CHAPTER XXIX.

"Bacchus that first from out the purple grapes

Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,

After the Tuscan manners transformed,

Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed

On Circe's island fell (who knows not Circe,

The daughter of the Sun? whose charmed cup

Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,

And downward fell into a grovelling swine)."

ARIADNE

We have seen in the story of Theseus how Ariadne, the daughter of

King Minos, after helping Theseus to escape from the labyrinth,

was carried by him to the island of Naxos and was left there

asleep, while the ungrateful Theseus pursued his way home without

her. Ariadne, on waking and finding herself deserted, abandoned

herself to grief. But Venus took pity on her, and consoled her

with the promise that she should have an immortal lover, instead

of the mortal one she had lost.

The island where Ariadne was left was the favorite island of

Bacchus, the same that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to carry

him to, when they so treacherously attempted to make prize of him.

As Ariadne sat lamenting her fate, Bacchus found her, consoled

her, and made her his wife. As a marriage present he gave her a

golden crown, enriched with gems, and when she died, he took her

crown and threw it up into the sky. As it mounted the gems grew

brighter and were turned into stars, and preserving its form

Ariadne's crown remains fixed in the heavens as a constellation,

between the kneeling Hercules and the man who holds the serpent.

Spenser alludes to Ariadne's crown, though he has made some

mistakes in his mythology. It was at the wedding of Pirithous, and

not Theseus, that the Centaurs and Lapithae quarrelled.

"Look how the crown which Ariadne wore

Upon her ivory forehead that same day

That Theseus her unto his bridal bore,

Then the bold Centaurs made that bloody fray

With the fierce Lapiths which did them dismay;

Being now placed in the firmament,

Through the bright heaven doth her beams display,

And is unto the stars an ornament,

Which round about her move in order excellent."

CHAPTER XXII

THE RURAL DEITIES--ERISICHTHON--RHOECUS--THE WATER DEITIES--

CAMENAE--WINDS

THE RURAL DEITIES

Pan, the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds, dwelt

in grottos, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused

himself with the chase or in leading the dances of the nymphs. He

was fond of music, and as we have seen, the inventor of the

syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he himself played in a masterly

manner. Pan, like other gods who dwelt in forests, was dreaded by

those whose occupations caused them to pass through the woods by

night, for the gloom and loneliness of such scenes dispose the

mind to superstitious fears. Hence sudden fright without any

visible cause was ascribed to Pan, and called a Panic terror.

As the name of the god signifies ALL, Pan came to be considered a

symbol of the universe and personification of Nature; and later

still to be regarded as a representative of all the gods and of

heathenism itself.

Sylvanus and Faunus were Latin divinities, whose characteristics

are so nearly the same as those of Pan that we may safely consider

them as the same personage under different names.

The wood-nymphs, Pan's partners in the dance, were but one class

of nymphs. There were beside them the Naiads, who presided over

brooks and fountains, the Oreads, nymphs of mountains and grottos,

and the Nereids, sea-nymphs. The three last named were immortal,

but the wood-nymphs, called Dryads or Hamadryads, were believed to

perish with the trees which had been their abode and with which

they had come into existence. It was therefore an impious act

wantonly to destroy a tree, and in some aggravated cases were

severely punished, as in the instance of Erisichthon, which we are

about to record.

Milton in his glowing description of the early creation, thus

alludes to Pan as the personification of Nature:

"... Universal Pan,

Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,

Led on the eternal spring."

And describing Eve's abode:

"... In shadier bower,

More sacred or sequestered, though but feigned,

Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nymph

Nor Faunus haunted."

--Paradise Lost, B. IV.

It was a pleasing trait in the old Paganism that it loved to trace

in every operation of nature the agency of deity. The imagination

of the Greeks peopled all the regions of earth and sea with

divinities, to whose agency it attributed those phenomena which

our philosophy ascribes to the operation of the laws of nature.

Sometimes in our poetical moods we feel disposed to regret the

change, and to think that the heart has lost as much as the head

has gained by the substitution. The poet Wordsworth thus strongly

expresses this sentiment:

"... Great God, I'd rather be

A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,

And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."

Schiller, in his poem "Die Gotter Griechenlands," expresses his

regret for the overthrow of the beautiful mythology of ancient

times in a way which has called forth an answer from a Christian

poet, Mrs. E. Barrett Browning, in her poem called "The Dead Pan."

The two following verses are a specimen:

"By your beauty which confesses

Some chief Beauty conquering you,

By our grand heroic guesses

Through your falsehood at the True,

We will weep NOT! earth shall roll

Heir to each god's aureole,

And Pan is dead.

"Earth outgrows the mythic fancies

Sung beside her in her youth;

And those debonaire romances

Sound but dull beside the truth.

Phoebus' chariot course is run!

Look up, poets, to the sun!

Pan, Pan is dead."

These lines are founded on an early Christian tradition that when

the heavenly host told the shepherds at Bethlehem of the birth of

Christ, a deep groan, heard through all the isles of Greece, told

that the great Pan was dead, and that all the royalty of Olympus

was dethroned and the several deities were sent wandering in cold

and darkness. So Milton in his "Hymn on the Nativity":

"The lonely mountains o'er,

And the resounding shore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;

From haunted spring and dale,

Edged with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

With flower-enwoven tresses torn,

The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn."

ERISICHTHON

Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods. On

one occasion he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred to

Ceres. There stood in this grove a venerable oak so large that it

seemed a wood in itself, its ancient trunk towering aloft, whereon

votive garlands were often hung and inscriptions carved expressing

the gratitude of suppliants to the nymph of the tree. Often had

the Dryads danced round it hand in hand. Its trunk measured

fifteen cubits round, and it overtopped the other trees as they

overtopped the shrubbery. But for all that, Erisichthon saw no

reason why he should spare it and he ordered his servants to cut

it down. When he saw them hesitate he snatched an axe from one,

and thus impiously exclaimed: "I care not whether it be a tree

beloved of the goddess or not; were it the goddess herself it

should come down if it stood in my way." So saying, he lifted the

axe and the oak seemed to shudder and utter a groan. When the

first blow fell upon the trunk blood flowed from the wound. All

the bystanders were horror-struck, and one of them ventured to

remonstrate and hold back the fatal axe. Erisichthon, with a

scornful look, said to him, "Receive the reward of your piety;"

and turned against him the weapon which he had held aside from the

tree, gashed his body with many wounds, and cut off his head. Then

from the midst of the oak came a voice, "I who dwell in this tree

am a nymph beloved of Ceres, and dying by your hands forewarn you

that punishment awaits you." He desisted not from his crime, and

at last the tree, sundered by repeated blows and drawn by ropes,

fell with a crash and prostrated a great part of the grove in its

fall.

The Dryads in dismay at the loss of their companion and at seeing

the pride of the forest laid low, went in a body to Ceres, all

clad in garments of mourning, and invoked punishment upon

Erisichthon. She nodded her assent, and as she bowed her head the

grain ripe for harvest in the laden fields bowed also. She planned

a punishment so dire that one would pity him, if such a culprit as

he could be pitied,--to deliver him over to Famine. As Ceres

herself could not approach Famine, for the Fates have ordained

that these two goddesses shall never come together, she called an

Oread from her mountain and spoke to her in these words: "There is

a place in the farthest part of ice-clad Scythia, a sad and

sterile region without trees and without crops. Cold dwells there,

and Fear and Shuddering, and Famine. Go and tell the last to take

possession of the bowels of Erisichthon. Let not abundance subdue

her, nor the power of my gifts drive her away. Be not alarmed at

the distance" (for Famine dwells very far from Ceres), "but take

my chariot. The dragons are fleet and obey the rein, and will take

you through the air in a short time." So she gave her the reins,

and she drove away and soon reached Scythia. On arriving at Mount

Caucasus she stopped the dragons and found Famine in a stony

field, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage. Her

hair was rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her lips blanched,

her jaws covered with dust, and her skin drawn tight, so as to

show all her bones. As the Oread saw her afar off (for she did not

dare to come near), she delivered the commands of Ceres; and,

though she stopped as short a time as possible, and kept her

distance as well as she could, yet she began to feel hungry, and

turned the dragons' heads and drove back to Thessaly.

Famine obeyed the commands of Ceres and sped through the air to

the dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bedchamber of the guilty

man, and found him asleep. She enfolded him with her wings and

breathed herself into him, infusing her poison into his veins.

Having discharged her task, she hastened to leave the land of

plenty and returned to her accustomed haunts. Erisichthon still

slept, and in his dreams craved food, and moved his jaws as if

eating. When he awoke, his hunger was raging. Without a moment's

delay he would have food set before him, of whatever kind earth

sea, or air produces; and complained of hunger even while he ate.

What would have sufficed for a city or a nation, was not enough

for him. The more he ate the more he craved. His hunger was like

the sea, which receives all the rivers, yet is never filled; or

like fire, that burns all the fuel that is heaped upon it, yet is

still voracious for more.

His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands of his

appetite, but his hunger continued unabated. At length he had

spent all and had only his daughter left, a daughter worthy of a

better parent. Her too he sold. She scorned to be the slave of a

purchaser and as she stood by the seaside raised her hands in

prayer to Neptune. He heard her prayer, and though her new master

was not far off and had his eye upon her a moment before, Neptune

changed her form and made her assume that of a fisherman busy at

his occupation. Her master, looking for her and seeing her in her

altered form, addressed her and said, "Good fisherman, whither

went the maiden whom I saw just now, with hair dishevelled and in

humble garb, standing about where you stand? Tell me truly; so may

your luck be good and not a fish nibble at your hook and get

away." She perceived that her prayer was answered and rejoiced

inwardly at hearing herself inquired of about herself. She

replied, "Pardon me, stranger, but I have been so intent upon my

line that I have seen nothing else; but I wish I may never catch

another fish if I believe any woman or other person except myself

to have been hereabouts for some time." He was deceived and went

his way, thinking his slave had escaped. Then she resumed her own

form. Her father was well pleased to find her still with him, and

the money too that he got by the sale of her; so he sold her

again. But she was changed by the favor of Neptune as often as she

was sold, now into a horse, now a bird, now an ox, and now a

stag,--got away from her purchasers and came home. By this base

method the starving father procured food; but not enough for his

wants, and at last hunger compelled him to devour his limbs, and

he strove to nourish his body by eating his body, till death

relieved him from the vengeance of Ceres.

RHOECUS

The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish

injuries. The story of Rhoecus proves this. Rhoecus, happening to

see an oak just ready to fall, ordered his servants to prop it up.

The nymph, who had been on the point of perishing with the tree,

came and expressed her gratitude to him for having saved her life

and bade him ask what reward he would. Rhoecus boldly asked her

love and the nymph yielded to his desire. She at the same time

charged him to be constant and told him that a bee should be her

messenger and let him know when she would admit his society. One

time the bee came to Rhoecus when he was playing at draughts and

he carelessly brushed it away. This so incensed the nymph that she

deprived him of sight.

Our countryman, J. R. Lowell, has taken this story for the subject

of one of his shorter poems. He introduces it thus:

"Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,

As full of freedom, youth and beauty still,

As the immortal freshness of that grace

Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze."

THE WATER DEITIES

Oceanus and Tethys were the Titans who ruled over the watery

element. When Jove and his brothers overthrew the Titans and

assumed their power, Neptune and Amphitrite succeeded to the

dominion of the waters in place of Oceanus and Tethys.

NEPTUNE

Neptune was the chief of the water deities. The symbol of his

power was the trident, or spear with three points, with which he

used to shatter rocks, to call forth or subdue storms, to shake

the shores and the like. He created the horse and was the patron

of horse races. His own horses had brazen hoofs and golden manes.

They drew his chariot over the sea, which became smooth before

him, while the monsters of the deep gambolled about his path.

AMPHITRITE

Amphitrite was the wife of Neptune. She was the daughter of Nereus

and Doris, and the mother of Triton. Neptune, to pay his court to

Amphitrite, came riding on a dolphin. Having won her he rewarded

the dolphin by placing him among the stars.

NEREUS AND DORIS

Nereus and Doris were the parents of the Nereids, the most

celebrated of whom were Amphitrite, Thetis, the mother of

Achilles, and Galatea, who was loved by the Cyclops Polyphemus.

Nereus was distinguished for his knowledge and his love of truth

and justice, whence he was termed an elder; the gift of prophecy

was also assigned to him.

TRITON AND PROTEUS

Triton was the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and the poets make

him his father's trumpeter. Proteus was also a son of Neptune. He,

like Nereus, is styled a sea-elder for his wisdom and knowledge of

future events. His peculiar power was that of changing his shape

at will.

THETIS

Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, was so beautiful that

Jupiter himself sought her in marriage; but having learned from

Prometheus the Titan that Thetis should bear a son who should grow

greater than his father, Jupiter desisted from his suit and

decreed that Thetis should be the wife of a mortal. By the aid of

Chiron the Centaur, Peleus succeeded in winning the goddess for

his bride and their son was the renowned Achilles. In our chapter

on the Trojan war it will appear that Thetis was a faithful mother

to him, aiding him in all difficulties, and watching over his

interests from the first to the last.

LEUCOTHEA AND PALAEMON

Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, flying from her

frantic husband with her little son Melicertes in her arms, sprang

from a cliff into the sea. The gods, out of compassion, made her a

goddess of the sea, under the name of Leucothea, and him a god,

under that of Palaemon. Both were held powerful to save from

shipwreck and were invoked by sailors. Palaemon was usually

represented riding on a dolphin. The Isthmian games were

celebrated in his honor. He was called Portunus by the Romans, and

believed to have jurisdiction of the ports and shores.

Milton alludes to all these deities in the song at the conclusion

of "Comus":

"... Sabrina fair,

Listen and appear to us,

In name of great Oceanus;

By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,

And Tethys' grave, majestic pace,

By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,

And the Carpathian wizard's hook, [Footnote: Proteus]

By scaly Triton's winding shell,

And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell,

By Leucothea's lovely hands,

And her son who rules the strands.

By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet,

And the songs of Sirens sweet;" etc.

Armstrong, the poet of the "Art of preserving Health," under the

inspiration of Hygeia, the goddess of health, thus celebrates the

Naiads. Paeon is a name both of Apollo and Aesculapius.

"Come, ye Naiads! to the fountains lead!

Propitious maids! the task remains to sing

Your gifts (so Paeon, so the powers of Health

Command), to praise your crystal element.

O comfortable streams! with eager lips

And trembling hands the languid thirsty quaff

New life in you; fresh vigor fills their veins.

No warmer cups the rural ages knew,

None warmer sought the sires of humankind;

Happy in temperate peace their equal days

Felt not the alternate fits of feverish mirth

And sick dejection; still serene and pleased,

Blessed with divine immunity from ills,

Long centuries they lived; their only fate

Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death."

THE CAMENAE

By this name the Latins designated the Muses, but included under

it also some other deities, principally nymphs of fountains.

Egeria was one of them, whose fountain and grotto are still shown.

It was said that Numa, the second king of Rome, was favored by

this nymph with secret interviews, in which she taught him those

lessons of wisdom and of law which he imbodied in the institutions

of his rising nation. After the death of Numa the nymph pined away

and was changed into a fountain.

Byron, in "Childe Harold," Canto IV., thus alludes to Egeria and

her grotto:

"Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,

Egeria! all thy heavenly bosom beating

For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;

The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting

With her most starry canopy;" etc.

Tennyson, also, in his "Palace of Art," gives us a glimpse of the

royal lover expecting the interview:

"Holding one hand against his ear,

To list a footfall ere he saw

The wood-nymph, stayed the Tuscan king to hear

Of wisdom and of law."

THE WINDS

When so many less active agencies were personified, it is not to

be supposed that the winds failed to be so. They were Boreas or

Aquilo, the north wind; Zephyrus or Favonius, the west; Notus or

Auster, the south; and Eurus, the east. The first two have been

chiefly celebrated by the poets, the former as the type of

rudeness, the latter of gentleness. Boreas loved the nymph

Orithyia, and tried to play the lover's part, but met with poor

success. It was hard for him to breathe gently, and sighing was

out of the question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavors, he

acted out his true character, seized the maiden and carried her

off. Their children were Zetes and Calais, winged warriors, who

accompanied the Argonautic expedition, and did good service in an

encounter with those monstrous birds the Harpies.

Zephyrus was the lover of Flora. Milton alludes to them in

"Paradise Lost," where he describes Adam waking and contemplating

Eve still asleep.

"... He on his side

Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love,

Hung over her enamored, and beheld

Beauty which, whether waking or asleep,

Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice,

Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,

Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: 'Awake!

My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,

Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight.'"

Dr. Young, the poet of the "Night Thoughts," addressing the idle

and luxurious, says:

"Ye delicate! who nothing can support

(Yourselves most insupportable) for whom

The winter rose must blow, ...

... and silky soft

Favonius breathe still softer or be chid!"

CHAPTER XXIII

ACHELOUS AND HERCULES--ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS--ANTIGONE--PENELOPE

ACHELOUS AND HERCULES

The river-god Achelous told the story of Erisichthon to Theseus

and his companions, whom he was entertaining at his hospitable

board, while they were delayed on their journey by the overflow of

his waters. Having finished his story, he added, "But why should I

tell of other persons' transformations when I myself am an

instance of the possession of this power? Sometimes I become a

serpent, and sometimes a bull, with horns on my head. Or I should

say I once could do so; but now I have but one horn, having lost

one." And here he groaned and was silent.

Theseus asked him the cause of his grief, and how he lost his

horn. To which question the river-god replied as follows: "Who

likes to tell of his defeats? Yet I will not hesitate to relate

mine, comforting myself with the thought of the greatness of my

conqueror, for it was Hercules. Perhaps you have heard of the fame

of Dejanira, the fairest of maidens, whom a host of suitors strove

to win. Hercules and myself were of the number, and the rest

yielded to us two. He urged in his behalf his descent from Jove

and his labors by which he had exceeded the exactions of Juno, his

stepmother. I, on the other hand, said to the father of the

maiden, 'Behold me, the king of the waters that flow through your

land. I am no stranger from a foreign shore, but belong to the

country, a part of your realm. Let it not stand in my way that

royal Juno owes me no enmity nor punishes me with heavy tasks. As

for this man, who boasts himself the son of Jove, it is either a

false pretence, or disgraceful to him if true, for it cannot be

true except by his mother's shame.' As I said this Hercules

scowled upon me, and with difficulty restrained his rage. 'My hand

will answer better than my tongue,' said he. 'I yield to you the

victory in words, but trust my cause to the strife of deeds.' With

that he advanced towards me, and I was ashamed, after what I had

said, to yield. I threw off my green vesture and presented myself

for the struggle. He tried to throw me, now attacking my head, now

my body. My bulk was my protection, and he assailed me in vain.

For a time we stopped, then returned to the conflict. We each kept

our position, determined not to yield, foot to foot, I bending

over him, clenching his hand in mine, with my forehead almost

touching his. Thrice Hercules tried to throw me off, and the

fourth time he succeeded, brought me to the ground, and himself

upon my back. I tell you the truth, it was as if a mountain had

fallen on me. I struggled to get my arms at liberty, panting and

reeking with perspiration. He gave me no chance to recover, but

seized my throat. My knees were on the earth and my mouth in the

dust.

"Finding that I was no match for him in the warrior's art, I

resorted to others and glided away in the form of a serpent. I

curled my body in a coil and hissed at him with my forked tongue.

He smiled scornfully at this, and said, 'It was the labor of my

infancy to conquer snakes.' So saying he clasped my neck with his

hands. I was almost choked, and struggled to get my neck out of

his grasp. Vanquished in this form, I tried what alone remained to

me and assumed the form of a bull. He grasped my neck with his

arm, and dragging my head down to the ground, overthrew me on the

sand. Nor was this enough. His ruthless hand rent my horn from my

head. The Naiades took it, consecrated it, and filled it with

fragrant flowers. Plenty adopted my horn and made it her own, and

called it 'Cornucopia.'"

The ancients were fond of finding a hidden meaning in their

mythological tales. They explain this fight of Achelous with

Hercules by saying Achelous was a river that in seasons of rain

overflowed its banks. When the fable says that Achelous loved

Dejanira, and sought a union with her, the meaning is that the

river in its windings flowed through part of Dejanira's kingdom.

It was said to take the form of a snake because of its winding,

and of a bull because it made a brawling or roaring in its course.

When the river swelled, it made itself another channel. Thus its

head was horned. Hercules prevented the return of these periodical

overflows by embankments and canals; and therefore he was said to

have vanquished the river-god and cut off his horn. Finally, the

lands formerly subject to overflow, but now redeemed, became very

fertile, and this is meant by the horn of plenty.

There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia. Jupiter

at his birth was committed by his mother Rhea to the care of the

daughters of Melisseus, a Cretan king. They fed the infant deity

with the milk of the goat Amalthea. Jupiter broke off one of the

horns of the goat and gave it to his nurses, and endowed it with

the wonderful power of becoming filled with whatever the possessor

might wish.

The name of Amalthea is also given by some writers to the mother

of Bacchus. It is thus used by Milton, "Paradise Lost," Book IV.:

"... That Nyseian isle,

Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,

Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,

Hid Amalthea and her florid son,

Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye."

ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS

Aesculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with

such skill in the healing art that he even restored the dead to

life. At this Pluto took alarm, and prevailed on Jupiter to launch

a thunderbolt at Aesculapius. Apollo was indignant at the

destruction of his son, and wreaked his vengeance on the innocent

workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who

have their workshop under Mount Aetna, from which the smoke and

flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing. Apollo shot his

arrows at the Cyclopes, which so incensed Jupiter that he

condemned him as a punishment to become the servant of a mortal

for the space of one year. Accordingly Apollo went into the

service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for

him on the verdant banks of the river Amphrysos.

Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the

daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for

her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus

performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made

happy in the possession of Alcestis. But Admetus fell ill, and

being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him on

condition that some one would consent to die in his stead.

Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the

ransom, and perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment

which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents fancied

that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was not so.

Brave warriors, who would willingly have perilled their lives for

their prince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him on the bed

of sickness; and old servants who had experienced his bounty and

that of his house from their childhood up, were not willing to lay

down the scanty remnant of their days to show their gratitude. Men

asked, "Why does not one of his parents do it? They cannot in the

course of nature live much longer, and who can feel like them the

call to rescue the life they gave from an untimely end?" But the

parents, distressed though they were at the thought of losing him,

shrunk from the call. Then Alcestis, with a generous self-

devotion, proffered herself as the substitute. Admetus, fond as he

was of life, would not have submitted to receive it at such a

cost; but there was no remedy. The condition imposed by the Fates

had been met, and the decree was irrevocable. Alcestis sickened as

Admetus revived, and she was rapidly sinking to the grave.

Just at this time Hercules arrived at the palace of Admetus, and

found all the inmates in great distress for the impending loss of

the devoted wife and beloved mistress. Hercules, to whom no labor

was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. He went and lay

in wait at the door of the chamber of the dying queen, and when

Death came for his prey, he seized him and forced him to resign

his victim. Alcestis recovered, and was restored to her husband.

Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet "on his

deceased wife:"

"Methought I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,

Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint."

J. R. Lowell has chosen the "Shepherd of King Admetus" for the

subject of a short poem. He makes that event the first

introduction of poetry to men.

"Men called him but a shiftless youth,

In whom no good they saw,

And yet unwittingly, in truth,

They made his careless words their law.

"And day by day more holy grew

Each spot where he had trod,

Till after-poets only knew

Their first-born brother was a god."

ANTIGONE

A large proportion both of the interesting persons and of the

exalted acts of legendary Greece belongs to the female sex.

Antigone was as bright an example of filial and sisterly fidelity

as was Alcestis of connubial devotion. She was the daughter of

Oedipus and Jocasta, who with all their descendants were the

victims of an unrelenting fate, dooming them to destruction.

OEdipus in his madness had torn out his eyes, and was driven forth

from his kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all men, as an

object of divine vengeance. Antigone, his daughter, alone shared

his wanderings and remained with him till he died, and then

returned to Thebes.

Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the

kingdom between them, and reign alternately year by year. The

first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time

expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother.

Polynices fled to Adrastus, king of Argos, who gave him his

daughter in marriage, and aided him with an army to enforce his

claim to the kingdom. This led to the celebrated expedition of the

"Seven against Thebes," which furnished ample materials for the

epic and tragic poets of Greece.

Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the

enterprise, for he was a soothsayer, and knew by his art that no

one of the leaders except Adrastus would live to return. But

Amphiaraus, on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king's sister, had

agreed that whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion, the

decision should be left to Eriphyle. Polynices, knowing this, gave

Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and thereby gained her to his

interest. This collar or necklace was a present which Vulcan had

given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus, and Polynices had

taken it with him on his flight from Thebes. Eriphyle could not

resist so tempting a bribe, and by her decision the war was

resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his certain fate. He bore his

part bravely in the contest, but could not avert his destiny.

Pursued by the enemy, he fled along the river, when a thunderbolt

launched by Jupiter opened the ground, and he, his chariot, and

his charioteer were swallowed up.

It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of heroism or

atrocity which marked the contest; but we must not omit to record

the fidelity of Evadne as an offset to the weakness of Eriphyle.

Capaneus, the husband of Evadne, in the ardor of the fight

declared that he would force his way into the city in spite of

Jove himself. Placing a ladder against the wall he mounted, but

Jupiter, offended at his impious language, struck him with a

thunderbolt. When his obsequies were celebrated, Evadne cast

herself on his funeral pile and perished.

Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias as

to the issue. Tiresias in his youth had by chance seen Minerva

bathing. The goddess in her wrath deprived him of his sight, but

afterwards relenting gave him in compensation the knowledge of

future events. When consulted by Eteocles, he declared that

victory should fall to Thebes if Menoeceus, the son of Creon, gave

himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth, learning the

response, threw away his life in the first encounter.

The siege continued long, with various success. At length both

hosts agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel by

single combat. They fought and fell by each other's hands. The

armies then renewed the fight, and at last the invaders were

forced to yield, and fled, leaving their dead unburied. Creon, the

uncle of the fallen princes, now become king, caused Eteocles to

be buried with distinguished honor, but suffered the body of

Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every one on pain of

death to give it burial.

Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the

revolting edict which consigned her brother's body to the dogs and

vultures, depriving it of those rites which were considered

essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading

counsel of an affectionate but timid sister, and unable to procure

assistance, she determined to brave the hazard, and to bury the

body with her own hands. She was detected in the act, and Creon

gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having

deliberately set at naught the solemn edict of the city. Her

lover, Haemon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate, would

not survive her, and fell by his own hand.

Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the Grecian

poet Sophocles. Mrs. Jameson, in her "Characteristics of Women,"

has compared her character with that of Cordelia, in Shakspeare's

"King Lear." The perusal of her remarks cannot fail to gratify our

readers.

The following is the lamentation of Antigone over OEdipus, when

death has at last relieved him from his sufferings:

"Alas! I only wished I might have died

With my poor father; wherefore should I ask

For longer life?

O, I was fond of misery with him;

E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved

When he was with me. O my dearest father,

Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,

Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still

Wast dear, and shalt be ever."

--Francklin's Sophocles.

PENELOPE

Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were

rather those of character and conduct than of person. She was the

daughter of Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, king of Ithaca,

sought her in marriage, and won her, over all competitors. When

the moment came for the bride to leave her father's house,

Icarius, unable to bear the thoughts of parting with his daughter,

tried to persuade her to remain with him, and not accompany her

husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope her choice, to stay or go

with him. Penelope made no reply, but dropped her veil over her

face. Icarius urged her no further, but when she was gone erected

a statue to Modesty on the spot where they parted.

Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year

when it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the

Trojan war. During his long absence, and when it was doubtful

whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he would ever

return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors, from whom

there seemed no refuge but in choosing one of them for her

husband. Penelope, however, employed every art to gain time, still

hoping for Ulysses' return. One of her arts of delay was engaging

in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of Laertes,

her husband's father. She pledged herself to make her choice among

the suitors when the robe was finished. During the day she worked

at the robe, but in the night she undid the work of the day. This

is the famous Penelope's web, which is used as a proverbial

expression for anything which is perpetually doing but never done.

The rest of Penelope's history will be told when we give an

account of her husband's adventures.

CHAPTER XXIV

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE--ARISTAEUS--AMPHION--LINUS--THAMYRIS--

MARSYAS--MELAMPUS--MUSAEUS

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Orpheus was the son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. He was

presented by his father with a Lyre and taught to play upon it,

which he did to such perfection that nothing could withstand the

charm of his music. Not only his fellow-mortals but wild beasts

were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by

their fierceness, and stood entranced with his lay. Nay, the very

trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The former crowded

round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their hardness,

softened by his notes.

Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of

Orpheus with Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no happy

omens with him. His very torch smoked and brought tears into their

eyes. In coincidence with such prognostics, Eurydice, shortly

after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her

companions, was seen by the shepherd Aristaeus, who was struck

with her beauty and made advances to her. She fled, and in flying

trod upon a snake in the grass, was bitten in the foot, and died.

Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both

gods and men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to seek his

wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave situated

on the side of the promontory of Taenarus and arrived at the

Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts and presented

himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying

the words with the lyre, he sung, "O deities of the underworld, to

whom all we who live must come, hear my words, for they are true.

I come not to spy out the secrets of Tartarus, nor to try my

strength against the three-headed dog with snaky hair who guards

the entrance. I come to seek my wife, whose opening years the

poisonous viper's fang has brought to an untimely end. Love has

led me here, Love, a god all powerful with us who dwell on the

earth, and, if old traditions say true, not less so here. I

implore you by these abodes full of terror, these realms of

silence and uncreated things, unite again the thread of Eurydice's

life. We all are destined to you and sooner or later must pass to

your domain. She too, when she shall have filled her term of life,

will rightly be yours. But till then grant her to me, I beseech

you. If you deny me I cannot return alone; you shall triumph in

the death of us both."

As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears.

Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his efforts

for water, Ixion's wheel stood still, the vulture ceased to tear

the giant's liver, the daughters of Danaus rested from their task

of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to

listen. Then for the first time, it is said, the cheeks of the

Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist, and Pluto

himself gave way. Eurydice was called. She came from among the

new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot. Orpheus was

permitted to take her away with him on one condition, that he

should not turn around to look at her till they should have

reached the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded on

their way, he leading, she following, through passages dark and

steep, in total silence, till they had nearly reached the outlet

into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus, in a moment of

forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was still following,

cast a glance behind him, when instantly she was borne away.

Stretching out their arms to embrace each other, they grasped only

the air! Dying now a second time, she yet cannot reproach her

husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold her?

"Farewell," she said, "a last farewell,"--and was hurried away, so

fast that the sound hardly reached his ears.

Orpheus endeavored to follow her, and besought permission to

return and try once more for her release; but the stern ferryman

repulsed him and refused passage. Seven days he lingered about the

brink, without food or sleep; then bitterly accusing of cruelty

the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the rocks and

mountains, melting the hearts of tigers and moving the oaks from

their stations. He held himself aloof from womankind, dwelling

constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance. The Thracian

maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their

advances. They bore with him as long as they could; but finding

him insensible one day, excited by the rites of Bacchus, one of

them exclaimed, "See yonder our despiser!" and threw at him her

javelin. The weapon, as soon as it came within the sound of his

lyre, fell harmless at his feet. So did also the stones that they

threw at him. But the women raised a scream and drowned the voice

of the music, and then the missiles reached him and soon were

stained with his blood. The maniacs tore him limb from limb, and

threw his head and his lyre into the river Hebrus, down which they

floated, murmuring sad music, to which the shores responded a

plaintive symphony. The Muses gathered up the fragments of his

body and buried them at Libethra, where the nightingale is said to

sing over his grave more sweetly than in any other part of Greece.

His lyre was placed by Jupiter among the stars. His shade passed a

second time to Tartarus, where he sought out his Eurydice and

embraced her with eager arms. They roam the happy fields together

now, sometimes he leading, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes as

much as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty for a

thoughtless glance.

The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of

the power of music, for his "Ode for St. Cecilia's Day" The

following stanza relates the conclusion of the story:

"But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;

Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!

How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?

No crime was thine, if't is no crime to love.

Now under hanging mountains,

Beside the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in meanders,

All alone,

He makes his moan,

And calls her ghost,

Forever, ever, ever lost!

Now with furies surrounded,

Despairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows

See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies;

Hark! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries;

Ah, see, he dies!

Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,

Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:

Eurydice the woods

Eurydice the floods

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung"

The superior melody of the nightingale's song over the grave of

Orpheus is alluded to by Southey in his "Thalaba":

"Then on his ear what sounds

Of harmony arose'

Far music and the distance-mellowed song

From bowers of merriment,

The waterfall remote,

The murmuring of the leafy groves;

The single nightingale

Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,

That never from that most melodious bird

Singing a love song to his brooding mate,

Did Thracian shepherd by the grave

Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,

Though there the spirit of the sepulchre

All his own power infuse, to swell

The incense that he loves"

ARISTAEUS, THE BEE-KEEPER

Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for

his own advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping bees. Honey

must first have been known as a wild product, the bees building

their structures in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, or any

similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the carcass

of a dead animal would be occupied by the bees for that purpose.

It was no doubt from some such incident that the superstition

arose that the bees were engendered by the decaying flesh of the

animal; and Virgil, in the following story, shows how this

supposed fact may be turned to account for renewing the swarm when

it has been lost by disease or accident:

Aristaeus, who first taught the management of bees, was the son of

the water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished, and he resorted for

aid to his mother. He stood at the river side and thus addressed

her: "O mother, the pride of my life is taken from me! I have lost

my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing, and

you my mother have not warded off from me the blow of misfortune."

His mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the

bottom of the river, with her attendant nymphs around her. They

were engaged in female occupations, spinning and weaving, while

one told stories to amuse the rest. The sad voice of Aristaeus

interrupting their occupation, one of them put her head above the

water and seeing him, returned and gave information to his mother,

who ordered that he should be brought into her presence. The river

at her command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood

curled like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region

where the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the enormous

receptacles of waters and was almost deafened with the roar, while

he surveyed them hurrying off in various directions to water the

face of the earth. Arriving at his mother's apartment, he was

hospitably received by Cyrene and her nymphs, who spread their

table with the richest dainties. They first poured out libations

to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the feast, and after that

Cyrene thus addressed him: "There is an old prophet named Proteus,

who dwells in the sea and is a favorite of Neptune, whose herd of

sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold him in great respect, for

he is a learned sage and knows all things, past, present, and to

come. He can tell you, my son, the cause of the mortality among

your bees, and how you may remedy it. But he will not do it

voluntarily, however you may entreat him. You must compel him by

force. If you seize him and chain him, he will answer your

questions in order to get released, for he cannot by all his arts

get away if you hold fast the chains. I will carry you to his

cave, where he comes at noon to take his midday repose. Then you

may easily secure him. But when he finds himself captured, his

resort is to a power he possesses of changing himself into various

forms. He will become a wild boar or a fierce tiger, a scaly

dragon or lion with yellow mane. Or he will make a noise like the

crackling of flames or the rush of water, so as to tempt you to

let go the chain, when he will make his escape. But you have only

to keep him fast bound, and at last when he finds all his arts

unavailing, he will return to his own figure and obey your

commands." So saying she sprinkled her son with fragrant nectar,

the beverage of the gods, and immediately an unusual vigor filled

his frame, and courage his heart, while perfume breathed all

around him.

The nymph led her son to the prophet's cave and concealed him

among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place

behind the clouds. When noon came and the hour when men and herds

retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet slumber, Proteus

issued from the water, followed by his herd of sea-calves which

spread themselves along the shore. He sat on the rock and counted

his herd; then stretched himself on the floor of the cave and went

to sleep. Aristaeus hardly allowed him to get fairly asleep before

he fixed the fetters on him and shouted aloud. Proteus, waking and

finding himself captured, immediately resorted to his arts,

becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a horrible wild beast,

in rapid succession. But finding all would not do, he at last

resumed his own form and addressed the youth in angry accents:

"Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my abode, and what do

yot want of me?" Aristaeus replied, "Proteus, you know already,

for it is needless for any one to attempt to deceive you. And do

you also cease your efforts to elude me. I am led hither by divine

assistance, to know from you the cause of my misfortune and how to

remedy it." At these words the prophet, fixing on him his gray

eyes with a piercing look, thus spoke: "You receive the merited

reward of your deeds, by which Eurydice met her death, for in

flying from you she trod upon a serpent, of whose bite she died.

To avenge her death, the nymphs, her companions, have sent this

destruction to your bees. You have to appease their anger, and

thus it must be done: Select four bulls, of perfect form and size,

and four cows of equal beauty, build four altars to the nymphs,

and sacrifice the animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy

grove. To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honors

as may allay their resentment. Returning after nine days, you will

examine the bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall."

Aristaeus faithfully obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the

cattle, he left their bodies in the grove, he offered funeral

honors to the shades of Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on

the ninth day he examined the bodies of the animals, and,

wonderful to relate! a swarm of bees had taken possession of one

of the carcasses and were pursuing their labors there as in a

hive.

In "The Task," Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when

speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia. He

has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in

connection with waterfalls, etc.:

"Less worthy of applause though more admired

Because a novelty, the work of man,

Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,

Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,

The wonder of the north. No forest fell

When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores

T' enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods

And make thy marble of the glassy wave.

In such a palace Aristaeus found

Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale

Of his lost bees to her maternal ear."

Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in

his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river

Severn, in the Guardian-spirit's Song in "Comus":

"Sabrina fair!

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave

In twisted braids of lilies knitting

The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;

Listen for dear honor's sake,

Goddess of the silver lake!

Listen and save."

The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians,

some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself:

AMPHION

Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes. With

his twin brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount

Cithaeron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing

their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre and taught him to

play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and

tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had been

treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of Thebes,

and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her children of

their rights and to summon them to her assistance. With a band of

their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew Lycus, and tying

Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him drag her till she

was dead. Amphion, having become king of Thebes, fortified the

city with a wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the

stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the

wall.

See Tennyson's poem of "Amphion" for an amusing use made of this

story.

LINUS

Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day

reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of

Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him.

THAMYRIS

An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the

Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the contest, was

deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other

blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness, "Paradise Lost,"

Book III., 35.

MARSYAS

Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of

all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid

having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made

while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away, and

it fell down to earth, and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon it,

and drew from it such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to

challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of course

triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.

MELAMPUS

Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers.

Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's

nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus

took care of the young ones and fed them carefully. One day when

he was asleep under the oak the serpents licked his ears with

their tongues. On awaking he was astonished to find that he now

understood the language of birds and creeping things. This

knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a

renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive and

kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of the night

heard the woodworms in the timbers talking together, and found out

by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten through and

the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors and demanded to

be let out, warning them also. They took his warning, and thus

escaped destruction, and rewarded Melampus and held him in high

honor.

MUSAEUS A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one

tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written

sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of

Orpheus in his "Il Penseroso":

"But O, sad virgin, that thy power

Might raise Musaeus from his bower,

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as warbled to the string,

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,

And made Hell grant what love did seek."

CHAPTER XXV

ARION--IBYCUS--SIMONIDES--SAPPHO

The poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real persons

some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on poets who

succeeded them is yet more important than their poetical remains.

The adventures recorded of them in the following stories rest on

the same authority as other narratives of the "Age of Fable," that

is, of the poets who have told them. In their present form, the

first two are translated from the German, Arion from Schlegel, and

Ibycus from Schiller.

ARION

Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt in the court of Periander,

king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to

be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for

the prize. He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like a

brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said, "and

be contented. He who strives to win may lose." Arion answered, "A

wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet. The talent

which a god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source of pleasure

to others. And if I win the prize, how will the enjoyment of it be

increased by the consciousness of my widespread fame!" He went,

won the prize, and embarked with his wealth in a Corinthian ship

for home. On the second morning after setting sail, the wind

breathed mild and fair. "O Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your

fears! Soon shall you forget them in my embrace. With what lavish

offerings will we display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry

will we be at the festal board!" The wind and sea continued

propitious. Not a cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted

too much to the ocean--but he had to man. He overheard the seamen

exchanging hints with one another, and found they were plotting to

possess themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him

loud and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die! If you would

have a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if

otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will nothing satisfy you

but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome. I willingly buy

my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare you. Your life

would be too dangerous to us. Where could we go to escape from

Periander, if he should know that you had been robbed by us? Your

gold would be of little use to us, if on returning home, we could

never more be free from fear." "Grant me, then," said he, "a last

request, since nought will avail to save my life, that I may die,

as I have lived, as becomes a bard. When I shall have sung my

death song, and my harp-strings shall have ceased to vibrate, then

I will bid farewell to life, and yield uncomplaining to my fate."

This prayer, like the others, would have been unheeded,--they

thought only of their booty,--but to hear so famous a musician,

that moved their rude hearts. "Suffer me," he added, "to arrange

my dress. Apollo will not favor me unless I be clad in my minstrel

garb."

He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to

see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned

his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his

neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left

hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck

its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning air

and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen gazed with admiration.

He strode forward to the vessel's side and looked down into the

deep blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he sang, "Companion of my

voice, come with me to the realm of shades. Though Cerberus may

growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage. Ye heroes of

Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood,--ye happy souls, soon

shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my grief? Alas, I leave

my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find thy Eurydice, and lose

her again as soon as found; when she had vanished like a dream,

how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I must away, but I will

not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye who slay me unoffending,

when I am no more, your time of trembling shall come. Ye Nereids,

receive your guest, who throws himself upon your mercy!" So

saying, he sprang into the deep sea. The waves covered him, and

the seamen held on their way, fancying themselves safe from all

danger of detection.

But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants

of the deep to listen, and Dolphins followed the ship as if

chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a Dolphin

offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to

shore. At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass was

afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory of

the event.

When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion

thus poured forth his thanks: "Farewell, thou faithful, friendly

fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend with

me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have. May Galatea,

queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou, proud of the

burden, draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of the deep."

Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers

of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went,

full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful

only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the

hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of

Periander. "I come back to thee, my friend," he said. "The talent

which a god bestowed has been the delight of thousands, but false

knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure; yet I retain

the consciousness of wide spread fame." Then he told Periander all

the wonderful events that had befallen him, who heard him with

amazement. "Shall such wickedness triumph?" said he. "Then in vain

is power lodged in my hands. That we may discover the criminals,

you must remain here in concealment, and so they will approach

without suspicion." When the ship arrived in the harbor, he

summoned the mariners before him. "Have you heard anything of

Arion?" he inquired. "I anxiously look for his return." They

replied, "We left him well and prosperous in Tarentum." As they

said these words, Arion stepped forth and faced them. His well-

proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and purple fair to see,

his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his

arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck

and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors; his left hand

held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its

chords. They fell prostrate at his feet, as if a lightning bolt

had struck them. "We meant to murder him, and he has become a god.

O Earth, open and receive us!" Then Periander spoke. "He lives,

the master of the lay! Kind Heaven protects the poet's life. As

for you, I invoke not the spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not

your blood. Ye slaves of avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous

land, and never may aught beautiful delight your souls!"

Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the

train of Neptune and Amphitrite:

"Then was there heard a most celestial sound

Of dainty music which did next ensue,

And, on the floating waters as enthroned,

Arion with his harp unto him drew

The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;

Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore

Through the Aegean Seas from pirates' view,

Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,

And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."

Byron, in his "Childe Harold," Canto II., alludes to the story of

Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the

seamen making music to entertain the rest:

"The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;

Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;

Such be our fate when we return to land!

Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand

Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;

A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Or to some well-known measure featly move

Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove."

IBYCUS

In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows it is

necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients

were immense fabrics capable of containing from ten to thirty

thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festival

occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually

filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the

performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling

representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It

is recorded that Aeschylus, the tragic poet, having on one

occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers,

the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were

thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like

representation for the future.

Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and

musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which

attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the

gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his way

with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of

Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered

with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was

in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead taking the same

course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. "Good

luck to you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions

from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen. We come

from far and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us meet

that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from harm!"

He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood. There

suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred

his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand, accustomed to the

lyre, and not to the strife of arms, sank powerless. He called for

help on men and gods, but his cry reached no defender's ear. "Then

here must I die," said he, "in a strange land, unlamented, cut off

by the hand of outlaws, and see none to avenge my cause." Sore

wounded, he sank to the earth, when hoarse screamed the cranes

overhead. "Take up my cause, ye cranes," he said, "since no voice

but yours answers to my cry." So saying he closed his eyes in

death.

The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured

with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had

expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored to me?"

he exclaimed. "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the wreath

of triumph in the strife of song!"

The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with

dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.

They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded

vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.

But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst

the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feast? Did he

fall by the hands of robbers or did some private enemy slay him?

The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye beheld

it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of

the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance

seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their own temple's enclosure he

defies the gods mingling freely in this throng of men that now

presses into the amphitheatre.

For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the seats

till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The murmur of

voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles widening

in their ascent rise tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky.

And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the

chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with

measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre. Can

they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can that

vast concourse of silent forms be living beings?

The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands

torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were bloodless,

and in place of hair writhing and swelling serpents curled around

their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their

hymns, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their

faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound of the

instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart, curdling

the blood.

"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime! Him

we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us.

But woe! woe! to him who has done the deed of secret murder. We

the fearful family of Night fasten ourselves upon his whole being.

Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still faster in pursuit,

twine our snakes around his feet, and bring him to the ground.

Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course; still on and on,

to the end of life, we give him no peace nor rest." Thus the

Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence, while stillness like

the stillness of death sat over the whole assembly as if in the

presence of superhuman beings; and then in solemn march completing

the circuit of the theatre, they passed out at the back of the

stage.

Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every

breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful

power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of

destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the

uppermost benches--"Look! look! comrade, yonder are the cranes of

Ibycus!" And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a dark

object which a moment's inspection showed to be a flock of cranes

flying directly over the theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he say?" The

beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As wave follows

wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to mouth the

words, "Of Ibycus! him whom we all lament, whom some murderer's

hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?" And louder

grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning's flash the

thought sped through every heart, "Observe the power of the

Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! the murderer has

informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry and

the other to whom he spoke!"

The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too

late. The faces of the murderers, pale with terror, betrayed their

guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed their

crime, and suffered the punishment they deserved.

SIMONIDES

Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of

Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have

descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies. In

the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His

genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with

truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The "Lamentation of

Danae," the most important of the fragments which remain of his

poetry, is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant son

were confined by order of her father, Acrisius, in a chest and set

adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of

Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and

carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and

protected them. The child, Perseus, when grown up became a famous

hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous chapter.

Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and

often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes, receiving

his reward from the munificence of those whose exploits he

celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but closely

resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus, described

by Homer, or of Homer himself, as recorded by tradition.

On one occasion, when residing at the court of Scopas, king of

Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration

of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to diversify

his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety, introduced

into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such digressions

were not unusual with the poets on similar occasions, and one

might suppose an ordinary mortal might have been content to share

the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity is exacting; and as

Scopas sat at his festal board among his courtiers and sycophants,

he grudged every verse that did not rehearse his own praises. When

Simonides approached to receive the promised reward Scopas

bestowed but half the expected sum, saying, "Here is payment for

my portion of thy performance; Castor and Pollux will doubtless

compensate thee for so much as relates to them." The disconcerted

poet returned to his seat amidst the laughter which followed the

great man's jest. In a little time he received a message that two

young men on horseback were waiting without and anxious to see

him. Simonides hastened to the door, but looked in vain for the

visitors. Scarcely, however, had he left the banqueting hall when

the roof fell in with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all his

guests beneath the ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance of the

young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they

were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves.

SAPPHO

Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek

literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are enough

to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The story of

Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately in love

with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return

of affection she threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia

into the sea, under a superstition that those who should take that

"Lover's-leap" would, if not destroyed, be cured of their love.

Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in "Childe Harold," Canto

II.:

"Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spot

Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave,

And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,

The lover's refuge and the Lesbian's grave.

Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save

That breast imbued with such immortal fire?

"'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve

Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;" etc.

Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her "leap" are referred

to the "Spectator," Nos. 223 and 229. See also Moore's "Evenings

in Greece."

CHAPTER XXVI

ENDYMION--ORION--AURORA AND TITHONUS--ACIS AND GALATEA

DIANA AND ENDYMION

Endymion was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos.

One calm, clear night Diana, the moon, looked down and saw him

sleeping. The cold heart of the virgin goddess was warmed by his

surpassing beauty, and she came down to him, kissed him, and

watched over him while he slept.

Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of

perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we

can have but few adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took

care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life, for

she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs from

the wild beasts.

The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning

which it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young poet, his

fancy and his heart seeking in vain for that which can satisfy

them, finding his favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, and

nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent witness

the melancholy and the ardor which consumes him. The story

suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life spent more in dreams

than in reality, and an early and welcome death.--S. G. B.

The "Endymion" of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing

some exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon:

"... The sleeping kine

Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.

Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,

Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,

And yet thy benediction passeth not

One obscure hiding-place, one little spot

Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren

Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;" etc., etc.

Dr. Young, in the "Night Thoughts," alludes to Endymion thus:

"... These thoughts, O night, are thine;

From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs,

While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,

In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,

Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured less

Than I of thee."

Fletcher, in the "Faithful Shepherdess," tells:

"How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,

First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes

She took eternal fire that never dies;

How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,

His temples bound with poppy, to the steep

Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,

Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,

To kiss her sweetest."

ORION

Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a mighty

hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through the depths

of the sea, or, as others say, of walking on its surface.

Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Oenopion, king of Chios, and

sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts, and

brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved; but as

Oenopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted to gain

possession of the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at this

conduct, having made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight and

cast him out on the seashore. The blinded hero followed the sound

of a Cyclops' hammer till he reached Lemnos, and came to the forge

of Vulcan, who, taking pity on him, gave him Kedalion, one of his

men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun. Placing Kedalion on

his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there meeting the

sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam.

After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a

favorite, and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her

brother was highly displeased and often chid her, but to no

purpose. One day, observing Orion wading through the sea with his

head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his sister and

maintained that she could not hit that black thing on the sea. The

archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim. The waves rolled

the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing her fatal error

with many tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where he

appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion's skin, and club.

Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him.

The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train.

One day Orion saw them and became enamoured and pursued them. In

their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form, and

Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, and then made them a

constellation in the sky. Though their number was seven, only six

stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it is said left her

place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy, for that city

was founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an effect on

her sisters that they have looked pale ever since.

Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the "Occultation of Orion." The

following lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic story.

We must premise that on the celestial globe Orion is represented

as robed in a lion's skin and wielding a club. At the moment the

stars of the constellation, one by one, were quenched in the light

of the moon, the poet tells us

"Down fell the red skin of the lion

Into the river at his feet.

His mighty club no longer beat

The forehead of the bull; but he

Reeled as of yore beside the sea,

When blinded by Oenopion

He sought the blacksmith at his forge,

And climbing up the narrow gorge,

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun."

Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads:

"Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow

shade,

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid."

--Locksley Hall.

Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."

See also Mrs. Hemans's verses on the same subject.

AURORA AND TITHONUS

The goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at times

inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite was

Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away, and

prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but, forgetting to

have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to

discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old. When

his hair was quite white she left his society; but he still had

the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was clad in

celestial raiment. At length he lost the power of using his limbs,

and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice

might at times be heard. Finally she turned him into a

grasshopper.

Memnon was the son of Aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the

Aethiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of Ocean.

He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his father in

the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great honors, and

listened with admiration to his narrative of the wonders of the

ocean shore.

The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led

his troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, fell

by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when Achilles

appeared and restored the battle. A long and doubtful contest

ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length victory

declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled in

dismay.

Aurora, who from her station in the sky had viewed with

apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall,

directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks

of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came,

accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented

over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the heaven

with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the Dawn. The

Aethiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream in the

grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of

his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two

flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the flame. Every

year at the anniversary of his death they return and celebrate his

obsequies in like manner. Aurora remains inconsolable for the loss

of her son. Her tears still flow, and may be seen at early morning

in the form of dew-drops on the grass.

Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there still exist

some memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in Egypt,

are two colossal statues, one of which is said to be the statue of

Memnon. Ancient writers record that when the first rays of the

rising sun fall upon this statue a sound is heard to issue from

it, which they compare to the snapping of a harp-string. There is

some doubt about the identification of the existing statue with

the one described by the ancients, and the mysterious sounds are

still more doubtful. Yet there are not wanting some modern

testimonies to their being still audible. It has been suggested

that sounds produced by confined air making its escape from

crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given some ground for

the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late traveller, of the highest

authority, examined the statue itself, and discovered that it was

hollow, and that "in the lap of the statue is a stone, which on

being struck emits a metallic sound, that might still be made use

of to deceive a visitor who was predisposed to believe its

powers."

The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with

the poets. Darwin, in his "Botanic Garden," says:

"So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane

Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;

Touched by his orient beam responsive rings

The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;

Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,

And holy echoes swell the adoring song."

Book I., 1., 182.

ACIS AND GALATEA

Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs.

She had many suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the

grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she was persecuted. One day

the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the story,

and then replied, "Yet, maiden, your persecutors are of the not

ungentle race of men, whom, if you will, you can repel; but I, the

daughter of Nereus, and protected by such a band of sisters, found

no escape from the passion of the Cyclops but in the depths of the

sea;" and tears stopped her utterance, which when the pitying

maiden had wiped away with her delicate finger, and soothed the

goddess, "Tell me, dearest," said she, "the cause of your grief."

Galatea then said, "Acis was the son of Faunus and a Naiad. His

father and mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal

to mine. For the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and

he was just sixteen years old, the down just beginning to darken

his cheeks. As much as I sought his society, so much did the

Cyclops seek mine; and if you ask me whether my love for Acis or

my hatred of Polyphemus was the stronger, I cannot tell you; they

were in equal measure. O Venus, how great is thy power! this

fierce giant, the terror of the woods, whom no hapless stranger

escaped unharmed, who defied even Jove himself, learned to feel

what love was, and, touched with a passion for me, forgot his

flocks and his well-stored caverns. Then for the first time he

began to take some care of his appearance, and to try to make

himself agreeable; he harrowed those coarse locks of his with a

comb, and mowed his beard with a sickle, looked at his harsh

features in the water, and composed his countenance. His love of

slaughter, his fierceness and thirst of blood prevailed no more,

and ships that touched at his island went away in safety. He paced

up and down the sea-shore, imprinting huge tracks with his heavy

tread, and, when weary, lay tranquilly in his cave.

"There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on

either side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat

down while his flocks spread themselves around. Laying down his

staff, which would have served for a mast to hold a vessel's sail,

and taking his instrument compacted of numerous pipes, he made the

hills and the waters echo the music of his song. I lay hid under a

rock by the side of my beloved Acis, and listened to the distant

strain. It was full of extravagant praises of my beauty, mingled

with passionate reproaches of my coldness and cruelty.

"When he had finished he rose up, and, like a raging bull that

cannot stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I

thought no more of him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which

gave him a view of us as we sat. 'I see you,' he exclaimed, 'and I

will make this the last of your love-meetings.' His voice was a

roar such as an angry Cyclops alone could utter. Aetna trembled at

the sound. I, overcome with terror, plunged into the water. Acis

turned and fled, crying, 'Save me, Galatea, save me, my parents!'

The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from the side of the

mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner of it touched him,

it overwhelmed him.

"All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him with

the honors of his grandfather, the river-god. The purple blood

flowed out from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler and

looked like the stream of a river rendered turbid by rains, and in

time it became clear. The rock cleaved open, and the water, as it

gushed from the chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur."

Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the name

of Acis.

Dryden, in his "Cymon and Iphigenia," has told the story of a

clown converted into a gentleman by the power of love, in a way

that shows traces of kindred to the old story of Galatea and the

Cyclops.

"What not his father's care nor tutor's art

Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,

The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,

As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.

Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife

Soon taught the sweet civilities of life."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE TROJAN WAR

Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a

very foolish thing; she entered into competition with Juno and

Venus for the prize of beauty. It happened thus: At the nuptials

of Peleus and Thetis all the gods were invited with the exception

of Eris, or Discord. Enraged at her exclusion, the goddess threw a

golden apple among the guests, with the inscription, "For the

fairest." Thereupon Juno, Venus, and Minerva each claimed the

apple. Jupiter, not willing to decide in so delicate a matter,

sent the goddesses to Mount Ida, where the beautiful shepherd

Paris was tending his flocks, and to him was committed the

decision. The goddesses accordingly appeared before him. Juno

promised him power and riches, Minerva glory and renown in war,

and Venus the fairest of women for his wife, each attempting to

bias his decision in her own favor. Paris decided in favor of

Venus and gave her the golden apple, thus making the two other

goddesses his enemies. Under the protection of Venus, Paris sailed

to Greece, and was hospitably received by Menelaus, king of

Sparta. Now Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was the very woman whom

Venus had destined for Paris, the fairest of her sex. She had been

sought as a bride by numerous suitors, and before her decision was

made known, they all, at the suggestion of Ulysses, one of their

number, took an oath that they would defend her from all injury

and avenge her cause if necessary. She chose Menelaus, and was

living with him happily when Paris became their guest. Paris,

aided by Venus, persuaded her to elope with him, and carried her

to Troy, whence arose the famous Trojan war, the theme of the

greatest poems of antiquity, those of Homer and Virgil.

Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to fulfil

their pledge, and join him in his efforts to recover his wife.

They generally came forward, but Ulysses, who had married

Penelope, and was very happy in his wife and child, had no

disposition to embark in such a troublesome affair. He therefore

hung back and Palamedes was sent to urge him. When Palamedes

arrived at Ithaca Ulysses pretended to be mad. He yoked an ass and

an ox together to the plough and began to sow salt. Palamedes, to

try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the plough, whereupon

the father turned the plough aside, showing plainly that he was no

madman, and after that could no longer refuse to fulfil his

promise. Being now himself gained for the undertaking, he lent his

aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs, especially Achilles. This

hero was the son of that Thetis at whose marriage the apple of

Discord had been thrown among the goddesses. Thetis was herself

one of the immortals, a sea-nymph, and knowing that her son was

fated to perish before Troy if he went on the expedition, she

endeavored to prevent his going. She sent him away to the court of

King Lycomedes, and induced him to conceal himself in the disguise

of a maiden among the daughters of the king. Ulysses, hearing he

was there, went disguised as a merchant to the palace and offered

for sale female ornaments, among which he had placed some arms.

While the king's daughters were engrossed with the other contents

of the merchant's pack, Achilles handled the weapons and thereby

betrayed himself to the keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great

difficulty in persuading him to disregard his mother's prudent

counsels and join his countrymen in the war.

Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer of

Helen, was his son. Paris had been brought up in obscurity,

because there were certain ominous forebodings connected with him

from his infancy that he would be the ruin of the state. These

forebodings seemed at length likely to be realized, for the

Grecian armament now in preparation was the greatest that had ever

been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, and brother of the

injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief. Achilles was

their most illustrious warrior. After him ranked Ajax, gigantic in

size and of great courage, but dull of intellect; Diomede, second

only to Achilles in all the qualities of a hero; Ulysses, famous

for his sagacity; and Nestor, the oldest of the Grecian chiefs,

and one to whom they all looked up for counsel. But Troy was no

feeble enemy. Priam, the king, was now old, but he had been a wise

prince and had strengthened his state by good government at home

and numerous alliances with his neighbors. But the principal stay

and support of his throne was his son Hector, one of the noblest

characters painted by heathen antiquity. He felt, from the first,

a presentiment of the fall of his country, but still persevered in

his heroic resistance, yet by no means justified the wrong which

brought this danger upon her. He was united in marriage with

Andromache, and as a husband and father his character was not less

admirable than as a warrior. The principal leaders on the side of

the Trojans, besides Hector, were Aeneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus

and Sarpedon.

After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army assembled

in the port of Aulis in Boeotia. Here Agamemnon in hunting killed

a stag which was sacred to Diana, and the goddess in return

visited the army with pestilence, and produced a calm which

prevented the ships from leaving the port. Calchas, the

soothsayer, thereupon announced that the wrath of the virgin

goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin on her

altar, and that none other but the daughter of the offender would

be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his consent,

and the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the pretence that she

was to be married to Achilles. When she was about to be sacrificed

the goddess relented and snatched her away, leaving a hind in her

place, and Iphigenia, enveloped in a cloud, was carried to Tauris,

where Diana made her priestess of her temple.

Tennyson, in his "Dream of Fair Women," makes Iphigenia thus

describe her feelings at the moment of sacrifice:

"I was cut off from hope in that sad place,

Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;

My father held his hand upon his face;

I, blinded by my tears,

"Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,

As in a dream. Dimly I could descry

The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,

Waiting to see me die.

"The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,

The temples and the people and the shore;

One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat

Slowly,--and--nothing more."

The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the

forces to the coast of Troy. The Trojans came to oppose their

landing, and at the first onset Protesilaus fell by the hand of

Hector. Protesilaus had left at home his wife, Laodamia, who was

most tenderly attached to him. When the news of his death reached

her she implored the gods to be allowed to converse with him only

three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led Protesilaus back

to the upper world, and when he died a second time Laodamia died

with him. There was a story that the nymphs planted elm trees

round his grave which grew very well till they were high enough to

command a view of Troy, and then withered away, while fresh

branches sprang from the roots.

Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia for the

subject of a poem. It seems the oracle had declared that victory

should be the lot of that party from which should fall the first

victim to the war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on his brief

return to earth, as relating to Laodamia the story of his fate:

"'The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved

The oracle, upon the silent sea;

And if no worthier led the way, resolved

That of a thousand vessels mine should be

The foremost prow impressing to the strand,--

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

"'Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang

When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!

On thee too fondly did my memory hang,

And on the joys we shared in mortal life,

The paths which we had trod,--these fountains, flowers;

My new planned cities and unfinished towers.

"'But should suspense permit the foe to cry,

"Behold they tremble! haughty their array,

Yet of their number no one dares to die?"

In soul I swept the indignity away:

Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought

In act embodied my deliverance wrought.'

"... upon the side

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew

From out the tomb of him for whom she died;

And ever when such stature they had gained

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight,

A constant interchange of growth and blight!"

"THE ILIAD"

The war continued without decisive results for nine years. Then an

event occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the cause of the

Greeks, and that was a quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. It

is at this point that the great poem of Homer, "The Iliad,"

begins. The Greeks, though unsuccessful against Troy, had taken

the neighboring and allied cities, and in the division of the

spoil a female captive, by name Chryseis, daughter of Chryses,

priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of Agamemnon. Chryses

came bearing the sacred emblems of his office, and begged the

release of his daughter. Agamemnon refused. Thereupon Chryses

implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks till they should be forced

to yield their prey. Apollo granted the prayer of his priest, and

sent pestilence into the Grecian camp. Then a council was called

to deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the

plague. Achilles boldly charged their misfortunes upon Agamemnon

as caused by his withholding Chryseis. Agamemnon, enraged,

consented to relinquish his captive, but demanded that Achilles

should yield to him in her stead Briseis, a maiden who had fallen

to Achilles' share in the division of the spoil. Achilles

submitted, but forthwith declared that he would take no further

part in the war. He withdrew his forces from the general camp and

openly avowed his intention of returning home to Greece.

The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this

famous war as the parties themselves. It was well known to them

that fate had decreed that Troy should fall, at last, if her

enemies should persevere and not voluntarily abandon the

enterprise. Yet there was room enough left for chance to excite by

turns the hopes and fears of the powers above who took part with

either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence of the slight put

upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans; Venus for

the opposite cause favored them. Venus enlisted her admirer Mars

on the same side, but Neptune favored the Greeks. Apollo was

neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the other, and Jove

himself, though he loved the good King Priam, yet exercised a

degree of impartiality; not, however, without exceptions.

Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury done to

her son. She repaired immediately to Jove's palace and besought

him to make the Greeks repent of their injustice to Achilles by

granting success to the Trojan arms. Jupiter consented, and in the

battle which ensued the Trojans were completely successful. The

Greeks were driven from the field and took refuge in their ships.

Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest chiefs.

Nestor advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles to

persuade him to return to the field; that Agamemnon should yield

the maiden, the cause of the dispute, with ample gifts to atone

for the wrong he had done. Agamemnon consented, and Ulysses, Ajax,

and Phoenix were sent to carry to Achilles the penitent message.

They performed that duty, but Achilles was deaf to their

entreaties. He positively refused to return to the field, and

persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece without delay.

The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and now

instead of besieging Troy they were in a manner besieged

themselves, within their rampart. The next day after the

unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, a battle was fought, and the

Trojans, favored by Jove, were successful, and succeeded in

forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart, and were about to

set fire to the ships. Neptune, seeing the Greeks so pressed, came

to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the prophet,

encouraged the warriors with his shouts, and appealed to each

individually till he raised their ardor to such a pitch that they

forced the Trojans to give way. Ajax performed prodigies of valor,

and at length encountered Hector. Ajax shouted defiance, to which

Hector replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior. It was

well aimed and struck Ajax, where the belts that bore his sword

and shield crossed each other on the breast. The double guard

prevented its penetrating and it fell harmless. Then Ajax, seizing

a huge stone, one of those that served to prop the ships, hurled

it at Hector. It struck him in the neck and stretched him on the

plain. His followers instantly seized him and bore him off,

stunned and wounded.

While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the

Trojans, Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his

attention had been drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno. That

goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and to crown all

had borrowed of Venus her girdle, called "Cestus," which had the

effect to heighten the wearer's charms to such a degree that they

were quite irresistible. So prepared, Juno went to join her

husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle. When he beheld

her she looked so charming that the fondness of his early love

revived, and, forgetting the contending armies and all other

affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle go as

it would.

But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon turning

his eyes downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the plain almost

lifeless from pain and bruises, he dismissed Juno in a rage,

commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him. When Iris came he

sent her with a stern message to Neptune, ordering him instantly

to quit the field. Apollo was despatched to heal Hector's bruises

and to inspirit his heart. These orders were obeyed with such

speed that, while the battle still raged, Hector returned to the

field and Neptune betook himself to his own dominions.

An arrow from Paris's bow wounded Machaon, son of Aesculapius, who

inherited his father's art of healing, and was therefore of great

value to the Greeks as their surgeon, besides being one of their

bravest warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his chariot and conveyed

him from the field. As they passed the ships of Achilles, that

hero, looking out over the field, saw the chariot of Nestor and

recognized the old chief, but could not discern who the wounded

chief was. So calling Patroclus, his companion and dearest friend,

he sent him to Nestor's tent to inquire.

Patroclus, arriving at Nestor's tent, saw Machaon wounded, and

having told the cause of his coming would have hastened away, but

Nestor detained him, to tell him the extent of the Grecian

calamities. He reminded him also how, at the time of departing for

Troy, Achilles and himself had been charged by their respective

fathers with different advice: Achilles to aspire to the highest

pitch of glory, Patroclus, as the elder, to keep watch over his

friend, and to guide his inexperience. "Now," said Nestor, "is the

time for such influence. If the gods so please, thou mayest win

him back to the common cause; but if not let him at least send his

soldiers to the field, and come thou, Patroclus, clad in his

armor, and perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the

Trojans."

Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened back

to Achilles, revolving in his mind all he had seen and heard. He

told the prince the sad condition of affairs at the camp of their

late associates: Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, all

wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships

preparing to burn them, and thus to cut off all means of return to

Greece. While they spoke the flames burst forth from one of the

ships. Achilles, at the sight, relented so far as to grant

Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons (for so were Achilles'

soldiers called) to the field, and to lend him his armor, that he

might thereby strike more terror into the minds of the Trojans.

Without delay the soldiers were marshalled, Patroclus put on the

radiant armor and mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth

the men ardent for battle. But before he went, Achilles strictly

charged him that he should be content with repelling the foe "Seek

not," said he, "to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add

still more to the disgrace already mine." Then exhorting the

troops to do their best he dismissed them full of ardor to the

fight.

Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where

it raged hottest; at the sight of which the joyful Grecians

shouted and the ships reechoed the acclaim. The Trojans, at the

sight of the well-known armor, struck with terror, looked

everywhere for refuge. First those who had got possession of the

ship and set it on fire left and allowed the Grecians to retake it

and extinguish the flames. Then the rest of the Trojans fled in

dismay. Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons of Nestor performed

prodigies of valor. Hector was forced to turn his horses' heads

and retire from the enclosure, leaving his men entangled in the

fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove them before him,

slaying many, none daring to make a stand against him.

At last Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in fight

to Patroclus. Jupiter looked down upon him and would have snatched

him from the fate which awaited him, but Juno hinted that if he

did so it would induce all others of the inhabitants of heaven to

interpose in like manner whenever any of their offspring were

endangered; to which reason Jove yielded. Sarpedon threw his

spear, but missed Patroclus, but Patroclus threw his with better

success. It pierced Sarpedon's breast and he fell, and, calling to

his friends to save his body from the foe, expired. Then a furious

contest arose for the possession of the corpse. The Greeks

succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his armor; but Jove would not

allow the remains of his son to be dishonored, and by his command

Apollo snatched from the midst of the combatants the body of

Sarpedon and committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death

and Sleep, by whom it was transported to Lycia, the native land of

Sarpedon, where it received due funeral rites.

Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in repelling

the Trojans and relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of

fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted him. Patroclus

threw a vast stone at Hector, which missed its aim, but smote

Cebriones, the charioteer, and knocked him from the car. Hector

leaped from the chariot to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also

descended to complete his victory. Thus the two heroes met face to

face. At this decisive moment the poet, as if reluctant to give

Hector the glory, records that Phoebus took part against

Patroclus. He struck the helmet from his head and the lance from

his hand. At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded him in the

back, and Hector, pressing forward, pierced him with his spear. He

fell mortally wounded.

Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus, but

his armor was at once taken possession of by Hector, who retiring

a short distance divested himself of his own armor and put on that

of Achilles, then returned to the fight. Ajax and Menelaus

defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors struggled

to capture it. The battle raged with equal fortunes, when Jove

enveloped the whole face of heaven with a dark cloud. The

lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking round for

some one whom he might despatch to Achilles to tell him of the

death of his friend, and of the imminent danger that his remains

would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no suitable

messenger. It was then that he exclaimed in those famous lines so

often quoted,

"Father of heaven and earth! deliver thou

Achaia's host from darkness; clear the skies;

Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,

Destruction with it; but, O, give us day."

--Cowper.

Or, as rendered by Pope,

"... Lord of earth and air!

O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!

Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;

Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;

If Greece must perish we thy will obey,

But let us perish in the face of day."

Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Then Ajax sent

Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus's death,

and of the conflict raging for his remains. The Greeks at last

succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely pursued by

Hector and Aeneas and the rest of the Trojans.

Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that

Antilochus feared for a while that he would destroy himself. His

groans reached the ears of his mother, Thetis, far down in the

deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to him to inquire

the cause. She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach that he

had indulged his resentment so far, and suffered his friend to

fall a victim to it. But his only consolation was the hope of

revenge. He would fly instantly in search of Hector. But his

mother reminded him that he was now without armor, and promised

him, if he would but wait till the morrow, she would procure for

him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to that he had

lost. He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan's

palace. She found him busy at his forge making tripods for his own

use, so artfully constructed that they moved forward of their own

accord when wanted, and retired again when dismissed. On hearing

the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately laid aside his work and

hastened to comply with her wishes. He fabricated a splendid suit

of armor for Achilles, first a shield adorned with elaborate

devices, then a helmet crested with gold, then a corselet and

greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to his form,

and of consummate workmanship. It was all done in one night, and

Thetis, receiving it, descended with it to earth, and laid it down

at Achilles' feet at the dawn of day.

The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death

of Patroclus was at the sight of this splendid armor. And now,

arrayed in it, he went forth into the camp, calling all the chiefs

to council. When they were all assembled he addressed them.

Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly

lamenting the miseries that had resulted from it, he called on

them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon made a suitable

reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of discord; and

thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the heroes.

Then Achilles went forth to battle inspired with a rage and thirst

for vengeance that made him irresistible. The bravest warriors

fled before him or fell by his lance. Hector, cautioned by Apollo,

kept aloof; but the god, assuming the form of one of Priam's sons,

Lycaon, urged Aeneas to encounter the terrible warrior. Aeneas,

though he felt himself unequal, did not decline the combat. He

hurled his spear with all his force against the shield the work of

Vulcan. It was formed of five metal plates; two were of brass, two

of tin, and one of gold. The spear pierced two thicknesses, but

was stopped in the third. Achilles threw his with better success.

It pierced through the shield of Aeneas, but glanced near his

shoulder and made no wound. Then Aeneas seized a stone, such as

two men of modern times could hardly lift, and was about to throw

it, and Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him,

when Neptune, who looked out upon the contest, moved with pity for

Aeneas, who he saw would surely fall a victim if not speedily

rescued, spread a cloud between the combatants, and lifting Aeneas

from the ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to

the rear of the battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away,

looked round in vain for his adversary, and acknowledging the

prodigy, turned his arms against other champions. But none dared

stand before him, and Priam looking down from the city walls

beheld his whole army in full flight towards the city. He gave

command to open wide the gates to receive the fugitives, and to

shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the

enemy should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit

that that would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the

form of Agenor, Priam's son, encountered Achilles for a while,

then turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city.

Achilles pursued and had chased his supposed victim far from the

walls, when Apollo disclosed himself, and Achilles, perceiving how

he had been deluded, gave up the chase.

But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without

determined to await the combat. His old father called to him from

the walls and begged him to retire nor tempt the encounter. His

mother, Hecuba, also besought him to the same effect, but all in

vain. "How can I," said he to himself, "by whose command the

people went to this day's contest, where so many have fallen, seek

safety for myself against a single foe? But what if I offer him to

yield up Helen and all her treasures and ample of our own beside?

Ah, no! it is too late. He would not even hear me through, but

slay me while I spoke." While he thus ruminated. Achilles

approached, terrible as Mars, his armor flashing lightning as he

moved. At that sight Hector's heart failed him and he fled.

Achilles swiftly pursued. They ran, still keeping near the walls,

till they had thrice encircled the city. As often as Hector

approached the walls Achilles intercepted him and forced him to

keep out in a wider circle. But Apollo sustained Hector's strength

and would not let him sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the

form of Deiphobus, Hector's bravest brother, appeared suddenly at

his side. Hector saw him with delight, and thus strengthened

stopped his flight and turned to meet Achilles. Hector threw his

spear, which struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back. He

turned to receive another from the hand of Deiphobus, but

Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood his doom and said,

"Alas! it is plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at

hand, but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will

not fall inglorious," So saying he drew his falchion from his side

and rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secured behind his shield,

waited the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his

spear, Achilles choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the

armor leaves the neck uncovered, aimed his spear at that part and

Hector fell, death-wounded, and feebly said, "Spare my body! Let

my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites from the

sons and daughters of Troy." To which Achilles replied, "Dog, name

not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have brought such dire

distress. No! trust me, naught shall save thy carcass from the

dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were offered, I

would refuse it all."

So saying he stripped the body of its armor, and fastening cords

to the feet tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body to

trail along the ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed the

steeds and so dragged the body to and fro before the city. What

words can tell the grief of King Priam and Queen Hecuba at this

sight! His people could scarce restrain the old king from rushing

forth. He threw himself in the dust and besought them each by name

to give him way. Hecuba's distress was not less violent. The

citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of the mourning

reached the ears of Andromache, the wife of Hector, as she sat

among her maidens at work, and anticipating evil she went forth to

the wall. When she saw the sight there presented, she would have

thrown herself headlong from the wall, but fainted and fell into

the arms of her maidens. Recovering, she bewailed her fate,

picturing to herself her country ruined, herself a captive, and

her son dependent for his bread on the charity of strangers.

When Achilles and the Greeks had taken their revenge on the killer

of Patroclus they busied themselves in paying due funeral rites to

their friend. A pile was erected, and the body burned with due

solemnity; and then ensued games of strength and skill, chariot

races, wrestling, boxing, and archery. Then the chiefs sat down to

the funeral banquet and after that retired to rest. But Achilles

neither partook of the feast nor of sleep. The recollection of his

lost friend kept him awake, remembering their companionship in

toil and dangers, in battle or on the perilous deep. Before the

earliest dawn he left his tent, and joining to his chariot his

swift steeds, he fastened Hector's body to be dragged behind.

Twice he dragged him around the tomb of Patroclus, leaving him at

length stretched in the dust. But Apollo would not permit the body

to be torn or disfigured with all this abuse, but preserved it

free from all taint or defilement.

While Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing brave Hector,

Jupiter in pity summoned Thetis to his presence. He told her to go

to her son and prevail on him to restore the body of Hector to his

friends. Then Jupiter sent Iris to King Priam to encourage him to

go to Achilles and beg the body of his son. Iris delivered her

message, and Priam immediately prepared to obey. He opened his

treasuries and took out rich garments and cloths, with ten talents

in gold and two splendid tripods and a golden cup of matchless

workmanship. Then he called to his sons and bade them draw forth

his litter and place in it the various articles designed for a

ransom to Achilles. When all was ready, the old king with a single

companion as aged as himself, the herald Idaeus, drove forth from

the gates, parting there with Hecuba, his queen, and all his

friends, who lamented him as going to certain death.

But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king, sent

Mercury to be his guide and protector. Mercury, assuming the form

of a young warrior, presented himself to the aged couple, and

while at the sight of him they hesitated whether to fly or yield,

the god approached, and grasping Priam's hand offered to be their

guide to Achilles' tent. Priam gladly accepted his offered

service, and he, mounting the carriage, assumed the reins and soon

conveyed them to the tent of Achilles. Mercury's wand put to sleep

all the guards, and without hinderance he introduced Priam into

the tent where Achilles sat, attended by two of his warriors. The

old king threw himself at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those

terrible hands which had destroyed so many of his sons. "Think, O

Achilles," he said, "of thy own father, full of days like me, and

trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Perhaps even now some

neighbor chief oppresses him and there is none at hand to succor

him in his distress. Yet doubtless knowing that Achilles lives he

still rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy face again.

But no comfort cheers me, whose bravest sons, so late the flower

of Ilium, all have fallen. Yet one I had, one more than all the

rest the strength of my age, whom, fighting for his country, thou

hast slain. I come to redeem his body, bringing inestimable ransom

with me. Achilles! reverence the gods! recollect thy father! for

his sake show compassion to me!" These words moved Achilles, and

he wept; remembering by turns his absent father and his lost

friend. Moved with pity of Priam's silver locks and beard, he

raised him from the earth, and thus spake: "Priam, I know that

thou hast reached this place conducted by some god, for without

aid divine no mortal even in his prime of youth had dared the

attempt. I grant thy request, moved thereto by the evident will of

Jove." So saying he arose, and went forth with his two friends,

and unloaded of its charge the litter, leaving two mantles and a

robe for the covering of the body, which they placed on the

litter, and spread the garments over it, that not unveiled it

should be borne back to Troy. Then Achilles dismissed the old king

with his attendants, having first pledged himself to allow a truce

of twelve days for the funeral solemnities.

As the litter approached the city and was descried from the walls,

the people poured forth to gaze once more on the face of their

hero. Foremost of all, the mother and the wife of Hector came, and

at the sight of the lifeless body renewed their lamentations. The

people all wept with them, and to the going down of the sun there

was no pause or abatement of their grief.

The next day preparations were made for the funeral solemnities.

For nine days the people brought wood and built the pile, and on

the tenth they placed the body on the summit and applied the

torch; while all Troy thronging forth encompassed the pile. When

it had completely burned, they quenched the cinders with wine,

collected the bones and placed them in a golden urn, which they

buried in the earth, and reared a pile of stones over the spot.

"Such honors Ilium to her hero paid,

And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade."

--Pope.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FALL OF TROY--RETURN OF THE GREEKS--ORESTES AND ELECTRA

THE FALL OF TROY

The story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector, and it is

from the Odyssey and later poems that we learn the fate of the

other heroes. After the death of Hector, Troy did not immediately

fall, but receiving aid from new allies still continued its

resistance. One of these allies was Memnon, the Aethiopian prince,

whose story we have already told. Another was Penthesilea, queen

of the Amazons, who came with a band of female warriors. All the

authorities attest their valor and the fearful effect of their war

cry. Penthesilea slew many of the bravest warriors, but was at

last slain by Achilles. But when the hero bent over his fallen

foe, and contemplated her beauty, youth, and valor, he bitterly

regretted his victory. Thersites, an insolent brawler and

demagogue, ridiculed his grief, and was in consequence slain by

the hero.

Achilles by chance had seen Polyxena, daughter of King Priam,

perhaps on the occasion of the truce which was allowed the Trojans

for the burial of Hector. He was captivated with her charms, and

to win her in marriage agreed to use his influence with the Greeks

to grant peace to Troy. While in the temple of Apollo, negotiating

the marriage, Paris discharged at him a poisoned arrow, which,

guided by Apollo, wounded Achilles in the heel, the only

vulnerable part about him. For Thetis his mother had dipped him

when an infant in the river Styx, which made every part of him

invulnerable except the heel by which she held him. [Footnote 1:

The story of the invulnerability of Achilles is not found in

Homer, and is inconsistent with his account. For how could

Achilles require the aid of celestial armor if be were

invulnerable?]

The body of Achilles so treacherously slain was rescued by Ajax

and Ulysses. Thetis directed the Greeks to bestow her son's armor

on the hero who of all the survivors should be judged most

deserving of it. Ajax and Ulysses were the only claimants; a

select number of the other chiefs were appointed to award the

prize. It was awarded to Ulysses, thus placing wisdom before

valor; whereupon Ajax slew himself. On the spot where his blood

sank into the earth a flower sprang up, called the hyacinth,

bearing on its leaves the first two letters of the name of Ajax,

Ai, the Greek for "woe." Thus Ajax is a claimant with the boy

Hyacinthus for the honor of giving birth to this flower. There is

a species of Larkspur which represents the hyacinth of the poets

in preserving the memory of this event, the Delphinium Ajacis--

Ajax's Larkspur.

It was now discovered that Troy could not be taken but by the aid

of the arrows of Hercules. They were in possession of Philoctetes,

the friend who had been with Hercules at the last and lighted his

funeral pyre. Philoctetes had joined the Grecian expedition

against Troy, but had accidentally wounded his foot with one of

the poisoned arrows, and the smell from his wound proved so

offensive that his companions carried him to the isle of Lemnos

and left him there. Diomed was now sent to induce him to rejoin

the army. He sukcceeded. Philoctetes was cured of his wound by

Machaon, and Paris was the first victim of the fatal arrows. In

his distress Paris bethought him of one whom in his prosperity he

had forgotten. This was the nymph OEnone, whom he had married when

a youth, and had abandoned for the fatal beauty Helen. OEnone,

remembering the wrongs she had suffered, refused to heal the

wound, and Paris went back to Troy and died. OEnone quickly

repented, and hastened after him with remedies, but came too late,

and in her grief hung herself. [Footnote 1: Tennyson has chosen

OEnone as the subject of a short poem; but he has omitted the most

poetical part of the story, the return of Paris wounded, her

cruelty and subsequent repentance.]

There was in Troy a celebrated statue of Minerva called the

Palladium. It was said to have fallen from heaven, and the belief

was that the city could not be taken so long as this statue

remained within it. Ulysses and Diomed entered the city in

disguise and succeeded in obtaining the Palladium, which they

carried off to the Grecian camp.

But Troy still held out, and the Greeks began to despair of ever

subduing it by force, and by advice of Ulysses resolved to resort

to stratagem. They pretended to be making preparations to abandon

the siege, and a portion of the ships were withdrawn and lay hid

behind a neighboring island. The Greeks then constructed an

immense WOODEN HORSE, which they gave out was intended as a

propitiatory offering to Minerva, but in fact was filled with

armed men. The remaining Greeks then betook themselves to their

ships and sailed away, as if for a final departure. The Trojans,

seeing the encampment broken up and the fleet gone, concluded the

enemy to have abandoned the siege. The gates were thrown open, and

the whole population issued forth rejoicing at the long-prohibited

liberty of passing freely over the scene of the late encampment.

The great HORSE was the chief object of curiosity. All wondered

what it could be for. Some recommended to take it into the city as

a trophy; others felt afraid of it.

While they hesitate, Laocoon, the priest of Neptune exclaims,

"What madness, citizens, is this? Have you not learned enough of

Grecian fraud to be on your guard against it? For my part, I fear

the Greeks even when they offer gifts." [Footnote: See Proverbial

Expressions.] So saying he threw his lance at the horse's side. It

struck, and a hollow sound reverberated like a groan. Then perhaps

the people might have taken his advice and destroyed the fatal

horse and all its contents; but just at that moment a group of

people appeared, dragging forward one who seemed a prisoner and a

Greek. Stupefied with terror, he was brought before the chiefs,

who reassured him, promising that his life should be spared on

condition of his returning true answers to the questions asked

him. He informed them that he was a Greek, Sinon by name, and that

in consequence of the malice of Ulysses he had been left behind by

his countrymen at their departure. With regard to the wooden

horse, he told them that it was a propitiatory offering to

Minerva, and made so huge for the express purpose of preventing

its being carried within the city; for Calchas the prophet had

told them that if the Trojans took possession of it they would

assuredly triumph over the Greeks. This language turned the tide

of the people's feelings and they began to think how they might

best secure the monstrous horse and the favorable auguries

connected with it, when suddenly a prodigy occurred which left no

room to doubt. There appeared, advancing over the sea, two immense

serpents. They came upon the land, and the crowd fled in all

directions. The serpents advanced directly to the spot where

Laocoon stood with his two sons. They first attacked the children,

winding round their bodies and breathing their pestilential breath

in their faces. The father, attempting to rescue them, is next

seized and involved in the serpents' coils. He struggles to tear

them away, but they overpower all his efforts and strangle him and

the children in their poisonous folds. This event was regarded as

a clear indication of the displeasure of the gods at Laocoon's

irreverent treatment of the wooden horse, which they no longer

hesitated to regard as a sacred object, and prepared to introduce

with due solemnity into the city. This was done with songs and

triumphal acclamations, and the day closed with festivity. In the

night the armed men who were enclosed in the body of the horse,

being let out by the traitor Sinon, opened the gates of the city

to their friends, who had returned under cover of the night. The

city was set on fire; the people, overcome with feasting and

sleep, put to the sword, and Troy completely subdued.

One of the most celebrated groups of statuary in existence is that

of Laocoon and his children in the embrace of the serpents. A cast

of it is owned by the Boston Athenaeum; the original is in the

Vatican at Rome. The following lines are from the "Childe Harold"

of Byron:

"Now turning to the Vatican go see

Laocoon's torture dignifying pain;

A father's love and mortal's agony

With an immortal's patience blending;--vain

The struggle! vain against the coiling strain

And gripe and deepening of the dragon's grasp

The old man's clinch; the long envenomed chain

Rivets the living links; the enormous asp

Enforces pang on pang and stifles gasp on gasp."

The comic poets will also occasionally borrow a classical

allusion. The following is from Swift's "Description of a City

Shower":

"Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,

While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,

And ever and anon with frightful din

The leather sounds; he trembles from within.

So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed

Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,

(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,

Instead of paying chairmen, run them through);

Laocoon struck the outside with a spear,

And each imprisoned champion quaked with fear."

King Priam lived to see the downfall of his kingdom and was slain

at last on the fatal night when the Greeks took the city. He had

armed himself and was about to mingle with the combatants, but was

prevailed on by Hecuba, his aged queen, to take refuge with

herself and his daughters as a suppliant at the altar of Jupiter.

While there, his youngest son Polites, pursued by Pyrrhus, the son

of Achilles, rushed in wounded, and expired at the feet of his

father; whereupon Priam, overcome with indignation, hurled his

spear with feeble hand against Pyrrhus, [Footnote 1: Pyrrhus's

exclamation, "Not such aid nor such defenders does the time

require," has become proverbial. See Proverbial Expressions.] and

was forthwith slain by him.

Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to

Greece. Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, and he gave her the

gift of prophecy; but afterwards offended with her, he rendered

the gift unavailing by ordaining that her predictions should never

be believed. Polyxena, another daughter, who had been loved by

Achilles, was demanded by the ghost of that warrior, and was

sacrificed by the Greeks upon his tomb.

MENELAUS AND HELEN

Our readers will be anxious to know the fate of Helen, the fair

but guilty occasion of so much slaughter. On the fall of Troy

Menelaus recovered possession of his wife, who had not ceased to

love him, though she had yielded to the might of Venus and

deserted him for another. After the death of Paris she aided the

Greeks secretly on several occasions, and in particular when

Ulysses and Diomed entered the city in disguise to carry off the

Palladium. She saw and recognized Ulysses, but kept the secret and

even assisted them in obtaining the image. Thus she became

reconciled to her husband, and they were among the first to leave

the shores of Troy for their native land. But having incurred the

displeasure of the gods they were driven by storms from shore to

shore of the Mediterranean, visiting Cyprus, Phoenicia, and Egypt.

In Egypt they were kindly treated and presented with rich gifts,

of which Helen's share was a golden spindle and a basket on

wheels. The basket was to hold the wool and spools for the queen's

work.

Dyer, in his poem of the "Fleece," thus alludes to this incident:

"... many yet adhere

To the ancient distaff, at the bosom fixed,

Casting the whirling spindle as they walk.

This was of old, in no inglorious days,

The mode of spinning, when the Egyptian prince

A golden distaff gave that beauteous nymph,

Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly gift."

Milton also alludes to a famous recipe for an invigorating

draught, called Nepenthe, which the Egyptian queen gave to Helen:

"Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone

In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena,

Is of such power to stir up joy as this,

To life so friendly or so cool to thirst."

--Comus.

Menelaus and Helen at length arrived in safety at Sparta, resumed

their royal dignity, and lived and reigned in splendor; and when

Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, in search of his father, arrived

at Sparta, he found Menelaus and Helen celebrating the marriage of

their daughter Hermione to Neoptolemus, son of Achilles.

AGAMEMNON, ORESTES, AND ELECTRA

Agamemnon, the general-in-chief of the Greeks, the brother of

Menelaus, and who had been drawn into the quarrel to avenge his

brother's wrongs, not his own, was not so fortunate in the issue.

During his absence his wife Clytemnestra had been false to him,

and when his return was expected, she with her paramour,

Aegisthus, laid a plan for his destruction, and at the banquet

given to celebrate his return, murdered him.

It was intended by the conspirators to slay his son Orestes also,

a lad not yet old enough to be an object of apprehension, but from

whom, if he should be suffered to grow up, there might be danger.

Electra, the sister of Orestes, saved her brother's life by

sending him secretly away to his uncle Strophius, King of Phocis.

In the palace of Strophius Orestes grew up with the king's son

Pylades, and formed with him that ardent friendship which has

become proverbial. Electra frequently reminded her brother by

messengers of the duty of avenging his father's death, and when

grown up he consulted the oracle of Delphi, which confirmed him in

his design. He therefore repaired in disguise to Argos, pretending

to be a messenger from Strophius, who had come to announce the

death of Orestes, and brought the ashes of the deceased in a

funeral urn. After visiting his father's tomb and sacrificing upon

it, according to the rites of the ancients, he made himself known

to his sister Electra, and soon after slew both Aegisthus and

Clytemnestra.

This revolting act, the slaughter of a mother by her son, though

alleviated by the guilt of the victim and the express command of

the gods, did not fail to awaken in the breasts of the ancients

the same abhorrence that it does in ours. The Eumenides, avenging

deities, seized upon Orestes, and drove him frantic from land to

land. Pylades accompanied him in his wanderings and watched over

him. At length, in answer to a second appeal to the oracle, he was

directed to go to Tauris in Scythia, and to bring thence a statue

of Diana which was believed to have fallen from heaven.

Accordingly Orestes and Pylades went to Tauris, where the

barbarous people were accustomed to sacrifice to the goddess all

strangers who fell into their hands. The two friends were seized

and carried bound to the temple to be made victims. But the

priestess of Diana was no other than Iphigenia, the sister of

Orestes, who, our readers will remember, was snatched away by

Diana at the moment when she was about to be sacrificed.

Ascertaining from the prisoners who they were, Iphigenia disclosed

herself to them, and the three made their escape with the statue

of the goddess, and returned to Mycenae.

But Orestes was not yet relieved from the vengeance of the

Erinyes. At length he took refuge with Minerva at Athens. The

goddess afforded him protection, and appointed the court of

Areopagus to decide his fate. The Erinyes brought forward their

accusation, and Orestes made the command of the Delphic oracle his

excuse. When the court voted and the voices were equally divided,

Orestes was acquitted by the command of Minerva.

Byron, in "Childe Harold," Canto IV., alludes to the story of

Orestes:

"O thou who never yet of human wrong

Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!

Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss,

And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss,

For that unnatural retribution,--just,

Had it but been from hands less near,--in this,

Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!"

One of the most pathetic scenes in the ancient drama is that in

which Sophocles represents the meeting of Orestes and Electra, on

his return from Phocis. Orestes, mistaking Electra for one of the

domestics, and desirous of keeping his arrival a secret till the

hour of vengeance should arrive, produces the urn in which his

ashes are supposed to rest. Electra, believing him to be really

dead, takes the urn and, embracing it, pours forth her grief in

language full of tenderness and despair.

Milton, in one of his sonnets, says:

"... The repeated air

Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare."

This alludes to the story that when, on one occasion, the city of

Athens was at the mercy of her Spartan foes, and it was proposed

to destroy it, the thought was rejected upon the accidental

quotation, by some one, of a chorus of Euripides.

TROY

The facts relating to the city of Troy are still unknown to

history. Antiquarians have long sought for the actual city and

some record of its rulers. The most interesting explorations were

those conducted about 1890 by the German scholar, Henry

Schliemann, who believed that at the mound of Hissarlik, the

traditional site of Troy, he had uncovered the ancient capital.

Schliemann excavated down below the ruins of three or four

settlements, each revealing an earlier civilization, and finally

came upon some royal jewels and other relics said to be "Priam's

Treasure." Scholars are by no means agreed as to the historic

value of these discoveries.

CHAPTER XXIX

ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES--THE LOTUS-EATERS--CYCLOPES--CIRCE--SIRENS

--SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS--CALYPSO