was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time,
there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell
you nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see
your daughter again. The best advice I can give you is, to take up your
abode in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in
the world."
"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come with your
torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be
no more hope of finding her, (if that black day is ordained to come,)
then, if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these
withered leaves or on the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be
miserable. But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the
earth, I will not allow myself space even to grieve."
The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate
Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the
sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her
bad spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she
finally consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying
torches, although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The
torchlight seemed to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met,
along the road, could not very distinctly see their figures; and,
indeed, if they once caught a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of
snakes round her forehead, they generally thought it prudent to run
away, without waiting for a second glance.
As the pair travelled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck
Ceres.
"There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor
child, and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I
think of him before? It is Phœbus."
"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine?
O, pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous
young fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is
such a glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor
eyes, which I have almost wept away already."
"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us
make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phœbus along with it."
Accordingly they went along in quest of Phœbus, both of them sighing
grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse
lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in
being miserable and therefore she made the most of it. By and by, after
a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole
world. There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling
ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were
like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face so exceedingly
vivid, that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering that he
ought to wear a black veil. Phœbus (for this was the very person whom
they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making its chords
tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most exquisite
song, which he had recently composed. For, besides a great many other
accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable poetry.
[Illustration: They arrived at the sunniest spot in the world.]
As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phœbus smiled on them
so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and
Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres, she
was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether Phœbus
smiled or frowned.
"Phœbus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to
you for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child
Proserpina?"
"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phœbus,
endeavoring to recollect, for there was such a continual flow of
pleasant ideas in his mind that he was apt to forget what had happened
no longer than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very lovely
child indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the
little Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself perfectly
easy about her. She is safe, and in excellent hands."
"O, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands and
flinging herself at his feet.
"Why," said Phœbus,--and as he spoke, he kept touching his lyre so
as to make a thread of music run in and out among his words,--"as
the little damsel was gathering flowers, (and she has really a very
exquisite taste for flowers,) she was suddenly snatched up by King
Pluto, and carried off to his dominions. I have never been in that
part of the universe; but the royal palace, I am told, is built in a
very noble style of architecture, and of the most splendid and costly
materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious stones,
will be your daughter's ordinary playthings. I recommend to you, my
dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness. Proserpina's sense of beauty
will be duly gratified, and, even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she
will lead a very enviable life."
"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres, indignantly. "What is
there to gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you speak of,
without affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me,
Phœbus, to demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?"
"Pray excuse me," replied Phœbus, with an elegant obeisance. "I
certainly wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so
immediately pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you.
Besides, I am not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell
you the truth, his three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the
gateway; for I should be compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along
with me, and those, you know, are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom."
"Ah, Phœbus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have a
harp instead of a heart. Farewell."
"Will not you stay a moment," asked Phœbus, "and hear me turn the
pretty and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?"
But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate. Phœbus
(who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to
make an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to judge of
his sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed
with a very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the habit of using
his heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as
much as he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though
Phœbus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the
sunbeams amid which he dwelt.
Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter,
but was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary,
looked more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above
ground, there might have been hopes of regaining her. But now that
the poor child was shut up within the iron gates of the king of the
mines, at the threshold of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there
seemed no possibility of her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate,
who loved to take the darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had
better come with her to the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in
being miserable. Ceres answered that Hecate was welcome to go back
thither herself, but that, for her part, she would wander about the
earth in quest of the entrance to King Pluto's dominions. And Hecate
took her at her word, and hurried back to her beloved cave, frightening
a great many little children with a glimpse of her dog's face, as she
went.
Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her
toilsome way, all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the
flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned
together in her heart. So much did she suffer, that, though her aspect
had been quite youthful when her troubles began, she grew to look
like an elderly person in a very brief time. She cared not how she
was dressed, nor had she ever thought of flinging away the wreath of
withered poppies, which she put on the very morning of Proserpina's
disappearance. She roamed about in so wild a way, and with her hair so
dishevelled, that people took her for some distracted creature, and
never dreamed that this was Mother Ceres, who had the oversight of
every seed which the husbandman planted. Nowadays, however, she gave
herself no trouble about seed time nor harvest, but left the farmers
to take care of their own affairs, and the crops to fade or flourish,
as the case might be. There was nothing, now, in which Ceres seemed to
feel an interest, unless when she saw children at play, or gathering
flowers along the wayside. Then, indeed, she would stand and gaze
at them with tears in her eyes. The children, too, appeared to have
a sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves in a little
group about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face; and Ceres,
after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them to their homes, and
advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight.
"For if they do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me,
that the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a liking to your darlings,
and snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away."
One day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to Pluto's
kingdom, she came to the palace of King Celeus, who reigned at Eleusis.
Ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered the portal, and found
the royal household in very great alarm about the queen's baby. The
infant, it seems, was sickly, (being troubled with its teeth, I
suppose,) and would take no food, and was all the time moaning with
pain. The queen--her name was Metanira--was desirous of finding a
nurse; and when she beheld a woman of matronly aspect coming up the
steps, she thought in her own mind, that here was the very person whom
she needed. So Queen Metanira ran to the door, with the poor wailing
baby in her arms, and besought Ceres to take charge of it, or, at
least, to tell her what would do it good.
"Will you trust the child entirely to me?" asked Ceres.
"Yes, and gladly too," answered the queen, "if you will devote all your
time to him. For I can see that you have been a mother."
"You are right," said Ceres. "I once had a child of my own. Well, I
will be the nurse of this poor, sickly boy. But beware, I warn you,
that you do not interfere with any kind of treatment which I may judge
proper for him. If you do so, the poor infant must suffer for his
mother's folly."
Then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good, for he smiled
and nestled closely into her bosom.
So Mother Ceres set her torch in a corner, (where it kept burning all
the while,) and took up her abode in the palace of King Celeus, as
nurse to the little Prince Demophoön. She treated him as if he were her
own child, and allowed neither the king nor the queen to say whether
he should be bathed in warm or cold water, or what he should eat, or
how often he should take the air, or when he should be put to bed.
You would hardly believe me, if I were to tell how quickly the baby
prince got rid of his ailments, and grew fat, and rosy, and strong, and
how he had two rows of ivory teeth in less time than any other little
fellow, before or since. Instead of the palest, and wretchedest, and
puniest imp in the world, (as his own mother confessed him to be, when
Ceres first took him in charge,) he was now a strapping baby, crowing,
laughing, kicking up his heels, and rolling from one end of the room
to the other. All the good women of the neighborhood crowded to the
palace, and held up their hands, in unutterable amazement, at the
beauty and wholesomeness of this darling little prince. Their wonder
was the greater, because he was never seen to taste any food; not even
so much as a cup of milk.
"Pray, nurse," the queen kept saying, "how it is that you make the
child thrive so?"
"I was a mother once," Ceres always replied; "and having nursed my own
child, I know what other children need."
But Queen Metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity to
know precisely what the nurse did to her child. One night, therefore,
she hid herself in the chamber where Ceres and the little prince were
accustomed to sleep. There was a fire in the chimney, and it had now
crumbled into great coals and embers, which lay glowing on the hearth,
with a blaze flickering up now and then, and flinging a warm and ruddy
light upon the walls. Ceres sat before the hearth with the child in
her lap, and the fire-light making her shadow dance upon the ceiling
overhead. She undressed the little prince, and bathed him all over with
some fragrant liquid out of a vase. The next thing that she did was
to rake back the red embers, and make a hollow place among them, just
where the backlog had been. At last, while the baby was crowing, and
clapping its fat little hands, and laughing in the nurse's face, (just
as you may have seen your little brother or sister do before going into
its warm bath,) Ceres suddenly laid him, all naked as he was, in the
hollow among the red-hot embers. She then raked the ashes over him, and
turned quietly away.
You may imagine, if you can, how Queen Metanira shrieked, thinking
nothing less than that her dear child would be burned to a cinder. She
burst forth from her hiding-place, and running to the hearth, raked
open the fire, and snatched up poor little Prince Demophoön out of his
bed of live coals, one of which he was gripping in each of his fists.
He immediately set up a grievous cry, as babies are apt to do, when
rudely startled out of a sound sleep. To the queen's astonishment and
joy, she could perceive no token of the child's being injured by the
hot fire in which he had lain. She now turned to Mother Ceres, and
asked her to explain the mystery.
"Foolish woman," answered Ceres, "did you not promise to intrust this
poor infant entirely to me? You little know the mischief you have done
him. Had you left him to my care, he would have grown up like a child
of celestial birth, endowed with superhuman strength and intelligence,
and would have lived forever. Do you imagine that earthly children are
to become immortal without being tempered to it in the fiercest heat
of the fire? But you have ruined your own son. For though he will be
a strong man and a hero in his day, yet, on account of your folly,
he will grow old, and finally die, like the sons of other women. The
weak tenderness of his mother has cost the poor boy an immortality.
Farewell."
Saying these words, she kissed the little Prince Demophoön, and sighed
to think what he had lost, and took her departure without heeding Queen
Metanira, who entreated her to remain, and cover up the child among the
hot embers as often as she pleased. Poor baby! He never slept so warmly
again.
While she dwelt in the king's palace, Mother Ceres had been so
continually occupied with taking care of the young prince, that her
heart was a little lightened of its grief for Proserpina. But now,
having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just as wretched
as before. At length, in her despair, she came to the dreadful
resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, nor a
potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was good for man
or beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her daughter were
restored. She even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody's heart
should be cheered by their beauty.
Now as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself
out of the ground, without the especial permission of Ceres, you may
conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth. The
husbandmen ploughed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black
furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand. The pastures looked as
brown in the sweet month of June as ever they did in chill November.
The rich man's broad acres and the cottager's small garden patch were
equally blighted. Every little girl's flower bed showed nothing but dry
stalks. The old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth
had grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing
the warm smile of summer on its face. It was really piteous to see the
poor, starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres, lowing
and bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect help from her;
and everybody that was acquainted with her power besought her to have
mercy on the human race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow. But
Mother Ceres, though naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now
inexorable.
"Never," said she. "If the earth is ever again to see any verdure it
must first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming
back to me."
Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend
Quicksilver was sent post haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he might
be persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything
right again, by giving up Proserpina. Quicksilver accordingly made
the best of his way to the great gate, took a flying leap right over
the three-headed mastiff, and stood at the door of the palace in an
inconceivably short time. The servants knew him both by his face and
garb; for his short cloak, and his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky
staff had often been seen thereabouts in times gone by. He requested
to be shown immediately into the king's presence; and Pluto, who heard
his voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself
with Quicksilver's merry talk, called out to him to come up. And while
they settle their business together, we must inquire what Proserpina
has been doing ever since we saw her last.
The child had declared as you may remember, that she would not taste a
mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to remain in King
Pluto's palace. How she contrived to maintain her resolution, and at
the same time to keep herself tolerably plump and rosy, is more than I
can explain; but some young ladies, I am given to understand, possess
the faculty of living on air, and Proserpina seems to have possessed
it too. At any rate, it was now six months since she left the outside
earth; and not a morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify,
had yet passed between her teeth. This was the more creditable to
Proserpina inasmuch as King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day
after day, with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly-preserved fruits,
and delicacies of every sort, such as young people are generally most
fond of. But her good mother had often told her of the hurtfulness of
these things; and for that reason alone, if there had been no other,
she would have resolutely refused to taste them.
All this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the little
damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed. The immense
palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and wonderful
objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true, which had hid
itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before the child as she
wandered among them, and treading stealthily behind her in the echo of
her footsteps. Neither was all the dazzle of the precious stones, which
flamed with their own light, worth one gleam of natural sunshine; nor
could the most brilliant of the many-colored gems, which Proserpina had
for playthings, vie with the simple beauty of the flowers she used to
gather. But still, wherever the girl went, among those gilded halls and
chambers, it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with
her and as if she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her
left. After Proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of
stately artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been. The
inhabitants all felt this, and King Pluto more than any of them.
"My own little Proserpina," he used to say, "I wish you could like me a
little better. We gloomy and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm
hearts, at bottom, as those of a more cheerful character. If you would
only stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than the
possession of a hundred such palaces as this."
"Ah," said Proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you
before carrying me off. And the best thing you can now do is, to let me
go again. Then I might remember you sometimes, and think that you were
as kind as you knew how to be. Perhaps, too, one day or other, I might
come back, and pay you a visit."
"No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, "I will not trust
you for that. You are too fond of living in the broad daylight, and
gathering flowers. What an idle and childish taste that is! Are not
these gems, which I have ordered to be dug for you, and which are
richer than any in my crown--are they not prettier than a violet?"
"Not half so pretty," said Proserpina, snatching the gems from Pluto's
hand, and flinging them to the other end of the hall. "O my sweet
violets, shall I never see you again?"
And then she burst into tears. But young people's tears have very
little saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame the eyes so much
as those of grown persons; so that it is not to be wondered at, if, a
few moments afterwards, Proserpina was sporting through the hall almost
as merrily as she and the four sea nymphs had sported along the edge of
the surf wave. King Pluto gazed after her, and wished that he too, was
a child. And little Proserpina, when she turned about, and beheld this
great king standing in his splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so
melancholy, and so lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity. She ran
back to him, and, for the first time in all her life, put her small,
soft hand in his.
"I love you a little," whispered she, looking up in his face.
"Do you, indeed, my dear child?" cried Pluto bending his dark face down
to kiss her; but Proserpina shrank away from the kiss, for though his
features were noble, they were very dusky and grim. "Well, I have not
deserved it of you, after keeping you a prisoner for so many months,
and starving you, besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there
nothing which I can get you to eat?"
In asking this question, the king of the mines had a very cunning
purpose; for, you will recollect, if Proserpina tasted a morsel of food
in his dominions, she would never afterwards be at liberty to quit them.
"No indeed," said Proserpina. "Your head cook is always baking, and
stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste, and contriving one dish
or another, which he imagines may be to my liking. But he might just as
well save himself the trouble, poor, fat little man that he is. I have
no appetite for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of bread,
of my mother's own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden."
[Illustration: "I SHALL NOT TOUCH IT I ASSURE YOU", SAID SHE]
When Pluto heard this, he began to see that he had mistaken the best
method of tempting Proserpina to eat. The cook's made dishes and
artificial dainties were not half so delicious, in the good child's
opinion, as the simple fare to which Mother Ceres had accustomed her.
Wondering that he had never thought of it before, the king now sent
one of his trusty attendants, with a large basket, to get some of the
finest and juiciest pears, peaches, and plums which could anywhere
be found in the upper world. Unfortunately, however, this was during
the time when Ceres had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow;
and, after seeking all over the earth, King Pluto's servant found
only a single pomegranate, and that so dried up as to be not worth
eating. Nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought
this dry, old, withered pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a
magnificent golden salver, and carried it up to Proserpina. Now, it
happened, curiously enough, that, just as the servant was bringing the
pomegranate into the back door of the palace our friend Quicksilver had
gone up the front steps, on his errand to get Proserpina away from King
Pluto.
As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver, she
told the servant he had better take it away again.