CHAPTER I

Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY

THE AGE OF FABLE

THE AGE OF CHIVALRY

LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE

BY THOMAS BULFINCH

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME

[Editor's Note: The etext contains all three sections.]

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

KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS

I. Introduction

II. The Mythical History of England

III. Merlin

IV. Arthur

V. Arthur (Continued)

VI. Sir Gawain

VII. Caradoc Briefbras; or, Caradoc with the Shrunken Arm

VIII. Launcelot of the Lake

IX. The Adventure of the Cart

X. The Lady of Shalott

XI. Queen Guenever's Peril

XII. Tristram and Isoude

XIII. Tristram and Isoude (Continued)

XIV. Sir Tristram's Battle with Sir Launcelot

XV. The Round Table

XVI. Sir Palamedes

XVII. Sir Tristram

XVIII. Perceval

XIX. The Sangreal, or Holy Graal

XX. The Sangreal (Continued)

XXI. The Sangreal (Continued)

XXII. Sir Agrivain's Treason

XXIII. Morte d'Arthur

THE MABINOGEON

Introductory Note

I. The Britons

II. The Lady of the Fountain

III. The Lady of the Fountain (Continued)

IV. The Lady of the Fountain (Continued)

V. Geraint, the Son of Erbin

VI. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (Continued)

VII. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (Continued)

VIII. Pwyll, Prince of Dyved

IX. Branwen, the Daughter of Llyr

X. Manawyddan

XI. Kilwich and Olwen

XII. Kilwich and Olwen (Continued)

XIII. Taliesin

HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE

Beowulf

Cuchulain, Champion of Ireland

Hereward the Wake

Robin Hood

LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE

Introduction

The Peers, or Paladins

The Tournament

The Siege of Albracca

Adventures of Rinaldo and Orlando

The Invasion of France

The Invasion of France (Continued)

Bradamante and Rogero

Astolpho and the Enchantress

The Orc

Astolpho's Adventures continued, and Isabella's begun.

Medoro

Orlando Mad

Zerbino and Isabella

Astolpho in Abyssinia

The War in Africa

Rogero and Bradamante

The Battle of Roncesvalles

Rinaldo and Bayard

Death of Rinaldo

Huon of Bordeaux

Huon of Bordeaux (Continued)

Huon of Bordeaux (Continued)

Ogier, the Dane

Ogier, the Dane (Continued)

Ogier, the Dane (Continued)

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 Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in fight

to Patroclus. Jupiter looked down upon him and would have snatched

him from the fate which awaited him, but Juno hinted that if he

did so it would induce all others of the inhabitants of heaven to

interpose in like manner whenever any of their offspring were

endangered; to which reason Jove yielded. Sarpedon threw his

spear, but missed Patroclus, but Patroclus threw his with better

success. It pierced Sarpedon's breast and he fell, and, calling to

his friends to save his body from the foe, expired. Then a furious

contest arose for the possession of the corpse. The Greeks

succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his armor; but Jove would not

allow the remains of his son to be dishonored, and by his command

Apollo snatched from the midst of the combatants the body of

Sarpedon and committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death

and Sleep, by whom it was transported to Lycia, the native land of

Sarpedon, where it received due funeral rites.

Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in repelling

the Trojans and relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of

fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted him. Patroclus

threw a vast stone at Hector, which missed its aim, but smote

Cebriones, the charioteer, and knocked him from the car. Hector

leaped from the chariot to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also

descended to complete his victory. Thus the two heroes met face to

face. At this decisive moment the poet, as if reluctant to give

Hector the glory, records that Phoebus took part against

Patroclus. He struck the helmet from his head and the lance from

his hand. At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded him in the

back, and Hector, pressing forward, pierced him with his spear. He

fell mortally wounded.

Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus, but

his armor was at once taken possession of by Hector, who retiring

a short distance divested himself of his own armor and put on that

of Achilles, then returned to the fight. Ajax and Menelaus

defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors struggled

to capture it. The battle raged with equal fortunes, when Jove

enveloped the whole face of heaven with a dark cloud. The

lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking round for

some one whom he might despatch to Achilles to tell him of the

death of his friend, and of the imminent danger that his remains

would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no suitable

messenger. It was then that he exclaimed in those famous lines so

often quoted,

"Father of heaven and earth! deliver thou

Achaia's host from darkness; clear the skies;

Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,

Destruction with it; but, O, give us day."

--Cowper.

Or, as rendered by Pope,

"... Lord of earth and air!

O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!

Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;

Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;

If Greece must perish we thy will obey,

But let us perish in the face of day."

Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Then Ajax sent

Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus's death,

and of the conflict raging for his remains. The Greeks at last

succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely pursued by

Hector and Aeneas and the rest of the Trojans.

Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that

Antilochus feared for a while that he would destroy himself. His

groans reached the ears of his mother, Thetis, far down in the

deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to him to inquire

the cause. She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach that he

had indulged his resentment so far, and suffered his friend to

fall a victim to it. But his only consolation was the hope of

revenge. He would fly instantly in search of Hector. But his

mother reminded him that he was now without armor, and promised

him, if he would but wait till the morrow, she would procure for

him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to that he had

lost. He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan's

palace. She found him busy at his forge making tripods for his own

use, so artfully constructed that they moved forward of their own

accord when wanted, and retired again when dismissed. On hearing

the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately laid aside his work and

hastened to comply with her wishes. He fabricated a splendid suit

of armor for Achilles, first a shield adorned with elaborate

devices, then a helmet crested with gold, then a corselet and

greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to his form,

and of consummate workmanship. It was all done in one night, and

Thetis, receiving it, descended with it to earth, and laid it down

at Achilles' feet at the dawn of day.

The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death

of Patroclus was at the sight of this splendid armor. And now,

arrayed in it, he went forth into the camp, calling all the chiefs

to council. When they were all assembled he addressed them.

Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly

lamenting the miseries that had resulted from it, he called on

them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon made a suitable

reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of discord; and

thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the heroes.

Then Achilles went forth to battle inspired with a rage and thirst

for vengeance that made him irresistible. The bravest warriors

fled before him or fell by his lance. Hector, cautioned by Apollo,

kept aloof; but the god, assuming the form of one of Priam's sons,

Lycaon, urged Aeneas to encounter the terrible warrior. Aeneas,

though he felt himself unequal, did not decline the combat. He

hurled his spear with all his force against the shield the work of

Vulcan. It was formed of five metal plates; two were of brass, two

of tin, and one of gold. The spear pierced two thicknesses, but

was stopped in the third. Achilles threw his with better success.

It pierced through the shield of Aeneas, but glanced near his

shoulder and made no wound. Then Aeneas seized a stone, such as

two men of modern times could hardly lift, and was about to throw

it, and Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him,

when Neptune, who looked out upon the contest, moved with pity for

Aeneas, who he saw would surely fall a victim if not speedily

rescued, spread a cloud between the combatants, and lifting Aeneas

from the ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to

the rear of the battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away,

looked round in vain for his adversary, and acknowledging the

prodigy, turned his arms against other champions. But none dared

stand before him, and Priam looking down from the city walls

beheld his whole army in full flight towards the city. He gave

command to open wide the gates to receive the fugitives, and to

shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the

enemy should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit

that that would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the

form of Agenor, Priam's son, encountered Achilles for a while,

then turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city.

Achilles pursued and had chased his supposed victim far from the

walls, when Apollo disclosed himself, and Achilles, perceiving how

he had been deluded, gave up the chase.

But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without

determined to await the combat. His old father called to him from

the walls and begged him to retire nor tempt the encounter. His

mother, Hecuba, also besought him to the same effect, but all in

vain. "How can I," said he to himself, "by whose command the

people went to this day's contest, where so many have fallen, seek

safety for myself against a single foe? But what if I offer him to

yield up Helen and all her treasures and ample of our own beside?

Ah, no! it is too late. He would not even hear me through, but

slay me while I spoke." While he thus ruminated. Achilles

approached, terrible as Mars, his armor flashing lightning as he

moved. At that sight Hector's heart failed him and he fled.

Achilles swiftly pursued. They ran, still keeping near the walls,

till they had thrice encircled the city. As often as Hector

approached the walls Achilles intercepted him and forced him to

keep out in a wider circle. But Apollo sustained Hector's strength

and would not let him sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the

form of Deiphobus, Hector's bravest brother, appeared suddenly at

his side. Hector saw him with delight, and thus strengthened

stopped his flight and turned to meet Achilles. Hector threw his

spear, which struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back. He

turned to receive another from the hand of Deiphobus, but

Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood his doom and said,

"Alas! it is plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at

hand, but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will

not fall inglorious," So saying he drew his falchion from his side

and rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secured behind his shield,

waited the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his

spear, Achilles choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the

armor leaves the neck uncovered, aimed his spear at that part and

Hector fell, death-wounded, and feebly said, "Spare my body! Let

my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites from the

sons and daughters of Troy." To which Achilles replied, "Dog, name

not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have brought such dire

distress. No! trust me, naught shall save thy carcass from the

dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were offered, I

would refuse it all."

So saying he stripped the body of its armor, and fastening cords

to the feet tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body to

trail along the ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed the

steeds and so dragged the body to and fro before the city. What

words can tell the grief of King Priam and Queen Hecuba at this

sight! His people could scarce restrain the old king from rushing

forth. He threw himself in the dust and besought them each by name

to give him way. Hecuba's distress was not less violent. The

citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of the mourning