The Children's Hour, Volume 3 (of 10)
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Title: The Children's Hour, Volume 3 (of 10)
Editor: Eva March Tappan
Release date: January 21, 2005 [eBook #14752]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
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THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
In Ten Volumes
Illustrated
VOLUME III
STORIES FROM THE CLASSICS
Selected & Arranged by
EVA MARCH TAPPAN
Houghton Mifflin Company
1907
[Illustration: "_It is strange that they let that dog lie there_"]
Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower
comes a pause in the days occupations, that is known as the Children's
Hour.
NOTE
All rights in stories in this volume are reserved by the holders of the
copyrights. The publishers and others named in the subjoined list are the
proprietors, either in their own right or as agents for the authors, of
the stories taken from the works enumerated, of which the ownership is
hereby acknowledged. The editor takes this opportunity to thank both
authors and publishers for the ready generosity with which they have
allowed her to include these stories in "The Children's Hour."
"The Wonder-Book," and "Tanglewood Tales," by Nathaniel Hawthorne;
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
"Old Greek Folk Stories," by Josephine Preston Peabody; published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
"The Odyssey of Homer," English prose version by George Herbert Palmer;
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
CONTENTS
TO THE CHILDREN
STORIES FROM HERODOTUS
LADRONIUS, THE PRINCE OF THIEVES
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
ARION AND THE DOLPHIN
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
STORIES FROM LIVY
ROMULUS, FOUNDER OF ROME Alfred J. Church
HOW HORATIUS HELD THE BRIDGE Alfred J. Church
HOW CINCINNATUS SAVED ROME Alfred J. Church
THE STORY OF VIRGINIA Alfred J. Church
THE SACRIFICE OF MARCUS CURTIUS Alfred J. Church
STORIES FROM OVID
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE GOLDEN TOUCH Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS Nathaniel Hawthorne
OLD GREEK FOLK-STORIES
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE Josephine Preston Peabody
ICARUS AND DÆDALUS Josephine Preston Peabody
PHAETHON Josephine Preston Peabody
NIOBE Josephine Preston Peabody
PYRAMUS AND THISBE Josephine Preston Peabody
STORIES OF THE TROJAN WAR
THE APPLE OF DISCORD Josephine Preston Peabody
THE QUARREL BETWEEN AGAMEMNON AND ACHILLES Alfred J. Church
THE FIGHT BETWEEN PARIS AND MENELAUS Walter C. Perry
THE DUEL BETWEEN HECTOR AND AJAX Walter C. Perry
THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS AND THE BATTLE OF THE RIVER
Alfred J. Church
VULCAN MAKES ARMOR FOR ACHILLES Walter C. Perry
THE SLAYING OF HECTOR Walter C. Perry
THE FUNERAL GAMES IN HONOR OF PATROCLUS Walter C. Perry
THE WOODEN HORSE AND THE FALL OF TROY Josephine Preston Peabody
THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES
AN ADVENTURE WITH THE CYCLOPS Alfred J. Church
CIRCE'S PALACE Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE SIRENS--SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS
Translated by George Herbert Palmer
ULYSSES IN ITHACA
ULYSSES LANDS ON THE SHORE OF ITHACA
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
ULYSSES AT THE HOUSE OF THE SWINEHERD
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
THE VENGEANCE OF ULYSSES
A. HIS RECEPTION AT THE PALACE
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
B. THE TRIAL OF THE BOW
Translated by George Herbert Palmer
C. THE SLAYING OF THE SUITORS
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
D. PENELOPE RECOGNIZES ULYSSES
Translated by George Herbert Palmer
THE WANDERINGS OF THE TROJAN ÆNEAS
THE FLIGHT OF ÆNEAS FROM THE RUINS OF TROY Alfred J. Church
ÆNEAS'S ADVENTURE WITH THE HARPIES Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS IN THE LAND OF THE CYCLOPS Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS AND QUEEN DIDO Alfred J. Church
THE FUNERAL GAMES OF ANCHISES Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS'S VISIT TO THE LOWER WORLD Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS'S FIRST GREAT BATTLE WITH THE LATINS Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS FINALLY CONQUERS THE LATINS Alfred J. Church
ILLUSTRATIONS
"IT IS STRANGE THAT THEY LET THAT DOG LIE THERE"
L.F. Schutzenberger
"I AM AFRAID THERE WILL NOT BE HALF ENOUGH SUPPER" Walter Crane
THEY LEAPED OUT OF THE BOTTOMLESS HOLE George Wharton Edwards
TO HIM AT LAST THE THREE GODDESSES INTRUSTED THE JUDGMENT
AND THE GOLDEN APPLE Giulio Romano
FIERCE WAS THE FIGHT ABOUT THE BODY OF PATROCLUS Giulio Romano
A GREAT IMAGE OF A HORSE Franz Cleyn
THE CYCLOPS IN HIS WRATH BRAKE OFF THE TOP OF A GREAT HILL
L.F. Schutzenberger
"DEAR SON, HAVE YOU COME HOME AT LAST?" G. Truffault
THE FLIGHT FROM TROY Franz Cleyn
THE VICTORY OF EURYALUS Franz Cleyn
TO THE CHILDREN
The greater part of this book is made up of stories from the poems of
Homer and Virgil. Homer is thought to have lived in Greece about three
thousand years ago, and yet his poems never seem old-fashioned and people
do not tire of reading them. Boys and girls almost always like them,
because they are so full of stories. If you want to read about giants or
mermaids or shipwrecks or athletic contests or enchanters or furious
battles or the capture of cities or voyages to strange countries, all you
have to do is to open the Iliad and the Odyssey, and you will find stories
on all of these subjects. Homer can describe a foot-race or the throwing
of a discus so that you hold your breath to see who will win; and he can
picture a battle so vividly that you almost try to dodge the arrows and
spears. He can make the tears come into your eyes by telling you of the
grief of the warrior's wife when he leaves her and their baby son to go to
battle; and he can almost make you shout, "Hurrah for the brave champion!"
when he tells you what wonderful deeds of prowess have been done. He can
describe a shield so minutely that you could make one like it; and he can
paint a scene of feasting so perfectly that you feel as if you had been in
the very room.
How is it that Homer makes his stories seem so real? There are several
reasons, but one of the strongest is because he tells the little things
that writers often forget to put in. When he describes the welcome given
to two strangers at the house of the lost Ulysses, by Telemachus, son of
the wanderer, he begins, "When they were come within the lofty hall, he
carried the spear to a tall pillar and set it in a well-worn rack." That
one word, "well-worn," gives us the feeling that Homer is not making up a
story, but that he has really seen the rack and noticed how it looked. The
same sentence shows why it is that people do not tire of reading Homer. It
ends, "where also stood many a spear of hardy Ulysses." This reminds the
reader that in spite of the hero's long years of absence, no one has been
allowed to remove his weapons from their old place. From this one phrase,
then, we can realize how much his wife and son love him, and how they have
mourned for him. Telemachus welcomes the strangers, but we can feel how
eager he is for them to be made comfortable as soon as possible so he can
talk of his father and learn whether they have chanced to meet him in
their wanderings. Homer's poems are full of such sentences as these; and,
no matter how many times one reads them, some thought, unnoticed before,
is ever coming to light. That is why they are always fresh and new and
interesting.
There is a tradition that Homer was blind, and that he wandered about from
one place to another, singing or reciting his poems; but this is only
tradition, and there is little hope that we shall ever be able to find out
whether it is true or not.
Homer's great poem, the Iliad, is the account of the Trojan War. His
Odyssey relates the adventures of the hero Ulysses, or Odysseus, as the
Greeks called him, in many years of wandering at the close of the war
before his enemies among the Gods would permit him to return to his home.
There were Trojan heroes, however, as well as Greek, and Æneas was one of
them. Virgil, the Latin poet, has told in the Æneid the story of his
troubles and adventures. Æneas, too, was driven over the waters, for the
Gods had told him it was the will of Jupiter, or Zeus, as it is in Greek,
for him to seek Italy and there found a city. Part of his journey is the
same as that of Ulysses. He, too, stops at the country of the one-eyed
giants and has to row as fast as he can to escape the rocks that they
throw at his vessel. He, too, hears the thunders of Mount Ætna and sees
the flashing of the fires of the volcano. His sailors point to it in fear
and whisper to one another, "That is the giant Enceladus. He rebelled
against the Gods and they piled the mountain on top of him. The fires of
Jupiter burn him, and he breathes out glowing flames. When he tosses from
one side to the other, the whole island of Sicily is shaken with a mighty
earthquake."
Virgil was no homeless singer; he was one of the great literary men of
Rome, and he read his poems aloud to the Emperor Augustus. He had a
handsome villa and a troop of friends. He enjoyed everything that was
beautiful and seemed as happy when a friend had written a good poem as if
he had composed it himself. He was never satisfied with his verse till he
had made every line as perfect as possible. When he was ill and knew that
he could not recover, he made a will, and in it he ordered the Æneid to be
burned, because it was not so polished as he wished. "I meant to spend
three years more on it," he said. Fortunately for all the people who enjoy
a great poem, the Emperor forbade that this part of the will should be
carried out. He gave the manuscript to three friends of Virgil, all of
them poets, with orders to strike out every phrase that they believed
Virgil would have struck out on revision, but not to add one word. This is
the way that the Æneid was saved for us. If it had been destroyed, we
should have lost the work of one of the best storytellers that have ever
lived.
Livy, too, was a friend of the Emperor Augustus, He lived in Rome,
enjoying his companions, the libraries of the city, and, most of all, his
independence. Even Virgil was ready to insert a few lines here and there
in a poem to gratify his friends, or to choose a subject that he knew
would please the Emperor; but Livy wrote on the subject that pleased him
and treated it just as he believed to be best. His great work was his
history, and this he begins with a little preface, as independent as it is
graceful. "Whether I shall gain any share of glory," he says, "by writing
a history of the Roman people, I do not know. The work, however, will be a
pleasure to me; and even if any fame that might otherwise be mine should
be hidden by the success of other writers, I shall console myself by
thinking of their excellence and greatness." No such thing happened,
however, for the kindly historian was so praised and his work so fully
appreciated that he said he had all the fame he could wish.
Herodotus was a Greek who liked to travel. The world was very small in his
day, for little of it was known except some of the lands bordering on the
Mediterranean. To visit Tyre, Babylon, Egypt, Palestine, and the islands
of the eastern Mediterranean, as he did, made a man a great traveler five
centuries before Christ. Herodotus enjoyed all these wanderings, but they
also "meant business" to him. Whenever he came to a place of historical
interest, he stayed awhile. He explored the country thereabouts, he
measured the important buildings, he talked with the people who knew most
about the place. Then, when he came to write of its history, he did not
write like a man who had read an article or two in an encyclopædia and was
trying to recite what he had learned, but like one who knew the place
which he was describing and liked to talk about it, and about what had
happened there. It is no wonder that his history has always been a
favorite; and to be a favorite author for twenty centuries is no small
glory.
Ovid was a Latin poet who knew how to tell a story. He could not only
invent a tale, but he could tell it so well that the reader feels as if it
must be true. His most interesting stories, however, he did not invent,
for they are a rewriting of the old mythological tales. In one respect he
is like Homer; he never forgets the little things, and he tells so many
details that we can hardly believe he is imagining them. In his story of
Baucis and Philemon, for instance, Ovid does not forget to say that the
cottage door was so low that the two gods had to stoop to pass through it;
that Baucis hurried to brighten the fire with dry leaves and bits of bark;
that one leg of the table was too short and had to be propped up with a
piece of tile. He tells us that the kindhearted couple tried to catch
their one goose so as to cook it for the supper of their guests; but that
they were so old, and the goose so nimble of wing, that he escaped them
and flew to the Gods for refuge. We are so accustomed to think of Latin as
a grave, dignified language that almost every line of Ovid's
"Metamorphoses" is a pleasant surprise. The stories that he tells, "The
Miraculous Pitcher", "The Golden Touch", "The Pomegranate Seeds", and
others, retold by Hawthorne, are favorites among the boys and girls of
to-day, and they must have been liked just as well by the Roman children.
In Rome the children read the great poets in school, and I fancy that they
were always glad when the hour came to read the "Metamorphoses."
STORIES FROM HERODOTUS
LADRONIUS, THE PRINCE OF THIEVES
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
Many hundreds of years ago, not long after the Greeks returned from the
famous siege of Troy, there lived a king of Egypt, whose name was
Rhampsinitus. So great a king was he, that he kept a small army constantly
employed in supplying the royal household with food, and another small
army was required to keep the gardens of the palace in order. And had any
one been bold enough to doubt the greatness of the king, he need only have
looked at his magnificent dress to set all doubts at rest forever. Upon
the neck of the king was a heavy necklace, glittering with priceless
jewels, and on his arms were massive bracelets of pure gold. A golden
serpent, the symbol of royalty, gleamed from his forehead, and his golden
breastplate showed the sacred beetle worked in precious stones, to protect
him from evil spirits. Whenever he appeared in the streets of his capital,
he was borne in the royal chair on the shoulders of eight of his
courtiers, while on each side walked a great noble carrying a fan, shaped
like a palm leaf, with a long, straight stem. In front marched the
bodyguard of Sardinians, men with fair skins and blue eyes, who looked
very much out of place among the swarthy Egyptians; and last of all came
the grim, black guards from Ethiopia, with their sabres flashing in the
sun. And all the people fell on their faces and kissed the dust before
their royal master. Moreover, King Rhampsinitus erected several enormous
statues of himself, as well as many fine palaces and a beautiful temple,
bearing inscriptions which related all his great and glorious deeds, so
that the people who lived after him might know how great a king he had
been.
But, in spite of all his greatness, there was one thing that prevented
King Rhampsinitus from being a happy man. He had so many treasures--masses
of silver, nuggets of gold, and bags of gold-dust, jewelry, precious
stones, and carvings in ivory--that he lived in constant fear of being
robbed. He had all his treasures packed in large jars and strong chests,
which were securely fastened, sealed up, and stowed away in a strong room
of the palace; but even then he did not feel comfortable, for might not
the palace be broken into by a clever thief and part of his treasure
stolen, while he slept? Besides, there was so much treasure packed away
already, that it was difficult to find a safe place for any more. His
anxiety made the king so unhappy, and caused him so many sleepless nights,
that he determined at last to build a large chamber of stone, with walls
too thick for any thief to break through. He sent for his chief architect,
who collected a great multitude of workmen and set to work building the
chamber without delay. Whole villages were compelled to join in the work;
even the old men and children were employed in carrying away rubbish,
bringing water and clay, and doing other work that was not too hard for
them. The stronger and more skillful workmen hewed great blocks of
granite, which were dragged to the place on wooden sledges; and, as they
had no cranes to lift the stones into their places on the walls, they were
obliged to build mounds of sand and rough bricks, and roll up each stone
gradually with wooden levers, until they got it into its proper place. It
was terribly hard work, but there were so many workmen, and the foremen
used their whips so unmercifully, that the walls rose very rapidly.
Now the architect was a cunning man, and guessed what the chamber was
intended to hold. He therefore fitted one stone in such a way that it
would slide down and leave a hole just large enough for a man to crawl
through; and yet, when you looked at the wall, there was no sign at all by
which the secret could be discovered. Nor did the architect think it
necessary to mention the secret opening to his majesty, when he showed the
chamber to him and told him that it was as strong as he could make it.
Rhampsinitus lost no time in moving his treasures into the new
treasure-chamber. The key he kept with him night and day, so that at last
he could sleep peacefully, knowing that any one who wished to pass the
solid, brass-bound door, must first prevail upon him to unlock it.
For some time all went well. The king went to the treasury every morning,
and found everything in its place. Evidently he had been too clever for
the thieves.
In the mean time the architect was lying ill in bed, and day by day he
grew weaker and weaker; until at length he knew that his end was
approaching, and, calling his two sons to his bedside, he told them of the
secret way into the treasure-chamber.
"I have little of my own to leave you, my sons," he said, "and I have but
little influence at court; but by the aid of this secret, which I devised
for your sake, you may become rich men, and hold the office of king's
treasurers for life."
The young men were delighted at his words, and so impatient were they to
enjoy their good fortune, that on the very night of their father's funeral
they stole away quietly to the place where the treasure-house stood. They
found the sliding stone exactly as their father had described it. The
younger and slimmer of the two brothers crawled through the opening and
found himself in a dark chamber, surrounded by heavy chests and jars with
sealed covers. Breaking open one of the latter, he put in his hand and
drew out a handful of gold, which sparkled and twinkled at him even in the
faint light which came through the hole in the wall. Handful after handful
he drew out and passed to his brother, at the same time filling the bags
he had brought with him, until both had as much as they could conveniently
carry. Then they replaced the stone, and returned to lay the treasure
before their mother; for in those days stealing was considered rather a
clever trick, and even the thief's mother did not scold him, so long as he
was not so clumsy as to be caught.
Imagine the consternation of King Rhampsinitus when he visited the chamber
the following morning! Everything seemed as secure as ever, and yet, when
he opened the door, there lay one of the great jars turned over and empty,
while the lid of one of the chests was broken open and part of the
contents scattered on the floor. He examined every nook and cranny of the
chamber from floor to ceiling, and there was no sign of any one's having
forced an entrance. The fastenings of the door were firm, and the lock was
one which it was perfectly impossible to pick. For greater security,
however, Rhampsinitus sent at once for a locksmith, and commanded him to
fit the door with a second lock, the key of which he kept with the other.
Notwithstanding this precaution, the treasure-chamber was robbed again on
the next night, and this time the thieves had broken open a great many of
the chests, and carried away some of the most valuable jewels. On the
following night a sentinel was posted, and still the treasury was robbed.
The sentinel vowed that he had stood with his back to the door all night,
and there is little doubt that he spoke the truth, though the poor fellow
was accused of sleeping at his post, and punished for his negligence.
Then the king took counsel of the fan-bearer on the right hand, who was
also prime minister. He made a long speech, beginning with his regret that
his majesty had not thought fit to consult him earlier, and concluding
with a learned discourse on the habits of rats.
"This is all very interesting," said Rhampsinitus, "but I do not see that
it helps very much to protect my treasure."
"I crave your majesty's pardon," the prime minister answered. "I was about
to observe that the best way to catch a rat is first to study the habits
and tastes of the rat, and next to apply the knowledge so gained in
setting a trap."
From which one may see that the prime minister was a very learned man, and
could not be expected to come to the point all at once. The king thanked
him for his valuable advice, and procured two or three powerful man-traps,
which he placed within his treasure-chamber.
Night came on, and the two thieves set to work as before, but no sooner
had the younger brother disappeared through the hole in the wall than he
began to utter loud cries of agony.
"Peace, brother! You will rouse the guard," said the elder. "What can have
befallen you?"
The other controlled himself, and said with a groan, "Ladronius, we are
ruined. I am held fast in a trap, and I think my leg is broken. O Horus,
Lord of Life, deliver me!"
With some difficulty Ladronius crawled through the opening to aid his
brother, for, though a thief, he was no coward.
"Go back, Ladronius, go back!" cried his brother. "Leave me to my fate! I
think I hear the cries of the guard. No, brother, waste no more time!" he
entreated, as Ladronius tugged in vain at the cruel teeth of the trap.
"One thing remains to be done. Cut off my head, and take it away with you,
that I may not be recognized and so we both perish! I hear the footsteps
of men approaching. Do not rob our mother of both her sons!"
And Ladronius, seeing that there was nothing else to be done, drew his
sword, cut off his brother's head, and escaped through the opening, not
forgetting to replace the stone behind him. He was only just in time, for
scarcely had he gained the cover of a clump of trees, when the soldiers of
the guard came running to the place and began to belabor the door. To
their surprise they found everything quiet and nothing displaced. They
examined the outside of the building thoroughly, and then, supposing that
they had been roused by a false alarm, they returned to the palace.
In the morning, Rhampsinitus paid his daily visit to the chamber, and
discovered the headless body in the trap. He was more puzzled than ever.
He examined the fastenings of the door and the whole of the chamber over
and over again, and no hole nor crevice could he find.
"Nevertheless," said he, "I have now bait for my trap. What can I do
better than set a thief to catch a thief?"
So he ordered the body to be hung from the outer wall of the chamber, and
placed sentinels to guard it, strictly charging them to bring before him
any one who showed pity or sorrow for the dead.
When the mother heard of her son's death and how the body had been
treated, she reproached Ladronius bitterly for his cowardice, and implored
him with many tears to bring back the body for proper burial. For the
Egyptians thought that unless a man's body were properly embalmed and
buried whole, he could have no life in the next world; so that it would be
a terrible misfortune if the head and the body were buried separately.
Ladronius attempted to comfort his mother, but did not dare to carry off
his brother's body so long as the sentinels were watching. In vain his
mother wept and entreated him, until at last her grief was turned to
anger, and she vowed that, if he did not obey her, she would go to the
king and tell him the whole story. Then Ladronius, seeing her so
determined, promised to do as she wished, and set his wits to work to
invent some means of carrying off the body without being caught by the
sentinels. At last he thought of a plan, which seemed to have some chance
of success. He hired two donkeys, and having bought some wineskins, which
were used in the place of bottles, he filled them with strong wine and
placed them on the donkeys' backs.
Thus equipped, and dressed up to look like an old merchant, he set out for
the place where his brother's body was suspended. When he drew near to the
sentinels, he secretly loosened some of the strings which fastened the
necks of the wineskins, and then whipping the donkeys and letting them run
on a little way in front, he pursued them with loud cries.
"Oh, miserable wretch that I am!" he cried, beating his head and looking
the very picture of despair. "All my good wine wasted on the ground! What
shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? Stop, most ungrateful of donkeys,
children of Set, that devour my substance and waste my wine as if it were
water! May Tefnet plague you with gadflies, and Renenutet poison the
thistles! Oh dear! oh dear! I am a ruined man."
The soldiers, supposing it to be a genuine accident, laughed loudly at the
fellow's distress, and while some chased and caught the donkeys, the
others brought bowls and pitchers and began to drink the wine, as it ran
out of the skins.
"Never mind, worthy sir!" they said to Ladronius. "The wine is serving a
very good purpose. Here is to our future friendship and your excellency's
very good health!"
Ladronius pretended to fly into a great passion, and called them thieves
and monsters of iniquity for robbing a poor man of his wine.
"Ay, laugh away!" he cried. "But a day of reckoning will come for your
wickedness. See how the law treats robbers!" And he pointed to his
brother's body hanging on the wall.
"Now, by Anubis, the fellow speaks truth," said one of the soldiers. "We
are but sorry fellows to drink away a poor man's living, and if this were
to come to the ears of the king, we should be in evil case for leaving our
duty."
The others laughed good-humoredly, as they tied up some of the skins, and
did their best to put the merchant into a good temper. Ladronius, after a
little more grumbling, appeared to be pacified, and, as a sign of
good-will, presented a wineskin to the soldier who had first spoken in his
favor.
"May you never want a young friend to speak for you in your old age," said
he, "and may you meet with no worse companions than these; for though they
seem to be somewhat headstrong, yet I perceive that I spoke hard words in
my anger."
The soldiers, who by this time had sat down on the grass and were passing
the wineskin from one to another, declared that the merchant was a
good-hearted old fellow and invited him to come and drink their health.
"Nay, my masters," said Ladronius, pretending to adjust the straps on the
donkeys' backs. "I have far to go, and I am but a little way on my
journey."
But, as they pressed him, he consented to drink one cup with them before
he went. "Though in truth," he added, "if I mistake not, the skin is
emptied already. I see that you would force me to part with another,
before I set out."
As he spoke, he produced another wineskin, and the soldiers, who were
growing merry, greeted him with a shout of delight, and insisted on his
sitting down with them. Ladronius, still declaring that he could stay only
long enough to drink one cup with them, allowed himself to be placed in
the midst, where he presently proved himself so good a companion and told
so many merry tales that the soldiers would not hear of his departure.
They drank more and more heavily, until at length a third skin was opened,
and one by one the sentinels were overpowered by the strong wine, and all
lay asleep on the ground.
By this time it had grown dark, and Ladronius, who had pretended to be as
drunk as the rest, cautiously raised his head, and finding that all the
sentinels were snoring, he took down his brother's body and carried it
off. But, before he went, he shaved the right side of the head of each of
the sentinels, to show his contempt for the king's precautions.
The king was furious when he discovered the failure of his plan and the
insult offered to his guards, all of whom were beheaded for their
disobedience to his orders. He was more determined than ever to catch the
thief, and after taking counsel once more with his prime minister, he
decided upon another plan. He caused a proclamation to be made, in which
he promised the hand of his daughter to the man whom she should consider
the cleverest and most wicked of all men. He commanded the princess to sit
on a throne in the temple of Ra, the sun-god, and to speak to all who came
to pay their homage to her, asking them what was the cleverest and most
wicked deed they had done. But secretly Rhampsinitus told her that, if any
one related the story of the robbing of the treasury, she was to seize him
by the hand, and hold him till the guards came and secured him.
The moment Ladronius heard the proclamation, he saw that it was another
trick to catch him, but he was so daring and so fond of adventure that he
could not resist the temptation to outdo the king in cunning once more. He
determined actually to put his head in the lion's mouth--in other words,
to go boldly to the temple and talk to the princess. He took with him
under his cloak the strangest of presents, an arm cut from a dead man's
body.
When he entered the temple, he beheld the princess seated on her throne,
looking very beautiful in her royal robes, with her dark curls flowing
over her shoulders, and the golden vulture of Egypt spreading his wings
over her head. She looked a little pale and weary too, for she had talked
with many scores of suitors, all of whom had told her tales which were
very much alike and nothing at all to do with her father's
treasure-chamber. And when the princess looked up and saw Ladronius
standing there, with his bold, handsome face, and resolute eyes, she had a
suspicion that this was the robber of the treasury. At the same time she
felt some pity for the young man, whom she was to be the means of
punishing for his bravery. However, she could only obey her father, and
motioning to Ladronius to approach, she addressed him with great courtesy,
saying, "You seem, sir, by your bearing, to be a man of some strength and
courage. Tell me now, what is the most wicked thing, and what the
cleverest, you ever did in your life?"
And Ladronius looked her straight in the face and answered, "Most gracious
princess, the most wicked thing I ever did in my life was to cut off my
brother's head in His Majesty's treasure-house, and the cleverest was when
I made the sentinels drunk and carried off my brother's body."
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the princess jumped up and
caught him, as she supposed, by the arm, at the same time crying out for
the guards, who were concealed behind the throne. But, to her dismay, the
arm seemed to part company with the rest of the body, and she was left
with the cloak of Ladronius and the arm of the dead man, while Ladronius
himself was out of the temple before she had recovered from her surprise;
nor could the guards find any trace of him outside.
The princess went back to her father in fear and trembling, and related
how Ladronius had escaped once more; but the king was so amazed at the
daring and skill of the young man, that he quite forgot to be angry.
The picture of the princess holding the arm that had no body attached to
it, and gazing blankly after the departing figure of Ladronius, so took
his fancy, that he lay back on his couch, and laughed till his sides
ached.
"Bast!" he cried at length. "If the youth is really as clever as this, I
would rather have him my friend than my enemy. Such a man should be
rewarded and not punished for his genius. So he made you a present of his
cloak too, did he?" And the king collapsed once more.
"And what manner of youth is he?" he asked the princess; the princess
answered, with a blush, that he looked like a brave young man.
"That I am sure he is," said the king. "I have learnt it to my cost. And
he is not ill-looking?"
"No," said the princess; she would not describe him as ill-looking.
"Ah! well," said the king dryly, "we must see whether we cannot find some
means of securing his friendship."
So King Rhampsinitus ordered another proclamation to be made, promising
that if the robber would present himself to the king and confess how he
had broken into the treasury, the king would grant him a free pardon and a
great reward beside.
Ladronius was not long in making up his mind. He knew that kings were not
always above treachery, but he had survived so many dangers that he
determined to risk this also. He arrayed himself, therefore, in his best
attire, and boldly presented himself to the king, who was delighted with
his courage and bade him relate the whole story fearlessly. And when
Rhampsinitus heard of the secret way into his treasury, he would not rest
until he had seen the sliding stone and moved it for himself. He laughed
heartily when he remembered how he had put another lock on the door, and
how he had posted a sentinel in the one place where he could see nothing
of the thieves. Then he returned to the palace, and sent for the princess,
his daughter. Presently she entered with her train of maidens, and
Ladronius was so overcome by her fresh, girlish beauty, that he could
hardly find voice enough to reply to the king's questions. The king rose
and embraced his daughter, and then, addressing Ladronius before the
assembled courtiers, he said, "Ladronius, the Egyptians are the most
cunning of all nations on the face of the earth, and you have proved
yourself more cunning than all the Egyptians. And now, after robbing me of
so many treasures, you are about to rob me of the best and most priceless
of all."
So saying, he took his daughter by the hand, and led her to Ladronius.
"Take her, my son!" he said. "A good and obedient daughter should make a
faithful and loving wife."
The princess stood with her eyes cast down, blushing very prettily, and
Ladronius looked very handsome as he knelt and kissed her hand. Then the
trumpets began to blare, the drums rattled, the cymbals clashed, and the
courtiers shouted, "Long live our gracious princess! Long live
Rhampsinitus and his son-in-law Ladronius!" The royal minstrel brought his
harp and sang a solemn chant, all about the beauty of the princess and the
bravery of Ladronius; and the maids of honor performed a graceful dance to
the music, winding wreaths of lotus flowers about the bride and
bridegroom. As the music ceased, the venerable High Priest of Ra, a tall
old man with his head clean-shaven, came forward to bless and anoint them,
and to tell how he had foreseen it all from the beginning.
So Ladronius and the beautiful princess were married, and, though it is
not in the story, there can be no doubt that they lived very happily for
the rest of their lives.
ARION AND THE DOLPHIN
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
It happened once upon a time, in the olden days, that a young man,
Periander of Corinth, started from a port in the south of Greece to sail
to Miletus. Being caught in a storm, the boat was carried out of her
course as far as the island of Lesbos, where she stayed for several days,
in order that the damage caused by the storm might be repaired. In the
mean time Periander landed, and occupied himself in wandering about the
island and watching the inhabitants. In his wanderings, he came one
evening upon a group of men and women, the sight of whom made him pause
with a longing to join them. They had been working hard all day, gathering
the grapes, and pressing them in big, wooden vats, to extract the wine for
which Lesbos was famous; and now, in the beautiful autumn evening, they
were making merry after their labors.
No wonder Periander stayed to watch them, for they made a very pretty
picture,--the handsome youths, with their bronzed faces and strong, fine
limbs; the women with their gay dresses and bare feet, that seemed to have
been made for dancing; the vine-clad hill at the back, and, over it all,
the glow of the setting sun. In the centre of the dancers sat a boy,
playing upon a small lute with seven strings. To this accompaniment the
dancers chanted a song in praise of Dionysus, the god of the vine.
Gradually the music went faster and faster; and faster and faster the feet
of the dancers sped over the ground, until they were all out of breath,
and lay laughing on the grass.
Then, as the boy struck another chord, all laughter was hushed, and he
began to sing; it was a simple, plaintive little song, but there was a
magic in his voice which held the listeners spellbound. The last rays of
the setting sun played about his golden curls, and lit up his sweet,
childish face, as he sang:--
"Why should you grieve for me, my love,
When I am laid to rest?
Our lives are shaped by the gods above,
And they know best.
What though I stand on the farther shore,
Others have crossed the stream before--
Why weep in vain?
Life is but a drop in the deep,
Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
And meet again."
As the last note died away, a sigh came from the listeners; some of the
women turned away their faces, and the young men began to talk hastily, as
if to hide their emotion.
Periander waited until the group began to break up. Then he stepped
forward and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy looked up with a
smile.
"What is your name, my fair minstrel?" asked Periander.
"My name is Arion," answered the boy, as if he were used to being
questioned. "I come from Methymna beyond the hills, where I used to tend
the goats." And he told Periander that his mother and father died before
he could remember, and that he was brought up by an old goat-herd; until a
traveling minstrel, who happened one day to hear him singing on the hills,
took charge of him and taught him to play the lute.
"That was one of his own songs I was singing," said Arion. "He always
liked me to sing his songs; but, when I am a man, I shall make my own
songs, and sing them in the great cities over the sea."
"And so you shall," said Periander. "Now, listen to me, Arion! Some day,
perhaps, I also may be a great man, able to help you to become a great
singer. Remember, when you have need of a friend, that Periander of
Corinth will help you, if he can!"
And, when he departed, Periander left a sum of money with a worthy old
couple, who promised to look after the boy, and see that he wanted
nothing.
After some years, Periander became king of Corinth, and having a love of
everything beautiful, he soon gathered about him a little band of poets,
artists, and musicians. One day, when he was listening to one of the court
musicians, something--it might have been a chord in the music--reminded
him of the little Lesbian Arion. He seemed to see once more the boy with
the golden light on his curls, and the upturned faces of the peasants
grouped around him; and the very words of the song ran in his head.
"By Apollo!" he cried, so suddenly that the musician nearly fell off his
seat. "We will have the little Lesbian at court, and make a famous singer
of him. Where is Glaucus? Ho, there! Bid Glaucus attend the king!"
When Glaucus appeared, the king bade him take a boat and sail for Lesbos.
"There you will make search for one Arion, a singer," he said. "And when
you have found him, say, 'Periander of Corinth has need of his friend
Arion.' And see that you bring him safely to Corinth!"
Glaucus did as he was bidden, and in due time found Arion, now grown into
a tall, graceful youth. Arion, when he heard the message, consented to
accompany Glaucus to Corinth, where he was greeted with great kindness by
Periander. He very soon became a great favorite among the Corinthians, and
all the musicians envied him his beautiful voice and his skill in playing
on the lute. No one had such power to soothe the king in his black moods;
nor was it at court alone that his fame as a singer was known, for he was
ever ready to sing to the people, who idolized him and called him the son
of Apollo. Among other things he taught them the song and dance of the
Lesbians in honor of Dionysus and the vine; it afterwards became one of
the most famous songs of Greece.
Many years Arion stayed with Periander, who held him in high honor and
loaded him with costly presents. His fame spread as far as Italy and
Sicily, and he had many requests that he would go over and sing to the
people there. At length, he determined to make the journey, not only from
curiosity to see new countries, but also because he had heard of the songs
sung by the Sicilian shepherds, and had a great desire to study them.
Periander tried to dissuade him, but, finding him resolved, he assisted
him in his preparations, and on his departure exacted from him a promise
that he would return to Corinth.
Arion traveled about Italy and Sicily for a long time, and made a great
fortune by his singing. But growing tired at last of the wandering life,
he went to Tarentum to find a ship which would take him back to Corinth.
There were two or three ships ready to make the journey, among them one
named the Nausicaa, which was manned by a crew of Corinthians. This he
chose, being somewhat nervous about the large sum of money he was
carrying, and thinking that he could trust the Corinthians, whom he knew,
better than a crew of foreigners.
The Nausicaa was a strange-looking vessel, with a single sail, and long
oars pulled by men who sat on benches along the side. The prow, which was
carved to represent the maiden Nausicaa, stood well out of the water, and
the bulwarks descended in a graceful curve to rise again at the stern,
where the captain stood and shaped his course by means of a broad paddle,
which was hung over the side.
The voyage began happily enough, the wind being favorable, and the captain
and crew all deference and politeness. But when they were well out to sea,
the behavior of the crew changed; they answered Arion's questions with
scant politeness, and held many whispered consultations, which, from the
black glances cast at him, made him uneasy as to his safety. On the second
evening, waking out of a light sleep, he heard them conspiring to throw
him overboard and divide his wealth among them. Arion started up and
implored them not to carry out their evil purpose, offering to hand over
all his wealth, if they would spare his life. His entreaties and promises
were all in vain.
"We give you a fair choice," said the captain brutally. "Either leap into
the sea at once, or kill yourself in some other way, and we will bury you
decently on shore."
Abandoning his vain appeals for mercy, Arion begged them, as a last favor,
to let him sing once more before he died.
"That we will not refuse," the captain answered; "though, if you think to
move us by your wailing, let me tell you that you waste your breath!" In
reality, he was not displeased to have an opportunity of hearing the most
famous singer in the world.
Arion put on his sacred robes, in which he used to sing in the temple of
Apollo, and taking his lute he stepped firmly to the prow of the vessel.
There he stood, pale and calm, in the silvery light of the moon, his fair
hair playing with the wind, while the little waves lifted themselves to
look at him, and then ran playfully into the shadow of the boat, to dash
their heads against the beams and be broken into spray. The sailors were
awed in spite of themselves, as that beautiful voice rose on the breeze.
He sang the old song which he had sung in the Lesbian vineyards when
Periander saw him first. And when he came to the last lines,--
"Life is but a drop in the deep,
Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
And meet again,"
Arion leapt over the side of the vessel, just as he was.
The captain, fearing that some of the crew might be moved to lend him
assistance, gave the order to make all speed ahead. Had he waited, he
might have seen a most wonderful sight. For, as Arion fell into the sea,
the water seemed to become alive beneath him, and he felt it lifting him
up, and carrying him rapidly away from the ship. Then he discovered that
he was seated astride on a great, black fish, which was swimming very
rapidly on the top of the water, and he knew it must be a dolphin, which
had been attracted by his singing; for the dolphins, unlike most things
that live in the sea, have sharp ears, and are very fond of music. He
touched his lute, to see if the strings had suffered from the water, and,
as he did so, the great back quivered beneath him. Finding, therefore,
that the dolphin liked the music, and thinking that he owed it some return
for saving his life, Arion began to sing, and sang song after song;
whenever he stopped, the dolphin ceased from swimming, as if to inquire
the reason; and when Arion began again, the dolphin bounded through the
water with great strokes of his broad tail. A strange sight it must have
been, had there been any one there to see! But the dolphin went straight
across the open sea, where no ships were to be seen; for the sailors of
that day did not care to lose sight of the coast, but would sail all the
way round a large bay rather than straight across it. So it was that Arion
came to Tænarus in Greece, without having been seen by any man. The
dolphin took him close to the shore, where he bade it good-by, and watched
it swim away disconsolately.
From Tænarus he made his way on foot to Corinth. Periander was overjoyed
to see him once more; and when he marveled at the strange costume in which
Arion had traveled, Arion related the whole story.
Periander listened attentively, and, when it was finished, remarked
gravely, "Are you then so little satisfied with your victories over the
musicians, Arion, that you have determined to be king of story-tellers
also?"
"Does your majesty intend to throw doubt on my story?" asked Arion.
"Far be it from me!" answered Periander. "The story pleases me well, and
if you will tell me another such, I will take pains to believe that also."
"Then Zeus be my witness! I will find means to prove it," cried Arion.
"Have I not said that I doubted not?" asked Periander. "Yet I would gladly
see the proof. My crown to your lute upon the issue!"
"So be it!" said Arion. "But first I must ask your majesty that none may
speak of my return; and when the ship _Nausicaa_ comes to port, let the
seamen be dealt with as I shall appoint!"
The king assented laughing, for he deemed the tale impossible. After some
days, however, it was announced that the ship _Nausicaa_ was in the
harbor. Periander summoned the captain and all the crew to the palace, and
asked them whether they had brought any news of his minstrel Arion. The
captain replied that men said at Tarentum that Arion was still in Italy,
traveling from place to place, and received everywhere with great honor.
The rest of the sailors confirmed the story, and one of them added that
Arion was said to prefer Italy to Greece, nor had he any intention of
returning to Corinth.
At that moment a curtain was drawn and disclosed Arion, standing in his
sacred robes and holding his lute, just as they had seen him last in the
prow of the ship. The sailors, supposing that they beheld his spirit, were
seized with terror, and fell at the king's feet, confessing all their
wickedness and begging for mercy. But Periander was filled with
indignation, and spurned them angrily. Arion interposed, urging the king
to be merciful, now that the seamen had seen their wickedness, and were
willing to make restitution. Periander, however, would not hear of mercy.
"Your compassion bears witness to your noble spirit, Arion," he replied.
"But these men have planned a most cruel and cowardly murder, and cruelly
shall they suffer for it. Seize me these men, guards, and bind them!"
The guards came forward and began to lead away the trembling wretches.
"Stay!" cried Arion. "It is I who am king. Did not your majesty stake your
crown against my lute, and can the royal word be broken? Back, guards! I
claim my wager."
Periander could not refrain from laughter, but confessed himself beaten by
this piece of strategy. "The wit of Arion," he said, "is stronger than the
tears of repentance. Release the prisoners!"
"That being so," said Arion, "and seeing that I find myself more easy with
the lute, I will restore the royal crown to Periander."
So the men were set at liberty, after having restored the property of
Arion, and departed full of gratitude, invoking blessings on his head.
And lest any man should doubt the truth of the story in time to come,
Arion erected at Tænarus a statue in bronze, representing a man riding on
a dolphin's back.
STORIES FROM LIVY
ROMULUS, FOUNDER OF ROME
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
Æneas of Troy, coming to the land of Italy, took to wife Lavinia, daughter
of King Latinus, and built him a city, which he called Lavinium, after the
name of his wife. And, after thirty years, his son Ascanius went forth
from Lavinium with much people, and built him a new city, which he called
Alba. In this city reigned kings of the house and lineage of Æneas for
twelve generations. Of these kings the eleventh in descent was one Procas,
who, having two sons, Numitor and Amulius, left his kingdom, according to
the custom, to Numitor, the elder. But Amulius drove out his brother, and
reigned in his stead. Nor was he content with this wickedness, but slew
all the male children of his brother. And the daughter of his brother,
that was named Rhea Silvia, he chose to be a priestess of Vesta, making as
though he would do the maiden honor, but his thought was that the name of
his brother should perish, for they that serve Vesta are vowed to
perpetual virginity.
But it came to pass that Rhea bare twin sons, whose father, it was said,
was the god Mars. Very wroth was Amulius when he heard this thing; Rhea he
made fast in prison, and the children he gave to certain of his servants
that they should cast them into the river. Now it chanced that at this
season Tiber had overflowed his banks, neither could the servants come
near to the stream of the river; nevertheless they did not doubt that the
children would perish, for all that the overflowing of the water was
neither deep nor of a swift current. Thinking, then, that they had duly
performed the commandment of the king, they set down the babes in the
flood and departed. But after a while the flood abated, and left the
basket wherein the children had been laid on dry ground. And a she-wolf,
coming down from the hill to drink at the river (for the country in those
days was desert and abounding in wild beasts), heard the crying of the
children and ran to them. Nor did she devour them, but gave them suck;
nay, so gentle was she that Faustulus, the king's shepherd, chancing to go
by, saw that she licked them with her tongue. This Faustulus took the
children and gave them to his wife to rear; and these, when they were of
age to go by themselves, were not willing to abide with the flocks and
herds, but were hunters, wandering through the forests that were in those
parts. And afterward, being now come to full strength, they were not
content to slay wild beasts only, but would assail troops of robbers, as
these were returning laden with their booty, and would divide the spoils
among the shepherds. Now there was held in those days, on the hill that is
now called the Palatine, a yearly festival to the god Pan. This festival
King Evander first ordained, having come from Arcadia, in which land,
being a land of shepherds, Pan, that is the god of shepherds, is greatly
honored. And when the young men and their company (for they had gathered a
great company of shepherds about them, and led them in all matters both of
business and of sport) were busy with the festival, there came upon them
certain robbers that had made an ambush in the place, being very wroth by
reason of the booty which they had lost. These laid hands on Remus, but
Romulus they could not take, so fiercely did he fight against them. Remus,
therefore, they delivered up to King Amulius, accusing him of many things,
and chiefly of this, that he and his companions had invaded the land of
Numitor, dealing with them in the fashion of an enemy and carrying off
much spoil. To Numitor, therefore, did the king deliver Remus, that he
might put him to death. Now Faustulus had believed from the beginning that
the children were of the royal house, for he knew that the babes had been
cast into the river by the king's command, and the time also of his
finding them agreed thereto. Nevertheless he had not judged it expedient
to open the matter before due time, but waited till occasion or necessity
should arise. But now, there being such necessity, he opened the matter to
Romulus. Numitor also, when he had the young man Remus in his custody,
knowing that he and his brother were twins, and that the time agreed, and
seeing that they were of a high spirit, bethought him of his grandsons;
and, indeed, having asked many questions of Remus, was come nigh to
knowing of what race he was. And now also Romulus was ready to help his
brother. To come openly with his whole company he dared not, for he was
not a match for the power of King Amulius; but he bade sundry shepherds
make their way to the palace, each as best he could, appointing to them a
time at which they should meet. And now came Remus also, with a troop of
youths gathered together from the household of Numitor. Then did Romulus
and Remus slay King Amulius. In the meanwhile Numitor gathered the youth
of Alba to the citadel, crying out that they must make the place safe, for
that the enemy was upon them; but when he perceived that the young men had
done the deed, forthwith he called an assembly of the citizens, and set
forth to them the wickedness which his brother had wrought against him,
and how his grandsons had been born and bred and made known to him, and
then, in order, how the tyrant had been slain, himself having counseled
the deed. When he had so spoken the young men came with their company into
the midst of the assembly, and saluted him as king; to which thing the
whole multitude agreeing with one consent, Numitor was established upon
the throne.
After this Romulus and his brother conceived this purpose, that, leaving
their grandfather to be king at Alba, they should build for themselves a
new city in the place where, having been at the first left to die, they
had been brought up by Faustulus the shepherd. And to this purpose many
agreed both of the men of Alba and of the Latins, and also of the
shepherds that had followed them from the first, holding it for certain
all of them that Alba and Lavinium would be of small account in comparison
of this new city which they should build together. But while the brothers
were busy with these things, there sprang up afresh the same evil thing
which had before wrought such trouble in their house, even the lust of
power. For though the beginnings of the strife between them were peaceful,
yet did it end in great wickedness. The matter fell out in this wise.
Seeing that the brothers were twins, and that neither could claim to have
the preference to the other in respect of his age, it was agreed between
them that the gods that were the guardians of that country should make
known by means of augury which of the two they chose to give his name to
the new city. Then Romulus stood on the Palatine hill, and when there had
been marked out for him a certain region of the sky, watched therein for a
sign; and Remus watched in like manner, standing on the Aventine. And to
Remus first came a sign, six vultures; but so soon as the sign had been
proclaimed there came another to Romulus, even twelve vultures. Then they
that favored Remus clamored that the gods had chosen him for king, because
he had first seen the birds; and they that favored Romulus answered that
he was to be preferred because he had seen more in number. This dispute
waxed so hot that they fell to fighting; and in the fight it chanced that
Remus was slain. But some say that when Romulus had marked out the borders
of the town which he would build, and had caused a wall to be built round
it, Remus leapt over the wall, scorning it because it was mean and low;
and that Romulus slew him, crying out, "Thus shall every man perish that
shall dare to leap over my walls." Only others will have it that though he
perished for this cause Romulus slew him not, but a certain Celer. This
much is certain, that Romulus gained the whole kingdom for himself, and
called the city after his own name.
And now, having first done sacrifice to the Gods, he called a general
assembly of the people, that he might give them laws, knowing that without
laws no city can endure. And judging that these would be the better kept
of his subjects if he should himself bear something of the show of royal
majesty, he took certain signs of dignity, and especially twelve men that
should continually attend him, bearing bundles of rods, and in the midst
of the rods an axe; these men they called _lictors_. Meanwhile the city
increased, for the king and his people enlarged their borders, looking
rather to the greatness for which they hoped than to that which they had.
And that this increase might not be altogether empty walls without men,
Romulus set up a sanctuary, to which were gathered a great multitude of
men from the nations round about. All that were discontented and lovers of
novelty came to him. Nor did he take any account of their condition,
whether they were bond or free, but received them all. Thus was there
added to the city great strength. And the king, when he judged that there
was strength sufficient, was minded to add to the strength counsel.
Wherefore he chose a hundred men for counselors. A hundred he chose,
either because he held that number to be sufficient, or because there were
no more that were fit to bear this dignity and be called Fathers, for this
was the name of these counselors.
After this the people bethought themselves how they should get for
themselves wives, for there were no women in the place. Wherefore Romulus
sent ambassadors to the nations round about, praying that they should give
their daughters to his people for wives. "Cities," he said, "have humble
beginnings even as all other things. Nevertheless they that have the Gods
and their own valor to help become great. Now that the gods are with us,
as ye know, be assured also that valor shall not be wanting." But the
nations round about would not hearken to him, thinking scorn of this
gathering of robbers and slaves and runaways, so that they said, "Why do
ye not open a sanctuary for women also that so ye may find fit wives for
your people?" Also they feared for themselves and their children what this
new city might grow to. Now when the ambassadors brought back this answer
the Romans were greatly wroth, and would take by force that which their
neighbors would not give of their free will. And to the end that they
might do this more easily, King Romulus appointed certain days whereon he
and his people would hold a festival with games to Neptune; and to this
festival he called all them that dwelt in the cities round about. But when
many were gathered together (for they were fain to see what this new city
might be), and were now wholly bent on the spectacle of the games, the
young men of the Romans ran in upon them, and carried off all such as were
unwedded among the women. To these King Romulus spake kindly, saying, "The
fault is not with us but with your fathers, who dealt proudly with us, and
would not give you to us in marriage. But now ye shall be held in all
honor as our wives, and shall have your portion of all that we possess.
Put away therefore your anger, for ye shall find us so much the better
husbands than other men, as we must be to you not for husbands only but
parents also and native country."
In the meanwhile the parents of them that had been carried off put on
sackcloth, and went about through the cities crying out for vengeance upon
the Romans. And chiefly they sought for help from Titus Tatius, that was
king of the Sabines in those days, and of great power and renown. But when
the Sabines seemed to be tardy in the matter, the men of Cære first
gathered together their army and marched into the country of the Romans.
Against these King Romulus led forth his men and put them to flight
without much ado, having first slain their king with his own hand. Then,
after returning to Rome, he carried the arms which he had taken from the
body of the king to the hill of the Capitol, and laid them down at the
shepherds' oak that stood thereon in those days. And when he had measured
out the length and breadth of a temple that he would build to Jupiter upon
the hill, he said, "O Jupiter, I, King Romulus, offer to thee these arms
of a king, and dedicate therewith a temple in this place, in which temple
they that come after me shall offer to thee like spoils in like manner,
when it shall chance that the leader of our host shall himself slay with
his own hands the leader of the host of the enemy." And this was the first
temple that was dedicated in Rome. And in all the time to come two only
offered in this manner, to wit, Cornelius Cossus that slew Lars Tolumnius,
king of Veii, and Claudius Marcellus that slew Britomarus, king of the
Gauls.
After this, King Tatius and the Sabines came up against Rome with a great
army. And first of all they gained the citadel by treachery in this
manner. One Tarpeius was governor of the citadel, whose daughter, Tarpeia
by name, going forth from the walls to fetch water for a sacrifice, took
money from the king that she should receive certain of the soldiers within
the citadel; but when they had been so received, the men cast their
shields upon her, slaying her with the weight of them. This they did
either that they might be thought to have taken the place by force, or
that they judged it to be well that no faith should be kept with traitors.
Some also tell this tale, that the Sabines wore great bracelets of gold on
their left arms, and on their left hands fair rings with precious stones
therein, and that when the maiden covenanted with them that she should
have for a reward that which they carried in their left hands, they cast
their shields upon her. And others say that she asked for their shields
having the purpose to betray them, and for this cause was slain.
Thus the Sabines had possession of the citadel; and the next day King
Romulus set the battle in array on the plain that lay between the hill of
the Capitol and the hill of the Palatine. And first the Romans were very
eager to recover the citadel, a certain Hostilius being their leader. But
when this man, fighting in the forefront of the battle, was slain, the
Romans turned their backs and fled before the Sabines, even unto the gate
of the Palatine. Then King Romulus (for he himself had been carried away
by the crowd of them that fled) held up his sword and his spear to the
heavens, and cried aloud, "O Jupiter, here in the Palatine didst thou
first, by the tokens which thou sentest me, lay the foundations of my
city. And lo! the Sabines have taken the citadel by wicked craft, and have
crossed the valley, and are come up even hither. But if thou sufferest
them so far, do thou at the least defend this place against them, and stay
this shameful flight of my people. So will I build a temple for thee in
this place, even a temple of Jupiter the Stayer, that may be a memorial to
after generations of how thou didst this day save this city." And when he
had so spoken, even as though he knew that the prayer had been heard, he
cried, "Ye men of Rome, Jupiter bids you stand fast in this place and
renew the battle." And when the men of Rome heard these words, it was as
if a voice from heaven had spoken to them, and they stood fast, and the
king himself went forward and stood among the foremost. Now the leader of
the Sabines was one Curtius. This man, as he drave the Romans before him,
cried out to his comrades, "See, we have conquered these men, false hosts
and feeble foes that they are! Surely now they know that it is one thing
to carry off maidens and another to fight with men." But whilst he boasted
himself thus, King Romulus and a company of the youth rushed upon him. Now
Curtius was fighting on horseback, and being thus assailed he fled,
plunging into a certain pool which lay between the Palatine hill and the
Capitol. Thus did he barely escape with his life, and the lake was called
thereafter Curtius' pool. And now the Sabines began to give way to the
Romans, when suddenly the women for whose sake they fought, having their
hair loosened and their garments rent, ran in between them that fought,
crying out, "Shed ye not each other's blood, ye that are fathers-in-law
and sons-in-law to each other. But if ye break this bond that is between
you, slay us that are the cause of this trouble. And surely it were better
for us to die than to live if we be bereaved of our fathers or of our
husbands." With these words they stirred the hearts both of the chiefs and
of the people, so that there was suddenly made a great silence. And
afterward the leaders came forth to make a covenant; and these indeed so
ordered matters that there was not peace only, but one state where there
had been two. For the Sabines came to Rome and dwelt there; and King
Romulus and King Tatius reigned together. Only, after a while, certain men
of Lanuvium slew King Tatius as he was sacrificing to the Gods at
Lavinium; and thereafter Romulus only was king as before.
When he had reigned thirty and seven years there befell the thing that
shall now be told. On a certain day he called the people together on the
field of Mars, and held a review of his army. But while he did this there
arose suddenly a great storm, with loud thunderings and very thick clouds,
so that the king was hidden away from the eyes of all the people. Nor
indeed was he ever again seen upon the earth. And when men were recovered
of their fear they were in great trouble, because they had lost their
king, though indeed the Fathers would have it that he had been carried by
a whirlwind into heaven. Yet after a while they began to worship him as
being now a god; and when nevertheless some doubted, and would even
whisper among themselves that Romulus had been torn in pieces by the
Fathers, there came forward a certain Proculus, who spake after this
manner: "Ye men of Rome, this day, in the early morning, I saw Romulus,
the father of this city, come down from heaven and stand before me. And
when great fear came upon me, I prayed that it might be lawful for me to
look upon him face to face. Then said he to me, 'Go thy way, tell the men
of Rome that it is the will of them that dwell in heaven that Rome should
be the chiefest city in the world. Bid them therefore be diligent in war;
and let them know for themselves and tell their children after them that
there is no power on earth so great that it shall be able to stand against
them.' And when he had thus spoken, he departed from me, going up into
heaven." All men believed Proculus when he thus spake, and the people
ceased from their sorrow when they knew that King Romulus had been taken
up into heaven.
HOW HORATIUS HELD THE BRIDGE
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
[King Tarquin had been driven from Rome because of his tyranny.]
King Tarquin and his son Lucius (for he only remained to him of the three)
fled to Lars Porsenna, king of Clusium, and besought him that he would
help them. "Suffer not," they said, "that we, who are Tuscans by birth,
should remain any more in poverty and exile. And take heed also to thyself
and thine own kingdom if thou permit this new fashion of driving forth
kings to go unpunished. For surely there is that in freedom which men
greatly desire, and if they that be kings defend not their dignity as
stoutly as others seek to overthrow it, then shall the highest be made
even as the lowest, and there shall be an end of kingship, than which
there is nothing more honorable under heaven." With these words they
persuaded King Porsenna, who judging it well for the Etrurians that there
should be a king at Rome, and that king an Etrurian by birth, gathered
together a great army and came up against Rome. But when men heard of his
coming, so mighty a city was Clusium in those days, and so great the fame
of King Porsenna, there was such fear as had never been before.
Nevertheless they were steadfastly purposed to hold out. And first all
that were in the country fled into the city, and round about the city they
set guards to keep it, part thereof being defended by walls, and part, for
so it seemed, being made safe by the river. But here a great peril had
well-nigh overtaken the city; for there was a wooden bridge on the river
by which the enemy had crossed but for the courage of a certain Horatius
Cocles. The matter fell out in this wise.
There was a certain hill which men called Janiculum on the side of the
river, and this hill King Porsenna took by a sudden attack. Which when
Horatius saw (for he chanced to have been set to guard the bridge, and saw
also how the enemy were running at full speed to the place, and how the
Romans were fleeing in confusion and threw away their arms as they ran),
he cried with a loud voice, "Men of Rome, it is to no purpose that ye thus
leave your post and flee, for if ye leave this bridge behind you for men
to pass over, ye shall soon find that ye have more enemies in your city
than in Janiculum. Do ye therefore break it down with axe and fire as best
ye can. In the meanwhile I, so far as one man may do, will stay the
enemy." And as he spake he ran forward to the farther end of the bridge
and made ready to keep the way against the enemy. Nevertheless there stood
two with him, Lartius and Herminius by name, men of noble birth both of
them and of great renown in arms. So these three for a while stayed the
first onset of the enemy; and the men of Rome meanwhile brake down the
bridge. And when there was but a small part remaining, and they that brake
it down called to the three that they should come back, Horatius bade
Lartius and Herminius return, but he himself remained on the farther side,
turning his eyes full of wrath in threatening fashion on the princes of
the Etrurians, and crying, "Dare ye now to fight with me? or why are ye
thus come at the bidding of your master, King Porsenna, to rob others of
the freedom that ye care not to have for yourselves?" For a while they
delayed, looking each man to his neighbor, who should first deal with this
champion of the Romans. Then, for very shame, they all ran forward, and
raising a great shout, threw their javelins at him. These all he took upon
his shield, nor stood the less firmly in his place on the bridge, from
which when they would have thrust him by force, of a sudden the men of
Rome raised a great shout, for the bridge was now altogether broken down,
and fell with a great crash into the river. And as the enemy stayed a
while for fear, Horatius turned him to the river and said, "O Father
Tiber, I beseech thee this day with all reverence that thou kindly receive
this soldier and his arms." And as he spake he leapt with all his arms
into the river and swam across to his own people, and though many javelins
of the enemy fell about him, he was not one whit hurt. Nor did such valor
fail to receive due honor from the city. For the citizens set up a statue
of Horatius in the market-place; and they gave him of the public land so
much as he could plough about in one day. Also there was this honor paid
him, that each citizen took somewhat of his own store and gave it to him,
for food was scarce in the city by reason of the siege.
HOW CINCINNATUS SAVED ROME
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
It came to pass that the Æquians brake the treaty of peace which they had
made with Rome, and, taking one Gracchus Cloelius for their leader,
marched into the land of Tusculum; and when they had plundered the country
thereabouts, and had gathered together much booty, they pitched their camp
on Mount Ægidus. To them the Romans sent three ambassadors, who should
complain of the wrong done, and seek redress. But when they would have
fulfilled their errand, Gracchus the Æquian spake, saying, "If ye have any
message from the Senate of Rome, tell it to this oak, for I have other
business to do;" for it chanced that there was a great oak that stood hard
by, and made a shadow over the general's tent. Then one of the
ambassadors, as he turned to depart, made reply, "Yes, let this sacred oak
and all the gods that are in heaven hear how ye have wrongfully broken the
treaty of peace; and let them that hear help us also in the day of battle,
when we shall avenge on you the laws both of gods and of men that ye have
set at nought."
When the ambassadors had returned to Rome the Senate commanded that there
should be levied two armies; and that Minucius the Consul should march
with the one against the Æquians on Mount Ægidus, and that the other
should hinder the enemy from their plundering. This levying the tribunes
of the Commons sought to hinder; and perchance had done so, but there also
came well-nigh to the walls of the city a great host of the Sabines
plundering all the country. Thereupon the people willingly offered
themselves, and there were levied forthwith two great armies. Nevertheless
when the Consul Minucius had marched to Mount Ægidus, and had pitched his
camp not far from the Æquians, he did nought for fear of the enemy, but
kept himself within his entrenchments. And when the enemy perceived that
he was afraid, growing the bolder for his lack of courage, they drew lines
about him, keeping him in on every side. Yet before that he was altogether
shut up there escaped from his camp five horsemen, that bare tidings to
Rome how that the Consul, together with his army, was besieged. The people
were sorely dismayed to hear such tidings; nor, when they cast about for
help, saw they any man that might be sufficient for such peril, save only
Cincinnatus. By common consent, therefore, he was made Dictator for six
months, a thing that may well be noted by those who hold that nothing is
to be accounted of in comparison of riches, and that no man may win great
honor or show forth singular virtue unless he be well furnished with
wealth. For here in this great peril of the Roman people there was no hope
of safety but in one who was cultivating with his own hand a little plot
of scarcely three acres of ground. For when the messengers of the people
came to him they found him ploughing, or, as some say, digging a ditch.
When they had greeted each the other, the messengers said, "May the Gods
prosper this thing to the Roman people and to thee. Put on thy robe and
hear the words of the people." Then said Cincinnatus, being not a little
astonished, "Is all well?" and at the same time he called to his wife
Racilia that she should bring forth his robe from the cottage. So she
brought it forth, and the man wiped from him the dust and the sweat, and
clad himself in his robe, and stood before the messengers. These said to
him, "The people of Rome make thee Dictator, and bid thee come forthwith
to the city." And at the same time they told how the Consul and his army
were besieged by the Æquians. So Cincinnatus departed to Rome; and when he
came to the other side of the Tiber there met him first his three sons,
and next many of his kinsfolk and friends, and after them a numerous
company of the nobles. These all conducted him to his house, the lictors,
four and twenty in number, marching before him. There was also assembled a
very great concourse of the people, fearing much how the Dictator might
deal with them, for they knew what manner of man he was, and that there
was no limit to his power, nor any appeal from him.
The next day before dawn the Dictator came into the market-place, and
appointed one Lucius Tarquinius to be Master of the Horse. This Tarquinius
was held by common consent to excel all other men in exercises of war;
only, though, being a noble by birth, he should have been among the
horsemen, he had served, for lack of means, as a foot soldier. This done
he called an assembly of the people and commanded that all the shops in
the city should be shut; that no man should concern himself with any
private business, but all that were of an age to go to the war should be
present before sunset in the Field of Mars, each man having with him
provisions of cooked food for five days, and twelve stakes. As for them
that were past the age, they should prepare the food while the young men
made ready their arms and sought for the stakes. These last they took as
they found them, no man hindering them; and when the time appointed by the
Dictator was come, all were assembled, ready, as occasion might serve,
either to march or to give battle. Forthwith they set out, the Dictator
leading the foot soldiers by their legions, and Tarquinius the horsemen,
and each bidding them that followed make all haste. "We must needs come,"
they said, "to our journey's end while it is yet night. Remember that the
Consul and his army have been besieged now for three days, and that no man
knows what a day or a night may bring forth." The soldiers themselves also
were zealous to obey, crying out to the standard-bearers that they should
quicken their steps, and to their fellows that they should not lag behind.
Thus they came at midnight to Mount Ægidus, and when they perceived that
the enemy was at hand they halted the standards. Then the Dictator rode
forward to see, so far as the darkness would suffer him, how great was the
camp of the Æquians and after what fashion it was pitched. This done he
commanded that the baggage should be gathered together into a heap, and
that the soldiers should stand every man in his own place. After this he
compassed about the whole army of the enemy with his own army, and
commanded that at a set signal every man should shout, and when they had
shouted should dig a trench and set up therein the stakes. This the
soldiers did, and the noise of the shouting passed over the camp of the
enemy and came into the city, causing therein great joy, even as it caused
great fear in the camp. For the Romans cried, "These be our countrymen,
and they bring us help." Then said the Consul, "We must make no delay. By
that shout is signified, not that they are come only, but that they are
already dealing with the enemy. Doubtless the camp of the Æquians is even
now assailed from without. Take ye your arms and follow me." So the legion
went forth, it being yet night, to the battle, and as they went they
shouted, that the Dictator might be aware. Now the Æquians had set
themselves to hinder the making of a ditch and rampart which should shut
them in; but when the Romans from the camp fell upon them, fearing lest
these should make their way through the midst of their camp, they left
them that were with Cincinnatus to finish their entrenching, and fought
with the Consul. And when it was now light, lo! they were already shut in,
and the Romans, having finished their entrenching, began to trouble them.
And when the Æquians perceived that the battle was now on either side of
them, they could withstand no longer, but sent ambassadors praying for
peace, and saying, "Ye have prevailed; slay us not, but rather permit us
to depart, leaving our arms behind us." Then said the Dictator, "I care
not to have the blood of the Æquians. Ye may depart, but ye shall depart
passing under the yoke, that ye may thus acknowledge to all men that ye
are indeed vanquished." Now the yoke is thus made. There are set up in the
ground two spears, and over them is bound by ropes a third spear. So the
Æquians passed under the yoke.
In the camp of the enemy there was found abundance of spoil. This the
Dictator gave wholly to his own soldiers. "Ye were well-nigh a spoil to
the enemy," said he to the army of the Consul, "therefore ye shall have no
share in the spoiling of them. As for thee, Minucius, be thou a lieutenant
only till thou hast learnt how to bear thyself as a consul." Meanwhile at
Rome there was held a meeting of the Senate, at which it was commanded
that Cincinnatus should enter the city in triumph, his soldiers following
him in order of march. Before his chariot there were led the generals of
the enemy; also the standards were carried in the front; and after these
came the army, every man laden with spoil. That day there was great
rejoicing in the city, every man setting forth a banquet before his doors
in the street.
After this, Virginius, that had borne false witness against Cæso, was
found guilty of perjury, and went into exile. And when Cincinnatus saw
that justice had been done to this evil-doer, he resigned his
dictatorship, having held it for sixteen days only.
THE STORY OF VIRGINIA
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
It was agreed between the nobles and the commons that, to make an end of
disputing about the laws, ambassadors should be sent into Greece, and
especially to Athens (which city and its lawgiver, Solon, were held in
high repute in those days), to learn what manner of laws and customs they
had, and to bring back a report of them. And when the ambassadors had
brought back their report, it seemed good to the people that in the
following year there should be appointed neither consuls nor any other
magistrate, but decemvirs only; that is to say, ten men, who should set in
order the laws of Rome. Thus it came to pass in the ninety and first year
from the driving out of the kings, that decemvirs were appointed in the
stead of consuls, Appius Claudius being the chief of the ten.
For a while these pleased the people well, doing justice equally between
man and man. And the custom was that each day one of the ten sat as judge
with the twelve lictors about him, the nine others sitting with one
minister only. Also they busied themselves with the ordering of the laws;
and at last set forth ten tables on which these were written. At the same
time they called the people together to an assembly, and spake to them
thus: "The Gods grant that this undertaking may turn to the credit of the
state, and of you, and of your children. Go, therefore, and read these
laws which we have set forth; for though we have done what ten men could
do to provide laws that should be just to all, whether they be high or
low, yet the understandings of many men may yet change many things for the
better. Consider therefore all these matters in your own minds, and debate
them among yourselves. For we will that the Roman people should be bound
by such laws only as they shall have agreed together to establish."
The ten tables were therefore set forth, and when these had been
sufficiently considered, and such corrections made therein as seemed good,
a regular assembly of the people was called, and the laws were duly
established. But now there was spread abroad a report that two tables were
yet wanting, and that when these should have been added the whole would be
complete; and thence there arose a desire that the Ten should be appointed
to hold office a second year. This indeed was done; but Appius Claudius so
ordered matters that there were elected together with him none of the
chief men of the state, but only such as were of an inferior condition and
fortune.
After this the Ten began more and more to set aside all law and right.
Thus whereas at the first one only on each day was followed by the twelve
lictors, each of the Ten came daily into the market-place so attended, and
whereas before the lictors carried bundles of rods only, now there was
bound up with the rods an axe; whereby was signified the power of life and
death. Their actions also agreed with this show, for they and their
ministers plundered the goods and chattels of the people. Some also they
scourged, and some they beheaded. And when they had so put a man to death,
they would divide his substance among those that waited upon them to do
their pleasure.
Among their misdeeds two were especially notable. There was a certain
Sicinius in the host, a man of singular strength and courage, who took it
ill that the Ten should thus set themselves above all law, and was wont to
say to his comrades that the commons should depart from the city as they
had done in time past, or should at the least make them tribunes to be
their champions as of old. This Sicinius the Ten sent on before the army,
there being then war with the Sabines, to search out a place for a camp;
and with him they sent certain others, bidding them slay him when they
should have come to some convenient place. This they did, but not without
suffering much loss; for the man fought for his life and defended himself,
slaying many of his enemies. Then they that escaped ran into the camp,
saying that Sicinius had fallen into an ambuscade, and had died along with
certain others of the soldiers. At the first, indeed, this story was
believed; but afterward, when, by permission of the Ten, there went some
to bury the dead, they found that none of the dead bodies had been
spoiled, and that Sicinius lay with his arms in the midst, the others
having their faces toward him; also that there was no dead body of an
enemy in the place, nor any track as of them that had gone from the place;
for which reasons they brought back tidings that Sicinius had certainly
been slain by his own comrades. At this there was great wrath in the camp;
and the soldiers were ready to carry the body of Sicinius to Rome, but
that the Ten made a military funeral for him at the public cost. So they
buried Sicinius with great lamentation; but the Ten were thereafter in
very ill repute among the soldiers.
Again, there was a certain centurion, Lucius Virginius by name, an upright
man and of good credit both at home and abroad. This Virginius had a
daughter, Virginia, a very fair and virtuous maiden, whom he had espoused
to a certain Icilius that had once been a tribune of the commons. On this
maiden Appius Claudius, the chief of the Ten, sought to lay hands, and for
this end gave commandment to one Marcus Claudius, who was one of the
clients of his house, that he should claim the girl for a slave. On the
morrow therefore, as Virginia passed across the market-place, being on her
way to school (for the schools in those days were held in the
market-place), this Claudius seized her, affirming that she was born of a
woman that was a slave, and was therefore by right a slave herself. The
maiden standing still for fear, the nurse that attended her set up a great
cry and called the citizens to help. Straightway there was a great
concourse, for many knew the maiden's father Virginius, and Icilius to
whom she was betrothed. Then said Claudius, seeing that he could not take
her by force, "There is no need of tumult or of gathering a crowd. I would
proceed by law, not by force." Thereupon he summoned the girl before the
judge. When they came to the judgment-seat of Appius the man told a tale
that had already been agreed upon between the two. "This girl," he said,
"was born in my house, and was thence secretly taken to the house of
Virginius, and passed off on the man as his daughter. Of this I will bring
proof sufficient, such as will convince Virginius himself, who doubtless
has received the chief wrong in this matter. But in the meanwhile it is
reasonable that the slave should remain in the house of her master." To
this the friends of the girl made answer, "Virginius is absent on the
service of the state, and will be here within the space of two days, if
tidings of this matter be sent to him. Now it is manifestly wrong that
judgment concerning a man's children should be given while he is himself
absent. Let the cause, therefore, be postponed till he come. Meanwhile let
the maiden have her freedom, according to the law which Appius and his
fellows have themselves established."
Appius gave sentence in these words: "That I am a favorer of freedom is
manifest from this law of which ye make mention. Yet this law must be
observed in all cases and without respect of persons; and as to this girl,
there is none but her father only to whom her owner may yield the custody
of her. Let her father therefore be sent for; but in the meanwhile
Claudius must have custody of her, as is his right, only giving security
that he will produce her on the morrow."
At this decree, so manifestly unrighteous was it, there was much
murmuring, yet none dared to oppose it, till Numitorius, the girl's uncle,
and Icilius came forth from the crowd. The lictor cried, "Sentence has
been given," and bade Icilius give place. Then Icilius turned to Appius,
saying, "Appius, thou must drive me hence with the sword before thou canst
have thy will in this matter. This maiden is my espoused wife; and verily,
though thou call hither all thy lictors and the lictors of thy colleagues,
she shall not remain in any house save the house of her father."
To this Appius, seeing that the multitude was greatly moved and were ready
to break forth into open violence, made this reply: "Icilius cares not for
Virginia, but being a lover of sedition and tumult, seeks an occasion for
strife. Such occasion I will not give him to-day. But that he may know
that I yield not to his insolence, but have regard to the rights of a
father, I pronounce no sentence. I ask of Marcus Claudius that he will
concede something of his right, and suffer surety to be given for the girl
against the morrow. But if on the morrow the father be not present here,
then I tell Icilius and his fellows that he who is the author of this law
will not fail to execute it. Neither will I call in the lictors of my
colleague to put down them that raise a tumult. For this my own lictors
shall suffice."
So much time being thus gained, it seemed good to the friends of the
maiden that the son of Numitorius and the brother of Icilius, young men
both of them and active, should hasten with all speed to the camp, and
bring Virginius thence as quickly as might be. So the two set out, and
putting their horses to their full speed, carried tidings of the matter to
the father. As for Appius, he sat awhile on the judgment-seat, waiting for
other business to be brought before him, for he would not have it seem
that he had come for this cause only; but finding that there was none, and
indeed the people were wholly intent on the matter of Virginia, he
departed to his own house. Thence he sent an epistle to his colleagues
that were at the camp, saying, "Grant no leave of absence to Virginius,
but keep him in safe custody with you." But this availed nothing, for
already, before ever the epistle was brought to the camp, at the very
first watch of the night, Virginius had set forth.
When Virginius was come to the city, it being then early dawn, he put on
mean apparel, as was the custom with such as were in danger of life or
liberty, and carried about his daughter, who was clad in like manner,
praying all that he met to help and succor him. "Remember," said he, "that
day by day I stand fighting for you and for your children against your
enemies. But what shall this profit you or me if this city being safe,
nevertheless our children stand in peril of slavery and shame?" Icilius
spake in like manner, and the women (for a company of matrons followed
Virginia) wept silently, stirring greatly the hearts of all that looked
upon them. But Appius, so set was his heart on evil, heeded none of these
things; but so soon as he had sat him down on the seat of judgment, and he
that claimed the girl had said a few words complaining that right had not
been done to him, he gave his sentence, suffering not Virginius to speak.
What pretense of reason he gave can scarce be imagined, but the sentence
(for this only is certain) was that the girl should be in the custody of
Claudius till the matter should be decided by law. But when Claudius came
to take the maiden, her friends and all the women that bare her company
thrust him back. Then said Appius, "I have sure proof, and this not from
the violence only of Icilius, but from what is told to me of gatherings by
night in the city, that there is a purpose in certain men to stir up
sedition. Knowing this I have come hither with armed men; not to trouble
quiet citizens, but to punish such as would break the peace of the state.
Such as be wise, therefore, will keep themselves quiet. Lictor, remove
this crowd, and make room for the master that he may take his slave."
These words he thundered forth in great anger; and the people, when they
heard them, fell back in fear, so that the maiden stood without defense.
Then Virginius, seeing that there were none to help him, said to Appius,
"I pray thee, Appius, if I have said aught that was harsh to thee, that
thou wilt pardon it, knowing how a father must needs suffer in such a
case. But now suffer me to inquire somewhat of this woman that is the
girl's nurse, that I may know what is the truth of the matter. For if I
have been deceived in the matter, and am not in truth father to the girl,
I shall be more content." Then, Appius giving permission, he led his
daughter and her nurse a little space aside, to the shops that are by the
temple of Cloacina, and snatching a knife from a butcher's, said, "My
daughter, there is but this one way that I can make thee free," and he
drave the knife into her breast. Then he looked back to the judgment-seat
and cried, "With this blood, Appius, I devote thee and thy life to
perdition." There went up a great cry from all that stood there when they
saw so dreadful a deed, and Appius commanded that they should seize him.
But no man laid hands on him, for he made a way for himself with the knife
that he carried in his hand, and they that followed defended him, till he
came to the gate of the city. Then Icilius and Numitorius took up the dead
body of the maiden and showed it to the people, saying much of the
wickedness of him who had driven a father to do such a deed, and much also
of the liberty which had been taken from them, and which, if they would
only use this occasion, they might now recover. As for Appius, he cried
out to his lictors that they should lay hands on Icilius, and when the
crowd suffered not the lictors to approach, would himself have made a way
to him, by the help of the young nobles that stood by him. But now the
crowd had leaders, themselves also nobles, Valerius and Horatius. These
said, "If Appius would deal with Icilius according to law we will be
securities for him; if he mean to use violence, we are ready to meet him."
And when the lictor would have laid hands on these two the multitude brake
his rods to pieces. Then Appius would have spoken to the people, but they
clamored against him, so that at last, losing all courage and fearing for
his life, he covered his head and fled secretly to his own house.
Meanwhile Virginius had made his way to the camp, which was now on Mount
Vecilius, and stirred up the army yet more than he had stirred the city.
"Lay not to my charge," he said, "that which is in truth the wickedness of
Appius; neither turn from me as from the murderer of my daughter. Her
indeed I slew, thinking that death was better than slavery and shame; nor
indeed had I survived her but that I hoped to avenge her death by the help
of my comrades." Others also that had come from the city persuaded the
soldiers; some saying that the power of the Ten was overthrown, and others
that Appius had gone of his own accord into banishment. These words so
prevailed with the soldiers that, without any bidding from their generals,
they took up their arms, and, with their standards carried before them,
came to Rome and pitched their camp on the Aventine.
Nevertheless, the Ten were still obstinate, affirming that they would not
resign their authority till they had finished the work for which they had
been appointed, namely, the drawing up of the twelve tables of the laws.
And when the army perceived this they marched from the Aventine and took
up their abode on the Sacred Hill, all the commons following them, so that
there was not left in the city a single man that had ability to move; nor
did the women and children stay behind, but all, as many as could move,
bare them company; for Duilius, that had been tribune, said, "Unless the
Senate see the city deserted, they will take no heed of your complaints."
And indeed, when these perceived what had taken place, they were more
urgent than before that the Ten should resign their office. And these at
last consented. "Only," said they, "do not suffer us to perish from the
rage of the commons. It will be an ill day for the nobles when the people
shall learn to take vengeance on them." And the Senate so wrought that
though at the first the commons in their great fury demanded that the Ten
should be burned alive, yet they were persuaded to yield, it being agreed
that each man should be judged by the law according to his deserts.
Appius, therefore, was accused by Virginius, and being cast into prison,
slew himself before the day appointed for the trial. Oppius also, another
of the Ten, whom the commons hated for his misdeeds next after Appius, was
accused and died in like manner. As for Claudius, that had claimed
Virginia for his slave, he was condemned to be banished. And thus at the
last, the guilty having been punished, the spirit of Virginia had rest.
THE SACRIFICE OF MARCUS CURTIUS
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
In the three hundred and ninety-third year after the building of the city
there was seen suddenly to open in the market-place a great gulf of a
deepness that no man could measure. And this gulf could not be filled up,
though all the people brought earth and stones and the like to cast into
it. But at the last there was sent a message from the Gods that the Romans
must inquire what was that by which more than all things the state was
made strong. "For," said the soothsayer, "this thing must be dedicated to
the Gods in this place if the commonwealth of Rome is to stand fast
forever." And while they doubted, one Marcus Curtius, a youth that had won
great renown in war, rebuked them, saying, "Can ye doubt that Rome hath
nothing better than arms and valor?"
Then all the people stood silent; and Curtius, first beholding the temples
of the immortal Gods that hung over the market-place and the Capitol, and
afterward stretching forth his hands both to heaven above and to this gulf
that opened its mouth to the very pit, as it were, of hell, devoted
himself for his country; and so--being clothed in armor and with arms in
his hand, and having his horse arrayed as sumptuously as might be--he
leapt into the gulf; and the multitude, both of men and women, threw in
gifts and offerings of the fruits of the earth, and afterward the earth
closed together.
STORIES FROM OVID
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat
at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had
already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour
or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden, and
their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the
cottage wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But
the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the
village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was
hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.
"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveler is seeking
hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food
and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"
"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a little
more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of bringing up
their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they
fling stones at strangers!"
"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his
white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some
terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless
they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence
affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor,
homeless stranger that may come along and need it."
"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!"
These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty
hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while
Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and
cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the
cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables,
with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a
bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they were
two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone
without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown
loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveler
who might pause before their door. They felt as if such guests had a sort
of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more
bountifully than their own selves.
Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a
village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in
breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably
been the bed of a lake. There fishes had glided to and fro in the depths,
and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen
their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But, as the
waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so
that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake,
except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the
village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had been dry
land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and
perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately
as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. The very
sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and
gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to Providence by doing good to
their fellow-creatures.
But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not
worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently. They
were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor,
nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed, had anybody
told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because
there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of
us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I am going to tell you.
These naughty people taught their children to be no better than
themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when
they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting
at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They kept large and fierce
dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show himself in the village
street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking,
snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would seize him by his leg,
or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he
came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away.
This was a very terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose,
especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. Such
persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind
children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles
out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again.
What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons
came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants
in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and
obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off their
hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children were rude,
they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if
a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him
with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This would have been all
very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money
that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human
soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he
heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the
farther extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which
lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the
valley.
"I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man.
"Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife.
They sat shaking their heads, one to the other, while the noise came
nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which
their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close
behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little
farther off ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung
stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice, the
younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned
about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand.
His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along as if
disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the pack of curs,
whose manners the children seemed to imitate.
Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might
not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And
this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their
children and dogs to treat them so rudely.
"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor
people. No doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill."
"Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within doors,
and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable bowl of
bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits."
Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went
forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was
no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone
imaginable,--
"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"
"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way,
notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another greeting
than we have met with yonder in the village. Pray, why do you live in such
a bad neighborhood?"
"Ah!" observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "Providence
put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you
what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors."
"Well said, old father!" cried the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth
must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children
(the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and
one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. But I
took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have heard
him yelp, even thus far off."
Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you
have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary with a
long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the
end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his
head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer
evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps
because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too, that he
had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as
the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell
in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly, seemed queer. The
traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his
feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be
kept down by an effort.
"I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveler.
"But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall."
"There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the
stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see."
This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever
beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair of
wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as
twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully executed
that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost
thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting.
"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It
would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!"
By this time Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.
"Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this
bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper.
We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the
cupboard."
The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his
staff fall, as he did so. And here happened something rather marvelous,
though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of
its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped,
half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. There it
stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle. But, in my
private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks
again.
Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention
from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.
"Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice,
"a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder
village?"
"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as
you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now,
and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of
the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise,
so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old
Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"
"That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and
there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head, too,
so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. "Since the
inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies
of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over
their dwellings again!"
The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost frightened;
the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow
darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder
in the air.
But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and mild
that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could not help
feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage, although
he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot. Not
that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that
sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in
this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking
everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea appeared the more
probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face,
he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have
studied out in a lifetime.
While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk very
sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and
made such shrewd and witty remarks that the good old man continually burst
out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen
for many a day.
"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what
may I call your name?"
"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler. "So, if you
call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."
"Quicksilver? Quicksilver?" repeated Philemon, looking in the traveler's
face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd name! And
your companion there? Has he as strange a one?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell it you!" replied Quicksilver, putting on
a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough."
This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused
Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on
venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his
visage. But undoubtedly here was the grandest figure that ever sat so
humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with
gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell
him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling that
people have when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all
their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.
But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many
secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the
events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a
score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had dwelt
in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest
labor, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent butter and
cheese Baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in
his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another so very
much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that
they should die, as they had lived, together.
As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made
its expression as sweet as it was grand.
"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old
wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted."
And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a
bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.
Baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make
apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests.
"Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would
have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.
But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last
loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being poor,
save when a poor traveler knocks at our door."
"All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied
the elder stranger kindly. "An honest, hearty welcome to a guest works
miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to
nectar and ambrosia."
"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey
that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."
"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing; "an
absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely I will play my part at it! I
think I never felt hungrier in my life."
"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has such
a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough supper!"
[Illustration: "I AM AFRAID THERE WILL NOT BE HALF ENOUGH SUPPER"]
They all went into the cottage.
And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make you
open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest circumstances in
the whole story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect, had set itself up
against the wall of the cottage. Well, when its master entered the door,
leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately
spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the doorsteps!
Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it
had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside
Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so
taken up in attending to their guests that no notice was given to what the
staff had been about.
As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry
travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf,
with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the
other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. A
moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner
of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before
the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher.
Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself
pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept wishing
that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so
doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.
And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing
that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their very first
sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in their two
bowls, at a draught.
"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said Quicksilver.
"The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst."
"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so sorry
and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the
pitcher. O husband, husband, why didn't we go without our supper?"
"Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from table and
taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters
are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly more milk in
the pitcher."
So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill,
not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher that
was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely believe her
eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in
afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon
the table.
"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. I
suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot help
being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."
"What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents
of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask you
for a little more."
Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that
Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had
poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course, there
could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know
precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as
if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea
that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore, when
such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was
immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two
snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis nor
Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads,
and began to lap up the spilt milk.
And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if
Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage
that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you,
my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at
supper-time!
"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver,
"and a little of that honey!"
Baucis cut him a slice accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her
husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it
was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. Tasting
a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than
bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her
own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could it possibly be?
But oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to
describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the
purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand
flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to
seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder is,
that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and
immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their
hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt.
The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that,
had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low
ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with
celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.
Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think
that there was something rather out of the common way in all that had been
going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a
bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by Philemon, and
told him what she had seen, in a whisper.
"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.
"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "And I rather think,
my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I
had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at once.
There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,--that
is all."
"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon
people."
"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They
certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily glad
to see them making so comfortable a supper."
Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.
Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of
opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each
separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It
was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been
produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall.
"Very admirable grapes these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one
after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my good
host, whence did you gather them?"
"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches
twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the
grapes very fine ones."
"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious
milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a prince."
This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he
was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which
Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was incapable
of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be
true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it
with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped
into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single
drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which
gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the
brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was lucky that
Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his
hand.
"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers!" cried he, even more bewildered
than his wife had been.
"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder
traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and
awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your
pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the
needy wayfarer!"
The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their
place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a
little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their
delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and
more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveler had inspired them
with such reverence that they dared not ask him any questions. And when
Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain
of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage
pointed to his staff.
"There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if you
can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to make
of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes
getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. If I had any
faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!"
He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather
fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his
heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old
couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the
evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had
given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for
themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their own
hearts.
The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the
strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to
depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer,
until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and,
perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however,
seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey
before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in
setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with
them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take.
So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old
friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple
insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple
spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the
illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing
wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into
their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They sometimes wished,
it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he
would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with
the snakes always writhing about it. But then, again, Quicksilver showed
himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep
him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day
long.
"Ah me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way
from their door. "If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to
show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never
allow their children to fling another stone."
"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good old
Baucis vehemently. "And I mean to go this very day, and tell some of them
what naughty people they are!"
"I fear," remarked Quicksilver; slyly smiling, "that you will find none of
them at home."
The elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and
awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared
to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been
gazing at the sky.
"When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a
brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep that they sounded like those
of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as
the abode of a great human brotherhood!"
"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the
liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same
village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I
do not see it hereabouts."
Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only
the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the
clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in
it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But what
was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village!
Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have
existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake,
which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and
reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as
if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. For an instant,
the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then a little breeze sprang up, and
caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and
to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore.
The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly
perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a
village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the
vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far
too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday, and now
was gone!
"Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor
neighbors?"
"They no longer exist as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his
grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a
distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for
they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise
of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no image of the
better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has
spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"
"And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his mischievous
smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but little
change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the
coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever you
or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw
in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!"
"Ah," cried Baucis shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of
them on the gridiron!"
"No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"
"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveler,--"and you, kind
Baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt
hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the
milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the
honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off
the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You have done well,
my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at
heart, and it is granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then--I know not which of
the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their
hearts.
"Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same
instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!"
"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "Now, look
towards your cottage!"
They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of
white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their
humble residence had so lately stood!
"There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them
both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor
hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."
The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he
nor Quicksilver was there.
So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and
spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making
everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The
milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality of
being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an
honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this
pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid
that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon
happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard
knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!
Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew
older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a
summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance,
as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their
pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The
guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and
all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in
front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to
have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with their roots
fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing
the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the other a
linden-tree. Their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to see--were
intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed
to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own.
While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required
at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in
a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs
astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two
mysterious trees were speaking.
"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.
"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden-tree.
But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at
once,--"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"--as if one were both and both
were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. It was
plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age,
and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, Philemon
as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a hospitable shade
did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he
heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how
the sound should so much resemble words like these:--
"Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!"
And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old
Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for
a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used
to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly from the miraculous
pitcher.
And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!
THE GOLDEN TOUCH
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose
name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever
heard of, and whose name I either never knew or have entirely forgotten.
So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her
Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. He
valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious
metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little
maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. But the more
Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He
thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this
dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow,
glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was
made. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose.
If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of
sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be
squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him
with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "Poh, poh,
child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth
the plucking!"
And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this
insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers.
He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifulest and
sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. These roses were still
growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant as when Midas
used to pass whole hours in gazing at them and inhaling their perfume. But
now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the
garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin
plate of gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle
story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the
only music for poor Midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.
At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take
care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that
was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of
every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of
his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole--for
it was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook himself, whenever he
wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully locking the door,
he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a
heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the
obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that
fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other
reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. And then
would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it
as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny
image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the
cup; and whisper to himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man
art thou!" But it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept
grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be
aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make
fun of him.
Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so
happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be reached,
unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be filled
with yellow metal which should be all his own.
Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the
old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came to
pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own
day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things take place
nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of
old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I regard our own
times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, I must go on
with my story.
Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when
he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly
up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the
bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy
face. Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow
tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of
golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures
than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were
lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles
of fire. As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock,
and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room,
he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than
mortal. It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when
the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the
resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest
themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half
playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now, and
was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect, indeed,
was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been
unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more
probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be,
unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?
The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to
Midas.
"You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!" he observed. "I doubt whether any
other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to
pile up in this room."
"I have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered Midas, in a discontented
tone. "But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has
taken me my whole life to get it together. If one could live a thousand
years, he might have time to grow rich!"
"What!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then you are not satisfied?"
Midas shook his head.
"And pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know."
Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger,
with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with
both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now,
therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain
whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his
head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one
golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to
imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred to King Midas. It
seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much.
Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
"Well, Midas," observed his visitor, "I see that you have at length hit
upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish."
"It is only this," replied Midas. "I am weary of collecting my treasures
with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have
done my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!"
The stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room
like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell where the yellow
autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of gold--lie strewn
in the glow of light.
"The Golden Touch!" exclaimed he. "You certainly deserve credit, friend
Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure
that this will satisfy you?"
"How could it fail?" said Midas.
"And will you never regret the possession of it?"
"What could induce me?" asked Midas. "I ask nothing else, to render me
perfectly happy."
"Be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in token
of farewell. "To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with
the Golden Touch."
The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas
involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one
yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the
precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.
Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep or
awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to whom a
beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any rate, day
had hardly peeped over the hills, when King Midas was broad awake, and,
stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were
within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch had really
come, according to the stranger's promise. So he laid his finger on a
chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously
disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same substance
as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only dreamed about
the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been making game of
him. And what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his hopes,
Midas must content himself with what little gold he could scrape together
by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch!
All this while it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of
brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it. He lay
in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and
kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through
the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. It seemed to Midas that
this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the
white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his astonishment
and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to
what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! The Golden
Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!
Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room,
grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of
the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled
aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders
which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,--a mass of
gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first touch, it assumed the
appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often
meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves,
behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of
the book had grown illegible. He hurriedly put on his clothes, and was
enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which
retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little
with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little Marygold had
hemmed for him. That was likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and
pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!
Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King
Midas. He would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have
remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his
hand.
But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas now took
his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he
might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days, spectacles for
common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else,
how could Midas have had any? To his great perplexity, however, excellent
as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through
them. But this was the most natural thing in the world; for on taking them
off, the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow metal,
and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold. It
struck Midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could
never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.
"It is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very
philosophically. "We cannot expect any great good, without its being
accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the
sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very
eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little
Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me."
Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune that the palace seemed
not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went downstairs,
and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar
of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it in his descent. He lifted
the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his
fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he
found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all
the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was their fragrance
in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights
in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tranquillity did
these roses seem to be.
But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way
of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains in
going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most indefatigably;
until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of
some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this good work was
completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air
had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.
What was usually a king's breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do not
know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the best of my belief,
however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes,
some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and
coffee, for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his
daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a
king; and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have had a
better.
Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her to
be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming, in
order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved his
daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the
good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great while before he
heard her coming along the passage-way crying bitterly. This circumstance
surprised him, because Marygold was one of the cheerfullest little people
whom you would see in a summer's day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of
tears in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her sobs, he determined to put
little Marygold into better spirits, by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning
across the table, he touched his daughter's bowl (which was a China one,
with pretty figures all around it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold.
Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and showed
herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would
break.
"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "Pray what is the matter with you,
this bright morning?"
Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in
which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.
"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this magnificent
golden rose to make you cry?"
"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her;
"it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I
was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I
know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little
daughter. But, oh dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a
misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweet and had so many
lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as
you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the
matter with them?"
"Poh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said Midas, who was
ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly
afflicted her. "Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will find it
easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds
of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day."
"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it
contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!"
The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for
the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful
transmutation of her China bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for
Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures,
and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of
the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of
the metal.
Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of
course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it
up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it was
rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits,
to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the
difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen
would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as
golden bowls and coffee-pots.
Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and,
sipping it, was astonished to perceive that the instant his lips touched
the liquid, it became molten gold, and the next moment, hardened into a
lump!
"Ha!" exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.
"What is the matter, father?" asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with
the tears still standing in her eyes.
"Nothing, child, nothing!" said Midas. "Eat your milk, before it gets
quite cold."
He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of
experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was
immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook trout into a
gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in
glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. No; but it was really a
metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the
nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires; its
fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the
fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried
fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty piece of work, as you may
suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had
a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of
one.
"I don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how I am to get any
breakfast!"
He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to
his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the
whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To say the truth,
if it had really been a hot Indian cake, Midas would have prized it a good
deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased weight made him
too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in despair, he helped
himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to
those of the trout and the cake. The egg, indeed, might have been mistaken
for one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was in the
habit of laying; but King Midas was the only goose that had had anything
to do with the matter.
"Well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair, and
looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread
and milk with great satisfaction. "Such a costly breakfast before me, and
nothing that can be eaten!"
Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to
be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato,
and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. But
the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth full, not of
mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared
aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the
room, both with pain and affright.
"Father, dear father!" cried little Marygold, who was a very affectionate
child, "pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your mouth?"
"Ah, dear child," groaned Midas dolefully, "I don't know what is to become
of your poor father!"
And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable
case in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that
could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good
for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and
cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food was
really worth its weight in gold. And what was to be done? Already, at
breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be less so by
dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must
undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now
before him! How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of
this rich fare?
These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt
whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or
even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So
fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would
still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a
consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal's
victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of
money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for
some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!
"It would be quite too dear," thought Midas.
Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his
situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our
pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat, a moment, gazing at
her father, and trying with all the might of her little wits to find out
what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to
comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her
arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt
that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more than he
had gained by the Golden Touch.
"My precious, precious Marygold!" cried he.
But Marygold made no answer.
Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger
bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold's forehead, a
change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it
had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow teardrops
congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint.
Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her
father's encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his
insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer,
but a golden statue!
Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity,
hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woeful sight that
ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there; even
the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But the more
perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at
beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a
daughter. It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt
particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in
gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And now, at last, when
it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that
loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt
the earth and sky!
It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the
fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan
himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to
look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could
not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But stealing another
glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on
its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender that it seemed as if
that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again.
This, however, could not be. So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to
wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all
his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child's
face.
While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger
standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he
recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in
the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the
Golden Touch. The stranger's countenance still wore a smile, which seemed
to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little
Marygold's image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the
touch of Midas.
"Well, friend Midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with the
Golden Touch?"
Midas shook his head.
"I am very miserable," said he.
"Very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger. "And how happens that?
Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not everything
that your heart desired?"
"Gold is not everything," answered Midas. "And I have lost all that my
heart really cared for."
"Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?" observed the
stranger. "Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is
really worth the most,--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear
cold water?"
"O blessed water!" exclaimed Midas. "It will never moisten my parched
throat again!"
"The Golden Touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?"
"A piece of bread," answered Midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!"
"The Golden Touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little Marygold,
warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?"
"Oh, my child, my dear child!" cried poor Midas, wringing his hands. "I
would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of
changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!"
"You are wiser than you were, King Midas!" said the stranger, looking
seriously at him. "Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely
changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be
desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the
commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more valuable
than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. Tell me,
now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?"
"It is hateful to me!" replied Midas.
A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too,
had become gold. Midas shuddered.
"Go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides past
the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water, and
sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from
gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and
sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has
occasioned."
King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger
had vanished.
You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great
earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched
it), and hastening to the riverside. As he scampered along, and forced his
way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvelous to see how the
foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and
nowhere else. On reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in,
without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.
"Poof! poof! poof!" snorted King Midas, as his head emerged out of the
water. "Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have
quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!"
As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to
see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it
had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within
himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his
bosom. No doubt his heart had been gradually losing its human substance,
and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now softened back
again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river,
Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the
delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow
blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had therefore really been removed
from him.
King Midas hastened back to the palace; and I suppose the servants knew
not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully
bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was to
undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to
Midas, than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The first thing he
did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the
golden figure of little Marygold.
No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the
rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek! and how she began to
sneeze and sputter!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping
wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!
"Pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "See how you have wet my nice
frock, which I put on only this morning!"
For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor
could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she
ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.
Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very
foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he
had now grown. For this purpose he led little Marygold into the garden,
where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes,
and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their
beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however, which, as long as
he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden Touch. One was,
that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little
Marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it
before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss. This change of
hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold's hair richer than in her
babyhood.
When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot Marygold's
children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvelous story,
pretty much as I have now told it to you. And then would he stroke their
glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich shade
of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.
"And to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth King Midas,
diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that morning,
I have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!"
THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Mother Ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter Proserpina, and seldom
let her go alone into the fields. But, just at the time when my story
begins, the good lady was very busy, because she had the care of the
wheat, and the Indian corn, and the rye and barley, and, in short, of the
crops of every kind, all over the earth; and as the season had thus far
been uncommonly backward, it was necessary to make the harvest ripen more
speedily than usual. So she put on her turban, made of poppies (a kind of
flower which she was always noted for wearing), and got into her car drawn
by a pair of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off.
"Dear mother," said Proserpina, "I shall be very lonely while you are
away. May I not run down to the shore, and ask some of the sea-nymphs to
come up out of the waves and play with me?"
"Yes, child," answered Mother Ceres. "The sea-nymphs are good creatures,
and will never lead you into any harm. But you must take care not to stray
away from them, nor go wandering about the fields by yourself. Young
girls, without their mothers to take care of them, are very apt to get
into mischief."
The child promised to be as prudent as if she were a grown-up woman, and,
by the time the winged dragons had whirled the car out of sight, she was
already on the shore, calling to the sea-nymphs to come and play with her.
They knew Proserpina's voice, and were not long in showing their
glistening faces and sea-green hair above the water, at the bottom of
which was their home. They brought along with them a great many beautiful
shells; and, sitting down on the moist sand, where the surf wave broke
over them, they busied themselves in making a necklace, which they hung
round Proserpina's neck. By way of showing her gratitude, the child
besought them to go with her a little way into the fields, so that they
might gather abundance of flowers, with which she would make each of her
kind playmates a wreath.
"Oh, no, dear Proserpina," cried the sea-nymphs; "we dare not go with you
upon the dry land. We are apt to grow faint, unless at every breath we can
snuff up the salt breeze of the ocean. And don't you see how careful we
are to let the surf wave break over us every moment or two, so as to keep
ourselves comfortably moist? If it were not for that, we should soon look
like bunches of uprooted sea-weed dried in the sun."
"It is a great pity," said Proserpina, "but do you wait for me here, and I
will run and gather my apron full of flowers, and be back again before the
surf wave has broken ten times over you. I long to make you some wreaths
that shall be as lovely as this necklace of many-colored shells."
"We will wait, then," answered the sea-nymphs. "But while you are gone, we
may as well lie down on a bank of soft sponge, under the water. The air
to-day is a little too dry for our comfort. But we will pop up our heads
every few minutes to see if you are coming."
The young Proserpina ran quickly to a spot where, only the day before, she
had seen a great many flowers. These, however, were now a little past
their bloom; and wishing to give her friends the freshest and loveliest
blossoms, she strayed farther into the fields, and found some that made
her scream with delight. Never had she met with such exquisite flowers
before,--violets, so large and fragrant,--roses, with so rich and delicate
a blush,--such superb hyacinths and such aromatic pinks,--and many others,
some of which seemed to be of new shapes and colors. Two or three times,
moreover, she could not help thinking that a tuft of most splendid flowers
had suddenly sprouted out of the earth before her very eyes, as if on
purpose to tempt her a few steps farther. Proserpina's apron was soon
filled and brimming over with delightful blossoms. She was on the point of
turning back in order to rejoin the sea-nymphs, and sit with them on the
moist sands, all twining wreaths together. But, a little farther on, what
should she behold? It was a large shrub, completely covered with the most
magnificent flowers in the world.
"The darlings!" cried Proserpina; and then she thought to herself, "I was
looking at that spot only a moment ago. How strange it is that I did not
see the flowers!"
The nearer she approached the shrub, the more attractive it looked, until
she came quite close to it; and then, although its beauty was richer than
words can tell, she hardly knew whether to like it or not. It bore above a
hundred flowers of the most brilliant hues, and each different from the
others, but all having a kind of resemblance among themselves, which
showed them to be sister blossoms. But there was a deep, glossy lustre on
the leaves of the shrub, and on the petals of the flowers, that made
Proserpina doubt whether they might not be poisonous. To tell you the
truth, foolish as it may seem, she was half inclined to turn round and run
away.
"What a silly child I am!" thought she, taking courage. "It is really the
most beautiful shrub that ever sprang out of the earth. I will pull it up
by the roots, and carry it home, and plant it in my mother's garden."
Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand, Proserpina seized
the large shrub with the other, and pulled and pulled, but was hardly able
to loosen the soil about its roots. What a deep-rooted plant it was! Again
the girl pulled with all her might, and observed that the earth began to
stir and crack to some distance around the stem. She gave another pull,
but relaxed her hold, fancying that there was a rumbling sound right
beneath her feet. Did the roots extend down into some enchanted cavern?
Then, laughing at herself for so childish a notion, she made another
effort; up came the shrub, and Proserpina staggered back, holding the stem
triumphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep hole which its roots had
left in the soil.
Much to her astonishment this hole kept spreading wider and wider, and
growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to have no bottom; and
all the while, there came a rumbling noise out of its depths, louder and
louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounding like the tramp of horses'
hoofs and the rattling of wheels. Too much frightened to run away, she
stood straining her eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a team
of four sable horses, snorting smoke out of their nostrils, and tearing
their way out of the earth with a splendid golden chariot whirling at
their heels. They leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all; and
there they were, tossing their black manes, flourishing their black tails,
and curvetting with every one of their hoofs off the ground at once, close
by the spot where Proserpina stood. In the chariot sat the figure of a
man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming with diamonds.
He was of a noble aspect, and rather handsome, but looked sullen and
discontented; and he kept rubbing his eyes and shading them with his hand,
as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be very fond of its light.
[Illustration: THEY LEAPED OUT OF THE BOTTOMLESS HOLE, CHARIOT AND ALL;
AND THERE THEY WERE TOSSING THEIR BLACK TAILS, AND CURVETTING WITH EVERY
ONE OF THEIR HOOFS OFF THE GROUND AT ONCE, CLOSE BY THE SPOT WHERE
PROSERPINA STOOD. IN THE CHARIOT SAT THE FIGURE OF A MAN]
As soon as this personage saw the affrighted Proserpina, he beckoned her
to come a little nearer.
"Do not be afraid," said he, with as cheerful a smile as he knew how to
put on. "Come! Will not you like to ride a little way with me, in my
beautiful chariot?"
But Proserpina was so alarmed that she wished for nothing but to get out
of his reach. And no wonder. The stranger did not look remarkably
good-natured, in spite of his smile; and as for his voice, its tones were
deep and stern, and sounded as much like the rumbling of an earthquake
under ground as anything else. As is always the case with children in
trouble, Proserpina's first thought was to call for her mother.
"Mother, Mother Ceres!" cried she, all in a tremble. "Come quickly and
save me."
But her voice was too faint for her mother to hear. Indeed, it is most
probable that Ceres was then a thousand miles off, making the corn grow in
some far-distant country. Nor could it have availed her poor daughter,
even had she been within hearing; for no sooner did Proserpina begin to
cry out, than the stranger leaped to the ground, caught the child in his
arms, and again mounting the chariot, shook the reins, and shouted to the
four black horses to set off. They immediately broke into so swift a
gallop that it seemed rather like flying through the air than running
along the earth. In a moment, Proserpina lost sight of the pleasant vale
of Enna, in which she had always dwelt. Another instant, and even the
summit of Mount Ætna had become so blue in the distance that she could
scarcely distinguish it from the smoke that gushed out of its crater. But
still the poor child screamed, and scattered her apron full of flowers
along the way, and left a long cry trailing behind the chariot; and many
mothers, to whose ears it came, ran quickly to see if any mischief had
befallen their children. But Mother Ceres was a great way off, and could
not hear the cry.
As they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe her.
"Why should you be so frightened, my pretty child?" said he, trying to
soften his rough voice. "I promise not to do you any harm. What! You have
been gathering flowers? Wait till we come to my palace, and I will give
you a garden full of prettier flowers than those, all made of pearls, and
diamonds, and rubies. Can you guess who I am? They call my name Pluto, and
I am the king of diamonds and all other precious stones. Every atom of the
gold and silver that lies under the earth belongs to me, to say nothing of
the copper and iron, and of the coal-mines, which supply me with abundance
of fuel. Do you see this splendid crown upon my head? You may have it for
a plaything. Oh, we shall be very good friends, and you will find me more
agreeable than you expect, when once we get out of this troublesome
sunshine."
"Let me go home!" cried Proserpina. "Let me go home!"
"My home is better than your mother's," answered King Pluto "It is a
palace, all made of gold, with crystal windows; and because there is
little or no sunshine thereabouts, the apartments are illuminated with
diamond lamps. You never saw anything half so magnificent as my throne. If
you like, you may sit down on it, and be my little queen, and I will sit
on the footstool."
"I don't care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed Proserpina. "Oh, my
mother, my mother! Carry me back to my mother!"
But King Pluto, as he called himself, only shouted to his steeds to go
faster.
"Pray do not be foolish, Proserpina," said he, in rather a sullen tone. "I
offer you my palace and my crown, and all the riches that are under the
earth; and you treat me as if I were doing you an injury. The one thing
which my palace needs is a merry little maid, to run upstairs and down,
and cheer up the rooms with her smile. And this is what you must do for
King Pluto."
"Never!" answered Proserpina, looking as miserable as she could. "I shall
never smile again till you set me down at my mother's door."
But she might just as well have talked to the wind that whistled past
them; for Pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than ever. Proserpina
continued to cry out, and screamed so long and so loudly, that her poor
little voice was almost screamed away; and when it was nothing but a
whisper, she happened to cast her eyes over a great, broad field of waving
grain--and whom do you think she saw? Who, but Mother Ceres, making the
corn grow, and too busy to notice the golden chariot as it went rattling
along. The child mustered all her strength, and gave one more scream, but
was out of sight before Ceres had time to turn her head.
King Pluto had taken a road which now began to grow excessively gloomy. It
was bordered on each side with rocks and precipices, between which the
rumbling of the chariot-wheels was reverberated with a noise like rolling
thunder. The trees and bushes that grew in the crevices of the rocks had
very dismal foliage; and by and by, although it was hardly noon, the air
became obscured with a gray twilight. The black horses had rushed along so
swiftly, that they were already beyond the limits of the sunshine. But the
duskier it grew, the more did Pluto's visage assume an air of
satisfaction. After all, he was not an ill-looking person, especially when
he left off twisting his features into a smile that did not belong to
them. Proserpina peeped at his face through the gathering dusk, and hoped
that he might not be so very wicked as she at first thought him.
"Ah, this twilight is truly refreshing," said King Pluto, "after being so
tormented with that ugly and impertinent glare of the sun. How much more
agreeable is lamplight or torchlight, more particularly when reflected
from diamonds! It will be a magnificent sight when we get to my palace."
"Is it much farther?" asked Proserpina. "And will you carry me back when I
have seen it?"
"We will talk of that by and by," answered Pluto. "We are just entering my
dominions. Do you see that tall gateway before us? When we pass those
gates, we are at home. And there lies my faithful mastiff at the
threshold. Cerberus! Cerberus! Come hither, my good dog!"
So saying, Pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped the chariot right
between the tall, massive pillars of the gateway. The mastiff of which he
had spoken got up from the threshold, and stood on his hinder legs, so as
to put his forepaws on the chariot-wheel. But, my stars, what a strange
dog it was! Why, he was a big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with three
separate heads, and each of them fiercer than the two others; but, fierce
as they were, King Pluto patted them all. He seemed as fond of his
three-headed dog as if it had been a sweet little spaniel, with silken
ears and curly hair. Cerberus, on the other hand, was evidently rejoiced
to see his master, and expressed his attachment, as other dogs do, by
wagging his tail at a great rate. Proserpina's eyes being drawn to it by
its brisk motion, she saw that this tail was neither more nor less than a
live dragon, with fiery eyes, and fangs that had a very poisonous aspect.
And while the three-headed Cerberus was fawning so lovingly on King Pluto,
there was the dragon tail wagging against its will, and looking as cross
and ill-natured as you can imagine, on its own separate account.
"Will the dog bite me?" asked Proserpina, shrinking closer to Pluto. "What
an ugly creature he is!"
"Oh, never fear," answered her companion. "He never harms people unless
they try to enter my dominions without being sent for, or to get away when
I wish to keep them here. Down, Cerberus! Now, my pretty Proserpina, we
will drive on."
On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed greatly pleased to find himself
once more in his own kingdom. He drew Proserpina's attention to the rich
veins of gold that were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed to several
places where one stroke of a pick-axe would loosen a bushel of diamonds.
All along the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems, which would have
been of inestimable value above ground, but which were here reckoned of
the meaner sort, and hardly worth a beggar's stooping for.
Not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge, which seemed to be built
of iron. Pluto stopped the chariot, and bade Proserpina look at the stream
which was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in her life had she beheld
so torpid, so black, so muddy-looking a stream: its waters reflected no
images of anything that was on the banks, and it moved as sluggishly as if
it had quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and had rather stagnate
than flow either one way or the other.
"This is the river Lethe," observed King Pluto. "Is it not a very pleasant
stream?" "I think it a very dismal one," said Proserpina. "It suits my
taste, however," answered Pluto, who was apt to be sullen when anybody
disagreed with him. "At all events, its water has one very excellent
quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget every care and
sorrow that has hitherto tormented them. Only sip a little of it, my dear
Proserpina, and you will instantly cease to grieve for your mother, and
will have nothing in your memory that can prevent your being perfectly
happy in my palace. I will send for some, in a golden goblet, the moment
we arrive."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Proserpina, weeping afresh. "I had a thousand
times rather be miserable with remembering my mother than be happy in
forgetting her. That dear, dear mother! I never, never will forget her."
"We shall see," said King Pluto. "You do not know what fine times we will
have in my palace. Here we are just at the portal. These pillars are solid
gold, I assure you."
He alighted from the chariot, and taking Proserpina in his arms, carried
her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace. It was
splendidly illuminated by means of large precious stones, of various hues,
which seemed to burn like so many lamps, and glowed with a hundred-fold
radiance all through the vast apartment. And yet there was a kind of gloom
in the midst of this enchanted light; nor was there a single object in the
hall that was really agreeable to behold, except the little Proserpina
herself, a lovely child, with one earthly flower which she had not let
fall from her hand. It is my opinion that even King Pluto had never been
happy in his palace, and that this was the true reason why he had stolen
away Proserpina, in order that he might have something to love, instead of
cheating his heart any longer with this tiresome magnificence. And, though
he pretended to dislike the sunshine of the upper world, yet the effect of
the child's presence, bedimmed as she was by her tears, was as if a faint
and watery sunbeam had somehow or other found its way into the enchanted
hall.
Pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in preparing
a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things, not to fail of setting a
golden beaker of the water of Lethe by Proserpina's plate.
"I will neither drink that nor anything else," said Proserpina. "Nor will
I taste a morsel of food, even if you keep me forever in your palace." on
the seashore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld
the wet faces of the poor sea-nymphs peeping over a wave. All this while,
the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and once every
half-minute or so, had popped up their four heads above water, to see if
their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw Mother Ceres, they sat
down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it toss them ashore at her
feet.
"Where is Proserpina?" cried Ceres. "Where is my child? Tell me, you
naughty sea-nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?"
"Oh, no, good Mother Ceres," said the innocent sea-nymphs, tossing back
their green ringlets, and looking her in the face. "We never should dream
of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true; but she
left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the dry
land, and gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the day, and
we have seen nothing of her since."
Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before she
hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But nobody
told her anything that could enable the poor mother to guess what had
become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little
footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a basket
of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers; several
persons had heard either the rattling of chariot-wheels or the rumbling of
distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain and catnip, had
heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish nonsense, and
therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid people! It took
them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they knew, that it was
dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she must seek her daughter
elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth, resolving never to come
back until Proserpina was discovered.
In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the winged
dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the search
more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in which she
began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and looking
carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened, she had not
gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers which grew on the
shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.
"Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. "Here is mischief
in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of mine, nor of
its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is therefore poisonous;
and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child."
But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she
might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.
All night long, at the door of every cottage and farmhouse, Ceres knocked,
and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen her child;
and they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the threshold, and answered her
pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At the portal of every
palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials hurried to throw
open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king or queen, who
would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to repose in. And
when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch in her hand and a
wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke rudely, and sometimes
threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody had seen Proserpina, nor
could give Mother Ceres the least hint which way to seek her. Thus passed
the night; and still she continued her search without sitting down to
rest, or stopping to take food, or even remembering to put down the torch;
although first the rosy dawn, and then the glad light of the morning sun,
made its red flame look thin and pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff
this torch was made of; for it burned dimly through the day, and at night
was as bright as ever, and never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in
all the weary days and nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.
It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her daughter.
In the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of another nature, who
used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary places, and
were very sociable with persons who understood their language and customs,
as Mother Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she tapped with her finger
against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and immediately its rude bark
would cleave asunder, and forth would step a beautiful maiden, who was the
hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and sharing its long life,
and rejoicing when its green leaves sported with the breeze. But not one
of these leafy damsels had seen Proserpina. Then, going a little farther,
Ceres would, perhaps, come to a fountain, gushing out of a pebbly hollow
in the earth, and would dabble with her hand in the water. Behold, up
through its sandy and pebbly bed, along with the fountain's gush, a young
woman with dripping hair would arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres,
half out of the water, and undulating up and down with its ever-restless
motion. But when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped
to drink out of the fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these
water-nymphs had tears to spare for everybody's grief), would answer,
"No!" in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the stream.
Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country
people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their
foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gamboled merrily
about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome kind of creature, but
grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow when Ceres inquired
for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell. But sometimes she
came suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces like monkeys and
horses' tails behind them, and who were generally dancing in a very
boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When she stopped to
question them, they would only laugh the louder, and make new merriment
out of the lone woman's distress. How unkind of those ugly satyrs! And
once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a personage named
Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock. And making music on a shepherd's
flute. He, too, had horns and hairy ears, and goat's feet; but being
acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question as civilly as he
knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey out of a wooden
bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of Proserpina, any
better than the rest of these wild people.
And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and nights,
finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a withered
flower; and these, she picked up and put in her bosom, because she fancied
that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand. All day she
traveled onward through the hot sun; and at night, again, the flame of the
torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she continued her
search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.
On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern, within which
(though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been only a
dusky twilight: but it so happened that a torch was burning there. It
flickered and struggled with the duskiness, but could not half light up
the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres was resolved to
leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the
cave, and lighted it up a little more by holding her own torch before her.
In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman, sitting on
the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which had been swept
into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it were) was by no means
so beautiful as many of her sex: for her head, they tell me, was shaped
very much like a dog's, and, by way of ornament, she wore a wreath of
snakes around it. But Mother Ceres, the moment she saw her, knew that this
was an odd kind of a person, who put all her enjoyment in being miserable,
and never would have a word to say to other people, unless they were as
melancholy and wretched as she herself delighted to be.
"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this
melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet."
So she stepped into the cave, and sat down, on the withered leaves by the
dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss, she
had found no other companion.
"O Hecate." said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what
sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"
"No." answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every word
or two.--"no. Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter. But my
ears, you must know, are made in such a way that all cries of distress and
affright, all over the world, are pretty sure to find their way to them:
and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very miserable. I
heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great distress.
Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest assured. As
well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster, was carrying
her away."
"You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. "Where was
the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time, there
was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell you
nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see your
daughter again. The best advice I can give you is to take up your abode in
this cavern, where we will be the two most wret
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