AND yet all of these religions--these "sacred books," these priests,
have been naturally produced. From the dens and caves of savagery to
the palaces of civilization men have traveled by the necessary paths and
roads. Back of every step has been the efficient cause. In the history
of the world there has been no chance, no interference from without,
nothing miraculous. Everything in accordance with and produced by the
facts in nature.
We need not blame the hypocritical and cruel. They thought and acted as
they were compelled to think and act.
In all ages man has tried to account for himself and his surroundings.
He did the best he could. He wondered why the water ran, why the trees
grew, why the clouds floated, why the stars shone, why the sun and moon
journeyed through the heavens. He was troubled about life and death,
about darkness and dreams. The seas, the volcanoes, the lightning and
thunder, the earthquake and cyclone, filled him with fear. Behind all
life and growth and motion, and even inanimate things, he placed
a spirit--an intelligent being--a fetich, a person, something like
himself--a god, controlled by love and hate. To him causes and effects
became gods--supernatural beings. The Dawn was a maiden, wondrously
fair, the Sun, a warrior and lover; the Night, a serpent, a wolf--the
Wind, a musician; Winter, a wild beast; Autumn, Proserpine gathering
flowers.
Poets were the makers of these myths. They were the first to account for
what they saw and felt. The great multitude mistook these fancies
for facts. Myths strangely alike, were produced by most nations, and
gradually took possession of the world.
The Sleeping Beauty, a myth of the year, has been found among most
peoples. In this myth, the Earth was a maiden--the Sun was her lover,
She had fallen asleep in winter. Her blood was still and her breath had
gone. In the Spring the lover came, clasped her in his arms, covered her
lips and cheeks with kisses. She was thrilled, her heart began to beat,
she breathed, her blood flowed, and she awoke to love and joy. This myth
has made the circuit of the globe.
So, Red Riding-Hood is the history of a day. Little Red Riding-Hood--the
morning, touched with red, goes to visit her kindred, a day that is
past. She is attacked by the wolf of night and is rescued by the hunter,
Apollo, who pierces the heart of the beast with an arrow of light.
The beautiful myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is the story of the year.
Eurydice has been captured and carried to the infernal world. Orpheus,
playing upon his harp, goes after her. Such is the effect of his music
when he reaches the realm of Pluto, the laughterless, that Tantalus
ceases his efforts to slake his thirst. He listens and forgets his
withered lips, the daughters of the Danaides cease their vain efforts
to fill the sieve with water, Sisyphus sits down on the stone that he
so often had heaved against the mountain's misty side, Ixion pauses
upon his wheel of fire, even Pluto smiles, and for the first time in the
history of hell the cheeks of the Furies are wet with tears.
"Give me back Eurydice," cried Orpheus, and Pluto said: "Take her, but
look not back." Orpheus led the way and Eurydice followed. Just as he
reached the upper world, he missed her footsteps, turned, looked, and
she vanished.
And thus the summer comes, is lost, and comes again through all the
years.
So, our ancestors believed in the Garden of Eden, in the Golden Age, in
the blessed time when all were good and pure--when nature satisfied the
wants of all. The race, like the old man, has golden dreams of youth.
The morning was filled with light and life and joy, and the evening is
always sad. When the old man was young, girls were beautiful and men
were honest. He remembers his Eden. And so the whole world has had its
age of gold.
Our fathers were believers in the Elysian Fields. They were in the far,
far West. They saw them at the setting of the sun. They saw the floating
isles of gold in sapphire seas; the templed mist with spires and domes
of emerald and amethyst; the magic caverns of the clouds, resplendent
with the rays of every gem. And as they looked, they thought the curtain
had been drawn aside and that their eyes had for a moment feasted on the
glories of another world.
The myth of the Flood has also been universal. Finding shells of the
seas on plain and mountain, and everywhere some traces of the waves,
they thought the world had been submerged--that God in wrath had drowned
the race, except a few his mercy saved.
The Hindus say that Menu, a holy man, dipped from the Ganges some water,
and in the basin saw a little fish. The fish begged him to throw him
back into the river, and Menu, having pity, cast him back. The fish then
told Menu that there was to be a flood--told him to build an ark, to
take on board, people, animals and food, and that when the flood came,
he, the fish, would save him. The saint did as he was told, the flood
came, the fish returned. By that time he had grown to be a whale with
a horn in his head. About this horn Menu fastened a rope, attached the
other end to the ark, and the fish towed the boat across the raging
waves to a mountain's top, where it rested until the waters subsided.
The name of this wonderful fish was Matsaya.
Many other nations told similar stories of floods and arks and the
sending forth of doves.
In all these myths and legends of the past we find philosophies and
dreams and efforts, stained with tears, of great and tender souls who
tried to pierce the mysteries of life and death, to answer the questions
of the whence and whither, and who vainly sought with bits of shattered
glass to make a mirror that would in very truth reflect the face and
form of Nature's perfect self. These myths were born of hopes and fears,
of tears and smiles, and they were touched and colored by all there is
of joy and grief between the rosy dawn of birth and death's sad night.
They clothed even the stars with passion, and gave to gods the faults
and frailties of the sons of men. In them the winds and waves were
music, and all the springs, the mountains, woods and perfumed dells were
haunted by a thousand fairy forms. They thrilled the veins of Spring
with tremulous desire, made tawny Summer's billowy breast the throne and
home of love, filled Autumn's arms with sun-kissed grapes and gathered
sheaves, and pictured Winter as a weak old king, who felt, like Lear,
upon his withered face, Cordelia's tears.
These myths, though false in fact, are beautiful and true in thought,
and have for many ages and in countless ways enriched the heart and
kindled thought.