[Illustration: HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES]
HALF A HUNDRED
HERO TALES
OF ULYSSES AND THE MEN OF OLD
EDITED BY
FRANCIS STORR
EDITOR OF "THE JOURNAL OF EDUCATION," LONDON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FRANK C. PAPÉ
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1911,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_Published January, 1911_
THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.
PREFACE
The apology offered for adding yet another book of Classical Stories
to the endless existing versions, ancient and modern, in verse and in
prose, is the plea that Vivien offers to Merlin for her "tender
rhyme":
"It lives dispersedly in many hands,
And every minstrel sings it differently."
"You Greeks," said the Egyptian priest to Herodotus, "are always
children," and Greece will never lose the secret of eternal youth. The
tale of Troy divine, of Thebes and Pelops' line, the song of sweet
Colonus, the most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby, Dido with a
willow in her hand--these old stories of Homer and Sophocles, of
Virgil and Ovid, have not lost their gloss and freshness. "The
innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet." They have been
sung or said by Wace and Caxton, by Chaucer and Wordsworth, by Keats
and William Morris; they have been adapted for young readers by
Fénelon, by Niebuhr, by Kingsley, by Hawthorne, and yet the last word
has not been said. Each new editor makes his own selection, chooses
some new facet, or displays the jewel in a new light. As Sainte-Beuve
remarks of "Don Quixote" and other world classics, "One can discover
there something more than the author first of all tried to see there,
and certainly more than he dreamed of putting there."
The present collection of Fifty Stories (there might well have been
five hundred) makes no pretense either of completeness or of
uniformity. Some of the contributors have followed closely the texts,
others have given free play to their fancy, but in every case the
myths have been treated simply as stories and no attempt has been made
either to trace their origin or to indicate their religious or ethical
significance. Most of the stories point their own moral, and need no
more commentary than Jack the Giant-killer or the Sleeping Beauty.
Young readers of to-day resent the sermons even of a Kingsley. From
"Tanglewood Tales," a book that was the joy of our childhood, we have
borrowed ten stories, and have taken the liberty of dividing into
chapters and slightly abridging the longest of Hawthorne's Tales. All
but one of the remaining forty are original versions.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PLUTO AND PROSERPINE 1
By H. P. Maskell
PAN AND SYRINX 5
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
THE STORY OF PHAETON 13
By M. M. Bird
ARETHUSA 19
By V. C. Turnbull
THE STORY OF DAPHNE 24
By M. M. Bird
DEUCALION AND PYRRHA 28
By M. M. Bird
EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA 33
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
EUROPA AND THE GOD-BULL 50
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
CADMUS AND THE DRAGON'S TEETH 65
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 83
By V. C. Turnbull
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES 89
I. HERCULES AND THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES 98
II. HERCULES AND ATLAS
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
HERCULES AND NESSUS 107
By H. P. Maskell
THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE 111
By M. M. Bird
HOW THESEUS FOUND HIS FATHER 124
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THESEUS AND THE WITCH MEDEA 131
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR 138
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THESEUS AND ARIADNE 144
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
PARIS AND OENONE 154
By V. C. Turnbull
IPHIGENIA 161
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
PROTESILAUS 166
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 173
By V. C. Turnbull
THE WOODEN HORSE 180
By F. Storr
THE SACK OF TROY 185
By F. Storr
THE DEATH OF AJAX 191
By F. Storr
THE FLIGHT OF ÆNEAS FROM TROY 196
By F. Storr
ÆNEAS AND DIDO 201
By V. C. Turnbull
ÆNEAS IN HADES 209
By V. C. Turnbull
NISUS AND EURYALUS 217
By F. Storr
ULYSSES IN HADES 224
By M. M. Bird
CIRCE'S PALACE 232
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS 262
By Hope Moncrieff
THE SIRENS 271
By V. C. Turnbull
THE STORY OF NAUSICAA 275
By M. M. Bird
THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES 283
By M. M. Bird
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON 292
By H. P. Maskell
HYPERMNESTRA 296
By V. C. Turnbull
OEDIPUS AT COLONOS 302
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
MIDAS 308
By H. P. Maskell
PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 313
By V. C. Turnbull
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA 320
By H. P. Maskell
THE STORY OF DÆDALUS AND ICARUS 326
By M. M. Bird
SCYLLA, THE DAUGHTER OF NISUS 330
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
THE STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE 340
By M. M. Bird
HERO AND LEANDER 344
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE 352
By F. Storr
CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS 359
By H. P. Maskell
ECHO AND NARCISSUS 364
By Thomas Bulfinch
THE RING OF POLYCRATES 369
By M. M. Bird
ROMULUS AND REMUS 375
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
ILLUSTRATIONS
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
THE STORY OF DAPHNE 26
HERCULES AND NESSUS 108
THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR 138
ÆNEAS IN HADES 212
ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS 266
PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 316
ROMULUS AND REMUS 380
HALF A HUNDRED HERO TALES
PLUTO AND PROSERPINE
BY H. P. MASKELL
In the very heart of Sicily are the groves of Enna--a land of flowers
and rippling streams, where the spring-tide lasts all through the
year. Thither Proserpine, daughter of Ceres, betook herself with her
maidens to gather nosegays of violets and lilies. Eager to secure the
choicest posy, she had wandered far from her companions, when Pluto,
issuing, as was his wont, from his realm of shadows to visit the
earth, beheld her, and was smitten by her childlike beauty. Dropping
her flowers in alarm, the maiden screamed for her mother and
attendants. 'Twas in vain; the lover seized her and bore her away in
his chariot of coal-black steeds. Faster and faster sped the team as
their swart master called to each by name and shook the reins on their
necks. Through deep lakes they sped, by dark pools steaming with
volcanic heat, and on past the twin harbors of Syracuse.
When they came to the abode of Cyane, the nymph rose up from her
crystal pool and perceived Pluto. "No farther shalt thou go!" she
cried. "A maiden must be asked of her parents, not stolen away against
her mother's will!" For answer the wrathful son of Saturn lashed his
foam-flecked steeds. He hurled his royal scepter into the very bed of
the stream. Forthwith the earth opened, making a way down into
Tartarus; and the chariot vanished through the yawning cave, leaving
Cyane dissolved in tears of grief for the ravished maiden and her own
slighted domain.
Meanwhile Ceres, anxious mother, had heard her daughter's cry for
help. Through every clime and every sea she sought and sought in vain.
From dawn to dewy eve she sought, and by night she pursued the quest
with torches kindled by the flames of Ætna. Then, by Enna's lake, she
found the scattered flowers and shreds of the torn robe, but further
traces there were none.
Weary and overcome with thirst, she chanced on a humble cottage and
begged at the door for a cup of water. The goodwife brought out a
pitcher of home-made barley wine, which she drained at a draught. An
impudent boy jeered at the goddess, and called her "toss-pot." Dire
and swift was the punishment that overtook him. Ceres sprinkled over
him the few drops that remained; and, changed into a speckled newt, he
crept away into a cranny.
Too long would be the tale of all the lands and seas where the goddess
sought for her child. When she had visited every quarter of the world
she returned once more to Sicily. Cyane, had she not melted away in
her grief, might have told all. Still, however, on Cyane's pool the
girdle of Proserpine was found floating, and thus the mother knew that
her daughter had been carried off by force. When this was brought home
to her, she tore her hair and beat her breast. Not as yet did she know
the whole truth, but she vowed vengeance against all the earth, and on
Sicily most of all, the land of her bereavement. No longer, she
complained, was ungrateful man worthy of her gifts of golden grain.
A famine spread through all the land. Plowshares broke while they were
turning the clods, the oxen died of pestilence, and blight befell the
green corn. An army of birds picked up the seed as fast as it was
sown; thistles, charlock, and tares sprang up in myriads and choked
the fields before the ear could show itself.
Then Arethusa, the river nymph, who had traveled far beneath the ocean
to meet in Sicily her lover Alpheus, raised her head in pity for the
starving land, and cried to Ceres: "O mourning mother, cease thy
useless quest, and be not angered with a land which is faithful to
thee. While I was wandering by the river Styx I beheld thy Proserpine.
Her looks were grave, yet not as of one forlorn. Take comfort! She is
a queen, and chiefest of those who dwell in the world of darkness. She
is the bride of the infernal king."
Ceres was but half consoled, and her wrath was turned from Sicily to
the bold ravisher of her daughter. She hastened to Olympus, and laid
her plaint before Jupiter. She urged that her daughter must be
restored to her. If only Pluto would resign possession of Proserpine,
she would forgive the ravisher.
Jupiter answered mildly: "This rape of the god lover can scarce be
called an injury. Pluto is my brother, and like me a king, except that
he reigns below, whereas I reign above. Give your consent, and he will
be no disgrace as a son-in-law."
Still Ceres was resolved to fetch her daughter back, and Jupiter at
length agreed that it should be so on condition that Proserpine,
during her sojourn in the shades, had allowed no food to pass her
lips.
In joy the mother hurried down to Tartarus and demanded her daughter.
But the fates were against her. The damsel had broken her fast. As
she wandered in the fair gardens of Elysium she had picked a
pomegranate from the bending tree, and had eaten seven of the sweet
purple seeds. Only one witness had seen her in the fatal act. This was
Ascalaphus, a courtier of Pluto, who some say had first put it into
the mind of the king to carry off Proserpine. In revenge for this
betrayal, Ceres changed him into an owl, and doomed him ever after to
be a bird of ill-omen who cannot bear the light of day, and whose
nightly hooting portends ill tidings to mortals.
But Ceres was not doomed to lose Proserpine utterly. Jupiter decreed
that for six months of each year her daughter was to reign in dark
Tartarus by Pluto's side; for the other six months she was to return
to earth and dwell with her mother. Joy returned to the mother's
saddened heart; the barren earth at her bidding once more brought
forth its increase. Soon the fields were smiling with golden corn, and
the mellow grapes hung heavy on the vines, and once again that favored
land became the garden of the world.
PAN AND SYRINX
BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD
Long ages ago in the pleasant land of Arcadia, where the kindly
shepherds fed their flocks on the green hills, there lived a fair
maiden named Syrinx. Even as a tiny child she loved to toddle forth
from her father's house and lose herself in the quiet woods. Often
were they forced to seek long and far before they found her, when the
dew was falling and the stars coming out in the dark blue sky; but
however late it was, they never found her afraid nor eager to be safe
at home. Sometimes she was curled up on the soft moss under the
shelter of a spreading tree, fast asleep; sometimes she was lying by
the side of a stream listening to the merry laughter of the water;
sometimes, sitting over the stones upon the hillside, she would be
watching with wonder and delight the lady moon, with her bright train
of clouds, racing across the sky as if in hot chase.
Years passed on, and Syrinx grew into a tall and slender maiden, with
long fair hair and great gray eyes, with a look in them that made her
seem to be always listening. Out in the woods there are so many sounds
for any one who has ears to hear--the different notes of the birds,
the hum of the insects, the swift, light rustle as some furry
four-legged hunter creeps through the underwood. Then there is the
pleasant, happy murmur of the breeze among the leaves, with a
different sound in it for every different tree, or the wild shriek of
the gale that rends the straining branches, or the bubbling of the
spring, or the prattle of the running stream, or the plash of the
waterfall. Many are the sounds of the woods, and Syrinx knew and loved
them all until
"Beauty born of murmuring sound,
Had passed into her face."
"Have a care, Syrinx," her playfellows would say sometimes. "If you
wander alone in the woods, some day you will see the terrible god
Pan."
"I should like well to see him," the maiden made answer one day to an
old crone who thus warned her. "The great god Pan loves the woods and
everything that lives in them, and so do I. We must needs be friends
if we meet."
The old woman looked at her in horror and amaze. "You know not what
you say, child," she made answer. "Some aver that none can look upon
Pan and live, but of that I am none so sure, for I have heard of
shepherds to whom he has spoken graciously, and they never the worse
for it. But of this there is no doubt--whoever hears the shout of Pan
runs mad with the sound of it. So be not too venturesome, or evil will
come of it."
Now Syrinx might have taken warning from these wise and kindly words.
As it was, she treasured them, and only wondered what this god could
be like, the sound of whose shout made men run mad. She feared to see
him, and would have run swiftly away if she had caught a glimpse of
him, and yet she went continually to the far and silent groves
whither, so the shepherds said, Pan was most wont to resort.
It chanced one day that Syrinx had wandered farther than was her wont;
she had been in the woods since daybreak, and now it was high noon.
She was tired and hot, and lay down to rest on a bank beneath a tall
ash tree that was all covered with ivy, and resting there she soon
fell fast asleep. While she slept the wild things of the woods came to
look upon her with wonder. A doe that was passing with her fawn stood
for a moment gazing mildly upon the maiden, and the fawn stooped and
licked her fingers, but at the touch Syrinx stirred in her sleep and
both doe and fawn bounded away among the bushes. A little squirrel
dropped lightly from a tree and sat up close beside her, his tail
curled jauntily over his back, his bright eyes fixed upon her face.
The little furry rabbits first peeped at her out of their holes, and
then growing bolder came quite close and sat with their soft paws
tucked down and their ears cocked very stiffly, listening to her quiet
breathing. And last of all, stepping noiselessly over the grass, came
the lord of all the wild things, the great god Pan himself.
His legs and feet were like those of a goat, so that he could move
more quickly and lightly than the wild gazelle, and his ears were long
and pointed--ears like those of a squirrel, so that he could hear the
stirring of a nestling not yet out of its egg. Softly he drew nigh to
the maiden, and there was a wicked smile in his bright dark eyes. But
as he bent to look into her face she stirred, and he leapt lightly
back and sat himself down a little space from her, leaning on his arm
among the brushwood till he was half hidden from her. Beside him lay a
great bough torn from the tree by some winter storm; Pan drew this to
him and began to cut from it a piece of wood whereof to fashion a
dainty little drinking-cup. And lying there, cutting at the wood, Pan
began to whistle low and sweetly to himself, just as though he had
been some shepherd or huntsman resting in the shade.
At first the soft notes made for the half-awakened maiden a dream of
singing birds and rippling water; then her drowsy eyes unclosed and
she became aware of a bearded face turned half away from her and bent
over some sort of work. For a time she lay still, and Pan forebore to
glance at her, but cut away at the piece of wood he was fashioning,
and whistled to himself as though he had not marked the maiden.
Presently, broad awake, Syrinx raised herself upon her elbow and gazed
full upon the stranger, who glanced round at her in a careless,
friendly way, and nodded to her with a kindly smile.
"Thou hast slept well, fair maiden," said Pan, in a low, gentle voice,
that sounded like the far-off murmur of a winter torrent.
And Syrinx, reassured by the gleam of the merry dark eyes, made
answer: "Yea, fair sir, for I had wandered far, and was aweary."
"How hast thou dared to wander so far from the haunts of men?" asked
the sylvan god, "Art thou not afeard of all that might meet thee here
in the deep forest?"
"I fear none of the wild things of the wood," answered Syrinx simply,
"for none has ever done me hurt. If thou art, as I judge thee, a
hunter, thou knowest that it is through fear alone that the beasts of
the forest do harm to man. But I move ever quietly among them, and do
not startle them, and they go on their ways and leave me in peace."
"Thou art passing wise," said Pan; "there are few indeed of thy years
who have attained to thy knowledge. When a man perceives a rustling
in the brushwood he flings his spear at the place; while women, for
the most part, scream and flee. But the fearless may walk quiet and
unharmed through the depths of the forest."
"There is one fear in my heart, kind stranger," said Syrinx earnestly.
"There be shepherds who say that in these forest paths they have seen
and spoken with the great god Pan himself. But some say that it is
death to see him, and all say that men run mad at the sound of his
shout. How thinkest thou? Hast thou ever caught a glimpse of him?"
There was a merry twinkle in those dancing eyes as the stranger made
answer: "Nay, maiden, I have never seen him of whom thou speakest; but
cast away thy last fear, for sure I am that the sight of him is not
death to any living thing. He loves and cares for all that hath life;
and as for his shout, that is only heard in battle, for he never cries
aloud save in wrath, and then indeed it brings confusion to his
enemies or to those who withstand him, but to his friends it brings
courage and triumph."
Syrinx heaved a sigh of relief, and lay back again, one arm under her
head, her long fair hair rippling over her shoulder, and her beautiful
gray eyes fixed upon the face of the stranger.
Pan gazed upon her, and crept a little nearer through the brushwood.
"Sure I am that thou art as wise as thou art kind, fair stranger,"
said the innocent maiden. "There has ever been within me a secret
thought that Pan, the lord of all the wild things of the wood, could
not be fierce and cruel as men said, and ever have I been assured that
could I meet and speak with him I should love him well."
"Love, love, love, love," said the deep soft voice of the great god
Pan. "Every tree, every flower, every bird, every beast lives for
nothing else. Dost thou indeed understand what thou sayest, fair
maiden?"
And the girl nodded her pretty head wisely, for she quite thought she
did. "Yea, kind stranger," she answered, "for when I look into the
eyes of one to whom I have never yet spoken a word, I know at once
whether his speech and company are like to be pleasant to me, or
whether I would have him pass on and speak no word. When I lay half
asleep but now, and listened to your merry whistling, I could feel
within me that it was a sweet and a friendly sound, and good to hear.
It was like the speech of the forest, which I have loved since I was a
baby."
Pan laughed gently to himself as he fashioned his wooden cup; but
there was a new gleam in his downcast eyes, and when next he glanced
at her Syrinx saw the change, and a vague uneasiness awoke in her. She
looked at the sky, already beginning to glow with the radiance of the
setting sun.
"It grows late," she said; "I must away, for I have far to go ere
night-fall. Farewell, gentle stranger."
"Nay, but stay a little longer," said Pan gently. "I know every path
of the forest, and if the darkness falls upon thee I can guide thee
safely, never fear."
But the maiden feared the more, as she sprang to her feet.
"Nay, I must tarry no longer," she said hastily; "it is already
over-late." Tossing her hair back from her flushed face she sprang
away down the slope like a frightened fawn.
Forgetting all but his wish to stay her Pan leapt up to follow her,
and glancing back over her shoulder Syrinx saw his goat feet, and
knew with whom she had been speaking. With a sudden start she plunged
into the brushwood, and as she disappeared from his sight Pan, anxious
only to bring her back, uttered a mighty cry.
The sound smote upon the ear of the terrified maiden, and her brain
reeled. With one wild shriek of terror she turned and fled, and before
even those swift goat's feet could overtake her she had plunged into
the river, and was gone--a reed lost among the river-reeds.
And the great god Pan sat down upon the river bank sorrowful and
baffled; and as he gazed upon the water, flushed with the light of the
setting sun, he saw the very bank of water-reeds where Syrinx had
disappeared. Slender and graceful they were, as the maiden who was
gone, and they trembled as she had done when she looked behind and saw
who was her pursuer, and their tufted heads, golden in the evening
light, reminded Pan of the golden hair of Syrinx. He stepped forward
to the edge of the water, and stooping, plucked a handful of the
reeds. They snapped with a sharp crack in his strong fingers, and as
he looked down at them he sighed deeply. His sigh came back to him
with a low musical note, and Pan went back to the bank, and sitting
himself down he scanned and fingered tenderly the hollow stalks. Long
did he sit there with his newly found treasure; the sun went down, the
crimson clouds turned to dark lines across the pale saffron sky, the
full moon rose slowly from behind the hill, and still Pan bent over
his handful of water-reeds, and breathed upon them this way and that,
and cut and fashioned them with care.
Next day the shepherds were all abroad in the woods searching for
Syrinx, but of her they found no trace; only, as they moved hither and
thither, they heard sweet and strange and far-off music. It was as if
all the sounds of the forest had been modulated and harmonized; now it
swelled and grew loud and joyous, and now it died away in pitiful
lamenting. It was Pan, playing upon the sevenfold pipe that he had
made, and when at length he gave it to the sons of men, and taught
them to play upon it too, he gave it the name of Syrinx, the beautiful
and hapless maiden whom he had loved and lost.
THE STORY OF PHAETON
BY M. M. BIRD
A fiery and high-spirited youth, Phaeton could not brook the taunts of
his playmate Epaphus, who claimed divine descent from Isis. When
Phaeton boasted that his father was Phoebus the Sun-god, Epaphus only
laughed and called him a base-born pretender. So one day Phaeton,
stung to madness by these taunts, went boldly to his mother Clymené
and demanded that she should give him some clear proof that he was
indeed, as she averred, the very son of Phoebus. Clymené lifted her
beautiful hands to the Sun, who rode gorgeous in the Heavens, and
swore by him that none other than Phoebus was the father of the boy.
"Nevertheless," said she, "if this doth suffice you not, and you seek
other proof, travel yourself to his Eastern Mansion, which lies not so
far remote from here, and ask him whether you are not his son."
The ambitious youth hastened to follow her counsel; he longed to see
his father, and to visit the Eastern Mansion where he abode. Through
India he traveled in haste, never resting till afar off he saw the
wondrous light that shimmered perpetually over the Palace of the Sun.
High it stood on columns of burnished gold ablaze with jewels. The
folding doors were of silver, the walls of ivory, and Vulcan had
wrought the precious metals in designs of wonderful beauty. The seas,
the earth, the fair forms of the immortal gods, all graced the carven
portals.
Phaeton, toiling up the steep ascent, saw at a great distance the
dazzling god, seated high on an imperial throne, all sparkling with
gems. The Hours, Days, Months, and Years, were ranged on either hand.
He saw Spring decked in flowers, Summer with her garner of grain,
Autumn bowed beneath his burden of grapes and fruits, and hoary Winter
shivering behind them. The all-beholding eye of the god perceived him
from afar, and before he had spoken a word, a voice from the throne
bade him welcome: "What wants my son? For my son thou art." Thus
encouraged, the youth, though dazzled by the exceeding brightness,
poured out his tale and proffered his petition.
The god was touched by his tale of wrong. Flinging aside the awful
glories that surrounded him, he bade his son advance, and embraced him
with tenderness.
"Make of me some request," he said, "and to convince thee that I am
thy father, I swear by Styx to grant it, whate'er it be."
The youth was transported with delight, and asked at once to be
permitted to guide the Sun's bright chariot for one day.
Phoebus was grieved beyond measure at the young man's rash ambition,
and bitterly repented of his oath; but even a god, when he has sworn
by Styx, cannot take back or annul that awful oath.
"Ask of me some other proof," he begged. "Too vast and hazardous this
task for thy strength and years. Not one of all the gods--not Jupiter
himself, ruler of the sky--dares mount that burning chariot, save I
alone!" He told him how with pain and labor the wild steeds climb up
the arc of the sky--how from the topmost pinnacles of Heaven the Earth
and Ocean lie so far beneath that even he himself is sometimes seized
with giddiness and his brain reels. And when down the steep descent of
the western sky the horses plunge headlong, it needs a strong and
steady hand to check them in their course. He told him how, through
all his daily task, the brave Sun has to front the opposing forces of
the Bear, the Scorpion, and the Dog Star, and guide his steeds among
their influences. Through a thousand snares his progress lies, with
forms of starry monsters ready to devour him if he strays by a hair's
breadth from the appointed way. And the very horses themselves, when
their mettle is up, are a team that only a god may control. "My son,"
he besought him, "do not require of me a fatal gift."
But the fond father pleaded in vain. The bold youth was unaffrighted,
and the oath was binding.
The time had come: Aurora heralded the new day. The golden chariot
made by Vulcan was drawn forth; the spokes of the wheels were of
silver, its seat was starred with gems.
The nimble Hours brought forth from their stalls the fiery steeds.
With last words of warning and advice, the father bade his son
farewell, and watched him wend forth on his perilous journey. The
youth leaped into the seat, he gathered up the reins, and gave his
father such praise and thanks for his indulgence as cut him to the
heart.
The horses neighed and pranced, breathing fire from their distended
nostrils. They sprang out through the gates of Dawn and flew over the
clouds, leaving the light breezes of Morn far behind them.
The youth was light; he could not poise or weight the chariot as did
its accustomed rider. The bounding car was tossed to and fro, the
sport of winds and currents. Wildly they hurtled headlong up the sky.
The steeds perceived the lighter weight, the weaker hands. They
plunged, and plunging, left the stated course.
The youth became confused; he looked around him, but could no longer
recognize the track. He did not know which way to steer, nor would the
horses have obeyed his hand. Wildly they careered and brought the heat
of midday into far regions of the Heavens that were unused to its
untempered rays. All around him monstrous threatening shades awoke and
stirred in the Heavens as he vexed them with the heat. Far, far below
the affrighted youth could see Earth and Ocean spread out. But as his
chariot raced madly down the heights, the clouds were dispersed by his
fierce rays, the high mountains began to smoke, the forests to burn;
ripened harvests were devoured by fire, whole cities were turned to
ashes. Pindus and Parnassus were steaming, the fountains of Mount Ida
were dried up, and Ætna raged with redoubled heat. Even the towering
Apennines and Caucasus lost their snows, and the huge Alps were one
range of living flame.
The horrified youth beheld the universe burn around him, and he could
scarce endure the sultry vapors that rose about him as from a furnace.
Lost in clouds of whirling smoke and ashes, the steeds careered madly
to and fro, he knew not whither. It is said that in that day the Moor
began to change his hue and turn black, and Libya and all the deserts
of Africa were then first drained of their moisture and left in great
tracts of parching sandy waste. The great rivers, the Ganges,
Euphrates, and the Danube, rose up in clouds of hissing steam, and
the frightened Nile ran off and hid his head in the sands, and there
for centuries and centuries it has lain hid.
Stern Neptune, in amazement and anger, thrice reared his head above
the shrinking waves where his fishes all were dying, and thrice the
fierce flames drove him back.
At length Earth, wrapped in her scalding seas, uplifting her scorching
brows, appealed to Jupiter.
"See how fierce vapors choke my breath; see my singed hair, my
withered face, the heaps of cinders that defile my fair body.... Have
pity."
Jupiter heard her prayer. He mounted his high ethereal throne, called
all powers, even the god whose son drove the chariot, to witness that
what he did he was compelled to do, and launched a thunderbolt at the
head of the despairing Phaeton.
Thus with fire the god of gods suppressed the raging fire. Lifeless
from the chariot the boy fell like a falling star, and his charred
body dropped to the earth far from his own land, far in the western
world, beside the river Po.
The horses broke loose from their harness, the chariot was splintered
into a thousand shining fragments and scattered far over the steaming
earth.
And the story goes, that for the space of one whole day, from morn
till eve, the world existed without a sun, lighted only by the lurid
glare of the burning ruins.
Beside the waters of the river the Latian nymphs came round and gazed
with awe upon the dead youth. His charred body they inclosed in a
marble urn and wrote on it an epitaph:
"Here lies a youth as beautiful as brave,
Who through the heavens his father's chariot drave."
His mother Clymené, frantic with grief, ceased not to roam the world,
followed by her weeping daughters, until at last she came to the banks
of Po, and found there the sculptured urn. She hung above it, bedewing
the marble with her tears, crying aloud the name so dear to her. Her
daughters stood around, weeping and lamenting with her. All night long
they kept their watch, and returning day found them still calling on
their brother's name. Four days and nights they kept their stand, till
at length, when for their weariness they would have sought rest, they
found they could not move. Phaethusa's arms were covered with
hardening bark and branching boughs; Lampetia stood rooted to the
ground; Æglé, as she tore her hair, only filled her hands with leaves.
While their faces were yet untransformed, they cried to their mother
for help. But, alas! she was powerless. She tore the bark from their
fair bodies, she stripped the leaves from their sprouting fingers, she
clung to their hardening limbs in vain. Only blood came trickling
where she tore away the leaves and bark, and in faint voices the
maidens cried that she only wounded her daughters when she tore their
trees.
Then the bark covered their fair faces, and they stood for ever dumb,
waving green boughs in the sun, while tears of amber rolled slowly
down the encrusting bark.
ARETHUSA
BY V. C. TURNBULL
Lord of all waters was Oceanus, the ancient Titan god, whose beard,
like a foaming cataract, swept to his girdle. Many fair daughters had
he, of whom poets sing, yet the fairest of all was the nymph Arethusa.
She had not lacked for wooers, but she shunned the haunts of men and
abode on the Acroceraunian heights whence she had sprung, or when she
descended to the plain hid herself in tangled bushes and overhanging
alders. She loved the quiet woodland ways, and had vowed herself to
the chaste huntress Diana, and in her train loved to fleet through the
woods and over the plains of Achaia, chasing the flying deer.
Now it happened one day that Arethusa, wearied with hunting and with
the great heat, wandered alone among the woods and meadows, seeking a
place of rest. Presently she heard the ripple of waters, and soon she
came to a river flowing between straight poplars and hoary willows.
Swiftly and quietly it ran, making no eddies, and so pure were its
waters that she could count the pebbles lying in its deep bed like
jewels in an open casket.
Joyfully then the tired maiden unbound her sandals, and, sitting down
upon the bank, dipped her white feet in the cool water. For a while
she sat there undisturbed, and idly watched the growing ripples as she
dabbled in the stream. But while she thus rested and played, a
strange commotion drew her eyes to the middle of the stream, and a
fear fell upon her, for she knew that it could be none other than
Alpheus, the god of that river. Quickly she sprang to her feet, and
while yet she stood trembling and irresolute, a hollow voice cried to
her from mid-stream. And (oh marvel!) the voice was not terrible like
that of a god, but tender and full of pleading love.
"Whither dost thou hasten, Arethusa?" it said. And again: "Whither
dost thou hasten?"
But Arethusa, a maiden who cared nothing for love, would be wooed by
neither god nor man.
Swiftly she fled from the enchanted spot, even before the young
river-god had sprung from the stream with love and longing in his
eyes. And now began that long chase of which the end was even stranger
than the beginning. Arethusa, weary no longer, darted like a fawn from
the river, and Alpheus, more ardent still as the maid was coy, swiftly
followed her flying steps. Through woods and meadows, over hills and
across valleys--yes, and past more than one city, fled pursuer and
pursued. But now, as the day drew towards sunsetting, Arethusa's
strong limbs wearied, her strength flagged, and her pace slackened,
and in her sick heart she knew how vain a thing it is for a mortal to
strive against a god. For no weariness weighed down the feet of
Alpheus; straight and swift he ran as his own river. Now so near was
he to the maiden that his long shadow fell across her feet; but no
faster could she go, for the sun smote fiercely upon her, and her
strength was failing. Louder and louder sounded the footsteps of the
god. Now she could feel his hard breathing in her long hair; was there
no escape? With her last strength she cried to her sovereign
mistress: "Help, O Huntress, thy huntress maiden! Aid her who so
often carried thy bow and thine arrows in the chase!"
And the goddess answered her votary.
For at once Arethusa was wrapped in a dense cloud, so dense indeed
that even the burning eyes of her pursuer could not pierce it. There,
then, she crouched, like a hare on its form, while outside she heard
the footsteps of Alpheus pacing round her hiding-place, searching and
baffled. But he, having come so near his prize, would not now give it
up, and she knew that he would watch the cloud till she came forth. At
the thought, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and ran down to
her feet. Faster and faster it poured; she was as ice that melts in
the sun; and she realized with joy that the goddess was opening for
her another way of escape. All her weariness and terror slid from her
straightway; her tired limbs melted into a liquid ease, and it was no
maiden but a laughing stream that shot from under the cloud and fled
singing towards the western sea.
But Alpheus, noting the guile of the goddess, laughed aloud, for could
he not at will become even as his own river? He changed even as he
conceived the thought; and now the chase began once more, only this
time river pursued stream, leaping from crag to crag, and rushing
across wide wastes of marshy country.
And again Arethusa, finding herself in straits, cried aloud to her
sovereign mistress Diana. And, behold, in answer to her prayer, the
earth was suddenly rent asunder and a vast black chasm yawned in her
path. Into it she plunged, and down, down, down she fell. And into it
in pursuit plunged also Alpheus, who loved her so well that he was
ready to follow her to the depths of the earth.
* * * * *
The darkness passed, and overhead was a beautiful green light, and on
all sides a profound and solemn silence. Arethusa had left the land
behind, and was pushing across the floor of the ocean. And behind her
came the waters of Alpheus. Then into the maiden heart, which as yet
had known not love, came something better than fear. From the lover
who could follow her even hither why should she fly? On he came,
undeterred and unpolluted by the brackish sea, his waters as fresh and
pure as when they had first run laughing through the sunlit meadows of
Arcadia.... Arethusa sought no more to fly. Love had conquered--Love,
the lord of gods and men, who mocks at maidens' vows and melts the
coldest breast. So there, amid the alien waters of the sea, the two
met in loving embrace, never again to part. And after this the gods
brought them once again to the light of the sun. For, finding at
length a way of escape through a fissure of the rocks, they rushed
forth as that Arethusan Fount which springs up in the Sicilian island
of Ortygia.
"And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
Down one dale where the morning basks
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of Asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;--
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more."
SHELLEY
THE STORY OF DAPHNE
BY M. M. BIRD
Phoebus Apollo, the Sun-god, a hunter unmatched in the chase, had
slain the awful Python with his shafts. To commemorate such a doughty
deed, he instituted the Pythian Games wherein noble youths should
strive for mastery. The prize was a simple green wreath, the symbol of
victory. The laurel was not yet the leaf dedicated to the wreaths the
gods bestowed upon the happy victors, but every kind of green was worn
with promiscuous grace upon the flowing locks of Phoebus.
Flushed with pride in his new success against the Python, Phoebus saw
Cupid, Venus' immortal son, bending his bow and aiming his feathered
shafts at unwary mortals. A heart once pricked by one of those tiny
darts felt all the bitter-sweet of love, and never recovered from the
wound. Him Phoebus taunted. "Are such as these fit weapons for chits?"
he cried. "Know that such archery is my proper business. My shafts fly
resistless. See how the Python has met his just doom at my hands. Take
up thy torch, and, with that only, singe the feeble souls of lovers."
Cupid returned him answer that though on all beside Apollo's shafts
might be resistless, to Cupid would justly be the fame when he himself
was conquered. The mischievous boy flew away to the heights of
Parnassus, and thence winged one of his sharpest arrows against the
breast of the bold deity. Another and different shaft he took, blunt
and tipped with lead, and this he aimed at the heart of a certain
nymph of surpassing fairness, a shaft designed to provoke disdain of
love in her chaste bosom. Her name was Daphne, the young daughter of
Peneus. She was a follower of Diana, the divine huntress. All her days
she spent in the woods among the wild creatures, or scoured the open
plains with swift feet. All her love was given to the free life of the
forest: she roamed in fearless pursuit of beasts of prey, her quiver
at her side, her bow in hand, her lovely hair bound in many a fillet
about her head. Her father often blamed her. "Thou owest it," he said,
"to thyself and me to take a husband."
But she, casting her young arms about his neck, begged him to leave
her free to pursue the life she loved, and not set the yoke of
marriage on her unwilling shoulders. "No more I beg of thee," she
said, "than Diana's fond parent granted her."
Her soft-hearted father consented to respect her whim, but warned her
that she would soon rue her unnatural wish.
As Daphne was one day hunting in the forest, Apollo perceived her. The
arrow winged by Cupid had not failed of its effect, and the poison of
love ran like fever through his veins. He saw the polished argent of
her bared shoulder; he saw the disheveled hair that the wind had
loosened from its snood; he saw the eyes, limpid and innocent as a
fawn's, the beauty and speed of her feet as she fled down the forest
glade, her taper fingers as they fitted an arrow to the bow-string. He
saw and burned.
Swift as the wind the startled damsel had fled as she espied him, nor
when he overtook her would she stay to hearken to his flattering
words.
"Stay, nymph!" he cried. "It is no foe who follows you. Why should
you flee as the trembling doe from the lion, the lamb from the hungry
wolf, the dove from the pursuing falcon? It is a god who loves and
follows. It is a god you flee from, a god who loves, and will not be
denied."
Still she fled and still he followed; he the loving, she the loath, he
pleading and she deaf to his prayers. As a hare doubles to elude the
greyhound that is gaining on her, the flying maid turned back and
sought thus to elude her pursuer. In vain she strove against a god.
Terror winged her feet, but there is no escape from Love. He gained
ground upon her, and now she felt his hot breath on her hair; his arm
was just outstretched to clasp her.
The nymph grew pale with mortal terror. Spent with her long, hard race
for freedom, she cast a despairing look around her. No help was to be
seen, but near by ran the waters of a little brook. "Oh, help!" she
cried, "if water gods are deities indeed. Earth, I adjure you, gape
and entomb this unhappy wretch; or change my form, the cause of all my
fear!"
The kind earth heard her frenzied prayer. The frightened nymph found
her feet benumbed with cold and rooted to the ground. As Apollo's arms
were flung about her a filmy rind grew over her body, her outflung
arms were changed to leafy boughs, her hair, her fingers, all were
turned to shuddering leaves; only the smoothness of her skin remained.
"Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!" For a maiden he clasped a
laurel tree, and his hot lips were pressed upon the cold and senseless
bark.
[Illustration: THE STORY OF DAPHNE]
Yet Apollo is a gracious god, and presently, when his passion had
cooled, he repented him of his mad pursuit and its desperate ending.
The idea of the coy maiden, roaming the forest fancy-free, crept into
his imagination, more delicate and lovely than when she lived in deed.
So he vowed that the laurel should be his peculiar tree. Her leaves
should be bound for poet's brow, should crown the victor in the
chariot race, and the conqueror as he marched in the great triumph.
Secure from thunder should she stand, unfading as the immortal gods;
and as the locks of Apollo are unshorn, her boughs should be decked in
perpetual green through all the changing seasons.
And the grateful tree could only bend her fair boughs above him and
wave the leafy burden of her head.
DEUCALION AND PYRRHA
BY M. M. BIRD
To the golden age of innocence, when the world was young and men a
race of happy children, succeeded an age of silver, and then an age of
brass. Last came an age of iron, when every man's hand was against his
neighbor, and Justice fled affrighted to the sky. Then the sons of
earth, the giants, no longer curbed by law or fear of the gods, waxed
bold and wanton. Piling mountain upon mountain they essayed to scale
the heavens and hurl its monarch from his throne. These Jupiter
blasted with his red lightnings and transfixed with his winged bolts.
But from their blood, as from seed that the sower scatters, there
arose a race of men, a feeble folk, but no less godless and lawless
than their sires. Then Jupiter, beholding the ways of men that they
were evil and that none was righteous in his eyes, determined to
destroy this world and people it with a new race unlike the first. He
was minded at first to destroy it by fire, and made ready his
artillery of thunderbolts, but then he bethought him that the vast
conflagration might blaze up to heaven itself and scorch the gods on
their golden thrones. So he dropped the bolts from his hand.
"Water," he cried, "as my poet has sung 'is the best of all elements';
by water I will drown the world."
First he bound the North Wind that freezes floods by its icy breath,
then loosed the South Wind that brings fog and darkness and horror on
its wings. From his beard and eyebrows he rained showers, from his
robe and mantle the unceasing floods streamed down and wreathing mists
encircled his frowning brow.
He swept above the earth, wringing the waters from the high clouds,
while peal on peal of thunder rolled about him.
The bearded corn bent before the driving rain, and the farmers
lamented their ruined crops. But not alone in the skies was Jupiter
content to open the watergates. He summoned to his aid the powers of
Neptune. The ocean, the natural enemy of the fruitful earth, swelled
with pride at this request, and rushed inland to meet the swollen
torrents that gushed from the hills across the sodden plains. The
floods gathered deep over the lowlands, the fields were drowned, the
ruined grain was submerged. Sheep and cattle, peasants and their
plows, trees and wild beasts, were all borne out upon the resistless
waters. Even the houses, sapped by the water, fell into the angry
flood, and all the household goods were swallowed up. Some climbed
high cliffs to escape the general doom, other launched out in little
boats and floated above the submerged chimneys of their homes or cast
anchor among their vines. Hills and valleys were alike engulfed by the
heaving waters; those who had sought safety on the hilltops died of
starvation, and those in boats were swamped.
Jupiter, looking down from his starry heights, saw nothing but a lake
of troubled waters where the blooming earth had been. The destruction
was complete. Then he unloosed the North Wind, and set fierce Boreas
to drive away the clouds. Neptune he commanded to lay his trident on
the rough waves and smooth out their furrows. And he bade Triton, who
appeared above the waves, give the signal for the waters to retire
within their proper bounds. Triton blew a blast on his shell, and the
note was borne from wave to wave, from marge to marge. The waters,
obedient to the summons, ran off the shores. The streams shrank by
slow degrees to their accustomed level, and the green shoulders of the
earth rose up from out their watery shroud. The tops of the drooping
trees emerged all matted with mud, the houses lay in heaps of reeking
ruin, the whole world lay desolate and wore a sickly hue.
I have said that all men were evil, yet among this sinful race were
two righteous found, and though they could not save others from
destruction, they themselves were saved. In a far vale of Thessaly
there lived an aged couple, who had fled there to escape from the
wickedness of men, Deucalion and Pyrrha his wife. When the flood came
they had seen a little skiff floating by their cottage door and had
embarked in it. For many days the skiff had floated like a cork above
the surging flood, and when the flood abated they found themselves
stranded on the heights of Parnassus.
They were the sole survivors, and they blessed the gods for their
deliverance, but as they looked upon the scene of desolation they were
sad at heart. It was a silent world. No human voice to greet them, no
sound of beast or bird. They were childless and without hope of
children, and if one of them were to die, how could the other live on?
Yet in their misery they forgot not to pay their reverent vows to
Jupiter, the God of Deliverance, and then together made their way down
from Parnassus and sought the now ruined shrine of Themis. The roofs
were green with moss and slime; no fire burned on the deserted altar.
They fell prostrate and implored the goddess: "O righteous Themis, if
the gods can be moved to love or pity by our prayers; if the miseries
of men can touch them; if there is forgiveness and renewed favor to be
found in them, tell how we may restore mankind, and by a miracle
repeople all the world!"
The gracious goddess bowed to them and said: "Depart! Veil your heads
and cast each behind you the bones of your mighty mother."
The pair stood amazed and dumb with wonder.
Pyrrha could not bring herself to obey the dire and seemingly impious
command.