Theseus afraid! Not had the Minotaur had twenty bull heads instead of
one. Bold as he was, however, I rather fancy that it strengthened his
valiant heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the
silken cord, which he was still holding in his left hand. It was as
if Ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and, much as he
already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice
as much. And to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for now
the Minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of Theseus, and
instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does
when he means to rush against an enemy. At the same time, he belched
forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words
of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing
through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute.
Theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that
rather by his gestures than his words; for the Minotaur's horns were
sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than his
tongue. But probably this was the sense of what he uttered:--
"Ah, wretch of a human being! I'll stick my horns through you, and toss
you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down."
"Come on, then, and try it!" was all that Theseus deigned to reply; for
he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent language.
Without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight
between Theseus and the Minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or
moon. I really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster,
in his first headlong rush against Theseus, had not missed him, by a
hair's breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the stone
wall. On this mishap, he bellowed so intolerably that a part of the
labyrinth tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of Crete mistook the
noise for an uncommonly heavy thunder storm. Smarting with the pain,
he galloped around the open space in so ridiculous a way that Theseus
laughed at it, long afterwards, though not precisely at the moment.
After this, the two antagonists stood valiantly up to one another, and
fought, sword to horn, for a long while. At last, the Minotaur made a
run at Theseus, grazed his left side with his horn, and flung him down;
and thinking that he had stabbed him to the heart, he cut a great caper
in the air, opened his bull mouth from ear to ear, and prepared to
snap his head off. But Theseus by this time had leaped up, and caught
the monster off his guard. Fetching a sword stroke at him with all his
force, he hit him fair upon the neck, and made his bull head skip six
yards from his human body, which fell down flat upon the ground.
[Illustration: "THOU HAST SLAIN THE MONSTER", CRIED ARIADNE, CLASPING
HER HANDS]
So now the battle was ended. Immediately the moon shone out as brightly
as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness and the
ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever. And
Theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another twitch
of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter, he had held
it fast in his left hand. Eager to let Ariadne know of his success,
he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found himself at the
entrance of the labyrinth.
"Thou hast slain the monster," cried Ariadne, clasping her hands.
"Thanks to thee, dear Ariadne," answered Theseus, "I return victorious."
"Then," said Ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get them
and thyself on board the vessel before dawn. If morning finds thee
here, my father will avenge the Minotaur."
To make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and, hardly
knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what Theseus
had done, and that they must set sail for Athens before daybreak.
Hastening down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except
Prince Theseus, who lingered behind them, on the strand, holding
Ariadne's hand clasped in his own.
"Dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us. Thou art too
gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as King Minos.
He cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the little
flower that grows in one of its crevices. But my father, King Ægeus,
and my mother, Æthra, and all the fathers and mothers in Athens, and
all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee as their
benefactress. Come with us, then; for King Minos will be very angry
when he knows what thou hast done."
Now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of Theseus
and Ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden
did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young stranger
whose life she had preserved. They say, too, that Prince Theseus (who
would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in the world)
ungratefully deserted Ariadne, on a solitary island, where the vessel
touched on its voyage to Athens. But, had the noble Theseus heard these
falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors as he served
the Minotaur! Here is what Ariadne answered, when the brave prince of
Athens besought her to accompany him:--
"No, Theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand, and then drawing
back a step or two, "I cannot go with you. My father is old, and has
nobody but myself to love him. Hard as you think his heart is, it would
break to lose me. At first, King Minos will be angry; but he will soon
forgive his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, I know, that
no more youths and maidens must come from Athens to be devoured by the
Minotaur. I have saved you, Theseus, as much for my father's sake as
for your own. Farewell! Heaven bless you!"
All this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet
a dignity, that Theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer.
Nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid Ariadne an affectionate
farewell, and to go on board the vessel, and set sail.
In a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow,
as Prince Theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with
a whistling breeze behind them. Talus, the brazen giant, on his
never-ceasing sentinel's march, happened to be approaching that part of
the coast; and they saw him, by the glimmering of the moonbeams on his
polished surface, while he was yet a great way off. As the figure moved
like clockwork, however, and could neither hasten his enormous strides
nor retard them, he arrived at the port when they were just beyond the
reach of his club. Nevertheless, straddling from headland to headland,
as his custom was, Talus attempted to strike a blow at the vessel, and,
overreaching himself, tumbled full length into the sea, which splashed
high over his gigantic shape, as when an iceberg turns a somerset.
There he lies yet; and whoever desires to enrich himself by means of
brass had better go thither with a diving bell, and fish up Talus.
On the homeward voyage, the fourteen youths and damsels were in
excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose. They spent most of their
time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck slope
too much. In due season, they came within sight of the coast of Attica,
which was their native country. But here, I am grieved to tell you,
happened a sad misfortune.
You will remember (what Theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father,
King Ægeus, had enjoined upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead
of black ones, in case he should overcome the Minotaur, and return
victorious. In the joy of their success, however, and amidst the
sports, dancing, and other merriment, with which these young folks
wore away the time, they never once thought whether their sails were
black, white, or rainbow colored, and, indeed, left it entirely to the
mariners whether they had any sails at all. Thus the vessel returned,
like a raven, with the same sable wings that had wafted her away. But
poor King Ægeus, day after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the
summit of a cliff that overhung the sea, and there sat watching for
Prince Theseus, homeward bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal
blackness of the sails, than he concluded that his dear son, whom he
loved so much, and felt so proud of, had been eaten by the Minotaur.
He could not bear the thought of living any longer; so, first flinging
his crown and scepter into the sea, (useless baubles that they were to
him now!) King Ægeus merely stooped forward, and fell headlong over the
cliff, and was drowned, poor soul, in the waves that foamed at its base!
[Illustration: He concluded that his dear son had been eaten by the
Minotaur.]
This was melancholy news for Prince Theseus, who, when he stepped
ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no;
and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very
much out of spirits. However, he sent for his dear mother to Athens,
and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent
monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE PYGMIES
A great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived
an earth-born Giant, named Antæus, and a million or more of curious
little earth-born people, who were called Pygmies. This Giant and these
Pygmies being children of the same mother, (that is to say, our good
old Grandmother Earth,) were all brethren, and dwelt together in a very
friendly and affectionate manner, far, far off, in the middle of hot
Africa. The Pygmies were so small, and there were so many sandy deserts
and such high mountains between them and the rest of mankind, that
nobody could get a peep at them oftener than once in a hundred years.
As for the Giant, being of a very lofty stature, it was easy enough to
see him, but safest to keep out of his sight.
Among the Pygmies, I suppose, if one of them grew to the height of
six or eight inches, he was reckoned a prodigiously tall man. It must
have been very pretty to behold their little cities, with streets two
or three feet wide, paved with the smallest pebbles, and bordered
by habitations about as big as a squirrel's cage. The king's palace
attained to the stupendous magnitude of Periwinkle's baby house, and
stood in the center of a spacious square, which could hardly have
been covered by our hearth rug. Their principal temple, or cathedral,
was as lofty as yonder bureau, and was looked upon as a wonderfully
sublime and magnificent edifice. All these structures were built
neither of stone nor wood. They were neatly plastered together by the
Pygmy workmen, pretty much like birds' nests, out of straw, feathers,
egg shells, and other small bits of stuff, with stiff clay instead of
mortar; and when the hot sun had dried them, they were just as snug and
comfortable as a Pygmy could desire.
The country round about was conveniently laid out in fields, the
largest of which was nearly of the same extent as one of Sweet Fern's
flower beds. Here the Pygmies used to plant wheat and other kinds of
grain, which, when it grew up and ripened, overshadowed these tiny
people, as the pines, and the oaks, and the walnut and chestnut trees
overshadow you and me, when we walk in our own tracts of woodland. At
harvest time, they were forced to go with their little axes and cut
down the grain, exactly as a woodcutter makes a clearing in the forest;
and when a stalk of wheat, with its overburdened top, chanced to come
crashing down upon an unfortunate Pygmy, it was apt to be a very sad
affair. If it did not smash him all to pieces, at least, I am sure, it
must have made the poor little fellow's head ache. And O, my stars!
if the fathers and mothers were so small, what must the children and
babies have been? A whole family of them might have been put to bed in
a shoe, or have crept into an old glove, and played hide and seek in
its thumb and fingers. You might have hidden a year-old baby under a
thimble.
Now these funny Pygmies, as I told you before, had a Giant for their
neighbor and brother, who was bigger, if possible, than they were
little. He was so very tall that he carried a pine tree, which was
eight feet through the butt, for a walking stick. It took a far-sighted
Pygmy, I can assure you, to discern his summit without the help of
a telescope; and sometimes, in misty weather, they could not see
his upper half, but only his long legs, which seemed to be striding
about by themselves. But at noonday, in a clear atmosphere, when the
sun shone brightly over him, the Giant Antæus presented a very grand
spectacle. There he used to stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with
his great countenance smiling down upon his little brothers, and his
one vast eye (which was as big as a cart wheel, and placed right in the
center of his forehead) giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at
once.
[Illustration: This giant and these pygmies were all brethren.]
The Pygmies loved to talk with Antæus; and fifty times a day, one or
another of them would turn up his head, and shout through the hollow
of his fists, "Halloo, brother Antæus! How are you, my good fellow?"
And when the small, distant squeak of their voices reached his ear, the
Giant would make answer, "Pretty well, brother Pygmy, I thank you,"
in a thunderous roar that would have shaken down the walls of their
strongest temple, only that it came from so far aloft.
It was a happy circumstance that Antæus was the Pygmy people's friend;
for there was more strength in his little finger than in ten million
of such bodies as theirs. If he had been as ill-natured to them as he
was to everybody else, he might have beaten down their biggest city at
one kick, and hardly have known that he did it. With the tornado of
his breath, he could have stripped the roofs from a hundred dwellings,
and sent thousands of the inhabitants whirling through the air. He
might have set his immense foot upon a multitude; and when he took
it up again, there would have been a pitiful sight, to be sure. But,
being the son of Mother Earth, as they likewise were, the Giant gave
them his brotherly kindness, and loved them with as big a love as it
was possible to feel for creatures so very small. And, on their parts,
the Pygmies loved Antæus with as much affection as their tiny hearts
could hold. He was always ready to do them any good offices that lay
in his power; as for example, when they wanted a breeze to turn their
wind mills, the Giant would set all the sails a-going with the mere
natural respiration of his lungs. When the sun was too hot, he often
sat himself down, and let his shadow fall over the kingdom, from one
frontier to the other; and as for matters in general, he was wise
enough to let them alone, and leave the Pygmies to manage their own
affairs--which, after all, is about the best thing that great people
can do for little ones.
In short, as I said before, Antæus loved the Pygmies, and the Pygmies
loved Antæus. The Giant's life being as long as his body was large,
while the lifetime of a Pygmy was but a span, this friendly intercourse
had been going on for innumerable generations and ages. It was written
about in the Pygmy histories, and talked about in their ancient
traditions. The most venerable and white-bearded Pygmy had never heard
of a time even, in his greatest of grandfather's days, when the Giant
was not their enormous friend. Once, to be sure, (as was recorded on
an obelisk, three feet high, erected on the place of the catastrophe,)
Antæus sat down upon about five thousand Pygmies who were assembled
at a military review. But this was one of those unlucky accidents for
which nobody is to blame; so that the small folks never took it to
heart and only requested the Giant to be careful forever afterwards to
examine the acre of ground where he intended to squat himself.
[Illustration: THE GIANT GAVE THEM HIS BROTHERLY KINDNESS]
It is a very pleasant picture to imagine Antæus standing among the
Pygmies, like the spire of the tallest cathedral that ever was built,
while they ran about like pismires at his feet, and to think that, in
spite of their difference in size, there were affection and sympathy
between them and him! Indeed, it has always seemed to me that the Giant
needed the little people more than the Pygmies needed the Giant. For,
unless they had been his neighbors and well wishers, and, as we may
say, his playfellows, Antæus would not have had a single friend in the
world. No other being like himself had ever been created. No creature
of his own size had ever talked with him, in thunder-like accents,
face to face. When he stood with his head among the clouds, he was
quite alone, and had been so for hundreds of years, and would be so
forever. Even if he had met another Giant, Antæus would have fancied
the world not big enough for two such vast personages, and, instead of
being friends with him, would have fought him till one of the two was
killed. But with the Pygmies he was the most sportive, and humorous,
and merry-hearted, and sweet-tempered old Giant that ever washed his
face in a wet cloud.
His little friends, like all other small people, had a great opinion
of their own importance, and used to assume quite a patronizing air
towards the giant.
"Poor creature!" they said one to another. "He has a very dull time of
it, all by himself; and we ought not to grudge wasting a little of our
precious time to amuse him. He is not half so bright as we are, to be
sure; and, for that reason, he needs us to look after his comfort and
happiness. Let us be kind to the old fellow. Why, if Mother Earth had
not been very kind to ourselves, we might all have been Giants too."
On all their holidays, the Pygmies had excellent sport with Antæus.
He often stretched himself out at full length on the ground, where he
looked like the long ridge of a hill; and it was a good hour's walk,
no doubt, for a short-legged Pygmy to journey from head to foot of
the Giant. He would lay down his great hand flat on the grass, and
challenge the tallest of them to clamber upon it, and straddle from
finger to finger. So fearless were they, that they made nothing of
creeping in among the folds of his garments. When his head lay sidewise
on the earth, they would march boldly up, and peep into the great
cavern of his mouth, and take it all as a joke (as indeed it was meant)
when Antæus gave a sudden snap with his jaws, as if he were going
to swallow fifty of them at once. You would have laughed to see the
children dodging in and out among his hair, or swinging from his beard.
It is impossible to tell half of the funny tricks that they played with
their huge comrade; but I do not know that anything was more curious
than when a party of boys were seen running races on his forehead, to
try which of them could get first round the circle of his one great
eye. It was another favorite feat with them to march along the bridge
of his nose, and jump down upon his upper lip.
If the truth must be told, they were sometimes as troublesome to the
Giant as a swarm of ants or mosquitoes, especially as they had a
fondness for mischief, and liked to prick his skin with their little
swords and lances, to see how thick and tough it was. But Antæus took
it all kindly enough; although, once in a while, when he happened to be
sleepy, he would grumble out a peevish word or two, like the muttering
of a tempest, and ask them to have done with their nonsense. A great
deal oftener, however, he watched their merriment and gambols until his
huge, heavy, clumsy wits were completely stirred up by them; and then
would he roar out such a tremendous volume of immeasurable laughter,
that the whole nation of Pygmies had to put their hands to their ears,
else it would certainly have deafened them.
"Ho! ho! ho!" quoth the Giant, shaking his mountainous sides. "What a
funny thing it is to be little! If I were not Antæus, I should like to
be a Pygmy, just for the joke's sake."
The Pygmies had but one thing to trouble them in the world. They were
constantly at war with the cranes, and had always been so, ever since
the long-lived Giant could remember. From time to time, very terrible
battles had been fought, in which sometimes the little men won the
victory, and sometimes the cranes. According to some historians, the
Pygmies used to go to the battle, mounted on the backs of goats and
rams; but such animals as these must have been far too big for Pygmies
to ride upon; so that, I rather suppose, they rode on squirrelback, or
rabbitback, or ratback, or perhaps got upon hedge-hogs, whose prickly
quills would be very terrible to the enemy. However this might be, and
whatever creatures the Pygmies rode upon, I do not doubt that they made
a formidable appearance, armed with sword and spear, and bow and arrow,
blowing their tiny trumpet, and shouting their little war cry. They
never failed to exhort one another to fight bravely, and recollect that
the world had its eyes upon them; although, in simple truth, the only
spectator was the Giant Antæus, with his one, great, stupid eye, in the
middle of his forehead.
When the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward,
flapping their wings and stretching out their necks, and would perhaps
snatch up some of the Pygmies crosswise in their beaks. Whenever this
happened, it was truly an awful spectacle to see those little men
of might kicking and sprawling in the air, and at last disappearing
down the crane's long, crooked throat, swallowed up alive. A hero,
you know, must hold himself in readiness for any kind of fate; and
doubtless the glory of the thing was a consolation to him, even in the
crane's gizzard. If Antæus observed that the battle was going hard
against his little allies, he generally stopped laughing, and ran with
mile-long strides to their assistance, flourishing his club aloft and
shouting at the cranes, who quacked and croaked, and retreated as fast
as they could. Then the Pygmy army would march homeward in triumph,
attributing the victory entirely to their own valor, and to the warlike
skill and strategy of whomsoever happened to be captain general; and
for a tedious while afterwards, nothing would be heard of but grand
processions, and public banquets, and brilliant illuminations, and
shows of waxwork, with likenesses of the distinguished officers, as
small as life.
[Illustration: They were constantly at war with the cranes.]
In the above-described warfare, if a Pygmy chanced to pluck out a
crane's tail feather, it proved a very great feather in his cap. Once
or twice, if you will believe me, a little man was made chief ruler of
the nation for no other merit in the world than bringing home such a
feather.
But I have now said enough to let you see what a gallant little people
these were, and how happily they and their forefathers, for nobody
knows how many generations, had lived with the immeasurable Giant
Antæus. In the remaining part of the story, I shall tell you of a far
more astonishing battle than any that was fought between the Pygmies
and the cranes.
One day the mighty Antæus was lolling at full length among his little
friends. His pine tree walking stick lay on the ground, close by his
side. His head was in one part of the kingdom, and his feet extended
across the boundaries of another part; and he was taking whatever
comfort he could get, while the Pygmies scrambled over him, and peeped
into his cavernous mouth, and played among his hair. Sometimes, for a
minute or two, the Giant dropped asleep, and snored like the rush of a
whirlwind. During one of these little bits of slumber, a Pygmy chanced
to climb upon his shoulder, and took a view around the horizon, as
from the summit of a hill; and he beheld something, a long way off,
which made him rub the bright specks of his eyes, and look sharper than
before. At first he mistook it for a mountain, and wondered how it had
grown up so suddenly out of the earth. But soon he saw the mountain
move. As it came nearer and nearer, what should it turn out to be but a
human shape, not so big as Antæus, it is true, although a very enormous
figure, in comparison with the Pygmies, and a vast deal bigger than the
men whom we see nowadays.
When the Pygmy was quite satisfied that his eyes had not deceived him,
he scampered, as fast as his legs would carry him, to the Giant's ear,
and stooping over its cavity, shouted lustily into it,--
"Halloo, brother Antæus! Get up this minute, and take your pine tree
walking stick in your hand. Here comes another Giant to have a tussle
with you."
"Poh, poh!" grumbled Antæus, only half awake. "None of your nonsense,
my little fellow! Don't you see I'm sleepy. There is not a Giant on
earth for whom I would take the trouble to get up."