offspring, Apollo and Diana—when the people of Thebes were assembled,
their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense in the altars and
paying their vows—that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was
splendid with gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face of
an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty
looks. “What folly,” said she, “is this!—to prefer beings whom you never
saw to those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored
with worship, and none be paid to me? My father was Tantalus, who was
received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess.
My husband built and rules this city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal
inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power;
nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me
add I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and
daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause
for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan’s daughter,
with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am
I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this? My abundance
is my security. I feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue. She may
take from me much; I shall still have much left. Were I to lose some of
my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two
only. Away with you from these solemnities—put off the laurel from your
brows—have done with this worship!” The people obeyed, and left the
sacred services uncompleted.
The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top where she dwelt
she thus addressed her son and daughter: “My children, I who have been so
proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of
the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a
goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect
me.”
She was proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. “Say no
more,” said he; “speech only delays punishment.”
So said Diana also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they
alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a
broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their warlike sports.
The sons of Niobe were there with the rest—some mounted on spirited
horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots.
Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with
an arrow from above, cried out, “Ah, me!” dropped the reins, and fell
lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow—like a boatman who sees
the storm gathering and makes all sail for the port—gave the reins to his
horses and attempted to escape. The arrow overtook him as he fled. Two
younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone to the playground to have
a game of wrestling. As they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced
them both. They uttered a cry together, cast a parting look around them,
and together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them
fall, hastened to the spot to render assistance, and fell stricken in the
act.
One only was left, Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether
prayer might not vail. “Spare me, ye gods!” he cried, addressing all; and
Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string,
and it was too late.
The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe
acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it possible;
she was indignant that the gods had dared, and amazed that they had
been able, to do it. Her husband, Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow,
destroyed himself.
Alas! how different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away
the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course through the
city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes! She knelt
over the lifeless bodies, and kissed now one, now another of her dead
sons. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, “Cruel Latona,” said she, “feed
full your rage with my anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow
to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am,
I am still richer than you, my conqueror.”
Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck terror into all
hearts except Niobe’s alone. She was brave from excess of grief. The
sisters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead
brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she was
bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to
speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried to escape by flight,
a fourth by concealment, another stood trembling, uncertain what course
to take. Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held
clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. “Spare
me one, and that the youngest! O spare me one of so many!” she cried;
and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat, among sons,
daughters, husband, all dead, stunned with grief. The breeze moved not
her hair, no color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable,
there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof
of her mouth. She was changed to stone. Yet tears continued to flow;
and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a
mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her
never-ending grief.
THE SAD STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE
By Thomas Bulfinch
Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden, in
all Babylon, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining
houses, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have
married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, they could not
forbid—that love should glow with equal ardor in the hearts of both. They
conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned more intensely for
being covered up. In the wall that separated the two houses there was
a crack. No one had remarked it before, but the lovers discovered it.
It afforded a passage to the voice, and messages used to pass backward
and forward through the gap. “Cruel wall,” they said, “why do you keep
us apart? But we will not be ungrateful. We owe you the privilege of
transmitting loving words to willing ears.” Such words they uttered
on different sides of the wall; and when night came and they must say
farewell, they pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side, he on
his, as they could come no nearer.
Next morning, when the sun had melted the frost from the grass, they
met at the accustomed spot. Then, after lamenting their hard fate, they
agreed that next night, when all was still, they would slip away from
watchful eyes, leave their dwellings and walk out into the fields; and
to insure a meeting, repair to a well-known edifice standing without the
city’s bounds, called the Tomb of Ninus, and that the one who came first
should await the other at the foot of a certain tree. It was a white
mulberry tree, and stood near a cool spring. All was agreed on, and they
waited impatiently for the sun to go down beneath the waters and night
to rise up from them. Then cautiously Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by
the family, her head covered with a veil, made her way to the monument
and sat down under the tree. As she sat alone in the dim light of the
evening she descried a lioness, her jaws stained with recent slaughter,
approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. Thisbe fled at the sight,
and sought refuge in the hollow of a rock. As she fled she dropped her
veil. The lioness after drinking at the spring turned to retreat to the
woods, and seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent it with her
bloody mouth.
Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of meeting. He saw
in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the color fled from his cheeks
at the sight. Presently he found the veil all rent and bloody. “O hapless
girl,” said he, “I have been the cause of thy death! Thou, more worthy of
life than I, hast fallen the first victim. I will follow. I am the guilty
cause, in tempting thee forth to a place of such peril, and not being
myself on the spot to guard thee. Come forth, ye lions, from the rocks,
and tear this guilty body with your teeth.” He took up the veil, carried
it with him to the appointed tree, and covered it with kisses and with
tears. “_My_ blood also shall stain your texture,” said he, and drawing
his sword plunged it into his heart. The blood spurted from the wound,
and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all red; and sinking into the
earth reached the roots, so that the red color mounted through the trunk
to the fruit.
By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to
disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for
the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had escaped. When she came
to the spot and saw the changed color of the mulberries she doubted
whether it was the same place. While she hesitated she saw the form
of one struggling in the agonies of death. She started back, a shudder
ran through her frame as a ripple on the face of the still water when
a sudden breeze sweeps over it. But as soon as she recognized her
lover, she screamed, beat her breast, and embraced the lifeless body.
“O Pyramus,” she cried, “what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it is
Thisbe that speaks. Hear me, dearest, and lift that drooping head!” At
the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again. She
saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword.
“Thy own hand has slain thee, and for my sake,” she said. “I too can be
brave for once, and my love is as strong as thine. I will follow thee in
death, for I have been the cause; and death which alone could part us
shall not prevent my joining thee. And ye, unhappy parents of us both,
deny us not our united request. As love and death have joined us, let one
tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter. Let thy
berries still serve for memorials of our blood.” So saying she plunged
the sword into her breast. Her parents ratified her wish, the gods also
ratified it. The two bodies were buried in one sepulchre, and the tree
ever after brought forth purple berries, as it does to this day.
THE TWELVE LABORS OF HERCULES
By Thomas Bulfinch
Hercules was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena. As Juno was always hostile
to the offspring of her husband by mortal mothers, she declared war
against Hercules from his birth. She sent two serpents to destroy him as
he lay in his cradle, but the brave infant strangled them with his own
hands.
He was, however, by the arts of Juno rendered subject to Eurystheus and
compelled to perform all his commands. Eurystheus gave him a succession
of desperate tasks, which are called the “Twelve Labors of Hercules,” The
first was the fight with the Nemean lion.
The valley of Nemea was infested by a terrible lion. Eurystheus ordered
Hercules to bring him the skin of this monster. After using in vain his
club and arrows against the lion, Hercules strangled the animal with
his hands. He returned carrying the dead lion on his shoulders; but
Eurystheus was so frightened at the sight of it and at this proof of
the prodigious strength of the hero, that he ordered him to deliver the
account of his exploits in future outside the town.
His next labor was the slaughter of the Hydra. This monster ravaged the
country of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well of Amymone. This
well had been discovered by Amymone when the country was suffering from
drought, and the story was that Neptune, who loved her, had permitted
her to touch the rock with his trident, and a spring of three outlets
burst forth. Here the Hydra took up his position, and Hercules was sent
to destroy him. The Hydra had nine heads, of which the middle one was
immortal.
Hercules struck off its heads with his club, but in the place of the
head knocked off, two new ones grew forth each time. At length with the
assistance of his faithful servant Iolaus, he burned away the heads of
the Hydra, and buried the ninth or immortal one under a huge rock.
Another labor was the cleaning of the Augean stables. Augeas, King of
Elis, had a herd of three thousand oxen, whose stalls had not been
cleansed for thirty years. Hercules brought the rivers Alpheus and Peneus
through them, and cleansed them thoroughly in one day.
His next labor was of a more delicate kind. Admeta, the daughter of
Eurystheus, longed to obtain the girdle of the Queen of the Amazons, and
Eurystheus ordered Hercules to go and get it. The Amazons were a nation
of women. They were very warlike and held several flourishing cities.
It was their custom to bring up only the female children; the boys were
either sent away to the neighboring nations or put to death. Hercules was
accompanied by a number of volunteers, and after various adventures at
last reached the country of the Amazons. Hippolyta, the queen, received
him kindly, and consented to yield him her girdle, but Juno, taking
the form of an Amazon, went and persuaded the rest that the strangers
were carrying off their queen. They instantly armed and came in great
numbers down to the ship. Hercules, thinking that Hippolyta had acted
treacherously, slew her, and taking her girdle made sail homeward.
Another task enjoined him was to bring to Eurystheus the oxen of Geryon,
a monster with three bodies, who dwelt in the island Erytheia (the red),
so called because it lay at the west, under the rays of the setting
sun. This description is thought to apply to Spain, of which Geryon was
king. After traversing various countries, Hercules reached at length
the frontiers of Libya and Europe, where he raised the two mountains of
Calpe and Abyla, as monuments of his progress, or, according to another
account, rent one mountain into two and left half on each side, forming
the straits of Gibraltar, the two mountains being called the Pillars of
Hercules. The oxen were guarded by the giant Eurytion and his two-headed
dog, but Hercules killed the giant and his dog and brought away the oxen
in safety to Eurystheus.
The most difficult labor of all was getting the golden apples of the
Hesperides, for Hercules did not know where to find them. These were the
apples which Juno had received at her wedding from the goddess of the
Earth, and which she had intrusted to the keeping of the daughters of
Hesperus, assisted by a watchful dragon.
A celebrated exploit of Hercules was his victory over Antæus. Antæus, the
son of Terra, the Earth, was a mighty giant and wrestler, whose strength
was invincible so long as he remained in contact with his mother Earth.
He compelled all strangers who came to his country to wrestle with him,
on condition that if conquered (as they all were) they should be put to
death. Hercules encountered him, and finding that it was of no avail to
throw him, for he always rose with renewed strength from every fall, he
lifted him up from the earth and strangled him in the air.
Cacus was a huge giant, who inhabited a cave on Mount Aventine, and
plundered the surrounding country. When Hercules was driving home the
oxen of Geryon, Cacus stole part of the cattle, while the hero slept.
That their footprints might not serve to show where they had been driven,
he dragged them backward by their tails to his cave; so their tracks all
seemed to show that they had gone in the opposite direction. Hercules was
deceived by this stratagem, and would have failed to find his oxen, if it
had not happened that in driving the remainder of the herd past the cave
where the stolen ones were concealed, those within began to low, and were
thus discovered. Cacus was slain by Hercules.
The last exploit we shall record was bringing Cerberus from the lower
world. Cerberus was the three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to
Hades. Hercules descended into Hades, accompanied by Mercury and Minerva.
He obtained permission from Pluto to carry Cerberus to the upper air,
provided he could do it without the use of weapons; and in spite of the
monster’s struggling, he seized him, held him fast, and carried him to
Eurystheus, and afterward brought him back again. When he was in Hades
he obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and imitator, who had
been detained a prisoner there for an unsuccessful attempt to carry off
Proserpine.
Hercules in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus, and was condemned
for this offence to become the slave of Queen Omphale for three years.
While in this service the hero’s nature seemed changed. He lived
effeminately, wearing at times the dress of a woman, spinning wool with
the handmaidens of Omphale, while the queen wore his lion’s skin. When
this service was ended he married Dejanira and lived in peace with her
three years. On one occasion as he was travelling with his wife, they
came to a river, across which the Centaur Nessus carried travellers for
a stated fee. Hercules himself forded the river, but gave Dejanira to
Nessus to be carried across. Nessus attempted to run away with her, but
Hercules heard her cries and shot an arrow into the heart of Nessus. The
dying Centaur told Dejanira to take a portion of his blood and keep it,
as it might be used as a charm to preserve the love of her husband.
Dejanira did so and before long fancied she had occasion to use it.
Hercules in one of his conquests had taken prisoner a fair maiden, named
Iole, of whom he seemed more fond than Dejanira approved. When Hercules
was about to offer sacrifices to the gods in honor of his victory, he
sent to his wife for a white robe to use on the occasion. Dejanira,
thinking it a good opportunity to try her love-spell, steeped the garment
in the blood of Nessus. As soon as the garment became warm on the body
of Hercules the poison penetrated into all his limbs and caused him the
most intense agony. In his frenzy he seized Lichas, who had brought
him the fatal robe, and hurled him into the sea. He wrenched off the
garment, but it stuck to his flesh, and with it he tore away whole pieces
of his body. In this state he embarked on board a ship and was conveyed
home. Dejanira, on seeing what she had unwittingly done, hung herself.
Hercules, prepared to die, ascended Mount Œta, where he built a funeral
pile of trees, gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, and laid himself
down on the pile, his head resting on his club, and his lion’s skin
spread over him. With a countenance as serene as if he were taking his
place at a festal board he commanded Philoctetes to apply the torch. The
flames spread apace and soon invested the whole mass.
The gods themselves felt troubled at seeing the champion of the earth so
brought to his end. But Jupiter with cheerful countenance thus addressed
them: “Fear not. He who conquered all else is not to be conquered by
those flames which you see blazing on Mount Œta. Only his mother’s share
in him can perish; what he derived from me is immortal. I shall take
him, dead to earth, to the heavenly shores, and I require of you all to
receive him kindly.” Jupiter enveloped him in a cloud, and took him up in
a four-horse chariot to dwell among the stars.
HERCULES’S SEARCH FOR THE APPLES OF HESPERIDES
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the
Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price, by
the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of
nowadays! But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit on
a single tree in the wide world. Not so much as a seed of those apples
exists any longer.
And, even in the old, old half-forgotten times, before the garden of the
Hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted whether
they could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their
branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen any.
Children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to stories of the
golden apple-tree, and resolved to discover it, when they should be big
enough. Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing than any
of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit. Many of them returned
no more; none of them brought back the apples. No wonder that they found
it impossible to gather them! It is said that there was a dragon beneath
the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on
the watch, while the other fifty slept.
In my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a
solid golden apple. Had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed
that would be another matter. There might then have been some sense in
trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon.
But, as I have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young
persons, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the
garden of the Hesperides. And once the adventure was undertaken by a
hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the
world. At the time of which I am going to speak, he was wandering through
the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand, and a bow
and quiver slung across his shoulders. He was wrapt in the skin of the
biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself
had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind, and generous, and
noble, there was a good deal of the lion’s fierceness in his heart. As
he went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the right
road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew anything
about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the
question, if the stranger had not carried so very big a club.
So he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at last,
he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women sat
twining wreaths of flowers.
“Can you tell me, pretty maidens,” asked the stranger, “whether this is
the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?”
The young women had been having a fine time together, weaving the
flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another’s heads. And there seemed
to be a kind of magic in the touch of their fingers, that made the
flowers more fresh and dewy, and of brighter hues, and sweeter fragrance,
while they played with them, than even when they had been growing on
their native stems. But, on hearing the stranger’s question, they dropped
all their flowers on the grass, and gazed at him with astonishment.
“The garden of the Hesperides!” cried one. “We thought mortals had been
weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments. And pray, adventurous
traveller, what do you want there?”
“A certain king, who is my cousin,” replied he, “has ordered me to get
him three of the golden apples.”
“Most of the young men who go in quest of these apples,” observed another
of the damsels, “desire to obtain them for themselves, or to present them
to some fair maiden whom they love. Do you, then, love this king, your
cousin, so very much?”
“Perhaps not,” replied the stranger, sighing. “He has often been severe
and cruel to me. But it is my destiny to obey him.”
“And do you know,” asked the damsel who had first spoken, “that a
terrible dragon, with a hundred heads, keeps watch under the golden
apple-tree?”
“I know it well,” answered the stranger, calmly. “But from my cradle
upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with
serpents and dragons.”
The young women looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion’s
skin which he wore, and likewise at his heroic limbs and figure; and
they whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who
might reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of other
men. But, then, the dragon with a hundred heads! What mortal, even if
he possessed a hundred lives, could hope to escape the fangs of such a
monster? So kind-hearted were the maidens, that they could not bear to
see this brave and handsome traveller attempt what was so very dangerous,
and devote himself, most probably, to become a meal for the dragon’s
hundred ravenous mouths.
“Go back,” cried they all—“go back to your own home! Your mother,
beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she do
more, should you win ever so great a victory? No matter for the golden
apples! No matter for the king, your cruel cousin! We do not wish the
dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up!”
The stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances. He
carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay
half buried in the earth, near by. With the force of that idle blow, the
great rock was shattered all to pieces. It cost the stranger no more
effort to achieve this feat of a giant’s strength than for one of the
young maidens to touch her sister’s rosy cheek with a flower.
“Do you not believe,” said he, looking at the damsels with a smile, “that
such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon’s hundred heads?”