ANIMALS IN CULTURE MYTHS
All the stories so far have reflected primitive man’s way of thinking and
acting. Passing now to more developed phases of life, we are confronted
in myths by such an array of animals—definite personifications of natural
phenomena—that no possible ark would hold these cosmical monsters.
Now if we imagine ourselves off for a hunt for some of these animals
in the mythology of people no longer primitive but with a considerable
degree of culture, we shall find ourselves rewarded to the full in the
myths of India. The ancient Hindoo revels in animal cosmic myths. The
sky seems to be in his imagination one vast pasture land for cows and
bulls, though frequently it is turned into a battle-ground because of
the incursions of an evil serpent who has a predilection for carrying
off cows. These tremendous dramas in the imaginative sky of the Hindoo
are a magnified reflection of the state of affairs existing upon the
earth. Cosmic cattle would be expected to be more glorious than mundane
cattle, yet we see through these myths how important the cow was to the
existence of the Hindoo.[3] To increase the number of cows, to render
them fruitful in milk and prolific in calves, to have them well looked
after, is the dream, the ideal of the ancient Hindoo. His worst enemy,
therefore, is he that robs him of his cows, while his best friend would
be he who rescues the cows from the robber.
The dewy moon, the dawn, the watery cloud, in fact, the entire vault of
heaven which gives the benignant and quickening rain as cows give their
milk, are all personified as the beneficent Cow of Abundance.
The great and awful ruler of all these cows is the God Indra, who rides
in a car to which are harnessed magnificent bay steeds. Sometimes he is
called a Bull and sometimes he is said to roar like a Bull.
From the hymns of the “Rig Veda,” probably three or four thousand years
old, many of which were written in honor of Indra, may be gathered the
characteristics of Indra and these remarkable cattle. In her cloudy
aspects, this cow of the sky was called the spotted one, and was said
to be the mother of the storm winds or Maruts, while Indra, who hides
himself in thunder-clouds is the Bull of Bulls, invincible son of a
cow that bellows like the Maruts. This terrible creature bellows and
shows his strength as he sharpens his horns, who is able of himself to
overthrow all peoples. His horns are the lightning, and he is sometimes
said to have a thousand of them. With all these animals prancing about in
the sky, there is a fine opportunity for brilliant onslaughts upon the
enemy who steals the cows. Indra with his thunder-bolts and the Maruts
with their winds are the leaders on one side, while in the hostile camp
will be found a horrid monster called by different names, such as Valas,
Vritras, Cushnas, meaning the enemy, black one, thief, serpent, wolf, or
wild boar. This awful being generally seems to throw down the gauntlet
by stealing the cows of Indra and imprisoning them in a dark and dismal
cavern in the clouds. Then an exciting battle follows; Indra bellows,
the thunder-bolt bellows, the Maruts bellow, and ascend the rock, now
by their own efforts making the sonorous stone, the rock mountain fall;
now, with the iron edge of their rolling chariots violently splitting the
mountain; then the valiant hero, Indra, beloved by the gods, moves the
stone; he hears the cows, by aid of the Maruts he finds the cows hidden
in the cavern. Furnished with an arm of stone he opens the grotto of
Valas, who keeps the cows; he vanquishes, kills or pursues the thieves in
battle. We may see this battle every time there is a thunder-storm, the
lightning often leaps between the clouds, and the thunder roars before
the rain falls, but when there comes the heavy downpour of rain, the
ancient Hindoo would compare it to the refreshing milk of the cows which
have been rescued by Indra.
Horses are also important animals in Hindoo myths. The Asvins, who gallop
across the sky from morning till night, are sometimes called the sons of
the Sun and the Dawn and sometimes they are called the steeds of Indra.
They are described in the hymns of the “Rig Veda” as full of life, having
eyes like the sun, drawing the chariot with the golden yoke, the two most
rapid ones, who carry Indra as every day they carry the sun. They are as
two rays of the sun, which illumine the sky with manes the color of a
peacock, bridled sixty times, beneficent, winged, indefatigable, resolute
destroyers of enemies.
The Hindoo deities all have animals on which they ride, called Vahans
or Vehicles; thus, Indra sometimes rides an elephant, Siva, a bull,
Durga, a tiger, and so on. These all share in the honors of worship
accorded to their riders. These vehicles of the gods were probably once
impersonations of the gods themselves, or animals into which they changed
themselves as they do in the primitive myths with which we are already
familiar.
The cow does not seem to have been a Vahan for any of the gods. She was
too much of a goddess in her own right, shown by the fact that she was
regularly worshipped every year with great ceremony.
Egypt, however, was the land where animals received the greatest
reverence. We find there a complete archæological museum of mythological
animals. Cats and dogs, mice and crocodiles, birds and insects—all were
worshipped. So sacred did the Egyptians consider animals in general that
it was a capital crime if any of them were killed. Should an Ibis or a
Hawk be even accidentally killed, the unfortunate person who happened to
do it was put to death by the multitude without form of law. Even if a
cat died, everybody in the house cut off his eyebrows. Nothing, not even
the direst extremes of famine, could tempt an Egyptian to eat a sacred
animal. They would rather devour each other than this.
But of all the animals, the ox kind received the highest honors. Bulls
were occasionally sacrificed, but cows never. They were sacred to Isis,
the Moon Goddess. There were special individuals of the species, however,
who were looked upon with the utmost veneration. They were called Apis
and Mnevis. Apis was a black bull, but had a white star on his forehead,
the figure of an eagle on his back, a crescent on his right side, with a
knot under his tongue, resembling the Scarabeus or sacred beetle. Apis is
described as living twenty-five years, when he jumped into a well or into
the river Nile. Upon the discovery of a new Apis the Egyptians celebrated
a joyful festival.
According to an ancient account, as soon as a report had been spread
abroad that the Egyptian god had been brought to light, certain sacred
scribes, who were well versed in the mystic marks, which they had learned
by tradition, approached the divine calf. They fed it during four months
with milk, in a house that fronted the rising sun. After this the sacred
scribes carried him in a vessel prepared for the purpose to Memphis,
where he had a convenient and delightful abode, with pleasure grounds
and ample space for salubrious exercise. Companions were provided for
him. He drank from a well or fountain of clean water.
Dances and festivities and joyful assemblies were held in honor of this
animal at the rising of the Nile, and the man from whose flock the
divine beast sprang was the happiest of mortals and was looked upon with
admiration by all the people. According to some, Apis was dedicated
to Isis or the Moon. Next to Apis the highest honors were paid to the
sacred bull of Heliopolis, called Mnevis. This bull was black and was
dedicated to Osiris. He was kept in a stable in the Temple of the Sun
and was worshipped as a god. The warring principle in nature, Typhon,
was identified with various hideous animals, such as the crocodile and
hippopotamus. The most sacred of beetles was the Scarabeus, the symbol
either of the sun or immortality. Even the higher gods were frequently
represented as animals, or in part animals, while to those gods imaged
in human form, like Osiris and Isis, animals were sacred. There was also
an important bird, which was itself mythical, called the Phœnix. This
wonderful bird was said to rise from time to time out of its own ashes.
Animals occupy a somewhat different position in Norse mythology. They are
also survivals, very likely, from an earlier stage of life when animals
were worshipped, but when we meet with them in the Norse myths they have
become symbols of the various ideas of mankind in regard to the mind and
spirit, and no longer appear simply as personifications of the events of
nature like Indra and the cows in Hindoo mythology.
The Norse gods appear galloping into view on their wonderful steeds
across the rainbow bridge, Bifrost, from Heaven to Earth. Their names are
very significant: Odin rides Sleipner; Heimdal, Goldtop. The other horses
are Glad (Bright), Gyller (Gilder), Gler (the Shining One), Skeidbrimer
(Fleetfoot), Silfrintop (Silvertop), Siner (Sinews), Gisl (the Sunbeam),
Falhofner (Palehoof), Letfet (Lightfoot).
Thor, the thunderer, unlike Indra, who often drove two bay steeds, had
no horse upon which to ride over the rainbow bridge. He would destroy it
with his thunder-bolts, so he had to wade through three rivers every day
in order to reach the council of the gods. Odin’s horse, Sleipner, is the
most wonderful—a genuine cosmic animal, with eight legs that symbolize
the eight winds of heaven.
The maiden Sol drove two gentle and beautiful steeds which were harnessed
to the car of the sun. She drove in great haste, for she as well as her
brother, who watches over the moon, are pursued by two wolves, by which
is probably meant eclipses of the sun and moon. Day and Night also drive
round the sky after each other. Night first with his steed Rine-fax.
Every morning, as he ends his course, Rine-fax bedews the earth with the
foam from his bit. Then Day follows with her steed, Shining-fax, from
whose mane all the sky and earth glisten. The god Frey rides on a boar
named Golden-bristle, and his sister, Freyja, the goddess of love, is
drawn by two cats.
The Midgard serpent or the worm which supported the earth with its tail
in its mouth, is another most interesting mythical animal, whose story
will be found in this chapter.
Finally, there is a Norse cow, still more remarkable than the Hindoo cow.
She was made of frozen vapor, and four rivers of milk ran from her and
fed the giant Yiner, or the earth. It is easy to recognize these rivers
of milk as mountain streams of melted snow. This poor cow had only rime
stones to live on, which she licked because of the salt. After she had
licked them for some time, two magical, godlike beings sprang out of the
stones and became the parents of Odin. The name of this strange cow was
Audhumbla.
In the Norse Heaven, Valhalla, there are two more strange animals. The
food of the Gods of Valhalla, Mead, is supplied by the milk of a she-goat
who feeds upon the leaves of an extraordinary tree. Upon this same tree
feeds a stag, and from his antlers fall so many drops of dew that water
is supplied to thirty-six rivers, twelve of which flow to the abodes of
the gods, twelve to the abodes of men, and twelve to Niflheim.
Fenris, the wolf, is another important animal who typifies evil.
Turning now to Greek mythology, we find that animals, on the whole,
play a subordinate part. Animals are sacrificed to the gods of Greece,
but they are not often worshipped. Many of the gods have more than one
animal sacred to them or sacrificed to them in their worship, and very
likely some of these animals, as in Indian mythology, were originally
worshipped. When the ideas of early mankind once began to develop it
would soon occur to them that human beings would be better impersonations
for their gods than animals, yet the animals, once having been sacred, it
would be very difficult to banish them altogether, hence they remained in
the more developed myths as animals sacred to gods in human form. Greek
myths, too, abound in transformations into animal form, Zeus (Roman name
Jupiter or Jove), the ruling god of heaven and earth, being especially
given to appearing on earth in the form of some animal. Gods of the
earth and sea were also often represented as half man, half animal, the
most famous of these being Pan, the god of the woods, who was half man,
half goat, and the mermaids, who had the bodies of women with fishes’
tails. Though not so prominent as in India, the sky is the pasture land
for flocks and herds in Greece, as you will see illustrated in the story
of Odysseus’s meeting with them. There are animals, also, which talk,
like the celebrated steeds of Achilles, described in the “Iliad.” In one
place they are pictured as weeping when they saw the Greek hero Patroclus
slain. As Pope translates this affecting scene:
“Along their face
The big round drops cours’d down with silent pace
Conglobing on the dust. Their manes that late
Circled their arched necks and waved in state
Trailed on the dust beneath the yoke, were spread,
And prone to earth was hung their languid head.”
But even more marvellous was the time when Xanthus broke into speech and
warned his master of his approaching doom. It is quite in the manner of
an animal in a savage myth, but in the days of Homer’s “Iliad” thought
had advanced so far among the Greeks that the speech of this horse was
not regarded as a perfectly natural event as it would be in a savage
myth. It was Juno, the goddess, who willed that Xanthus should break
eternal silence and portentous speak. Achilles addresses his horses, and
Xanthus answers:
“Xanthus and Balius! of Podarges’ strain;
(Unless ye boast that heavenly race in vain)
Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear
And learn to make your master more your care:
Through falling squadrons bear my slaughtering sword,
Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your lord.”
The generous Xanthus, as the words he said,
Seemed sensible of woe, and droop’d his head:
Trembling he stood before the golden wain,
And bow’d to dust the honors of his mane;
When, strange to tell! (so Juno will’d) he broke
Eternal silence, and portentous spoke:
“Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear
Thy rage in safety through the files of war:
But come it will, the fatal time must come,
Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom.
Not through our crime, or slowness in the course,
Tell thy Patroclus, but by heavenly force:
The bright far-shooting god who gilds the day
(Confess’d we saw him) tore his arms away.
No: could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail,
Or beat the pinions of the western gale,
All were in vain: the fates thy death demand,
Due to a mortal and immortal hand.’
Then ceas’d forever, by the Furies tied,
This fateful voice. Th’ intrepid chief replied
With unabated rage: ‘So let it be!
Portents and prodigies are lost on me.’”
[Illustration: Zeus. _From Pompeii._]
In Pegasus, the winged steed of the Nine Muses, we have what might be
called the prize horse of all mythology. The old Greek writer Hesiod says
he was born near the springs of Ocean. And he, indeed, winging his flight
away, left Earth, the mother of flocks, and came to the immortals; in
Jove’s house he dwells, bearing to counsellor Jove thunder and lightning.
This looks very much as if he began life as a personification of a
natural phenomenon, like the Hindoo Asvins and the Norse Sleipner. But he
was destined to a more glorious career than any of them. The goddess of
wisdom, Athēne, caught him and tamed him, and he became the symbol of the
imagination in its highest flights into the region of poetic aspiration
and inspiration, a fitting climax to an idea, going back to the very
fountains of the imagination which bubbled up in that early stage of life
when animals as well as men were thought to be endowed with spirit.
In the two hymns following, one from the most ancient of Hindoo books,
the “Rig Veda,” and one from a still more ancient Egyptian book called
“The Book of the Dead,” there is quite a contrast, though they both
represent myths in the highly developed religious form of hymns or songs
to the gods. The Hindoo song sings the praises of Indra, while the
Egyptian song is a prayer. Rā, who is mentioned, was the God of the Sun
in Egypt.
Instead of driving steeds as many other sun-gods did, he was said to ride
in a boat. But according to this hymn, there were four sacred apes in the
boat, to whom the ancient Egyptians offered prayers as they did to the
sacred bulls Apis and Mnevis.
HYMNS TO INDRA
(_From the “Rig Veda”_)
I will declare the manly deeds of Indra, the first that he achieved,
the thunder-wielder.
He slew the dragon, then disclosed the waters, and cleft the channels
of the mountain torrents.
He slew the dragon lying on the mountain; his heavenly bolt of thunder
Twashtar fashioned.
Like lowing kine in rapid flow descending the waters glided downward
to the ocean.
Impetuous as a bull, he chose the Soma, and quaffed in threefold
sacrifice the juices.
Maghavan grasped the thunder for his weapon, and smote to death this
first born of the dragons.
When, Indra, thou hadst slain the dragon’s first born, and overcome
the charms of the enchanters,
Then, giving life to sun and dawn and heaven, thou foundest not one
foe to stand against thee.
Indra with his own great and deadly thunder smote into pieces Vritra
worst of Vritras.
...
They who pervaded earth’s extremest limit subdued not with their
charms the wealth-bestower:
Indra, the bull, made his ally the thunder, and with its light milked
cows from out the darkness.
The waters flowed according to their nature; he mid the navigable
streams waxed mighty.
Then, Indra, with his spirit concentrated, smote him forever with
his strongest weapon.
Indra broke through Ilîbisa’s strong castles, and Sushna with his
horn he cut to pieces:
Thou, Maghavan, for all his might and swiftness, slewest thy fighting
foeman with thy thunder.
Fierce on his enemies fell Indra’s weapon: with his sharp horn he
rent their towns in pieces.
He with his thunderbolt dealt blows on Vritra, and conquered,
executing all his purpose.
THE FOUR APES
(_From the “Book of the Dead”_)
“Hail, ye four apes, who sit in the bows of the boat of Rā, who convey
right and truth to Neb-er-tchu, who sit in judgment on my misery and on
my strength, who make the gods to rest contented by means of the flame of
your mouths, who offer holy offerings to the gods and sepulchral meals
to the Khus who live upon right and truth, and who feed upon right and
truth of heart, who are without deceit and fraud and to whom wickedness
is an abomination, do ye away with my evil deeds, and put ye away my sin
which deserved stripes upon earth, and destroy ye any evil whatsoever
that belongeth unto me, and let there be no obstacle whatsoever on my
part toward you. O, grant ye I may make my way through the underworld.
O, grant that there may be given to me cakes and ale and sweetmeats, even
as they are given to the living Khus.”
The four apes make answer, saying, “Come then, for we have done away
with thy wickedness, and we have put away thy sin, along with the sin
deserving of stripes which thou didst commit upon earth, and we have
destroyed all the evil which belonged to thee upon earth. There shall be
given unto thee cakes and ale and sweetmeats, and thou shalt come forth
and thou shalt enter in at thy desire, even as do those Khus who are
favored of the god, and thou shalt be proclaimed each day in the horizon.”
STORY OF THE MIDGARD SERPENT AND FENRIS THE WOLF
(_From the Norse Eddas_)
This huge beast was one of the children of Loke, a troublesome,
mischievous giant, who forced himself upon the society of the gods. His
delight was to get them into all sorts of difficulties, and then by his
cunning, wit and skill to extricate them. The gods knew that as the
Midgard serpent grew larger he would bring untold troubles upon gods and
men. So Odin thought the best way to dispose of him would be to throw
him into the deep ocean which surrounds the earth. He did so, but the
serpent has grown to such an enormous size, that holding his tail in his
mouth, he encircles the whole earth. One time the god Thor went with his
servant Loke to the land of the giants. After some adventures they came
to a city, standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that they
were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in order
to see the top of it. On arriving, they entered the city, and seeing a
large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in and found
a number of men of prodigious stature sitting on benches in the hall.
Going further they came before the king, Utgard-Loke, whom they saluted
with great respect. The king, regarding them with a scornful smile,
said, “If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder must be the god
Thor.” Utgard-Loke then asked Thor and his companions in what feats they
excelled, for he said, “No one is permitted to remain here who does not,
in some feat or other, excel all other men.” Various feats of strength
were tried, then Utgard-Loke said, “We have a very trifling game here.
It consists merely in lifting my cat from the ground; nor should I have
dared to mention such a feat to the great Thor if I had not already
observed that thou art by no means what we took thee for.”
As he finished a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor put his
hand under the cat, and did his utmost to raise him from the floor, but
the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all Thor’s efforts, only
one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made no further attempt.
“This trial has turned out,” said Utgard-Loke, “just as I imagined it
would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison with our men.”
The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed
themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loke ordered a table
to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink.
After the repast, Utgard-Loke led them to the gate of the city, and on
parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out, and whether
he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him that he
could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself. “And what
grieves me most,” he added, “is that thou wilt call me a person of little
worth.”
“Nay,” said Utgard-Loke, “it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now
thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou
shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that
thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near
to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to enter this time.
Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions.” He then
complimented Thor upon each feat he had performed, and as for the cat,
he said, “Thou hast indeed performed a wonderful feat by lifting up the
cat, and to tell thee the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off
the floor we were all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a
cat was in reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and
he was so stretched by thee that he was barely long enough to enclose it
between his head and tail.”
The wolf Fenris was also one of Loke’s children, and gave the gods a
great deal of trouble until they succeeded in chaining him. He broke
the strongest fetters as if they were made of cobwebs. Finally the gods
sent a messenger to the mountain spirits, who made for them the chain
called Gleipnir. It was fashioned of various things: the noise made by
the footfall of a cat, the roots of stones, the breath of fishes, the
nerves of bears, and the spittle of birds. When finished it was as smooth
and soft as a silken string. But when the gods asked the wolf to suffer
himself to be bound with this apparently slight ribbon he suspected
their design, fearing that it was made by enchantment. He therefore only
consented to be bound with it on condition that one of the gods put his
hand in his (Fenris’s) mouth as a pledge that the band was to be removed
again. Tyr alone had sufficient courage to do this. But when the wolf
found that he could not break his fetters and that the gods would not
release him, he bit off Tyr’s hand. Tyr, consequently, has ever since
remained one-handed.
THE STORY OF APOLLO AND PHAËTON
(_Greek: After Ovid_)
Phaëton was the son of Apollo and the earthly nymph Clymene. One day
Epaphus, the son of Zeus and Io, scoffed at the idea of Phaëton’s being
the son of a god. Phaëton complained of the insult to his mother,
Clymene. She sent him to Phœbus Apollo to ask for himself whether he
had not been truly informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaëton
travelled toward the regions of the sunrise, and gained at last the
palace of the Sun. He approached his father’s presence, but stopped at
a distance, for the light was more than he could bear. Phœbus Apollo,
arrayed in purple, sat on a throne that glittered with diamonds. Beside
him stood the Day, the Month, the Year, the Hours and the Seasons.
Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun beheld the youth dazzled with
the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his
errand. The youth replied, “Oh, light of the boundless world, Phœbus, my
father—give me some proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as
thine!” He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around
his head, bade him approach, embraced him, and swore by the river Styx
that whatever proof he might ask should be granted. Phaëton immediately
asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of the Sun. The
father repented of his promise, and tried to dissuade the boy by telling
him the perils of the undertaking. “None but myself,” he said, “may drive
the flaming car of day. Not even Zeus, whose terrible right arm hurls
the thunder-bolts. The first part of the way is steep, and such as the
horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle part is
high up in the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without alarm,
look down and behold the earth and sea stretched beneath me. The last
part of the road descends rapidly and requires most careful driving.
Tethys, who is waiting to receive me, often trembles for me lest I should
fall headlong. Add to this that the heaven is all the time turning round
and carrying the stars with it. Couldst thou keep thy course, while the
sphere revolved beneath thee? The road, also, is through the midst of
frightful monsters. Thou must pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of
the Archer, and near the Lion’s jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches
its arms in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor wilt thou find it
easy to guide these horses, with their breasts full of fire that they
breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be
the donor of a fatal gift; recall the request while yet thou canst.” He
ended; but the youth rejected admonition, and held to his demand. So,
having resisted as long as he might, Phœbus at last led the way to where
stood the lofty chariot.
It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan: the axle of gold, the pole and wheels
of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of chrysolites
and diamonds reflecting the brightness of the sun. While the daring youth
gazed in admiration, the Dawn threw open the purple doors of the east,
and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars withdrew, marshalled
by the Day Star, which last of all retired also. The father when he saw
the earth beginning to glow and the moon preparing to retire, ordered
the Hours to harness up the horses. They led forth from the lofty stalls
the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the
father, smearing the face of his son with a powerful unguent, made him
capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set the rays on the
lad’s head, and, with a foreboding sigh, told him to spare the whip and
hold tight the reins; not to take the straight road between the five
circles, but to turn off to the left; to keep within the limit of the
middle zone, and avoid the northern and the southern alike; finally, to
keep in the well-worn ruts, and to drive neither too high nor too low,
for the middle course was safest and best.
Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect and
grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant
parent. But the steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was lighter
than usual; and as a ship without ballast is tossed hither and thither on
the sea, the chariot, without its accustomed weight, was dashed about as
if empty. The horses rushed headlong and left the travelled road. Then
for the first time the Great and Little Bears were scorched with heat,
and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the water; and the
serpent which lies coiled round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew
warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive. Boötes, they say, fled away
though encumbered with his plough and unused to rapid motion.
When hapless Phaëton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast
extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He
lost his self-command, and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or
throw them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld
the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven—the Scorpion
extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space
of two signs of the Zodiac—when the boy beheld him, reeking with poison
and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from
his hands. The horses, unrestrained, went off into unknown regions of
the sky, in among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places,
now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth. The Moon saw with
astonishment her brother’s chariot running beneath her own. The clouds
began to smoke, the forest-clad mountains burned—Athos and Taurus and
Timolus and Œti; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses’ Mountain,
Helicon and Hæmus; Ætna, with fires within and without, and Parnassus,
with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with his snowy
crown. The cold climate was no protection to Scythia; Caucasus burned,
and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus,—the Alps high in
air, and the Apennines crowned with clouds.
Phaëton beheld the world on fire, and felt the heat intolerable. Then,
too, it is said, the people of Ethiopia became black because the blood
was called by the heat so suddenly to the surface; and the Libyan Desert
was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The
nymphs of the fountains, with dishevelled hair, mourned their waters,
nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanaïs smoked, and Caïcus,
Xanthus and Mæander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus with golden
sands, and Caÿster where the swans resort. Nile fled away and hid his
head in the desert, and there it still remains, concealed. Where he
used to discharge his waters through seven mouths into the sea, seven
dry channels alone remained. The earth cracked open and through the
chinks light broke into Tartarus, and frightened the king of shadows and
his queen. The sea shrank up. Even Nereus and his wife Doris, with the
Nereïds, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for refuge.
Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his head above the surface, and thrice he
was driven back by the heat. Earth, surrounded as she was by waters, yet
with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with her hand, looked
up to heaven, and with husky voice prayed Zeus, if it were his will that
she should perish by fire, to end her agony at once by his thunderbolts,
or else to consider his own heaven, how both the poles were smoking that
sustained his palace, and that all must fall if they were destroyed.
Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Zeus,
calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy
were applied, thundered, brandished a lightning-bolt in his right hand,
launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the same moment
from his seat and from existence. Phaëton with his hair on fire, fell
headlong like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness
as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and cooled his
burning frame. His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate, were
turned into poplar trees, on the banks of the river, and their tears,
which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the stream.
THE STORY OF ODYSSEUS AND THE OXEN OF THE SUN
(_Greek: From the “Odyssey”_)
When Odysseus (called also Ulysses) one of the heroes of the Trojan war,
was returning to his home in Ithaca, he had many adventures and suffered
many hardships which caused him to be years making the voyage from Troy
to Ithaca. One of these adventures was his visit to the Isle of the Sun,
about which he had been warned by the goddess Circè. Odysseus himself
tells how the ship in which he and his comrades were embarked entered the
great deep and reached the Isle Æacea, where the Morning, child of Dawn,
abides and holds her dances, and the Sun goes up from the earth. There
they landed, and drew their galley up on the beach. After disembarking,
they all lay down to sleep beside the sea and waited for the holy Moon to
rise.
As soon as Circè, for this was the island where this goddess dwelt,
heard that Odysseus and his comrades were there, she quickly attired
herself and came down to the beach with her maids who followed, bringing
bread and store of meats and generous wines. Then the wise goddess,
standing in their midst, spake to them and said, “Take food and wine, and
hold a feast to-day, and with the dawn of morning you shall sail away. I
will show you the way, and point out to you all its dangers, so that you
may not come to any harm through following false counsels, either on the
land or on the water.” The confiding minds of Odysseus and his men were
easily swayed by her counsels. So all that day they sat and banqueted
upon the abundant meats and generous wines. And when the sun went down
and darkness came, the crew lay down to sleep beside the moorings of the
ship, and Circè, taking the hand of Odysseus, led him apart, made him sit
down, and sitting before him made him tell all that he had seen.
Then she addressed him, saying, “Thus far all is well; now needfully
attend to what I say, and may some deity help you to remember it.” She
told him first about the Sirens’ haunt, which it would be difficult for
him to pass, and then about the horrible rocks where Scylla and Charybdis
dwelt, giving him instructions how to meet these dangers; then continuing
she said, “In your voyage you will reach the Isle Trinacria, where in
pastures belonging to the Sun many beeves and fatling sheep of his are
fed—seven herds of oxen, and as many flocks of sheep, and fifty in each
flock and herd. They never increase and they never die, and they are
tended by two shepherdesses, goddesses with redundant locks. One is named
Lampetia, the other Phaëthusa. If your desire be to return to Ithaca,
your home, only leave these flocks and herds unharmed, and you and all
your men will return, though after many toils. But if you rashly harm
them, I foretell destruction to your ship and all its crew; and if you
should escape, yet your return will be late and in sorrow, with all your
comrades lost.”
As she finished speaking, the Morning on her golden throne looked forth;
the glorious goddess went her way into the isle, and Odysseus went to his
ship and bade the men embark and cast the hawsers loose. Straightway they
all went on board, and duly manned the benches, smiting the hoary waters
with their oars. Then Circè, amber-haired, the mighty goddess of the
musical voice, sent a fair wind behind the dark-prowed ship, which gayly
bore them company and filled the sails.
Odysseus then told the crew all that Circè, the amber-haired, had said to
him. He warns them of the dangers to come, and how they may be escaped,
first the Sirens, and the rocks where Scylla and Charybdis dwelt. They
escaped these dangers, and approached the pleasant island of the Sun,
where the oxen with broad, beautiful foreheads were grazing, and flocks
of sheep, the fatlings of the god who makes the round of heaven. While
yet at sea, Odysseus heard from his ship the lowing of the herds in
the stables and the bleating of the flocks, and when he heard them he
immediately thought of the words the blind seer, Tiresias of Thebes, had
said to him, and those of Circè, by whom he had often been warned to shun
the island of the god whose light is sweet to all. Then with a sorrowing
heart he said to his companions, “My comrades, sufferers as you are,
listen to me, and I shall disclose the oracles which lately Tiresias and
Circè gave me. The goddess earnestly admonished me not to approach the
island of the Sun, whose light is sweet to all, for there she said some
great misfortune lay in wait for us. Now let us speed the ship and pass
the isle.”
The hearts of the men were broken by this speech, and one of them,
Eurylochus, bitterly replied, “How austere you are, Odysseus. You are
exceedingly strong and no labor tires your limbs; they must be made
of iron, since by your will you deny to us, overcome with toil and
sleeplessness, the chance to tread the land again, and make a generous
banquet in that island amid the waters. You would have us sail into the
swiftly coming night, and stray far from the island, through the misty
sea. By night the mighty winds spring up that make a wreck of ships; and
how can one escape destruction, should a sudden hurricane rise from the
south or the hard-blowing west, causing a ship to founder in the dark in
spite of all the sovereign gods? Let us obey the dark-browed Night, and
take our evening meal, remaining close beside our gallant bark, and go
on board again when morning breaks, and enter the wide sea.” The others
all approved, and Odysseus knew at once that some god was meditating
evil against them, and he replied, “Eurylochus, you force me to your will
since I am only one. Now all of you, bind yourselves to me firmly, by an
oath, that if you here shall meet a herd of beeves or flock of sheep,
you will not dare to slay a single ox or sheep, but feed contented on
the stores that Circè gave.” The crew swore as Odysseus asked, and when
the solemn oath was taken they brought the galley to land and moored it
in a winding creek, beside a fountain of sweet water. They then stepped
from the deck and made ready their evening meal. They ate and drank until
their thirst and hunger were appeased, and then they thought of those
whom Scylla had snatched from the galley’s deck and devoured, and wept
until sleep stole softly over them amid their tears. Now came the third
part of the night; the stars were sinking, when the cloud-compeller,
Jove, sent forth a violent wind with eddying gusts, and covered both
the earth and the sky with clouds, and darkness fell from heaven. When
morning came, the rosy-fingered daughter of the Dawn, they drew the ship
into a spacious bay. The home of the nymphs was there, and there they saw
the smooth fair places where they danced. Then Odysseus called a council
of his men and said to them, “My friends, in our good ship are food and
drink; we must abstain from these beeves, lest we be made to suffer,
for these herds and these fair flocks are sacred to a dreaded god, the
Sun—the all-beholding and all-hearing Sun.” All were swayed full easily
by what he said. Now for an entire month the gales blew from the south,
and after that no wind save east and south. As long as they had the bread
and wine Circè had given them, the men spared the beeves, moved by the
love of life. But when the stores on board the galley were consumed, they
roamed the island in their need, and sought for prey. They snared with
baited hooks the fish and birds—whatever came to hand—till they were
gaunt with famine.
Meanwhile, Odysseus withdrew apart within the isle to supplicate the
gods, hoping one of them might reveal the way of his return. As he
strayed into the land apart from all the rest, he found a sheltered nook
where no wind came, and prayed with washed hands to all the gods who
dwelt in heaven. At last he fell into a soft slumber. But Eurylochus, in
the meantime, was beguiling the men with fatal counsels.
“Hear, my companions, sufferers as you are, the words that I shall speak.
All modes of death are hateful to the wretched race of men; but this of
hunger, thus to meet our fate, is the most fearful. Let us drive apart
the best of all the oxen of the Sun, and sacrifice them to the immortal
ones, who dwell in the broad heaven. And if we come to Ithaca, our
country, we will there build to the Sun, whose path is o’er our heads,
a sumptuous temple, and endow its shrine with many gifts and rare. But
if it be his will, approved by all the other gods, to sink our bark in
anger, for the sake of these high-horned oxen, I should choose sooner
to gasp my life away amid the billows of the deep, than pine to death by
famine in this melancholy isle.”
The crew approved of this, and now from the neighboring herd they drove
the best of all the beeves; for near the dark-prowed ship the fair
broad-fronted herd with crooked horns was feeding. The crew stood round
the victims and, offering their petitions to the gods, held tender oak
leaves in their hands, just plucked from a tall tree, for in the good
ship’s hold there was left no more white barley. When they had prayed,
and slain and dressed the beeves, they hewed away the thighs and covered
them with double folds of skin, and laid raw slices over these. They
had no wine to pour in sacrifice upon the burning flesh, so they poured
water instead, and roasted all the entrails thus. When the thighs were
thoroughly consumed, the entrails tasted, all the rest was carved into
small portions, and transfixed with spits.
Just at this moment Odysseus awoke, and hurrying to the shore and his
good ship, he perceived the savory steam from the burnt offering, and
sorrowfully, then, he called upon the ever-living gods:—“O Father Jove,
and all ye blessed gods, who live forever, ’twas a cruel sleep in which
ye lulled me to my grievous harm. My comrades here have done a fearful
wrong.”
Then Lampetia, of the trailing robes, flew in haste to the Sun, who
journeys round the earth, to tell him that the men had slain his beeves.
In anger then he thus addressed the gods:
“O Father Jove, and all ye blessed gods who never die, avenge the wrong
I bear upon the comrades of Laertes’ son, Odysseus, who have foully
slain my beeves, in which I took delight whene’er I rose into the starry
heaven, and when again I sank from heaven to earth. If they make not
large amends for this great wrong, I shall go down to Hades, there to
shine among the dead.”
And cloud-compelling Zeus replied: “Still shine, O Sun! among the
deathless gods and mortal men, upon the nourishing earth. Soon will I
cleave with a white thunder-bolt their galley in the midst of a black
sea.”
When Odysseus came to the ship beside the sea, he spoke to them all
sternly, man after man, yet he could think of no redress. The beeves were
dead, and now the gods amazed them with prodigies. The skins moved and
crawled, the flesh, both raw and roasted on the spits, lowed with the
voice of oxen. Six whole days the men feasted, taking from the herd the
Sun’s best oxen. When Jove brought the seventh day, the tempest ceased;
the wind fell, and they straightway went on board. They set the mast
upright, and, spreading the white sails, they ventured on the great wide
sea again.
When they had left the isle and there appeared no other land, but only
sea and sky, the son of Saturn (Jove) caused a lurid cloud to gather o’er
the galley, and to cast its darkness on the ship. Not long the ship ran
onward, ere the furious west wind rose and blew a hurricane. A strong
blast snapped both ropes that held the mast; the mast fell back; the
tackle dropped entangled to the hold; the mast in falling on the galley’s
stem, dashed on the pilot’s head and crushed the bones, and from the deck
he plunged like one who dives into the deep. His gallant spirit left the
limbs at once. Jove thundered from on high, and sent a thunder-bolt into
the ship, that, quaking with the fearful blow, and filled with stifling
sulphur, shook the men off into the deep. They floated round the ship
like sea mews; Jupiter had cut them off from their return.
Odysseus moved from place to place, still in the ship, until the
tempest’s force parted the sides and keel. The naked keel was swept
before the waves. The mast had snapped just at the base, but round it was
a thong made of a bullock’s hide. With this Odysseus bound the mast and
keel together. He took his seat upon them and the wild winds bore him on.
STORY OF ARACHNE AND ATHĒNE
(_Greek: After Ovid_)
There was once a beautiful maiden, named Arachne, who was so accomplished
in the arts of carding and spinning, of weaving and embroidery, that the
nymphs themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and gaze
upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but beautiful
also in the doing. To watch her one would have said that Athēne herself
had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought
even a pupil of a goddess. “Let Athēne try her skill with mine,” she
said; “if beaten I will pay the penalty.”
Athēne heard this and was much displeased. Assuming the form of an old
woman, she appeared to Arachne, and kindly advised her to challenge
her fellow mortals if she would, but at once to ask forgiveness of the
goddess. Arachne bade the old dame to keep her counsel for others. “I am
not afraid of the goddess. Let her try her skill if she dare venture.”
“She comes,” said Athēne, and dropping her disguise stood confessed. The
nymphs bent low in homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne
alone was unterrified. A sudden color dyed her cheeks, and then she grew
pale; but she stood to her resolve, and rushed on her fate. They proceed
to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the web to the beam.
Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out among the threads. The reed
with its fine teeth strikes up the woof into its place, and compacts the
web. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded
off into one another so adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. And
the effect is like the bow whose long arch tinges the heavens, formed
by sunbeams reflected from the shower, in which, when the colors meet,
they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are
wholly different.
[Illustration: Athēne. _Glyptothek, Munich._]
Athēne wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Posidon. Twelve
of the heavenly powers were represented, Zeus with august gravity sitting
in the midst. Posidon, the ruler of the sea, held his trident, and
appeared to have just smitten the earth, from which a horse had leaped
forth. The bright-eyed goddess depicted herself with helmeted head, her
ægis covering her breast, as when she had created the olive tree, with
its berries and its dark green leaves. But the most astonishing example
of her skill appeared in a butterfly, so beautiful that only a poet can
describe it properly. Listen to the charming description of the poet
Spenser:
Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
With excellent device and wondrous slight;
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight;
His broad outstretchèd horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes.
Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And masterèd with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonished long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast fixèd eyes on her did stare.
Such was the central circle of Athēne’s web; and in the four corners were
represented incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such
presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These were meant
as warnings from Athēne to her rival to give up the contest before it was
too late.
But Arachne did not yield. She filled her web with subjects designedly
chosen to exhibit the failings and errors of the gods, wonderfully well
done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Athēne could
not forbear to admire, yet was indignant at the insult. She struck the
web with her shuttle, and rent it in pieces; then, touching the forehead
of Arachne, she made her realize her guilt. It was more than mortal
could bear; and forthwith Arachne hanged herself. “Live, guilty woman,”
said Athēne, “but that thou mayest preserve the memory of this lesson,
continue to hang, both thou and thy descendants, to all future times.”
Then sprinkling her with the juices of aconite, the goddess transformed
her into a spider, forever spinning the thread by which she is suspended.