The earliest and most natural form of idolatry was the worship of the
heavenly bodies, and especially the sun, whose splendor, light, heat,
and salutary influence upon all nature were regarded as the supernatural
and independent powers of a deity. Hence the ancient myths ascribed
personality, and intelligent activity, to the god of day, whom they
worshiped under the name of Phœbus Apollo. They, however, attached to the
history and worship of Apollo many things not connected with his original
character as the source of light.
Delphi was a principal place of their religious solemnities, and from
an early day the site of a temple dedicated to Apollo. The first was
destroyed by fire; but in the time of the Pisistratidæ a much more
gorgeous one was built, and, through a long period of their national
history, was a center of potent influences that did much to fashion the
character of the people. Its wealth became immense, and was computed at
ten thousand talents. In the neighborhood of Delphi the Pythian games
were celebrated in the third year of every Olympiad, and in honor of
Apollo’s victory over the terrible Pythian serpent. On these occasions
the celebrated Amphictyonic Council, whose sessions were usually held
at Thermopylæ, met at Delphi, and the grave senators had the oversight
of the games, prescribed rules for the contestants, and directed in the
distribution of prizes.
The shrine of the god at Delos, his birthplace, was also greatly
renowned. It was situated at the foot of Mount Cynthus, but the whole
island was sacred. The same divinity had beside a great number of less
celebrated temples and shrines, not only in Greece, but also in Asia
Minor, and wherever Greek colonies were extended. The rites observed in
these sacred places were, in general, more seemly than the ceremonial of
their worship paid to some other of their gods, and may be counted among
the educational forces that improved the social and political condition
of the commonwealth. He granted them a prophetic dispensation, and the
responses given by his oracles raised their hopes, or, if unfavorable,
caused alarm. The supposed medium of the communications, a priestess,
who ministered at the altar, was esteemed an important personage. The
inspiration, when the conditions were favorable, often induced what
seemed an ecstatic state of mind, bordering on madness, causing strange
contortions of countenance, and incoherent utterances, understood by
none except those who claimed to be inspired as interpreters, and even
their rendering of the responses was often in enigmas, or terms of such
double meaning as admitted an explanation in accordance with the events
that followed. The convulsions of the priestess were, perhaps, real, but
possibly brought on partly by the chewing of laurel leaves, and partly by
gaseous vapors that issued from a cleft in the rock, beneath the sacred
tripod.
The concept or image of this god Apollo, as expressed by both poets
and artists, was their highest ideal of human excellence and beauty;
a tall, majestic body, of exquisite symmetry, and having the vigor of
immortal youth. Some of his statues, still extant, are described as
marvels of excellence in their line, and those who can not have access
to the originals will find copies more or less perfect, in almost any
considerable collection having specimens of ancient art. One of the most
celebrated of all ancient statues, on account of the completeness of the
sculptor’s work, is the “Apollo Belvidere.” It was found at Antium in
1503, purchased, and placed in a part of the Vatican[1] called Belvidere.
In proportions and altitude it is a noble figure; naked, or but slightly
clad, and in every feature suggestive of the highest perfection of art.
It seems to represent the great archer just after discharging his arrow
at the Python, and shows his manly satisfaction and assurance of victory.
The legendary history of this god, whose worship was much celebrated by
both Greeks and Romans, recites, among other things of interest, the
memorable circumstances of his friendship for Hyacinthus, and his great
love for Daphne. The legends will not lose all their interest, though it
will be impossible to print them entire.
Hyacinthus was a beautiful youth of noble parentage, for whom the great
Apollo manifested ardent friendship. He accompanied him in his sports,
led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions on the
mountains, and for him neglected his lyre and his arrows. As they one day
played quoits together, Apollo heaving aloft the heavy discus,[2] with
his great strength sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched its flight
through the air, and, excited with the sport ran to seize it, eager, in
turn, to make his throw. Alas! in its rebound from the earth, it struck
him a fatal blow. Apollo, pale and anxious, sustained the fainting youth,
and sought, in vain, to heal the mortal wound. As some fair lily, whose
stalk has been broken, turns its limp flowers toward the earth, the head
of the dying boy, too heavy for its shattered support, fell over on his
shoulder; and the friendly god, lamenting deeply, said: “O hapless youth!
thou diest, robbed of a life so pleasant, and I the cause. But thou shalt
be immortal still. My lyre shall celebrate our love; and as a beautiful,
fragrant flower, thou shalt dwell with me forever; the inscriptions on
thy leaves[3] shall proclaim my sorrow.” Even as he spoke the blood that
stained the grass disappeared, and a hyacinth, of hues more beautiful
than Tyrian purple, sprang from the spot, and shed its sweet fragrance
there. “Beloved, though dead, thou shalt still live; and, with every
returning spring the flowers that henceforth bear thy name shall revive
the memory of thy virtues, and of thy sudden departure to the home of the
immortals.”
APOLLO AND DAPHNE.—The beautiful Daphne (dawn) was Apollo’s first love.
This was nature, if the myth is interpreted astronomically. The sun
pursues the dawn that flees before his brighter effulgence. But in this
love affair, Cupid, as he is wont, becomes an exciting cause, and with
his arrow pierced the lover’s heart. It was on this wise: Apollo once,
exulting in his own recent victory over the monster Python, saw the
rogue, Cupid, playing with his bow, and called to him saying: “What have
you to do with such warlike weapons? Leave them for hands more worthy of
them, and, child as you are, do not meddle with my arms.”
The taunting words vexed the son of Venus, and, to avenge himself he
resolved that even the conquering Apollo should feel the keen point of
his little dart, and confess a wound that would be difficult to heal.
So he quickly drew from his quiver two arrows of different make and
metal, one to excite love, the other to repel it. With the latter, a
blunt, leaden shaft, he struck the nymph Daphne, daughter of the river
god Peneus. The other he thrust through the heart of Apollo, who, thus
smitten, forgot his victories, and was at once seized with passionate
love for the beautiful nymph, while she, delighting in woodland sports
and the pleasures of the chase, had no desire to leave them. Her father
wished to see her wedded, but now, more than ever, she hated the thought
of marriage, and, blushing, earnestly besought her sire, saying: “Dearest
father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain a maiden, like the
fleet huntress Artemis.”
He consented, but at the same time, in praise of her rare beauty, said:
“Child, your own face will forbid it.” Apollo dearly loved her and
longed to claim her as his own, but his suit was in vain. She had no
love to answer his, and turned from him. Stung by her indifference, yet
enthralled by her charms, he followed, but her flight was swifter than
the wind, and she delayed not a moment at his entreaties. “Stay,” he
cried, “daughter of Peneus, stay. Do not fly from me as a lamb from the
wolf, or a dove from the hawk. I am not a foe. For love I pursue thee;
and the fear that you may suffer injury in your rapid flight makes me
miserable. You know me not. I am not a clown to be avoided and despised.
Jupiter is my father, and gives me to know the present and future. They
reverence me at Delphi and Tenedos as the god of prophecy, of song, and
of the lyre. I carry weapons. At the twang of my bow the arrow flies
true to its mark. But Cupid’s darts have pierced me, and the distress of
heart is insupportable. I know the virtue of all the healing plants, and
minister to others, but myself suffer this malady that no medicine can
cure. Pity, and—” … The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea
half uttered. But even as she fled, her airy robe and unbound hair flung
loose on the wind, she charmed him yet more. Impatient that his suit did
not prevail, he quickened his speed, and the distance between them grew
less. She eluded his grasp only as a panting hare escapes from the open
jaws of the hound.
So flew Apollo and Daphne; he on wings of love, she on wings of fear. The
very breath of the more powerful pursuer reaches her delicate person;
her strength fails, and, ready to sink, she cries to her father: “Help
me, Peneus! Let the earth open to receive me, or change my form that
has brought me into this trouble!” She spoke, and, at his will, the
metamorphose was instant. A tender bark enclosed her form; her limbs
became branches, her hair leaves; her feet were rooted in the ground,
and her head became a symmetrical tree top, graceful to look upon, but
retaining nothing of its former self save its beauty. Apollo stood
amazed. He embraced with his arms the still palpitating, shrinking
trunk, and lavished many kisses on the delicate branches that shrank
from his lips. “You shall, assuredly, be my tree; and I will wear you
for my crown. With you will I decorate my harp and my quiver. Conquerors
shall weave from your branches wreaths to adorn their brows; and, as
immortality is mine, you, too, shall be always green, and your leaf shall
suffer no decay.” The nymph, thence a beautiful laurel tree, bowed her
head in acknowledgment, and the god was content.
This story of Apollo has been variously interpreted, and is often alluded
to by the poets.
Waller applies it to the case of one whose love songs, though they did
not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet widespread
fame.
“Yet what he sang, in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
All but the nymph, that should redress his wrongs,
Attend his passion, and approve his songs.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He caught at love, and filled his arms with bays.”
PHÆTON’S RIDE.—The ocean nymph Clymene[4] bore to the god of day a son,
they named Phæton (gleaming). Once when he boasted his celestial origin
Ephaphos, a son of Jupiter, disputed his claim, alleging that he was
puffed up with pride in a false father. The indignant Phæton reported the
insult to his mother, who, with a solemn oath and imprecation, reassured
him of his heavenly origin, and added: “The land whence the sun rises
lies next to ours; go and inquire for yourself. See if he will not own
you as his son.” The youth heard with delight, and full of pride and
hope hastened to the palace of his sire, who received him kindly, and
from whom he obtained an unwary oath that, in proof of his fatherhood,
he would grant him whatever he asked. The ambitious Phæton immediately
demanded permission to prove his pedigree, and confound his adversary,
by taking his father’s seat, with leave, for one day, to guide the solar
chariot in its course through the heavens. Phœbus, aware of the danger of
any such attempt, would gladly have recalled his word, and persuaded the
rash youth from his wild purpose. “This, my son, is far too perilous an
undertaking, and quite unsuited to thy powers. These fiery horses would
despise the guidance of Jupiter himself, were he to take the reins; how,
then, can a mortal hand restrain them? Thou knowest not the perils of the
way. In the freshness of the early morning the panting coursers scarce
can climb that steep ascent; at noonday the downward glance to the far
rolling sea, and the green earth lying at so vast a depth is hazardous
even for a god. Canst thou, then, yet so young, resist the rapid movement
of the whirling heavens, or endure the blinding brilliancy of those
flaming orbs? That monstrous ‘Lion,’ the ‘Scorpion,’ and the ‘Crab,’
will surely terrify thee. The famed ‘Archer’ and the raging ‘Bear’ will
threaten destruction. In the later hours the course descends rapidly, and
requires most steady driving. Any charioteer, unused to the road, and the
team, would be plunged headlong, or, deviating from the course, be swept
away by the force that bears all else along, swift as the lightning.
Forego that rash design. Look now on what the world contains, and ask
some other boon. Ask it, and fear no refusal. Yet you shall have this,
if you persist. The oath was sworn, and must be kept. Will you not be
advised, and choose more wisely?”
But the self-confident youth, heedless of his father’s counsel, and
despising the warning, would, at any risk, gratify his foolish ambition.
He demanded the immediate fulfillment of the promise, and prevailed.
And now the purple gates of the East were unfolded, and from within the
palace there breathed celestial fragrance. The stars and waning moon
gradually disappeared; and, at Phœbus’ command, the swift Hours led forth
from their stalls the prancing steeds and attached them to the golden
chariot, their harness sparkling with gems, and the yoke gleaming all
over with diamonds of exceeding brilliance. The daring youth gazed in
admiration too eager for the coveted pleasure. Phœbus bathed his face
with a powerful unguent that made him capable of enduring awhile the
terrible heat, and placing a radiant circlet on his brow, that made him
seem the very god of light, gave such instructions as were necessary.
“Spare the whip, and hold tight the reins; my steeds need no urging; the
labor is to guide and hold them in; you are not to take what seems the
direct road, but turn off to the left; keep within the middle zone, that
the skies and the earth may each receive their due share of light and
heat; go not too high, lest you burn the dwellings of Ouranos; nor yet
too low, or you will set the earth on fire; the middle course is safest
and best; night is passing through the western gates, and the chariot can
delay no longer; go, if you must, but, if you will, tarry in safety where
you are, and allow me, as I have been wont, to light and heat the world.”
The too eager youth, hearing but little, sprang to the lofty seat,
grasped the reins with boundless delight, standing erect, and pouring out
thanks for his opportunity.
The snorting horses, impatient to be gone, and with the boundless plain
of heaven stretching out before them, dart forward cleaving the clouds,
and quite outrun the swiftest winds that started from the same goal. The
load was much lighter than usual, and, as a ship, without freight or
ballast, “is tossed hither and thither on the sea, so that vast chariot,
without its accustomed weight, was dashed about in space, as if utterly
empty.” Phæton was incompetent to guide the fiery steeds, now quite out
of the prescribed course, and was overcome with terror. Whither he was
borne, at such furious speed, he knew not, but he was evidently in the
midst of the most appalling dangers, against which he had been warned
in vain. Paleness and sudden trembling came over him, and bitterly, but
too late, repenting his folly, he wished he had never seen the gorgeous
palace of Phœbus, known the truth of his parentage, or touched his
father’s horses.
On every side were strange, frightful objects menacing his destruction,
and he was driven fiercely about among them, as a ship before a tempest
when the pilot can do nothing. The reins drop from his nerveless hands,
and the furious horses dash the quivering, rocking chariot through
untraveled regions of space. The heavens were all in flames, the clouds
were smoke, and far beneath them lay a burning world. The mountain tops,
forests, harvest fields, and cities were becoming involved in the common
ruin. The _earth_, stretching out suppliant hands toward heaven, implored
the help of Jupiter lest the universe should be destroyed, and chaos
again prevail. “Save what yet remains before all is lost. O, take thought
for our deliverance in this fearful crisis.”
The appeal was answered, and the king of gods summoned his forked
lightnings, and hurled his thunderbolt that smote the affrighted
charioteer, who now, himself on fire, fell like some shooting star that
marks its course to earth with its winding sheet of flame. Eridanus,[5]
the great river, received the charred body and quenched the flame that
would have consumed it. The pitying Naiads gave him a tomb, and some one
provided the epitaph:
“Driver of Phœbus’ chariot, Phæton,
Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone;
He could not rule his father’s car of fire;
Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.”
His sisters, the Heliades,[6] so long and sadly mourned their brother
that the gods changed them into poplar trees, whose tender branches shed
tears of precious amber, which, hardening in the water where they fell,
became jewels that were greatly prized, and worn as ornaments.
The world has known many whose foolish pride and ambition destroyed them.
A recent writer quotes the last verse from one of Prior’s familiar poems,
on a female Phæton, and thus introduces it: “Kitty has been imploring her
mother to allow her to go out into the world, as her friends have done,
if only for once.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart’s desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.”
POSEIDON (NEPTUNE) AND AMPHITRITE.[7]—This son of Cronos and Rhea became,
by allotment, ruler of the sea, and received a three-pronged trident as
the emblem of his power. Amphitrite, one of the daughters of Nereus, was
his queen; and their gorgeous palace was in the deep waters of the Ægean,
off the shores of Eubœa. Some accounts represent him as dwelling less
permanently in the deep places than father Nereus, “the old man of the
sea.” But, when abroad attending the councils of his brothers on Olympus,
or out on the vast plain of the deep, passing swiftly in his boat over
the rolling billows, he had under his supreme control the world of
waters, and all the forces that affect their movements. When he strikes
the calm sea with his trident[8] the waves rise in their violence to
swallow up or dash in pieces the ships and strew with wrecks the shore.
But a word or look from him can allay the wildest tempest, and still the
tumult of the waters.
For reasons not very apparent, the horse is often mentioned as his
favorite animal, and was said to be his gift to men. Possibly it was
because the lively imagination of the ancient Greek saw, in the white
crested waves that pursued each other in wild commotion, the rearing and
bounding of foaming steeds or war-horses, that dash over the plain with
resistless force. And his own car they imagined drawn over the waters by
coursers swifter than the wind.
Poseidon was especially regarded as their patron and tutelar deity by all
seafaring classes, such as fishermen, boatmen, and sailors. When going to
sea they addressed prayers to him, and when returning in safety, offered
sacrifices in gratitude for their escape from the perils of the deep.
His temples, altars and statues were most numerous in seaport towns, on
islands, and peninsulas. One much frequented was at Corinth, and there
games were celebrated in honor of Poseidon.
Some of the principal exploits ascribed to Neptune are the assistance
he rendered Jupiter against the Titans; the raising of the island Delos
out of the sea; the creation and taming of the horse; and the building
of the walls and ramparts of Troy. He was feared also as the author of
earthquakes and deluges, which he caused or checked, at his pleasure.
To him they ascribed a numerous progeny. The principal sons were Triton,
Phorcus, Proteus, and Glaucus. The chief characteristics of these minor
deities of the sea were the power of divination, and ability to change
their forms at pleasure. All these, with the sea-nymphs, fifty in number,
belonged to the train of Neptune, and were subservient to his will.
HEPHAISTOS (VULCAN).—The fire god, according to Homer, was son of Jupiter
and the queenly Juno; or, according to another account of Juno alone,
the goddess being jealous over the manner of Minerva’s birth from the
cleft-skull of her spouse. The little Vulcan was so ill-looking and lame
that the proud mother thought to cast him out of their palace, disowned.
But though so cruelly treated he always showed some regard for her, and
once took her part in a quarrel she had with the king. Jupiter, enraged
at this, caught him by the foot and hurled him from the awful height of
Olympus. He was a whole day falling, but in the evening alighted on the
island Lemnos,[9] where he was kindly received and nourished for years in
a deep grotto of the sea, by Eurymone[10] and Thetis, and afterward, in
return for their kindness, he made them many ornaments. Later mythical
writers mention his lameness as a consequence of that fall. But Homer,
whose authority we follow, represents him as lame from his birth.
Milton, in his “Paradise Lost,” evidently alludes to this Grecian myth,
though he makes a different application of it:
“From morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer’s day; and, with the setting sun,
Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,
On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”
When or how he was restored to Olympus we are not informed, nor whether
the time required for the ascent equaled or exceeded that of the fall.
Enough, that his presence and useful offices there are subsequently
recognized. He may have become mediator between his parents; and at times
humorously assumed the role of cup-bearer at the feasts of the Olympians,
causing them much merriment as he busily hobbled from one to another
presenting the cups of nectar.[11]
It is probable that their first conception of Hephaistos was that of
the god of fire, simply. But as fire is the efficient agent employed
in smelting and working metals, he was afterward, and very naturally,
regarded as the inventor of furnaces, foundries and forges, including all
workshops where skillful artisans wrought in iron and the other metals.
With his workmen of skill and Cyclopic strength he constructed all the
shining palaces for the immortals on Olympus, and also his own immense
workshop with the huge anvils and “twenty bellows” that, at his bidding,
worked automatically. He designed and executed numberless articles, both
useful and ornamental, suitable for the abodes of either gods or men; and
some of their mythical poems and stories are enriched with descriptions
of the exquisite workmanship they display. Later accounts mention his
workshop as no longer on Olympus, but on some volcanic island where his
forges glow with heat and his workmen are equal to any demands made on
their skill or strength. Hephaistos, like Athena, gave skill to mortal
artisans, and they too were believed to have taught men all things
suitable to embellish or adorn their habitations.
In statuary, during the best period of old Grecian art, he is represented
as a vigorous, bearded man of muscular frame, and is characterized by the
presence of his hammer or some other instrument, and the corselet which
leaves the strong, right arm and shoulder uncovered.
The Romans not only changed the name to Vulcan, but regarded Ætna as his
glowing forge, and Venus as his wife; thus expressing the idea that art
and beauty are in harmony.
TEMPERANCE TEACHINGS OF SCIENCE; OR, THE POISON PROBLEM.
BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M.D.