there was seen suddenly to open in the market-place a great gulf of a
deepness that no man could measure. And this gulf could not be filled up,
though all the people brought earth and stones and the like to cast into
it. But at the last there was sent a message from the Gods that the Romans
must inquire what was that by which more than all things the state was
made strong. "For," said the soothsayer, "this thing must be dedicated to
the Gods in this place if the commonwealth of Rome is to stand fast
forever." And while they doubted, one Marcus Curtius, a youth that had won
great renown in war, rebuked them, saying, "Can ye doubt that Rome hath
nothing better than arms and valor?"
Then all the people stood silent; and Curtius, first beholding the temples
of the immortal Gods that hung over the market-place and the Capitol, and
afterward stretching forth his hands both to heaven above and to this gulf
that opened its mouth to the very pit, as it were, of hell, devoted
himself for his country; and so--being clothed in armor and with arms in
his hand, and having his horse arrayed as sumptuously as might be--he
leapt into the gulf; and the multitude, both of men and women, threw in
gifts and offerings of the fruits of the earth, and afterward the earth
closed together.
STORIES FROM OVID
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat
at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had
already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour
or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden, and
their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the
cottage wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But
the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the
village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was
hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.
"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveler is seeking
hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food
and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"
"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a little
more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of bringing up
their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they
fling stones at strangers!"
"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his
white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some
terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless
they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence
affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor,
homeless stranger that may come along and need it."
"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!"
These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty
hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while
Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and
cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the
cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables,
with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a
bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they were
two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone
without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown
loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveler
who might pause before their door. They felt as if such guests had a sort
of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more
bountifully than their own selves.
Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a
village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in
breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably
been the bed of a lake. There fishes had glided to and fro in the depths,
and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen
their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But, as the
waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so
that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake,
except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the
village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had been dry
land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and
perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately
as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. The very
sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and
gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to Providence by doing good to
their fellow-creatures.
But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not
worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently. They
were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor,
nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed, had anybody
told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because
there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of
us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I am going to tell you.
These naughty people taught their children to be no better than
themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when
they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting
at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They kept large and fierce
dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show himself in the village
street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking,
snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would seize him by his leg,
or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he
came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away.
This was a very terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose,
especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. Such
persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind
children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles
out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again.
What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons
came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants
in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and
obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off their
hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children were rude,
they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if
a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him
with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This would have been all
very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money
that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human
soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he
heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the
farther extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which
lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the
valley.
"I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man.
"Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife.
They sat shaking their heads, one to the other, while the noise came
nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which
their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close
behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little
farther off ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung
stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice, the
younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned
about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand.
His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along as if
disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the pack of curs,
whose manners the children seemed to imitate.
Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might
not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And
this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their
children and dogs to treat them so rudely.
"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor
people. No doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill."
"Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within doors,
and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable bowl of
bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits."
Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went
forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was
no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone
imaginable,--
"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"
"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way,
notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another greeting
than we have met with yonder in the village. Pray, why do you live in such
a bad neighborhood?"
"Ah!" observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "Providence
put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you
what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors."
"Well said, old father!" cried the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth
must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children
(the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and
one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. But I
took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have heard
him yelp, even thus far off."
Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you
have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary with a
long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the
end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his
head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer
evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps
because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too, that he
had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as
the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell
in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly, seemed queer. The
traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his
feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be
kept down by an effort.
"I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveler.
"But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall."
"There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the
stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see."
This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever
beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair of
wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as
twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully executed
that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost
thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting.
"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It
would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!"
By this time Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.
"Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this
bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper.
We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the
cupboard."
The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his
staff fall, as he did so. And here happened something rather marvelous,
though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of
its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped,
half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. There it
stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle. But, in my
private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks
again.
Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention
from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.
"Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice,
"a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder
village?"
"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as
you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now,
and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of
the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise,
so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old
Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"
"That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and
there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head, too,
so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. "Since the
inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies
of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over
their dwellings again!"
The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost frightened;
the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow
darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder
in the air.
But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and mild
that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could not help
feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage, although
he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot. Not
that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that
sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in
this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking
everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea appeared the more
probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face,
he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have
studied out in a lifetime.
While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk very
sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and
made such shrewd and witty remarks that the good old man continually burst
out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen
for many a day.
"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what
may I call your name?"
"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler. "So, if you
call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."
"Quicksilver? Quicksilver?" repeated Philemon, looking in the traveler's
face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd name! And
your companion there? Has he as strange a one?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell it you!" replied Quicksilver, putting on
a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough."
This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused
Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on
venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his
visage. But undoubtedly here was the grandest figure that ever sat so
humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with
gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell
him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling that
people have when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all
their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.
But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many
secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the
events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a
score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had dwelt
in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest
labor, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent butter and
cheese Baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in
his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another so very
much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that
they should die, as they had lived, together.
As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made
its expression as sweet as it was grand.
"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old
wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted."
And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a
bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.
Baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make
apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests.
"Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would
have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.
But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last
loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being poor,
save when a poor traveler knocks at our door."
"All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied
the elder stranger kindly. "An honest, hearty welcome to a guest works
miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to
nectar and ambrosia."
"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey
that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."
"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing; "an
absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely I will play my part at it! I
think I never felt hungrier in my life."
"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has such
a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough supper!"
[Illustration: "I AM AFRAID THERE WILL NOT BE HALF ENOUGH SUPPER"]
They all went into the cottage.
And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make you
open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest circumstances in
the whole story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect, had set itself up
against the wall of the cottage. Well, when its master entered the door,
leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately
spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the doorsteps!
Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it
had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside
Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so
taken up in attending to their guests that no notice was given to what the
staff had been about.
As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry
travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf,
with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the
other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. A
moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner
of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before
the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher.
Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself
pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept wishing
that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so
doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.
And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing
that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their very first
sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in their two
bowls, at a draught.
"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said Quicksilver.
"The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst."
"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so sorry
and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the
pitcher. O husband, husband, why didn't we go without our supper?"
"Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from table and
taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters
are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly more milk in
the pitcher."
So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill,
not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher that
was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely believe her
eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in
afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon
the table.
"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. I
suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot help
being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."
"What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents
of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask you
for a little more."
Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that
Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had
poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course, there
could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know
precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as
if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea
that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore, when
such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was
immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two
snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis nor
Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads,
and began to lap up the spilt milk.
And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if
Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage
that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you,
my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at
supper-time!
"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver,
"and a little of that honey!"
Baucis cut him a slice accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her
husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it
was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. Tasting
a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than
bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her
own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could it possibly be?
But oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to
describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the
purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand
flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to
seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder is,
that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and
immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their
hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt.
The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that,
had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low
ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with
celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.
Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think
that there was something rather out of the common way in all that had been
going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a
bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by Philemon, and
told him what she had seen, in a whisper.
"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.