Pan and the Nymphs
Pan,[63] the god of woods and fields, god of the flocks and herds, and
patron deity of all shepherds, was said to be the son of Mercury. It
is apparently not known who his mother was, but she must have had some
sylvan blood in her veins, for the youthful Pan showed every evidence
of having been born of woodland creatures, as he had the pointed ears
of the fauns, and the horns and goat's legs of the satyrs. The story
goes that his mother--whichever nymph it was of the many reputed to
have borne him--was disgusted with his absurd appearance, and refused
to own him for her child; but Mercury was delighted with his son's
grotesque figure, and took him to Olympus to amuse the gods.
Pan's favorite dwelling place was Arcadia; and here he wandered over
the hills and among the rocks, or roamed through the fertile valleys.
He delighted in hunting, and amused himself with various pastimes--his
especial pleasure being to lead in the dances with the nymphs. He
was devoted to music, and was usually seen playing on the syrinx,--or
shepherd's pipes,--which he himself invented and named from a nymph
whom he unsuccessfully wooed. The maiden Syrinx was a follower of
Diana; and one day, as she was returning from the chase, she met Pan,
who immediately fell in love with her beauty, and begged her to be
his wife. The nymph had always scorned to listen to any lover, and
Pan's appearance did not tend to soften her objections; so while he
was praising her many charms and pleading for her love, she turned and
ran away. The woodland god was not to be put off so lightly, however;
and he promptly gave chase to the fleeing maiden, who, finding that
her pursuer was gaining on her, called wildly on the river-nymphs for
help. She had by this time reached the water's edge; and just as Pan's
arms were about to enfold her, the kindly nymphs changed her into a
cluster of reeds. The god was much chagrined at the failure of his
hopes; but since he could not have the living maiden, he determined to
take whatever remained of the beautiful thing that had charmed him. So
he gathered a bunch of the reeds, and after cutting them into unequal
lengths, bound them together into a sort of shepherd's pipes. When
he put the reeds to his lips, they gave forth the softest and most
plaintive tones, and Pan called them the syrinx in honor of the nymph.
Before inventing this new instrument, Pan had played upon the flute,
and it was his skill in this direction that made King Midas dare to
affront Apollo by declaring Pan to be the better musician. The god of
woods and fields was not, however, a frequenter of palaces, but made
his home in grottoes and piped to the murmuring trees. He loved to
prowl by night in lonesome places, and lurk among the shadows where
some belated traveler, startled by the weird hoot of an owl, would
see his grotesque form and rush away, filled with that unreasoning
terror called a "panic." Pan's partners in the sylvan dance were the
wood-nymphs, who always welcomed him and his followers. When his days
were spent among the mountain solitudes, the Oreads, or mountain
nymphs, danced with him in the moonlight; and when he preferred to
live in the valleys, the Dryads, or nymphs of vegetation, joined in
the revels led by Pan and his company of fauns and satyrs.[64] The
Naides, the beautiful water-nymphs who dwelt in the clear depths of
the fountains, did not come out of their quiet haunts to take part in
the merriment; nor did the shy Hamadryads leave the safe shelter of
their trees to mingle in the joyous dance. Among these latter nymphs
each had her particular tree, and lived and died with the one intrusted
to her care. It was held, therefore, to be an act of wanton cruelty
to destroy or even mar a tree, lest the Hamadryad who inhabited it
should be hurt and possibly killed. It was unwise to break off a flower
recklessly, or to pull it rudely from the earth, for in this humble
form might be lodged the spirit of some woodland creature.
Such a sad mistake did Dryope once make, and suffered for her
carelessness by being changed from a mortal into a Hamadryad. Dryope
was a beautiful young princess, the wife of Andræmon, and the mother of
a golden-haired boy. Every day she carried her child to a small lake
near the palace, and let him gather the gayly-colored flowers that grew
on the water's edge. One day, as she wandered by the lake, Dryope saw
a lotus blossom and pointed it out to her little son, who immediately
tried to pluck it. As it was much beyond his reach, his mother leaned
over the water and broke it off the stem. To her surprise, she saw
drops of blood slowly oozing from the stem; and as the boy eagerly
grasped the lovely flower in his chubby hand, a crimson stream trickled
through his clasped fingers. He dropped the blossom with a frightened
cry, and ran screaming to the palace, while Dryope stood looking down,
bewildered, at the bleeding flower. Just then she heard a voice
telling her that she had killed the nymph Lotis, who, to escape from
the arms of the hateful god Priapus, had taken the form of a lotus.
When Dryope realized the dreadful thing that she had unknowingly done,
she turned pale with fright, and would have hurried away from the
unlucky spot; but when she tried to turn from the sight of the dying
flower, she found that she could not move. Her feet seemed rooted to
the ground; and, as she looked down, she was horrified to see that a
rough bark was beginning to inclose her limbs. With dreadful rapidity
it spread upward, and soon encircled her whole body, while her arms
changed into twisted branches and her hands into green leaves. In vain
she called to her husband and her friends for help. When they arrived,
there was nothing left of the fair Dryope but her tear-stained face,
which was covered all too soon by the cruel bark. Just before she
disappeared completely from their sight, she begged that her little
son might be taught to play beneath her branches; and when, in all
the after days, the boy sat willingly beside the tree and listened to
the soft rustling of its leaves, the passers-by would say: "Dryope is
whispering to her child."[65]
The danger of recklessly destroying any tree is shown by the story of
Erysichthon, who dared to defy the goddess Ceres, and so received a
fitting punishment. There was a certain grove of trees sacred to Ceres,
and among them was a lofty oak on which votive tablets were often hung,
and around which the nymphs and Dryads danced hand in hand. Erysichthon
ordered his servants to cut down this venerable oak; and when they
hesitated, telling him that it was a tree beloved by Ceres and should
not suffer such a sacrilege, he seized the ax himself and made a deep
gash in the trunk. To the great horror of those who stood by, blood
began to flow from the wound; and as Erysichthon was about to deal the
tree another blow, one of his servants caught at his arm, imploring
him not to touch the oak again, for the blood showed that a Hamadryad
was being wounded. Maddened at this interference, and determined to
carry out his brutal will, Erysichthon declared that he would cut
down the tree if by so doing he killed a dozen Dryads. He lifted his
ax for a mighty stroke, and as the servant again sought to stay his
arm, he turned fiercely and killed the man with one swift blow. Then
he proceeded to fell the tree, and soon it was lying, bruised and
bleeding, on the ground.
The nymphs rushed to Ceres, and begged her to punish this wicked
violation of her grove. The goddess promised that Erysichthon's deed
should not go unpunished, and sent an Oread to the remote part of
Scythia, where the ice lies thick on the dreary soil and the land is
always desolate. "Here dwell drowsy Cold and Paleness and Shuddering
and dreadful Famine." When the Oread drew near this barren country,
she saw far off the gaunt form of Famine pulling up with her teeth and
claws the scant bits of vegetation that could be found here and there
in the frozen earth. The nymph did not want to linger near the dreadful
form of Famine, lest the hag should reach out her lean finger and touch
the maiden's robes; so she hurriedly delivered the message of Ceres,
and sped quickly back to her own fair land of Thessaly.
Not daring to disobey the goddess's command, Famine left her dreary
country and sought out the home of Erysichthon. She found him asleep;
and as he slept she enfolded him with her wings, and breathed into his
nostrils her deadly breath. Then she returned to her frantic digging in
the unyielding soil. When Erysichthon awoke, he was at once consumed
with a fierce desire for food; but, however much he ate, the terrible
craving never ceased. All day long he devoured things greedily, but at
night his hunger was still unsatisfied. His servants piled up food in
enormous quantities before him, but the gnawing pangs of hunger never
left him. He spent all his wealth in a vain attempt to buy enough food
to appease the insatiable monster within him; but, though he at last
sold all that he had, even to his house and his clothing, it was not
enough to buy him the food he craved. There was nothing left him now
but his daughter; and frenzied by his hunger, he offered to sell her to
a slave-dealer.
The girl pitied her father's sufferings and would have done anything to
help him; but she resented his baseness in selling her, for she came
of a noble race. While her purchaser was disputing with her father
over the price, the maiden, who was standing on the seashore, a short
distance away from her new master, implored Neptune to save her from
the disgrace of being sold as a slave. The kindly sea-god heard her
cry, and changed her into an old fisherwoman. When the bargain between
Erysichthon and the dealer was settled, the man looked around for
his new purchase, but she was nowhere to be seen. The only person on
the seashore, beside the brutal bargainers, was an old woman who sat
mending her net. The irate owner searched in vain for his slave and
even asked the fisherwoman if she had seen a weeping maiden. Unable
to find the girl, he at last went away, concluding that Erysichthon's
daughter had tried to escape and so had been drowned in the sea. The
maiden was rejoiced at her deliverance; but her cruel father, on seeing
her regain her own form, decided that this was an easy way of making
the money he desperately needed. So he sold his daughter again and
again, and each time she sought the help of Neptune, who obligingly
turned her into many different shapes. At last even this device failed
to bring to Erysichthon enough money to meet the ever increasing
demands of his hunger. In despair over the lack of food he began to eat
his own flesh; and in a short time he had devoured so much of his body
that death came to end his torment. So was Ceres avenged.
The Hamadryads were seldom seen by men, but people knew them to be both
gentle and beautiful. That they could repay a kindness is well shown
by the story of Rhœcus, who gained the love of one of the shyest of
these nymphs. One day the youth happened to see an oak-tree bent so
far down by the wind that some of its branches were already broken. He
propped up the tree, and gently bound up the broken limbs; then as he
turned to go, he heard a soft voice calling him. It was the Hamadryad
who had expected to die with her stricken tree, and was now so grateful
to Rhœcus that she bade him ask of her any reward he wished. The
youth boldly asked for her love, and the nymph reluctantly yielded to
his wish, promising to meet him at the oak-tree each day just before
sunset. To keep him mindful of the hour set for the tryst, she told
him that she would send him a messenger--a bee--which would also guide
him to the spot where she was waiting.
Rhœcus was very happy with the Hamadryad; and never failed to follow
the flight of the bee that came each day at sunset to lead him to the
trysting-place. One morning, however, he began to play at dice with
his friends, and the game continued through the long summer afternoon.
As it drew toward sunset, Rhœcus forgot that it was his hour to meet
the Dryad, and continued his game, even though he noticed vaguely that
a bee was buzzing near him. Soon the bee came close to his face, and
buzzed so persistently that Rhœcus brushed it angrily away. Each time
he tried to shake it off it came buzzing back, and at last he struck
at it so viciously that it fell to the ground. Then in a flash Rhœcus
remembered his promise to the Dryad, and throwing away his dice, he
hurried to the trysting-place. He called to the nymph and begged her
to come to him once more; but no sweet face appeared though a voice
spoke from the heart of the oak-tree bidding him a sad farewell. Rhœcus
had already repented bitterly of his forgetfulness; but nothing could
restore him to favor. He sat all night beside the oak-tree, but the
Dryad never came to him again.[66]
[Illustration: Vestals]