MINERVA--NIOBE
MINERVA
Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She
was said to have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and in
complete armor. She presided over the useful and ornamental arts,
both those of men--such as agriculture and navigation--and those
of women,--spinning, weaving, and needlework. She was also a
warlike divinity; but it was defensive war only that she
patronized, and she had no sympathy with Mars's savage love of
violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city,
awarded to her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also
aspired to it. The tale ran that in the reign of Cecrops, the
first king of Athens, the two deities contended for the possession
of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to that
one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the
horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that the
olive was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to the
goddess; and it was named after her, Athens, her name in Greek
being Athene.
There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in
competition with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who
had attained such skill in the arts 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, as she took
the wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated
it with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft
as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skilful touch, or wove the
web, or, after it was woven, adorned it with her needle, one would
have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she
denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a
goddess. "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she; "if
beaten I will pay the penalty." Minerva heard this and was
displeased. She assumed the form of an old woman and went and gave
Arachne some friendly advice "I have had much experience," said
she, "and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your
fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess. On
the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you
have said, and as she is merciful perhaps she will pardon you."
Arachne stopped her spinning and looked at the old dame with anger
in her countenance. "Keep your counsel," said she, "for your
daughters or handmaids; for my part I know what I say, and I stand
to it. I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if
she dare venture." "She comes," said Minerva; and dropping her
disguise stood confessed. The nymphs bent low in homage, and all
the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified. She
blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew
pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit of
her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbore no longer nor
interposed any further advice. 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. Both work with speed; their skilful hands move
rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the labor light.
Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded
off into one another so adroitly that the joining deceives the
eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges the heavens, formed by
sunbeams reflected from the shower, [Footnote: This correct
description of the rainbow is literally translated from Ovid.] in
which, where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little
distance from the point of contact are wholly different.
Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune.
Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with
august gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the
sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the
earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted
herself with helmed head, her Aegis covering her breast. Such was
the central circle; 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 to her rival to give up the contest before it
was too late.
Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit
the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda
caressing the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised
himself; and another, Danae, in the brazen tower in which her
father had imprisoned her, but where the god effected his entrance
in the form of a golden shower. Still another depicted Europa
deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Encouraged by
the tameness of the animal Europa ventured to mount his back,
whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea and swam with her to
Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull, so naturally was
it wrought, and so natural the water in which it swam. She seemed
to look with longing eyes back upon the shore she was leaving, and
to call to her companions for help. She appeared to shudder with
terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her
feet from the water.
Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well
done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva
could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant at the insult. She
struck the web with her shuttle and rent it in pieces, she then
touched the forehead of Arachne and made her feel her guilt and
shame. She could not endure it and went and hanged herself.
Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended by a rope. "Live," she
said, "guilty woman! and that you may preserve the memory of this
lesson, continue to hang, both you and your descendants, to all
future times." She sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and
immediately her hair came off, and her nose and ears likewise. Her
form shrank up, and her head grew smaller yet; her fingers cleaved
to her side and served for legs. All the rest of her is body, out
of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in
the same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her
into a spider.
Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his "Muiopotmos," adhering
very closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the
conclusion of the story. The two stanzas which follow tell what
was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the olive
tree:
"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 outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes."
"Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And mastered with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare
And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
The victory did yield her as her share;
Yet did she inly fret and felly burn,
And all her blood to poisonous rancor turn."
[Footnote: Sir James Mackintosh says of this, "Do you think that
even a Chinese could paint the gay colors of a butterfly with more
minute exactness than the following lines: 'The velvet nap,'
etc.?"--Life, Vol. II, 246.]
And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own mortification
and vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.
The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick:
"UPON A LADY'S EMBROIDERY
"Arachne once, as poets tell,
A goddess at her art defied,
And soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.
"O, then beware Arachne's fate;
Be prudent, Chloe, and submit,
For you'll most surely meet her hate,
Who rival both her art and wit."
Tennyson, in his "Palace of Art," describing the works of art with
which the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa:
"... sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped
From off her shoulder, backward borne,
From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
The mild bull's golden horn."
In his "Princess" there is this allusion to Danae:
"Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me."
NIOBE
The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and
served as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to compare
themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a matron too,
failed to learn the lesson of humility. It was Niobe, the queen of
Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud of; but it was not her
husband's fame, nor her own beauty, nor their great descent, nor
the power of their kingdom that elated her. It was her children;
and truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been if only
she had not claimed to be so. It was on occasion of the annual
celebration in honor of Latona and her offspring, Apollo and
Diana,--when the people of Thebes were assembled, their brows
crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and paying
their vows,--that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was
splendid with gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face
of an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with
haughty looks. "What folly," said she, "is this!--to prefer beings
whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes! Why should
Latona be honored with worship, and none be paid to me? My father
was Tantalus, who was received as a guest at the table of the
gods; my mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules this
city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I
turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and
presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add I have
seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and
daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not
cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's
daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many.
Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one
deny this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong
for Fortune to subdue. She may take from me much; I shall still
have much left. Were I to lose some of my children, I should
hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Away with you
from these solemnities,--put off the laurel from your brows,--have
done with this worship!" The people obeyed, and left the sacred
services uncompleted.
The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top where she
dwelt she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I who
have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself
second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to
doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my
worship altogether unless you protect me." She was proceeding in
this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no more," said he;
"speech only delays punishment." So said Diana also. Darting
through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of
the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain, where the
youth of the city pursued their warlike sports. The sons of Niobe
were there with the rest,--some mounted on spirited horses richly
caparisoned, some driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the first-born,
as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above,
cried out, "Ah me!" dropped the reins, and fell lifeless. Another,
hearing the sound of the bow,--like a boatman who sees the storm
gathering and makes all sail for the port,--gave the reins to his
horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him
as he fled. Two others, younger boys, just from their tasks, had
gone to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As they stood
breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a cry
together, together cast a parting look around them, and together
breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them fall,
hastened to the spot to render assistance, and fell stricken in
the act of brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. He raised
his arms to heaven to try whether prayer might not avail. "Spare
me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all, in his ignorance that all
needed not his intercessions; and Apollo would have spared him,
but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late.
The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made
Niobe acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think
it possible; she was indignant that the gods had dared and amazed
that they had been able to do it. Her husband, Amphion,
overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas! how different
was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away the people
from the sacred rites, and held her stately course through the
city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes! She
knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed now one, now another of
her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona,"
said she, "feed full your rage with my anguish! Satiate your hard
heart, while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is
your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than you, my
conqueror." Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck
terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone. She was brave from
excess of grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over
the biers of their dead brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow,
and died on the corpse she was bewailing. Another, attempting to
console her mother, suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to
the earth. A third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by
concealment, another stood trembling, uncertain what course to
take. Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother
held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with her whole
body. "Spare me one, and that the youngest! O spare me one of so
many!" she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead.
Desolate she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and
seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color
was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was
no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of
her mouth, and her veins ceased to convey the tide of life. Her
neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was
changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to flow;
and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still
remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows, the
tribute of her never-ending grief.
The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of
the fallen condition of modern Rome:
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now:
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."
Childe Harold, IV. 79.
This affecting story has been made the subject of a celebrated
statue in the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal
figure of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the
pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother clasped by the arm
of her terrified child is one of the most admired of the ancient
statues. It ranks with the Laocoon and the Apollo among the
masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek
epigram supposed to relate to this statue:
"To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
The sculptor's art has made her breathe again."
Tragic as is the story of Niobe, we cannot forbear to smile at the
use Moore has made of it in "Rhymes on the Road":
"'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don't do him wrong,
'Twixt death and epics passed his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long;
Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes."
Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very
prolific and very tasteless poet, whose works are now forgotten,
unless when recalled to mind by some wit like Moore for the sake
of a joke.