the table and filled them to the brim with wine. Then did the queen call
for a great vessel of gold, with many jewels upon it, from which Belus,
and all the kings from Belus, had drunk, and called for wine, and having
filled it she cried, “O Jupiter, whom they call the god of hosts and
guests, cause that this be a day of joy for the men of Troy, and for
them of Tyre, and that our children remember it forever. Also Bacchus,
giver of joy, be present, and kindly Juno.” And when she had touched
the wine with her lips, she handed the great cup to Prince Bitias, who
drank thereout a mighty draught, and the other princes after him. Then
the minstrel Iopas, whom Atlas himself had taught, sang to the harp,
of the moon, how she goes on her way, and of the sun, how his light is
darkened. He sang also of men, and of the beasts of the field, whence
they come; and of the stars, Arcturus, and the Greater Bear and the Less,
and the Hyades; and of the winter sun, why he hastens to dip himself in
the ocean; and of the winter nights, why they tarry so long. The queen
also talked much of the story of Troy, of Priam, and of Hector, asking
many things, as of the arms of Memnon, and of the horses of Diomed, and
of Achilles, how great he was. And at last she said to Æneas, “Tell us
now thy story, how Troy was taken, and thy wanderings over land and sea.”
And Æneas made answer, “Nay, O queen, but thou biddest me renew a sorrow
unspeakable. Yet, if thou art minded to hear these things, hearken.” And
he told her all that had befallen him, even to the day when his father
Anchises died.
THE LOVE AND DEATH OF QUEEN DIDO
By Alfred J. Church
Much was Queen Dido moved by the story, and much did she marvel at him
that told it, and scarce could sleep for thinking of him. And the next
day she spake to Anna, her sister, “O my sister, I have been troubled
this night with ill dreams, and my heart is disquieted within me. What
a man is this stranger that hath come to our shores! How noble of
mien! How bold in war! Sure I am that he is of the sons of the gods.
What fortunes have been his! Of what wars he told us! Surely were I
not steadfastly purposed that I would not yoke me again in marriage,
this were the man to whom I might yield. Only he—for I will tell thee
the truth, my sister—only he, since the day when Sichæus died by his
brother’s hand, hath moved my heart. But may the earth swallow me up,
or the Almighty Father strike me with lightning, ere I stoop to such
baseness. The husband of my youth hath carried with him my love, and he
shall keep it in the grave.”
So she spake, with many tears. And her sister made answer, “Why wilt thou
waste thy youth in sorrow, without child or husband? Thinkest thou that
there is care or remembrance of such things in the grave? No suitors,
indeed, have pleased thee here or in Tyre, but wilt thou also contend
with a love that is after thine own heart? Think too of the nations among
whom thou dwellest, how fierce they are, and of thy brother at Tyre, what
he threatens against thee. Surely it was by the will of the gods, and of
Juno chiefly, that the ships of Troy came hither. And this city, which
thou buildest, to what greatness will it grow if only thou wilt make for
thyself such alliance! How great will be the glory of Carthage if the
strength of Troy be joined unto her! Only do thou pray to the gods and
offer sacrifices; and, for the present, seeing that the time of sailing
is now past, make excuse that these strangers tarry with thee a while.”
Thus did Anna comfort her sister and encourage her. And first the two
offered sacrifice to the gods, chiefly to Juno, who careth for the bond
of marriage.
Also, examining the entrails of slain beasts, they sought to learn the
things that should happen thereafter. And ever Dido would company with
Æneas, leading him about the walls of the city which she builded. And
often she would begin to speak and stay in the midst of her words. And
when even was come, she would hear again and again at the banquet the
tale of Troy, and while others slept would watch, and while he was far
away would seem to see him and to hear him. Ascanius, too, she would
embrace for love of his father, if so she might cheat her own heart. But
the work of the city was stayed meanwhile; nor did the towers rise in
their places, nor the youth practice themselves in arms.
Then Juno, seeing how it fared with the queen, spake to Venus, “Are ye
satisfied with your victory, thou and thy son, that ye have vanquished
the two of you one woman? Well I knew that thou fearedst lest this
Carthage should harm thy favorite. But why should there be war between
us? Thou hast what thou seekedst. Let us make alliance. Let Dido obey a
Phrygian husband, and bring the men of Tyre as her dowry.”
But Venus knew that she spake with ill intent, to the end that the men of
Troy should not reign in the land of Italy. Nevertheless she dissembled
with her tongue, and spake, “Who would not rather have peace with thee
than war? Only I doubt whether this thing shall be to the pleasure of
Jupiter. This thou must learn, seeing that thou art his wife, and where
thou leadest I will follow.”
So the two, taking counsel together, ordered things in this wise. The
next day a great hunting was prepared. For as soon as ever the sun was
risen upon the earth, the youth of the city assembled with nets and
hunting spears and dogs that ran by scent. And the princes of Carthage
waited for the queen at the palace door, where her horse stood champing
the bit, with trappings of purple and gold. And after a while she came
forth, with many following her. And she had upon her a Sidonian mantle,
with a border wrought with divers colors; of gold was her quiver, and of
gold the knot of her hair, and of gold the clasp to her mantle. Æneas
likewise came forth, beautiful as is Apollo when he leaveth Lydia and
the stream of Xanthus, coming to Delos, and hath about his hair a wreath
of bay-leaves and a circlet of gold. So fair was Æneas to see. And when
the hunters came to the hills they found great store of goats and stags,
which they chased. And of all the company Ascanius was the foremost,
thinking scorn of such hunting, and wishing that a wild boar or a lion
out of the hills should come forth to be his prey.
And now befell a great storm, with much thunder and hail, from which the
hunters sought shelter.
But Æneas and the queen, being left of all their company, came together
to the same cave. And there they plighted their troth one to another. Nor
did the queen after that make secret of her love, but called Æneas her
husband.
Straightway went Rumor and told these things through the cities of Libya.
Now Rumor, men say, is the youngest daughter of Earth, a marvellous
creature, moving very swiftly with feet and wings, and having many
feathers upon her, and under every feather an eye and a tongue and a
mouth and an ear. In the night she flieth between heaven and earth, and
sleepeth not; and in the day she sitteth on some housetop or lofty tower,
or spreadeth fear over mighty cities; and she loveth that which is false
even as she loveth that which is true. So now she went telling through
Libya how Æneas of Troy was come, and Dido was wedded to him, and how
they lived careless and at ease, and thinking not of the work to which
they were called.
And first of all she went to Prince Iarbas, who himself had sought Dido
in marriage. And Iarbas was very wroth when he heard it, and, coming to
the temple of Jupiter, spread his grief before the god, how that he had
given a place on his coasts to this Dido, and would have taken her to
wife, but that she had married a stranger from Phrygia, another Paris,
whose dress and adornments were of a woman rather than of a man.
And Jupiter saw that this was so, and he said to Mercury, who was his
messenger, “Go speak to Æneas these words: ‘Thus saith the King of Gods
and Men. Is this what thy mother promised of thee, twice saving thee from
the spear of the Greeks? Art thou he that shall rule Italy and its mighty
men of war, and spread thy dominion to the ends of the world? If thou
thyself forgettest these things, dost thou grudge to thy son the citadels
of Rome? What doest thou here? Why, lookest thou not to Italy? Depart
and tarry not.’”
Then Mercury fitted the winged sandals to his feet, and took the wand
with which he driveth the spirits of the dead, and came right soon to
Mount Atlas, which standeth bearing the heaven on his head, and having
always clouds about his top, and snow upon his shoulders, and a beard
that is stiff with ice. There Mercury stood a while; then, as a bird
which seeks its prey in the sea, shot headlong down, and came to Æneas
where he stood with a yellow jasper in his sword-hilt, and a cloak of
purple shot with gold about his shoulders, and spake: “Buildest thou
Carthage, forgetting thine own work? The Almighty Father saith to thee,
‘What meanest thou? Why tarriest thou here? If thou carest not for
thyself, yet think of thy son, and that the Fates have given to him Italy
and Rome.’”
And Æneas saw him no more. And he stood stricken with fear and doubt.
Fain would he obey the voice, and go as the gods commanded. But how
should he tell this purpose to the queen? But at the last it seemed
good to him to call certain of the chiefs, as Mnestheus, and Sergestus,
and Antheus, and bid them make ready the ships in silence, and gather
together the people, but dissemble the cause, and he himself would watch
a fitting time to speak and unfold the matter to the queen.
Yet was not Dido deceived, for love is keen of sight. Rumor also told
her that they made ready the ships for sailing. Then, flying through the
city, even as one on whom has come the frenzy of Bacchus flies by night
over Mount Cithæron, she came upon Æneas, and spake: “Thoughtest thou to
hide thy crime, and to depart in silence from this land? Carest thou not
for her whom thou leavest to die? And hast thou no fear of winter storms
that vex the sea? By all that I have done for thee and given thee, if
there be yet any place for repentance, repent thee of this purpose. For
thy sake I suffer the wrath of the princes of Libya and of my own people;
and if thou leavest me, for what should I live?—till my brother overthrow
my city, or Iarbas carry me away captive? If but I had a little Æneas to
play in my halls, I should not seem so altogether desolate.”
But Æneas, fearing the words of Jupiter, stood with eyes that relented
not. At the last he spake: “I deny not, O queen, the benefits that thou
hast done unto me, nor ever, while I live, shall I forget Dido. I sought
not to fly by stealth; yet did I never promise that I would abide in
this place. Could I have chosen according to my will I had built again
the city of Troy where it stood; but the gods command that I should seek
Italy. Thou hast thy Carthage; why dost thou grudge Italy to us? Nor may
I tarry. Night after night have I seen my father Anchises warning me in
dreams. Also even now the messenger of Jupiter came to me—with these ears
I heard him—and bade me depart.”
Then, in great wrath, with eyes askance, did Dido break forth upon him:
“Surely no goddess was thy mother, nor art thou come of the race of
Dardanus. The rocks of Caucasus brought thee forth, and an Hyrcanian
tigress fed thee. For why should I dissemble? Was he moved at all my
tears? Did he pity my love? Nay, the very gods are against me. This man
I took to myself when he was shipwrecked and ready to perish. I brought
back his ships, his companions from destruction. And now, forsooth, comes
the messenger of Jupiter with dreadful commands from the gods. As for
thee, I keep thee not. Go, seek thy Italy across the seas: only, if there
is any vengeance in heaven, thou wilt pay the penalty for this wrong,
being wrecked on some rock in their midst. Then wilt thou call on Dido in
vain. Aye, and wherever thou shalt go I will haunt thee, and rejoice in
the dwellings below to hear thy doom.”
Then she turned, and hastened to go into the house. But her spirit left
her, so that her maidens bare her to her chamber and laid her on her bed.
Then Æneas, though indeed he was much troubled in heart, and would fain
have comforted the queen, was obedient to the heavenly word, and departed
to his ships. And the men of Troy busied themselves in making them ready
for the voyage. Even as the ants spoil a great heap of corn and store
it in their dwellings against winter, moving in a black line across the
field, and some carry the great grains, and some chide those that linger,
even so did the Trojans swarm along the ways and labor at the work.
But when Dido saw it she called to Anna her sister, and said, “Seest thou
how they hasten the work along the shore? Even now the sails are ready
for the winds, and the sailors have wreathed the ships with garlands, as
if for departure. Go thou—the deceiver always trusted thee, and thou
knowest how best to move him—go and entreat him. I harmed not him nor
his people; let him then grant me this only. Let him wait for a fairer
time for his journey. I ask not that he give up his purpose; only that
he grant me a short breathing space, till I may learn how to bear this
sorrow.”
And Anna hearkened to her sister, and took the message to Æneas, yet
profited nothing, for the gods shut his ears that he should not hear.
Even as an oak stands firm when the north wind would root it up from the
earth—its leaves are scattered all round, yet doth it remain firm, for
its roots go down to the regions below, even as far as its branches reach
to heaven—so stood Æneas firm, and, though he wept many tears, changed
not his purpose.
Then did Dido grow weary of her life. For when she did sacrifice, the
pure water would grow black, and the wine be changed into blood. Also
from the shrine of her husband, which was in the midst of her palace, was
heard a voice calling her, and the owl cried aloud from the housetop.
And in her dreams the cruel Æneas seemed to drive her before him; or
she seemed to be going a long way with none to bear her company, and be
seeking her own people in a land that was desert. Therefore, hiding the
thing that was in her heart, she spake to her sister, saying, “I have
found a way, my sister, that shall bring him back to me, or set me free
from him. Near the shore of the great sea, where the Æthiopians dwell, is
a priestess, who guards the temple of the daughters of Hesperus, being
wont to feed the dragons that kept the apples of gold. She is able
by her charms to loose the heart from care or to bind it, and to stay
rivers also, and to turn the courses of the stars, and to call up the
spirits of the dead. Do thou, therefore—for this is what the priestess
commands—build a pile in the open court, and put thereon the sword which
he left hanging in our chamber, and the garments he wore, and the couch
on which he lay, even all that was his, so that they may perish together.”
And when these things were done—for Anna knew not of her purpose—and also
an image of Æneas was laid upon the pile, the priestess, with her hair
unbound, called upon all the gods that dwell below, sprinkling thereon
water that was drawn, she said, from the lake of Avernus, and scattering
evil herbs, that had been cut at the full moon with a sickle of bronze.
Dido also, with one foot bare and her garments loosened, threw meal upon
the fire and called upon the gods, if haply there be any, that look upon
those that love and suffer wrong.
And now it was morning, and Queen Dido, from her watch-tower, saw the
ships upon the sea. Then she smote upon her breast and tore her hair, and
cried: “Shall this stranger mock us thus? Hasten to follow him. Bring
down the ships from the docks, make ready sword and fire. And this was
the man who bare upon his shoulders his aged father! Why did I not tear
him to pieces, and slay his companions with the sword, and serve up the
young Ascanius at his meal? And if I had perished, what then? for I die
to-day. O Sun, that regardest all the earth, and Juno, that carest for
marriage bonds, and Hecate, Queen of the Dead, and ye Furies that take
vengeance on evil doers, hear me! If it be ordered that he reach this
land, yet grant that he suffer many things from his enemies, and be
driven from his city, and beg for help from strangers, and see his people
cruelly slain with the sword; and, when he shall have made peace on ill
conditions, that he enjoy not long his kingdom, but die before his day,
and lie unburied on the plain. And ye, men of Tyre, hate his children and
his people forever. Let there be no love or peace between you. And may
some avenger arise from my grave who shall persecute the race of Dardanus
with fire and sword. So shall there be war forever between him and me.”
Then she spake to old Barcé, who had been nurse to her husband Sichæus:
“Bid my sister bathe herself in water, and bring with her beasts for
sacrifice. And do thou also put a garland about thy head, for I am minded
to finish this sacrifice which I have begun, and to burn the image of the
man of Troy.”
And when the old woman made haste to do her bidding, Queen Dido ran
to the court where the pile was made for the burning, and mounted on
the pile, and drew the sword of Æneas from the scabbard. Then did she
throw herself upon the bed, and cry: “Now do I yield up my life. I have
finished my course. I have built a mighty city. I have avenged my husband
on him that slew him. Happy had I been—yea, too happy! had the ships of
Troy never come to this land.” Then she kissed the bed and cried: “Shall
I die unavenged? Nevertheless let me die. The man of Troy shall see this
fire from the sea whereon he journeys, and carry with him an augury of
death.”
And when her maidens looked, lo! she had fallen upon the sword, and the
blood was upon her hands. And a great cry went up through the palace,
exceeding loud and bitter, even as if the enemy had taken Carthage or
ancient Tyre, and the fire were mounting over the dwellings of men and
of gods. And Anna, her sister, heard it, and rushing through the midst
called her by name: “O my sister, was this thy purpose? Were the pile
and the sword and the fire for this? Why wouldst thou not suffer that I
should die with thee? For surely, my sister, thou hast slain thyself, and
me, and thy people, and thy city. But give me water, ye maidens, that I
may wash her wounds, and if there be any breath left in her, we may yet
stay it.”
Then she climbed on to the pile, and caught her sister in her arms, and
sought to staunch the blood with her garments. Three times did Dido
strive to raise her eyes; three times did her spirit leave her. Three
times she would have raised herself upon her elbow; three times she
fell back upon the bed, looking with wandering eyes for the light, and
groaning that she yet beheld it.
Then Juno, looking down from heaven, saw that her pain was long, and
pitied her, and sent down Iris her messenger, that she might loose the
soul that struggled to be free. For, seeing that she died, not by nature,
nor yet by the hand of man, but before her time, and of her own madness,
Queen Proserpine had not shred the ringlet from her head which she shreds
from them that die. Wherefore Iris, flying down with dewy wings from
heaven, with a thousand colors about her from the light of the sun, stood
above her head and said: “I give thee to death, even as I am bidden, and
loose thee from thy body.” Then she shred the lock, and Queen Dido gave
up the ghost.
THE RACE OF THE FOUR GALLEYS
By H. L. Havell
On the night when Dido was keeping her last sorrowful vigil Æneas lay
sleeping on the deck of his galley, having made all things ready for a
start next day. But in his dreams he saw the youthful form of Mercury
standing by him, perfect in grace and beauty, and heard these warning
words: “Canst thou sleep, Æneas, on the very brink of peril? Away, fly
from this coast, before thy path is beset with sword and brand. A woman’s
heart is a fickle and slippery thing.”
Æneas started from his couch in affright, and cried to his men: “Up,
comrades; take your oars, and let us be gone. A second time I have heard
the voice of a god, and again the word is _Fly!_” And, drawing his
sword, he cut the rope which moored his vessel to the shore. Swiftly the
benches were manned, the calm waters eddied and roared under their sturdy
strokes, and the whole fleet, urged by one impulse, swept out to sea.
The wind blew fair, and the towers of Carthage were already sinking
beneath the horizon, when a great column of smoke shot up from the
direction of Carthage, checkered by tongues of fire. It was the funeral
pyre on which Dido’s body was burning; but the Trojans knew not this,
and thinking that perhaps it was a signal to summon the Tyrian fleet for
pursuit they redoubled their efforts, until the smoke column dwindled to
a speck, and vanished, and nothing remained in view but sea and sky.
Meanwhile the wind had shifted to the north, the sky became overcast, and
the waves grew black and threatening. Palinurus, the captain of the royal
vessel, after anxiously scrutinizing the signs of the weather, came to
Æneas, and said: “My lord, if Jupiter himself were my warrant, I could
not hope to reach Italy in this wind. Everything forebodes a storm, and
my counsel is that we run for shelter to the friendly harbor of Eryx, on
the north coast of Sicily, where we are sure of a brotherly welcome. It
is close at hand, unless my seamanship is at fault.”
Æneas was well disposed on all accounts to take the advice of his pilot;
for Eryx was a Trojan settlement, which they had already visited on their
voyage from Epirus; and here too his father Anchises had found his last
resting place. Accordingly the order was given, and, running before the
wind, they soon reached the shelter of the high cliffs which guarded the
harbor of Eryx.
As they approached the shore they saw a stalwart warrior standing ready
to receive them, grimly attired in a bearskin, and bristling with
weapons. “It is my old friend Acestes,” said Æneas, with a smile, “whose
heart is as kind as his aspect is threatening.” True to this description
of his character, Acestes hails his wandering countrymen with a hearty
greeting, and entertains them with princely hospitality.
Next day was the anniversary of the death of Anchises, which was
celebrated by Æneas and his men with splendid pomp, and offerings of
blood and wine and milk at the tomb. When all rites had been duly paid
Æneas made proclamation of a great series of games, to be held on the
ninth day following, and invited all the subjects of Acestes to take part
with the Trojans in the friendly contest.
On the day appointed a vast multitude assembled, and took their station
on the cliffs to witness the first event, in which four of the Trojan
galleys were to race to a rocky island, some distance from the shore, and
back again to the mainland. The crews of the vessels—the _Pristis_, the
_Chimæra_, the _Centaur_, and the _Scylla_—were mustered in their places;
and the captains, brave in their purple uniforms, stood conspicuous on
the after-decks, glancing critically at their brawny crews, who sat,
stripped to the waist, grasping their oars, and waiting for the signal.
There was a breathless pause, then a loud blast from a trumpet rang out
for the start, and the four galleys darted out with level prows for the
open sea, while a tremendous roar went up from the host of spectators who
thronged the cliffs. “She leads—the _Chimæra_ has the lead!” is the cry;
and, in fact, the _Chimæra_, under her captain, Gyas, is forging ahead.
She is a galley of the largest size, and built for speed. Next comes
the _Scylla_, with her crew rowing powerfully and splendidly together;
but she is broad in the beam, and a slow traveller. The third place
is keenly contested between the _Pristis_[1] and the _Centaur_, whose
figureheads may be seen alternately passing and repassing each other, and
then again racing neck and neck.
The rocky island draws nearer and nearer, and they can see the green
bough of ilex, placed there by order of Æneas, waving in the wind. The
_Chimæra_ is still leading, and Gyas, her captain, calls to his helmsman.
“Keep closer,” he orders; “you are steering too wide; let the oars graze
the rocks on the port side.” But the cautious old seaman shakes his head,
and steers in a wide curve, fearing the shoal water near the island.
Close behind looms the tall prow of the _Scylla_, and they can hear
the water hissing and foaming round her cutwater. “They are gaining!”
shouts Gyas; and even as he speaks the huge galley, steered by a bold
and skilful hand, takes the inside place, sweeps round the island, and
gaining deep water, rushes triumphantly forward, bound for the shore.
This was too much for the excitable Gyas; with tears of rage and grief
he sprang upon the helmsman, and, snatching the tiller from his hand,
with one vigorous thrust he flung the too cautious veteran into the
sea. Presently a gray head emerged from the water, and the old man was
seen swimming slowly towards the rocks, which he reached not without
difficulty, and sat down with dripping garments and rueful countenance,
gasping, and spitting out the brine. “Now give way, my men,” cried Gyas,
putting the helm hard down, as so to bring the galley round to the very
edge of the rocks.