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THE JUNIOR CLASSICS, VOLUME 3: TALES FROM GREECE AND ROME
[Illustration:
_Junior
Classics_
THE·YOUNG·FOLKS’
SHELF·OF·BOOKS
_P·F·Collier·&·Son Corporation_
_New York_]
[Illustration: THE WINE WAS MINGLED WITH THE MOST POTENT
ENCHANTMENTS—page 347
_From the painting by Maxfield Parrish_]
THE JUNIOR CLASSICS
Selected and Arranged by
WILLIAM PATTEN
Managing Editor of the Harvard Classics
Introduction by
CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL. D.
President Emeritus of Harvard University
With a Reading Guide by
WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph. D.
Professor of English, Harvard University
President Smith College, Northampton, Mass., Since 1917
VOLUME THREE
Tales from Greece and Rome
[Illustration]
P. F. Collier & Son Corporation
New York
Copyright, 1912
By P. F. Collier & Son
Copyright, 1918
By P. F. Collier & Son
Acknowledgments of permission given by authors and
publishers for the use of copyright material
appear in Volume 10
Manufactured in U. S. A.
TC
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 9
TABLE OF LATIN AND GREEK GODS 12
OLD GREEK TALES
How Theseus Slays the Minotaur _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 15
Pegasus, the Winged Horse _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 51
The Heroes Sail Away in Search of the
Golden Fleece _Charles Kingsley_ 80
How Jason Lost His Sandal _Charles Kingsley_ 88
How They Built the Ship _Argo_ _Charles Kingsley_ 98
How the Argonauts Sailed to Colchis _Charles Kingsley_ 102
Hunting the Calydonian Boar _Elsie F. Buckley_ 128
The Winning of Atalanta _Elsie F. Buckley_ 148
Turning Everything into Gold _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 172
The Pomegranate Seeds _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 193
TALES OF THE TROJAN WAR—From Homer
The Trojan War _Thomas Bulfinch_ 237
The Quarrel of the Chiefs _Alfred J. Church_ 240
The Fight Between Paris and Menelaus _Alfred J. Church_ 251
The Duel Between Hector and Ajax _Alfred J. Church_ 257
The Deeds and Death of Patroclus _Alfred J. Church_ 265
The Death of Hector _Alfred J. Church_ 272
The Ransoming of Hector _Alfred J. Church_ 283
The Wooden Horse _Grace Bigelow Patten_ 295
THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE OF THE GREEK HERO, ULYSSES—From Homer
The Lotus-Eaters _Sir George W. Cox_ 301
Ulysses and the Cyclops _Sir George W. Cox_ 305
Circe’s Palace _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 315
Ulysses and the Sirens _Sir George W. Cox_ 353
Nausicaa Rescues Ulysses _Alfred J. Church_ 357
Ulysses and the Swineherd _Alfred J. Church_ 368
The Return of Telemachus _Alfred J. Church_ 373
Ulysses in His Home _Alfred J. Church_ 377
The Trial of the Bow _Alfred J. Church_ 384
The Vengeance of Ulysses _Alfred J. Church_ 389
THE WANDERINGS OF ÆNEAS—From Virgil
The Remnant of the Defeated Army _Thomas Bulfinch and
Seeks a New Home Alfred J. Church_ 397
The Adventure with the Harpies _H. L. Havell_ 403
Pursued by the Cyclops _H. L. Havell_ 406
Venus Sends Æneas to Queen Dido _Alfred J. Church_ 412
Queen Dido Welcomes Æneas _Alfred J. Church_ 418
The Love and Death of Queen Dido _Alfred J. Church_ 425
The Race of the Four Galleys _H. L. Havell_ 437
The Foot Race _H. L. Havell_ 443
The Boxing Match _H. L. Havell_ 445
The Contest of the Archers _H. L. Havell_ 448
The Sibyl Speaks to Æneas _Alfred J. Church_ 450
The Dwellings of the Dead _Alfred J. Church_ 455
The Oracle Foretells the Coming of Æneas _H. L. Havell_ 467
Æneas and His Companions Eat Their Tables _H. L. Havell_ 469
The Fight Between Æneas and Turnus _H. L. Havell_ 473
The Death of Turnus _H. L. Havell_ 480
STORIES FROM ROMAN HISTORY—From Livy
The Story of Romulus and of Numa _Alfred J. Church_ 489
The Story of Alba _Alfred J. Church_ 500
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE WINE WAS MINGLED WITH THE MOST POTENT ENCHANTMENTS
Circe’s Palace
_Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting
by Maxfield Parrish_
THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE
The Heroes Sail Away in Search of the Golden Fleece
_From the painting by Maxfield Parrish_
ON THE BANK OF ANAUROS SAT A WOMAN, ALL WRINKLED, GRAY, AND OLD
How Jason Lost His Sandal
_From the painting by T. H. Robinson_
JASON AND THE TALKING OAK
How They Built the Ship Argo
_From the painting by Maxfield Parrish_
CHIRON, THE CENTAUR
How the Argonauts Sailed to Colchis
_From the painting by Maxfield Parrish_
PARIS CARRIED HER TO TROY
The Trojan War
_From the painting by R. von Deutsch_
THEN AUTOMEDON YOKED THE HORSES TO THE CHARIOT
The Deeds and Death of Patroclus
_From the painting by H. Regnault_
PREFACE
Homer, that king of story-tellers, traveller and well-loved school
teacher, is supposed to have lived in Greece about three thousand years
ago.
Trained story-tellers or bards, with extraordinary memories, were not
rare in that simple age. Many argue that writing for literary purposes
was not used by the Greeks at that time, and that Homer recited his tales
to groups of friends, to his school children, and at the great yearly
festivals. It is amazing what memories people had in the days when there
were no books, when there were not a thousand and one things to distract
them; yet we have proof that such memories are possible in our time.
About fifty years ago, poor, uneducated Blind Jamie was a well-known
character in the town of Stirling, in Scotland. He could recite the Bible
from beginning to end, without mistake, and could even repeat any verse
from any part of the Bible.
From the mass of old folk tales that he gathered on his travels, Homer,
the inspired minstrel, wove one continuous story, the greatest epic
poems of all time, The Iliad and The Odyssey. Later, one of the Greek
chroniclers tells us, Pisistratus edited them with taste and care, “in
the order in which we have them.”
Although the world we visit in Homer’s pages is a Greek world, it is
singularly like our own in many respects. His men and women face the same
problems of war and peace, of triumph and defeat, of pleasure and pain,
as we do. His soldiers and sailors in the spirit-stirring war might be
men of to-day. And best of all, he makes us see, feel, hope, fear, laugh
and cry through these marvellous pages, over which, for hundreds of
years, boys and girls of all countries have lingered, entranced.
The Iliad is the account of the Trojan War. The Odyssey tells of the
Grecian hero, Ulysses, and of his years of wandering and adventure, after
the fall of Troy, before he finally reaches his home and wife and son, in
Ithaca.
Later, Virgil, greatest of Roman poets, in his desire to do for the
Latin nation what Homer did for the Greeks, wrote the Æneid. In this he
describes the adventures of the Trojan hero, Æneas. As you will see, his
book is modelled after Homer’s, even in small details.
Homer and Sir Thomas Malory may be said to have each performed for his
native country a somewhat similar task, each, of course, in his own way.
Each retold the current folk tales in such a superior manner that his
became the accepted version, to the practical exclusion of all others,
and it is thus in a very real sense that we are indebted to Homer for
Ulysses and to Malory for King Arthur.
The old Greek tales at the beginning of the book are from Ovid (43 B.
C.), Apollodorus (140 B. C.) and Pindar (522 B. C.), and they have been
retold in delightful fashion by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Charles Kingsley and
Miss Buckley.
As the stories from Homer and Virgil, in the versions here given, can
only be looked upon as introductory to more extended reading, and are,
consequently, something with which scholarship can have little if any
quarrel, it has seemed desirable to make them as simple and clear as
possible. For this reason the Latin names for the gods and goddesses of
the Greek mythology have been used throughout. These names have been
handed down to us in the works of Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, and many
others, and usage has made them familiar. Jupiter, Juno, Mars, Diana and
Neptune, are old friends whose attributes are recognized at once, while
to many the Grecian Zeus, Hera, Ares, Artemis and Poseidon are strangers
whose names might have to be looked up in the classical dictionary. With
the exception of a word here and there, there has been no editing of the
stories, but occasional passages that delayed the movement of a story
have been omitted.
WILLIAM PATTEN.
THE PRINCIPAL GODS AND GODDESSES MENTIONED IN THESE PAGES WITH THEIR
LATIN AND GREEK NAMES
_Latin_ _Greek_
CYBELE The Great Mother of the Gods, Mother RHEA
of Jupiter and Juno.
SATURN Father of Jupiter (the greatest Olympian CRONUS
God), of Pluto, and of Neptune. The
world was divided between the three
brothers; Pluto was given the lower world,
Neptune the sea, and Jupiter the heavens
and upper regions of the air.
PLUTO Son of Saturn and Cybele, king of the AÏDONEUS
lower world. Metals and all the OR HADES
productions of the earth are his gifts.
PROSERPINA Daughter of Jupiter and Ceres, wife of PERSEPHONE
Pluto and queen of the lower world.
THE TWELVE OLYMPIAN GODS
JUPITER The greatest of all, king of heaven. ZEUS
JUNO Wife of Jupiter and queen of heaven, HERA
goddess of love, marriage, and births.
MARS Son of Jupiter and Juno, god of war. ARES
VULCAN Son of Jupiter and Juno, god of fire. HEPHAESTUS
MERCURY Son of Jupiter and Maia (daughter of HERMES
Atlas), the messenger of the gods.
NEPTUNE Son of Saturn and Cybele, god of the sea. POSEIDON
MINERVA Daughter of Jupiter and Metis, protectress ATHENE
of the state, and of all useful arts. A
friend of the Greeks in the Trojan War.
DIANA Daughter of Jupiter and Latona, sister ARTEMIS
of Apollo, generally represented as a
huntress.
APOLLO Twin brother of Diana, god of prophecy, APOLLO
of song and music; the god who gives help
and turns away evil.
VESTA Daughter of Saturn and Rhea, goddess of HESTIA
the hearth.
CERES Daughter of Saturn and Rhea, goddess DEMETER
of the earth.
VENUS Daughter of Jupiter and Diöne, though APHRODITE
some say she sprang from the foam of
the sea; the goddess of love.
OLD GREEK TALES
HOW THESEUS SLAYS THE MINOTAUR
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
In the old city of Trœzene, at the foot of a lofty mountain, there lived,
a very long time ago, a little boy named Theseus. His grandfather, King
Pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was reckoned a very wise
man; so that Theseus, being brought up in the royal palace, and being
naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of profiting by the old king’s
instructions. His mother’s name was Æthra. As for his father, the boy
had never seen him. But, from his earliest remembrance, Æthra used to go
with little Theseus into a wood, and sit down upon a moss-grown rock,
which was deeply sunken into the earth. Here she often talked with her
son about his father, and said that he was called Ægeus, and that he was
a great king, and ruled over Attica, and dwelt at Athens, which was as
famous a city as any in the world. Theseus was very fond of hearing about
King Ægeus, and often asked his good mother Æthra why he did not come and
live with them at Trœzene.
“Ah, my dear son,” answered Æthra, with a sigh, “a monarch has his people
to take care of. The men and women over whom he rules are in the place of
children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his own children as
other parents do. Your father will never be able to leave his kingdom
for the sake of seeing his little boy.”
“Well, but, dear mother,” asked the boy, “why cannot I go to this famous
city of Athens, and tell King Ægeus that I am his son?”
“That may happen by-and-by,” said Æthra. “Be patient, and we shall see.
You are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an errand.”
“And how soon shall I be strong enough?” Theseus persisted in inquiring.
“You are but a tiny boy as yet,” replied his mother. “See if you can lift
this rock on which we are sitting.”
The little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength. So, grasping
the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled amain, and got
himself quite out of breath, without being able to stir the heavy stone.
It seemed to be rooted into the ground. No wonder he could not move it;
for it would have taken all the force of a very strong man to lift it out
of its earthy bed.
His mother stood looking on, with a sad kind of a smile on her lips and
in her eyes, to see the zealous and yet puny efforts of her little boy.
She could not help being sorrowful at finding him already so impatient to
begin his adventures in the world.
“You see how it is, my dear Theseus,” said she, “you must possess far
more strength than now before I can trust you to go to Athens, and tell
King Ægeus that you are his son. But when you can lift this rock, and
show me what is hidden beneath it, I promise you my permission to depart.”
Often and often, after this, did Theseus ask his mother, whether it was
yet time for him to go to Athens; and still his mother pointed to the
rock, and told him that, for years to come, he could not be strong enough
to move it. And again and again the rosy-cheeked and curly-headed boy
would tug and strain at the huge mass of stone, striving, child as he
was, to do what a giant could hardly have done without taking both of his
great hands to the task. Meanwhile the rock seemed to be sinking farther
and farther into the ground. The moss grew over it thicker and thicker,
until at last it looked almost like a soft green seat, with only a few
gray knobs of granite peeping out. The overhanging trees, also, shed
their brown leaves upon it, as often as the autumn came; and at its base
grew ferns and wild flowers, some of which crept quite over its surface.
To all appearance, the rock was as firmly fastened as any other portion
of the earth’s substance.
But, difficult as the matter looked, Theseus was now growing up to be
such a vigorous youth, that, in his own opinion, the time would quickly
come when he might hope to get the upper hand of this ponderous lump of
stone.
“Mother, I do believe it has started!” cried he, after one of his
attempts. “The earth around it is certainly a little cracked!”
“No, no, child!” his mother hastily answered. “It is not possible you can
have moved it, such a boy as you still are.”
Nor would she be convinced, although Theseus showed her the place where
he fancied that the stem of a flower had been partly uprooted by the
movement of the rock. But Æthra sighed and looked disquieted; for, no
doubt, she began to be conscious that her son was no longer a child, and
that, in a little while hence, she must send him forth among the perils
and troubles of the world.
It was not more than a year afterwards when they were again sitting on
the moss-covered stone. Æthra had once more told him the oft-repeated
story of his father, and how gladly he would receive Theseus at his
stately palace, and how he would present him to his courtiers and the
people, and tell them that here was the heir of his dominions. The eyes
of Theseus glowed with enthusiasm, and he would hardly sit still to hear
his mother speak.
“Dear mother Æthra,” he exclaimed, “I never felt half so strong as now! I
am no longer a child, nor a boy, nor a mere youth! I feel myself a man!
It is now time to make one earnest trial to remove the stone.”
“Ah, my dearest Theseus,” replied his mother, “not yet! not yet!”
“Yes, mother,” said he, resolutely, “the time has come!”
Then Theseus bent himself in good earnest to the task, and strained
every sinew, with manly strength and resolution. He put his whole brave
heart into the effort. He wrestled with the big and sluggish stone, as
if it had been a living enemy. He heaved, he lifted, he resolved now
to succeed, or else to perish there, and let the rock be his monument
for ever! Æthra stood gazing at him, and clasped her hands, partly with
a mother’s pride, and partly with a mother’s sorrow. The great rock
stirred! Yes, it was raised slowly from the bedded moss and earth,
uprooting the shrubs and flowers along with it, and was turned upon its
side. Theseus had conquered!
While taking breath, he looked joyfully at his mother, and she smiled
upon him through her tears.
“Yes, Theseus,” she said, “the time has come, and you must stay no longer
at my side! See what King Ægeus, your royal father, left for you, beneath
the stone, when he lifted it in his mighty arms, and laid it on the spot
whence you have now removed it.”
Theseus looked, and saw that the rock had been placed over another slab
of stone, containing a cavity within it; so that it somewhat resembled a
roughly-made chest or coffer, of which the upper mass had served as the
lid. Within the cavity lay a sword, with a golden hilt, and a pair of
sandals.
“That was your father’s sword,” said Æthra, “and those were his sandals.
When he went to be King of Athens, he bade me treat you as a child until
you should prove yourself a man by lifting this heavy stone. That task
being accomplished, you are to put on his sandals, in order to follow in
your father’s footsteps, and to gird on his sword, so that you may fight
giants and dragons, as King Ægeus did in his youth.”
“I will set out for Athens this very day!” cried Theseus.
But his mother persuaded him to stay a day or two longer, while she got
ready some necessary articles for his journey. When his grandfather,
the wise King Pittheus, heard that Theseus intended to present himself
at his father’s palace, he earnestly advised him to get on board of a
vessel, and go by sea; because he might thus arrive within fifteen miles
of Athens, without either fatigue or danger.
“The roads are very bad by land,” quoth the venerable king; “and they are
terribly infested with robbers and monsters. A mere lad, like Theseus, is
not fit to be trusted on such a perilous journey, all by himself. No, no;
let him go by sea!”
But when Theseus heard of robbers and monsters, he pricked up his ears,
and was so much the more eager to take the road along which they were to
be met with. On the third day, therefore, he bade a respectful farewell
to his grandfather, thanking him for all his kindness, and, after
affectionately embracing his mother, he set forth, with a good many of
her tears glistening on his cheeks, and some, if the truth must be told,
that had gushed out of his own eyes. But he let the sun and wind dry
them, and walked stoutly on, playing with the golden hilt of his sword,
and taking very manly strides in his father’s sandals.
I cannot stop to tell you hardly any of the adventures that befell
Theseus on the road to Athens. It is enough to say, that he quite cleared
that part of the country of the robbers, about whom King Pittheus had
been so much alarmed. One of these bad people was named Procrustes; and
he was indeed a terrible fellow, and had an ugly way of making fun of the
poor travellers who happened to fall into his clutches. In his cavern he
had a bed, on which, with great pretence of hospitality, he invited his
guests to lie down; but if they happened to be shorter than the bed, this
wicked villain stretched them out by main force; or, if they were too
tall, he lopped off their heads or feet, and laughed at what he had done,
as an excellent joke. Thus, however weary a man might be, he never liked
to lie in the bed of Procrustes. Another of these robbers, named Scinis,
must likewise have been a very great scoundrel. He was in the habit of
flinging his victims off a high cliff into the sea; and, in order to give
him exactly his deserts, Theseus tossed him off the very same place. But,
if you will believe me, the sea would not pollute itself by receiving
such a bad person into its bosom; neither would the earth, having once
got rid of him, consent to take him back; so that, between the cliff
and the sea, Scinis stuck fast in the air, which was forced to bear the
burden of his naughtiness.
After these memorable deeds, Theseus heard of an enormous sow, which ran
wild, and was the terror of all the farmers round about; and, as he did
not consider himself above doing any good thing that came in his way, he
killed this monstrous creature, and gave the carcass to the poor people
for bacon. The great sow had been an awful beast, while ramping about
the woods and fields, but was a pleasant object enough when cut up into
joints, and smoking on I know not how many dinner tables.
Thus, by the time he reached his journey’s end Theseus had done many
valiant feats with his father’s golden-hilted sword, and had gained
the renown of being one of the bravest young men of the day. His fame
travelled faster than he did, and reached Athens before him. As he
entered the city, he heard the inhabitants talking at the street comers
and saying that Hercules was brave, and Jason too, and Castor and Pollux
likewise, but that Theseus, the son of their own king, would turn out as
great a hero as the best of them. Theseus took longer strides on hearing
this, and fancied himself sure of a magnificent reception at his father’s
court, since he came thither with Fame to blow her trumpet before him,
and cry to King Ægeus, “Behold your son!”
He little suspected, innocent youth that he was, that here in this very
Athens, where his father reigned, a greater danger awaited him than any
which he had encountered on the road. Yet this was the truth. You must
understand that the father of Theseus, though not very old in years,
was almost worn out with the cares of government, and had thus grown
aged before his time. His nephews, not expecting him to live a very
great while, intended to get all the power of the kingdom into their
own hands. But when they heard that Theseus had arrived in Athens, and
learned what a gallant young man he was, they saw that he would not be
at all the kind of person to let them steal away his father’s crown and
scepter, which ought to be his own by right of inheritance. Thus these
bad-hearted nephews of King Ægeus, who were the own cousins of Theseus,
at once became his enemies. A still more dangerous enemy was Medea, the
wicked enchantress; for she was now the king’s wife, and wanted to give
the kingdom to her son Medus, instead of letting it be given to the son
of Æthra, whom she hated.
It so happened that the king’s nephews met Theseus, and found out who
he was, just as he reached the entrance of the royal palace. With all
their evil designs against him, they pretended to be their cousin’s best
friends and expressed great joy at making his acquaintance. They proposed
to him that he should come into the king’s presence as a stranger, in
order to try whether Ægeus would discover in the young man’s features any
likeness either to himself or his mother Æthra, and thus recognize him
for a son. Theseus consented; for he fancied that his father would know
him in a moment, by the love that was in his heart. But, while he waited
at the door, the nephews ran and told King Ægeus that a young man had
arrived in Athens, who, to their certain knowledge intended to put him to
death, and get possession of his royal crown.
“And he is now waiting for admission to your majesty’s presence,” added
they.
“Aha!” cried the old king, on hearing this. “Why, he must be a very
wicked young fellow indeed! Pray, what would you advise me to do with
him?”
In reply to this question, the wicked Medea put in her word. As I have
already told you, she was a famous enchantress. According to some
stories, she was in the habit of boiling old people in a large caldron,
under pretence of making them young again; but King Ægeus, I suppose,
did not fancy such an uncomfortable way of growing young, or perhaps was
contented to be old, and therefore would never let himself be popped into
the caldron. If there were time to spare from more important matters,
I should be glad to tell you of Medea’s fiery chariot, drawn by winged
dragons, in which the enchantress used often to take an airing among the
clouds. This chariot, in fact, was the vehicle that first brought her to
Athens, where she had done nothing but mischief ever since her arrival.
But these and many other wonders must be left untold; and it is enough to
say that Medea, amongst a thousand other bad things, knew how to prepare
a poison that was instantly fatal to whomsoever might so much as touch it
with his lips.
So when the king asked what he should do with Theseus, this naughty woman
had an answer ready at her tongue’s end.
“Leave that to me, please your majesty,” she replied. “Only admit this
evil-minded young man to your presence, treat him civilly, and invite him
to drink a goblet of wine. Your majesty is well aware that I sometimes
amuse myself with distilling very powerful medicines. Here is one of them
in this small phial. As to what it is made of, that is one of my secrets
of state. Do but let me put a single drop into the goblet and let the
young man taste it, and I shall answer for it, he shall quite lay aside
the bad designs with which he comes hither.”
As she said this, Medea smiled; but, for all her smiling face, she
meant nothing less than to poison the poor innocent Theseus, before
his father’s eyes. And King Ægeus, like most other kings, thought any
punishment mild enough for a person who was accused of plotting against
his life. He therefore made little or no objection to Medea’s scheme,
and as soon as the poisonous wine was ready, gave orders that the young
stranger should be admitted into his presence. The goblet was set on a
table beside the king’s throne; and a fly, meaning just to sip a little
from the brim, immediately tumbled into it, dead. Observing this, Medea
looked round at the nephews and smiled again.
When Theseus was ushered into the royal apartment, the only object
that he seemed to behold was the white-bearded old king. There he sat
on his magnificent throne, a dazzling crown on his head, and a scepter
in his hand. His aspect was stately and majestic, although his years
and infirmities weighed heavily upon him, as if each year were a lump
of lead, and each infirmity a ponderous stone, and all were bundled up
together, and laid upon his weary shoulders. The tears both of joy and
sorrow sprang into the young man’s eyes; for he thought how sad it was to
see his dear father so infirm, and how sweet it would be to support him
with his own youthful strength, and to cheer him up with the alacrity of
his loving spirit. When a son takes his father into his warm heart, it
renews the old man’s youth in a better way than by the heat of Medea’s
magic caldron. And this was what Theseus resolved to do. He could
scarcely wait to see whether King Ægeus would recognize him, so eager was
he to throw himself into his arms.
Advancing to the foot of the throne, he attempted to make a little
speech, which he had been thinking about, as he came up the stairs.
But he was almost choked by a great many tender feelings that gushed
out of his heart and swelled into his throat, all struggling to find
utterance together. And therefore, unless he could have laid his full,
over-brimming heart into the king’s hand, poor Theseus knew not what to
do or say. The cunning Medea observed what was passing in the young man’s
mind. She was more wicked at that moment than ever she had been before;
for (and it makes me tremble to tell you of it) she did her worst to turn
all this unspeakable love with which Theseus was agitated, to his own
ruin and destruction.
“Does your majesty see his confusion?” she whispered in the king’s ear.
“He is so conscious of guilt, that he trembles and cannot speak. The
wretch lives too long! Quick! offer him the wine!”
Now King Ægeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger, as he
drew near the throne. There was something, he knew not what, either
in his white brow, or in the fine expression of his mouth, or in his
beautiful and tender eyes, that made him indistinctly feel as if he had
seen this youth before; as if, indeed, he had trotted him on his knee
when a baby, and had beheld him growing to be a stalwart man, while he
himself grew old. But Medea guessed how the king felt, and would not
suffer him to yield to these natural sensibilities; although they were
the voice of his deepest heart, telling him, as plainly as it could
speak, that here was our dear son, and Æthra’s son, coming to claim him
for a father. The enchantress again whispered in the king’s ear, and
compelled him, by her witchcraft, to see everything under a false aspect.
He made up his mind, therefore, to let Theseus drink off the poisoned
wine.
“Young man,” said he, “you are welcome! I am proud to show hospitality to
so heroic a youth. Do me the favor to drink the contents of this goblet.
It is brimming over, as you see, with delicious wine, such as I bestow
only on those who are worthy of it! None is more worthy to quaff it than
yourself!”
So saying, King Ægeus took the golden goblet from the table, and was
about to offer it to Theseus. But, partly through his infirmities, and
partly because it seemed so sad a thing to take away this young man’s
life, however wicked he might be, and partly, no doubt, because his heart
was wiser than his head, and quaked within him at the thought of what
he was going to do—for all these reasons, the king’s hand trembled so
much that a great deal of the wine slopped over. In order to strengthen
his purpose, and fearing lest the whole of the precious poison should be
wasted, one of his nephews now whispered to him—
“Has your majesty any doubt of this stranger’s guilt? There is the
very sword with which he meant to slay you. How sharp, and bright, and
terrible it is. Quick!—let him taste the wine; or perhaps he may do the
deed even yet.”
At these words, Ægeus drove every thought and feeling out of his breast,
except the one idea how justly the young man deserved to be put to death.
He sat erect on his throne, and held out the goblet of wine with a steady
hand, and bent on Theseus a frown of kingly severity; for, after all,
he had too noble a spirit to murder even a treacherous enemy with a
deceitful smile upon his face.
“Drink!” said he, in the stern tone with which he was wont to condemn a
criminal to be beheaded. “You have well deserved of me such wine as this!”
Theseus held out his hand to take the wine. But, before he touched it,
King Ægeus trembled again. His eyes had fallen on the gold-hilted sword
that hung at the young man’s side. He drew back the goblet.
“That sword!” he exclaimed; “how came you by it?”
“It was my father’s sword,” replied Theseus, with a tremulous voice.
“These were his sandals. My dear mother (her name is Æthra) told me his
story while I was yet a little child. But it is only a month since I grew
strong enough to lift the heavy stone, and take the sword and sandals
from beneath it, and come to Athens to seek my father.”
“My son! my son!” cried King Ægeus, flinging away the fatal goblet, and
tottering down from the throne to fall into the arms of Theseus. “Yes,
these are Æthra’s eyes. It is my son.”
I have quite forgotten what became of the king’s nephews. But when
the wicked Medea saw this new turn of affairs, she hurried out of the
room, and going to her private chamber, lost no time in setting her
enchantments at work. In a few moments she heard a great noise of hissing
snakes outside of the chamber window; and, behold! there was her fiery
chariot, and four huge winged serpents, wriggling and twisting in the
air, flourishing their tails higher than the top of the palace, and all
ready to set off on an aërial journey. Medea stayed only long enough to
take her son with her, and to steal the crown jewels, together with the
king’s best robes, and whatever other valuable things she could lay her
hands on; and getting into the chariot, she whipped up the snakes, and
ascended high over the city.
The king, hearing the hiss of the serpents, scrambled as fast as he could
to the window, and bawled out to the abominable enchantress never to
come back. The whole people of Athens, too, who had run out of doors to
see this wonderful spectacle, set up a shout of joy at the prospect of
getting rid of her. Medea, almost bursting with rage, uttered precisely
such a hiss as one of her own snakes, only ten times more venomous and
spiteful; and glaring fiercely out of the blaze of the chariot, she shook
her hands over the multitude below, as if she were scattering a million
of curses among them. In so doing, however, she unintentionally let fall
about five hundred diamonds of the first water, together with a thousand
great pearls, and two thousand emeralds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and
topazes, to which she had helped herself out of the king’s strong-box.
All these came pelting down, like a shower of many-colored hailstones,
upon the heads of grown people and children, who forthwith gathered them
up, and carried them back to the palace. But King Ægeus told them that
they were welcome to the whole, and to twice as many more, if he had
them, for the sake of his delight at finding his son, and losing the
wicked Medea. And, indeed, if you had seen how hateful was her last
look, as the flaming chariot flew upward, you would not have wondered
that both king and people should think her departure a good riddance.
And now Prince Theseus was taken into great favor by his royal father.
The old king was never weary of having him sit beside him on his throne,
(which was quite wide enough for two), and of hearing him tell about
his dear mother, and his childhood, and his many boyish efforts to lift
the ponderous stone. Theseus, however, was much too brave and active a
young man to be willing to spend all his time in relating things which
had already happened. His ambition was to perform other and more heroic
deeds, which should be better worth telling in prose and verse. Nor had
he been long in Athens before he caught and chained a terrible mad bull,
and made a public show of him, greatly to the wonder and admiration of
good King Ægeus and his subjects. But pretty soon he undertook an affair
that made all his foregone adventures seem like mere boy’s play. The
occasion of it was as follows:—
One morning, when Prince Theseus awoke, he fancied that he must have had
a very sorrowful dream, and that it was still running in his mind, even
now that his eyes were open. For it appeared as if the air was full of
a melancholy wail; and when he listened more attentively, he could hear
sobs, and groans, and screams of woe, mingled with deep, quiet sighs,
which came from the king’s palace, and from the streets, and from the
temples, and from every habitation in the city. And all these mournful
noises, issuing out of thousands of separate hearts, united themselves
into the one great sound of affliction, which had startled Theseus from
slumber. He put on his clothes as quickly as he could (not forgetting his
sandals and gold-hilted sword), and hastening to the king, inquired what
it all meant.
“Alas! my son,” quoth King Ægeus, heaving a long sigh, “here is a very
lamentable matter in hand. This is the woefulest anniversary in the whole
year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of the youths
and maidens of Athens shall go to be devoured by the horrible Minotaur!”
“The Minotaur!” exclaimed Prince Theseus; and like a brave young prince
as he was, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. “What kind of a
monster may that be? Is it not possible, at the risk of one’s life, to
slay him?”
But King Ægeus shook his venerable head, and to convince Theseus that
it was quite a hopeless case, he gave him an explanation of the whole
affair. It seems that in the island of Crete there lived a certain
dreadful monster, called a Minotaur, which was shaped partly like a
man and partly like a bull, and was altogether such a hideous sort of
a creature that it is really disagreeable to think of him. If he were
suffered to exist at all, it should have been on some desert island,
or in the duskiness of some deep cavern, where nobody would ever be
tormented by his abominable aspect. But King Minos, who reigned over
Crete, laid out a vast deal of money in building a habitation for
the Minotaur, and took great care of his health and comfort, merely
for mischief’s sake. A few years before this time, there had been a
war between the city of Athens and the island of Crete, in which the
Athenians were beaten and compelled to beg for peace. No peace could they
obtain, however, except on condition that they should send seven young
men and seven maidens, every year, to be devoured by the pet monster of
the cruel King Minos. For three years past, this grievous calamity had
been borne. And the sobs, and groans, and shrieks, with which the city
was now filled, were caused by the people’s woe, because the fatal day
had come again, when the fourteen victims were to be chosen by lot, and
the old people feared lest their sons or daughters might be taken, and
the youths and damsels dreaded lest they themselves might be destined to
glut the ravenous maw of that detestable man-brute.
But when Theseus heard the story, he straightened himself up, so that he
seemed taller than ever before; and as for his face, it was indignant,
despiteful, bold, tender, and compassionate, all in one look.
“Let the people of Athens, this year, draw lots for only six young men,
instead of seven,” said he. “I will myself be the seventh; and let the
Minotaur devour me, if he can!”
“O my dear son,” cried King Ægeus, “why should you expose yourself to
this horrible fate? You are a royal prince, and have a right to hold
yourself above the destinies of common men.”
“It is because I am a prince, your son, and the rightful heir of your
kingdom, that I freely take upon me the calamity of your subjects,”
answered Theseus. “And you, my father, being king over this people,
and answerable to heaven for their welfare, are bound to sacrifice what
is dearest to you, rather than that the son or daughter of the poorest
citizen should come to any harm.”
The old king shed tears, and besought Theseus not to leave him desolate
in his old age, more especially as he had but just begun to know the
happiness of possessing a good and valiant son. Theseus, however, felt
that he was in the right, and therefore would not give up his resolution.
But he assured his father that he did not intend to be eaten up,
unresistingly, like a sheep, and that, if the Minotaur devoured him, it
should not be without a battle for his dinner. And finally, since he
could not help it, King Ægeus consented to let him go. So a vessel was
got ready, and rigged with black sails; and Theseus, with six other young
men, and seven tender and beautiful damsels, came down to the harbor to
embark. A sorrowful multitude accompanied them to the shore. There was
the poor old king, too, leaning on his son’s arm, and looking as if his
single heart held all the grief of Athens.
Just as Prince Theseus was going on board, his father bethought himself
of one last word to say.
“My beloved son,” said he, grasping the prince’s hand, “you observe
that the sails of this vessel are black; as indeed they ought to be,
since it goes upon a voyage of sorrow and despair. Now, being weighed
down with infirmities, I know not whether I can survive till the vessel
shall return. But, as long is I do live, I shall creep daily to the top
of yonder cliff, to watch if there be a sail upon the sea. And, dearest
Theseus, if, by some happy chance, you should escape the jaws of the
Minotaur, then tear down those dismal sails, and hoist others that shall
be bright as the sunshine. Beholding them on the horizon, myself and
all the people will know that you are coming back victorious, and will
welcome you with such a festal uproar as Athens never heard before.”
Theseus promised that he would do so. Then, going on board, the mariners
trimmed the vessel’s black sails to the wind, which blew faintly off
the shore, being pretty much made up of the sighs that everybody kept
pouring forth on this melancholy occasion. But by-and-by, when they had
got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from the north-west, and
drove them along as merrily over the white-capped waves as if they had
been going on the most delightful errand imaginable. And though it was
a sad business enough, I rather question whether fourteen young people,
without any old persons to keep them in order, could continue to spend
the whole time of the voyage in being miserable. There had been some few
dances upon the undulating deck, I suspect, and some hearty bursts of
laughter, and other such unseasonable merriment among the victims, before
the high blue mountains of Crete began to show themselves among the
far-off clouds. That sight, to be sure, made them all very grave again.
Theseus stood among the sailors gazing eagerly towards the land;
although, as yet, it seemed hardly more substantial than the clouds,
amidst which the mountains were looming up. Once or twice he fancied that
he saw a glare of some bright object, a long way off, flinging a gleam
across the waves. “Did you see that flash of light?” he inquired of the
master of the vessel.
“No, prince; but I have seen it before,” answered the master. “It came
from Talus, I suppose.”
As the breeze came fresher just then, the master was busy with trimming
his sails, and had no more time to answer questions. But while the vessel
flew faster and faster towards Crete, Theseus was astonished to behold
a human figure, gigantic in size, which appeared to be striding, with
a measured movement, along the margin of the island. It stepped from
cliff to cliff, and sometimes from one headland to another, while the
sea foamed and thundered on the shore beneath, and dashed its jets of
spray over the giant’s feet. What was still more remarkable, whenever
the sun shone on this huge figure, it flickered and glimmered; its vast
countenance, too, had a metallic luster, and threw great flashes of
splendor through the air. The folds of its garments, moreover, instead of
waving in the wind, fell heavily over its limbs, as if woven of some kind
of metal.
The nigher the vessel came, the more Theseus wondered what this immense
giant could be, and whether it actually had life or no. For, though it
walked, and made other life-like motions, there yet was a kind of jerk
in its gait, which, together with its brazen aspect, caused the young
prince to suspect that it was no true giant, but only a wonderful piece
of machinery. The figure looked all the more terrible because it carried
an enormous brass club on its shoulder.
“What is this wonder?” Theseus asked of the master of the vessel, who was
now at leisure to answer him.
“It is Talus, the Man of Brass,” said the master.
“And is he a live giant, or a brazen image?” asked Theseus.
“That, truly,” replied the master, “is the point which has always
perplexed me. Some say, indeed, that this Talus was hammered out for
King Minos by Vulcan himself, the skilfulest of all workers in metal.
But who ever saw a brazen image that had sense enough to walk round an
island three times a day, as this giant walks round the island of Crete,
challenging every vessel that comes nigh the shore? And, on the other
hand, what living thing, unless his sinews were made of brass, would not
be weary of marching eighteen hundred miles in the twenty-four hours, as
Talus does, without ever sitting down to rest? He is a puzzler, take him
how you will.”
Still the vessel went bounding onward; and now Theseus could hear the
brazen clangor of the giant’s footsteps, as he trod heavily upon the
sea-beaten rocks, some of which were seen to crack and crumble into the
foamy waves beneath his weight. As they approached the entrance of the
port the giant straddled clear across it, with a foot firmly planted on
each headland, and uplifting his club to such a height that its butt-end
was hidden in a cloud, he stood in that formidable posture, with the sun
gleaming all over his metallic surface. There seemed nothing else to be
expected but that, the next moment, he would fetch his great club down,
slam bang, and smash the vessel into a thousand pieces, without heeding
how many innocent people he might destroy; for there is seldom any mercy
in a giant, you know, and quite as little in a piece of brass clockwork.
But just when Theseus and his companions thought the blow was coming, the
brazen lips unclosed themselves, and the figure spoke.
“Whence come you, strangers?”
And when the ringing voice ceased, there was just such a reverberation as
you may have heard within a great church bell, for a moment or two after
the stroke of the hammer.
“From Athens!” shouted the master in reply.
“On what errand?” thundered the Man of Brass.
And he whirled his club aloft more threateningly than ever, as if he were
about to smite them with a thunderstroke right amidships, because Athens,
so little while ago, had been at war with Crete.
“We bring the seven youths and the seven maidens,” answered the master,
“to be devoured by the Minotaur!”
“Pass!” cried the brazen giant.
That one loud word rolled all about the sky, while again there was a
booming reverberation within the figure’s breast. The vessel glided
between the headlands of the port, and the giant resumed his march. In a
few moments, this wondrous sentinel was far away, flashing in the distant
sunshine, and revolving with immense strides around the island of Crete,
as it was his never-ceasing task to do.
No sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of King
Minos came down to the water side, and took charge of the fourteen young
men and damsels. Surrounded by these armed warriors, Prince Theseus
and his companions were led to the king’s palace, and ushered into his
presence. Now, Minos was a stern and pitiless king. If the figure that
guarded Crete was made of brass, then the monarch, who ruled over it,
might be thought to have a still harder metal in his breast, and might
have been called a man of iron. He bent his shaggy brows upon the poor
Athenian victims. Any other mortal, beholding their fresh and tender
beauty, and their innocent looks, would have felt himself sitting on
thorns until he had made every soul of them happy, by bidding them go
free as the summer wind. But this immitigable Minos cared only to examine
whether they were plump enough to satisfy the Minotaur’s appetite. For my
part, I wish he himself had been the only victim; and the monster would
have found him a pretty tough one.
One after another, King Minos called these pale frightened youths and
sobbing maidens to his footstool, gave them each a poke in the ribs with
his scepter (to try whether they were in good flesh or no), and dismissed
them with a nod to his guards. But when his eyes rested on Theseus, the
king looked at him more attentively, because his face was calm and brave.
“Young man,” asked he, with his stern voice, “are you not appalled at the
certainty of being devoured by this terrible Minotaur?”
“I have offered my life in a good cause,” answered Theseus, “and
therefore I give it freely and gladly. But thou, King Minos, art thou
not thyself appalled, who, year after year, hast perpetrated this
dreadful wrong, by giving seven innocent youths and as many maidens to be
devoured by a monster? Dost thou not tremble, wicked king, to turn thine
eyes inward on thine own heart? Sitting there on thy golden throne, and
in thy robes of majesty, I tell thee to thy face, King Minos, thou art a
more hideous monster than the Minotaur himself!”
“Aha! do you think me so?” cried the king, laughing in his cruel way.
“To-morrow, at breakfast time, you shall have an opportunity of judging
which is the greater monster, the Minotaur or the king! Take them away,
guards; and let this free-spoken youth be the Minotaur’s first morsel!”
Near the king’s throne (though I had no time to tell you so before) stood
his daughter Ariadne. She was a beautiful and tender-hearted maiden, and
looked at these poor doomed captives with very different feelings from
those of the iron-breasted King Minos. She really wept, indeed, at the
idea of how much human happiness would be needlessly thrown away, by
giving so many young people, in the first bloom and rose blossom of their
lives, to be eaten up by a creature who, no doubt, would have preferred a
fat ox, or even a large pig, to the plumpest of them. And when she beheld
the brave, spirited figure of Prince Theseus bearing himself so calmly in
his terrible peril, she grew a hundred times more pitiful than before. As
the guards were taking him away, she flung herself at the king’s feet,
and besought him to set all the captives free, and especially this one
young man.