
to his side. Sometimes he committed his vows to written tablets,
and often hung at her door garlands which he had moistened with
his tears. He stretched himself on her threshold, and uttered
his complaints to the cruel bolts and bars. She was deafer than
the surges which rise in the November gale; harder than steel
from the German forges, or a rock that still clings to its native
cliff. She mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her
ungentle treatment, and gave not the slightest gleam of hope.
"Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love,
and standing before her doors, he spake these last words:
'Anaxarete, you have conquered, and shall no longer have to bear
my importunities. Enjoy your triumph! Sing songs of joy, and
bind your forehead with laurel, you have conquered! I die;
stony heart, rejoice! This at least I can do to gratify you, and
force you to praise me; and thus shall I prove that the love of
you left me but with life. Nor will I leave it to rumor to tell
you of my death. I will come myself, and you shall see me die,
and feast your eyes on the spectacle. Yet, Oh, ye gods, who look
down on mortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but this! Let me be
remembered in coming ages, and add those years to my name which
you have reft from my life.' Thus he said, and, turning his pale
face and weeping eyes towards her mansion, he fastened a rope to
the gate-post, on which he had hung garlands, and putting his
head into the noose, he murmured, 'This garland at least will
please you, cruel girl!' And falling, hung suspended with his
neck broken. As he fell he struck against the gate, and the
sound was as the sound of a groan. The servants opened the door
and found him dead, and with exclamations of pity raised him and
carried him home to his mother, for his father was not living.
She received the dead body of her son, and folded the cold form
to her bosom; while she poured forth the sad words which bereaved
mothers utter. The mournful funeral passed through the town, and
the pale corpse was borne on a bier to the place of the funeral
pile. By chance the home of Anaxarete was on the street where
the procession passed, and the lamentations of the mourners met
the ears of her whom the avenging deity had already marked for
punishment.
"'Let us see this sad procession,' said she, and mounted to a
turret, whence through an open window she looked upon the
funeral. Scarce had her eyes rested upon the form of Iphis
stretched on the bier, when they began to stiffen, and the warm
blood in her body to become cold. Endeavoring to step back, she
found she could not move her feet; trying to turn away her face,
she tried in vain; and by degrees all her limbs became stony like
her heart. That you may not doubt the fact, the statue still
remains, and stands in the temple of Venus at Salamis, in the
exact form of the lady. Now think of these things, my dear, and
lay aside your scorn and your delays, and accept a lover. So may
neither the vernal frosts blight your young fruits, nor furious
winds scatter your blossoms!"
When Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old
woman, and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely
youth. It appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud.
He would have renewed his entreaties, but there was no need; his
arguments and the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph
no longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame.
Pomona was the especial patroness of the apple-orchard, and as
such she was invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider,
in blank verse, in the following lines:
"What soil the apple loves, what care is due
To orchats, timeliest when to press the fruits,
Thy gift, Pomona, in Miltonian verse
Adventurous I presume to sing."
Thomson, in the Seasons, alludes to Phillips:
"Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou
Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,
With British freedom, sing the British song."
It will be seen that Thomson refers to the poet's reference to
Milton, but it is not true that Phillips is only the second
writer of English blank verse. Many other poets beside Milton
had used it long before Phillips' time.
But Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and,
as such, is invoked by Thomson:
"Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves,
To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined
Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,
Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit."
CUPID AND PSYCHE
A certain king had three daughters. (This seems to be one of the
latest fables of the Greek mythology. It has not been found
earlier than the close of the second century of the Christian
era. It bears marks of the higher religious notions of that
time.) The two elder were charming girls, but the beauty of the
youngest was so wonderful that language is too poor to express
its due praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that
strangers from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the
sight, and looked on her with amazement, paying her that homage
which is due only to Venus herself. In fact, Venus found her
altars deserted, while men turned their devotion to this young
virgin. As she passed along, the people sang her praises, and
strewed her way with chaplets and flowers.
This perversion to a mortal of the homage due only to the
immortal powers gave great offence to the real Venus. Shaking
her ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, "Am I then
to be eclipsed in my honors by a mortal girl? In vain then did
that royal shepherd, whose judgment was approved by Jove himself,
give me the palm of beauty over my illustrious rivals, Pallas and
June. But she shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I will give
her cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty."
Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in
his own nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her
complaints. She points out Psyche to him, and says, "My dear
son, punish that contumacious beauty; give thy mother a revenge
as sweet as her injuries are great; infuse into the bosom of that
haughty girl a passion for some low, mean, unworthy being, so
that she may reap a mortification as great as her present
exultation and triumph."
Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two
fountains in Venus's garden, one of sweet waters, the other of
bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain,
and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the
chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops
from the bitter fountain over her lips, though the sight of her
almost moved him to pity; then touched her side with the point of
his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon Cupid
(himself invisible) which so startled him that in his confusion
he wounded himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound his
whole thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he
poured the balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets.
Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from
all her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and
every mouth spoke her praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor
plebeian presented himself to demand her in marriage. Her two
elder sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two
royal princes; but Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her
solitude, sick of that beauty, which, while it procured abundance
of flattery, had failed to awaken love.
Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger
of the gods, consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received this
answer: "The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover.
Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is
a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist."
This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with
dismay, and her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But
Psyche said, "Why, my dear parents, do you now lament me? You
should rather have grieved when the people showered upon me
undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a Venus. I now
perceive that I am a victim to that name. I submit. Lead me to
that rock to which my unhappy fate has destined me." Accordingly,
all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place in the
procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp,
and with her parents, amid the lamentations of the people,
ascended the mountain, on the summit of which they left her
alone, and with sorrowful hearts returned home.
While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with
fear and with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her
from the earth and bore her with an easy motion into a flowery
dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself
down on the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke, refreshed with
sleep, she looked round and beheld nearby a pleasant grove of
tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the midst
discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters,
and hard by, a magnificent palace whose August front impressed
the spectator that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the
happy retreat of some god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she
approached the building and ventured to enter. Every object she
met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars
supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with
carvings and paintings representing beasts of the chase and rural
scenes, adapted to delight the eye of the beholder. Proceeding
onward she perceived that besides the apartments of state there
were others, filled with all manner of treasures, and beautiful
and precious productions of nature and art.
While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though
she saw no one, uttering these words: "Sovereign lady, all that
you see is yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants,
and shall obey all your commands with our utmost care and
diligence. Retire therefore to your chamber and repose on your
bed of down, and when you see fit repair to the bath. Supper
will await you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases you to
take your seat there."
Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and
after repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in
the alcove, where a table immediately presented itself, without
any visible aid from waiters or servants, and covered with the
greatest delicacies of food and the most nectareous wines. Her
ears too were feasted with music from invisible performers; of
whom one sang, another played on the lute, and all closed in the
wonderful harmony of a full chorus.
She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the
hours of darkness, and fled before the dawn of morning, but his
accents were full of love, and inspired a like passion in her.
She often begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would
not consent. On the contrary, he charged her to make no attempt
to see him, for it was his pleasure, for the best of reasons, to
keep concealed. "Why should you wish to behold me?" he said.
"Have you any doubt of my love? Have you any wish ungratified?
If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but
all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me
as an equal than adore me as a god."
This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the
novelty lasted she felt quite happy. But at length the thought
of her parents, left in ignorance of her fate, and of her
sisters, precluded from sharing with her the delights of her
situation, preyed on her mind and made her begin to feel her
palace as but a splendid prison. When her husband came one
night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from him an
unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.
So calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's
commands, and he, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the
mountain down to their sister's valley. They embraced her and
she returned their caresses. "Come," said Psyche, "enter with me
my house and refresh yourselves with whatever your sister has to
offer." Then taking their hands she led them into her golden
palace, and committed them to the care of her numerous train of
attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at her table,
and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial
delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young
sister possessed of such state and splendor, so much exceeding
their own.
They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a
person her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful
youth, who generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the
mountains. The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon made
her confess that she had never seen him. Then they proceeded to
fill her bosom with dark suspicions. "Call to mind," they said,
"the Pythian oracle that declared you destined to marry a direful
and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of this valley say that
your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent, who nourishes
you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you.
Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife;
put them in concealment that your husband may not discover them,
and when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed bring forth your
lamp and see for yourself whether what they say is true or not.
If it is, hesitate not to cut off the monster's head, and thereby
recover your liberty."
Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they
did not fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her
sisters were gone, their words and her own curiosity were too
strong for her to resist. So she prepared her lamp and a sharp
knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. When he had
fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her
lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and
charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his
snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his
shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the
tender blossoms of spring. As she leaned the lamp over to have a
nearer view of his face a drop of burning oil fell on the
shoulder of the god, startled with which he opened his eyes and
fixed them full upon her; then, without saying one word, he
spread his white wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in
vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window to the
ground. Cupid, beholding her as she lay in the dust, stopped his
flight for an instant and said, "O foolish Psyche, is it thus you
repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and
made you my wife, will you think me a monster and cut off my
head? But go; return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to
think preferable to mine. I inflict no other punishment on you
than to leave you forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion."
So saying he fled away, leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the
ground, filling the place with mournful lamentations.
When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around
her, but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found
herself in the open field not far from the city where her sisters
dwelt. She repaired thither and told them the whole story of her
misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful
creatures inwardly rejoiced; "for now," said they, "he will
perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, without saying a word
of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning and
ascended the mountain, and having reached the top, called upon
Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping up,
and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and
was dashed to pieces.
Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose,
in search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain
having on its brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to
herself, "Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there," and directed
her steps thither.
She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in
loose ears and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley.
Scattered about lay sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of
harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the weary
reapers' hands in the sultry hours of the day.
This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by
separating and sorting every thing to its proper place and kind,
believing that she ought to neglect none of the gods, but
endeavor by her piety to engage them all in her behalf. The holy
Ceres, whose temple it was, finding her so religiously employed,
thus spoke to her: "O Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though I
cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach you
how best to allay her displeasure. Go then, voluntarily
surrender yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty
and submission to win her forgiveness; perhaps her favor will
restore you the husband you have lost."
Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the
temple of Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and thinking of
what she should say and how she should best propitiate the angry
goddess, feeling that the issue was doubtful and perhaps fatal.
Venus received her with angry countenance. "Most undutiful and
faithless of servants," said she, "do you at last remember that
you really have a mistress? Or have you rather come to see your
sick husband, yet suffering from the wound given him by his
loving wife? You are so ill-favored and disagreeable that the
only way you can merit your lover must be by dint of industry and
diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery." Then she
ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where
was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches,
beans, and lentils prepared for food for her doves, and said,
"Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind
in a parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done before
evening." Then Venus departed and left her to her task.
But Psyche, in perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat
stupid and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable
heap.
While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a
native of the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of
the ant-hill, followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects,
approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence taking grain
by grain, they separated the pile, sorting each kind to its
parcel; and when it was all done, they vanished out of sight in a
moment.
Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of
the gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the
task done she exclaimed, "This is no work of yours wicked one,
but his, whom to your own and his misfortune you have enticed."
So saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper
and went away.
Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called, and said to her,
"Behold yonder grove which stretches along the margin of the
water. There you will find sheep feeding without a shepherd,
with golden-shining fleeces on their backs. Go, fetch me a
sample of that precious wool gathered from every one of their
fleeces.
Psyche obediently went to the river-side, prepared to do her best
to execute the command. But the river-god inspired the reeds
with harmonious murmurs, which seemed to say, "O maiden, severely
tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the
formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under
the influence of the rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to
destroy mortals with their sharp horns or rude teeth. But when
the noontide sun has driven the flock to the shade, and the
serene spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then
cross in safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to
the bushes and the trunks of the trees."
Thus the compassionate river-god gave Psyche instructions how to
accomplish her task, and by observing his directions she soon
returned to Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece; but
she received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, who
said, "I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you
have succeeded in this task, and I am not satisfied yet that you
have any capacity to make yourself useful. But I have another
task for you. Here, take this box, and go your way to the
infernal shades, and give this box to Proserpine, and say, 'My
mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of your beauty,
for in tending her sick son she has lost come of her own.' Be
not too long on your errand, for I must paint myself with it to
appear at the circle of the gods and goddesses this evening."
Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being
obliged to go with her own feet directly down to Erebus.
Wherefore, to make no delay of what was not to be avoided, she
goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate herself headlong,
thus to descend the shortest way to the shades below. But a
voice from the tower said to her, "Why, poor unlucky girl, dost
thou design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a manner?
And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger, who
hast been so miraculously supported in all thy former?" Then the
voice told her how by a certain cave she might reach the realms
of Pluto, and how to avoid all the dangers of the road, to pass
by Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the
ferryman, to take her across the black river and bring her back
again. But the voice added, "When Proserpine has given you the
box, filled with her beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be
observed by you, that you never once open or look into the box
nor allow your curiosity to pry into the treasure of the beauty
of the goddesses.
Psyche encouraged by this advice obeyed it in all things, and
taking heed to her ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto.
She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine, and without
accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was offered
her, but contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered
her message from Venus. Presently the box was returned to her,
shut and filled with the precious commodity. Then she returned
the way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into the
light of day.
But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task a
longing desire seized her to examine the contents of the box.
"What," said she, "shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty,
not take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more
advantage in the eyes of my beloved husband!:" So she carefully
opened the box, but found nothing there of any beauty at all, but
an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which being thus set free
from its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in the
midst of the road, a sleepy corpse without sense or motion.
But Cupid being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer
to bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the
smallest crack of the window of his chamber which happened to be
left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up
the sleep from her body closed it again in the box, and waked
Psyche with a light touch of one of his arrows. "Again," said
he, "hast thou almost perished by the same curiosity. But now
perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, and I will
take care of the rest."
Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of
heaven, presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication.
Jupiter lent a favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of the lovers
so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent
Mercury to bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she
arrived, handing her a cup of ambrosia, he said, "Drink this,
Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid ever break away from the
knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be perpetual."
Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they
had a daughter born to them whose name was Pleasure.
The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered allegorical.
The Greek name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the same word means
the soul. There is no illustration of the immortality of the
soul so striking and beautiful as the butterfly, bursting on
brilliant wings from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull,
grovelling caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day
and feed on the most fragrant and delicate productions of the
spring. Psyche, then, is the human soul, which is purified by
sufferings and misfortunes, and is thus prepared for the
enjoyment of true and pure happiness.
In works of art Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings
of a butterfly, alone or with Cupid, in the different situations
described in the allegory.
Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the conclusion
of his Comus:--
"Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced,
After her wandering labors long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal bride;
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn."
The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well presented
in the beautiful lines of T. K. Hervey:--
"They wove bright fables in the days of old
When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings;
When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold,
And told in song its high and mystic things!
And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given.
That led her through the world, Love's worshipper,
To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!
"In the full city, by the haunted fount,
Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars,
'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount,
Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
The painted valley, and the scented air,
She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
And found his footsteps' traces everywhere.
"But never more they met! Since doubts and fears,
Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
Had learned to seek him only in the skies;
Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
And she became Love's angel bride in heaven!"
The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of
Apuleius, a writer of the second century of our era. It is
therefore of much more recent date than most of the legends of
the Age of Fable. It is this that Keats alludes to in his Ode to
Psyche.
"O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet,
>From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of Pale-mouthed prophet dreaming."
In Moore's Summer Fete, a fancy ball is described, in which one
of the characters personated is Psyche.
" not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veiled her light;
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.
His wedded bride, by holiest vow
Pledged in Olympus, and made known
To mortals by the type which now
Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,
That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
Which means the soul (though few would think it),
And sparkling thus on brow so white,
Tells us we've Psyche here to-night."
Chapter VII
Cadmus. The Myrmidons.
Jupiter, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away to the
island of Crete, Europa, the daughter of Agenor king of
Phoenicia. Agenor commanded his son Cadmus to go in search of
his sister, and not to return without her. Cadmus went and
sought long and far for his sister, but could not find her, and
not daring to return unsuccessful, consulted the oracle of Apollo
to know what country he should settle in. The oracle informed
him that he should find a cow in the field, and should follow her
wherever she might wander, and where she stopped, should build a
city and call it Thebes. Cadmus had hardly left the Castalian
cave, from which the oracle was delivered, when he saw a young
cow slowly walking before him. He followed her close, offering
at the same time his prayers to Phoebus. The cow went on till
she passed the shallow channel of Cephisus and came out into the
plain of Panope. There she stood still, and raising her broad
forehead to the sky, filled the air with her lowings. Cadmus
gave thanks, and stooping down kissed the foreign soil, then
lifting his eyes, greeted the surrounding mountains. Wishing to
offer a sacrifice to Jupiter, he sent his servants to seek pure
water for a libation. Nearby there stood an ancient grove which
had never been profaned by the axe, in the midst of which was a
cave, thick covered with the growth of bushes, its roof forming a
low arch, from beneath which burst forth a fountain of purest
water. In the cave lurked a horrid serpent with a crested head
and scales glittering like gold. His eyes shone like fire, his
body was swollen with venom, he vibrated a triple tongue, and
showed a triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians (Cadmus
and his companions came from Tyre, the chief city of Phoenicia)
dipped their pitchers in the fountain, and the ingushing waters
made a sound, than the glittering serpent raised his head out of
the cave and uttered a fearful hiss. The vessels fell from their
hands, the blood left their cheeks, they trembled in every limb.
The serpent, twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, raised his
head so as to overtop the tallest trees, and while the Tyrians
from terror could neither fight nor fly, slew some with his
fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous breath.
Cadmus having waited for the return of his men till midday, went
in search of them. His covering was a lion's hide, and besides
his javelin he carried in his hand a lance, and in his breast a
bold heart, a surer reliance than either. When he entered the
wood and saw the lifeless bodies of his men, and the monster with
his bloody jaws, he exclaimed, "O faithful friends, I will avenge
you, or share your death." So saying he lifted a huge stone and
threw it with all his force at the serpent. Such a block would
have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no impression on
the monster. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which met with
better success, for it penetrated the serpent's scales, and
pierced through to his entrails. Fierce with pain the monster
turned back his head to view the wound, and attempted to draw out
the weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron
point rankling in his flesh. His neck swelled with rage, bloody
foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his nostrils poisoned
the air around. Now he twisted himself into a circle, then
stretched himself out on the ground like the trunk of a fallen
tree. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding
his spear opposite to the monster's opened jaws. The serpent
snapped at the weapon and attempted to bite its iron point. At
last Cadmus, watching his chance, thrust the spear at a moment
when the animal's thrown back came against the trunk of a tree,
and so succeeded in pinning him to its side. His weight bent the
tree as he struggled in the agonies of death.
While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast
size, a voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but he heard it
distinctly), commanding him to take the dragon's teeth and sow
them in the earth. He obeyed. He made a furrow in the ground,
and planted the teeth, destined to produce a crop of men. Scarce
had he done so when the clods began to move, and the points of
spears to appear above the surface. Next helmets, with their
nodding plumes, came up, and next, the shoulders and breasts and
limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed
warriors. Cadmus, alarmed, prepared to encounter a new enemy,
but one of them said to him, "Meddle not with our civil war."
With that he who had spoken smote one of his earth-born brothers
with a sword, and he himself fell pierced with an arrow from
another. The latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner
the whole crowd dealt with each other till all fell slain with
mutual wounds except five survivors. One of these cast away his
weapons and said, "Brothers, let us live in peace!" These five
joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the
name of Thebes.
Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus. The
gods left Olympus to honor the occasion with their presence, and
Vulcan presented the bride with a necklace of surpassing
brilliancy, his own workmanship. But a fatality hung over the
family of Cadmus in consequence of his killing the serpent sacred
to Mars. Semele and Ino, his daughters, and Actaeon and
Pentheius, his grandchildren, all perished unhappily; and Cadmus
and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to them, and
emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who received them
with honor and made Cadmus their king. But the misfortunes of
their children still weighed upon their minds; and one day Cadmus
exclaimed, "If a serpent's life is so dear to the gods, I would I
were myself a serpent." No sooner had he uttered the words than
he began to change his form. Harmonia beheld it, and prayed to
the gods to let her share his fate. Both became serpents. They
lie in the woods, but mindful of their origin they neither avoid
the presence of man nor do they ever injure any one.
There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the
letters of the alphabet which were invented by the Phoenicians.
This is alluded to by Byron, where, addressing the modern Greeks,
he says:
"You have the letters Cadmus gave,
Think you he meant them for a slave?"
Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded of
the serpents of the classical stories, and says,
"-----pleasing was his shape,
And lovely; never since of serpent kind
Lovelier; not those that in Illyria changed
Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god
in Epidaurus."
The "god in Epidaurus" was AEsculapius. Serpents were held
sacred to him.
THE MYRMIDONS
The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles in the Trojan war.
>From them all zealous and unscrupulous followers of a political
chief are called by that name down to this day. But the origin
of the Myrmidons would not give one the idea of a fierce and
bloody race, but rather of a laborious and peaceful one.
Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of AEgina to seek
assistance of his old friend and ally AEacus, the king, in his
wars with Minos, king of Crete. Cephalus was kindly received,
and the desired assistance readily promised. "I have people
enough," said AEacus, "to protect myself and spare you such a
force as you need." "I rejoice to see it," replied Cephalus,
"and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to find such a host of
youths as I see around me, all apparently of about the same age.
Yet there are many individuals whom I previously knew that I look
for now in vain. What has become of them?" AEacus groaned, and
replied with a voice of sadness, "I have been intending to tell
you, and will now do so without more delay, that you may see how
from the saddest beginning a happy result sometimes flows. Those
whom you formerly knew are now dust and ashes! A plague sent by
angry Juno devastated the land. She hated it because it bore the
name of one of her husband's female favorites. While the disease
appeared to spring from natural causes we resisted it as we best
might by natural remedies; but it soon appeared that the
pestilence was too powerful for our efforts, and we yielded. At
the beginning the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth, and
thick clouds shut in the heated air. For four months together a
deadly south wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells and
springs; thousands of snakes crept over the land and shed their
poison in the fountains. The force of the disease was first
spent on the lower animals; dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The
luckless ploughman wondered to see his oxen fall in the midst of
their work, and lie helpless in the unfinished furrow. The wool
fell from the bleating sheep, and their bodies pined away. The
horse, once foremost in the race, contested the palm no more, but
groaned at his stall, and died an inglorious death. The wild
boar forgot his rage, the stag his swiftness, the bears no longer
attacked the herds. Everything languished; dead bodies lay in
the roads, the fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned by
them. I tell you what is hardly credible, but neither dogs nor
birds would touch them, nor starving wolves. Their decay spread
the infection. Next the disease attacked the country people, and
then the dwellers in the city. At first the cheek was flushed,
and the breath drawn with difficulty. The tongue grew rough and
swelled, and the dry mouth stood open with its veins enlarged and
gasped for the air. Men could not bear the heat of their clothes
or their beds, but preferred to lie on the bare ground; and the
ground did not cool them, but on the contrary, they heated the
spot where they lay. Nor could the physicians help, for the
disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick gave them
infection, so that the most faithful were the first victims. At
last all hope of relief vanished and men learned to look upon
death as the only deliverer from disease. Then they gave way to
every inclination, and cared not to ask what was expedient, for
nothing was expedient. All restraint laid aside, they crowded
around the wells and fountains, and drank till they died, without
quenching thirst. Many had not strength to get away from the
water, but died in the midst of the stream, and others would
drink of it notwithstanding. Such was their weariness of their
sick-beds that some would creep forth, and if not strong enough
to stand, would die on the ground. They seemed to hate their
friends, and got away from their homes, as if, not knowing the
cause of their sickness, they charged it on the place of their
abode. Some were seen tottering along the road, as long as they
could stand, while others sank on the earth, and turned their
dying eyes around to take a last look, then closed them in death.
"What heart had I left me, during all this, or what ought I to
have had, except to hate life and wish to be with my dead
subjects? On all sides lay my people strewn like over-ripened
apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak.
You see yonder s temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter.
Oh, how many offered prayers there; husbands for wives, fathers
for sons, and died in the very act of supplication! How often,
while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell,
struck down by disease without waiting for the blow. At length
all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown out
unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought with one
another for the possession of them. Finally there were none left
to mourn; sons and husbands, old men and youths, perished alike
unlamented.
"Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven. 'Oh,
Jupiter,' I said, 'if thou art indeed my father, and art not
ashamed of thy offspring, give me back my people, or take me also
away!' At these words a clap of thunder was heard. 'I accept
the omen,' I cried; 'oh, may it be a sign of a favorable
disposition towards me!' By chance there grew by the place where
I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to Jupiter.
I observed a troop of ants busy with their labor, carrying minute
grains in their mouths and following one another in a line up the
trunk of the tree. Observing their numbers with admiration, I
said, 'Give me, oh father, citizens as numerous as these, and
replenish my empty city.' The tree shook and gave a rustling
sound with its branches though no wind agitated them. I trembled
in every limb, yet I kissed the earth and the tree. I would not
confess to myself that I hoped, yet I did hope. Night came on
and sleep took possession of my frame oppressed with cares. The
tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous branches all
covered with living, moving creatures. It seemed to shake its
limbs and throw down over the ground a multitude of those
industrious grain-gathering animals, which appeared to gain in
size, and grow larger, and by-and-by to stand erect, lay aside
their superfluous legs and their black color, and finally to
assume the human form. Then I awoke, and my first impulse was to
chide the gods who had robbed me of a sweet vision and given me
no reality in its place. Being still in the temple my attention
was caught by the sound of many voices without; a sound of late
unusual to my ears. While I began to think I was yet dreaming,
Telamon, my son, throwing open the temple-gates, exclaimed,
'Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your hopes!'
I went forth; I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my
dream, and they were passing in procession in the same manner.
While I gazed with wonder and delight they approached, and
kneeling, hailed me as their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and
proceeded to allot the vacant city to the new-born race, and to
parcel out the fields among them. I called them Myrmidons from
the ant (myrmex), from which they sprang. You have seen these
persons; their dispositions resemble those which they had in
their former shape. They are a diligent and industrious race,
eager to gain, and tenacious of their gains. Among them you may
recruit your forces. They will follow you to the war, young in
years and bold in heart."
This description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account
which Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives of the plague of
Athens. The historian drew from life, and all the poets and
writers of fiction since his day, when they have had occasion to
describe a similar scene, have borrowed their details from him.
Chapter VIII
Nisus and Scylla. Echo and Narcissus. Clytie. Hero and
Leander
Minos, king of Crete, made war upon Megara. Nisus was king of
Megara, and Scylla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted
six months, and the city still held out, for it was decreed by
fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple
lock, which glittered among the hair of King Nisus, remained on
his head. There was a tower on the city walls, which overlooked
the plain where Minos and his army were encamped. To this tower
Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the
hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned
to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular,
excited her admiration. She admired his graceful deportment; if
he threw his javelin, skill seemed combined with force in the
discharge; if he drew his bow, Apollo himself could not have done
it more gracefully. But when he laid aside his helmet, and in
his purple robes bestrode his white horse with its gay
caparisons, and reined in its foaming mouth, the daughter of
Nisus was hardly mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with
admiration. She envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins
that he held. She felt as if she could, if it were possible, go
to him through the hostile ranks; she felt an impulse to cast
herself down from the tower into the midst of his camp, or to
open the gates to him, or do anything else, so only it might
gratify Minos. As she sat in the tower, she talked thus with
herself: "I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad
war. I grieve that Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any
cause that brings him to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing
to grant us peace, and receive me as a hostage. I would fly
down, if I could, and alight in his camp, and tell him that we
yield ourselves to his mercy. But, then, to betray my father!
No! Rather would I never see Minos again. And yet no doubt it
is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered when the
conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on
his side. I think we shall be conquered; and if that must be the
end of it, why should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of
leaving it to be done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter
if we can. And, oh, if any one should wound or kill Minos! No
one surely would have the heart to do it; yet ignorantly, not
knowing him, one might. I will, I will surrender myself to him,
with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war. But
how? The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he
only stands in my way. Oh, that it might please the gods to take
him away! But why ask the gods to do it? Another woman, loving
as I do, would remove with her own hands whatever stood in the
way of her love. And can any other woman dare more than I? I
would encounter fire and sword to gain my object; but here there
is no need of fire and sword. I only need my father's purple
lock. More precious than gold to me, that will give me all I
wish."
While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole palace
was buried in sleep. She entered her father's bedchamber and cut
off the fatal lock; then passed out of the city and entered the
enemy's camp. She demanded to be led to the king, and thus
addressed him: "I am Scylla, the daughter of Nisus. I surrender
to you my country and my father's house. I ask no reward but
yourself; for love of you I have done it. See here the purple
lock! With this I give you my father and his kingdom." She held
out her hand with the fatal spoil. Minos shrunk back and refused
to touch it. "The gods destroy thee, infamous woman," he
exclaimed; "disgrace of our time! May neither earth nor sea
yield thee a resting place! Surely, my Crete, where Jove himself
was cradled, shall not be polluted with such a monster!" Thus he
said, and gave orders that equitable terms should be allowed to
the conquered city, and that the fleet should immediately sail
from the island.
Scylla was frantic. "Ungrateful man," she exclaimed, "is it thus
you leave me? Me who have given you victory, who have
sacrificed for you parent and country! I am guilty, I confess,
and deserve to die, by not by your hand." As the ships left the
shore, she leaped into the water, and seizing the rudder of the
one which carried Minos, she was borne along an unwelcome
companion of their course. A sea-eagle soaring aloft, it was
her father who had been changed into that form, seeing her,
pounced down upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws.
In terror she let go the ship, and would have fallen into the
water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The sea-
eagle still cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he espies
her in his lofty flight, you may see him dart down upon her, with
beak and claws, to take vengeance for the ancient crime.
ECHO AND NARCISSUS
Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where
she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of
Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing;
she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument would
have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who,
she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs.
Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs
made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence
upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that
tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one
purpose you are so fond of REPLY. You shall still have the
last word, but no power to speak first."
This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the
chase upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his
footsteps. Oh, how she longed to address him in the softest
accents, and win him to converse, but it was not in her power.
She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her
answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his
companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here."
Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come."
Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again,
"Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us
join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all
her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to
throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming,
"Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me." "Have
me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went
to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time
forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form
faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her
bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her
but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one
who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last
word.
Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned all the
rest of the nymphs as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden,
who had in vain endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer that
he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no
return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the
prayer.
There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the
shepherds never drove their flocks. Nor did the mountain goats
resort to it, nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it
defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh
around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came
one day the youth fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He
stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he
thought it was some beautiful water=spirit living in the
fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes,
those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the
rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of
health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He
brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to
embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned
again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not
tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he
hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image.
He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you
shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs
love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I
stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and
answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the
water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he
exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you,
if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same
kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by
degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which
formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him,
however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! Alas!" she answered him
with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade
passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look
of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially
the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts, Echo smote
hers also. They prepared a funeral pile, and would have burned
the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a
flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which
bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.
Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's
song in Comus. She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and
sings to attract their attention.
"Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell
By slow Meander's margent green.
And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likes thy Narcissus are?
Oh, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies."
Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which
he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the
fountain:
"That day I oft remember when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me. I started back;
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.'"
Paradise Lost, Book IV
The fable of Narcissus is often alluded to by the poets. Here
are two epigrams which treat it in different ways. The first is
by Goldsmith:
"ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING:
"Sure 'twas by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be like Cupid blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate"
The other is by Cowper:
"ON AN UGLY FELLOW
"Beware, my friend, of crystal brook
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook.
Thy nose, thou chance to see;
Narcissus' fate would then be thine,
And self-detested thou would'st pine,
As self-enamored he."
CLYTIE
Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no
return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold
ground, with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders.
Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own
tears and the chilly dew her only food. She gazed on the sun
when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his
setting; she saw no other object, her face turned constantly on
him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face
became a sunflower, which turns on its stem so as always to face
the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to that
extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.
One of the best known of the marble busts discovered in our own
time, generally bears the name of Clytie. It has been very
frequently copied in plaster. It represents the head of a young
girl looking down, the neck and shoulders being supported in
the cup of a large flower, which by a little effort of
imagination can be made into a giant sunflower. The latest
supposition, however, is that this bust represented not Clytie,
but Isis.
Hood in his Flowers thus alludes to Clytie:
"I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom therefore I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one."
The sunflower is a favorite emblem of constancy. Thus Moore uses
it:
"The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look that she turned when he rose."
It is only for convenience that the modern poets translate the
Latin word HELIOTROPIUM, by the English sunflower. The
sunflower, which was known to the ancients, was called in Greek,
helianthos, from HELIOS, the sun; and ANTHOS a flower, and in
Latin, helianthus. It derives its name from its resemblance to
the sun; but, as any one may see, at sunset, it does not "turn to
the God when he sets the same look that it turned when he rose."
The Heliotrope of the fable of Clytie is called Turn-sole in old
English books, and such a plant is known in England. It is not
the sweet heliotrope of modern gardens, which is a South American
plant. The true classical heliotrope is probably to be found in
the heliotrope of southern France, a weed not known in America.
The reader who is curious may examine the careful account of it
in Larousse's large dictionary.
HERO AND LEANDER
Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the
strait which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore in
the town of Sestos lived the maiden Hero, a priestess of Venus.
Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait nightly to enjoy
the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which she reared
upon the tower, for the purpose. But one night a tempest arose
and the sea was rough; his strength failed, and he was drowned.
The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became
aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself down from the
tower into the sea and perished.
The following sonnet is by Keats:
"ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER
"Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly,
Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
Oh, horrid dream! See how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!"
The story of Leander's swimming the Hellespont was looked upon as
fabulous, and the feat considered impossible, till Lord Byron
proved its possibility by performing it himself. In the Bride of
Abydos he says,
"These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne."
The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is
a constant current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the
Archipelago. Since Byron's time the feat has been achieved by
others; but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the
art of swimming sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity
to any one of our readers who may dare to make the attempt and
succeed in accomplishing it.
In the beginning of the second canto of the same poem, Byron
alludes to this story:
"The winds are high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormiest water,
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
Oh, when alone along the sky
The turret-torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;
And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds forbade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear
Or sound or sight foreboding fear.
His eye but saw that light of love,
The only star it hailed above;
His ear but rang with Hero's song,
'Ye waves, divide not lovers long.'
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true."
The subject has been a favorite one with sculptors.
Schiller has made one of his finest ballads from the tragic fate
of the two lovers. The following verses are a translation from
the latter part of the ballad:
"Upon Hellespont's broad currents
Night broods black, and rain in torrents
>From the cloud's full bosom pours;
Lightnings in the sky are flashing,
All the storms below are dashing
On the crag-piled shores.
Awful chasms gaping widely,
Separate the mountain waves;
Ocean yawning as to open
Downward e'en to Pluto's caves."
After the storm has arisen, Hero sees the danger, and cries,
"Woe, ah! Woe; great Jove have pity,
Listen to my sad entreaty,
Yet for what can Hero pray?
Should the gods in pity listen,
He, e'en now the false abyss in,
Struggles with the tempest's spray.
All the birds that skim the wave
In hasty flight are hieing home;
T the lee of safer haven
All the storm-tossed vessels come.
"Ah! I know he laughs at danger,
Dares again the frequent venture,
Lured by an almighty power;
For he swore it when we parted,
With the vow which binds true-hearted
Lovers to the latest hour.
Yes! Even as this moment hastens
Battles he the wave-crests rude,
And to their unfathomed chasms
Dags him down the angry flood.
"Pontus false! Thy sunny smile
Was the lying traitor's guile,
Like a mirror flashing there:
All thy ripples gently playing
Til they triumphed in betraying
Him into thy lying snare.
Now in thy mid-current yonder,
Onward still his course he urges,
Thou the false, on him the fated
Pouring loose thy terror-surges.
Waxes high the tempest's danger,
Waves to mountains rise in anger,
Oceans swell, and breakers dash,
Foaming, over cliffs of rock
Where even navies, stiff with oak,
Could not bear the crash.
In the gale her torch is blasted,
Beacon of the hoped-for strand;
Horror broods above the waters,
Horror broods above the land.
Prays she Venus to assuage
The hurricane's increasing rage,
And to sooth the billows' scorn.
And as gale on gale arises,
Vows to each as sacrifices
Spotless steer with gilded horn.
To all the goddesses below,
To "all the gods in heaven that be,"
She prays that oil of peace may flow
Softly on the storm-tossed sea.
Blest Leucothea, befriend me!
>From cerulean halls attend me;
Hear my prayer of agony.
In the ocean desert's raving,
Storm-tossed seamen, succor craving,
Find in thee their helper nigh.
Wrap him in thy charmed veil,
Secret spun and secret wove,
Certain from the deepest wave
To lift him to its crests above."
Now the tempests wild are sleeping,
And from the horizon creeping
Rays of morning streak the skies,
Peaceful as it lay before
The placid sea reflects the shore,
Skies kiss waves and waves the skies.
Little ripples, lightly plashing,
Break upon the rock-bound strand,
And they trickle, lightly playing
O'er a corpse upon the sand.
Yes, 'tis he! Although he perished,
Still his sacred troth he cherished,
An instant's glance tells all to her;
Not a tear her eye lets slip
Not a murmur leaves her lip;
Down she looks in cold despair;
Gazes round the desert sea,
Trustless gazes round the sky,
Flashes then of noble fire
Through her pallid visage fly!
"Yes, I know, ye mighty powers,
Ye have drawn the fated hours
Pitiless and cruel on.
Early full my course is over.
Such a course with such a lover;
Such a share of joy I've known.
Venus, queen, within thy temple,
Thou hast known me vowed as thine,
Now accept thy willing priestess
As an offering at thy shrine."
Downward then, while all in vain her
Fluttering robes would still sustain her,
Springs she into Pontus' wave;
Grasping him and her, the god
Whirls them in his deepest flood,
And, himself, becomes their grave.
With his prizes then contented,
Peaceful bids his waters glide,
>From the unexhausted vessels,
Whence there streams an endless tide.
Chapter IX
Minerva and Arachne. Niobe. The Story of Perseus
Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter.
She, they say, sprang forth from his brain full grown and clad in
complete armor. She presided over the useful and ornamental
arts, both those of men, such as agriculture and navigation,
and those of women, spinning, weaving, and needle-work. She
was also a warlike divinity; but a lover of defensive war only.
She had no sympathy with Mars's savage love of violence and
bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to
her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also aspired to
it. The tale ran that in the reign of Cecrops, the first king of
Athens, the two deities contended for the possession of the city.
The gods decreed that it should be awarded to that one who
produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the
horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that
the olive was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to
the goddess; and it was named after her, Athens, her name in
Greek being Athene.
In another contest, a mortal dared to come in competition with
Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such
skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the nymphs
themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and
gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done,
but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her, as she took the
wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it
with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft
as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skilful touch, or wove
the web, or, when woven, adorned it with her needle, one would
have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she
denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a
goddess. "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she; "if
beaten, I will pay the penalty." Minerva heard this and was
displeased. Assuming the form of an old woman, she went and gave
Arachne some friendly advice. "I have had much experience,: said
she, "and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your
fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess.
On the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you
have said, and, as she is merciful, perhaps she will pardon you."
Arachne stopped her spinning, and looked at the old dame with
anger in her countenance. "Keep your counsel," said she, "for
your daughters or handmaids; for my part, I know what I say, and
I stand to it. I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her
skill, if she dare venture." "She comes," said Minerva; and
dropping her disguise, stood confessed. The nymphs bent low in
homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was
unterrified. She blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek,
and then she grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a
foolish conceit of her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva
forbore no longer, nor interposed any further advice. They
proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the
web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out
among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the
woof into its place and compacts the web. Both work with speed;
their skilful hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the
contest makes the labor light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted
with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so
adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose
long arch tinges the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from
the shower (this description of the rainbow is literally
translated rom Ovid), in which, where the colors meet they seem
as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are
wholly different.
Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune.
Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with
August gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the
sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the
earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted
herself with helmed head, her AEgis covering her breast. Such
was the central circle; and in the four corners were represented
incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such
presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These
were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest before
it was too late.
Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit
the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda
caressing the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised
himself; and another, Danae, in the brazen tower in which her
father had imprisoned her, but where the god effected his
entrance in the form of a shower of gold. Still another depicted
Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull.
Encouraged by the tameness of the animal, Europa ventured to
mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea, and swam
with her to Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull so
naturally was it wrought, and so natural was the water in which
it swam. She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon the
shore she was leaving, and to call to her companions for help.
She appeared to shudder with terror at the sight of the heaving
waves, and to draw back her feet from the water.
Arachne filled her canvas with these and like subjects,
wonderfully well done, but strongly marking her presumption and
impiety. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant
at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle, and rent it
in pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne, and made her
feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it, and went and
hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her hanging by a
rope. "Live, guilty woman," said she; " and that you may
preserve the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, you and
your descendants, to all future times." She sprinkled her with
the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her
nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew
smaller yet; her fingers grew to her side, and served for legs.
All the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her thread,
often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as when
Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider.
Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his Muiopotmos, adhering
very closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the
conclusion of the story. The two stanzas which follow tell what
was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the olive
tree:
"Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
With excellent device and wondrous slight,
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes."
"Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And mastered with workmanship so rare.
She stood astonished long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare,
And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
The victory did yield her as her share;
Yet did she inly fret and felly burn,
And all her blood to poisonous rancor turn."
And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own mortification
and vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.
The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick:
UPON A LADY'S EMBROIDERY
"Arachne once, as poets tell,
A goddess at her art defied,
And soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.
"Oh, then, beware Arachne's fate;
Be prudent, Chloe, and submit,
For you'll most surely meet her hate,
Who rival both her art and wit."
Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describing the works of art with
which the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa:
"------ sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped
>From off her shoulder, backward borne,
>From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
The mild bull's golden horn."
In his Princess there is this allusion to Danae:
"Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me."
NIOBE
The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country,
and served as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to
compare themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a
matron too, failed to learn the lesson of humility. It was
Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud of;
but it was not her husband's fame, nor her own beauty, nor their
great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her.
It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would
Niobe have been, if only she had not claimed to be so. It was on
occasion of the annual celebration in honor of Latona and her
offspring, Apollo and Diana, when the people of Thebes were
assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense
to the altars and paying their vows, that Niobe appeared among
the crowd. Her attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her
face as beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She
stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. "What folly,"
said she, "is this! to prefer beings whom you never saw to
those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored
with worship rather than I? My father was Tantalus, who was
received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a
goddess. My husband built and rules this city, Thebes; and
Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I
survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence
unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add, I have seven sons
and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-
law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause for
pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's daughter,
with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate
indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny
this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong for
Fortune to subdue. She may take from me much; I shall still have
much left. Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly
be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Away with you from
these solemnities, put off the laurel from your brows, have
done with this worship!" The people obeyed, and left the sacred
services uncompleted.
The goddess was indignant. On top of Mount Cynthus where she
dwelt, she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I
who have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold
myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin
now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived
of my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was
proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no
more," said he; "speech only delays punishment." So said Diana
also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted
on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a
broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their warlike
sports. The sons of Niobe were there among the rest, some
mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay
chariots. Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming
steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, "Ah, me!"
dropped the reins and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound
of the bow, like a boatman who sees the storm gathering and
makes all sail for the port, gave the rein to his horses and
attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he
fled. Two others, younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone
to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As they stood
breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a
cry together, together cast a parting look around them, and
together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing
them fall, hastened to the spot to render them assistance, and
fell stricken in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left,
Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer
might not avail. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all,
in his ignorance that all needed not his intercession; and Apollo
would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string,
and it was too late.
The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made
Niobe acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly
think it possible; she was indignant that the gods had dared and
amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband, Amphion,
overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas! How
different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away
the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course
through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of
her foes! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed, now
one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to
heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "feed full your rage with my
anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my
seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am
still richer than you, my conqueror. Scarce had she spoken when
the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe's
alone. She was brave from excess of grief. The sisters stood in
garments of mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One
fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she was
bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly
ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried
to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment, another stood
trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and
only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and
covered as it were with her whole body.
"Spare me one, and that the youngest! Oh, spare me one of so
many?!" she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead.
Desolate she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and
seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, nor
color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable,
there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue clave to
the roof of her mouth, and her veins ceased to convey the tide of
life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no
step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears
continued to flow; and, borne on a whirlwind to her native
mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock, from which a
trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.
The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration
of the fallen condition of modern Rome:
"The Niobe of nations! There she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! Through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."
Childe Harold, IV.79
The slaughter of the children of Niobe by Apollo, alludes to the
Greek belief that pestilence and illness were sent by Apollo, and
one dying by sickness was said to be struck by Apollo's arrow.
It is to this that Morris alludes in the Earthly Paradise:
"While from the freshness of his blue abode,
Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget,
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet."
Our illustration of this story is a copy of a celebrated statue
in the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure
of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the
pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother clasped by the
arm of her terrified child, is one of the most admired of the
ancient statues. It ranks with the Laocoon and the Apollo among
the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a
Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue:
"To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
The sculptor's art has made her breathe again."
Tragic as is the story of Niobe we cannot forbear to smile at the
use Moore has made of it in Rhymes on the Road:
"'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don't do him wrong,
'Twixt death and epics passed his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long;
Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes."
Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a
very prolific and very tasteless poet, whose works are now
forgotten, unless when recalled to mind by some wit like Moore
for the sake of a joke.
THE GRAEAE AND GORGONS
The Graeae were three sisters who were gray-haired from their
birth, whence their name. The Gorgons were monstrous females
with huge teeth like those of swine, brazen claws, and snaky
hair. They also were three in number, two of them immortal, but
the other, Medusa, mortal. None of these beings make much figure
in mythology except Medusa, the Gorgon, whose story we shall next
advert to. We mention them chiefly to introduce an ingenious
theory of some modern writers, namely, that the Gorgons and
Graeae were only personifications of the terrors of the sea, the
former denoting the STRONG billows of the wide open main, and the
latter the WHITE-crested waves that dash against the rocks of the
coast. Their names in Greek signify the above epithets.
PERSEUS AND MEDUSA
Acrisius was the king who ruled in Argos. To him had an oracle
declared that he should be slain by the child of his daughter
Danae. Therefore the cruel king, thinking it better that Danae
should have no children than that he should be slain, ordered a
tower of brass to be made, and in this tower he confined his
daughter away from all men.
But who can withstand Jupiter? He saw Danae, loved her, and
changing his form to a shower of gold, he shone into the
apartment of the captive girl.
Perseus was the child of Jupiter and Danae. Acrisius, finding
that his precautions had come to nought, and yet hardly daring to
kill his own daughter and her young child, placed them both in a
chest and sent the chest floating on the sea. It floated away
and was finally entangled in the net of Dicte, a fisherman in the
island of Seriphus. He brought them to his house and treated
them kindly, and in the house of Dicte, Perseus grew up. When
Perseus was grown up, Polydectes, king of that country, wishing
to send Perseus to his death, bade him go in quest of the head of
Medusa. Medusa had once been a beautiful maiden, whose hair was
her chief glory, but as she dared to vie in beauty with Minerva,
the goddess deprived her of her charms and changed her beautiful
ringlets into hissing serpents. She became a cruel monster of so
frightful an aspect that no living thing could behold her without
being turned into stone. All around the cavern where she dwelt
might be seen the stony figures of men and beasts which had
chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified with the
sight. Minerva and Mercury aided Perseus. From Minerva, Perseus
borrowed her shield, and from Mercury the winged shoes and the
harpe or crooked sword. After having flown all over the earth
Perseus espied in the bright shield the image of Medusa and her
two immortal sisters. Flying down carefully he cut at her with
his harpe and severed her head. Putting the trophy in his pouch
he flew away just as the two immortal sisters were awakened by
the hissings of their snaky locks.
PERSEUS AND ATLAS
After the slaughter of Medusa, Perseus, bearing with him the head
of the Gorgon, flew far and wide, over land and sea. As night
came on, he reached the western limit of the earth, where the sun
goes down. Here he would gladly have rested till morning. It
was the realm of King Atlas, whose bulk surpassed that of all
other men. He was rich in flocks and herds and had no neighbor
or rival to dispute his state. But his chief pride was in his
gardens, whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden branches,
half hid with golden leaves. Perseus said to him, "I come as a
guest. If you honor illustrious descent, I claim Jupiter for my
father; if mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of the Gorgon. I
seek rest and food." But Atlas remembered that an ancient
prophecy had warned him that a son of Jove should one day rob him
of his golden apples. So he answered, "Begone! Or neither your
false claims of glory nor of parentage shall protect you;" and he
attempted to thrust him out. Perseus, finding the giant too
strong for him, said, "Since you value my friendship so little,
deign to accept a present;" and turning his face away, he held up
the Gorgon's head. Atlas, with all his bulk, was changed into
stone. His beard and hair became forests, his arms and shoulders
cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones rocks. Each part
increased in bulk till he became a mountain, and (such was the
pleasure of the gods) heaven with all its stars rests upon his
shoulders.
And all in vain was Atlas turned to a mountain, for the oracle
did not mean Perseus, but the hero Hercules, who should come long
afterwards to get the golden apples for his cousin Eurystheus.
Perseus, continuing his flight, arrived at the country of the
AEthiopians, of which Cepheus was king. Cassiopeia, his queen,
proud of her beauty, had dared to compare herself to the Sea-
Nymphs, which roused their indignation to such a degree that they
sent a prodigious sea-monster to ravage the coast. To appease
the deities, Cepheus was directed hy the oracle to expose his
daughter Andromeda to be devoured by the monster. As Perseus
looked down from his aerial height he beheld the virgin chained
to a rock, and waiting the approach of the serpent. She was so
pale and motionless that if it had not been for her flowing tears
and her hair that moved in the breeze, he would have taken her
for a marble statue. He was so startled at the sight that he
almost forgot to wave his wings. As he hovered over her he said,
"O virgin, undeserving of those chains, but rather of such as
bind fond lovers together, tell me, I beseech you, your name and
the name of your country, and why you are thus bound." At first
she was silent from modesty, and, if she could, would have hid
her face with her hands; but when he repeated his questions, for
fear she might be thought guilty of some fault which she dared
not tell, she disclosed her name and that of her country, and her
mother's pride of beauty. Before she had done speaking, a sound
was heard off upon the water, and the sea-monster appeared, with
his head raised above the surface, cleaving the waves with his
broad breast. The virgin shrieked, the father and mother who had
now arrived at the scene, wretched both, but the mother more
justly so, stood by, not able to afford protection, but only to
pour forth lamentations and to embrace the victim. Then spoke
Perseus: "There will be time enough for tears; this hour is all
we have for rescue. My rank as the son of Jove and my renown as
the slayer of the Gorgon might make me acceptable as a suitor;
but I will try to win her by services rendered, if the gods will
only be propitious. If she be rescued by my valor, I demand that
she be my reward." The parents consent (how could they
hesitate?) And promise a royal dowry with her.
And now the monster was within the range of a stone thrown by a
skilful slinger, when with a sudden bound the youth soared into
the air. As an eagle, when from his lofty flight he sees a
serpent basking in the sun, pounces upon him and seizes him by
the neck to prevent him from turning his head round and using his
fangs, so the youth darted down upon the back of the monster and
plunged his sword into its shoulder. Irritated by the wound the
monster raised himself into the air, then plunged into the depth;
then, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of barking dogs,
turned swiftly from side to side, while the youth eluded its
attacks by means of his wings. Wherever he can find a passage
for his sword between the scales he makes a wound, piercing now
the side, now the flank, as it slopes towards the tail. The
brute spouts from his nostrils water mixed with blood. The wings
of the hero are wet with it, and he dares no longer trust to
them. Alighting on a rock which rose above the waves, and
holding on by a projecting fragment, as the monster floated near
he gave him a death-stroke. The people who had gathered on the
shore shouted so that the hills re-echoed to the sound. The
parents, transported with joy, embraced their future son-in-law,
calling him their deliverer and the savior of their house, and
the virgin, both cause and reward of the contest, descended from
the rock.
Cassiopeia was an Aethiopian, and consequently, in spite of her
boasted beauty, black; at least so Milton seems to have thought,
who alludes to this story in his Penseroso, where he addresses
Melancholy as the
"------- goddess, sage and holy,
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And, therefore, to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
Or that starred Aethiop queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The Sea-nymphs, and their powers offended."
Cassiopeia is called "the starred Aethiop queen," because after
her death she was placed among the stars, forming the
constellation of that name. Though she attained this honor, yet
the Sea-Nymphs, her old enemies, prevailed so far as to cause her
to be placed in that part of the heaven near the pole, where
every night she is half the time held with her head downward, to
give her a lesson of humility.
"Prince Memnon" was the son of Aurora and Tithonus, of whom we
shall hear later.
THE WEDDING FEAST
The joyful parents, with Perseus and Andromeda, repaired to the
palace, where a banquet was spread for them, and all was joy and
festivity. But suddenly a noise was heard of war-like clamor,
and Phineus, the betrothed of the virgin, with a party of his
adherents, burst in, demanding the maiden as his own. It was in
vain that Cepheus remonstrated, "You should have claimed her
when she lay bound to the rock, the monster's victim. The
sentence of the gods dooming her to such a fate dissolved all
engagements, as death itself would have done.:" Phineus made no
reply, but hurled his javelin at Perseus, but it missed its mark
and fell harmless. Perseus would have thrown his in turn, but
the cowardly assailant ran and took shelter behind the altar.
But his act was a signal for an onset by his band upon the guests
of Cepheus. They defended themselves and a general conflict
ensued, the old king retreating from the scene after fruitless
expostulations, calling the gods to witness that he was guiltless
of this outrage on the rights of hospitality.
Perseus and his friends maintained for some time the unequal
contest; but the numbers of the assailants were too great for
them, and destruction seemed inevitable, when a sudden thought
struck Perseus: "I will make my enemy defend me." Then, with a
loud voice he exclaimed, :If I have any friend here let him turn
away his eyes!" and held aloft the Gorgon's head. "Seek not to
frighten us with your jugglery," said Thescelus, and raised his
javelin in act to throw, and became stone in the very attitude.
Ampyx was about to plunge his sword into the body of a prostrate
foe, but his arm stiffened and he could neither thrust forward
nor withdraw it. Another, in the midst of a vociferous
challenge, stopped, his mouth open, but no sound issuing. One of
Perseus's friends, Aconteus, caught sight of the Gorgon and
stiffened like the rest. Astyages struck him with his sword, but
instead of wounding, it recoiled with a ringing noise.
Phineus beheld this dreadful result of his unjust aggression, and
felt confounded. He called aloud to his friends, but got no
answer; he touched them and found them stone. Falling on his
knees and stretching out his hands to Perseus, but turning his
head away, he begged for mercy. "Take all," said he, "give me
but my life." "Base coward," said Perseus, "thus much I will
grant you; no weapon shall touch you; moreover you shall be
preserved in my house as a memorial of these events." So saying,
he held the Gorgon's head to the side where Phineus was looking,
and in the very form in which he knelt, with his hands
outstretched and face averted, he became fixed immovably, a mass
of stone!
The following allusion to Perseus is from Milman's Samor:
"As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood
Perseus in stern tranquillity of wrath,
Half stood, half floated on his ankle-plumes
Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield
Looked into stone the raging fray; so rose,
But with no magic arms, wearing alone
Th' appalling and control of his firm look,
The Briton Samor; at his rising awe
Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute."
Then Perseus returned to Seriphus to King Polydectes and to his
mother Danae and the fisherman Dicte. He marched up the tyrant's
hall, where Polydectes and his guests were feasting. "Have you
the head of Medusa?" exclaimed Polydectes. "Here it is,"
answered Perseus, and showed it to the king and to his guests.
The ancient prophecy which Acrisius had so much feared at last
came to pass. For, as Perseus was passing through the country of
Larissa, he entered into competition with the youths of the
country at the game of hurling the discus. King Acrisius was
among the spectators. The youths of Larissa threw first, and
then Perseus. His discus went far beyond the others, and, seized
by a breeze from the sea, fell upon the foot of Acrisius. The
old king swooned with pain, and was carried away from the place
only to die. Perseus, who had heard the story of his birth and
parentage from Danae, when he learned who Acrisius was, filled
with remorse and sorrow, went to the oracle at Delphi, and there
was purified from the guilt of homicide.
Perseus gave the head of Medusa to Minerva, who had aided him so
well to obtain it. Minerva took the head of her once beautiful
rival and placed it in the middle of her Aegis.
Milton, in his Comus, thus alludes to the Aegis:
"What was that snaky-headed Gorgon-shield
That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin,
Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone,
But rigid looks of chaste austerity,
And noble grace that dashed brute violence
With sudden adoration and blank awe!"
Armstrong, the poet of the Art of Preserving Health, thus
describes the effect of frost upon the waters:
"Now blows the surly North and chills throughout
the stiffening regions, while by stronger charms
Than Circe e'er or fell Medea brewed,
Each brook that wont to prattle to its banks
Lies all bestilled and wedged betwixt its banks,
Nor moves the withered reeds. . . .
The surges baited by the fierce Northeast,
Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads,
E'en in the foam of all their madness struck
To monumental ice.
* * * * *
Such execution,
So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect
Of terrible Medusa,
When wandering through the woods she turned to stone
Their savage tenants; just as the foaming lion
Sprang furious on his prey, her speedier power
Outran his haste,
And fixed in that fierce attitude he stands
Like Rage in marble!"
Imitations of Shakespeare
Of Atlas there is another story, which I like better than the one
told. He was one of the Titans who warred against Jupiter like
Typhoeus, Briareus, and others. After their defeat by the king
of gods and men, Atlas was condemned to stand in the far western
part of the earth, by the Pillars of Hercules, and to hold on his
shoulders the weight of heaven and the stars.
The story runs that Perseus, flying by, asked and obtained rest
and food. The next morning he asked what he could do to reward
Atlas for his kindness. The best that giant could think of was
that Perseus should show him the snaky head of Medusa, that he
might be turned to stone and be at rest from his heavy load.
Chapter X
Monsters. Giants. Sphinx. Pegasus and the Chimaera.
Centaurs. Griffin. Pygmies
Monsters, in the language of mythology, were beings of unnatural
proportions or parts, usually regarded with terror, as possessing
immense strength and ferocity, which they employed for the injury
and annoyance of men. Some of them were supposed to combine the
members of different animals; such were the Sphinx and the
Chimaera; and to these all the terrible qualities of wild beasts
were attributed, together with human sagacity and faculties.
Others, as the giants, differed from men chiefly in their size;
and in this particular we must recognize a wide distinction among
them. The human giants, if so they may be called, such as the
Cyclopes, Antaeus, Orion, and others, must be supposed not to be
altogether disproportioned to human beings, for they mingled in
love and strife with them. But the superhuman giants, who warred
with the gods, were of vastly larger dimensions. Tityus, we are
told, when stretched on the plain, covered nine acres, and
Enceladus required the whole of Mount AEtna to be laid upon him
to keep him down.
We have already spoken of the war which the giants waged against
the gods, and of its result. While this war lasted the giants
proved a formidable enemy. Some of them, like Briareus, had a
hundred arms; others, like Typhon, breathed out fire. At one
time they put the gods to such fear that they fled into Egypt,
and hid themselves under various forms. Jupiter took the form of
a ram, whence he was afterwards worshipped in Egypt as the god
Ammon, with curved horns. Apollo became a crow, Bacchus a goat,
Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish, Mercury a bird. At
another time the giants attempted to climb up into heaven, and
for that purpose took up the mountain Ossa and piled it on
Pelion. They were at last subdued by thunderbolts, which Minerva
invented, and taught Vulcan and his Cyclopes to make for Jupiter.
THE SPHINX
Laius, king of Thebes, was warned by an oracle that there was
danger to his throne and life if his new-born son should be
suffered to grow up. He therefore committed the child to the
care of a herdsman, with orders to destroy him; but the herdsman,
moved to pity, yet not daring entirely to disobey, tied up the
child by the feet, and left him hanging to the branch of a tree.
Here the infant was found by a herdsman of Polybus, king of
Corinth, who was pasturing his flock upon Mount Cithaeron.
Polybus and Merope, his wife, adopted the child, whom they called
OEdipus, or Swollen-foot, for they had no children themselves,
and in Corinth OEdipus grew up. But as OEdipus was at Delphi,
the oracle prophesied to him that he should kill his father and
marry his own mother. Fighting against Fate, OEdipus resolved to
leave Corinth and his parents, for he thought that Polybus and
Merope were meant by the oracle.
Soon afterwards, Laius being on his way to Delphi, accompanied
only by one attendant, met in a narrow road a young man also
driving in a chariot. On his refusal to leave the way at their
command, the attendant killed one of his horses, and the
stranger, filled with rage, slew both Laius and his attendant.
The young man was OEdipus, who thus unknowingly became the slayer
of his own father.
Shortly after this event the city of Thebes was afflicted with a
monster which infested the high-road. It was called the Sphinx.
It had the body of a lion, and the upper part of a woman. It lay
crouched on the top of a rock, and stopped all travellers who
came that way, proposing to them a riddle, with the condition
that those who could solve it should pass safe, but those who
failed should be killed. Not one had yet succeeded in solving
it, and all had been slain. OEdipus was not daunted by these
alarming accounts, but boldly advanced to the trial. The Sphinx
asked him, "What animal is that which in the morning goes on four
feet, at noon on two, and in the evening upon three?" OEdipus
replied, "Man, who in childhood creeps on hands and knees, in
manhood walks erect, and in old age with the aid of a staff."
The Sphinx was so mortified at the solving of her riddle that she
cast herself down from the rock and perished.
The gratitude of the people for their deliverance was so great
that they made OEdipus their king, giving him in marriage their
queen Jocasta. OEdipus, ignorant of his parentage, had already
become the slayer of his father; in marrying the queen he became
the husband of his mother. These horrors remained undiscovered,
till at length Thebes was afflicted with famine and pestilence,
and the oracle being consulted, the double crime of OEdipus came
to light. Jocasta put an end to her own life, and OEdipus,
seized with madness, tore out his eyes, and wandered away from
Thebes, dreaded and abandoned hy all except his daughters, who
faithfully adhered to him; till after a tedious period of
miserable wandering, he found the termination of his wretched
life.
PEGASUS AND THE CHIMAERA
When Perseus cut off Medusa's head, the blood sinking into the
earth produced the winged horse Pegasus. Minerva caught and
tamed him, and presented him to the Muses. The fountain
Hippocrene, on the Muses' mountain Helicon, was opened by a kick
from his hoof.
The Chimaera was a fearful monster, breathing fire. The fore
part of its body was a compound of the lion and the goat, and the
hind part a dragon's. It made great havoc in Lycia, so that the
king Iobates sought for some hero to destroy it. At that time
there arrived at his court a gallant young warrior, whose name
was Bellerophon. He brought letters from Proetus, the son-in-law
of Iobates, recommending Bellerophon in the warmest terms as an
unconquerable hero, but added at the close a request to his
father-in-law to put him to death. The reason was that Proetus
was jealous of him, suspecting that his wife Antea looked with
too much admiration on the young warrior. From this instance of
Bellerophon being unconsciously the bearer of his own death-
warrant, the expression "Bellerophontic letters" arose, to
describe any species of communication which a person is made the
bearer of, containing matter prejudicial to himself.
Iobates, on perusing the letters, was puzzled what to do, not
willing to violate the claims of hospitality, yet wishing to
oblige his son-in-law. A lucky thought occurred to him, to send
Bellerophon to combat with the Chimaera. Bellerophon accepted
the proposal, but before proceeding to the combat consulted the
soothsayer Polyidus, who advised him to procure if possible the
horse Pegasus for the conflict. For this purpose he directed him
to pass the night in the temple of Minerva. He did so, and as he
slept Minerva came to him and gave him a golden bridle. When he
awoke the bridle remained in his hand. Minerva also showed him
Pegasus drinking at the well of Pirene, and at sight of the
bridle, the winged steed came willingly and suffered himself to
be taken. Bellerophon mounting, rose with him into the air, and
soon found the Chimaera, and gained an easy victory over the
monster.
After the conquest of the Chimaera, Bellerophon was exposed to
further trials and labors by his unfriendly host, but by the aid
of Pegasus he triumphed in them all; till at length Iobates,
seeing that the hero was a special favorite of the gods, gave him
his daughter in marriage and made him his successor on the
throne. At last Bellerophon by his pride and presumption drew
upon himself the anger of the gods; it is said he even attempted
to fly up into heaven on his winged steed; but Jupiter sent a
gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw his rider, who
became lame and blind in consequence. After this Bellerophon
wandered lonely through the Aleian field, avoiding the paths of
men, and died miserably.
Milton alludes to Bellerophon in the beginning o the seventh book
of Paradise Lost:
"Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
Following above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing,
Up-led by thee,
Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
(Thy tempering;) with like safety guided down
Return me to my native element;
Lest from this flying steed unreined, (as once
Bellerophon, though from a lower sphere,)
Dismounted on the Aleian field I fall,
Erroneous there to wander, and forlorn."
Young in his Night Thoughts, speaking of the skeptic, says,
"He whose blind thought futurity denies,
Unconscious bears, Bellerophon, like thee
His own indictment; he condemns himself,
Who reads his bosom reads immortal life,
Or nature there, imposing on her sons,
Has written fables; man was made a lie."
Vol. II.1,12.
Pegasus, being the horse of the Muses, has always been at the
service of the poets. Schiller tells a pretty story of his
having been sold by a needy poet, and put to the cart and the
plough. He was not fit for such service, and his clownish master
could make nothing of him. But a youth stepped forth and asked
leave to try him. As soon as he was seated on his back, the
horse, which had appeared at first vicious, and afterwards
spirit-broken, rose kingly, a spirit, a god; unfolded the
splendor of his wings and soared towards heaven. Our own poet
Longfellow also records an adventure of this famous steed in his
Pegasus in Pound.
Shakespeare alludes to Pegasus in Henry IV, where Vernon
describes Prince Henry:
"I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuishes on his thighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship."
THE CENTAURS
The Greeks loved to people their woods and hills with strange
wild people, half man, half beast. Such were the Satyrs men
with goats' legs. But nobler and better were the Centaurs, men
to the waist, while the rest was the form of a horse. The
ancients were too fond of a horse to consider the union of his
nature with man's as forming any very degraded compound, and
accordingly the Centaur is the only one of the fancied monsters
of antiquity to which any good traits are assigned. The Centaurs
were admitted to the companionship of man, and at the marriage of
Pirithous with Hippodamia, they were among the guests. At the
feast, Eurytion, one of the Centaurs, becoming intoxicated with
the wine, attempted to offer violence to the bride; the other
Centaurs followed his example, and a dreadful conflict arose in
which several of them were slain. This is the celebrated battle
of the Lapithae and Centaurs, a favorite subject with the
sculptors and poets of antiquity.
But all the Centaurs were not like the rude guests of Pirithous.
Chiron was instructed by Apollo and Diana, and was renowned for
his skill in hunting, medicine, music, and the art of prophecy.
The most distinguished heroes of Grecian story were his pupils.
Among the rest the infant Aesculapius was intrusted to his
charge, by Apollo, his father. When the sage returned to his
home bearing the infant, his daughter Ocyroe came forth to meet
him, and at sight of the child burst forth into a prophetic
strain (for she was a prophetess), foretelling the glory that he
was to achieve. Aesculapius, when grown up, became a renowned
physician, and even in one instance succeeded in restoring the
dead to life. Pluto resented this, and Jupiter, at his request,
struck the bold physician with lightning and killed him, but
after his death received him into the number of the gods.
Chiron was the wisest and justest of all the Centaurs, and at his
death Jupiter placed him among the stars as the constellation
Sagittarius.
THE PYGMIES
The Pygmies were a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek word
which means the cubit (a cubit was a measure of about thirteen
inches), which was said to be the height of these people. They
lived near the sources of the Nile, or according to others, in
India. Homer tells us that the cranes used to migrate every
winter to the Pygmies' country, and their appearance was the
signal of bloody warfare to the puny inhabitants, who had to take
up arms to defend their cornfields against the rapacious
strangers. The Pygmies and their enemies the cranes form the
subject of several works of art.
Later writers tell of an army of Pygmies which finding Hercules
asleep made preparations to attack him, as if they were about to
attack a city. But the hero awaking laughed at the little
warriors, wrapped some of them up in his lion's-skin, and carried
them to Eurystheus.
Milton used the Pygmies for a simile, Paradise Lost, Book I:
"----------like that Pygmaean race
Beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves
Whose midnight revels by a forest side,
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
(Or dreams he sees), while overhead the moon
Sits artibress, and nearer to the earth
Wheels her pale course; they on their mirth and dance
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear.
At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds."
THE GRIFFIN, OR GRYPHON
THE Griffin is a monster with the body of a lion, the head and
wings of an eagle, and back covered with feathers. Like birds it
builds its nest, and instead of an egg lays an agate therein. It
has long claws and talons of such a size that the people of that
country make them into drinking-cups. India was assigned as the
native country of the Griffins. They found gold in the mountains
and built their nests of it, for which reason their nests were
very tempting to the hunters, and they were forced to keep
vigilant guard over them. Their instinct led them to know where
buried treasures lay, and they did their best to keep plunderers
at a distance. The Arimaspians, among whom the Griffins
flourished, were a one-eyed people of Scythia.
Milton borrows a simile from the Griffins, Paradise Lost, Book
II.:
"As when a Gryphon through the wilderness,
With winged course, o'er hill and moory dale,
Pursues the Arimaspian who by stealth
Hath from his wakeful custody purloined
His guarded gold."
Chapter XI
The Golden Fleece. Medea. The Calydonian Hunt
In very ancient times there lived in Thessaly a king and queen
named Athamas and Nephele. They had two children, a boy and a
girl. After a time Athamas grew indifferent to his wife, put her
away, and took another. Nephele suspected danger to her children
from the influence of the step-mother, and took measures to send
them out of her reach. Mercury assisted her, and gave her a ram,
with a GOLDEN FLEECE, on which she set the two children, trusting
that the ram would convey them to a place of safety. The ram
sprung into the air with the children on his back, taking his
course to the east, till when crossing the strait that divides
Europe and Asia, the girl, whose name was Helle, fell from his
back into the sea, which from her was called the Hellespont,
now the Dardanelles. The ram continued his career till he
reached the kingdom of Colchis, on the eastern shore of the Black
Sea, where he safely landed the boy Phyrxus, who was hospitably
received by AEetes, the king of the country. Phryxus sacrificed
the ram to Jupiter, and gave the golden fleece to AEetes, who
placed it in a consecrated grove, under the care of a sleepless
dragon.
There was another kingdom in Thessaly near to that of Athamas,
and ruled over by a relative of his. The king AEson, being tired
of the cares of government, surrendered his crown to his brother
Pelias, on condition that he should hold it only during the
minority of Jason, the son of AEson. When Jason was grown up and
came to demand the crown from his uncle, Pelias pretended to be
willing to yield it, but at the same time suggested to the young
man the glorious adventure of going in quest of the golden
fleece, which it was well known was in the kingdom of Colchis,
and was, as Pelias pretended, the rightful property of their
family. Jason was pleased with the thought, and forthwith made
preparations for the expedition. At that time the only species
of navigation known to the Greeks consisted of small boats or
canoes hollowed out from trunks of trees, so that when Jason
employed Argus to build him a vessel capable of containing fifty
men, it was considered a gigantic undertaking. It was
accomplished, however, and the vessel was named the Argo, from
the name of the builder. Jason sent his invitation to all the
adventurous young men of Greece, and soon found himself at the
head of a band of bold youths, many of whom afterwards were
renowned among the heroes and demigods of Greece. Hercules,
Theseus, Orpheus, and Nestor were among them. They are called
the Argonauts, from the name of their vessel.
The Argo with her crew of heroes left the shores of Thessaly and
having touched at the Island of Lemnos, thence crossed to Mysia
and thence to Thrace. Here they found the sage Phineus, and from
him received instruction as to their future course. It seems the
entrance of the Euxine Sea was impeded by two small rocky
islands, which floated on the surface, and in their tossings and
heavings occasionally came together, crushing and grinding to
atoms any object that might be caught between them. They were
called the Symplegades, or Clashing Islands. Phineus instructed
the Argonauts how to pass this dangerous strait. When they
reached the islands they let go a dove, which took her way
between the rocks, and passed in safety, only losing some
feathers of her tail. Jason and his men seized the favorable
moment of the rebound, plied their oars with vigor, and passed
safe through, though the islands closed behind them, and actually
grazed their stern. They now rowed along the shore till they
arrived at the eastern end of the sea, and landed at the kingdom
of Colchis.
Jason made known his message to the Colchian king, AEetes, who
consented to give up the golden fleece if Jason would yoke to the
plough two fire-breathing bulls with brazen feet, and sow the
teeth of the dragon, which Cadmus had slain, and from which it
was well known that a crop of armed men would spring up, who
would turn their weapons against their producer. Jason accepted
the conditions, and a time was set for making the experiment.
Previously, however, he found means to plead his cause to Medea,
daughter of the king. He promised her marriage, and as they
stood before the altar of Hecate, called the goddess to witness
his oath. Medea yielded and by her aid, for she was a potent
sorceress, he was furnished with a charm, by which he could
encounter safely the breath of the fire-breathing bulls and the
weapons of the armed men.
At the time appointed, the people assembled at the grove of Mars,
and the king assumed his royal seat, while the multitude covered
the hill-sides. The brazen-footed bulls rushed in, breathing
fire from their nostrils, that burned up the herbage as they
passed. The sound was like the roar of a furnace, and the smoke
like that of water upon quick-lime. Jason advanced boldly to
meet them. His friends, the chosen heroes of Greece, trembled to
behold him. Regardless of the burning breath, he soothed their
rage with his voice, patted their necks with fearless hands, and
adroitly slipped over them the yoke, and compelled them to drag
the plough. The Colchians were amazed; the Greeks shouted for
joy. Jason next proceeded to sow the dragon's teeth and plough
them in. And soon the crop of armed men sprang up, and wonderful
to relate! no sooner had they reached the surface than they began
to brandish their weapons and rush upon Jason. The Greeks
trembled for their hero, and even she who had provided him a way
of safety and taught him how to use it, Medea herself, grew pale
with fear. Jason for a time kept his assailants at bay with his
sword and shield, till finding their numbers overwhelming, he
resorted to the charm which Medea had taught him, seized a stone
and threw it in the midst of his foes. They immediately turned
their arms against one another, and soon there was not one of the
dragon's brood left alive. The Greeks embraced their hero, and
Medea, if she dared, would have embraced him too.
Then AEetes promised the next day to give them the fleece, and
the Greeks went joyfully down to the Argo with the hero Jason in
their midst. But that night Medea came down to Jason, and bade
him make haste and follow her, for that her father proposed the
next morning to attack the Argonauts and to destroy their ship.
They went together to the grove of Mars, where the golden fleece
hung guarded by the dreadful dragon, who glared at the hero and
his conductor with his great round eyes that never slept. But
Medea was prepared, and began her magic songs and spells, and
sprinkled over him a sleeping potion which she had prepared by
her art. At the smell he relaxed his rage, stood for a moment
motionless, then shut those great round eyes, that had never been
known to shut before, and turned over on his side, fast asleep.
Jason seized the fleece, and with his friends and Medea
accompanying, hastened to their vessel, before AEETES, the king,
could arrest their departure, and made the best of their way back
to Thessaly, where they arrived safe, and Jason delivered the
fleece to Pelias, and dedicated the Argo to Neptune. What became
of the fleece afterwards we do not know, but perhaps it was
found, after all, like many other golden prizes, not worth the
trouble it had cost to procure it.
This is one of those mythological tales, says a modern writer, in
which there is reason to believe that a substratum of truth
exists, though overlaid by a mass of fiction. It probably was
the first important maritime expedition, and like the first
attempts of the kind of all nations, as we know from history, was
probably of a half-piratical character. If rich spoils were the
result, it was enough to give rise to the idea of the golden
fleece.
Another suggestion of a learned mythologist, Bryant, is that it
is a corrupt tradition of the story of Noah and the ark. The
name Argo seems to countenance this, and the incident of the dove
is another confirmation.
Pope, in his Ode on St. Cecelia's Day, thus celebrates the
launching of the ship Argo, and the power of the music of
Orpheus, whom he calls the Thracian:
"So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demigods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound."
In Dyer's poem of The Fleece there is an account of the ship Argo
and her crew, which gives a good picture of this primitive
maritime adventure:
"From every region of Aegea's shore
The brave assembled; those illustrious twins,
Castor and Pollux; Orpheus, tuneful bard;
Zetes and Calais, as the wind in speed;
Strong Hercules and many a chief renowned.
On deep Iolcos' sandy shore they thronged,
Gleaming in armor, ardent of exploits;
And soon, the laurel cord and the huge stone
Uplifting to the deck, unmoored the bark;
Whose keel of wondrous length the skilful hand
Of Argus fashioned for the proud attempt;
And in the extended keel a lofty mast
Upraised, and sails full swelling; to the chiefs
Unwonted objects. Now first, now they learned
Their bolder steerage over ocean wave,
Led by the golden stars, as Chiron's art
Had marked the sphere celestial."
Hercules left the expedition at Mysia, for Hylas, a youth beloved
by him, having gone for water, was laid hold of and kept by the
nymphs of the spring, who were fascinated by his beauty.
Hercules went in quest of the lad, and while he was absent the
Argo put to sea and left him. Moore, in one of his songs, makes
a beautiful allusion to this incident:
"When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of light and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers in the way.
"Thus many like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine."
But Hercules, as some say, went onward to Colchis by land, and
there performed many mighty deeds, and wiped away the stain of
cowardice which might have clung to him.
MEDEA AND AESON
Amid the rejoicings for the recovery of the golden Fleece, Jason
felt that one thing was wanting, the presence of AESON, his
father, who was prevented by his age and infirmities from taking
part in them. Jason said to Medea, "My wife, I would that your
arts, whose power I have seen so mighty for my aid, could do me
one further service, and take some years from my life to add them
to my father's." Medea replied, "Not at such a cost shall it be
done, but if my art avails me, his life shall be lengthened
without abridging yours." The next full moon she issued forth
alone, while all creatures slept; not a breath stirred the
foliage, and all was still. To the stars she addressed her
incantations, and to the moon; to Hecate (Hecate was a mysterious
divinity sometimes identified with Diana and sometimes with
Proserpine. As Diana represents the moonlight splendor of night,
so Hecate represents its darkness and terrors. She was the
goddess of sorcery and witchcraft, and was believed to wander by
night along the earth, seen only by the dogs whose barking told
her approach.), the goddess of the underworld, and to Tellus, the
goddess of the earth, by whose power plants potent for
enchantments are produced. She invoked the gods of the woods and
caverns, of mountains and valleys, of lakes and rivers, of winds
and vapors. While she spoke the stars shone brighter, and
presently a chariot descended through the air, drawn by flying
serpents. She ascended it, and, borne aloft, made her way to
distant regions, where potent plants grew which she knew how to
select for her purpose. Nine nights she employed in her search,
and during that time came not within the doors of her palace nor
under any roof, and shunned all intercourse with mortals.
She next erected two altars, the one to Hecate, the other to
Hebe, the goddess of youth, and sacrificed a black sheep, pouring
libations of milk and wine. She implored Pluto and his stolen
bride that they would not hasten to take the old man's life.
Then she directed that AESON should be led forth, and having
thrown him into a deep sleep by a charm, had him laid on a bed of
herbs, like one dead. Jason and all others were kept away from
the place, that no profane eyes might look upon her mysteries.
Then, with streaming hair, she thrice moved round the altars,
dipped flaming twigs in the blood, and laid them thereon to burn.
Meanwhile the caldron with its contents was got ready. In it she
put magic herbs, with seeds and flowers of acrid juice, stones
from the distant East, and sand from the shore of all-surrounding
ocean; hoar frost, gathered by moonlight, a screech-owl's head
and wings, and the entrails of a wolf. She added fragments of
the shells of tortoises, and the liver of stags, animals
tenacious of life, and the head and beak of a crow, that
outlives nine generations of men. These, with many other things
without a name, she boiled together for her purposed work,
stirring them up with a dry olive branch; and behold, the branch
when taken out instantly became green, and before long was
covered with leaves and a plentiful growth of young olives; and
as the liquor boiled and bubbled, and sometimes ran over, the
grass, wherever the sprinklings fell, shot forth with a verdure
like that of spring.
Seeing that all was ready, Medea cut the throat of the old man
and let out all his blood, and poured into his mouth and into his
wound the juices of her caldron. As soon as he had completely
imbibed them, his hair and beard laid by their whiteness and
assumed the blackness of youth; his paleness and emaciation were
gone; his veins were full of blood, his limbs of vigor and
robustness. AESON is amazed at himself, and remembers that such
as he now is he was in his youthful days, forty years before.
Medea used her arts here for a good purpose, but not so in
another instance, where she made them the instruments of revenge.
Pelias, our readers will recollect, was the usurping uncle of
Jason, and had kept him out of his kingdom. Yet he must have had
some good qualities, for his daughters loved him, and when they
saw what Medea had done for AESON, they wished her to do the same
for their father. Medea pretended to consent, and prepared her
caldron as before. At her request an old sheep was brought and
plunged into the caldron. Very soon a bleating was heard in the
kettle, and, when the cover was removed, a lamb jumped forth and
ran frisking away into the meadow. The daughters of Pelias saw
the experiment with delight, and appointed a time for their
father to undergo the same operation. But Medea prepared her
caldron for him in a very different way. She put in only water
and a few simple herbs. In the night she with the sisters
entered the bed-chamber of the old king, while he and his guards
slept soundly under the influence of a spell cast upon them by
Medea. The daughters stood by the bedside with their weapons
drawn, but hesitated to strike, till Medea chid their
irresolution. Then, turning away their faces and giving random
blows, they smote him with their weapons. He, starting from his
sleep, cried out, "My daughters, what are you doing? Will you
kill your father?:" Their hearts failed them, and the weapons
fell from their hands, but Medea struck him a fatal blow, and
prevented his saying more.
Then they placed him in the caldron, and Medea hastened to depart
in her serpent-drawn chariot before they discovered her
treachery, for their vengeance would have been terrible. She
escaped, however, but had little enjoyment of the fruits of her
crime. Jason, for whom she had done so much, wishing to marry
Creusa, princess of Corinth, put away Medea. She, enraged at his
ingratitude, called on the gods for vengeance, sent a poisoned
robe as a gift to the bride, and then killing her own children,
and setting fire to the palace, mounted her serpent-drawn chariot
and fled to Athens, where she married King AEgeus, the father of
Theseus; and we shall meet her again when we come to the
adventures of that hero.
The incantations of Medea will remind the reader of those of the
witches in Macbeth. The following lines are those which seem
most strikingly to recall the ancient model:
"Round about the caldron go;
In the poisoned entrails throw.
* * * * * *
Fillet of a fenny snake
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog.
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing:
* * * * *
Maw of ravening salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digged in the dark."
Macbeth, Act IV., Scene 1
And again:
Macbeth. What is't you do?
Witches. A deed without a name.
There is another story of Medea almost too revolting for record
even of a sorceress, a class of persons to whom both ancient and
modern poets have been accustomed to attribute every degree of
atrocity. In her flight from Colchis she had taken her young
brother Absyrtus with her. Finding the pursuing vessels of
AEETES gaining upon the Argonauts, she caused the lad to be
killed and his limbs to be strewn over the sea. AEETES on
reaching the place found these sorrowful traces of his murdered
son; but while he tarried to collect the scattered fragments and
bestow upon them an honorable interment, the Argonauts escaped.
In the poems of Campbell will be found a translation of one of
the choruses of the tragedy of Medea, where the poet Euripides
has taken advantage of the occasion to pay a glowing tribute to
Athens, his native city. It begins thus:
"Oh, haggard queen! To Athens dost thou guide
Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore;
Or seek to hide thy damned parricide
Where Peace and Justice dwell for evermore?"
THE CALYDONIAN HUNT. MELEAGER AND ATALANTA
The search for the Golden Fleece was undertaken by Jason, aided
by heroes from all Greece, or Hellas as it was then called. It
was the first of their common undertakings which made the Greeks
feel that they were in truth one nation, though split up into
many small kingdoms. Another of their great gatherings was for
the Calydonian Hunt, and another, the greatest and most famous of
all, for the Trojan War.
The hero of the quest for the golden Fleece was Jason. With the
other heroes of the Greeks, he was present at the Calydonian
Hunt. But the chief hero was Meleager, the son of OEneus, king
of Calydon, and Althea, his queen.
Althea, when her son was born, beheld the three Destinies, who,
as they spun their fatal thread, foretold that the life of the
child should last no longer than a brand then burning upon the
hearth. Althea seized and quenched the brand, and carefully
preserved it for years, while Meleager grew to boyhood, youth,
and manhood. It chanced, then, that OEneus, as he offered
sacrifices to the gods, omitted to pay due honors to Diana, and
she, indignant at the neglect, sent a wild boar of enormous size
to lay waste the files of Calydon. Its eyes shone with blood and
fire, its bristles stood like threatening spears, its tusks were
like those of Indian elephants. The growing corn was trampled,
the vines and olive trees laid waste, the flocks and herds were
driven in wild confusion by the slaughtering foe. All common aid
seemed vain; but Meleager called on the heroes of Greece to join
in a bold hunt for the ravenous monster. Theseus and his friend
Pirithous, Jason, Peleus afterwards the father of Achilles,
Telamon the father of Ajax, Nestor, then a youth, but who in his
age bore arms with Achilles and Ajax in the Trojan war, these
and many more joined in the enterprise. With them came Atalanta,
the daughter of Iasius, king of Arcadia. A buckle of polished
gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver hung on her left
shoulder, and her left hand bore the bow. Her face blent
feminine beauty with the best graces of martial youth. Meleager
saw and loved.
But now already they were near the monster's lair. They
stretched strong nets from tree to tree; they uncoupled their
dogs, they tried to find the footprints of their quarry in the
grass. From the wood was a descent to marshy ground. Here the
boar, as he lay among the reeds, heard the shouts of his
pursuers, and rushed forth against them. One and another is
thrown down and slain. Jason throws his spear with a prayer to
Diana for success; and the favoring goddess allows the weapon to
touch, but not to wound, removing the steel point of the spear
even in its flight. Nestor, assailed, seeks and finds safety in
the branches of a tree. Telamon rushes on, but stumbling at a
projecting root, falls prone. But an arrow from Atalanta at
length for the first time tastes the monster's blood. It is a
slight wound, but Meleager sees and joyfully proclaims it.
Anceus, excited to envy by the praise given to a female, loudly
proclaims his own valor, and defies alike the boar and the
goddess who had sent it; but as he rushes on, the infuriated
beast lays him low with a mortal wound. Theseus throws his
lance, but it is turned aside by a projecting bough. The dart of
Jason misses its object, and kills instead one of their own dogs.
But Meleager, after one unsuccessful stroke, drives his spear
into the monsters side, then rushes on and despatches him with
repeated blows.
Then rose a shout from those around; they congratulated the
conqueror, crowding to touch his hand. He, placing his foot upon
the slain boar, turned to Atalanta and bestowed on her the head
and the rough hide which were the trophies of his success. But
at this, envy excited the rest to strife. Phlexippus and Toxeus,
the uncles of Meleager and Althea's brothers, beyond the rest
opposed the gift, and snatched from the maiden the trophy she had
received. Meleager, kindling with rage at the wrong done to
himself, and still more at the insult offered to her whom he
loved, forgot the claims of kindred, and plunged his sword into
the offenders' hearts.
As Althea bore gifts of thankfulness to the temples for the
victory of her son, the bodies of her murdered brothers met her
sight. She shrieks, and beats her breast, and hastens to change
the garments of rejoicing for those of mourning. But when the
author of the deed is known, grief gives way to the stern desire
of vengeance on her son. The fatal brand, which once she rescued
from the flames, the brand which the Destinies had linked with
Meleager's life, she brings forth, and commands a fire to be
prepared. Then four times she essays to place the brand upon the
pile; four times draws back, shuddering at the thought of
bringing destruction on her son. The feelings of the mother and
the sister contend within her. Now she is pale at the thought of
the purposed deed, now flushed again with anger at the act of her
son. As a vessel, driven in one direction by the wind, and in
the opposite by the tide, the mind of Althea hangs suspended in
uncertainty. But now the sister prevails above the mother, and
she begins as she holds the fatal wood: "Turn, ye Furies,
goddesses of punishment! Turn to behold the sacrifice I bring!
Crime must atone for crime. Shall OEneus rejoice in his victor
son, while the house of Thestius (Thestius was father of Toxeus,
Phlexippus and Althea) is desolate? But, alas! To what deed am I
borne along? Brothers, forgive a mother's weakness! My hand
fails me. He deserves death, but not that I should destroy him.
But shall he then live, and triumph, and reign over Calydon,
while you, my brothers, wander unavenged among the shades? No!
Thou has lived by my gift; die, now, for thine own crime. Return
the life which twice I gave thee, first at thy birth, again when
I snatched this brand from the flames. O that thou hadst then
died! Alas! Evil is the conquest; but, brothers, ye have
conquered." And, turning away her face, she threw the fatal wood
upon the burning pile.
It gave, or seemed to give, a deadly groan. Meleager, absent and
unknowing of the cause, felt a sudden pang. He burns and only by
courageous pride conquers the pain which destroys him. He mourns
only that he perishes by a bloodless and unhonored death. With
his last breath he calls upon his aged father, his brother, and
his fond sisters, upon his beloved Atalanta, and upon his mother,
the unknown cause of his fate. The flames increase, and with
them the pain of the hero. Now both subside; now both are
quenched. The brand is ashes and the life of Meleager is
breathed forth to the wandering winds.
Althea, when the deed was done, laid violent hands upon herself.
The sisters of Meleager mourned their brother with uncontrollable
grief; till Diana, pitying the sorrows of the house that once had
aroused her anger, turned them into birds.
ATALANTA
The innocent cause of so much sorrow was a maiden whose face you
might truly say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy.
Her fortune had been told, and it was to this effect: "Atalanta,
do not marry; marriage will be your ruin." Terrified by this
oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted herself to the
sports of the chase. To all suitors (for she had many) she
imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving
her of their persecutions: "I will be the prize of him who
shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of
all who try and fail." In spite of this hard condition some
would try. Hippomenes was to be judge of the race. "Can it be
possible that any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?"
said he. But when he saw her lay aside her robe for the race, he
changed his mind, and said, "Pardon me, youths, I knew not the
prize you were competing for." As he surveyed them he wished them
all to be beaten, and swelled with envy of any one that seemed at
all likely to win. While such were his thoughts, the virgin
darted forward. As she ran, she looked more beautiful than ever.
The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over
her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind
her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a
crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors were
distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not
daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why
boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the
contest." Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and
hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What
god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away? I
pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his
youth. I wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so
mad, I hope he may outrun me." While she hesitates, revolving
these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and
her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a
prayer to Venus; "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on" Venus
heard, and was propitious.
In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a
tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches, and golden fruit.
Hence Venus gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by all
else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The
signal is given; each starts from the goal, and skims over the
sand. So light their tread, you would almost have thought they
might run over the river surface or over the waving grain without
sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered on Hippomenes:
"Now, now do your best! Haste, haste! You gain on her! Relax
not! One more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth or the
maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his
breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far
off. At that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. The
virgin was all amazement. She stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes
shot ahead. Shouts burst forth from all sides. She redoubled
her efforts, and soon overtook him. Again he threw an apple.
She stopped again, but again came up with him. The goal was
near; one chance only remained. "Now, goddess," said he,
"prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off at one side.
She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn aside
for it. She did so, and was vanquished. The youth carried off
his prize.
But the lovers were so full of their own happiness that they
forgot to pay due honor to Venus; and the goddess was provoked at
their ingratitude. She caused them to give offence to Cybele.
That powerful goddess was not to be insulted with impunity. She
took from them their human form and turned them into animals of
characters resembling their own: of the huntress-heroine,
triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness, and of
her lord and master a lion, and yoked them to her ear, there they
are still to be seen in all representations, in statuary or
painting, of the goddess Cybele.
Cybele is the Latin name of the goddess called by the Greeks Rhea
and Ops. She was the wife of Cronos and mother of Zeus. In
works of art, she exhibits the matronly air which distinguishes
Juno and Ceres. Sometimes she is veiled, and seated on a throne
with lions at her side, at other times riding in a chariot drawn
by lions. She sometimes wears a mural crown, that is, a crown
whose rim is carved in the form of towers and battlements. Her
priests were called Corybantes.
Byron in describing the city of Venice, which is built on a low
island in the Adriatic Sea, borrows an illustration from Cybele:
"She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers."
Childe Harold, IV
In Moore's Rhymes on the Road, the poet, speaking of Alpine
scenery, alludes to the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, thus:
"Even here, in this region of wonders, I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind,
Or at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way."
Chapter XII
Hercules. Hebe and Ganymede
Hercules (in Greek, Heracles) was the son of Jupiter and Alemena.
As Juno was always hostile to the offspring of her husband by
mortal mothers, she declared war against Hercules from his birth.
She sent two serpents to destroy him as he lay in his cradle, but
the precocious infant strangled them with his own hands. (On
this account the infant Hercules was made the type of infant
America, by Dr. Franklin, and the French artists whom he employed
in the American Revolution. Horatio Greenough has placed a bas-
relief of the Infant Hercules on the pedestal of his statue of
Washington, which stands in front of the Capitol.) He was
however by the arts of Juno rendered subject to his cousin
Eurystheus and compelled to perform all his commands. Eurystheus
enjoined upon him a succession of desperate adventures, which are
called the twelve "Labors of Hercules." The first was the fight
with the Nemean lion. The valley of Nemea was infested by a
terrible lion. Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring him the skin
of this monster. After using in vain his club and arrows against
the lion, Hercules strangled the animal with his hands. He
returned carrying the dead lion on his shoulders; but Eurystheus
was so frightened at the sight of it and at this proof of the
prodigious strength of the hero, that he ordered him to deliver
the account of his exploits in future outside the town.
His next labor was to slaughter the Hydra. This monster ravaged
the country of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well of
Amymone, of which the story is that when the country was
suffering from drought, Neptune, who loved her, had permitted her
to touch the rock with his trident, and a spring of three outlets
burst forth. Here the Hydra took up his position, and Hercules
was sent to destroy him. The Hydra had nine heads, of which the
middle one was immortal. Hercules struck off its head with his
club, but in the place of the head knocked off, two new ones grew
forth each time. At length with the assistance of his faithful
servant Iolaus, he burned away the heads of the Hydra, and buried
the ninth or immortal one under a huge rock.
Another labor was the cleaning of the Augean stables. Augeas,
king of Elis, had a herd of three thousand oxen, whose stalls had
not been cleansed for thirty years. Hercules brought the rivers
Alpheus and Peneus through them, and cleansed them thoroughly in
one day.
His next labor was of a more delicate kind. Admeta, the daughter
of Eurystheus, longed to obtain the girdle of the queen of the
Amazons, and Eurystheus ordered Hercules to go and get it. The
Amazons were a nation of women. They were very warlike and held
several flourishing cities. It was their custom to bring up only
the female children; the boys were either sent away to the
neighboring nations or put to death. Hercules was accompanied by
a number of volunteers, and after various adventures at last
reached the country of the Amazons. Hippolyta, the queen,
received him kindly, and consented to yield him her girdle; but
Juno, taking the form of an Amazon, went among the other Amazons
and persuaded them that the strangers were carrying off their
queen. The Amazons instantly armed and came in great numbers
down to the ship. Hercules, thinking that Hippolyta had acted
treacherously, slew her, and taking her girdle, made sail
homewards.
Another task enjoined him was to bring to Eurystheus the oxen of
Geryon, a monster with three bodies who dwelt in the island
Erytheia (the red), so called because it lay at the west, under
the rays of the setting sun. This description is thought to
apply to Spain, of which Geryon was said to be king. After
traversing various countries, Hercules reached at length the
frontiers of Libya and Europe, where he raised the two mountains
of Calpe and Abyla, as monuments of his progress, or according to
another account rent one mountain into two and left half on each
side, forming the Straits of Gibraltar, the two mountains being
called the Pillars of Hercules. The oxen were guarded by the
giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog, but Hercules killed the
giant and his dog and brought away the oxen in safety to
Eurystheus.
The most difficult labor of all was bringing the golden apples of
the Hesperides, for Hercules did not know where to find them.
These were the apples which Juno had received at her wedding from
the goddess of the Earth, and which she had intrusted to the
keeping of the daughters of Hesperis, assisted by a watchful
dragon. After various adventures Hercules arrived at Mount Atlas
in Africa. Atlas was one of the Titans who had warred against
the gods, and after they were subdued, Atlas was condemned to
bear on his shoulders the weight of the heavens. He was the
father of the Hesperides, and Hercules thought, might, if any one
could, find the apples and bring them to him. But how to send
Atlas away from his post, or bear up the heavens while he was
gone? Hercules took the burden on his own shoulders, and sent
Atlas to seek the apples. He returned with them, and though
somewhat reluctantly, took his burden upon his shoulders again,
and let Hercules return with the apples to Eurystheus. (Hercules
was a descendant of Perseus. Perseus changed Atlas to stone.
How could Hercules take his place? This is only one of the many
anachronisms found in ancient mythology.)
Milton in his Comus makes the Hesperides the daughters of
Hesperus, and nieces of Atlas:
"----- amidst the gardens fair
Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree."
The poets, led by the analogy of the lovely appearance of the
western sky at sunset, viewed the west as a region of brightness
and glory. Hence they placed in it the Isles of the blest, the
ruddy isle Erytheia, on which the bright oxen of Geryon were
pastured, and the isle of the Hesperides. The apples are
supposed by some to be the oranges of Spain, of which the Greeks
had heard some obscure accounts.
A celebrated exploit of Hercules was his victory over Antaeus.
Antaeus, the son of Terra (the Earth) was a mighty giant and
wrestler, whose strength was invincible so long as he remained in
contact with his mother Earth. He compelled all strangers who
came to his country to wrestle with him, on condition that if
conquered (as they all were), they should be put to death.
Hercules encountered him, and finding that it was of no avail to
throw him, for he always rose with renewed strength from every
fall, he lifted him up from the earth and strangled him in the
air.
Cacus was a huge giant, who inhabited a cave on Mount Aventine
(one of the seven hills of Rome), and plundered the surrounding
country. When Hercules was driving home the oxen of Geryon,
Cacus stole part of the cattle, while the hero slept. That their
foot-prints might not serve to show where they had been driven,
he dragged them backward by their tails to his cave; so their
tracks all seemed to show that they had gone in the opposite
direction. Hercules was deceived by this stratagem, and would
have failed to find his oxen, if it had not happened that in
driving the remainder of the herd past the cave where the stolen
ones were concealed, those within began to low, and were thus
discovered. Cacus was slain by Hercules.
The last exploit we shall record was bringing Cerberus from the
lower world. Hercules descended into Hades, accompanied by
Mercury and Minerva. He obtained permission from Pluto to carry
Cerberus to the upper air, provided he could do it without the
use of weapons; and in spite of the monster's struggling he
seized him, held him fast, and carried him to Eurystheus, and
afterwards brought him back again. When he was in Hades he
obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and imitator, who
had been detained a prisoner there for an unsuccessful attempt to
carry off Proserpine.
Hercules in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus and was
condemned for this offence to become the slave of Queen Omphale
for three years. While in this service the hero's nature seemed
changed. He lived effeminately, wearing at times the dress of a
woman, and spinning wool with the handmaidens of Omphale, while
the queen wore his lion's skin. When this service was ended he
married Dejanira and lived in peace with her three years. On one
occasion as he was travelling with his wife, they came to a
river, across which the Centaur Nessus carried travellers for a
stated fee. Hercules himself forded the river, but gave Dejanira
to Nessus to be carried across. Nessus attempted to run away
with her, but Hercules heard her cries, and shot an arrow into
the heart of Nessus. The dying Centaur told Dejanira to take a
portion of his blood and keep it, as it might be used as a charm
to preserve the love of her husband.
Dejanira did so, and before long fancied she had occasion to use
it. Hercules in one of his conquests had taken prisoner a fair
maiden, named Iole, of whom he seemed more fond than Dejanira
approved. When Hercules was about to offer sacrifices to the
gods in honor of his victory, he sent to his wife for a white
robe to use on the occasion. Dejanira, thinking it a good
opportunity to try her love-spell, steeped the garment in the
blood of Nessus. We are to suppose she took care to wash out all
traces of it, but the magic power remained, and as soon as the
garment became warm on the body of Hercules, the poison
penetrated into all his limbs and caused him the most intense
agony. In his frenzy he seized Lichas, who had brought him the
fatal robe, and hurled him into the sea. He wrenched off the
garment, but it stuck to his flesh, and with it he tore away
whole pieces of his body. In this state he embarked on board a
ship and was conveyed home. Dejanira on seeing what she had
unwittingly done, hung herself. Hercules, prepared to die,
ascended Mount OEta, where he built a funeral pile of trees, gave
his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, and laid himself down on the
pile, his head resting on his club, and his lion's skin spread
over him. With a countenance as serene as if he were taking his
place at a festal board, he commanded Philoctetes to apply the
torch. The flames spread apace and soon invested the whole mass.
Milton thus alludes to the frenzy of Hercules:
"As when Alcides (Alcides, a name of Hercules; the word means
"descendant of Alcaeus"), from OEchalia crowned
With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore,
Through pain, up by the roots Thessalian pines
And Lichas from the top of OEta threw
Into the Euboic Sea."
The gods themselves felt troubled at seeing the champion of the
earth so brought to his end; but Jupiter with cheerful
countenance thus addressed them; "I am pleased to see your
concern, my princes, and am gratified to perceive that I am the
ruler of a loyal people, and that my son enjoys your favor. For
although your interest in him arises from his noble deeds, yet it
is not the less gratifying to me. But now I say to you, Fear
not. He who conquered all else is not to be conquered by those
flames which you see blazing on Mount OEta. Only his mother's
share in him can perish; what he derived from me is immortal. I
shall take him, dead to earth, to the heavenly shores, and I
require of you all to receive him kindly. If any of you feel
grieved at his attaining this honor, yet no one can deny that he
has deserved it." The gods all gave their assent; Juno only
heard the closing words with some displeasure that she should be
so particularly pointed at, yet not enough to make her regret the
determination of her husband. So when the flames had consumed
the mother's share of Hercules, the diviner part, instead of
being injured thereby, seemed to start forth with new vigor, to
assume a more lofty port and a more awful dignity. Jupiter
enveloped him in a cloud, and took him up in a four-horse chariot
to dwell among the stars. As he took his place in heaven, Atlas
felt the added weight.
Juno, now reconciled to him, gave him her daughter Hebe in
marriage.
The poet Schiller, in one of his pieces called the Ideal and
Life, illustrates the contrast between the practical and the
imaginative in some beautiful stanzas, of which the last two may
be thus translated:
"Deep degraded to a coward's slave,
Endless contests bore Alcides brave,
Through the thorny path of suffering led;
Slew the Hydra, crushed the lion's might,
Threw himself, to bring his friend to light,
Living, in the skiff that bears the dead.
All the torments, every toil of earth
Juno's hatred on him could impose,
Well he bore them, from his fated birth
To life's grandly mournful close.
Till the god, the earthly part forsaken,
>From the man in flames asunder taken,
Drank the heavenly ether's purer breath.
Joyous in the new unwonted lightness,
Soared he upwards to celestial brightness,
Earth's dark heavy burden lost in death.
High Olympus gives harmonious greeting
To the hall where reigns his sire adored;
Youth's bright goddess, with a blush at meeting,
Gives the nectar to her lord."
S. G. Bulfinch
HEBE AND GANYMEDE
Hebe, the daughter of Juno, and goddess of youth, was cupbearer
to the gods. The usual story is, that she resigned her office on
becoming the wife of Hercules. But there is another statement
which our countryman Crawford, the sculptor, has adopted in his
group of Hebe and Ganymede, now in the gallery of the Boston
Athenaeum. According to this, Hebe was dismissed from her office
in consequence of a fall which she met with one day when in
attendance on the gods. Her successor was Ganymede, a Trojan boy
whom Jupiter, in the disguise of an eagle, seized and carried off
from the midst of his playfellows on Mount Ida, bore up to
heaven, and installed in the vacant place.
Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describes among the decorations
on the walls, a picture representing this legend:
"There, too, flushed Ganymede his rosy thigh
Half buried in the eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot through the sky
Above the pillared town."
And in Shelley's Prometheus, Jupiter calls to his cup-bearer
thus:
"Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Ganymede,
And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire."
The beautiful legend of the Choice of Hercules may be found in
the Tatler, No. 97. The same story is told in the Memorabilia of
Xenophon.
Chapter XIII
Theseus. Daedalus. Castor and Pollux
Theseus was the son of AEgeus, king of Athens, and of Aethra,
daughter of the king of Troezene. He was brought up at Troezene,
and, when arrived at manhood, was to proceed to Athens and
present himself to his father. AEgeus, on parting from Aethra,
before the birth of his son, placed his sword and shoes under a
large stone, and directed her to send his son to him when he
became strong enough to roll away the stone and take them from
under it. When she thought the time had come, his mother led
Theseus to the stone, and he removed it with ease, and took the
sword and shoes. As the roads were infested with robbers, his
grandfather pressed him earnestly to take the shorter and safer
way to his father's country, by sea; but the youth, feeling in
himself the spirit and the soul of a hero, and eager to signalize
himself like Hercules, with whose fame all Greece then rang, by
destroying the evil-doers and monsters that oppressed the
country, determined on the more perilous and adventurous journey
by land.
His first day's journey brought him to Epidaurus, where dwelt a
man named Periphetes, a son of Vulcan. This ferocious savage
always went armed with a club of iron, and all travellers stood
in terror of his violence. When he saw Theseus approach, he
assailed him, but speedily fell beneath the blows of the young
hero, who took possession of his club, and bore it ever
afterwards as a memorial of his first victory.
Several similar contests with the petty tyrants and marauders of
the country followed, in all of which Theseus was victorious.
One of these evil-doers was called Procrustes, or the Stretcher.
He had an iron bedstead, on which he used to tie all travellers
who fell into his hands. If they were shorter than the bed, he
stretched their limbs to make them fit it; if they were longer
than the bed, he lopped off a portion. Theseus served him as he
had served others.
Having overcome all the perils of the road, Theseus at length
reached Athens, where new dangers awaited him. Medea, the
sorceress, who had fled from Corinth after her separation from
Jason, had become the wife of AEgeus, the father of Theseus.
Knowing by her arts who he was, and fearing the loss of her
influence with her husband, if Theseus should be acknowledged as
his son, she filled the mind of AEgeus with suspicions of the
young stranger, and induced him to present him a cup of poison;
but at the moment when Theseus stepped forward to take it, the
sight of the sword which he wore discovered to his father who he
was, and prevented the fatal draught. Medea, detected in her
arts, fled once more from deserved punishment, and arrived in
Asia, where the country afterwards called Media received its name
from her. Theseus was acknowledged by his father, and declared
his successor.
The Athenians were at that time in deep affliction, on account of
the tribute which they were forced to pay to Minos, king of
Crete. This tribute consisted of seven youths and seven maidens,
who were sent every year to be devoured by the Minotaur, a
monster with a bull's body and a human head. It was exceedingly
strong and fierce, and was kept in a labyrinth constructed by
Daedalus, so artfully contrived that whoever was enclosed in it
could by no means find his way out unassisted. Here the Minotaur
roamed, and was fed with human victims.
Theseus resolved to deliver his countrymen from this calamity, or
to die in the attempt. Accordingly, when the time of sending off
the tribute came, and the youths and maidens were, according to
custom, drawn by lot to be sent, he offered himself as one of the
victims, in spite of the entreaties of his father. The ship
departed under black sails, as usual, which Theseus promised his
father to change for white, in case of his returning victorious.
When they arrived in Crete, the youths and maidens were exhibited
before Minos; and Ariadne, the daughter of the king, being
present, became deeply enamored of Theseus, by whom her love was
readily returned. She furnished him with a sword, with which to
encounter the Minotaur, and with a clew of thread by which he
might find his way out of the labyrinth. He was successful, slew
the Minotaur, escaped from the labyrinth, and taking Ariadne as
the companion of his way, with his rescued companions sailed for
Athens. On their way they stopped at the island of Naxos, where
Theseus abandoned Ariadne, leaving her asleep. For Minerva had
appeared to Theseus in a dream, and warned him that Ariadne was
destined to be the wife of Bacchus, the wine-god. (One of the
finest pieces of sculpture in Italy, the recumbent Ariadne of the
Vatican, represents this incident. A copy is in the Athenaeum
gallery, Boston. The celebrated statue of Ariadne, by Danneker,
represents her as riding on the tiger of Bacchus, at a somewhat
later period of her story.)
On approaching the coast of Attica, Theseus, intent on Ariadne,
forgot the signal appointed by his father, and neglected to raise
the white sails, and the old king, thinking his son had perished,
put an end to his own life. Theseus thus became king of Athens.
One of the most celebrated of the adventures of Theseus is his
expedition against the Amazons. He assailed them before they had
recovered from the attack of Hercules, and carried off their
queen, Antiope. The Amazons in their turn invaded the country of
Athens and penetrated into the city itself; and the final battle
in which Theseus overcame them was fought in the very midst of
the city. This battle was one of the favorite subjects of the
ancient sculptors, and is commemorated in several works of art
that are still extant.
The friendship between Theseus and Pirithous was of a most
intimate nature, yet it originated in the midst of arms.
Pirithous had made an irruption into the plain of Marathon, and
carried off the herds of the king of Athens. Theseus went to
repel the plunderers. The moment Pirithous beheld him, he was
seized with admiration; he stretched out his hand as a token of
peace, and cried, "Be judge thyself, what satisfaction dost
thou require?" "Thy friendship," replied the Athenian, and they
swore inviolable fidelity. Their deeds corresponded to their
professions, and they ever continued true brothers in arms. Each
of them aspired to espouse a daughter of Jupiter. Theseus fixed
his choice on Helen, then but a child, afterwards so celebrated
as the cause of the Trojan war, and with the aid of his friend he
carried her off. Pirithous aspired to the wife of the monarch of
Erebus; and Theseus, though aware of the danger, accompanied the
ambitious lover in his descent to the underworld. But Pluto
seized and set them on an enchanted rock at his palace gate,
where they remained till Hercules arrived and liberated Theseus,
leaving Pirithous to his fate.
After the death of Antiope, Theseus married Phaedra, daughter of
Minos, king of Crete. Phaedra saw in Hippolytus, the son of
Theseus, a youth endowed with all the graces and virtues of his
father, and of an age corresponding to her own. She loved him,
but he repulsed her advances, and her love was changed to hate.
She used her influence over her infatuated husband to cause him
to be jealous of his son, and he imprecated the vengeance of
Neptune upon him. As Hippolytus was one day driving his chariot
along the shore, a sea-monster raised himself above the waters,
and frightened the horses so that they ran away and dashed the
chariot to pieces. Hippolytus was killed, but by Diana's
assistance Aesculapius restored him to life. Diana removed
Hippolytus from the power of his deluded father and false
stepmother, and placed him in Italy under the protection of the
nymph Egeria.
Theseus at length lost the favor of his people, and retired to
the court of Lycomedes, king of Scyros, who at first received him
kindly, but afterwards treacherously slew him. In a later age
the Athenian general Cimon discovered the place where his remains
were laid, and caused them to be removed to Athens, where they
were deposited in a temple called the Theseum, erected in honor
of the hero.
The queen of the Amazons whom Theseus espoused is by some called
Hippolyta. That is the name she bears in Shakespeare's Midsummer
Night's Dream, the subject of which is the festivities
attending the nuptials of Theseus and Hippolyta.
Mrs. Hemans has a poem on the ancient Greek tradition that the
"Shade of Theseus" appeared strengthening his countrymen at the
battle of Marathon.
Mr. Lewis Morris has a beautiful poem on Helen, in the Epic of
Hades. In these lines Helen describes how she was seized by
Theseus and his friend:
----------"There came a night
When I lay longing for my love, and knew
Sudden the clang of hoofs, the broken doors,
The clash of swords, the shouts, the groans, the stain
Of red upon the marble, the fixed gaze
Of dead and dying eyes, that was the time
When first I looked on death, and when I woke
>From my deep swoon, I felt the night air cool
Upon my brow, and the cold stars look down,
As swift we galloped o'er the darkling plain
And saw the chill sea-glimpses slowly wake,
With arms unknown around me. When the dawn
Broke swift, we panted on the pathless steeps,
And so by plain and mountain till we came
to Athens, ----------."
Theseus is a semi-historical personage. It is recorded of him
that he united the several tribes by whom the territory of Attica
was then possessed into one state, of which Athens was the
capital. In commemoration of this important event, he instituted
the festival of Panathenaea, in honor of Minerva, the patron
deity of Athens. This festival differed from the other Grecian
games chiefly in two particulars. It was peculiar to the
Athenians, and its chief feature was a solemn procession in which
the Peplus or sacred robe of Minerva was carried to the
Parthenon, and suspended before the statue of the goddess. The
Peplus was covered with embroidery, worked by select virgins of
the noblest families in Athens. The procession consisted of
persons of all ages and both sexes. The old men carried olive-
branches in their hands, and the young men bore arms. The young
women carried baskets on their heads, containing the sacred
utensils, cakes, and all things necessary for the sacrifices.
The procession formed the subject of the bas-reliefs by Phidias
which embellished the outside of the temple of the Parthenon. A
considerable portion of these sculptures is now in the British
museum among those known as the "Elgin marbles."
OLYMPIC AND OTHER GAMES
We may mention here the other celebrated national games of the
Greeks. The first and most distinguished were the Olympic,
founded, it was said , by Jupiter himself. They were celebrated
at Olympia in Elis. Vast numbers of spectators flocked to them
from every part of Greece, and from Asia, Africa, and Sicily.
They were repeated every fifth year in midsummer, and continued
five days. They gave rise to the custom of reckoning time and
dating events by Olympiads. The first Olympiad is generally
considered as corresponding with the year 776 B.C. The Pythian
games were celebrated in the vicinity of Delphi, the Isthmian on
the Corinthian isthmus, the Nemean at Nemea, a city of Argolis.
The exercises in these games were of five sorts: running,
leaping, wrestling, throwing the quoit, and hurling the javelin,
or boxing. Besides these exercises of bodily strength and
agility, there were contests in music, poetry, and eloquence.
Thus these games furnished poets, musicians, and authors the best
opportunities to present their productions to the public, and the
fame of the victors was diffused far and wide.
DAEDALUS
The labyrinth from which Theseus escaped by means of the clew of
Ariadne, was built by Daedalus, a most skilful artificer. It was
an edifice with numberless winding passages and turnings opening
into one another, and seeming to have neither beginning nor end,
like the river Maender, which returns on itself, and flows now
onward, now backward, in its course to the sea. Daedalus built
the labyrinth for King Minos, but afterwards lost the favor of
the king, and was shut up in a tower. He contrived to make his
escape from his prison, but could not leave the island by sea, as
the king kept strict watch on all the vessels, and permitted none
to sail without being carefully searched. "Minos may control the
land and sea,:" said Daedalus, "but not the regions of the air.
I will try that way." So he set to work to fabricate wings for
himself and his young son Icarus. He wrought feathers together
beginning with the smallest and adding larger, so as to form an
increasing surface. The larger ones he secured with thread and
the smaller with wax, and gave the whole a gentle curvature like
the wings of a bird. Icarus, the boy, stood and looked on,
sometimes running to gather up the feathers which the wind had
blown away, and then handling the wax and working it over with
his fingers, by his play impeding his father in his labors. When
at last the work was done, the artist, waving his wings, found
himself buoyed upward and hung suspended, poising himself on the
beaten air. He next equipped his son in the same manner, and
taught him how to fly, as a bird tempts her young ones from the
lofty nest into the air. When all was prepared for flight, he
said, "Icarus, my son, I charge you to keep at a moderate height,
for if you fly too low the damp will clog your wings, and if too
high the heat will melt them. Keep near me and you will be
safe." While he gave him these instructions and fitted the wings
to his shoulders, the face of the father was wet with tears, and
his hands trembled. He kissed the boy, not knowing that it was
for the last time. Then rising on his wings he flew off,
encouraging him to follow, and looked back from his own flight to
see how his son managed his wings. As they flew the ploughman
stopped his work to gaze, and the shepherd learned on his staff
and watched them, astonished at the sight, and thinking they were
gods who could thus cleave the air.
They passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the
right, when the boy, exulting in his career, began to leave the
guidance of his companion and soar upward as if to reach heaven.
The nearness of the blazing sun softened the wax which held the
feathers together, and they came off. He fluttered with his
arms, but no feathers remained to hold the air. While his mouth
uttered cries to his father, it was submerged in the blue waters
of the sea, which thenceforth was called by his name. His father
cried, "Icarus, Icarus, where are you?" At last he saw the
feathers floating on the water, and bitterly lamenting his own
arts, he buried the body and called the land Icaria in memory of
his child. Daedalus arrived safe in Sicily, where he built a
temple to Apollo, and hung up his wings, an offering to the god.
Daedalus was so proud of his achievements that he could not bear
the idea of a rival. His sister had placed her son Perdix under
his charge to be taught the mechanical arts. He was an apt
scholar and gave striking evidences of ingenuity. Walking
on the seashore he picked up the spine of a fish. Imitating it,
he took a piece of iron and notched it on the edge, and thus
invented the SAW. He put two pieces of iron together, connecting
them at one end with a rivet, and sharpening the other ends, and
made a PAIR OF COMPASSES. Daedalus was so envious of his
nephew's performances that he took an opportunity, when they were
together one day on the top of a high tower, to push him off.
But Minerva, who favors ingenuity, saw him falling, and arrested
his fate by changing him into a bird called after his name, the
Partridge. This bird does not build his next in the trees, nor
take lofty flights, but nestles in the hedges, and mindful of his
fall, avoids high places.
The death of Icarus is told in the following lines by Darwin:
"---------- with melting wax and loosened strings
Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings;
Headlong he rushed through the affrighted air,
With limbs distorted and dishevelled hair;
His scattered plumage danced upon the wave,
And sorrowing Nereids decked his watery grave;
O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed,
And strewed with crimson moss his marble bed;
Struck in their coral towers the passing bell,
And wide in ocean tolled his echoing knell."
CASTOR AND POLLUX
Castor and Pollux were the offspring of Leda and the Swan, under
which disguise Jupiter had concealed himself. Leda gave birth to
an egg, from which sprang the twins. Helen, so famous afterwards
as the cause of the Trojan war, was their sister.
When Theseus and his friend Pirithous had carried off Helen from
Sparta, the youthful heroes Castor and Pollux, with their
followers, hasted to her rescue. Theseus was absent from Attica,
and the brothers were successful in recovering their sister.
Castor was famous for taming and managing horses, and Pollux for
skill in boxing. They were united by the warmest affection, and
inseparable in all their enterprises. They accompanied the
Argonautic expedition. During the voyage a storm arose, and
Orpheus prayed to the Samothracian gods, and played on his harp,
whereupon the storm ceased and stars appeared on the heads of the
brothers. From this incident, Castor and Pollux came afterwards
to be considered the patron deities of seamen and voyagers (One
of the ships in which St. Paul sailed was named the Castor and
Pollux. See Acts xxviii.II.), and the lambent flames, which in
certain sates of the atmosphere play round the sails and masts of
vessels, were called by their names.
After the Argonautic expedition, we find Castor and Pollux
engaged in a war with Idas and Lynceus. Castor was slain, and
Pollux, inconsolable for the loss of his brother, besought
Jupiter to be permitted to give his own life as a ransom for him.
Jupiter so far consented as to allow the two brothers to enjoy
the boon of life alternately, passing one day under the earth and
the next in the heavenly abodes. According to another form of
the story, Jupiter rewarded the attachment of the brothers by
placing them among the stars as Gemini, the Twins.
They received divine honors under the name of Dioscuri (sons of
Jove). They were believed to have appeared occasionally in later
times, taking part with one side or the other, in hard-fought
fields, and were said on such occasions to be mounted on
magnificent white steeds. Thus, in the early history of Rome,
they are said to have assisted the Romans at the battle of Lake
Regillus, and after the victory a temple was erected in their
honor on the spot where they appeared.
Macaulay, in his Lays of Ancient Rome, thus alludes to the
legend:
"So like they were, no mortal
Might one from other know;
White as snow their armor was,
Their steeds were white as snow.
Never on earthly anvil
Did such rare armor gleam,
And never did such gallant steeds
Drink of an earthly stream.
. . . . . . . . .
"Back comes the chief in triumph
Who in the hour of fight
Hath seen the great Twin Brethren
In harness on his right.
Safe comes the ship to haven
Through billows and through gales,
If once the great Twin Brethren
Sit shining on the sails."
In the poem of Atalanta in Calydon Mr. Swinburne thus describes
the little Helen and Clytemnestra, the sisters of Castor and
Pollux:
MELEAGER
"Even such I saw their sisters, one swan white,
The little Helen, and less fair than she,
Fair Clytemnestra, grave as pasturing fawns,
Who feed and fear the arrow; but at whiles,
As one smitten with love or wrung with joy,
She laughs and lightens with her eyes, and then
Weeps; whereat Helen, having laughed, weeps too,
And the other chides her, and she being chid speaks naught,
But cheeks and lips and eyelids kisses her,
Laughing; so fare they, as in their blameless bud,
And full of unblown life, the blood of gods."
ALTHEA
"Sweet days before them, and good loves and lords,
And tender and temperate honors of the hearth;
Peace, and a perfect life and blameless bed"
Chapter XIV
Bacchus. Ariadne
Bacchus was the son of Jupiter and Semele. Juno, to gratify her
resentment against Semele, contrived a plan for her destruction.
Assuming the form of Beroe, her aged nurse, she insinuated doubts
whether it was indeed Jove himself who came as a lover. Heaving
a sigh, she said, "I hope it will turn out so, but I can't help
being afraid. People are not always what they pretend to be. If
he is indeed Jove, make him give some proof of it. Ask him to
come arrayed in all his splendors, such as he wears in heaven.
That will put the matter beyond a doubt." Semele was persuaded
to try the experiment. She asks a favor, without naming what it
is. Jove gives his promise and confirms it with the irrevocable
oath, attesting the river Styx, terrible to the gods themselves.
Then she made know her request. The god would have stopped her
as she spake, but she was too quick for him. The words escaped,
and he could neither unsay his promise nor her request. In deep
distress he left her and returned to the upper regions. There he
clothed himself in his splendors, not putting on all his terrors,
as when he overthrew the giants, but what is known among the gods
as his lesser panoply. Arrayed in this he entered the chamber of
Semele. Her mortal frame could not endure the splendors of the
immortal radiance. She was consumed to ashes.
Jove took the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the
Nysaean nymphs, who nourished his infancy and childhood, and for
their care were rewarded by Jupiter by being placed, as the
Hyades, among the stars. When Bacchus grew up he discovered the
culture of the vine and the mode of extracting its precious
juice; but Juno struck him with madness, and drove him forth a
wanderer through various parts of the earth. In Phrygia the
goddess Rhea cured him and taught him her religious rites, and he
set out on a progress through Asia teaching the people the
cultivation of the vine. The most famous part of his wanderings
is his expedition to India, which is said to have lasted several
years. Returning in triumph he undertook to introduce his
worship into Greece, but was opposed by some princes who dreaded
its introduction on account of the disorders and madness it
brought with it.
As he approached his native city Thebes, Pentheus the king, who
had no respect for the new worship, forbade its rites to be
performed. But when it was known that Bacchus was advancing, men
and women, but chiefly the latter, young and old poured forth to
meet him and to join his triumphal march.
Mr. Longfellow in his Drinking Song thus describes the march of
Bacchus:
"Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;
Ivy crowns that brow, supernal
As the forehead of Apollo,
And possessing youth eternal.
"Round about him fair Bacchantes,
Bearing cymbals, flutes and thyrses,
Wild from Naxian groves or Zante's
Vineyards, sing delirious verses."
It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded, and threatened.
"Go," said he to his attendants, "seize this vagabond leader of
the rout and bring him to me. I will soon make him confess his
false claim of heavenly parentage and renounce his counterfeit
worship." It was in vain his nearest friends and wisest
counselors remonstrated and begged him not to oppose the god.
Their remonstrances only made him more violent.
But now the attendants returned whom he had despatched to seize
Bacchus. They had been driven away by the Bacchanals, but had
succeeded in taking one of them prisoner, whom, with his hands
tied behind him, they brought before the king. Pentheus
beholding him, with wrathful countenance said, "Fellow! You
shall speedily be put to death, that your fate may be a warning
to others; but though I grudge the delay of your punishment,
speak, tell us who you are, and what are these new rites you
presume to celebrate."
The prisoner unterrified responded, "My name is Acetes; my
country is Maeonia; my parents were poor people, who had no
fields or flocks to leave me, but they left me their fishing rods
and nets and their fisherman's trade. This I followed for some
time, till growing weary of remaining in one place, I learned the
pilot's art and how to guide my course by the stars. It happened
as I was sailing for Delos, we touched at the island of Dia and
went ashore. Next morning I sent the men for fresh water and
myself mounted the hill to observe the wind; when my men returned
bringing with them a prize, as they thought, a boy of delicate
appearance, whom they had found asleep. They judged he was a
noble youth, perhaps a king's son, and they might get a liberal
ransom for him. I observed his dress, his walk, his face. There
was something in them which I felt sure was more than mortal. I
said to my men, 'What god there is concealed in that form I know
not, but some one there certainly is. Pardon us, gentle deity,
for the violence we have done you, and give success to our
undertakings.' Dictys, one of my best hands for climbing the
mast and coming down by the ropes, and Melanthus, my steersman,
and Epopeus the leader of the sailors' cry, one and all
exclaimed, 'Spare your prayers for us.' So blind is the lust of
gain! When they proceeded to put him on board I resisted them.
'This ship shall not be profaned by such impiety,' said I. 'I
have a greater share in her than any of you.' But Lycabas, a
turbulent fellow, seized me by the throat and attempted to throw
me overboard, and I scarcely saved myself by clinging to the
ropes. The rest approved the deed.
"Then Bacchus, for it was indeed he, as if shaking off his
drowsiness, exclaimed, 'What are you doing with me? What is this
fighting about? Who brought me here? Where are you going to
carry me?' One of them replied, 'fear nothing; tell us where you
wish to go and we will take you there.' "Naxos is my home,' said
Bacchus; 'take me there and you shall be well rewarded.' They
promised so to do, and told me to pilot the ship to Naxos. Naxos
lay to the right, and I was trimming the sails to carry us there,
when some by signs and others by whispers signified to me their
will that I should sail in the opposite direction, and take the
boy to Egypt to sell him for a slave. I was confounded and said,
'Let some one else pilot the ship;' withdrawing myself from any
further agency in their wickedness. They cursed me, and one of
them exclaiming, 'Don't flatter yourself that we depend on you
for our safety,' took my place as pilot, and bore away from
Naxos.
"Then the god, pretending that he had just become aware of their
treachery, looked out over the sea and said in a voice of
weeping, 'Sailors, these are not the shores you promised to take
me to; yonder island is not my home. What have I done that you
should treat me so? It is small glory you will gain by cheating
a poor boy.' I wept to hear him, but the crew laughed at both of
us, and sped the vessel fast over the sea. All at once strange
as it may seem, it is true the vessel stopped, in the mid sea,
as fast as if it was fixed on the ground. The men, astonished,
pulled at their oars, and spread more sail, trying to make
progress by the aid of both, but all in vain. Ivy twined round
the oars and hindered their motion, and clung with its heavy
clusters of berries to the sails. A vine, laden with grapes, ran
up the mast, and along the sides of the vessel. The sound of
flutes was heard and the odor of fragrant wine spread all around.
The god himself had a chaplet of vine leaves, and bore in his
hand a spear wreathed with ivy. Tigers crouched at his feet, and
lynxes and spotted panthers played around him. The sailors were
seized with terror or madness; some leaped overboard; others,
preparing to do the same, beheld their companions in the water
undergoing a change, their bodies becoming flattened and ending
in a crooked tail. One exclaimed, 'What miracle is this!' and as
he spoke his mouth widened, his nostrils expanded, and scales
covered all his body. Another endeavoring to pull the oar felt
his hands shrink up, and presently to be no longer hands but
fins; another trying to raise his arms to a rope found he had no
arms, and curving his mutilated body, jumped into the sea. What
had been his legs became the two ends of a crescent-shaped tail.
The whole crew became dolphins and swam about the ship, now upon
the surface, now under it, scattering the spray, and spouting the
water from their broad nostrils. Of twenty men I alone was left.
The god cheered me, as I trembled with fear. 'Fear not,' said
he; 'steer toward Naxos.' I obeyed, and when we arrived there, I
kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred rites of Bacchus."
Pentheus here exclaimed, "We have wasted time enough on this
silly story. Take him away and have him executed without delay."
Acetes was led away by the attendants and shut up fast in prison;
but while they were getting ready the instruments of execution,
the prison doors opened of their own accord and the chains fell
from his limbs, and when the guards looked for him he was no
where to be found.
Pentheus would take no warning, but instead of sending others,
determined to go himself to the scene of the solemnities. The
mountain Cithaeron was all alive with worshippers, and the cries
of the Bacchanals resounded on every side. The noise roused the
anger of Pentheus as the sound of a trumpet does the fire of a
war-horse. He penetrated the wood and reached an open space
where the wildest scene of the orgies met his eyes. At the same
moment the women saw him; and first among them his own mother,
Agave, blinded by the god, cried out, "See there the wild boar,
the hugest monster that prowls in these woods! Come on, sisters!
I will be the first to strike the wild boar." The whole band
rushed upon him, and while he now talks less arrogantly, now
excuses himself, and now confesses his crime and implores pardon,
they press upon and wound him. In vain he cries to his aunts to
protect him from his mother. Autonoe seized one arm, Ino the
other, and between them he was torn to pieces, while his mother
shouted, "Victory! Victory! We have done it; the glory is
ours!"
So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece.
There is an allusion to the story of Bacchus and the mariners in
Milton's Comus, at line 46. The story of Circe will be found in
Chapter XXII.
"Bacchus that first from out the purple grape
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan mariners transformed,
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed
On Circe's island fell; (who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun? Whose charmed cup
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
And downward fell into a grovelling swine.)"
ARIADNE
We have seen in the story of Theseus how Ariadne, the daughter of
King Minos, after helping Theseus to escape from the labyrinth,
was carried by him to the island of Naxos and was left there
asleep, while Theseus pursued his way home without her. Ariadne,
on waking and finding herself deserted, abandoned herself to
grief. But Venus took pity on her, and consoled her with the
promise that she should have an immortal lover, instead of the
mortal one she had lost.
The island where Ariadne was left was the favorite island of
Bacchus, the same that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to carry
him to, when they so treacherously attempted to make prize of
him. As Ariadne sat lamenting her fate, Bacchus found her,
consoled her and made her his wife as Minerva had prophesied to
Theseus. As a marriage present he gave her a golden crown,
enriched with gems, and when she died, he took her crown and
threw it up into the sky. As it mounted the gems grew brighter
and were turned into stars, and preserving its form Ariadne's
crown remains fixed in the heavens as a constellation, between
the kneeling Hercules and the man who holds the serpent.
Spenser alludes to Ariadne's crown, though he has made some
mistakes in his mythology. It was at the wedding of Pirithous,
and not Theseus, that the Centaurs and Lapithae quarrelled.
"Look how the crown which Ariadne wore
Upon her ivory forehead that same day
That Theseus her unto his bridal bore,
When the bold Centaurs made that bloody fray
With the fierce Lapiths which did them dismay;
Being now placed in the firmament,
Through the bright heaven doth her beams display,
And is unto the stars an ornament,
Which round about her move in order excellent."
Chapter XV
The Rural Deities. Erisichthon. Rhoecus. The Water Deities.
Camenae. Winds.
Pan, the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds, dwelt
in grottos, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused
himself with the chase or in leading the dances of the nymphs.
He was fond of music, and, as we have seen, the inventor of the
syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he himself played in a masterly
manner. Pan, like other gods who dwelt in forests, was dreaded
by those whose occupations caused them to pass through the woods
by night, for the gloom and loneliness of such scenes dispose the
mind to superstitious fears. Hence sudden fright without any
visible cause was ascribed to Pan, and called a Panic terror.
As the name of the god signifies in Greek, ALL, Pan came to be
considered a symbol of the universe and personification of
Nature; and later still to be regarded as a representative of all
the gods, and heathenism itself.
Sylvanus and Faunus were Latin divinities, whose characteristics
are so nearly the same as those of Pan that we may safely
consider them as the same personage under different names.
The wood-nymphs, Pan's partners in the dance, were but one of
several classes of nymphs. There were beside them the Naiads,
who presided over brooks and fountains, the Oreads, nymphs of
mountains and grottos, and the Nereids, sea-nymphs. The three
last named were immortal, but the wood-nymphs, called Dryads or
Hamadryads, were believed to perish with the trees which had been
their abode, and with which they had come into existence. It was
therefore an impious act wantonly to destroy a tree, and in some
aggravated cases was severely punished, as in the instance of
Erisichthon, which we shall soon record.
Milton, in his glowing description of the early creation, thus
alludes to Pan as the personification of Nature:
"Universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal spring."
And describing Eve's abode:
"In shadier bower
More sacred or sequestered, though but feigned,
Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nymph
Nor Faunus haunted."
Paradise lost, B. IV.
It was a pleasing trait in the old Paganism that it loved to
trace in every operation of nature the agency of deity. The
imagination of the Greeks peopled all the regions of earth and
sea with divinities, to whose agency it attributed those
phenomena which our philosophy ascribes to the operation of the
laws of nature. Sometimes in our poetical moods we feel disposed
to regret the change, and to think that the heart has lost as
much as the head has gained by the substitution. The poet
Wordsworth thus strongly expresses this sentiment:
"Great God, I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn.
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from th4e sea,
And hear old Tritou blow his wreathed horn."
Schiller, in his poem The Gods of Greece, expresses his regret
for the overthrow of the beautiful mythology of ancient times in
a way which has called forth an answer from a Christian poetess,
Mrs. Browning, in her poem called The Dead Pan. The two
following verses are a specimen:
"By your beauty which confesses
Some chief Beauty conquering you,
By our grand heroic guesses
Through your falsehood at the True,
We will weep NOT! Earth shall roll
Heir to each god's aureole,
And Pan is dead.
"Earth outgrows the mythic fancies
Sung beside her in her youth;
And those debonaire romances
Sound but dull beside the truth.
Phoebus' chariot course is run!
Look up poets, to the sun!
Pan, Pan is dead."
These lines are founded on an early Christian tradition that when
the heavenly host told the shepherds at Bethlehem of the birth of
Christ, a deep groan, heard through all the isles of Greece, told
that the great Pan was dead, and that all the royalty of Olympus
was dethroned, and the several deities were sent wandering in
cold and darkness. So Milton, in his Hymn to the Nativity:
"The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
>From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-enwoven tresses torn,
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn."
ERISICHTHON
Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods. On
one occasion he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred
to Ceres. There stood in this grove a venerable oak, so large
that it seemed a wood in itself, its ancient trunk towering
aloft, whereon votive garlands were often hung and inscriptions
carved expressing the gratitude of suppliants to the nymph of the
tree. Often had the Dryads danced round it hand in hand. Its
trunk measured fifteen cubits round, and it overtopped the other
trees as they overtopped the shrubbery. But for all that,
Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare it, and he ordered
his servants to cut it down. When he saw them hesitate, he
snatched an axe from one, and thus impiously exclaimed, :"I care
not whether it be a tree beloved of the Goddess or not; were it
the goddess herself it should come down, if it stood in my way."
So saying, he lifted the axe, and the oak seemed to shudder and
utter a groan. When the first blow fell upon the trunk, blood
flowed from the wound. All the bystanders were horror-struck,
and one of them ventured to remonstrate and hold back the fatal
axe. Erisichthon with a scornful look, said to him, "Receive the
reward of your piety;" and turned against him the weapon which he
had held aside from the tree, gashed his body with many wounds,
and cut off his head. Then from the midst of the oak came a
voice, "I who dwell in this tree am a nymph beloved of Ceres, and
dying by your hands, forewarn you that punishment awaits you."
He desisted not from his crime, and at last the tree, sundered by
repeated blows and drawn by ropes, fell with a crash, and
prostrated a great part of the grove in its fall.
The Dryads, in dismay at the loss of their companion, and at
seeing the pride of the forest laid low, went in a body to Ceres,
all clad in garments of mourning, and invoked punishment upon
Erisichthon. She nodded her assent, and as she bowed her head
the grain ripe for harvest in the laden fields bowed also. She
planned a punishment so dire that one would pity him, if such a
culprit as he could be pitied to deliver him over to Famine.
As Ceres herself could not approach Famine, for the Fates have
ordained that these two goddesses shall never come together, she
called an Oread from her mountain and spoke to her in these
words: "There is a place in the farthest part of ice-clad
Scythia, a sad and sterile region without trees and without
crops. Cold dwells there, and Fear, and Shuddering, and Famine.
Go to Famine and tell her to take possession of the bowels of
Erisichthon. Let not abundance subdue her, nor the power of my
gifts drive her away. Be not alarmed at the distance," (for
Famine dwells very far from Ceres,) "but take my chariot. The
dragons are fleet and obey the rein, and will take you through
the air in a short time." So she gave her the reins, and she
drove away and soon reached Scythia. On arriving at Mount
Caucasus she stopped the dragons and found Famine in a stony
field, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage. Her
hair was rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her lips blanched,
her jaws covered with dust, and her skin drawn tight, so as to
show all her bones. As the Oread saw her afar off (for she did
not dare to come near) she delivered the commands of Ceres; and
though she stopped as short a time as possible, and kept her
distance as well as she could, yet she began to feel hungry, and
turned the dragons' heads and drove back to Thessaly.
In obedience to the commands of Ceres, Famine sped through the
air to the dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bed-chamber of
the guilty man, and found him asleep. She enfolded him with her
wings and breathed herself into him, infusing her poison into his
veins. Having discharged her task, she hastened to leave the
land of plenty and returned to her accustomed haunts.
Erisichthon still slept, and in his dreams craved food, and moved
his jaws as if eating. When he awoke his hunger was raging.
Without a moment's delay he would have food set before him, of
whatever kind earth, sea, or air produces; and complained of
hunger even while he ate. What would have sufficed for a city or
a nation was not enough for him. The more he ate, the move he
craved. His hunger was like the sea, which receives all the
rivers, yet is never filled; or like fire that burns all the fuel
that is heaped upon it, yet is still voracious for more.
His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands of
his appetite, but his hunger continued unabated. At length he
had spent all, and had only his daughter left, a daughter worthy
of a better parent. HER TOO HE SOLD. She scorned to be the
slave of a purchaser, and as she stood by the seaside, raised her
hands in prayer to Neptune. He heard her prayer, and, though her
new master was not far off, and had his eye upon her a moment
before, Neptune changed her form, and made her assume that of a
fisherman busy at his occupation. Her master, looking for her
and seeing her in her altered form, addressed her and said, "Good
fisherman, whither went the maiden whom I saw just now, with hair
dishevelled and in humble garb, standing about where you stand?
Tell me truly; so may your luck be good, and not a fish nibble at
your hook and get away." She perceived that her prayer was
answered, and rejoiced inwardly at hearing the question asked her
of herself. She replied, "Pardon me, stranger, but I have been
so intent upon my line, that I have seen nothing else; but I wish
I may never catch another fish if I believe any woman or other
person except myself to have been hereabouts for some time." He
was deceived and went his way, thinking his slave had escaped.
Then she resumed her own form. Her father was well pleased to
find her still with him, and the money too that he got by the
sale of her; so he sold her again. But she was changed by the
favor of Neptune as often as she was sold, now into a horse, now
a bird, now an ox, and now a stag, got away from her purchasers
and came home. By this base method the starving father procured
food; but not enough for his wants, and at last hunger compelled
him to devour his limbs, and he strove to nourish his body by
eating his body, till death relieved him from the vengeance of
Ceres.
RHOECUS
The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish
injuries. The story of Rhoecus proves this. Rhoecus, happening
to see an oak just ready to fall, ordered his servants to prop it
up. The nymph, who had been on the point of perishing with the
tree, came and expressed her gratitude to him for having saved
her life, and bade him ask what reward he would have for it.
Rhoecus boldly asked her love, and the nymph yielded to his
desire. She at the same time charged him to be constant, and
told him that a bee should be her messenger, and let him know
when she would admit his society. One time the bee came to
Rhoecus when he was playing at draughts, and he carelessly
brushed it away. This so incensed the nymph that she deprived
him of sight.
Our countryman, James Russell Lowell, has taken this story for
the subject of one of his shorter poems. He introduces it thus:
"Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
As full of freedom, youth and beauty still,
As the immortal freshness of that grace
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze."
THE WATER DEITIES
Oceanus and Tethys were the Titans who ruled over the Sea. When
Jove and his brothers overthrew the Titans and assumed their
power, Neptune and Amphitrite succeeded to the dominion of the
waters in place of Oceanus and Tethys.
NEPTUNE
Neptune was the chief of the water deities. The symbol of his
power was the trident, or spear with three points, with which he
used to shatter rocks, to call forth or subdue storms, to shake
the shores, and the like. He created the horse, and was the
patron of horse races. His own horses had brazen hoofs and
golden manes. They drew his chariot over the sea, which became
smooth before him, while the monsters of the deep gambolled about
his path.
AMPHITRITE
Amphitrite was the wife of Neptune. She was the daughter of
Nereus and Doris, and the mother of Triton. Neptune, to pay his
court to Amphitrite, came riding on the dolphin. Having won her,
he rewarded the dolphin by placing him among the stars.
NEREUS AND DORIS
Nereus and Doris were the parents of the Nereids, the most
celebrated of whom were Amphitrite, Thetis, the mother of
Achilles, and Galatea, who was loved by the Cyclops Polyphemus.
Nereus was distinguished for his knowledge, and his love of truth
and justice, and is described as the wise and unerring Old Man of
the Sea. The gift of prophecy was also ascribed to him.
TRITON AND PROTEUS
Triton was the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and the poets make
him his father's trumpeter. Proteus was also a son of Neptune.
He, like Nereus, is styled a sea-elder for his wisdom and
knowledge of future events. His peculiar power was that of
changing his shape at will.
THETIS
Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, was so beautiful that
Jupiter himself sought her in marriage; but having learned from
Prometheus the Titan, that Thetis should bear a son who should be
greater than his father, Jupiter desisted from his suit and
decreed that Thetis should be the wife of a mortal. By the aid
of Chiron the Centaur, Peleus succeeded in winning the goddess
for his bride, and their son was the renowned Achilles. In our
chapter on the Trojan war it will appear that Thetis was a
faithful mother to him, aiding him in all difficulties, and
watching over his interests from the first to the last.
LEUCOTHEA AND PALAEMON
Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, flying from her
frantic husband, with her little son Melicertes in her arms,
sprang from a cliff into the sea. The gods, out of compassion,
made her a goddess of the sea, under the name of Leucothea, and
him a god under that of Palaemon. Both were held powerful to
save from shipwreck, and were invoked by sailors. Palaemon was
usually represented riding on a dolphin. The Isthmian games were
celebrated in his honor. He was called Portumnus by the Romans,
and believed to have jurisdiction of the ports and shores.
Milton alludes to all these deities in the song at the conclusion
of Comus.
"Sabrina fair,
Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus;
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave, majestic pace,
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian wizard's hook (Proteus)
By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And old soothsaying Glaucus; spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son who rules the strands,
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet,
And the songs of Sirens sweet."
Armstrong, the poet of the Art of preserving Health, under the
inspiration of Hygeia, the goddess of health, thus celebrates the
Naiads. Paeon is a name both of Apollo and Aesculapius.
"Come, ye Naiads! To the fountains lead!
Propitious maids! The task remains to sing
Your gifts (so Paeon, so the powers of health
Command), to praise your crystal element.
Oh, comfortable streams! With eager lips
And trembling hands the languid thirsty quaff
New life in you; fresh vigor fills their veins.
No warmer cups the rural ages knew,
None warmer sought the sires of humankind;
Happy in temperate peace their equal days
Felt not the alternate fits of feverish mirth
And sick dejection; still serene and pleased,
Blessed with divine immunity from ills,
Long centuries they lived; their only fate
Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death."
THE CAMENAE
By this name the Latins designated the Muses, but included under
it also some other deities, principally nymphs of fountains.
Egeria was one of them, whose fountain and grotto are still
shown. It was said that Numa, the second king of Rome, was
favored by this nymph with secret interviews, in which she taught
him those lessons of wisdom and of law which he embodied in the
institutions of his rising nation. After the death of Numa the
nymph pined away and was changed into a fountain.
Byron, in Childe Harold, Canto IV., thus alludes to Egeria and
her grotto:
"Here didst thou dwell in this enchanted cover,
Egeria! All thy heavenly bosom beating
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy."
Tennyson, also, in his Palace of Art, gives us a glimpse of the
royal lover expecting the interview.
"Holding one hand against his ear,
To list a footfall ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stayed the Tuscan king to hear
Of wisdom and of law."
THE WINDS
When so many less active agencies were personified, it is not to
be supposed that the winds failed to be so. They were Boreas or
Aquilo, the north wind, Zephyrus or Favonius, the west, Notus or
Auster, the south, and Eurus, the east. The first two have been
chiefly celebrated by the poets, the former as the type of
rudeness, the latter of gentleness. Boreas loved the nymph
Orithyia, and tried to play the lover's part, but met with poor
success. It was hard for him to breathe gently, and sighing was
out of the question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavors, he
acted out his true character, seized the maiden and carried her
off. Their children were Zetes and Calais, winged warriors, who
accompanied the Argonautic expedition, and did good service in an
encounter with those monstrous birds the Harpies.
Zephyrus was the lover of Flora. Milton alludes to them in
Paradise Lost, where he describes Adam waking and contemplating
Eve still asleep:
"He on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamored, and beheld
Beauty which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice,
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus, 'Awake!
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight.'"
Dr. Young, the poet of the Night Thoughts, addressing the idle
and luxurious, says:
"Ye delicate! Who nothing can support
(Yourselves most insupportable), for whom
The winter rose must blow, . .
. . . . And silky soft
Favonious breathe still softer or be chid!"
Fortuna is the Latin name for Tyche, the goddess of Fortune. The
worship of Fortuna held a position of much higher importance at
Rome than did the worship of Tyche among the Greeks. She was
regarded at Rome as the goddess of good fortune only, and was
usually represented holding the cornucopia.
Victoria, the Latin form for the goddess Nike, was highly honored
among the conquest-loving Romans, and many temples were dedicated
to her at Rome. There was a celebrated temple at Athens to the
Greek goddess Nike Apteros, or Wingless Victory, of which remains
still exist.
Chapter XVI
Achelous and Hercules. Admetus and Alcestis. Antigone.
Penelope
The river-god Achelous told the story of Erisichthon to Theseus
and his companions, whom he was entertaining at his hospitable
board, while they were delayed on their journey by the overflow
of his waters. Having finished his story, he added, "But why
should I tell of other persons' transformations, when I myself am
an instance of the possession of this power. Sometimes I become
a serpent, and sometimes a bull, with horns on my head. Or I
should say, I once could do so; but now I have but one horn,
having lost one." And here he groaned and was silent.
Theseus asked him the cause of his grief, and how he lost his
horn. To which question the river-god replied as follows: "Who
likes to tell of his defeats? Yet I will not hesitate to relate
mine, comforting myself with the thought of the greatness of my
conqueror, for it was Hercules. Perhaps you have heard of the
fame of Dejanira, the fairest of maidens, whom a host of suitors
strove to win. Hercules and myself were of the number, and the
rest yielded to us two. He urged in his behalf his descent from
Jove, and his labors by which he had exceeded the exactions of
Juno, his step-mother. I, on the other hand, said to the father
of the maiden, 'Behold me, the king of the waters that flow
through your land. I am no stranger from a foreign shore, but
belong to the country, a part of your realm. Let it not stand in
my way that royal Juno owes me no enmity, nor punishes me with
heavy tasks. As for this man, who boasts himself the son of
Jove, it is either a false pretence, or disgraceful to him if
true, for it cannot be true except by his mother's shame.' As I
said this Hercules scowled upon me, and with difficulty
restrained his rage. 'My hand will answer better than my
tongue,' said he. 'I yield you the victory in words, but trust
my cause to the strife of deeds. With that he advanced towards
me, and I was ashamed, after what I had said, to yield. I threw
off my green vesture, and presented myself for the struggle. He
tried to throw me, now attacking my head, now my body. My bulk
was my protection, and he assailed me in vain. For a time we
stopped, then returned to the conflict. We each kept our
position, determined not to yield, foot to foot, I bending over
him, clinching his hands in mine, with my forehead almost
touching his. Thrice Hercules tried to throw me off, and the
fourth time he succeeded, brought me to the ground and himself
upon my back. I tell you the truth, it was as if a mountain had
fallen on me. I struggled to get my arms at liberty, panting and
reeking with perspiration. He gave me no chance to recover, but
seized my throat. My knees were on the earth and my mouth in the
dust.
"Finding that I was no match for him in the warrior's art, I
resorted to others, and glided away in the form of a serpent. I
curled my body in a coil, and hissed at him with my forked
tongue. He smiled scornfully at this, and said, 'It was the
labor of my infancy to conquer snakes.' So saying he clasped my
neck with his hands. I was almost choked, and struggled to get
my neck out of his grasp. Vanquished in this form, I tried what
alone remained to me, and assumed the form of a bull. He grasped
my neck with his arm, and, dragging my head down to the ground,
overthrew me on the sand. Nor was this enough. His ruthless
hand rent my horn from my head. The Naiades took it, consecrated
it, and filled it with fragrant flowers. Plenty adopted my horn,
and made it her own, and called it Cornucopia.
The ancients were fond of finding a hidden meaning in their
mythological tales. They explain this fight of Achelous with
Hercules by saying Achelous was a river that in seasons of rain
overflowed its banks. When the fable says that Achelous loved
Dejanira, and sought a union with her, the meaning is, that the
river in its windings flowed through part of Dejanira's kingdom.
It was said to take the form of a snake because of its winding,
and of a bull because it made a brawling or roaring in its
course. When the river swelled, it made itself another channel.
Thus its head was horned. Hercules prevented the return of these
periodical overflows, by embankments and canals; and therefore he
was said to have vanquished the river-god and cut off his horn.
Finally, the lands formerly subject to overflow, but now
redeemed, became very fertile, and this is meant by the horn of
plenty.
There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia.
Jupiter at his birth was committed by his mother Rhea to the care
of the daughters of Melisseus, a Cretan king. They fed the
infant deity with the milk of the goat Amalthea. Jupiter broke
off one of the horns of the goat and gave it to his nurses, and
endowed it with the wonderful power of becoming filled with
whatever the possessor might wish.
The name of Amalthea is also given by some writers to the mother
of Bacchus. It is thus used by Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV.:
"That Nyseian isle,
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea and her florid son,
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye."
ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS
Aesculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with
such skill in the healing art that he even restored the dead to
life. At this Pluto took alarm, and prevailed on Jupiter to
launch a thunderbolt at Aesculapius. Apollo was indignant at the
destruction of his son, and wreaked his vengeance on the innocent
workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes,
who have their workshop under Mount Aetna, from which the smoke
and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing. Apollo shot
his arrows at the Cyclopes, which so incensed Jupiter that he
condemned him as a punishment to become he servant of a mortal
for the space of one year. Accordingly Apollo went into the
service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for
him on the verdant banks of the river Amphrysus.
Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the
daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for
her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus
performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made
happy in the possession of Alcestis. But Admetus fell ill, and
being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him
on condition that some one would consent to die in his stead.
Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the
ransom, and perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment
which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents,
fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was
not so. Brave warriors, who would willingly have perilled their
lives for their prince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him
on the bed of sickness; and old servants who had experienced his
bounty and that of his house from their childhood up, were not
willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show
their gratitude. Men asked, "Why does not one of his parents
do it? They cannot in the course of nature live much longer, and
who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave from
an untimely end?" But the parents, distressed though they were
at the thought of losing him, shrunk from the call. Then
Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the
substitute. Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have
submitted to receive it at such a cost; but there was no remedy.
The condition imposed by the Fates had been met, and the decree
was irrevocable. Alcestis sickened as Admetus revived, and she
was rapidly sinking to the grave.
Just at this time Hercules arrived at the palace of Admetus, and
found all the inmates in great distress for the impending loss of
the devoted wife and beloved mistress. Hercules, to whom no
labor was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. He went
and lay in wait at the door of the chamber of the dying queen,
and when Death came for his prey, he seized him and forced him to
resign his victim. Alcestis recovered, and was restored to her
husband.
Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet on his
deceased wife.
"Methought I saw my late espoused saint,
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint."
James Russell Lowell has chosen the "Shepherd of King Admetus"
for the subject of a short poem. He makes that event the first
introduction of poetry to men.
"Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw,
And yet unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.
And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after poets only knew
Their first-born brother was a god."
In The Love of Alcestis, one of the poems in The Earthly
Paradise, Mr. Morris thus tells the story of the taming of the
lions:
"----- Rising up no more delay he made,
But took the staff and gained the palace-door
Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar
Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood,
Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood,
And all the joys of the food-hiding trees.
But harmless as their painted images
'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took
The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook,
And no delay the conquered beasts durst make,
But drew, not silent; and folk just awake,
When he went by as though a god they saw,
Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw
Fresh water from the fount, sank trembling down,
And silence held the babbling, wakened town."
ANTIGONE
The poems and histories of legendary Greece often relate, as has
been seen, to women and their lives. Antigone was as bright an
example of filial and sisterly fidelity as was Alcestis of
connubial devotion. She was the daughter of OEdipus and Jocasta,
who, with all their descendants, were the victims of an
unrelenting fate, dooming them to destruction. OEdipus in his
madness had torn out his eyes, and was driven forth from his
kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all men, as an object of
divine vengeance. Antigone, his daughter, alone shared his
wanderings, and remained with him till he died, and then returned
to Thebes.
Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the
kingdom between them, and reign alternately year by year. The
first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time
expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother.
Polynices fled to Adrastus, king of Argos, who gave him his
daughter in marriage, and aided him with an army to enforce his
claim to the kingdom. This led to the celebrated expedition of
the "Seven against Thebes," which furnished ample materials for
the epic and tragic poets of Greece.
Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the
enterprise, for he was a soothsayer, and knew by his art that no
one of the leaders except Adrastus would live to return. But
Amphiaraus, on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king's sister, had
agreed that whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion,
the decision should be left to Eriphyle. Polynices, knowing
this, gave Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and thereby gained
her to his interest. This collar or necklace was a present which
Vulcan had given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus, and
Polynices had taken it with him on his flight from Thebes.
Eriphyle could not resist so tempting a bribe, and by her
decision the war was resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his
certain fate. He bore his part bravely in the contest, but could
not avert his destiny. Pursued by the enemy he fled along the
river, when a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter opened the ground,
and he, his chariot, and his charioteer, were swallowed up.
It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of heroism
or atrocity which marked the contest; but we must not omit to
record the fidelity of Evadne as an offset to the weakness of
Eriphyle. Capaneus, the husband of Evadne, in the ardor of the
fight, declared that he would force his way into the city in
spite of Jove himself. Placing a ladder against the wall, he
mounted, but Jupiter, offended at his impious language, struck
him with a thunderbolt. When his obsequies were celebrated,
Evadne cast herself on his funeral pile and perished.
Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias
as to the issue. Tiresias, in his youth, had by chance seen
Minerva bathing. The goddess in her wrath deprived him of his
sight, but afterwards relenting gave him in compensation the
knowledge of future events. When consulted by Eteocles, he
declared that victory should fall to Thebes if Menoeceus, the son
of Creon, gave himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth,
learning the response, threw away his life in the first
encounter.
The siege continued long, with various success. At length both
hosts agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel by
single combat. They fought and fell by each other's hands. The
armies then renewed the fight, and at last the invaders were
forced to yield, and fled, leaving their dead unburied. Creon,
the uncle of the fallen princes, now become king, caused Eteocles
to be buried with distinguished honor, but suffered the body of
Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every one, on pain of
death, to give it burial.
Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the
revolting edict which consigned her brother's body to the dogs
and vultures, depriving it of those rites which were considered
essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading
counsel of an affectionate but timid sister, and unable to
procure assistance, she determined to brave the hazard and to
bury the body with her own hands. She was detected in the act,
and Creon gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having
deliberately set at nought the solemn edict of the city. Her
love, Haemon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate, would
not survive her, and fell by his own hand.
Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the Grecian
poet Sophocles. Mrs. Jameson, in her Characteristics of Women,
has compared her character with that of Cordelia, in
Shakespeare's King Lear. The perusal of her remarks cannot fail
to gratify our readers.
The following is the lamentation of Antigone over OEdipus, when
death has at last relieved him from his sufferings:
"Alas! I only wished I might have died
With my poor father; wherefore should I ask
For longer life?
Oh, I was fond of misery with him;
E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved
When he was with me. Oh, my dearest father,
Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,
Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still
Wast dear, and shalt be ever."
Francklin's Sophocles
PENELOPE
Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were
rather those of character and conduct than of person. She was
the daughter of Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, king of
Ithaca, sought her in marriage, and won her over all competitors.
When the moment came for the bride to leave her father's house,
Icarius, unable to bear the thoughts of parting with his
daughter, tried to persuade her to remain with him, and not
accompany her husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope her
choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but
dropped her veil over her face. Icarius urged her no further,
but when she was gone erected a statue to Modesty on the spot
where they parted.
Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year
when it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the
Trojan war. During his long absence, and when it was doubtful
whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he would ever
return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors, from whom
there seemed no refuge but in choosing one of them for her
husband. Penelope, however, employed every art to gain time,
still hopping for Ulysses' return. One of her arts of delay was
engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of
Laertes, her husband's father. She pledged herself to make her
choice among the suitors when the robe was finished. During the
day she worked at the robe, but in the night she undid the work
of the day. This is the famous Penelope's web, which is used as
a proverbial expression for anything which is perpetually doing
but never done. The rest of Penelope's history will be told when
we give an account of her husband's adventures.
Chapter XVII
Orpheus and Eurydice. Artistaeus. Amphion. Linus.
Thamyris. Marsyas. Melampus. Musaeus
Orpheus was the son of Apollo and the muse Calliope. He was
presented by his father with a lyre and taught to play upon it,
and he played to such perfection that nothing could withstand the
charm of his music. Not only his fellow mortals, but wild beasts
were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by
their fierceness, and stood entranced with his lay. Nay, the
very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The former
crowded round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their
hardness, softened by his notes.
Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of
Orpheus with Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no
happy omens with him. His very torch smoked and brought tears
into their eyes. In coincidence with such prognostics Eurydice,
shortly after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her
companions, was seen by the shepherd Aristaeus, who was struck
with her beauty, and made advances to her. She fled, and in
flying trod upon a snake in the grass, was bitten in the foot and
died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air,
both gods and men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to seek
his wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave
situated on the side of the promontory of Taenarus and arrived at
the Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts, and
presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine.
Accompanying the words with the lyre, he sung, "O deities of the
underworld, to whom all we who live must come, hear my words, for
they are true! I come not to spy out the secrets of Tartarus,
nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog with snaky
hair who guards the entrance. I come to seek my wife, whose
opening years the poisonous viper's fang has brought to an
untimely end. Love had led me here, Love, a god all powerful
with us who dwell on the earth, and, if old traditions say true,
not less so here. I implore you by these abodes full of terror,
these realms of silence and uncreated things, unite again the
thread of Eurydice's life. We all are destined to you, and
sooner or later must pass to your domain. She too, when she
shall have filled her term of life, will rightly be yours. But
till then grant her to me, I beseech you. If you deny me, I
cannot return alone; you shall triumph in the death of us both."
As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears.
Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his
efforts for water, Ixion's wheel stood still, the vulture ceased
to tear the giant's liver, the daughters of Danaus rested from
their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his
rock to listen. Then for the first time, it is said, the cheeks
of the Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist,
and Pluto himself gave way. Eurydice was called. She came from
among the new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot.
Orpheus was permitted to take her away with him on one condition,
that he should not turn round to look at her till they should
have reached the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded
on their way, he leading, she following, through passages dark
and steep, in total silence, till they had nearly reached the
outlet into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus, in a moment
of forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was still following,
cast a glance behind him, when instantly she was borne away.
Stretching out their arms to embrace one another they grasped
only the air. Dying now a second time she yet cannot reproach
her husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold her?
"Farewell," she said, "a last farewell," and was hurried away,
so fast that the sound hardly reached his ears.
Orpheus endeavored to follow her, and besought permission to
return and try once more for her release but the stern ferryman
repulsed him and refused passage. Seven days he lingered about
the brink, without food or sleep; then bitterly accusing of
cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the rocks
and mountains, melting the hearts of tigers and moving the oaks
from their stations. He held himself aloof from womankind,
dwelling constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance.
The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he
repulsed their advances. They bore with him as long as they
could; but finding him insensible, one day, one of them, excited
by the rites of Bacchus, exclaimed, "See yonder our despiser!"
and threw at him her javelin. The weapon, as soon as it came
within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless at his feet. So did
also the stones that they threw at him. But the women raised a
scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the missiles
reached him and soon were stained with his blood. The maniacs
tore him limb from limb, and threw his head and his lyre into the
river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music, to
which the shores responded a plaintive symphony. The Muses
gathered up the fragments of his body and buried them at
Libethra, where the nightingale is said to sing over his grave
more sweetly than in any other part of Greece. His lyre was
placed by Jupiter among the stars. His shade passed a second
time to Tartarus, where he sought out his Eurydice and embraced
her, with eager arms. They roam through those happy fields
together now, sometimes he leads, sometimes she; and Orpheus
gazes as much as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty
for a thoughtless glance.
The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of
the power of music, for his Ode for St. Cecelia's Day. The
following stanza relates the conclusion of the story:
"But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
All alone,
He makes his moan,
And calls her ghost,
Forever, ever, ever lost!
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows.
See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies;
Hark! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries.
Ah, see, he dies!
Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung."
The superior melody of the nightingale's song over the grave of
Orpheus, is alluded to by Southey in his Thalaba:
"Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose!
Far music and the distance-mellowed song
>From bowers of merriment;
The waterfall remote;
The murmuring of the leafy groves;
The single nightingale
Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,
That never from that most melodious bird
Singing a love-song to his brooding mate,
Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,
Though there the spirit of the sepulchre
All his own power infuse, to swell
The incense that he loves."
ARISTAEUS, THE BEE-KEEPER
Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for
his own advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping bees. Honey
must first have been known as a wild product, the bees building
their structures in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, or any
similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the
carcass of a dead animal would be occupied by the bees for that
purpose. It was no doubt from some such incident that the
superstition arose that the bees were engendered by the decaying
flesh of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story (From the
Georgies, Book IV.1.317), shows how this supposed fact may be
turned to account for renewing the swarm when it has been lost by
disease or accident.
The shepherd Aristaeus, who first taught the management of bees,
was the son of the water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished,
and he resorted for aid to his mother. He stood at the river
side and thus addressed her: "Oh, mother, the pride of my life is
taken from me! I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill
have availed me nothing, and you, my mother, have not warded off
from me the blow of misfortune." His mother heard these
complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river
with her attendant nymphs around her. They were engaged in
female occupations, spinning and weaving, while one told stories
to amuse the rest. The sad voice of Aristaeus interrupting their
occupation, one of them put her head above the water and seeing
him, returned and gave information to his mother, who ordered
that he should be brought into her presence. The river at her
command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood curled
like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region where
the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the enormous
receptacles of waters and was almost deafened with the roar,
while he surveyed them hurrying off in various directions to
water the face of the earth. Arriving at his mother's apartment
he was hospitably received by Cyrene and her nymphs, who spread
their table with the richest dainties. They first poured out
libations to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the feast, and
after that Cyrene thus addressed him: "There is an old prophet
named Proteus, who dwells in the sea and is a favorite of
Neptune, whose herd of sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold
him in great respect, for he is a learned sage, and knows all
things, past, present, and to come. He can tell you, my son, the
cause of the mortality among your bees, and how you may remedy
it. But he will not do it voluntarily, however you may entreat
him. You must compel him by force. If you seize him and chain
him, he will answer your questions in order to get released, for
he cannot, by all his arts, get away if you hold fast the chains.
I will carry you to his cave, where he comes at noon to take his
midday repose. Then you may easily secure him. But when he
finds himself captured, his resort is to a power he possesses of
changing himself into various forms. He will become a wild boar
or a fierce tiger, a scaly dragon, or lion with yellow mane. Or
he will make a noise like the crackling of flames or the rush of
water, so as to tempt you to let go the chain, when he will make
his escape. But you have only to keep him fast bound, and at
last when he finds all his arts unavailing, he will return to his
own figure and obey your commands." So saying she sprinkled her
son with fragrant nectar, the beverage of the gods, and
immediately an unusual vigor filled his frame and courage his
heart, while perfume breathed all around him.
The nymph led her son to the prophet's cave, and concealed him
among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place
behind the clouds. Then noon came and the hour when men and
herds retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet slumber,
Proteus issued from the water, followed hy his herd of sea-
calves, which spread themselves along the shore. He sat on the
rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself on the floor of
the cave and went to sleep. Aristaeus hardly allowed him to get
fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted
aloud. Proteus, waking and finding himself captured, immediately
resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a
horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But trying all in
vain, he at last resumed his own form and addressed the youth in
angry accents: "Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my
abode, and what do you want with me?" Aristaeus replied,
"Proteus, you know already, for it is needless for any one to
attempt to deceive you. And do you also cease your efforts to
elude me. I am led hither by divine assistance, to know from you
the cause of my misfortune and how to remedy it." At these words
the prophet, fixing on him his gray eyes with a piercing look,
thus spoke: "You received the merited reward of your deeds, by
which Eurydice met her death, for in flying from you she trod
upon a serpent, of whose bite she died. To avenge her death the
nymphs, her companions, have sent this destruction bo your bees.
You have to appease their anger, and thus it must be done: Select
four bulls of perfect form and size, and four cows of equal
beauty, build four altars to the nymphs, and sacrifice the
animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove. To Orpheus
and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honors as may allay their
resentment. Returning after nine days you will examine the
bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall." Aristaeus
faithfully obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he
left their bodies in the grove, he offered funeral honors to the
shades of Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day
he examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate!
A swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses, and
were pursuing their labors there as in a hive.
In the Task, Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when
speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia.
He has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in
connection with waterfalls, etc."
"Less worthy of applause though more admired,
Because a novelty, the work of man,
Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
The wonder of the north. No forest fell
When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores
T'enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods
And make thy marble of the glassy wave.
In such a palace Aristaeus found
Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
Of his lost bees to her maternal ear."
Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in
his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river
Severn, in the Guardian-spirit's Song in Comus:
"Sabrina fair!
Listen when thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honor's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake!
Listen and save."
The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians,
some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself:
AMPHION
Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes.
With his twin brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount
Cithaeron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing
their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre, and taught him to
play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and
tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had
been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of
Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her
children of their rights, and to summon them to her assistance.
With a band of their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew
Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him
drag her till she was dead (the punishment of Dirce is the
subject of a celebrated group of statuary now in the Museum at
Naples). Amphion, having become king of Thebes fortified the
city with a wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the
stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the
wall.
In Tennyson's poem of Amphion is an amusing use of this story:
"Oh, had I lived when song was great,
In days of old Amphion,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate
Nor feared for reed or scion!
And had I lived when song was great,
And legs of trees were limber,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
And fiddled to the timber!
"'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He left a small plantation;
Whenever in a lonely grove
He set up his forlorn pipes,
The gouty oak began to move
And flounder into hornpipes."
LINUS
Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day
reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of
Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him.
THAMYRIS
An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the
Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the contest was
deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other
blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness (Paradise Lost,
Book III.35).
MARSYAS
Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of
all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid
having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made
while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away, and
it fell down to earth, and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon
it, and drew from it such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to
challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of course
triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.
MELAMPUS
Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers.
Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's
nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus
took care of the young ones and fed them carefully. One day when
he was asleep under the oak, the serpents licked his ears with
their tongues. On awaking he was astonished to find that he now
understood the language of birds and creeping things. This
knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a
renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive
and kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of
night heard the wood-worms in the timbers talking together, and
found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten
through, and the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors
and demanded to be let out, warning them also. They took his
warning, and thus escaped destruction, and rewarded Malampus and
held him in high honor.
MUSAEUS
A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one
tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written
sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of
Orpheus in his Il Penseroso:
"But, oh, sad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bed the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek."
Chapter XVIII
Arion. Ibycus. Simonides. Sappho
The poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real
persons, some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on
poets who succeeded them is yet more important than their
poetical remains. The adventures recorded of them in the
following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives
of the Age of Fable, that is, that of the poets who have told
them. In their present form, the first two are translated from
the German, the story of Arion from Schlegel, and that of Ibycus
from Schiller.
ARION
Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of Periander,
king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to
be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for
the prize. He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like
a brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said,
"and be contented. He who strives to win may lose." Arion
answered, "A wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet.
The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source
of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will the
enjoyment of it be increased by the consciousness of my wide-
spread fame!" He went, won the prize, and embarked with his
wealth in a Corinthian ship for home. On the second morning
after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and fair. "Oh,
Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your fears! Soon shall you
forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings will we
display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at
the festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a
cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the
ocean, but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging
hints with one another, and found they were plotting to possess
themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud
and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die! If you would have
a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if
otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will nothing satisfy
you but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome. I
willingly buy my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare
you. Your life will be too dangerous to us. Where could we go
to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been
robbed by us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on
returning home, we could never more be free from fear." "Grant
me, then," said he, "a last request, since nought will avail to
save my life, that I may die as I have lived, as becomes a bard.
When I shall have sung my death-song, and my harp-strings shall
cease to vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life, and yield
uncomplaining to my fate." This prayer, like the others, would
have been unheeded, they thought only of their booty, but to
hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts. "Suffer
me," he added, "to arrange my dress. Apollo will not favor me
unless I be clad in my minstrel garb."
He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to
see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned
his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his
neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left
hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck
its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning
air and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen gazed with
admiration. He strode forward to the vessel's side and looked
down into the blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he sang, "Companion
of my voice, come with me to the realm of shades. Though
Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage.
Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood, ye
happy souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my
grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find
thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as found; when she had
vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I
must away, but I will not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye
who slay me unoffending, when I am no more, your time of
trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest, who throws
himself upon your mercy!" So saying, he sprang into the deep
sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way,
fancying themselves safe from all danger of detection.
But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants
of the deep to listen, and dolphins followed the ship as if
chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a dolphin
offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to
shore. At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass was
afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory
of the event.
When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion
thus poured forth his thanks. "Farewell, thou faithful, friendly
fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend
with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have. May
Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou,
proud of the burden, draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of
the deep."
Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers
of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went,
full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful
only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the
hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of
Periander. "I come back to thee, my friend," he said. "The
talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of thousands,
but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure; yet
I retain the consciousness of wide-spread fame." Then he told
Periander all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who
heard him with amazement. "Shall such wickedness triumph?" said
he. "Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That we may
discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment, and
so they will approach without suspicion." When the ship arrived
in the harbor, he summoned the mariners before him. "Have you
heard anything of Arion?" he inquired. "I anxiously look for his
return." They replied, "We left him well and prosperous in
Tarentum." As they said these words, Arion stepped forth and
faced them. His well proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and
purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds,
jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden
wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed
with odors; his left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand
with which he struck its chords. They fell prostrate at his
feet, as if a lightning bolt had struck them. "We meant to
murder him, and he has become a god. O Earth, open and receive
us!" Then Periander spoke. "He lives, the master of the lay!
Kind Heaven protects the poet's life. As for you, I invoke not
the spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves
of avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may
aught beautiful delight your souls!"
Spencer represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying
the train of Neptune and Amphitrite:
"Then was there heard a most celestial sound
Of dainty music which did next ensue,
And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
Arion with his harp unto him drew
The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
Through the Aegean Seas from pirates' view,
Stood still, by him astonished at his love,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."
Byron, in his Childe Harold, Canto II., alludes to the story of
Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the
seamen making music to entertain the rest:
"The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move
Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove."
IBYCUS
In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows, it is
necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients
were immense buildings providing seats for from ten to thirty
thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal
occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually
filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the
performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling
representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It
is recorded that AEschylus, the tragic poet, having on one
occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers,
the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were
thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like
representation for the future.
Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and
musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which
attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the
gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his
way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of
Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered
with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was
in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead, taking the same
course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. "Good
luck to you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions
from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen. We
come from far, and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us
meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from
harm!"
He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood.
There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and
barred his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand,
accustomed to the lyre and not to the strife of arms, sank
powerless. He called for help on men and gods, but his cry
reached no defender's ear. "Then here must I die," said he, "in
a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and
see none to avenge my cause." Sore wounded he sank to the earth,
when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. "Take up my cause, ye
cranes," he said, "since no voice but yours answers to my cry."
So saying, he closed his eyes in death.
The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured
with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had
expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored to me?"
he exclaimed; "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the
wreath of triumph in the strife of song!"
The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with
dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.
They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded
vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.
But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from
amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feat?
Did he fall by the hands of robbers, or did some private enemy
slay him? The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other
eye beheld it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in
the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime,
while vengeance seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their own
temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in this
throng of men that now presses into the ampitheatre.
For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the
seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The
murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the
circles widening in their ascent rise, tier on tier, as if they
would reach the sky.
And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the
chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances
with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre.
Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can
that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings!
The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands
torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were
bloodless, and in place of hair, writing and swelling serpents
curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings
sang their hymn, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining
all their faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound
of the instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart,
curdling the blood.
"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime!
Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from
us. But woe! Woe! To him who has done the deed of secret
murder. We, the fearful family of Night, fasten ourselves upon
his whole being. Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still
faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet and bring him
to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course;
still on and on to the end of life, we give him no peace nor
rest." Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence,
while stillness like the stillness of death sat over the whole
assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings; and then in
solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed
out at the back of the stage.
Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every
breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful
power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of
destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the
uppermost benches "Look! Look! Comrade, yonder are the cranes
of Ibycus!" And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a
dark object which a moment's inspection showed to be a flock of
cranes flying directly over the theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he
say?" The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As
wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to
mouth the words, "Of Ibycus! Him whom we all lament, with some
murderer's hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?"
And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning's
flash the thought sped through every heart, "Observe the power of
the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! The murderer
has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry
and the other to whom he spoke!"
The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too
late. The faces of the murderers pale with terror betrayed their
guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed
their crime and suffered the punishment they deserved.
SIMONIDES
Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of
Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have
descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies.
In the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His
genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with
truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The Lamentation of
Danae, the most important of the fragments which remain of his
poetry is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant son
were confined by order of her father Acrisius in a chest and set
adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of
Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and
carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and
protected them. The child Perseus when grown up became a famous
hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous chapter.
Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and
often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes,
receiving his reward from the munificence of those whose exploits
he celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but closely
resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus,
described by Homer, or of Homer himself as recorded by tradition.
On one occasion when residing at the court of Scopas, king of
Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration
of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to
diversify his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety,
introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such
digressions were not unusual with the poets on similar occasions,
and one might suppose an ordinary mortal might have been content
to share the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity is
exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his
courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every verse that did not
rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached to receive
the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected sum,
saying, "Here is payment for my portion of the performance,
Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee for so much as
relates to them." The disconcerted poet returned to his seat
amidst the laughter which followed the great man's jest. In a
little time he received a message that two young men on horseback
were waiting without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened
to the door, but looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely
however had he left the banqueting-hall when the roof fell in
with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all his guests beneath the
ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance of the young men who
had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other
than Castor and Pollux themselves.
Sappho
Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek
literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are
enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The
story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately
in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain
a return of affection she threw herself from the promontory of
Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that those who should
take that "Lover's-leap," would, if not destroyed, be cured of
their love.
Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in Childe Harold, Canto II.:
Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her leap, are referred
to the Spectator, Nos. 223 and 229, and also to Moore's Evenings
in Greece.
Chapter XIX
Endymion. Orion. Aurora and Tithonus. Acis and Galatea
Endymion was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos.
One calm, clear night, Diana, the Moon, looked down and saw him
sleeping. The cold heart of the virgin goddess was warmed by his
surpassing beauty, and she came down to him, kissed him, and
watched over him while he slept.
Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of
perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we
can have but few adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took
care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life,
for she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs
from the wild beasts.
The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning
which it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young poet, his
fancy and his heart seeking in vain for that which can satisfy
them, finding his favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, and
nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent witness
the melancholy and the ardor which consumes him. The story
suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life spent more in dreams
than in reality, and an early and welcome death.
S. G. Bulfinch
The Endymion of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing
some exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon:
"The sleeping kine
Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken."
Dr. Young in the Night Thoughts alludes to Endymion thus:
"These thoughts, O Night, are thine;
>From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs,
While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,
In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
Her shepherd cheered, of her enamored less
Than I of thee."
Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess, tells,
"How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of Old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest."
ORION
Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a
mighty hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through
the depths of the sea, or as others say, of walking on its
surface.
Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Oenopion, king of Chios, and
sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts,
and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved;
but as Oenopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted
to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father,
incensed at this conduct, having made Orion drunk, deprived him
of his sight, and cast him out on the sea shore. The blinded
hero followed the sound of the Cyclops' hammer till he reached
Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking pity on him,
gave him Kedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode
of the sun. Placing Kedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded
to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight
by his beam.
After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a
favorite, and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her
brother was highly displeased and often chid her, but to no
purpose. One day, observing Orion wading though the sea with his
head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his sister
and maintained that she could not hit that black thing on the
sea. The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim. The
waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing
her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him among the
stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion's
skin, and club. Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads
fly before him.
The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train.
One day Orion saw them, and became enamored, and pursued them.
In their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form,
and Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, and then made them
a constellation in the sky. Though their numbers was seven, only
six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it is said, left
her place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy, for that
city was founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an
effect on her sisters that they have looked pale ever since.
Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the "Occultation of Orion." The
following lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic
story. We must premise that on the celestial globe Orion is
represented as robed in a lion's skin and wielding a club. At
the moment the stars of the constellation one by one were
quenched in the light of the moon, the poet tells us,
"Down fell the red skin of the lion
Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; but he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
When blinded by Oenopion
He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
And climbing up the narrow gorge,
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun."
Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads:
"Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid."
Locksley Hall
Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:
"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."
See also Mrs. Heman's verses on the same subject.
AURORA AND TITHONUS.
Aurora, the goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at
times inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite
was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away,
and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting
to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to
discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old.
When his hair was quite white she left his society; but he still
had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was
clad in celestial raiment. At length he lost the power of using
his limbs, and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his
feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally she turned him
into a grasshopper.
Memnon was the son of aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the
AEthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of
Ocean. He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his
father in the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great
honors, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the
wonders of the ocean shore.
The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led
his troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor,
fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when
Achilles appeared and restored the battle. A long and doubtful
contest ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length
victor declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled
in dismay.
Aurora, who, from her station in the sky, had viewed with
apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall
directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks
of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came,
accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented
over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the
heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the
Dawn. The Aethiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream
in the grove of the nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and
cinders of his funeral-pile to be turned into birds, which,
dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell
into the flame. Every year, at the anniversary of his death,
they return and celebrate his obsequies in like manner. Aurora
remains inconsolable for the loss of her son. Her tears still
flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops
on the grass.
Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there will exist
some memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in
Egypt, are two colossal statues, one of which is said to be the
statue of Memnon. Ancient writers record that when the first
rays of the rising sun fall upon this statue, a sound is heard to
issue from it which they compare to the snapping of a harp-
string. There is some doubt about the identification of the
existing statue with the one described by the ancients, and the
mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there are not
wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible. It
has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making
its escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given
some ground for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late
traveller, of the highest authority, examined the statue itself,
and discovered that it was hollow, and that "in the lap of the
statue is a stone, which, on being struck, emits a metallic
sound, that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who
was predisposed to believe its powers."
The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with
the poets. Darwin, in his Botanic Garden, says,
"So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane
Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
And holy echoes swell the adoring song."
ACIS AND GALATEA
Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs.
She had many suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the
grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she was persecuted. One day
the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the
story, and then replied, "Yet, maiden, your persecutors are of
the not ungentle race of men, whom if you will you can repel; but
I, the daughter of Nereus, and protected by such a band of
sisters, found no escape from the passion of the Cyclops but in
the depths of the sea;" and tears stopped her utterance, which
when the pitying maiden had wiped away with her delicate finger,
and soothed the goddess, "Tell me, dearest," said she, "the cause
of your grief." Galatea then said, "Acis was the son of Faunus
and a Naiad. His father and mother loved him dearly, but their
love was not equal to mine. For the beautiful youth attached
himself to me alone, and he was just sixteen years old, the down
just beginning to darken his cheeks. As much as I sought his
society, so much did the cyclops seek mine; and if you ask me
whether my love for Acis or my hatred for Polyphemus was the
stronger, I cannot tell you; they were in equal measure. Oh,
Venus, how great is thy power! This fierce giant, the terror of
the woods, whom no hapless stranger escaped unharmed, who defied
even Jove himself, learned to feel what love was, and touched
with a passion for me, forgot his flocks and his well-stored
caverns. Then, for the first time, he began to take some care of
his appearance, and to try to make himself agreeable; he harrowed
those coarse locks of his with a comb, and mowed his beard with a
sickle, looked at his harsh features in the water, and composed
his countenance. His love of slaughter, his fierceness and
thirst of blood prevailed no more, and ships that touched at his
island went away in safety. He paced up and down the sea-shore,
imprinting huge tracks with his heavy tread, and, when weary, lay
tranquilly in his cave.
"There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on
either side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat
down while his flocks spread themselves around. Laying down his
staff which would have served for a mast to hold a vessel's sail,
and taking his instrument, compacted of numerous pipes, he made
the hills and the waters echo the music of his song. I lay hid
under a rock, by the side of my beloved Acis, and listened to the
distant strain. It was full of extravagant praises of my beauty,
mingled with passionate reproaches of my coldness and cruelty.
"When he had finished he rose up, and like a raging bull, that
cannot stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I
thought no more of him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which
gave him a view of us as we sat. 'I see you,' he exclaimed, 'and
I will make this the last of your love-meetings.' His voice was
a roar such as an angry Cyclops alone could utter. AEtna
trembled at the sound. I, overcome with terror, plunged into the
water. Acis turned and fled, crying, 'Save me, Galatea, save me,
my parents!" The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from
the side of the mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner
of it touched him it overwhelmed him.
"All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him
with the honors of his grandfather the river-god. The purple
blood flowed out from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler
and looked like the stream of a river rendered turbid by rains,
and in time it became clear. The rock cleaved open, and the
water, as it gushed from the chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur."
Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the
name of Acis.
Chapter XX
The Trojan War
Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a
very foolish thing; she entered into competition with Juno and
Venus for the prize of beauty. It happened thus. At the
nuptials of Peleus and Thetis all the gods were invited with the
exception of Eris, or Discord. Enraged at her exclusion, the
goddess threw a golden apple among the guests with the
inscription, "For the most beautiful." Thereupon Juno, Venus,
and Minerva, each claimed the apple. Jupiter not willing to
decide in so delicate a matter, sent the goddesses to Mount Ida,
where the beautiful shepherd Paris was tending his flocks, and to
him was committed the decision. The goddesses accordingly
appeared before him. Juno promised him power and riches, Minerva
glory and renown in war, and Venus the fairest of women for his
wife, each attempting to bias his decision in her own favor.
Paris decided in favor of Venus and gave her the golden apple,
thus making the two other goddesses his enemies. Under the
protection of Venus, Paris sailed to Greece, and was hospitably
received by Menelaus, king of Sparta. Now Helen, the wife of
Menelaus, was the very woman whom Venus had destined for Paris,
the fairest of her sex. She had been sought as a bride by
numerous suitors, and before her decision was made known, they
all, at the suggestion of Ulysses, one of their number, took an
oath that they would defend her from all injury and avenge her
cause if necessary. She chose Menelaus, and was living with him
happily when Paris became their guest. Paris, aided by Venus,
persuaded her to slope with him, and carried her to Troy, whence
arose the famous Trojan war, the theme of the greatest poems of
antiquity, those of Homer and Virgil.
Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to fulfil
their pledge, and join him in his efforts to recover his wife.
They generally came forward, but Ulysses, who had married
Penelope and was very happy in his wife and child, had no
disposition to embark in such a troublesome affair. He therefore
hung back and Palamedes was sent to urge him. When Palamedes
arrived at Ithaca, Ulysses pretended to be mad. He yoked an ass
and an ox together to the plough and began to sow salt.
Palamedes, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the
plough, whereupon the father turned the plough aside, showing
plainly that he was no madman, and after that could no longer
refuse to fulfil his promise. Being now himself gained for the
undertaking, he lent his aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs,
especially Achilles. This hero was the son of that Thetis at
whose marriage the apple of Discord had been thrown among the
goddesses. Thetis was herself one of the immortals, a sea-nymph,
and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if he
went on the expedition, she endeavored to prevent his going. She
sent him away to the court of king Lycomedes, and induced him to
conceal himself in the disguise of a maiden among the daughters
of the king. Ulysses, hearing he was there, went disguised as a
merchant to the palace and offered for sale female ornaments,
among which he had placed some arms. While the king's daughters
were engrossed with the other contents of the merchant's pack,
Achilles handled the weapons and thereby betrayed himself to the
keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great difficulty in persuading
him to disregard his mother's prudent counsels and join his
countrymen in the war.
Priam was king of Tr |
