PROMETHEUS AND PANDORA
The creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite
the liveliest interest of man, its inhabitant. The ancient pagans,
not having the information on the subject which we derive from the
pages of Scripture, had their own way of telling the story, which
is as follows:
Before earth and sea and heaven were created, all things wore one
aspect, to which we give the name of Chaos--a confused and
shapeless mass, nothing but dead weight, in which, however,
slumbered the seeds of things. Earth, sea, and air were all mixed
up together; so the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid,
and the air was not transparent. God and Nature at last
interposed, and put an end to this discord, separating earth from
sea, and heaven from both. The fiery part, being the lightest,
sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was next in weight and
place. The earth, being heavier, sank below; and the water took
the lowest place, and buoyed up the earth.
Here some god--it is not known which--gave his good offices in
arranging and disposing the earth. He appointed rivers and bays
their places, raised mountains, scooped out valleys, distributed
woods, fountains, fertile fields, and stony plains. The air being
cleared, the stars began to appear, fishes took possession of the
sea, birds of the air, and four-footed beasts of the land.
But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made. It is not known
whether the creator made him of divine materials, or whether in
the earth, so lately separated from heaven, there lurked still
some heavenly seeds. Prometheus took some of this earth, and
kneading it up with water, made man in the image of the gods. He
gave him an upright stature, so that while all other animals turn
their faces downward, and look to the earth, he raises his to
heaven, and gazes on the stars.
Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited
the earth before the creation of man. To him and his brother
Epimetheus was committed the office of making man, and providing
him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for their
preservation. Epimetheus undertook to do this, and Prometheus was
to overlook his work, when it was done. Epimetheus accordingly
proceeded to bestow upon the different animals the various gifts
of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity; wings to one, claws to
another, a shelly covering to a third, etc. But when man came to
be provided for, who was to be superior to all other animals,
Epimetheus had been so prodigal of his resources that he had
nothing left to bestow upon him. In his perplexity he resorted to
his brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, went up to
heaven, and lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and
brought down fire to man. With this gift man was more than a match
for all other animals. It enabled him to make weapons wherewith to
subdue them; tools with which to cultivate the earth; to warm his
dwelling, so as to be comparatively independent of climate; and
finally to introduce the arts and to coin money, the means of
trade and commerce. Woman was not yet made. The story (absurd
enough!) is that Jupiter made her, and sent her to Prometheus and
his brother, to punish them for their presumption in stealing fire
from heaven; and man, for accepting the gift. The first woman was
named Pandora. She was made in heaven, every god contributing
something to perfect her. Venus gave her beauty, Mercury
persuasion, Apollo music, etc. Thus equipped, she was conveyed to
earth, and presented to Epimetheus, who gladly accepted her,
though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and his
gifts. Epimetheus had in his house a jar, in which were kept
certain noxious articles, for which, in fitting man for his new
abode, he had had no occasion. Pandora was seized with an eager
curiosity to know what this jar contained; and one day she slipped
off the cover and looked in. Forthwith there escaped a multitude
of plagues for hapless man,--such as gout, rheumatism, and colic
for his body, and envy, spite, and revenge for his mind,--and
scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the
lid! but, alas! the whole contents of the jar had escaped, one
thing only excepted, which lay at the bottom, and that was HOPE.
So we see at this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never
entirely leaves us; and while we have THAT, no amount of other
ills can make us completely wretched.
Another story is that Pandora was sent in good faith, by Jupiter,
to bless man; that she was furnished with a box, containing her
marriage presents, into which every god had put some blessing. She
opened the box incautiously, and the blessings all escaped, HOPE
only excepted. This story seems more probable than the former; for
how could HOPE, so precious a jewel as it is, have been kept in a
jar full of all manner of evils, as in the former statement?
The world being thus furnished with inhabitants, the first age was
an age of innocence and happiness, called the Golden Age. Truth
and right prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was there any
magistrate to threaten or punish. The forest had not yet been
robbed of its trees to furnish timbers for vessels, nor had men
built fortifications round their towns. There were no such things
as swords, spears, or helmets. The earth brought forth all things
necessary for man, without his labor in ploughing or sowing.
Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up without seed, the
rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey distilled from
the oaks.
Then succeeded the Silver Age, inferior to the golden, but better
than that of brass. Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the
year into seasons. Then, first, men had to endure the extremes of
heat and cold, and houses became necessary. Caves were the first
dwellings, and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of
twigs. Crops would no longer grow without planting. The farmer was
obliged to sow the seed and the toiling ox to draw the plough.
Next came the Brazen Age, more savage of temper, and readier to
the strife of arms, yet not altogether wicked. The hardest and
worst was the Iron Age. Crime burst in like a flood; modesty,
truth, and honor fled. In their places came fraud and cunning,
violence, and the wicked love of gain. Then seamen spread sails to
the wind, and the trees were torn from the mountains to serve for
keels to ships, and vex the face of ocean. The earth, which till
now had been cultivated in common, began to be divided off into
possessions. Men were not satisfied with what the surface
produced, but must dig into its bowels, and draw forth from thence
the ores of metals. Mischievous IRON, and more mischievous GOLD,
were produced. War sprang up, using both as weapons; the guest was
not safe in his friend's house; and sons-in-law and fathers-in-
law, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, could not trust one
another. Sons wished their fathers dead, that they might come to
the inheritance; family love lay prostrate. The earth was wet with
slaughter, and the gods abandoned it, one by one, till Astraea
alone was left, and finally she also took her departure.
[Footnote: The goddess of innocence and purity. After leaving
earth, she was placed among the stars, where she became the
constellation Virgo--the Virgin. Themis (Justice) was the mother
of Astraea. She is represented as holding aloft a pair of scales,
in which she weighs the claims of opposing parties.
It was a favorite idea of the old poets that these goddesses would
one day return, and bring back the Golden Age. Even in a Christian
hymn, the "Messiah" of Pope, this idea occurs:
"All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale,
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend."
See, also, Milton's "Hymn on the Nativity," stanzas xiv. and xv.]
Jupiter, seeing this state of things, burned with anger. He
summoned the gods to council. They obeyed the call, and took the
road to the palace of heaven. The road, which any one may see in a
clear night, stretches across the face of the sky, and is called
the Milky Way. Along the road stand the palaces of the illustrious
gods; the common people of the skies live apart, on either side.
Jupiter addressed the assembly. He set forth the frightful
condition of things on the earth, and closed by announcing his
intention to destroy the whole of its inhabitants, and provide a
new race, unlike the first, who would be more worthy of life, and
much better worshippers of the gods. So saying he took a
thunderbolt, and was about to launch it at the world, and destroy
it by burning; but recollecting the danger that such a
conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he changed his
plan, and resolved to drown it. The north wind, which scatters the
clouds, was chained up; the south was sent out, and soon covered
all the face of heaven with a cloak of pitchy darkness. The
clouds, driven together, resound with a crash; torrents of rain
fall; the crops are laid low; the year's labor of the husbandman
perishes in an hour. Jupiter, not satisfied with his own waters,
calls on his brother Neptune to aid him with his. He lets loose
the rivers, and pours them over the land. At the same time, he
heaves the land with an earthquake, and brings in the reflux of
the ocean over the shores. Flocks, herds, men, and houses are
swept away, and temples, with their sacred enclosures, profaned.
If any edifice remained standing, it was overwhelmed, and its
turrets lay hid beneath the waves. Now all was sea, sea without
shore. Here and there an individual remained on a projecting
hilltop, and a few, in boats, pulled the oar where they had lately
driven the plough. The fishes swim among the tree-tops; the anchor
is let down into a garden. Where the graceful lambs played but
now, unwieldy sea calves gambol. The wolf swims among the sheep,
the yellow lions and tigers struggle in the water. The strength of
the wild boar serves him not, nor his swiftness the stag. The
birds fall with weary wing into the water, having found no land
for a resting-place. Those living beings whom the water spared
fell a prey to hunger.
Parnassus alone, of all the mountains, overtopped the waves; and
there Deucalion, and his wife Pyrrha, of the race of Prometheus,
found refuge--he a just man, and she a faithful worshipper of the
gods. Jupiter, when he saw none left alive but this pair, and
remembered their harmless lives and pious demeanor, ordered the
north winds to drive away the clouds, and disclose the skies to
earth, and earth to the skies. Neptune also directed Triton to
blow on his shell, and sound a retreat to the waters. The waters
obeyed, and the sea returned to its shores, and the rivers to
their channels. Then Deucalion thus addressed Pyrrha: "O wife,
only surviving woman, joined to me first by the ties of kindred
and marriage, and now by a common danger, would that we possessed
the power of our ancestor Prometheus, and could renew the race as
he at first made it! But as we cannot, let us seek yonder temple,
and inquire of the gods what remains for us to do." They entered
the temple, deformed as it was with slime, and approached the
altar, where no fire burned. There they fell prostrate on the
earth, and prayed the goddess to inform them how they might
retrieve their miserable affairs. The oracle answered, "Depart
from the temple with head veiled and garments unbound, and cast
behind you the bones of your mother." They heard the words with
astonishment. Pyrrha first broke silence: "We cannot obey; we dare
not profane the remains of our parents." They sought the thickest
shades of the wood, and revolved the oracle in their minds. At
length Deucalion spoke: "Either my sagacity deceives me, or the
command is one we may obey without impiety. The earth is the great
parent of all; the stones are her bones; these we may cast behind
us; and I think this is what the oracle means. At least, it will
do no harm to try." They veiled their faces, unbound their
garments, and picked up stones, and cast them behind them. The
stones (wonderful to relate) began to grow soft, and assume shape.
By degrees, they put on a rude resemblance to the human form, like
a block half-finished in the hands of the sculptor. The moisture
and slime that were about them became flesh; the stony part became
bones; the veins remained veins, retaining their name, only
changing their use. Those thrown by the hand of the man became
men, and those by the woman became women. It was a hard race, and
well adapted to labor, as we find ourselves to be at this day,
giving plain indications of our origin.
The comparison of Eve to Pandora is too obvious to have escaped
Milton, who introduces it in Book IV. of "Paradise Lost":
"More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods
Endowed with all their gifts; and O, too like
In sad event, when to the unwiser son
Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she insnared
Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire."
Prometheus and Epimetheus were sons of Iapetus, which Milton
changes to Japhet.
Prometheus has been a favorite subject with the poets. He is
represented as the friend of mankind, who interposed in their
behalf when Jove was incensed against them, and who taught them
civilization and the arts. But as, in so doing, he transgressed
the will of Jupiter, he drew down on himself the anger of the
ruler of gods and men. Jupiter had him chained to a rock on Mount
Caucasus, where a vulture preyed on his liver, which was renewed
as fast as devoured. This state of torment might have been brought
to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had been willing to
submit to his oppressor; for he possessed a secret which involved
the stability of Jove's throne, and if he would have revealed it,
he might have been at once taken into favor. But that he disdained
to do. He has therefore become the symbol of magnanimous endurance
of unmerited suffering, and strength of will resisting oppression.
Byron and Shelley have both treated this theme. The following are
Byron's lines:
"Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain;
All that the proud can feel of pain;
The agony they do not show;
The suffocating sense of woe.
"Thy godlike crime was to be kind;
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind.
And, baffled as thou wert from high,
Still, in thy patient energy
In the endurance and repulse
Of thine impenetrable spirit,
Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit."
Byron also employs the same allusion, in his
"Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte":
"Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him--the unforgiven--
His vulture and his rock?"