PROSERPINE--GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA
When Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titans and banished
them to Tartarus, a new enemy rose up against the gods. They were
the giants Typhon, Briareus, Enceladus, and others. Some of them
had a hundred arms, others breathed out fire. They were finally
subdued and buried alive under Mount Aetna, where they still
sometimes struggle to get loose, and shake the whole island with
earthquakes. Their breath comes up through the mountain, and is
what men call the eruption of the volcano.
The fall of these monsters shook the earth, so that Pluto was
alarmed, and feared that his kingdom would be laid open to the
light of day. Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot,
drawn by black horses, and took a circuit of inspection to satisfy
himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged,
Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid,
espied him, and said, "My son, take your darts with which you
conquer all, even Jove himself, and send one into the breast of
yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Why should
he alone escape? Seize the opportunity to extend your empire and
mine. Do you not see that even in heaven some despise our power?
Minerva the wise, and Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is
that daughter of Ceres, who threatens to follow their example. Now
do you, if you have any regard for your own interest or mine, join
these two in one." The boy unbound his quiver, and selected his
sharpest and truest arrow; then straining the bow against his
knee, he attached the string, and, having made ready, shot the
arrow with its barbed point right into the heart of Pluto.
In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which
screen it from the fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground
is covered with flowers, and Spring reigns perpetual. Here
Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and
violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them, when
Pluto saw her, loved her, and carried her off. She screamed for
help to her mother and companions; and when in her fright she
dropped the corners of her apron and let the flowers fall,
childlike she felt the loss of them as an addition to her grief.
The ravisher urged on his steeds, calling them each by name, and
throwing loose over their heads and necks his iron-colored reins.
When he reached the River Cyane, and it opposed his passage, he
struck the river-bank with his trident, and the earth opened and
gave him a passage to Tartarus.
Ceres sought her daughter all the world over. Bright-haired
Aurora, when she came forth in the morning, and Hesperus when he
led out the stars in the evening, found her still busy in the
search. But it was all unavailing. At length, weary and sad, she
sat down upon a stone, and continued sitting nine days and nights,
in the open air, under the sunlight and moonlight and falling
showers. It was where now stands the city of Eleusis, then the
home of an old man named Celeus. He was out in the field,
gathering acorns and blackberries, and sticks for his fire. His
little girl was driving home their two goats, and as she passed
the goddess, who appeared in the guise of an old woman, she said
to her, "Mother,"--and the name was sweet to the ears of Ceres,--
"why do you sit here alone upon the rocks?" The old man also
stopped, though his load was heavy, and begged her to come into
his cottage, such as it was. She declined, and he urged her. "Go
in peace," she replied, "and be happy in your daughter; I have
lost mine." As she spoke, tears--or something like tears, for the
gods never weep--fell down her cheeks upon her bosom. The
compassionate old man and his child wept with her. Then said he,
"Come with us, and despise not our humble roof; so may your
daughter be restored to you in safety." "Lead on," said she, "I
cannot resist that appeal!" So she rose from the stone and went
with them. As they walked he told her that his only son, a little
boy, lay very sick, feverish, and sleepless. She stooped and
gathered some poppies. As they entered the cottage, they found all
in great distress, for the boy seemed past hope of recovery.
Metanira, his mother, received her kindly, and the goddess stooped
and kissed the lips of the sick child. Instantly the paleness left
his face, and healthy vigor returned to his body. The whole family
were delighted--that is, the father, mother, and little girl, for
they were all; they had no servants. They spread the table, and
put upon it curds and cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While
they ate, Ceres mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When
night came and all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping
boy, moulded his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three
times a solemn charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His
mother, who had been watching what her guest was doing, sprang
forward with a cry and snatched the child from the fire. Then
Ceres assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all
around. While they were overcome with astonishment, she said,
"Mother, you have been cruel in your fondness to your son. I would
have made him immortal, but you have frustrated my attempt.
Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men the
use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the
cultivated soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her, and
mounting her chariot rode away.
Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to
land, and across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to
Sicily, whence she at first set out, and stood by the banks of the
River Cyane, where Pluto made himself a passage with his prize to
his own dominions. The river nymph would have told the goddess all
she had witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only
ventured to take up the girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her
flight, and waft it to the feet of the mother. Ceres, seeing this,
was no longer in doubt of her loss, but she did not yet know the
cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land. "Ungrateful soil,"
said she, "which I have endowed with fertility and clothed with
herbage and nourishing grain, no more shall you enjoy my favors."
Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the seed
failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too much
rain; the birds stole the seeds--thistles and brambles were the
only growth. Seeing this, the fountain Arethusa interceded for the
land. "Goddess," said she, "blame not the land; it opened
unwillingly to yield a passage to your daughter. I can tell you of
her fate, for I have seen her. This is not my native country; I
came hither from Elis. I was a woodland nymph, and delighted in
the chase. They praised my beauty, but I cared nothing for it, and
rather boasted of my hunting exploits. One day I was returning
from the wood, heated with exercise, when I came to a stream
silently flowing, so clear that you might count the pebbles on the
bottom. The willows shaded it, and the grassy bank sloped down to
the water's edge. I approached, I touched the water with my foot.
I stepped in knee-deep, and not content with that, I laid my
garments on the willows and went in. While I sported in the water,
I heard an indistinct murmur coming up as out of the depths of the
stream: and made haste to escape to the nearest bank. The voice
said, 'Why do you fly, Arethusa? I am Alpheus, the god of this
stream.' I ran, he pursued; he was not more swift than I, but he
was stronger, and gained upon me, as my strength failed. At last,
exhausted, I cried for help to Diana. 'Help me, goddess! help your
votary!' The goddess heard, and wrapped me suddenly in a thick
cloud. The river god looked now this way and now that, and twice
came close to me, but could not find me. 'Arethusa! Arethusa!' he
cried. Oh, how I trembled,--like a lamb that hears the wolf
growling outside the fold. A cold sweat came over me, my hair
flowed down in streams; where my foot stood there was a pool. In
short, in less time than it takes to tell it I became a fountain.
But in this form Alpheus knew me and attempted to mingle his
stream with mine. Diana cleft the ground, and I, endeavoring to
escape him, plunged into the cavern, and through the bowels of the
earth came out here in Sicily. While I passed through the lower
parts of the earth, I saw your Proserpine. She was sad, but no
longer showing alarm in her countenance. Her look was such as
became a queen--the queen of Erebus; the powerful bride of the
monarch of the realms of the dead."
When Ceres heard this, she stood for a while like one stupefied;
then turned her chariot towards heaven, and hastened to present
herself before the throne of Jove. She told the story of her
bereavement, and implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the
restitution of her daughter. Jupiter consented on one condition,
namely, that Proserpine should not during her stay in the lower
world have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her
release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent, accompanied by Spring, to
demand Proserpine of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but, alas!
the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her, and
had sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds. This was enough
to prevent her complete release; but a compromise was made, by
which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and the rest
with her husband Pluto.
Ceres allowed herself to be pacified with this arrangement, and
restored the earth to her favor. Now she remembered Celeus and his
family, and her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. When the
boy grew up, she taught him the use of the plough, and how to sow
the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged dragons,
through all the countries of the earth, imparting to mankind
valuable grains, and the knowledge of agriculture. After his
return, Triptolemus built a magnificent temple to Ceres in
Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the
name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and
solemnity of their observance, surpassed all other religious
celebrations among the Greeks.
There can be little doubt of this story of Ceres and Proserpine
being an allegory. Proserpine signifies the seed-corn which when
cast into the ground lies there concealed--that is, she is carried
off by the god of the underworld. It reappears--that is,
Proserpine is restored to her mother. Spring leads her back to the
light of day.
Milton alludes to the story of Proserpine in "Paradise Lost," Book
IV.:
". . . Not that fair field
Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world,--
... might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive."
Hood, in his "Ode to Melancholy," uses the same allusion very
beautifully:
"Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
In woe to come the present bliss;
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis."
The River Alpheus does in fact disappear underground, in part of
its course, finding its way through subterranean channels till it
again appears on the surface. It was said that the Sicilian
fountain Arethusa was the same stream, which, after passing under
the sea, came up again in Sicily. Hence the story ran that a cup
thrown into the Alpheus appeared again in Arethusa. It is this
fable of the underground course of Alpheus that Coleridge alludes
to in his poem of "Kubla Khan":
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree,
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea."
In one of Moore's juvenile poems he thus alludes to the same
story, and to the practice of throwing garlands or other light
objects on his stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards
reproduced at its emerging:
"O my beloved, how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!
Like him the river god, whose waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have decked his current, as an offering meet
To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,
What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
Each lost in each, till mingling into one,
Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
A type of true love, to the deep they run."
The following extract from Moore's "Rhymes on the Road" gives an
account of a celebrated picture by Albano, at Milan, called a
Dance of Loves:
"'Tis for the theft ef Enna's flower from earth
These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth,
Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath;--
Those that are nearest linked in order bright,
Cheek after cheek, like rosebuds in a wreath;
And those more distant showing from beneath
The others' wings their little eyes of light.
While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother,
But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss,
This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss."
GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA
Glaucus was a fisherman. One day he had drawn his nets to land,
and had taken a great many fishes of various kinds. So he emptied
his net, and proceeded to sort the fishes on the grass. The place
where he stood was a beautiful island in the river, a solitary
spot, uninhabited, and not used for pasturage of cattle, nor ever
visited by any but himself. On a sudden, the fishes, which had
been laid on the grass, began to revive and move their fins as if
they were in the water; and while he looked on astonished, they
one and all moved off to the water, plunged in, and swam away. He
did not know what to make of this, whether some god had done it or
some secret power in the herbage. "What herb has such a power?" he
exclaimed; and gathering some of it, he tasted it. Scarce had the
juices of the plant reached his palate when he found himself
agitated with a longing desire for the water. He could no longer
restrain himself, but bidding farewell to earth, he plunged into
the stream. The gods of the water received him graciously, and
admitted him to the honor of their society. They obtained the
consent of Oceanus and Tethys, the sovereigns of the sea, that all
that was mortal in him should be washed away. A hundred rivers
poured their waters over him. Then he lost all sense of his former
nature and all consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself
changed in form and mind. His hair was sea-green, and trailed
behind him on the water; his shoulders grew broad, and what had
been thighs and legs assumed the form of a fish's tail. The sea-
gods complimented him on the change of his appearance, and he
fancied himself rather a good-looking personage.
One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of
the water-nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a
sheltered nook, laving her limbs in the clear water. He fell in
love with her, and showing himself on the surface, spoke to her,
saying such things as he thought most likely to win her to stay;
for she turned to run immediately on the sight of him, and ran
till she had gained a cliff overlooking the sea. Here she stopped
and turned round to see whether it was a god or a sea animal, and
observed with wonder his shape and color. Glaucus partly emerging
from the water, and supporting himself against a rock, said,
"Maiden, I am no monster, nor a sea animal, but a god; and neither
Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I. Once I was a mortal, and
followed the sea for a living; but now I belong wholly to it."
Then he told the story of his metamorphosis, and how he had been
promoted to his present dignity, and added, "But what avails all
this if it fails to move your heart?" He was going on in this
strain, but Scylla turned and hastened away.
Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the
enchantress Circe. Accordingly he repaired to her island--the same
where afterwards Ulysses landed, as we shall see in one of our
later stories. After mutual salutations, he said, "Goddess, I
entreat your pity; you alone can relieve the pain I suffer. The
power of herbs I know as well as any one, for it is to them I owe
my change of form. I love Scylla. I am ashamed to tell you how I
have sued and promised to her, and how scornfully she has treated
me. I beseech you to use your incantations, or potent herbs, if
they are more prevailing, not to cure me of my love,--for that I
do not wish,--but to make her share it and yield me a like
return." To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to the
attractions of the sea-green deity, "You had better pursue a
willing object; you are worthy to be sought, instead of having to
seek in vain. Be not diffident, know your own worth. I protest to
you that even I, goddess though I be, and learned in the virtues
of plants and spells, should not know how to refuse you. If she
scorns you scorn her; meet one who is ready to meet you half way,
and thus make a due return to both at once." To these words
Glaucus replied, "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the
ocean, and sea-weed on the top of the mountains, than I will cease
to love Scylla, and her alone."
The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither
did she wish to do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned
all her wrath against her rival, poor Scylla. She took plants of
poisonous powers and mixed them together, with incantations and
charms. Then she passed through the crowd of gambolling beasts,
the victims of her art, and proceeded to the coast of Sicily,
where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the shore to which
Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day, to breathe the air
of the sea, and to bathe in its waters. Here the goddess poured
her poisonous mixture, and muttered over it incantations of mighty
power. Scylla came as usual and plunged into the water up to her
waist. What was her horror to perceive a brood of serpents and
barking monsters surrounding her! At first she could not imagine
they were a part of herself, and tried to run from them, and to
drive them away; but as she ran she carried them with her, and
when she tried to touch her limbs, she found her hands touch only
the yawning jaws of monsters. Scylla remained rooted to the spot.
Her temper grew as ugly as her form, and she took pleasure in
devouring hapless mariners who came within her grasp. Thus she
destroyed six of the companions of Ulysses, and tried to wreck the
ships of Aeneas, till at last she was turned into a rock, and as
such still continues to be a terror to mariners.
Keats, in his "Endymion," has given a new version of the ending of
"Glaucus and Scylla." Glaucus consents to Circe's blandishments,
till he by chance is witness to her transactions with her beasts.
Disgusted with her treachery and cruelty, he tries to escape from
her, but is taken and brought back, when with reproaches she
banishes him, sentencing him to pass a thousand years in
decrepitude and pain. He returns to the sea, and there finds the
body of Scylla, whom the goddess has not transformed but drowned.
Glaucus learns that his destiny is that, if he passes his thousand
years in collecting all the bodies of drowned lovers, a youth
beloved of the gods will appear and help him. Endymion fulfils
this prophecy, and aids in restoring Glaucus to youth, and Scylla
and all the drowned lovers to life.
The following is Glaucus's account of his feelings after his "sea-
change":
"I plunged for life or death. To interknit
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff
Might seem a work of pain; so not enough
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
Forgetful utterly of self-intent,
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
I tried in fear the pinions of my will.
'Twas freedom! and at once I visited
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed," etc.
--Keats.