to go with her own feet directly down to Erebus. Wherefore, to make no
delay of what was not to be avoided, she goes to the top of a high tower
to precipitate herself headlong, thus to descend the shortest way to the
shades below. But a voice from the tower said to her, “Why, poor unlucky
girl, dost thou design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a manner?
And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger who hast been
so miraculously supported in all thy former?” Then the voice told her how
by a certain cave she might reach the realms of Pluto, and how to avoid
all the dangers of the road, to pass by Cerberus, the three-headed dog,
and prevail on Charon, the ferryman, to take her across the black river
and bring her back again. But the voice added, “When Proserpine has given
you the box filled with her beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be
observed by you, that you never once open or look into the box nor allow
your curiosity to pry into the treasure of the beauty of the goddesses.”
Psyche, encouraged by this advice, obeyed it in all things, and taking
heed to her ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto. She was
admitted to the palace of Proserpine, and without accepting the seat or
delicious banquet that was offered her, but contented with coarse bread
for her food, she delivered her message from Venus. Presently the box was
returned to her, shut and filled with the precious commodity. Then she
returned the way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into
the light of day.
But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a longing
desire seized her to examine the contents of the box. “What,” said she,
“shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty, not take the least bit to
put on my cheeks to appear to more advantage in the eyes of my beloved
husband!” So she carefully opened the box, but found nothing there of any
beauty at all, but an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which being thus
set free from its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in
the midst of the road, without sense or motion.
But Cupid, being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer to
bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the smallest
crack of the window of his chamber which happened to be left open, flew
to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up the sleep from her body
closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche with a light touch of one
of his arrows. “Again,” said he, “hast thou almost perished by the same
curiosity. But now perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother,
and I will take care of the rest.”
Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven,
presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent
a favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of the lovers so earnestly with
Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent Mercury to bring Psyche
up to the heavenly assembly, and when she arrived, handing her a cup of
ambrosia, he said, “Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid
ever break away from the knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials
shall be perpetual.”
HOW PHAËTON DROVE THE SUN
By Thomas Bulfinch
Phaëton was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day a
schoolfellow laughed at the idea of his being the son of the god, and
Phaëton went in rage and shame and reported it to his mother. “If,” said
he, “I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother, some proof of it,
and establish my claim to the honor.” Clymene stretched forth her hands
towards the skies, and said, “I call to witness the Sun which looks down
upon us, that I have told you the truth. If I speak falsely, let this be
the last time I behold his light. But it needs not much labor to go and
inquire for yourself; the land whence the Sun rises lies next to ours.
Go and demand of him whether he will own you as a son.” Phaëton heard
with delight. He travelled to India, which lies directly in the regions
of sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence his
parent begins his course.
The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering with gold
and precious stones, while polished ivory formed the ceilings, and silver
the doors. Upon the walls Vulcan had represented earth, sea, and skies,
with their inhabitants. In the sea were the nymphs, some sporting in the
waves, some riding on the backs of fishes, while others sat upon the
rocks and dried their sea-green hair. The earth had its towns and forests
and rivers. Over all was carved the likeness of the glorious heaven; and
on the silver doors the twelve signs of the zodiac, six on each side.
Clymene’s son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls of his
father. He approached the paternal presence, but stopped at a distance,
for the light was more than he could bear. Phœbus, arrayed in a purple
vesture, sat on a throne, which glittered as with diamonds. On his right
hand and his left stood the Day, the Month, and the Year, and, at regular
intervals, the Hours. Spring stood with her head crowned with flowers,
and Summer, with a garland formed of spears of ripened grain, and Autumn,
with his feet stained with grape-juice, and icy Winter, with his hair
stiffened with hoar frost.
Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun, with the eye that sees
everything, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of
the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, “O
light of the boundless world, Phœbus, my father—if you permit me to use
that name—give me some proof, I beseech you, by which I may be known as
yours.” He ceased; and his father, laying aside the beams that shone all
around his head, bade him approach, and embracing him, said, “My son, you
deserve not to be disowned, and I confirm what your mother has told you.
To put an end to your doubts, ask what you will, the gift shall be yours.
I call to witness that dreadful lake, which I never saw, but which we
gods swear by in our most solemn engagements.” Phaëton immediately asked
to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of the Sun. The father
repented of his promise; thrice and four times he shook his radiant
head in warning. “I have spoken rashly,” said he; “this request only I
would deny. I beg you to withdraw it. It is not a safe boon, nor one,
my Phaëton, suited to your youth and strength. Your lot is mortal, and
you ask what is beyond a mortal’s power. In your ignorance you aspire
to do that which not even the gods themselves may do. None but myself
may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter, whose terrible right
arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the way is steep, and such
as the horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle is
high up in the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without alarm, look
down and behold the earth and sea stretched beneath me. The last part of
the road descends rapidly, and requires most careful driving. Tethys,
who is waiting to receive me, often trembles for me lest I should fall
headlong. Add to all this, the heaven is all the time turning round and
carrying the stars with it. I have to be perpetually on my guard lest
that movement, which sweeps everything else along, should hurry me also
away. Suppose I should lend you the chariot, what would you do? Could you
keep your course while the earth was revolving under you? Perhaps you
think that there are forests and cities, the abodes of gods, and palaces
and temples on the way. On the contrary, the road is through the midst
of frightful monsters. You pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of
the Archer, and near the Lion’s jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches
its arms in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor will you find it
easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that they
breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. I can scarcely govern them
myself, when they are unruly and resist the reins. Beware, my son, lest
I be the donor of a fatal gift, recall your request while yet you may.
Do you ask me for a proof that you are sprung from my blood? I give you
a proof in my fears for you. Look at my face—I would that you could look
into my heart, you would there see all a father’s anxiety. Finally,” he
continued, “look round the world and choose whatever you will of what
earth or sea contains most precious—ask it and fear no refusal. This only
I pray you not to urge. It is not honor, but destruction you seek. Why
do you hang round my neck and still entreat me? You shall have it if you
persist—the oath is sworn and must be kept—but I beg you to choose more
wisely.”
He ended; but the youth rejected all admonition and held to his demand.
So, having resisted as long as he could, Phœbus at last led the way to
where stood the lofty chariot.
It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan; the axle was of gold, the pole
and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of
chrysolites and diamonds which reflected the brightness of the sun. While
the daring youth gazed in admiration, the early Dawn threw open the
purple doors of the east, and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The
stars withdrew, marshalled by the Day-star, which last of all retired
also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow, and the Moon
preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the horses. They
obeyed, and led forth the steeds from the lofty stalls, and attached
the reins. Then the father bathed the face of his son with a powerful
ointment, and made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame.
He set the rays on his head, and, with a foreboding sigh, said, “If, my
son, you will in this at least heed my advice, spare the whip and hold
tight the reins. They go fast enough of their own accord; the labor is
to hold them in. You are not to take the straight road directly between
the five circles, but turn off to the left. Keep within the limit of the
middle zone, and avoid the northern and the southern alike. You will see
the marks of the wheels, and they will serve to guide you. And, that the
skies and the earth may each receive their due share of heat, go not too
high, or you will burn the heavenly dwellings, nor too low, or you will
set the earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best. And now I
leave you to your chance, which I hope will plan better for you than you
have done for yourself. Night is passing out of the western gates and
we can delay no longer. Take the reins; but if at last your heart fails
you, and you will benefit by my advice, stay where you are in safety, and
suffer me to light and warm the earth.” The agile youth sprang into the
chariot, stood erect, and grasped the reins with delight, pouring out
thanks to his reluctant parent.
Meanwhile the horses fill the air with their snortings and fiery breath,
and stamp the ground impatiently. Now the bars are let down, and the
boundless plain of the universe lies open before them. They dart forward
and cleave the opposing clouds, and outrun the morning breezes which
started from the same eastern goal. The steeds soon perceived that the
load they drew was lighter than usual; and as a ship without ballast
is tossed hither and thither on the sea, so the chariot, without its
accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. They rush headlong and
leave the travelled road. Phaëton is alarmed, and knows not how to guide
them; nor, if he knew, has he the power. Then, for the first time, the
Great and Little Bear were scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were
possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled
up round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth
felt its rage revive.
When Phaëton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast extent
beneath him, he grew pale and his knees shook with terror. In spite of
the glare all around him, the sight of his eyes grew dim. He wished
he had never touched his father’s horses, never learned his parentage,
never prevailed in his request. He is borne along like a vessel that
flies before a tempest, when the pilot can do no more. What shall he do?
Much of the heavenly road is left behind, but more remains before. He
turns his eyes from one direction to the other; now to the goal whence he
began his course, now to the realms of sunset which he is not destined
to reach. He loses his self-command, and knows not what to do—whether
to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgets the names of
the horses. He sees with terror the monstrous forms scattered over the
surface of heaven. Here the Scorpion extended his two great arms, with
his tail and crooked claws stretching over two signs of the zodiac. When
the boy beheld him, reeking with poison and menacing with his fangs, his
courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands. The horses, when they
felt them loose on their backs, dashed headlong, and unrestrained went
off into unknown regions of the sky, in among the stars, hurling the
chariot over pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down almost to
the earth. The Moon saw with astonishment her brother’s chariot running
beneath her own. The clouds begin to smoke, and the mountain tops take
fire; the fields are parched with heat, the plants wither, the trees with
their leafy branches burn, the harvest is ablaze! But these are small
things. Great cities perished, with their walls and towers; whole nations
with their people were consumed to ashes! Then Phaëton beheld the world
on fire, and felt the heat intolerable. The air he breathed was like the
air of a furnace and full of burning ashes, and the smoke was of a pitchy
darkness. He dashed forward he knew not whither. Then, it is believed,
the people of Æthiopia became black by the blood being forced so suddenly
to the surface, and the Libyan desert was dried up to the condition
in which it remains to this day. The Nymphs of the fountains, with
dishevelled hair, mourned their waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath
their banks. The Nile fled away and hid his head in the desert, and there
it still remains concealed. Where he used to discharge his waters through
seven mouths into the sea, there seven dry channels alone remained. The
earth cracked open, and through the chinks light broke into Tartarus,
and frightened the King of Shadows and his queen. The sea shrank up.
Where before was water, it became a dry plain; and the mountains that lie
beneath the waves lifted up their heads and became islands. The fishes
sought the lowest depths, and the dolphins no longer ventured as usual to
sport on the surface. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his head above the
surface, and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth, surrounded as she
was by waters, yet with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with
her hand, looked up to heaven, and with a husky voice called on Jupiter:
“O ruler of the gods, if I have deserved this treatment, and it is
your will that I perish with fire, why withhold your thunderbolts? Let
me at least fall by your hand. Is this the reward of my fertility, of
my obedient service? Is it for this that I have supplied herbage for
cattle, and fruits for men, and frankincense for your altars? But if I
am unworthy of regard, what has my brother Ocean done to deserve such a
fate? If neither of us can excite your pity, think, I pray you, of your
own heaven, and behold how both the poles are smoking which sustain your
palace, which must fall if they be destroyed. Atlas faints, and scarce
holds up his burden. If sea, earth, and heaven perish, we fall into
ancient Chaos. Save what yet remains to us from the devouring flame. Oh,
take thought for our deliverance in this awful moment!”
Thus spoke Earth, and overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more.
Then Jupiter omnipotent, calling to witness all the gods, including him
who had lent the chariot, and showing them that all was lost unless
some speedy remedy were applied, mounted the lofty tower from whence he
diffuses clouds over the earth, and hurls the forked lightnings. But at
that time not a cloud was to be found to interpose for a screen to earth,
nor was a shower remaining unexhausted. He thundered, and brandishing a
lightning bolt in his right hand launched it against the charioteer, and
struck him at the same moment from his seat and from existence! Phaëton,
with his hair on fire, fell headlong, like a shooting star which marks
the heavens with its brightness as it falls, and Eridanus, the great
river, received him and cooled his burning frame.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON, WHO WERE CHANGED INTO TWO TREES
By Thomas Bulfinch
On a certain hill in Phrygia stands a linden tree and an oak, enclosed
by a low wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh, formerly good habitable
land, but now indented with pools, the resort of fen-birds and
cormorants. Once on a time Jupiter, in human shape, visited this country,
and with him his son Mercury, without his wings.
They presented themselves, as weary travellers, at many a door, seeking
rest and shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the
inhospitable inhabitants would not rouse themselves to open for their
reception.
At last a humble mansion received them, a small thatched cottage,
where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband Philemon had grown
old together. Not ashamed of their poverty, they made it endurable by
moderate desires and kind dispositions. One need not look there for
master or for servant; they two were the whole household, master and
servant alike.
When the two heavenly guests crossed the humble threshold, and bowed
their heads to pass under the low door, the old man placed a seat, on
which Baucis, bustling and attentive, spread a cloth, and begged them
to sit down. Then she raked out the coals from the ashes and kindled up
a fire, fed it with leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty breath
blew it into a flame. She brought out of a corner split sticks and dry
branches, broke them up, and placed them under the small kettle. Her
husband collected some pot-herbs in the garden and she shred them from
the stalks and prepared them for the pot. He reached down with a forked
stick a flitch of bacon hanging in the chimney, cut a small piece, and
put it in the pot to boil with the herbs, setting away the rest for
another time. A beechen bowl was filled with warm water, that their
guests might wash. While all was doing, they beguiled the time with
conversation.
On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed with
seaweed; and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but ancient and
coarse enough, was spread over that. The old lady, with her apron on,
with trembling hand set the table. One leg was shorter than the rest, but
a piece of slate put under restored the level. When fixed, she rubbed the
table down with some sweet-smelling herbs. Upon it she set some olives,
some berries preserved in vinegar, and added radishes and cheese, with
eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. All were served in earthen dishes, and
an earthenware pitcher, with wooden cups, stood beside them. When all was
ready, the stew, smoking hot, was set on the table. Some wine, not of the
oldest, was added; and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and
above all, friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.
Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to see that
the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself in the pitcher,
of its own accord.
Struck with terror, Baucis and Philemon recognized their heavenly guests,
fell on their knees, and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for
their poor entertainment.
There was an old goose, which they kept as the guardian of their humble
cottage; and they bethought them to make this a sacrifice in honor of
their guests. But the goose, too nimble, with the aid of feet and wings,
for the old folks, eluded their pursuit, and at last took shelter between
the gods themselves.
They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these words: “We are gods. This
inhospitable village shall pay the penalty of its impiety; you alone
shall go free from the chastisement. Quit your house, and come with us to
the top of yonder hill.”
They hastened to obey, and, staff in hand, labored up the steep ascent.
They had reached to within an arrow’s flight of the top, when turning
their eyes below, they beheld all the country sunk in a lake, only their
own house left standing.
While they gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate of their
neighbors, that old house of theirs was changed into a _temple_. Columns
took the place of the corner posts, the thatch grew yellow and appeared
a gilded roof, the floors became marble, the doors were enriched with
carving and ornaments of gold.
Then spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: “Excellent old man, and woman
worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor have
you to ask of us?”
Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few moments; then declared to the
gods their united wish: “We ask to be priests and guardians of this your
temple; and since here we have passed our lives in love and concord, we
wish that one and the same hour may take us both from life, that I may
not live to see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her.” Their prayer
was granted. They were the keepers of the temple as long as they lived.
When grown very old, as they stood one day before the steps of the sacred
edifice, and were telling the story of the place, Baucis saw Philemon
begin to put forth leaves, and old Philemon saw Baucis changing in like
manner. And now a leafy crown had grown over their heads while exchanging
parting words, as long as they could speak. “Farewell, dear spouse,” they
said, together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their mouths.
The Tyanean shepherd still shows the two trees, standing side by side,
made out of the two good old people.
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was
a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and,
that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him, and be his
playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt was a great box. And almost the first question which she
put to him after crossing the threshold was this: “Epimetheus, what have
you in that box?”
“My dear little Pandora,” answered Epimetheus, “that is a secret, and you
must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was left
here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains.”
“But who gave it to you?” asked Pandora. “And where did it come from?”
“That is a secret, too,” replied Epimetheus.
“How provoking!” exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. “I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way!”
“Oh, come, don’t think of it any more,” cried Epimetheus. “Let us run out
of doors and have some nice play with the other children.”
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world nowadays is a very different sort of thing from what it was
in their time. Then everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and
mothers to take care of the children, because there was no danger nor
trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always
plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner he found it
growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he could
see the expanding blossom of that night’s supper; or, at eventide, he
saw the tender bud of to-morrow’s breakfast. It was a very pleasant life
indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but sports
and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or carolling like
birds, or gushing out in merry laughter throughout the livelong day.
What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarrelled among
themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first
began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a
corner, and sulked. Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in! The
truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are
now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the
earth. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child
had ever experienced was Pandora’s vexation at not being able to discover
the secret of the mysterious box.
This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it
grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage
of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other
children.
“Whence can the box have come?” Pandora continually kept saying to
herself and to Epimetheus. “And what in the world can be inside of it?”