him to polish his shield. In its surface he could safely look at the
reflection of the Gorgon's face. And there it was,--that terrible
countenance,--mirrored in the brightness of the shield, with the
moonlight falling over it, and displaying all its horror. The snakes,
whose venomous natures could not altogether sleep, kept twisting
themselves over the forehead. It was the fiercest and most horrible face
that ever was seen or imagined, and yet with a strange, fearful, and
savage kind of beauty in it. The eyes were closed, and the Gorgon was
still in a deep slumber; but there was an unquiet expression disturbing
her features, as if the monster was troubled with an ugly dream. She
gnashed her white tusks, and dug into the sand with her brazen claws.
The snakes, too, seemed to feel Medusa's dream, and to be made more
restless by it. They twined themselves into tumultuous knots, writhed
fiercely, and uplifted a hundred hissing heads, without opening their
eyes.
"Now, now!" whispered Quicksilver, who was growing impatient. "Make a
dash at the monster!"
"But be calm," said the grave, melodious voice, at the young man's side.
"Look in your shield, as you fly downward, and take care that you do not
miss your first stroke."
Perseus flew cautiously downward, still keeping his eyes on Medusa's
face, as reflected in his shield. The nearer he came, the more terrible
did the snaky visage and metallic body of the monster grow. At last,
when he found himself hovering over her within arm's length, Perseus
uplifted his sword, while, at the same instant, each separate snake upon
the Gorgon's head stretched threateningly upward, and Medusa unclosed
her eyes. But she awoke too late. The sword was sharp; the stroke fell
like a lightning-flash; and the head of the wicked Medusa tumbled from
her body!
"Admirably done!" cried Quicksilver. "Make haste, and clap the head into
your magic wallet."
To the astonishment of Perseus, the small, embroidered wallet, which he
had hung about his neck, and which had hitherto been no bigger than a
purse, grew all at once large enough to contain Medusa's head. As quick
as thought, he snatched it up, with the snakes still writhing upon it,
and thrust it in.
"Your task is done," said the calm voice. "Now fly; for the other
Gorgons will do their utmost to take vengeance for Medusa's death."
It was, indeed, necessary to take flight; for Perseus had not done the
deed so quietly but that the clash of his sword, and the hissing of the
snakes, and the thump of Medusa's head as it tumbled upon the sea-beaten
sand, awoke the other two monsters. There they sat, for an instant,
sleepily rubbing their eyes with their brazen fingers, while all the
snakes on their heads reared themselves on end with surprise, and with
venomous malice against they knew not what. But when the Gorgons saw
the scaly carcass of Medusa, headless, and her golden wings all
ruffled, and half spread out on the sand, it was really awful to hear
what yells and screeches they set up. And then the snakes! They sent
forth a hundred-fold hiss, with one consent, and Medusa's snakes
answered them out of the magic wallet.
No sooner were the Gorgons broad awake than they hurtled upward into the
air, brandishing their brass talons, gnashing their horrible tusks, and
flapping their huge wings so wildly, that some of the golden feathers
were shaken out, and floated down upon the shore. And there, perhaps,
those very feathers lie scattered, till this day. Up rose the Gorgons,
as I tell you, staring horribly about, in hopes of turning somebody to
stone. Had Perseus looked them in the face, or had he fallen into their
clutches, his poor mother would never have kissed her boy again! But he
took good care to turn his eyes another way; and, as he wore the helmet
of invisibility, the Gorgons knew not in what direction to follow him;
nor did he fail to make the best use of the winged slippers, by soaring
upward a perpendicular mile or so. At that height, when the screams of
those abominable creatures sounded faintly beneath him, he made a
straight course for the island of Seriphus, in order to carry Medusa's
head to King Polydectes.
I have no time to tell you of several marvellous things that befell
Perseus, on his way homeward; such as his killing a hideous sea-monster,
just as it was on the point of devouring a beautiful maiden; nor how he
changed an enormous giant into a mountain of stone, merely by showing
him the head of the Gorgon. If you doubt this latter story, you may make
a voyage to Africa, some day or other, and see the very mountain, which
is still known by the ancient giant's name.
Finally, our brave Perseus arrived at the island, where he expected to
see his dear mother. But, during his absence, the wicked king had
treated Danae so very ill that she was compelled to make her escape,
and had taken refuge in a temple, where some good old priests were
extremely kind to her. These praise-worthy priests, and the kind-hearted
fisherman, who had first shown hospitality to Danae and little Perseus
when he found them afloat in the chest, seem to have been the only
persons on the island who cared about doing right. All the rest of the
people, as well as King Polydectes himself, were remarkably ill-behaved,
and deserved no better destiny than that which was now to happen.
Not finding his mother at home, Perseus went straight to the palace, and
was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. Polydectes was by
no means rejoiced to see him; for he had felt almost certain, in his own
evil mind, that the Gorgons would have torn the poor young man to
pieces, and have eaten him up, out of the way. However, seeing him
safely returned, he put the best face he could upon the matter and asked
Perseus how he had succeeded.
"Have you performed your promise?" inquired he. "Have you brought me the
head of Medusa with the snaky locks? If not, young man, it will cost you
dear; for I must have a bridal present for the beautiful Princess
Hippodamia, and there is nothing else that she would admire so much."
"Yes, please your Majesty," answered Perseus, in a quiet way, as if it
were no very wonderful deed for such a young man as he to perform. "I
have brought you the Gorgon's head, snaky locks and all!"
"Indeed! Pray let me see it," quoth King Polydectes. "It must be a very
curious spectacle, if all that travellers tell about it be true!"
"Your Majesty is in the right," replied Perseus. "It is really an object
that will be pretty certain to fix the regards of all who look at it.
And, if your Majesty think fit, I would suggest that a holiday be
proclaimed, and that all your Majesty's subjects be summoned to behold
this wonderful curiosity. Few of them, I imagine, have seen a Gorgon's
head before, and perhaps never may again!"
The king well knew that his subjects were an idle set of reprobates, and
very fond of sight-seeing, as idle persons usually are. So he took the
young man's advice, and sent out heralds and messengers, in all
directions, to blow the trumpet at the street-corners, and in the
market-places, and wherever two roads met, and summon everybody to
court. Thither, accordingly, came a great multitude of good-for-nothing
vagabonds, all of whom, out of pure love of mischief, would have been
glad if Perseus had met with some ill-hap in his encounter with the
Gorgons. If there were any better people in the island (as I really hope
there may have been, although the story tells nothing about any such),
they stayed quietly at home, minding their business, and taking care of
their little children. Most of the inhabitants, at all events, ran as
fast as they could to the palace, and shoved, and pushed, and elbowed
one another, in their eagerness to get near a balcony, on which Perseus
showed himself, holding the embroidered wallet in his hand.
On a platform, within full view of the balcony, sat the mighty King
Polydectes, amid his evil counsellors, and with his flattering courtiers
in a semicircle round about him. Monarch, counsellors, courtiers, and
subjects, all gazed eagerly towards Perseus.
"Show us the head! Show us the head!" shouted the people; and there was
a fierceness in their cry as if they would tear Perseus to pieces,
unless he should satisfy them with what he had to show. "Show us the
head of Medusa with the snaky locks!"
A feeling of sorrow and pity came over the youthful Perseus.
"O King Polydectes," cried he, "and ye many people, I am very loath to
show you the Gorgon's head!"
"Ah, the villain and coward!" yelled the people, more fiercely than
before. "He is making game of us! He has no Gorgon's head! Show us the
head, if you have it, or we will take your own head for a football!"
The evil counsellors whispered bad advice in the king's ear; the
courtiers murmured, with one consent, that Perseus had shown disrespect
to their royal lord and master; and the great King Polydectes himself
waved his hand, and ordered him, with the stern, deep voice of
authority, on his peril, to produce the head.
"Show me the Gorgon's head, or I will cut off your own!"
And Perseus sighed.
"This instant," repeated Polydectes, "or you die!"
"Behold it, then!" cried Perseus, in a voice like the blast of a
trumpet.
And, suddenly holding up the head, not an eyelid had time to wink before
the wicked King Polydectes, his evil counsellors, and all his fierce
subjects were no longer anything but the mere images of a monarch and
his people. They were all fixed, forever, in the look and attitude of
that moment! At the first glimpse of the terrible head of Medusa, they
whitened into marble! And Perseus thrust the head back into his wallet,
and went to tell his dear mother that she need no longer be afraid of
the wicked King Polydectes.
Tanglewood Porch
_After the Story_
"Was not that a very fine story?" asked Eustace.
"Oh yes, yes!" cried Cowslip, clapping her hands.
"And those funny old women, with only one eye amongst them! I never
heard of anything so strange."
"As to their one tooth, which they shifted about," observed Primrose,
"there was nothing so very wonderful in that. I suppose it was a false
tooth. But think of your turning Mercury into Quicksilver, and talking
about his sister! You are too ridiculous!"
"And was she not his sister?" asked Eustace Bright. "If I had thought of
it sooner, I would have described her as a maiden lady, who kept a pet
owl!"
"Well, at any rate," said Primrose, "your story seems to have driven
away the mist."
And, indeed, while the tale was going forward, the vapors had been quite
exhaled from the landscape. A scene was now disclosed which the
spectators might almost fancy as having been created since they had last
looked in the direction where it lay. About half a mile distant, in the
lap of the valley, now appeared a beautiful lake, which reflected a
perfect image of its own wooded banks, and of the summits of the more
distant hills. It gleamed in glassy tranquillity, without the trace of a
winged breeze on any part of its bosom. Beyond its farther shore was
Monument Mountain, in a recumbent position, stretching almost across the
valley. Eustace Bright compared it to a huge, headless sphinx, wrapped
in a Persian shawl; and, indeed, so rich and diversified was the
autumnal foliage of its woods, that the simile of the shawl was by no
means too high-colored for the reality. In the lower ground, between
Tanglewood and the lake, the clumps of trees and borders of woodland
were chiefly golden-leaved or dusky brown, as having suffered more from
frost than the foliage on the hill-sides.
Over all this scene there was a genial sunshine, intermingled with a
slight haze, which made it unspeakably soft and tender. Oh, what a day
of Indian summer was it going to be! The children snatched their
baskets, and set forth, with hop, skip, and jump, and all sorts of
frisks and gambols; while Cousin Eustace proved his fitness to preside
over the party, by outdoing all their antics, and performing several new
capers, which none of them could ever hope to imitate. Behind went a
good old dog, whose name was Ben. He was one of the most respectable and
kind-hearted of quadrupeds, and probably felt it to be his duty not to
trust the children away from their parents without some better guardian
than this feather-brained Eustace Bright.
THE GOLDEN TOUCH
Shadow Brook
_Introductory to "The Golden Touch"_
At noon, our juvenile party assembled in a dell, through the depths of
which ran a little brook. The dell was narrow, and its steep sides, from
the margin of the stream upward, were thickly set with trees, chiefly
walnuts and chestnuts, among which grew a few oaks and maples. In the
summer time, the shade of so many clustering branches, meeting and
intermingling across the rivulet, was deep enough to produce a noontide
twilight. Hence came the name of Shadow Brook. But now, ever since
autumn had crept into this secluded place, all the dark verdure was
changed to gold, so that it really kindled up the dell, instead of
shading it. The bright yellow leaves, even had it been a cloudy day,
would have seemed to keep the sunlight among them; and enough of them
had fallen to strew all the bed and margin of the brook with sunlight,
too. Thus the shady nook, where summer had cooled herself, was now the
sunniest spot anywhere to be found.
The little brook ran along over its pathway of gold, here pausing to
form a pool, in which minnows were darting to and fro; and then it
hurried onward at a swifter pace, as if in haste to reach the lake; and,
forgetting to look whither it went, it tumbled over the root of a tree,
which stretched quite across its current. You would have laughed to hear
how noisily it babbled about this accident. And even after it had run
onward, the brook still kept talking to itself, as if it were in a
maze. It was wonder-smitten, I suppose, at finding its dark dell so
illuminated, and at hearing the prattle and merriment of so many
children. So it stole away as quickly as it could, and hid itself in the
lake.
In the dell of Shadow Brook, Eustace Bright and his little friends had
eaten their dinner. They had brought plenty of good things from
Tanglewood, in their baskets, and had spread them out on the stumps of
trees, and on mossy trunks, and had feasted merrily, and made a very
nice dinner indeed. After it was over, nobody felt like stirring.
"We will rest ourselves here," said several of the children, "while
Cousin Eustace tells us another of his pretty stories."
Cousin Eustace had a good right to be tired, as well as the children,
for he had performed great feats on that memorable forenoon. Dandelion,
Clover, Cowslip, and Buttercup were almost most persuaded that he had
winged slippers, like those which the Nymphs gave Perseus; so often had
the student shown himself at the tip-top of a nut-tree, when only a
moment before he had been standing on the ground. And then, what showers
of walnuts had he sent rattling down upon their heads, for their busy
little hands to gather into the baskets! In short, he had been as active
as a squirrel or a monkey, and now, flinging himself down on the yellow
leaves, seemed inclined to take a little rest.
But children have no mercy nor consideration for anybody's weariness;
and if you had but a single breath left, they would ask you to spend it
in telling them a story.
"Cousin Eustace," said Cowslip, "that was a very nice story of the
Gorgon's Head. Do you think you could tell us another as good?"
"Yes, child," said Eustace, pulling the brim of his cap over his eyes,
as if preparing for a nap. "I can tell you a dozen, as good or better,
if I choose."
"O Primrose and Periwinkle, do you hear what he says?" cried Cowslip,
dancing with delight. "Cousin Eustace is going to tell us a dozen better
stories than that about the Gorgon's Head!"
"I did not promise you even one, you foolish little Cowslip!" said
Eustace, half pettishly. "However, I suppose you must have it. This is
the consequence of having earned a reputation! I wish I were a great
deal duller than I am, or that I had never shown half the bright
qualities with which nature has endowed me; and then I might have my nap
out, in peace and comfort!"
But Cousin Eustace, as I think I have hinted before, was as fond of
telling his stories as the children of hearing them. His mind was in a
free and happy state, and took delight in its own activity, and scarcely
required any external impulse to set it at work.
How different is this spontaneous play of the intellect from the trained
diligence of maturer years, when toil has perhaps grown easy by long
habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the day's
comfort, although the rest of the matter has bubbled away! This remark,
however, is not meant for the children to hear.
Without further solicitation, Eustace Bright proceeded to tell the
following really splendid story. It had come into his mind as he lay
looking upward into the depths of a tree, and observing how the touch of
Autumn had transmuted every one of its green leaves into what resembled
the purest gold. And this change, which we have all of us witnessed, is
as wonderful as anything that Eustace told about in the story of Midas.
The Golden Touch
Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose
name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself
ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely
forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to
call her Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world.
He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that
precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the
one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool.
But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek
for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could
possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest
pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together
since the world was made. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his
time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at
the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold,
and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When little
Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he
used to say, "Poh, poh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they
look, they would be worth the plucking!"
And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of
this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for
flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and
beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt.
These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and
as fragrant, as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them,
and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was
only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the
innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he once
was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were
said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas, now,
was the chink of one coin against another.
At length, as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take
care to grow wiser and wiser, Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object
that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large
portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at
the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this
dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook
himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after
carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold
cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of
gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the
one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. He
valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not
shine without its help. And then would he reckon over the coins in the
bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust
through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as
reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to
himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!" But it
was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out
of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his
foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.
Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so
happy as he might be. The very tip-top of enjoyment would never be
reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be
filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.
Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in
the old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came
to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in
our own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things
take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which
the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole,
I regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that
may be, I must go on with my story.
Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when
he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly
up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the
bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy
face. Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow
tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind
of golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures
than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were
lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles
of fire.
As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that
no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of
course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal.
It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the
earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the
resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to
interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children,
half playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now,
and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect,
indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would
have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was
far more probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that
favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?
The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again
to Midas.
"You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!" he observed. "I doubt whether any
other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived
to pile up in this room."
"I have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered Midas, in a
discontented tone. "But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you
consider that it has taken me my whole life to get it together. If one
could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!"
"What!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then you are not satisfied?"
Midas shook his head.
"And pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know."
Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger,
with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither
with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes.
Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and
obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible, thing it might come
into his head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and
heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without
being able to imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred
to King Midas. It seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which
he loved so much.
Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
"Well, Midas," observed his visitor, "I see that you have at length hit
upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish."