------
Upon a subject which has occupied the thoughts, and employed the pens of
our most profound thinkers, and our ablest writers, it is perhaps difficult
to say much that is likely to interest the reader, without the chance of
being irksome from its proving a thrice told tale: and yet the subject is
in itself so interesting, and so intimately connected with all that is most
fascinating to our remembrances, and so blended with all that reminds us of
departed greatness, that it is scarcely possible to pass it coldly by, or
to speak in the language of others those ideas which excite our own
imaginations.
There was something very pleasing and very poetical in the thought, that
each river had its nymph, and every wood its god: that a visible power
watched over even the domestic duties of the people, ready to punish or
reward; and that, too in a manner so strange and immediate, that it must
have greatly affected their minds in stimulating to good, or deterring from
evil. They were, indeed, the days of "visible poetry;" the "young hunter,"
in the pursuit of his favourite sport, might image to his mind the form and
figure of Diana, accompanying him in the chase, not perhaps without a holy
fear lest she should become visible to him, and the fate of Acteon should
prove to be his. {vi}
The lover, as he sought the presence of his mistress, might, in his
enamoured idea of her beauty, fancy that his idolatry was a real one, and
that he wooed Venus in the form of a mortal: or, in the tremor which then
as now pervaded the lover's bosom, he might fear that Jove himself would
prove a rival, and, swan-like, or in some other as picturesque a form, win
her he sought for his own: and thus, every class of society, from the
patrician to the peasant, must have been imbued with feelings which, while
they believed them to be religious, we regard but as poetical.
Leigh Hunt, who has said many things upon Mythology, quite as beautiful as
his subject, remarks:--
"From having a different creed of our own, and always encountering the
Heathen Mythology in a poetical and fabulous shape, we are apt to have a
false idea of the religious feeling of the ancients. We are in the habit of
supposing, that they regarded their fables in the same poetical light as
ourselves; that they could not possibly put faith in Jupiter, Neptune, and
Pluto; in the sacrifice of innocent turtle doves, the libation of wine, and
the notions about Tartarus and Ixion.
"The greatest pleasure arising to a modern imagination from the ancient
Mythology, is in a mingled sense of the old popular belief, and of the
philosophical refinements upon it. We take Apollo, and Mercury and Venus,
as shapes that existed in popular credulity, as the greater fairies of the
ancient world: and we regard them, at the same time, as personifications of
all that is beautiful and genial in the forms and tendencies of creation.
But the result, coming, as it does too, through avenues of beautiful
poetry, both ancient and modern, is so entirely cheerful, that we are apt
to think it must have wanted gravity to more believing eyes. Every forest,
to the mind's eye of a Greek, was haunted with superior intelligences.
Every stream had its presiding nymph, who was thanked for her draught of
water. Every house had its protecting gods which had blessed the inmate's
ancestors; and which would bless him {vii} also, if he cultivated the
social affections: for the same word which expressed piety towards the
Gods, expressed love towards relations and friends. If in all this there
was nothing but the worship of a more graceful humanity, there may be
worships much worse as well as better.
"Imagine the feelings with which an ancient believer must have gone by the
oracular oaks of Dodona, or the calm groves of the Eumenides, or the
fountain where Proserpine vanished under ground with Pluto; or the
laurelled mountain Parnassus, on the side of which was the temple of
Delphi, where Apollo was supposed to be present in person. Imagine
Plutarch, a devout and yet a liberal believer, when he went to study
theology and philosophy at Delphi: with what feelings must he not have
passed along the woody paths of the hill, approaching nearer every instant
to the presence of the divinity, and not sure that a glance of light
through the trees was not the lustre of the god himself going by. This is
mere poetry to us, and very fine it is; but to him it was poetry, and
religion, and beauty, and gravity and hushing awe, and a path as from one
world to another."
G. Moir Bussey has also observed, with much elegance and feeling:--"The
Mythology of the Ancients is one long romance in itself, full of poetry and
passion--a mysterious compound of supernatural wonders and of human
thoughts and feelings. It entrances us by its marvels in childhood; and in
manhood we ponder over it, if not with the same rapturous delight as
formerly, yet at least with such a sense of pleasure as that inspired by
the perusal of a magnificent poem--the product of immortal
mind--refreshing, invigorating, exalting. Beauty and strength--the might of
man, and the majesty and sublimity of the misunderstood intelligences of
the godhead, not only constituted the worship of the Greeks of old, but
governed their lives, their actions, their laws, and the very aspirations
of their hearts. They aimed at excellence in the highest, in order that
their statues might be installed in their national temples as {viii} those
of demi-gods, and the struggle brought them sufficient knowledge and energy
to win deathless renown among men. All that they achieved, all that they
meditated, bespeaks the soaring of a race bent upon conquering every
obstacle--natural or artificial--which stood between them and absolute
perfection, whether in legislation, in philosophy, in art, in science, in
literature, in poetry, in war, or in dominion."
The reality of an every day world has now set its seal upon all that
delighted the days of our youth, and would even arouse us from our reveries
on this most charming of subjects: we will conclude with the words of Barry
Cornwall--
"Oh! ye delicious fables, where the wave,
And wood, were peopled; and the air, with things
So lovely--why, ah! why has science grave
Scattered afar your secret imaginings?
Why seared the delicate flowers that genius gave,
And dash the diamond drops from fancy's wings.
Alas! the spirit languishes and lies
At mercy of life's dull realities.
"No more by well or bubbling fountain clear
The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun,
Nor longer may we in the branches hear
The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run
Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer
Her way among the waves when day is done.
Shadows nor shape remain--"
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{1} [Illustration]