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BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY
THE AGE OF FABLE
THE AGE OF CHIVALRY
LEGENDS OF CHARLEMANGE
BY THOMAS BULFINCH
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME
[Editor's Note: The etext contains only THE AGE OF FABLE]
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE
No new edition of Bulfinch's classic work can be considered
complete without some notice of the American scholar to whose wide
erudition and painstaking care it stands as a perpetual monument.
"The Age of Fable" has come to be ranked with older books like
"Pilgrim's Progress," "Gulliver's Travels," "The Arabian Nights,"
"Robinson Crusoe," and five or six other productions of world-wide
renown as a work with which every one must claim some acquaintance
before his education can be called really complete. Many readers
of the present edition will probably recall coming in contact with
the work as children, and, it may be added, will no doubt discover
from a fresh perusal the source of numerous bits of knowledge that
have remained stored in their minds since those early years. Yet
to the majority of this great circle of readers and students the
name Bulfinch in itself has no significance.
Thomas Bulfinch was a native of Boston, Mass., where he was born
in 1796. His boyhood was spent in that city, and he prepared for
college in the Boston schools. He finished his scholastic training
at Harvard College, and after taking his degree was for a period a
teacher in his home city. For a long time later in life he was
employed as an accountant in the Boston Merchants' Bank. His
leisure time he used for further pursuit of the classical studies
which he had begun at Harvard, and his chief pleasure in life lay
in writing out the results of his reading, in simple, condensed
form for young or busy readers. The plan he followed in this work,
to give it the greatest possible usefulness, is set forth in the
Author's Preface.
"Age of Fable," First Edition, 1855; "The Age of Chivalry," 1858;
"The Boy Inventor," 1860; "Legends of Charlemagne, or Romance of
the Middle Ages," 1863; "Poetry of the Age of Fable," 1863;
"Oregon and Eldorado, or Romance of the Rivers,"1860.
In this complete edition of his mythological and legendary lore
"The Age of Fable," "The Age of Chivalry," and "Legends of
Charlemagne" are included. Scrupulous care has been taken to
follow the original text of Bulfinch, but attention should be
called to some additional sections which have been inserted to add
to the rounded completeness of the work, and which the publishers
believe would meet with the sanction of the author himself, as in
no way intruding upon his original plan but simply carrying it out
in more complete detail. The section on Northern Mythology has
been enlarged by a retelling of the epic of the "Nibelungen Lied,"
together with a summary of Wagner's version of the legend in his
series of music-dramas. Under the head of "Hero Myths of the
British Race" have been included outlines of the stories of
Beowulf, Cuchulain, Hereward the Wake, and Robin Hood. Of the
verse extracts which occur throughout the text, thirty or more
have been added from literature which has appeared since
Bulfinch's time, extracts that he would have been likely to quote
had he personally supervised the new edition.
Finally, the index has been thoroughly overhauled and, indeed,
remade. All the proper names in the work have been entered, with
references to the pages where they occur, and a concise
explanation or definition of each has been given. Thus what was a
mere list of names in the original has been enlarged into a small
classical and mythological dictionary, which it is hoped will
prove valuable for reference purposes not necessarily connected
with "The Age of Fable."
Acknowledgments are due the writings of Dr. Oliver Huckel for
information on the point of Wagner's rendering of the Nibelungen
legend, and M. I. Ebbutt's authoritative volume on "Hero Myths and
Legends of the British Race," from which much of the information
concerning the British heroes has been obtained
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which
helps to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in
society, then Mythology has no claim to the appellation. But if
that which tends to make us happier and better can be called
useful, then we claim that epithet for our subject. For Mythology
is the handmaid of literature; and literature is one of the best
allies of virtue and promoters of happiness.
Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of
our own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron
calls Rome "the Niobe of nations," or says of Venice, "She looks a
Sea-Cybele fresh from ocean," he calls up to the mind of one
familiar with our subject, illustrations more vivid and striking
than the pencil could furnish, but which are lost to the reader
ignorant of mythology. Milton abounds in similar allusions. The
short poem "Comus" contains more than thirty such, and the ode "On
the Morning of the Nativity" half as many. Through "Paradise Lost"
they are scattered profusely. This is one reason why we often hear
persons by no means illiterate say that they cannot enjoy Milton.
But were these persons to add to their more solid acquirements the
easy learning of this little volume, much of the poetry of Milton
which has appeared to them "harsh and crabbed" would be found
"musical as is Apollo's lute." Our citations, taken from more than
twenty-five poets, from Spenser to Longfellow, will show how
general has been the practice of borrowing illustrations from
mythology.
The prose writers also avail themselves of the same source of
elegant and suggestive illustration. One can hardly take up a
number of the "Edinburgh" or "Quarterly Review" without meeting
with instances. In Macaulay's article on Milton there are twenty
such.
But how is mythology to be taught to one who does not learn it
through the medium of the languages of Greece and Rome? To devote
study to a species of learning which relates wholly to false
marvels and obsolete faiths is not to be expected of the general
reader in a practical age like this. The time even of the young is
claimed by so many sciences of facts and things that little can be
spared for set treatises on a science of mere fancy.
But may not the requisite knowledge of the subject be acquired by
reading the ancient poets in translations? We reply, the field is
too extensive for a preparatory course; and these very
translations require some previous knowledge of the subject to
make them intelligible. Let any one who doubts it read the first
page of the "Aeneid," and see what he can make of "the hatred of
Juno," the "decree of the Parcae," the "judgment of Paris," and
the "honors of Ganymede," without this knowledge.
Shall we be told that answers to such queries may be found in
notes, or by a reference to the Classical Dictionary? We reply,
the interruption of one's reading by either process is so annoying
that most readers prefer to let an allusion pass unapprehended
rather than submit to it. Moreover, such sources give us only the
dry facts without any of the charm of the original narrative; and
what is a poetical myth when stripped of its poetry? The story of
Ceyx and Halcyone, which fills a chapter in our book, occupies but
eight lines in the best (Smith's) Classical Dictionary; and so of
others.
Our work is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling the
stories of mythology in such a manner as to make them a source of
amusement. We have endeavored to tell them correctly, according to
the ancient authorities, so that when the reader finds them
referred to he may not be at a loss to recognize the reference.
Thus we hope to teach mythology not as a study, but as a
relaxation from study; to give our work the charm of a story-book,
yet by means of it to impart a knowledge of an important branch of
education. The index at the end will adapt it to the purposes of
reference, and make it a Classical Dictionary for the parlor.
Most of the classical legends in "Stories of Gods and Heroes" are
derived from Ovid and Virgil. They are not literally translated,
for, in the author's opinion, poetry translated into literal prose
is very unattractive reading. Neither are they in verse, as well
for other reasons as from a conviction that to translate
faithfully under all the embarrassments of rhyme and measure is
impossible. The attempt has been made to tell the stories in
prose, preserving so much of the poetry as resides in the thoughts
and is separable from the language itself, and omitting those
amplifications which are not suited to the altered form.
The Northern mythological stories are copied with some abridgment
from Mallet's "Northern Antiquities." These chapters, with those
on Oriental and Egyptian mythology, seemed necessary to complete
the subject, though it is believed these topics have not usually
been presented in the same volume with the classical fables.
The poetical citations so freely introduced are expected to answer
several valuable purposes. They will tend to fix in memory the
leading fact of each story, they will help to the attainment of a
correct pronunciation of the proper names, and they will enrich
the memory with many gems of poetry, some of them such as are most
frequently quoted or alluded to in reading and conversation.
Having chosen mythology as connected with literature for our
province, we have endeavored to omit nothing which the reader of
elegant literature is likely to find occasion for. Such stories
and parts of stories as are offensive to pure taste and good
morals are not given. But such stories are not often referred to,
and if they occasionally should be, the English reader need feel
no mortification in confessing his ignorance of them.
Our work is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for
the philosopher, but for the reader of English literature, of
either sex, who wishes to comprehend the allusions so frequently
made by public speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and
those which occur in polite conversation.
In the "Stories of Gods and Heroes" the compiler has endeavored to
impart the pleasures of classical learning to the English reader,
by presenting the stories of Pagan mythology in a form adapted to
modern taste. In "King Arthur and His Knights" and "The
Mabinogeon" the attempt has been made to treat in the same way the
stories of the second "age of fable," the age which witnessed the
dawn of the several states of Modern Europe.
It is believed that this presentation of a literature which held
unrivalled sway over the imaginations of our ancestors, for many
centuries, will not be without benefit to the reader, in addition
to the amusement it may afford. The tales, though not to be
trusted for their facts, are worthy of all credit as pictures of
manners; and it is beginning to be held that the manners and modes
of thinking of an age are a more important part of its history
than the conflicts of its peoples, generally leading to no result.
Besides this, the literature of romance is a treasure-house of
poetical material, to which modern poets frequently resort. The
Italian poets, Dante and Ariosto, the English, Spenser, Scott, and
Tennyson, and our own Longfellow and Lowell, are examples of this.
These legends are so connected with each other, so consistently
adapted to a group of characters strongly individualized in
Arthur, Launcelot, and their compeers, and so lighted up by the
fires of imagination and invention, that they seem as well adapted
to the poet's purpose as the legends of the Greek and Roman
mythology. And if every well-educated young person is expected to
know the story of the Golden Fleece, why is the quest of the
Sangreal less worthy of his acquaintance? Or if an allusion to the
shield of Achilles ought not to pass unapprehended, why should one
to Excalibar, the famous sword of Arthur?--
"Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored,
With that terrific sword,
Which yet he brandishes for future war,
Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star."
[Footnote: Wordsworth]
It is an additional recommendation of our subject, that it tends
to cherish in our minds the idea of the source from which we
sprung. We are entitled to our full share in the glories and
recollections of the land of our forefathers, down to the time of
colonization thence. The associations which spring from this
source must be fruitful of good influences; among which not the
least valuable is the increased enjoyment which such associations
afford to the American traveller when he visits England, and sets
his foot upon any of her renowned localities.
The legends of Charlemagne and his peers are necessary to complete
the subject.
In an age when intellectual darkness enveloped Western Europe, a
constellation of brilliant writers arose in Italy. Of these, Pulci
(born in 1432), Boiardo (1434), and Ariosto (1474) took for their
subjects the romantic fables which had for many ages been
transmitted in the lays of bards and the legends of monkish
chroniclers. These fables they arranged in order, adorned with the
embellishments of fancy, amplified from their own invention, and
stamped with immortality. It may safely be asserted that as long
as civilization shall endure these productions will retain their
place among the most cherished creations of human genius.
In "Stories of Gods and Heroes," "King Arthur and His Knights" and
"The Mabinogeon" the aim has been to supply to the modern reader
such knowledge of the fables of classical and mediaeval literature
as is needed to render intelligible the allusions which occur in
reading and conversation. The "Legends of Charlemagne" is intended
to carry out the same design. Like the earlier portions of the
work, it aspires to a higher character than that of a piece of
mere amusement. It claims to be useful, in acquainting its readers
with the subjects of the productions of the great poets of Italy.
Some knowledge of these is expected of every well-educated young
person.
In reading these romances, we cannot fail to observe how the
primitive inventions have been used, again and again, by
successive generations of fabulists. The Siren of Ulysses is the
prototype of the Siren of Orlando, and the character of Circe
reappears in Alcina. The fountains of Love and Hatred may be
traced to the story of Cupid and Psyche; and similar effects
produced by a magic draught appear in the tale of Tristram and
Isoude, and, substituting a flower for the draught, in
Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream." There are many other
instances of the same kind which the reader will recognize without
our assistance.
The sources whence we derive these stories are, first, the Italian
poets named above; next, the "Romans de Chevalerie" of the Comte
de Tressan; lastly, certain German collections of popular tales.
Some chapters have been borrowed from Leigh Hunt's Translations
from the Italian Poets. It seemed unnecessary to do over again
what he had already done so well; yet, on the other hand, those
stories could not be omitted from the series without leaving it
incomplete.
THOMAS BULFINCH.
CONTENTS
STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES
I. Introduction
II. Prometheus and Pandora
III. Apollo and Daphne--Pyramus and Thisbe--Cephalus and Procris
IV. Juno and her Rivals, Io and Callisto--Diana and Actaeon
--Latona and the Rustics
V. Phaeton
VI. Midas--Baucis and Philemon
VII. Proserpine--Glaucus and Scylla
VIII. Pygmalion--Dryope--Venus and Adonis--Apollo and Hyacinthus
IX. Ceyx and Halcyone
X. Vertumnus and Pomona--Iphis and Anaxarete
XI. Cupid and Psyche
XII. Cadmus--The Myrmidons
XIII. Nisus and Scylla--Echo and Narcissus--Clytie--Hero and Leander
XIV. Minerva and Arachne--Niobe
XV. The Graeae and Gorgons--Perseus and Medusa--Atlas--Andromeda
XVI. Monsters: Giants--Sphinx--Pegasus and Chimaera--Centaurs
--Griffin--Pygmies
XVII. The Golden Fleece--Medea
XVIII. Meleager and Atalanta
XIX. Hercules--Hebe and Ganymede
XX. Theseus and Daedalus--Castor and Pollux--Festivals and Games
XXI. Bacchus and Ariadne
XXII. The Rural Deities--The Dryads and Erisichthon
--Rhoecus--Water Deities--Camenae--Winds
XXIII. Achelous and Hercules--Admetus and Alcestis--Antigone--Penelope
XXIV. Orpheus and Eurydice--Aristaeus--Amphion--Linus
--Thamyris--Marsyas--Melampus--Musaeus
XXV. Arion--Ibycus--Simonides--Sappho
XXVI. Endymion--Orion--Aurora and Tithonus--Acis and Galatea
XXVII. The Trojan War
XXVIII. The Fall of Troy--Return of the Greeks--Orestes and Electra
XXIX. Adventures of Ulysses--The Lotus-eaters--The Cyclopes
--Circe--Sirens--Scylla and Charybdis--Calypso
XXX. The Phaeacians--Fate of the Suitors
XXXI. Adventures of Aeneas--The Harpies--Dido--Palinurus
XXXII. The Infernal Regions--The Sibyl
XXXIII. Aeneas in Italy--Camilla--Evander--Nisus and Euryalus
--Mezentius--Turnus
XXXIV. Pythagoras--Egyptian Deities--Oracles
XXXV. Origin of Mythology--Statues of Gods and Goddesses
--Poets of Mythology
XXXVI. Monsters (modern)--The Phoenix--Basilisk--Unicorn--Salamander
XXXVII. Eastern Mythology--Zoroaster--Hindu Mythology--Castes--Buddha
--The Grand Lama--Prester John
XXXVIII. Northern Mythology--Valhalla--The Valkyrior
XXXIX. Thor's Visit to Jotunheim
XL. The Death of Baldur--The Elves--Runic Letters--Skalds--Iceland
--Teutonic Mythology--The Nibelungen Lied
--Wagner's Nibelungen Ring
XLI. The Druids--Iona
GLOSSARY
STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
The religions of ancient Greece and Rome are extinct. The so-
called divinities of Olympus have not a single worshipper among
living men. They belong now not to the department of theology, but
to those of literature and taste. There they still hold their
place, and will continue to hold it, for they are too closely
connected with the finest productions of poetry and art, both
ancient and modern, to pass into oblivion.
We propose to tell the stories relating to them which have come
down to us from the ancients, and which are alluded to by modern
poets, essayists, and orators. Our readers may thus at the same
time be entertained by the most charming fictions which fancy has
ever created, and put in possession of information indispensable
to every one who would read with intelligence the elegant
literature of his own day.
In order to understand these stories, it will be necessary to
acquaint ourselves with the ideas of the structure of the universe
which prevailed among the Greeks--the people from whom the
Romans, and other nations through them, received their science and
religion.
The Greeks 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, the only seas with
which they were acquainted.
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, 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 eastern side, and to drive through the air, giving
light to gods and men. The stars, also, except those forming the
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
"Comus":
"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, 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 shmes with purest day.
There the inhabitants divine rejoice
Forever"--Cowper.
The robes and other parts of the dress of the goddesses were woven
by Minerva and the Graces and everything of a more solid nature
was formed of the various metals. Vulcan was architect, smith,
armorer, chariot builder, and artist of all work in Olympus. He
built of brass the houses of the gods; he made for them the golden
shoes with which they trod the air or the water, and moved from
place to place with the speed of the wind, or even of thought. He
also shod with brass the celestial steeds, which whirled the
chariots of the gods through the air, or along the surface of the
sea. He was able to bestow on his workmanship self-motion, so
that the tripods (chairs and tables) could move of themselves in
and out of the celestial hall. He even endowed with intelligence
the golden handmaidens whom he made to wait on himself.
Jupiter, or Jove (Zeus [Footnote: The names included in
parentheses are the Greek, the others being the Roman or Latin
names] ), though called the father of gods and men, had himself a
beginning. Saturn (Cronos) was his father, and Rhea (Ops) his
mother. 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.
There 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"
--Shakspeare.
Ophion and Eurynome ruled over Olympus till they were dethroned by
Saturn and Rhea. Milton alludes to them in "Paradise Lost." He
says the heathens 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 children. [Footnote: This inconsistency
arises from considering the Saturn of the Romans the same with the
Grecian deity Cronos (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) 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 (Hephaestos), 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, 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 gods. Venus possessed
an embroidered girdle called 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 forth 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. He found, one day, a
tortoise, of which he took the shell, made holes in the opposite
edges of it, and drew cords of linen through them, and the
instrument was complete. The cords were nine, in honor of the nine
Muses. Mercury gave the lyre to Apollo, and received from him in
exchange the caduceus.
[Footnote: 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."]
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 presidence 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, Terpsichore of choral dance and song, Erato
of love poetry, Polyhymnia of sacred poetry, Urania of astronomy,
Thalia of comedy.
The Graces were goddesses presiding over the banquet, the dance,
and all social enjoyments and elegant arts. They were three in
number. Their names were Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Thalia.
Spenser describes 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 complements 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 by
their secret stings the crimes of those who escaped or defied
public justice. 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 was the god of flocks and shepherds. His favorite residence
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. It was attempted to identify
him with the Grecian god Cronos, 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, [Footnote: 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 the 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 their protector through life. On their birthdays men
made offerings to their Genius, women to their Juno.
A modern poet 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."
--Macaulay, "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 are exceptions, and to be
pronounced as English words. 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 creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite
the liveliest interest of man, its inhabitant. The ancient pagans,
not having the information on the subject which we derive from the
pages of Scripture, had their own way of telling the story, which
is as follows:
Before earth and sea and heaven were created, all things wore one
aspect, to which we give the name of Chaos--a confused and
shapeless mass, nothing but dead weight, in which, however,
slumbered the seeds of things. Earth, sea, and air were all mixed
up together; so the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid,
and the air was not 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--it is not known which--gave his good offices in
arranging and disposing the earth. He appointed rivers and bays
their places, raised mountains, scooped out valleys, distributed
woods, fountains, fertile fields, and stony plains. The air being
cleared, the stars began to appear, fishes took possession of the
sea, birds of the air, and four-footed beasts of the land.
But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made. It is not known
whether the creator made him of divine materials, or whether in
the earth, so lately separated from heaven, there lurked still
some heavenly seeds. Prometheus took some of this earth, and
kneading it up with water, made man in the image of the gods. He
gave him an upright stature, so that while all other animals turn
their faces downward, and look to the earth, he raises his to
heaven, and gazes on the stars.
Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited
the earth before the creation of man. To him and his brother
Epimetheus was committed the office of making man, and providing
him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for their
preservation. Epimetheus undertook to do this, and Prometheus was
to overlook his work, when it was done. Epimetheus accordingly
proceeded to bestow upon the different animals the various gifts
of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity; wings to one, claws to
another, a shelly covering to a third, etc. But when man came to
be provided for, who was to be superior to all other animals,
Epimetheus had been so prodigal of his resources that he had
nothing left to bestow upon him. In his perplexity he resorted to
his brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, went up to
heaven, and lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and
brought down fire to man. With this gift man was more than a match
for all other animals. It enabled him to make weapons wherewith to
subdue them; tools with which to cultivate the earth; to warm his
dwelling, so as to be comparatively independent of climate; and
finally to introduce the arts and to coin money, the means of
trade and commerce. Woman was not yet made. The story (absurd
enough!) 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, etc. 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 probable 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, as in the former statement?
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.
Then succeeded the Silver Age, inferior to the golden, but better
than that of brass. Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the
year into seasons. Then, first, men had to endure the extremes of
heat and cold, and houses became necessary. Caves were the first
dwellings, and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of
twigs. Crops would no longer grow without planting. The farmer was
obliged to sow the seed and the toiling ox to draw the plough.
Next came the Brazen Age, more savage of temper, and readier to
the strife of arms, yet not altogether wicked. The hardest and
worst was the Iron Age. 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
alone was left, and finally she also took her departure.
[Footnote: 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.]
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; but recollecting the danger that such a
conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he changed his
plan, and resolved to drown it. The north wind, which scatters the
clouds, was chained up; 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 an individual remained on a projecting
hilltop, 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 Japhet brought by Hermes, she insnared
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 has been a favorite subject with the poets. He is
represented as the friend of mankind, who interposed in their
behalf when Jove was incensed against them, and who taught them
civilization and the arts. But as, in so doing, he transgressed
the will of Jupiter, he drew down on himself the anger of the
ruler of gods and men. Jupiter had him chained to a rock on Mount
Caucasus, where a vulture preyed on his liver, which was renewed
as fast as devoured. This state of torment might have been brought
to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had been willing to
submit to his oppressor; for he possessed a secret which involved
the stability of Jove's throne, and if he would have revealed it,
he might have been at once taken into favor. But that 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."
Byron also employs the same allusion, in his
"Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte":
"Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him--the unforgiven--
His vulture and his rock?"
CHAPTER III
APOLLO AND DAPHNE--PYRAMUS AND THISBE CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS
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.
The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere represents the
god after this 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 no thought 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 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 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,
naked 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. 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 foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; 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; I will decorate with you 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.
That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not
appear strange, but that medicine should also be assigned to his
province, may. The poet Armstrong, himself a physician, thus
accounts for it:
"Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, 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 not love 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.
Next 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. "O 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. "O 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 ratified 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 lovers' 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 Shakspeare's play of the "Midsummer
Night's Dream," where it is most amusingly burlesqued.
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 devotedly
loved. 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 his 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.
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 IV
JUNO AND HER RIVALS, IO AND CALLISTO--DIANA AND ACTAEON--LATONA
AND THE RUSTICS
Juno one day perceived it suddenly grow 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 the heifer's
form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould--as 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
loath to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling
a present as a simple heifer? He could not, without exciting
suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was not yet relieved of
her suspicions; so 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 of grass, 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, from whence he could see all around 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 seen the instrument before. "Young
man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on this stone. There is
no better place for your flocks to graze in than hereabouts, and
here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love." Mercury sat
down, talked, and told stories till 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-
ford), 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 shrank 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 bough 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 continual 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," etc.
And Prometheus, in J. R. 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 blithesome 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"
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 Arcady," because Callisto's boy was named Arcas,
and they lived in Arcadia. In "Comus," the brother, benighted in
the woods, says:
"... Some gentle taper!
Though 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 Arcady,
Or Tyrian Cynosure."
DIANA AND ACTAEON
Thus in two instances we have seen Juno's severity to her rivals;
now let us learn how a virgin goddess punished an invader of her
privacy.
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 to-morrow we
can renew our labors. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let us
put by our implements and indulge ourselves with rest."
There was a valley thick 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 which 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 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 everywhere 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 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."
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 on 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 mind 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!"
CHAPTER V
PHAETON
Phaeton was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day a
schoolfellow laughed at the idea of his being the son of the god,
and Phaeton went in rage and shame and reported it to his mother.
"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
his parent 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; [Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.] 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.
[Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.] 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
everything, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor
of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth
replied, "O 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; "this only 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 thunderbolts. 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 that 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 be the donor of a fatal gift; recall your
request while yet you may. Do you ask me for a 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 Day-star, 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. [Footnote:
See Proverbial Expressions] 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, when they felt them 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 Cayster 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. O, 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 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"
[Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions]
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.
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 Landor, descriptive of 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 on the wave.
Shake one and it awakens; then apply
Its polished lip to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."
--Gebir, Book I.
CHAPTER VI
MIDAS--BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old schoolmaster and
foster-father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking,
and in that state 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 a reward, whatever 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 new-acquired
power, which he hastened to put to the test. He could scarce
believe his eyes when he found a twig of an oak, which he plucked
from the branch, become 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 your
head and body in, 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. The senior 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 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 head-dress. But his hair-dresser 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, every time a breeze 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's
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, which, in after times it was said,
whoever should untie 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 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 stands 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, as weary
travellers, at many a door, 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, and kindled up
a fire, 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
ancient and coarse enough, was spread over that. The old lady,
with her apron on, with trembling hand set the table. One leg was
shorter than the rest, but a piece of slate put under restored the
level. When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-
smelling herbs. Upon it she set some of chaste Minerva's olives,
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, with the aid of feet and wings, for the old folks, eluded
their pursuit, 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 reached to 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 still shows 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."
CHAPTER VII
PROSERPINE--GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA
When Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titans and banished
them to Tartarus, a new enemy rose up against the gods. They were
the giants Typhon, Briareus, Enceladus, and others. Some of them
had a hundred arms, others breathed out fire. They were finally
subdued and buried alive under Mount Aetna, where they still
sometimes struggle to get loose, and shake the whole island with
earthquakes. Their breath comes up through the mountain, and is
what men call the eruption of the volcano.
The fall of these monsters shook the earth, so that Pluto was
alarmed, and feared that his kingdom would be laid open to the
light of day. Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot,
drawn by black horses, and took a circuit of inspection to satisfy
himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged,
Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid,
espied him, and said, "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, loved her, and carried her off. She screamed for
help to her mother and 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 built 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 of this story of Ceres and Proserpine
being 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
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 frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis."
The River Alpheus does in fact disappear underground, 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 thus alludes to the same
story, and to the practice of throwing garlands or other light
objects on his stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards
reproduced at its emerging:
"O 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 ef 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 of it, 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
fancied himself rather a good-looking personage.
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 the 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 one of our
later stories. 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 sea-weed 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.
Keats, in his "Endymion," has given a new version of the ending of
"Glaucus and Scylla." Glaucus consents to Circe's blandishments,
till he by chance is witness to her transactions with her beasts.
Disgusted with her treachery and cruelty, he tries to escape from
her, but is taken and brought back, when with reproaches she
banishes him, sentencing him to pass a thousand years in
decrepitude and pain. He returns to the sea, and there finds the
body of Scylla, whom the goddess has not transformed but drowned.
Glaucus learns that his destiny is that, if he passes his thousand
years in collecting all the bodies of drowned lovers, a youth
beloved of the gods will appear and help him. Endymion fulfils
this prophecy, and aids in restoring Glaucus to youth, and Scylla
and all the drowned lovers to life.
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-intent,
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 will.
'Twas freedom! and at once I visited
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed," etc.
--Keats.
CHAPTER VIII
PYGMALION--DRYOPE-VENUS AND ADONIS--APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS
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 came anywhere near it. 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 again 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. The following
translation is furnished by a friend:
"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."
--S. G. B.
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, 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
upper limbs. 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 it to a nurse.
Let it 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. 'T was a lay
More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;" etc.
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 heaven, 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 rambles through the woods and over the
hills, dressed like the huntress Diana; and calls her dogs, and
chases hares and stags, or other game that it is safe to hunt, but
keeps 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 high
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 me 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 lamentations 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 the 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;" etc.
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. [Footnote: 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 greater 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."
CHAPTER IX
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 Carlos 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 shiphouse, 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 gave the word to take in sail, but the
storm forbade obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and
waves 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 shares 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. To her his thoughts cling. 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 meanwhile 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, at midday, or setting.
Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light
glimmers faintly. The bird of dawning, with crested head, never
there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchful dog, nor more sagacious
goose disturbs the silence. No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch
moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the
stillness. Silence reigns there; but 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 sand grains.
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 care-worn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that
you despatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of Trachine,
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 in 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. Oh, how I wish, since thou wouldst go, 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 seashore, and sought the spot
where she last saw him, on his departure. "While he lingered here,
and cast off his tacklings, he gave me his last kiss." While she
reviews every object, 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 on 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 X
VERTUMNUS AND POMONA
The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Pomona was of this class, and no
one excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit.
She cared not for orests 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 busied herself 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. O 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 her, 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 she, "if the tree stood
alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would have nothing to
attract or offer us but its useless leaves. And equally the vine,
if it were not twined round the elm, 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 offences 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, O 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 fame 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 gatepost, on
which he had often 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. Thomson in the "Seasons" alludes to him:
"Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou
Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,
With British freedom, sing the British song."
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."
CHAPTER XI
CUPID AND PSYCHE
A certain king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the
two elder were more than common, but the beauty of the youngest
was so wonderful that the poverty of language is unable 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 of homage due only to the immortal powers to the
exaltation of a mortal 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 Juno. 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 near by 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 fast 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 awaits 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 mountains, 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 everything 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, and voluntarily surrender
yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and
submission to win her forgiveness, and 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 ruminating on what
she should say and how 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 laid up of 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 pigeons, 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 a 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 riverside, 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 cattle 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 some 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, along 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. Harvey:
"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 nevermore 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 censor 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 XII
CADMUS--THE MYRMIDONS
Jupiter, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away 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. Near by 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 dipped their pitchers in the fountain, and the in-
gushing 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 head 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 Pentheus,
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 live 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"
For an explanation of the last allusion, see Oracle of
Aesculapius, p. 298.
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 war
with Minos, king of Crete. Cephalus was most 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 a temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter. O 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. 'O
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; 'O 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, O 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 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 XIII
NISUS AND SCYLLA--ECHO AND NARCISSUS--CLYTIE--HERO AND LEANDER
NISUS AND SCYLLA
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. Arrayed in his helmet, and bearing his
shield, 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 to 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 O 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. O
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, but 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 ing 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. O 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's cruelty in this case was not the only instance. 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 the mountain goats
resorted, 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 likest thy Narcissus are?
O, 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 wi vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;'" etc.
--Paradise Lost, Book IV.
No one of the fables of antiquity has been oftener alluded to by
the poets than that of Narcissus. 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-enamoured 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
flower [Footnote: The 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.
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."
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
O 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 thus
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.
O, 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."
CHAPTER XIV
MINERVA--NIOBE
MINERVA
Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She
was said to have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and 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 needlework. She was also a
warlike divinity; but it was defensive war only that she
patronized, and 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.
There was another contest, in which 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, after it was 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. She assumed the form of an old woman and 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, [Footnote: This correct
description of the rainbow is literally translated from 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 golden shower. 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 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 similar 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 suspended by a rope. "Live," she
said, "guilty woman! and that you may preserve the memory of this
lesson, continue to hang, both 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 cleaved
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 astonied 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."
[Footnote: Sir James Mackintosh says of this, "Do you think that
even a Chinese could paint the gay colors of a butterfly with more
mmute exactness than the following lines: 'The velvet nap,'
etc.?"--Life, Vol. II, 246.]
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.
"O, 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 aspect 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, and none be paid to me? 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 the Cynthian mountain top 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 with 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 reins 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 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 intercessions; 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! O 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, no color
was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was
no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved 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.
This affecting story has been made the subject 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.
CHAPTER XV
THE GRAEAE OR GRAY-MAIDS--PERSEUS--MEDUSA--ATLAS--ANDROMEDA
THE GRAEAE AND THE 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. 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
Perseus was the son of Jupiter and Danae. His grandfather
Acrisius, alarmed by an oracle which had told him that his
daughter's child would be the instrument of his death, caused the
mother and child to be shut up in a chest and set adrift on the
sea. The chest floated towards Seriphus, where it was found by a
fisherman who conveyed the mother and infant to Polydectes, the
king of the country, by whom they were treated with kindness. When
Perseus was grown up Polydectes sent him to attempt the conquest
of Medusa, a terrible monster who had laid waste the country. She
was once 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 animals which had chanced to catch a
glimpse of her and had been petrified with the sight. Perseus,
favored by Minerva and Mercury, the former of whom lent him her
shield and the latter his winged shoes, approached Medusa while
she slept, and taking care not to look directly at her, but guided
by her image reflected in the bright shield which he bore, he cut
off her head and gave it to Minerva, who fixed 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 North-east,
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 Shakspeare.
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 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.
THE SEA-MONSTER
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 by 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 in 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 reechoed 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.
Memnon was an Aethiopian prince, of whom we shall tell in a future
chapter.
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 warlike 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."
CHAPTER XVI
MONSTERS
GIANTS, SPHINX, PEGASUS AND CHIMAERA, CENTAURS, GRIFFIN, AND
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 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. [Footnote: See
Proverbial Expressions.] 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
with pity, yet not daring entirely to disobey, tied up the child
by the feet and left him hanging to the branch of a tree. In this
condition the infant was found by a peasant, who carried him to
his master and mistress, by whom he was adopted and called
OEdipus, or Swollen-foot.
Many years 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 highroad. 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 arrested 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 gees 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 by 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 him 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 mounted him, rose with him into the air, 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 of 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
Upled 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 sceptic, 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, p 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."
Shakspeare 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
These monsters were represented as men from the head to the loins,
while the remainder of the body was that of a horse. The ancients
were too fond of a horse to consider the union of his nature with
man's as forming a 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 not all the Centaurs were 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 or 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 uses 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 arbitress, 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," etc.
CHAPTER XVII
THE GOLDEN FLEECE--MEDEA
THE GOLDEN FLEECE
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
vaulted 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 Phryxus, who was hospitably received by
Aeetes, 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
named "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 hand, 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.
It remained to lull to sleep the dragon that guarded the fleece,
and this was done by scattering over him a few drops of a
preparation which Medea had supplied. 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 late 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. Cecilia'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," etc.
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 shrme,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine."
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 spouse, would that your
arts, whose power I have seen so mighty for my aid, could do me
one further service, take some years from my life and 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, [Footnote: 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 enchantment
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
their 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,
or 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," etc
--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:
"O 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?"
CHAPTER XVIII
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA
One of the heroes of the Argonautic expedition was Meleager, son
of OEneus and Althea, king and queen of Calydon. 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 fields 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 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 monster's 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 head of 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. Plexippus
and Toxeus, the brothers of Meleager's mother, 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 proposed
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 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 hast 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 she gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one
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 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 car, where 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 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 XIX
HERCULES--HEBE AND GANYMEDE
HERCULES
Hercules was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena. 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. He was,
however, by the arts of Juno rendered subject to 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 the slaughter of the Hydra. This monster
ravaged the country of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well
of Amymone. This well had been discovered by Amymone when the
country was suffering from drought, and the story was that
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 heads 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 and persuaded the rest that the
strangers were carrying off their queen. They 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 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 getting 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 Hesperus, 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.
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 Erythea, 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,
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 footprints 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 hand-maidens 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, 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."
[Footnote: Alcides, a name of Hercules.]
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. B.
HEBE AND GANYMEDE
Hebe, the daughter of Juno, and goddess of youth, was cup-bearer
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 Athenaeum gallery.
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.
CHAPTER XX
THESEUS--DAEDALUS--CASTOR AND POLLUX
THESEUS
Theseus was the son of Aegeus, king of Athens, and of Aethra,
daughter of the king of Troezen. He was brought up at Troezen, 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. [Footnote: One of
the finest pieces of sculpture in Italy, the recumbent Ariadne of
the Vatican, represents this incident. A copy is owned by the
Athenaeum, Boston, and deposited, in the Museum of Fine Arts.] His
excuse for this ungrateful treatment of his benefactress was that
Minerva appeared to him in a dream and commanded him to do so.
On approaching the coast of Attica, Theseus 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 under-world. 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 Shakspeare'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.
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 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
It seems not inappropriate to 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 mid-summer,
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 Maeander, 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
leaned 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 nepnew'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 nest 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, hastened 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, and the
lambent flames, which in certain states 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."
CHAPTER XXI
BACCHUS--ARIADNE
BACCHUS
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 known 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 of 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
counsellors 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 sailor's 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 any 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 to the sails, with heavy clusters
of berries. 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 forms of lynxes and spotted
panthers played around him. The men 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. Trembling with fear, the
god cheered me. 'Fear not,' said he; 'steer towards 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 came open of their own accord and the chains fell
from his limbs, and when they looked for him he was nowhere 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 Citheron 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 through the wood and reached an open space
where the chief 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 him 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 XXIX.
"Bacchus that first from out the purple grapes
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan manners 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 the ungrateful 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 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,
Then 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 XXII
THE RURAL DEITIES--ERISICHTHON--RHOECUS--THE WATER DEITIES--
CAMENAE--WINDS
THE RURAL DEITIES
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 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 of
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 class
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 were
severely punished, as in the instance of Erisichthon, which we are
about to 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 the sea,
And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."
Schiller, in his poem "Die Gotter Griechenlands," 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
poet, Mrs. E. Barrett 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 on 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 and tell the last 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.
Famine obeyed the commands of Ceres and sped through the air to
the dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bedchamber 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 more 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 herself inquired of about 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. 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, J. R. 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 watery
element. 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 a 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, whence he was termed an elder; the gift of prophecy
was also assigned 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 grow
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 Portunus 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, [Footnote: 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;" etc.
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.
O 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 imbodied 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;" etc.
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
Favonius breathe still softer or be chid!"
CHAPTER XXIII
ACHELOUS AND HERCULES--ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS--ANTIGONE--PENELOPE
ACHELOUS AND HERCULES
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
stepmother. 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 to 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, clenching his hand 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 the 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 Amphrysos.
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."
J. R. 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."
ANTIGONE
A large proportion both of the interesting persons and of the
exalted acts of legendary Greece belongs to the female sex.
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 naught the solemn edict of the city. Her
lover, 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 Shakspeare'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?
O, I was fond of misery with him;
E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved
When he was with me. O 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
hoping 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 XXIV
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE--ARISTAEUS--AMPHION--LINUS--THAMYRIS--
MARSYAS--MELAMPUS--MUSAEUS
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
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,
which he did 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 has
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 around 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 each other, 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, excited by the rites of Bacchus, one of
them 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 the happy fields together
now, sometimes he leading, 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. Cecilia'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't is 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, shows how this
supposed fact may be turned to account for renewing the swarm when
it has been lost by disease or accident:
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: "O 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. When 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 by 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 finding all would not do, 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
yot want of 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 receive 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 to 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 where 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. 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.
See Tennyson's poem of "Amphion" for an amusing use made of this
story.
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 the night
heard the woodworms 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 Melampus 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 O, sad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid 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 XXV
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, of the poets who have told them. In their present form, the
first two are translated from the German, Arion from Schlegel, and
Ibycus from Schiller.
ARION
Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt in 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 widespread 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. "O 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
would 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 have ceased 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
deep 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!"
Spenser 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 lore,
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 fabrics capable of containing from ten to thirty
thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festival
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 feast? 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 amphitheatre.
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 writhing and swelling serpents curled around
their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their
hymns, 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, whom 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 thy 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.:
"Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spot
Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave,
And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
The lover's refuge and the Lesbian's grave.
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
"'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;" etc.
Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her "leap" are referred
to the "Spectator," Nos. 223 and 229. See also Moore's "Evenings
in Greece."
CHAPTER XXVI
ENDYMION--ORION--AURORA AND TITHONUS--ACIS AND GALATEA
DIANA AND ENDYMION
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. B.
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;" etc., etc.
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 enamoured 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 seashore. The blinded hero followed the sound
of a 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 through 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 enamoured 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 number 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. Hemans's verses on the same subject.
AURORA AND TITHONUS
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 victory
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 still 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."
Book I., 1., 182.
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 of Polyphemus was the stronger, I cannot tell you; they
were in equal measure. O 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.
Dryden, in his "Cymon and Iphigenia," has told the story of a
clown converted into a gentleman by the power of love, in a way
that shows traces of kindred to the old story of Galatea and the
Cyclops.
"What not his father's care nor tutor's art
Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,
The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,
As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.
Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife
Soon taught the sweet civilities of life."
CHAPTER XXVII
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
fairest." 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 elope 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 Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer of
Helen, was his son. Paris had been brought up in obscurity,
because there were certain ominous forebodings connected with him
from his infancy that he would be the ruin of the state. These
forebodings seemed at length likely to be realized, for the
Grecian armament now in preparation was the greatest that had ever
been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, and brother of the
injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief. Achilles was
their most illustrious warrior. After him ranked Ajax, gigantic in
size and of great courage, but dull of intellect; Diomede, second
only to Achilles in all the qualities of a hero; Ulysses, famous
for his sagacity; and Nestor, the oldest of the Grecian chiefs,
and one to whom they all looked up for counsel. But Troy was no
feeble enemy. Priam, the king, was now old, but he had been a wise
prince and had strengthened his state by good government at home
and numerous alliances with his neighbors. But the principal stay
and support of his throne was his son Hector, one of the noblest
characters painted by heathen antiquity. He felt, from the first,
a presentiment of the fall of his country, but still persevered in
his heroic resistance, yet by no means justified the wrong which
brought this danger upon her. He was united in marriage with
Andromache, and as a husband and father his character was not less
admirable than as a warrior. The principal leaders on the side of
the Trojans, besides Hector, were Aeneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus
and Sarpedon.
After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army assembled
in the port of Aulis in Boeotia. Here Agamemnon in hunting killed
a stag which was sacred to Diana, and the goddess in return
visited the army with pestilence, and produced a calm which
prevented the ships from leaving the port. Calchas, the
soothsayer, thereupon announced that the wrath of the virgin
goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin on her
altar, and that none other but the daughter of the offender would
be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his consent,
and the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the pretence that she
was to be married to Achilles. When she was about to be sacrificed
the goddess relented and snatched her away, leaving a hind in her
place, and Iphigenia, enveloped in a cloud, was carried to Tauris,
where Diana made her priestess of her temple.
Tennyson, in his "Dream of Fair Women," makes Iphigenia thus
describe her feelings at the moment of sacrifice:
"I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;
My father held his hand upon his face;
I, blinded by my tears,
"Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry
The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,
Waiting to see me die.
"The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,
The temples and the people and the shore;
One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat
Slowly,--and--nothing more."
The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the
forces to the coast of Troy. The Trojans came to oppose their
landing, and at the first onset Protesilaus fell by the hand of
Hector. Protesilaus had left at home his wife, Laodamia, who was
most tenderly attached to him. When the news of his death reached
her she implored the gods to be allowed to converse with him only
three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led Protesilaus back
to the upper world, and when he died a second time Laodamia died
with him. There was a story that the nymphs planted elm trees
round his grave which grew very well till they were high enough to
command a view of Troy, and then withered away, while fresh
branches sprang from the roots.
Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia for the
subject of a poem. It seems the oracle had declared that victory
should be the lot of that party from which should fall the first
victim to the war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on his brief
return to earth, as relating to Laodamia the story of his fate:
"'The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved
The oracle, upon the silent sea;
And if no worthier led the way, resolved
That of a thousand vessels mine should be
The foremost prow impressing to the strand,--
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
"'Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
The paths which we had trod,--these fountains, flowers;
My new planned cities and unfinished towers.
"'But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
"Behold they tremble! haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die?"
In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought
In act embodied my deliverance wrought.'
"... upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight,
A constant interchange of growth and blight!"
"THE ILIAD"
The war continued without decisive results for nine years. Then an
event occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the cause of the
Greeks, and that was a quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. It
is at this point that the great poem of Homer, "The Iliad,"
begins. The Greeks, though unsuccessful against Troy, had taken
the neighboring and allied cities, and in the division of the
spoil a female captive, by name Chryseis, daughter of Chryses,
priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of Agamemnon. Chryses
came bearing the sacred emblems of his office, and begged the
release of his daughter. Agamemnon refused. Thereupon Chryses
implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks till they should be forced
to yield their prey. Apollo granted the prayer of his priest, and
sent pestilence into the Grecian camp. Then a council was called
to deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the
plague. Achilles boldly charged their misfortunes upon Agamemnon
as caused by his withholding Chryseis. Agamemnon, enraged,
consented to relinquish his captive, but demanded that Achilles
should yield to him in her stead Briseis, a maiden who had fallen
to Achilles' share in the division of the spoil. Achilles
submitted, but forthwith declared that he would take no further
part in the war. He withdrew his forces from the general camp and
openly avowed his intention of returning home to Greece.
The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this
famous war as the parties themselves. It was well known to them
that fate had decreed that Troy should fall, at last, if her
enemies should persevere and not voluntarily abandon the
enterprise. Yet there was room enough left for chance to excite by
turns the hopes and fears of the powers above who took part with
either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence of the slight put
upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans; Venus for
the opposite cause favored them. Venus enlisted her admirer Mars
on the same side, but Neptune favored the Greeks. Apollo was
neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the other, and Jove
himself, though he loved the good King Priam, yet exercised a
degree of impartiality; not, however, without exceptions.
Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury done to
her son. She repaired immediately to Jove's palace and besought
him to make the Greeks repent of their injustice to Achilles by
granting success to the Trojan arms. Jupiter consented, and in the
battle which ensued the Trojans were completely successful. The
Greeks were driven from the field and took refuge in their ships.
Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest chiefs.
Nestor advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles to
persuade him to return to the field; that Agamemnon should yield
the maiden, the cause of the dispute, with ample gifts to atone
for the wrong he had done. Agamemnon consented, and Ulysses, Ajax,
and Phoenix were sent to carry to Achilles the penitent message.
They performed that duty, but Achilles was deaf to their
entreaties. He positively refused to return to the field, and
persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece without delay.
The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and now
instead of besieging Troy they were in a manner besieged
themselves, within their rampart. The next day after the
unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, a battle was fought, and the
Trojans, favored by Jove, were successful, and succeeded in
forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart, and were about to
set fire to the ships. Neptune, seeing the Greeks so pressed, came
to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the prophet,
encouraged the warriors with his shouts, and appealed to each
individually till he raised their ardor to such a pitch that they
forced the Trojans to give way. Ajax performed prodigies of valor,
and at length encountered Hector. Ajax shouted defiance, to which
Hector replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior. It was
well aimed and struck Ajax, where the belts that bore his sword
and shield crossed each other on the breast. The double guard
prevented its penetrating and it fell harmless. Then Ajax, seizing
a huge stone, one of those that served to prop the ships, hurled
it at Hector. It struck him in the neck and stretched him on the
plain. His followers instantly seized him and bore him off,
stunned and wounded.
While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the
Trojans, Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his
attention had been drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno. That
goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and to crown all
had borrowed of Venus her girdle, called "Cestus," which had the
effect to heighten the wearer's charms to such a degree that they
were quite irresistible. So prepared, Juno went to join her
husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle. When he beheld
her she looked so charming that the fondness of his early love
revived, and, forgetting the contending armies and all other
affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle go as
it would.
But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon turning
his eyes downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the plain almost
lifeless from pain and bruises, he dismissed Juno in a rage,
commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him. When Iris came he
sent her with a stern message to Neptune, ordering him instantly
to quit the field. Apollo was despatched to heal Hector's bruises
and to inspirit his heart. These orders were obeyed with such
speed that, while the battle still raged, Hector returned to the
field and Neptune betook himself to his own dominions.
An arrow from Paris's bow wounded Machaon, son of Aesculapius, who
inherited his father's art of healing, and was therefore of great
value to the Greeks as their surgeon, besides being one of their
bravest warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his chariot and conveyed
him from the field. As they passed the ships of Achilles, that
hero, looking out over the field, saw the chariot of Nestor and
recognized the old chief, but could not discern who the wounded
chief was. So calling Patroclus, his companion and dearest friend,
he sent him to Nestor's tent to inquire.
Patroclus, arriving at Nestor's tent, saw Machaon wounded, and
having told the cause of his coming would have hastened away, but
Nestor detained him, to tell him the extent of the Grecian
calamities. He reminded him also how, at the time of departing for
Troy, Achilles and himself had been charged by their respective
fathers with different advice: Achilles to aspire to the highest
pitch of glory, Patroclus, as the elder, to keep watch over his
friend, and to guide his inexperience. "Now," said Nestor, "is the
time for such influence. If the gods so please, thou mayest win
him back to the common cause; but if not let him at least send his
soldiers to the field, and come thou, Patroclus, clad in his
armor, and perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the
Trojans."
Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened back
to Achilles, revolving in his mind all he had seen and heard. He
told the prince the sad condition of affairs at the camp of their
late associates: Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, all
wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships
preparing to burn them, and thus to cut off all means of return to
Greece. While they spoke the flames burst forth from one of the
ships. Achilles, at the sight, relented so far as to grant
Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons (for so were Achilles'
soldiers called) to the field, and to lend him his armor, that he
might thereby strike more terror into the minds of the Trojans.
Without delay the soldiers were marshalled, Patroclus put on the
radiant armor and mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth
the men ardent for battle. But before he went, Achilles strictly
charged him that he should be content with repelling the foe "Seek
not," said he, "to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add
still more to the disgrace already mine." Then exhorting the
troops to do their best he dismissed them full of ardor to the
fight.
Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where
it raged hottest; at the sight of which the joyful Grecians
shouted and the ships reechoed the acclaim. The Trojans, at the
sight of the well-known armor, struck with terror, looked
everywhere for refuge. First those who had got possession of the
ship and set it on fire left and allowed the Grecians to retake it
and extinguish the flames. Then the rest of the Trojans fled in
dismay. Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons of Nestor performed
prodigies of valor. Hector was forced to turn his horses' heads
and retire from the enclosure, leaving his men entangled in the
fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove them before him,
slaying many, none daring to make a stand against him.
At last Sar |
