Myths of Greece and Rome
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Title: Myths of Greece and Rome
Author: H. A. Guerber
Release date: March 25, 2012 [eBook #39250]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME ***
Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
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Internet Archive)
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
NARRATED WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO
LITERATURE AND ART
BY
H. A. GUERBER
LECTURER ON MYTHOLOGY
[Illustration]
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO
Copyright, 1893, by
American Book Company.
Copyright. 1921, by
H. A. Guerber.
Guerber's Myths.
E.P. 44
DEDICATED
TO MY KIND FRIENDS
MISS MACKIE AND MISS MASTERS
IN WHOSE SCHOOLS MY LECTURES WERE FIRST GIVEN
MADE IN U. S. A.
[Illustration: HOMER.--François Gérard.]
PREFACE.
The aim of this book is to present a complete and entertaining account
of Grecian and Roman mythology in such a manner that the student will
appreciate its great influence upon literature and art.
These myths, an inexhaustible fund of inspiration for the poets and
artists of the past, have also inspired many noted modern works. To
impress this fact forcibly upon the student, appropriate quotations
from the poetical writings of all ages, from Hesiod's "Works and
Days," to Tennyson's "Oenone," have been inserted in the text, while
reproductions of ancient masterpieces and noted examples of modern
painting and sculpture are plentifully used as illustrations.
The myths are told as graphically and accurately as possible, great
care being taken, however, to avoid the more repulsive features of
heathen mythology; and when two or more versions of the same myth
occur, the preference has invariably been given to the most popular,
that is to say, to the one which has inspired the greatest works.
Both the Latin and the Greek forms of proper names are given, but the
Latin names are usually retained throughout the narrative, because
more frequently used in poetry and art.
The closing chapter includes an analysis of myths by the light of
philology and comparative mythology, and the philological explanation
of the stories related in the preceding chapters.
A map, genealogical table, and complete glossary and index adapt this
little volume for constant use in the library and art gallery, at home
and abroad.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
MAP SHOWING LOCATION OF MYTHS 8
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 10
CHAP. I. The Beginning of All Things 11
II. Jupiter 39
III. Juno 51
IV. Minerva 55
V. Apollo 61
VI. Diana 93
VII. Venus 103
VIII. Mercury 131
IX. Mars 138
X. Vulcan 144
XI. Neptune 149
XII. Pluto 159
XIII. Bacchus 171
XIV. Ceres and Proserpina 183
XV. Vesta 198
XVI. Janus 205
XVII. Somnus and Mors 208
XVIII. Æolus 213
XIX. Hercules 216
XX. Perseus 240
XXI. Theseus 250
XXII. Jason 263
XXIII. The Calydonian Hunt 275
XXIV. Oedipus 280
XXV. Bellerophon 291
XXVI. Minor Divinities 297
XXVII. The Trojan War 305
XXVIII. Adventures of Ulysses 337
XXIX. Adventures of Æneas 360
XXX. Analysis of Myths 378
GENEALOGICAL TABLE 402
INDEX TO POETICAL QUOTATIONS 405
GLOSSARY AND INDEX 407
[Illustration: Maps.]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Homer 2
Amor 14
Fountain of Cybele (Rhea) 19
Minerva and Prometheus 26
Pandora 30
Hope 34
Olympian Zeus 40
Ganymede and the Eagle 42
The Abduction of Europa 46
Juno 50
Iris 53
Minerva 56
Apollo Belvedere 66
Apollo and Daphne 69
Orpheus and Eurydice 78
Farnese Bull 81
Aurora 86
Apollo and the Muses 89
Diana of Versailles 92
Niobe 95
Venus de Milo 102
Fourth Hour of the Night 104
Sleeping Love 109
Hero and Leander 115
Cupid awakening Psyche 125
Charon and Psyche 129
Flying Mercury 133
Venus de Milo and Mars 141
The Forge of Vulcan 146
Fountain of Neptune 150
Father Nile 157
The Furies 162
The Three Fates 164
Bacchus 175
Marriage of Bacchus and Ariadne 180
Abduction of Proserpina 185
Ceres 189
A Nymph 191
School of the Vestal Virgins 199
The Vestal Tuccia 201
Genius of Death 209
Hercules an Infant 217
Hercules and Centaur 222
Mounted Amazon going to the Chase 225
Hercules at the Feet of Omphale 231
Fortuna 233
Farnese Hercules 237
Perseus 245
Perseus and Andromeda 247
Dædalus and Icarus 254
Ariadne 258
Theseus 261
Jason and the Dragon 270
Medea 272
Atalanta's Race 277
Oedipus and the Sphinx 284
Antigone and Ismene 289
Chimæra 293
Vertumnus and Pomona 302
Paris 309
Abduction of Helen 313
Parting of Hector and Andromache 322
Thetis bearing the Armor of Achilles 327
Laocoon 334
Triumph of Galatea 340
Acis and Galatea (Evening) 342
Circe and the Friends of Ulysses 348
Siren 351
Penelope 356
Æneas at the Court of Dido 368
Cumæan Sibyl 371
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME.
CHAPTER I.
THE BEGINNING OF ALL THINGS.
Mythology is the science which treats of the early traditions, or
myths, relating to the religion of the ancients, and includes, besides
a full account of the origin of their gods, their theory concerning
the beginning of all things.
[Sidenote: Myths of creation.]
Among all the nations scattered over the face of the earth, the
Hebrews alone were instructed by God, who gave them not only a full
account of the creation of the world and of all living creatures, but
also a code of laws to regulate their conduct. All the questions they
fain would ask were fully answered, and no room remained for
conjecture.
It was not so, however, with the other nations. The Greeks and Romans,
for instance, lacking the definite knowledge which we obtain from the
Scriptures, and still anxious to know everything, were forced to
construct, in part, their own theory. As they looked about them for
some clue to serve as guide, they could not help but observe and
admire the wonders of nature. The succession of day and night, summer
and winter, rain and sunshine; the fact that the tallest trees sprang
from tiny seeds, the greatest rivers from diminutive streams, and the
most beautiful flowers and delicious fruits from small green
buds,--all seemed to tell them of a superior Being, who had fashioned
them to serve a definite purpose.
They soon came to the conclusion that a hand mighty enough to call all
these wonders into life, could also have created the beautiful Earth
whereon they dwelt. These thoughts gave rise to others; suppositions
became certainties; and soon the following myth or fable was evolved,
to be handed down from generation to generation.
At first, when all things lay in a great confused mass,--
"Ere earth, and sea, and covering heavens, were known,
The face of nature, o'er the world, was one;
And men have call'd it Chaos; formless, rude,
The mass; dead matter's weight, inert, and crude;
Where, in mix'd heap of ill-compounded mold,
The jarring seeds of things confusedly roll'd."
Ovid (Elton's tr.).
The Earth did not exist. Land, sea, and air were mixed up together; so
that the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid, nor the air
transparent.
"No sun yet beam'd from yon cerulean height;
No orbing moon repair'd her horns of light;
No earth, self-poised, on liquid ether hung;
No sea its world-enclasping waters flung;
Earth was half air, half sea, an embryo heap;
Nor earth was fix'd, nor fluid was the deep;
Dark was the void of air; no form was traced;
Obstructing atoms struggled through the waste;
Where cold, and hot, and moist, and dry rebell'd;
Heavy the light, and hard the soft repell'd."
Ovid (Elton's tr.).
[Sidenote: Chaos and Nyx.]
Over this shapeless mass reigned a careless deity called Chaos, whose
personal appearance could not be described, as there was no light by
which he could be seen. He shared his throne with his wife, the dark
goddess of Night, named Nyx or Nox, whose black robes, and still
blacker countenance, did not tend to enliven the surrounding gloom.
[Sidenote: Erebus, Æther, and Hemera.]
These two divinities wearied of their power in the course of time, and
called their son Erebus (Darkness) to their assistance. His first act
was to dethrone and supplant Chaos; and then, thinking he would be
happier with a helpmeet, he married his own mother, Nyx. Of course,
with our present views, this marriage was a heinous sin; but the
ancients, who at first had no fixed laws, did not consider this union
unsuitable, and recounted how Erebus and Nyx ruled over the chaotic
world together, until their two beautiful children, Æther (Light) and
Hemera (Day), acting in concert, dethroned them, and seized the
supreme power.
[Sidenote: Creation of Gæa and Uranus.]
Space, illumined for the first time by their radiance, revealed itself
in all its uncouthness. Æther and Hemera carefully examined the
confusion, saw its innumerable possibilities, and decided to evolve
from it a "thing of beauty;" but quite conscious of the magnitude of
such an undertaking, and feeling that some assistance would be
desirable, they summoned Eros (Amor or Love), their own child, to
their aid. By their combined efforts, Pontus (the Sea) and Gæa (Ge,
Tellus, Terra), as the Earth was first called, were created.
In the beginning the Earth did not present the beautiful appearance
that it does now. No trees waved their leafy branches on the
hillsides; no flowers bloomed in the valleys; no grass grew on the
plains; no birds flew through the air. All was silent, bare, and
motionless. Eros, the first to perceive these deficiencies, seized his
life-giving arrows and pierced the cold bosom of the Earth.
Immediately the brown surface was covered with luxuriant verdure;
birds of many colors flitted through the foliage of the new-born
forest trees; animals of all kinds gamboled over the grassy plains;
and swift-darting fishes swam in the limpid streams. All was now life,
joy, and motion.
[Illustration: AMOR.--Martin.]
Gæa, roused from her apathy, admired all that had already been done
for her embellishment, and, resolving to crown and complete the work
so well begun, created Uranus (Heaven).
"Her first-born Earth produc'd,
Of like immensity, the starry Heaven:
That he might sheltering compass her around
On every side."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
[Sidenote: The egg myth.]
This version of the creation of the world, although but one of the
many current with the Greeks and Romans, was the one most generally
adopted; but another, also very popular, stated that the first
divinities, Erebus and Nyx, produced a gigantic egg, from which Eros,
the god of love, emerged to create the Earth.
"In the dreary chaotical closet
Of Erebus old, was a privy deposit,
By Night the primæval in secrecy laid;
A Mystical Egg, that in silence and shade
Was brooded and hatched; till time came about:
And Love, the delightful, in glory flew out."
Aristophanes (Frere's tr.).
[Sidenote: Mount Olympus and the river Oceanus.]
The Earth thus created was supposed by the ancients to be a disk,
instead of a sphere as science has proved. The Greeks fancied that
their country occupied a central position, and that Mount Olympus, a
very high mountain, the mythological abode of their gods, was placed
in the exact center. Their Earth was divided into two equal parts by
Pontus (the Sea,--equivalent to our Mediterranean and Black Seas); and
all around it flowed the great river Oceanus in a "steady, equable
current," undisturbed by storm, from which the Sea and all the rivers
were supposed to derive their waters.
[Sidenote: The Hyperboreans.]
The Greeks also imagined that the portion of the Earth directly north
of their country was inhabited by a fortunate race of men, the
Hyperboreans, who dwelt in continual bliss, and enjoyed a never-ending
springtide. Their homes were said to be "inaccessible by land or by
sea." They were "exempt from disease, old age, and death," and were so
virtuous that the gods frequently visited them, and even condescended
to share their feasts and games. A people thus favored could not fail
to be happy, and many were the songs in praise of their sunny land.
"I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;
Where the winds of the north, becalm'd in sleep,
Their conch shells never blow.
"So near the track of the stars are we,
That oft, on night's pale beams,
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ears, like dreams.
"The Moon, too, brings her world so nigh,
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
"To the Sun god all our hearts and lyres
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires
We give him back in song."
Moore.
[Sidenote: The Ethiopians and the Isles of the Blest.]
South of Greece, also near the great river Oceanus, dwelt another
nation, just as happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans,--the
Ethiopians. They, too, often enjoyed the company of the gods, who
shared their innocent pleasures with great delight.
And far away, on the shore of this same marvelous river, according to
some mythologists, were the beautiful Isles of the Blest, where
mortals who had led virtuous lives, and had thus found favor in the
sight of the gods, were transported without tasting of death, and
where they enjoyed an eternity of bliss. These islands had sun, moon,
and stars of their own, and were never visited by the cold wintry
winds that swept down from the north.
"The Isles of the Blest, they say,
The Isles of the Blest,
Are peaceful and happy, by night and by day,
Far away in the glorious west.
"They need not the moon in that land of delight,
They need not the pale, pale star;
The sun is bright, by day and night,
Where the souls of the blessed are.
"They till not the ground, they plow not the wave,
They labor not, never! oh, never!
Not a tear do they shed, not a sigh do they heave,
They are happy, for ever and ever!"
Pindar.
[Sidenote: Uranus and Gæa.]
Chaos, Erebus, and Nyx were deprived of their power by Æther and
Hemera, who did not long enjoy the possession of the scepter; for
Uranus and Gæa, more powerful than their progenitors, soon forced them
to depart, and began to reign in their stead. They had not dwelt long
on the summit of Mount Olympus, before they found themselves the
parents of twelve gigantic children, the Titans, whose strength was
such that their father, Uranus, greatly feared them. To prevent their
ever making use of it against him, he seized them immediately after
their birth, hurled them down into a dark abyss called Tartarus, and
there chained them fast.
[Sidenote: Titans, Cyclopes, and Centimani.]
This chasm was situated far under the earth; and Uranus knew that his
six sons (Oceanus, Coeus, Crius, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Cronus), as
well as his six daughters, the Titanides (Ilia, Rhea, Themis, Thetis,
Mnemosyne, and Phoebe), could not easily escape from its cavernous
depths. The Titans did not long remain sole occupants of Tartarus, for
one day the brazen doors were again thrown wide open to admit the
Cyclopes,--Brontes (Thunder), Steropes (Lightning), and Arges
(Sheet-lightning),--three later-born children of Uranus and Gæa, who
helped the Titans to make the darkness hideous with their incessant
clamor for freedom. In due time their number was increased by the
three terrible Centimani (Hundred-handed), Cottus, Briareus, and Gyes,
who were sent thither by Uranus to share their fate.
Greatly dissatisfied with the treatment her children had received at
their father's hands, Gæa remonstrated, but all in vain. Uranus would
not grant her request to set the giants free, and, whenever their
muffled cries reached his ear, he trembled for his own safety. Angry
beyond all expression, Gæa swore revenge, and descended into Tartarus,
where she urged the Titans to conspire against their father, and
attempt to wrest the scepter from his grasp.
[Sidenote: The Titans revolt.]
All listened attentively to the words of sedition; but none were
courageous enough to carry out her plans, except Cronus, the youngest
of the Titans, more familiarly known as Saturn or Time, who found
confinement and chains peculiarly galling, and who hated his father
for his cruelty. Gæa finally induced him to lay violent hands upon his
sire, and, after releasing him from his bonds, gave him a scythe, and
bade him be of good cheer and return victorious.
Thus armed and admonished, Cronus set forth, came upon his father
unawares, defeated him, thanks to his extraordinary weapon, and, after
binding him fast, took possession of the vacant throne, intending to
rule the universe forever. Enraged at this insult, Uranus cursed his
son, and prophesied that a day would come when he, too, would be
supplanted by his children, and would suffer just punishment for his
rebellion.
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF CYBELE (RHEA). (Madrid.)]
[Sidenote: Cronus and Rhea.]
Cronus paid no heed to his father's imprecations, but calmly proceeded
to release the Titans, his brothers and sisters, who, in their joy and
gratitude to escape the dismal realm of Tartarus, expressed their
willingness to be ruled by him. Their satisfaction was complete,
however, when he chose his own sister Rhea (Cybele, Ops) for his
consort, and assigned to each of the others some portion of the world
to govern at will. To Oceanus and Thetis, for example, he gave charge
over the ocean and all the rivers upon earth; while to Hyperion and
Phoebe he intrusted the direction of the sun and moon, which the
ancients supposed were daily driven across the sky in brilliant golden
chariots.
Peace and security now reigned on and around Mount Olympus; and
Cronus, with great satisfaction, congratulated himself on the result
of his enterprise. One fine morning, however, his equanimity was
disturbed by the announcement that a son was born to him. The memory
of his father's curse then suddenly returned to his mind. Anxious to
avert so great a calamity as the loss of his power, he hastened to his
wife, determined to devour the child, and thus prevent him from
causing further annoyance. Wholly unsuspicious, Rhea heard him inquire
for his son. Gladly she placed him in his extended arms; but imagine
her surprise and horror when she beheld her husband swallow the babe!
[Sidenote: Birth of Jupiter.]
Time passed, and another child was born, but only to meet with the
same cruel fate. One infant after another disappeared down the
capacious throat of the voracious Cronus,--a personification of Time,
who creates only to destroy. In vain the bereaved mother besought the
life of one little one: the selfish, hard-hearted father would not
relent. As her prayers seemed unavailing, Rhea finally resolved to
obtain by stratagem the boon her husband denied; and as soon as her
youngest son, Jupiter (Jove, Zeus), was born, she concealed him.
Cronus, aware of his birth, soon made his appearance, determined to
dispose of him in the usual summary manner. For some time Rhea pleaded
with him, but at last pretended to yield to his commands. Hastily
wrapping a large stone in swaddling clothes, she handed it to Cronus,
simulating intense grief. Cronus was evidently not of a very inquiring
turn of mind, for he swallowed the whole without investigating the
real contents of the shapeless bundle.
"To th' imperial son of Heaven,
Whilom the king of gods, a stone she gave
Inwrapt in infant swathes; and this with grasp
Eager he snatch'd, and in his ravening breast
Convey'd away: unhappy! nor once thought
That for the stone his child behind remain'd
Invincible, secure; who soon, with hands
Of strength o'ercoming him, should cast him forth
From glory, and himself th' immortals rule."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
Ignorant of the deception practiced upon him, Cronus then took leave,
and the overjoyed mother clasped her rescued treasure to her breast.
It was not sufficient, however, to have saved young Jupiter from
imminent death: it was also necessary that his father should remain
unconscious of his existence.
[Sidenote: Jupiter's infancy.]
To insure this, Rhea intrusted her babe to the tender care of the
Melian nymphs, who bore him off to a cave on Mount Ida. There a goat,
Amalthea, was procured to act as nurse, and fulfilled her office so
acceptably that she was eventually placed in the heavens as a
constellation, a brilliant reward for her kind ministrations. To
prevent Jupiter's cries being heard in Olympus, the Curetes
(Corybantes), Rhea's priests, uttered piercing screams, clashed their
weapons, executed fierce dances, and chanted rude war songs.
The real significance of all this unwonted noise and commotion was not
at all understood by Cronus, who, in the intervals of his numerous
affairs, congratulated himself upon the cunning he had shown to
prevent the accomplishment of his father's curse. But all his anxiety
and fears were aroused when he suddenly became aware of the fraud
practiced upon him, and of young Jupiter's continued existence. He
immediately tried to devise some plan to get rid of him; but, before
he could put it into execution, he found himself attacked, and, after
a short but terrible encounter, signally defeated.
[Sidenote: Jupiter's supremacy.]
Jupiter, delighted to have triumphed so quickly, took possession of
the supreme power, and aided by Rhea's counsels, and by a nauseous
potion prepared by Metis, a daughter of Oceanus, compelled Cronus to
produce the unfortunate children he had swallowed; i.e., Neptune,
Pluto, Vesta, Ceres, and Juno.
Following the example of his predecessor, Jupiter gave his brothers
and sisters a fair share of his new kingdom. The wisest among the
Titans--Mnemosyne, Themis, Oceanus, and Hyperion--submitted to the new
sovereign without murmur, but the others refused their allegiance;
which refusal, of course, occasioned a deadly conflict.
"When gods began with wrath,
And war rose up between their starry brows,
Some choosing to cast Cronus from his throne
That Zeus might king it there, and some in haste
With opposite oaths that they would have no Zeus
To rule the gods forever."
E. B. Browning.
[Sidenote: The giants' war.]
Jupiter, from the top of Mount Olympus, discerned the superior number
of his foes, and, quite aware of their might, concluded that
reënforcements to his party would not be superfluous. In haste,
therefore, he released the Cyclopes from Tartarus, where they had
languished so long, stipulating that in exchange for their freedom
they should supply him with thunderbolts,--weapons which only they
knew how to forge. This new engine caused great terror and dismay in
the ranks of the enemy, who, nevertheless, soon rallied, and struggled
valiantly to overthrow the usurper and win back the sovereignty of the
world.
During ten long years the war raged incessantly, neither party wishing
to submit to the dominion of the other, but at the end of that time
the rebellious Titans were obliged to yield. Some of them were hurled
into Tartarus once more, where they were carefully secured by Neptune,
Jupiter's brother, while the young conqueror joyfully proclaimed his
victory.
"League all your forces then, ye powers above,
Join all, and try th' omnipotence of Jove:
Let down our golden everlasting chain,
Whose strong embrace holds heaven and earth and main:
Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth,
To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth,
Ye strive in vain! if I but stretch this hand,
I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land;
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height,
And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight!
For such I reign, unbounded and above;
And such are men and gods, compar'd to Jove."
Homer (Pope's tr.).
The scene of this mighty conflict was supposed to have been in
Thessaly, where the country bears the imprint of some great natural
convulsion; for the ancients imagined that the gods, making the most
of their gigantic strength and stature, hurled huge rocks at each
other, and piled mountain upon mountain to reach the abode of Jupiter,
the Thunderer.
"Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst,
My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove,
Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad
In vain emprise."
Lowell.
Saturn, or Cronus, the leader and instigator of the revolt, weary at
last of bloodshed and strife, withdrew to Italy, or Hesperia, where he
founded a prosperous kingdom, and reigned in peace for many long
years.
[Sidenote: Death of Typhoeus.]
Jupiter, having disposed of all the Titans, now fancied he would enjoy
the power so unlawfully obtained; but Gæa, to punish him for depriving
her children of their birthright, created a terrible monster, called
Typhoeus, or Typhon, which she sent to attack him. This Typhoeus was a
giant, from whose trunk one hundred dragon heads arose; flames shot
from his eyes, nostrils, and mouths; while he incessantly uttered such
blood-curdling screams, that the gods, in terror, fled from Mount
Olympus and sought refuge in Egypt. In mortal fear lest this
terror-inspiring monster would pursue them, the gods there assumed the
forms of different animals; and Jupiter became a ram, while Juno, his
sister and queen, changed herself into a cow.
The king of the gods, however, soon became ashamed of his cowardly
flight, and resolved to return to Mount Olympus to slay Typhoeus with
his terrible thunderbolts. A long and fierce struggle ensued, at the
end of which, Jupiter, again victorious, viewed his fallen foe with
boundless pride; but his triumph was very short-lived.
[Sidenote: Defeat of Enceladus.]
Enceladus, another redoubtable giant, also created by Gæa, now
appeared to avenge Typhoeus. He too was signally defeated, and bound
with adamantine chains in a burning cave under Mount Ætna. In early
times, before he had become accustomed to his prison, he gave vent to
his rage by outcries, imprecations, and groans: sometimes he even
breathed forth fire and flames, in hopes of injuring his conqueror.
But time, it is said, somewhat cooled his resentment; and now he is
content with an occasional change of position, which, owing to his
huge size, causes the earth to tremble over a space of many miles,
producing what is called an earthquake.
"'Tis said, that thunder-struck Enceladus,
Groveling beneath the incumbent mountain's weight,
Lies stretched supine, eternal prey of flames;
And, when he heaves against the burning load,
Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs,
A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle,
And Ætna thunders dreadful under ground,
Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls convolved,
And shades the sun's bright orb, and blots out day."
Addison.
[Sidenote: Jupiter divides his realm.]
Jupiter had now conquered all his foes, asserted his right to the
throne, and could at last reign over the world undisturbed; but he
knew that it would be no small undertaking to rule well heaven,
earth, and sea, and resolved to divide the power with his brothers. To
avoid quarrels and recriminations, he portioned the world out into
lots, allowing each of his brothers the privilege of drawing his own
share.
Neptune thus obtained control over the sea and all the rivers, and
immediately expressed his resolve to wear a symbolic crown, composed
exclusively of marine shells and aquatic plants, and to abide within
the bounds of his watery realm.
Pluto, the most taciturn of the brothers, received for his portion the
scepter of Tartarus and all the Lower World, where no beam of sunlight
was ever allowed to find its way; while Jupiter reserved for himself
the general supervision of his brothers' estates, and the direct
management of Heaven and Earth.
Peace now reigned throughout all the world. Not a murmur was heard,
except from the Titans, who at length, seeing that further opposition
would be useless, grew reconciled to their fate.
In the days of their prosperity, the Titans had intermarried. Cronus
had taken Rhea "for better or for worse;" and Iapetus had seen, loved,
and wedded the fair Clymene, one of the ocean nymphs, or Oceanides,
daughters of Oceanus. The latter pair became the proud parents of four
gigantic sons,--Atlas, Menetius, Prometheus (Forethought), and
Epimetheus (Afterthought),--who were destined to play prominent parts
in Grecian mythology.
[Sidenote: Story of Prometheus.]
At the time of the creation, after covering the new-born Earth with
luxuriant vegetation, and peopling it with living creatures of all
kinds, Eros perceived that it would be necessary to endow them with
instincts which would enable them to preserve and enjoy the life they
had received. He therefore called the youngest two sons of Iapetus to
his aid, and bade them make a judicious distribution of gifts to all
living creatures, and create and endow a superior being, called Man,
to rule over all the others.
[Illustration: MINERVA AND PROMETHEUS.--Thorwaldsen. (Copenhagen.)]
Prometheus' and Epimetheus' first care was, very naturally, to provide
for the beings already created. These they endowed with such reckless
generosity, that all their favors were soon dispensed, and none
remained for the endowment of man. Although they had not the remotest
idea how to overcome this difficulty, they proceeded to fashion man
from clay.
"Prometheus first transmuted
Atoms culled for human clay."
Horace.
They first molded an image similar in form to the gods; bade Eros
breathe into its nostrils the spirit of life, and Minerva (Pallas)
endow it with a soul; whereupon man lived, and moved, and viewed his
new domain.
Justly proud of his handiwork, Prometheus observed man, and longed to
bestow upon him some great power, unshared by any other creature of
mortal birth, which would raise him far above all other living beings,
and bring him nearer to the perfection of the immortal gods. Fire
alone, in his estimation, could effect this; but fire was the special
possession and prerogative of the gods, and Prometheus knew they would
never willingly share it with man, and that, should any one obtain it
by stealth, they would never forgive the thief. Long he pondered the
matter, and finally determined to obtain fire, or die in the attempt.
One dark night, therefore, he set out for Olympus, entered unperceived
into the gods' abode, seized a lighted brand, hid it in his bosom, and
departed unseen, exulting in the success of his enterprise. Arrived
upon earth once more, he consigned the stolen treasure to the care of
man, who immediately adapted it to various purposes, and eloquently
expressed his gratitude to the benevolent deity who had risked his own
life to obtain it for him.
"Of Prometheus, how undaunted
On Olympus' shining bastions
His audacious foot he planted,
Myths are told and songs are chanted,
Full of promptings and suggestions.
"Beautiful is the tradition
Of that flight through heavenly portals,
The old classic superstition
Of the theft and the transmission
Of the fire of the Immortals."
Longfellow.
From his lofty throne on the topmost peak of Mount Olympus Jupiter
beheld an unusual light down upon earth. Anxious to ascertain its
exact nature, he watched it closely, and before long discovered the
larceny. His anger then burst forth, terrible to behold; and the gods
all quailed when they heard him solemnly vow he would punish the
unhappy Prometheus without mercy. To seize the offender in his mighty
grasp, bear him off to the Caucasian Mountains, and bind him fast to a
great rock, was but a moment's work. There a voracious vulture was
summoned to feast upon his liver, the tearing of which from his side
by the bird's cruel beak and talons caused the sufferer intense
anguish. All day long the vulture gorged himself; but during the cool
night, while the bird slept, Prometheus' suffering abated, and the
liver grew again, thus prolonging the torture, which bade fair to have
no end.
Disheartened by the prospect of long years of unremitting pain,
Prometheus at times could not refrain from pitiful complaints; but
generation after generation of men lived on earth, and died, blessing
him for the gift he had obtained for them at such a terrible cost.
After many centuries of woe, Hercules, son of Jupiter and Alcmene,
found Prometheus, killed the vulture, broke the adamantine chains, and
liberated the long-suffering god.
[Sidenote: Story of Epimetheus and Pandora.]
The first mortals lived on earth in a state of perfect innocence and
bliss. The air was pure and balmy; the sun shone brightly all the
year; the earth brought forth delicious fruit in abundance; and
beautiful, fragrant flowers bloomed everywhere. Man was content.
Extreme cold, hunger, sickness, and death were unknown. Jupiter, who
justly ascribed a good part of this beatific condition to the gift
conferred by Prometheus, was greatly displeased, and tried to devise
some means to punish mankind for the acceptance of the heavenly fire.
With this purpose in view, he assembled the gods on Mount Olympus,
where, in solemn council, they decided to create woman; and, as soon
as she had been artfully fashioned, each one endowed her with some
special charm, to make her more attractive.
"The crippled artist-god,
Illustrious, molded from the yielding clay
A bashful virgin's image, as advis'd
Saturnian Jove.
* * * * *
"But now when the fair mischief, seeming-good,
His hand had perfected, he led her forth
Exulting in her grac'd attire, the gift
Of Pallas, in the midst of gods and men.
On men and gods in that same moment seiz'd
The ravishment of wonder, when they saw
The deep deceit, th' inextricable snare."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
Their united efforts were crowned with the utmost success. Nothing was
lacking, except a name for the peerless creature; and the gods, after
due consideration, decreed she should be called Pandora. They then
bade Mercury take her to Prometheus as a gift from heaven; but he,
knowing only too well that nothing good would come to him from the
gods, refused to accept her, and cautioned his brother Epimetheus to
follow his example. Unfortunately Epimetheus was of a confiding
disposition, and when he beheld the maiden he exclaimed, "Surely so
beautiful and gentle a being can bring no evil!" and accepted her most
joyfully.
The first days of their union were spent in blissful wanderings, hand
in hand, under the cool forest shade; in weaving garlands of fragrant
flowers; and in refreshing themselves with the luscious fruit, which
hung so temptingly within reach.
[Illustration: PANDORA.--Sichel.]
One lovely evening, while dancing on the green, they saw Mercury,
Jupiter's messenger, coming towards them. His step was slow and weary,
his garments dusty and travel-stained, and he seemed almost to stagger
beneath the weight of a huge box which rested upon his shoulders.
Pandora immediately ceased dancing, to speculate with feminine
curiosity upon the contents of the chest. She nudged Epimetheus, and
in a whisper begged him to ask Mercury what brought him thither.
Epimetheus complied with her request; but Mercury evaded the question,
asked permission to deposit his burden in their dwelling for
safekeeping, professing himself too weary to convey it to its
destination that day, and promised to call for it shortly. The
permission was promptly granted. Mercury, with a sigh of relief,
placed the box in one corner, and then departed, refusing all
hospitable offers of rest and refreshment.
He had scarcely crossed the threshold, when Pandora expressed a strong
desire to have a peep at the contents of the mysterious box; but
Epimetheus, surprised and shocked, told her that her curiosity was
unseemly, and then, to dispel the frown and pout seen for the first
time on the fair face of his beloved, he entreated her to come out
into the fresh air and join in the merry games of their companions.
For the first time, also, Pandora refused to comply with his request.
Dismayed, and very much discouraged, Epimetheus sauntered out alone,
thinking she would soon join him, and perhaps by some caress atone for
her present willfulness.
Left alone with the mysterious casket, Pandora became more and more
inquisitive. Stealthily she drew near, and examined it with great
interest, for it was curiously wrought of dark wood, and surmounted by
a delicately carved head, of such fine workmanship that it seemed to
smile and encourage her. Around the box a glittering golden cord was
wound, and fastened on top in an intricate knot. Pandora, who prided
herself specially on her deft fingers, felt sure she could unfasten
it, and, reasoning that it would not be indiscreet to untie it if she
did not raise the lid, she set to work. Long she strove, but all in
vain. Ever and anon the laughing voices of Epimetheus and his
companions, playing in the luxuriant shade, were wafted in on the
summer breeze. Repeatedly she heard them call, and beseech her to join
them; yet she persisted in her attempt. She was just on the point of
giving it up in despair, when suddenly the refractory knot yielded to
her fumbling fingers, and the cord, unrolling, dropped on the floor.
Pandora had repeatedly fancied that sounds like whispers issued from
the box. The noise now seemed to increase, and she breathlessly
applied her ear to the lid to ascertain whether it really proceeded
from within. Imagine, therefore, her surprise when she distinctly
heard these words, uttered in the most pitiful accents: "Pandora, dear
Pandora, have pity upon us! Free us from this gloomy prison! Open,
open, we beseech you!"
Pandora's heart beat so fast and loud, that it seemed for a moment to
drown all other sounds. Should she open the box? Just then a familiar
step outside made her start guiltily. Epimetheus was coming, and she
knew he would urge her again to come out, and would prevent the
gratification of her curiosity. Precipitately, therefore, she raised
the lid to have one little peep before he came in.
Now, Jupiter had malignantly crammed into this box all the diseases,
sorrows, vices, and crimes that afflict poor humanity; and the box was
no sooner opened, than all these ills flew out, in the guise of horrid
little brown-winged creatures, closely resembling moths. These little
insects fluttered about, alighting, some upon Epimetheus, who had just
entered, and some upon Pandora, pricking and stinging them most
unmercifully. Then they flew out through the open door and windows,
and fastened upon the merrymakers without, whose shouts of joy were
soon changed into wails of pain and anguish.
Epimetheus and Pandora had never before experienced the faintest
sensation of pain or anger; but, as soon as these winged evil spirits
had stung them, they began to weep, and, alas! quarreled for the first
time in their lives. Epimetheus reproached his wife in bitterest terms
for her thoughtless action; but in the very midst of his vituperation
he suddenly heard a sweet little voice entreat for freedom. The sound
proceeded from the unfortunate box, whose cover Pandora had dropped
again, in the first moment of her surprise and pain. "Open, open, and
I will heal your wounds! Please let me out!" it pleaded.
The tearful couple viewed each other inquiringly, and listened again.
Once more they heard the same pitiful accents; and Epimetheus bade his
wife open the box and set the speaker free, adding very amiably, that
she had already done so much harm by her ill-fated curiosity, that it
would be difficult to add materially to its evil consequences, and
that, perchance, the box contained some good spirit, whose
ministrations might prove beneficial.
It was well for Pandora that she opened the box a second time, for the
gods, with a sudden impulse of compassion, had concealed among the
evil spirits one kindly creature, Hope, whose mission was to heal the
wounds inflicted by her fellow-prisoners.
"Hope sole remain'd within, nor took her flight,
Beneath the vessel's verge conceal'd from light."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
Lightly fluttering hither and thither on her snowy pinions, Hope
touched the punctured places on Pandora's and Epimetheus' creamy skin,
and relieved their suffering, then quickly flew out of the open
window, to perform the same gentle office for the other victims, and
cheer their downcast spirits.
Thus, according to the ancients, evil entered into the world, bringing
untold misery; but Hope followed closely in its footsteps, to aid
struggling humanity, and point to a happier future.
"Hope rules a land forever green:
All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught?--the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way."
Wordsworth.
[Illustration: HOPE.--Thorwaldsen.]
During many centuries, therefore, Hope continued to be revered,
although the other divinities had ceased to be worshiped.
According to another version, Pandora was sent down to man, bearing a
vase in which the evil spirits were imprisoned, and on the way, seized
by a fit of curiosity, raised the cover, and allowed them all to
escape.
[Sidenote: The Four Ages.]
Little by little the world was peopled; and the first years of man's
existence upon earth were, as we have seen, years of unalloyed
happiness. There was no occasion for labor, for the earth brought
forth spontaneously all that was necessary for man's subsistence.
"Innocence, virtue, and truth prevailed; neither were there any laws
to restrict men, nor judges to punish." This time of bliss has justly
borne the title of Golden Age, and the people in Italy then throve
under the wise rule of good old Saturn, or Cronus.
Unfortunately, nothing in this world is lasting; and the Golden Age
was followed by another, not quite so prosperous, hence called the
Silver Age, when the year was first divided into seasons, and men were
obliged to toil for their daily bread.
"Succeeding times a silver age behold,
Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold.
Then summer, autumn, winter, did appear,
And spring was but a season of the year;
The sun his annual course obliquely made,
Good days contracted, and enlarg'd the bad.
The air with sultry heats began to glow,
The wings of winds were clogg'd with ice and snow;
And shivering mortals into houses driven,
Sought shelter from the inclemency of heaven.
Those houses, then, were caves or homely sheds,
With twining osiers fenc'd, and moss their beds.
Then plows, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke,
And oxen labor'd first beneath the yoke."
Ovid (Dryden's tr.).
Yet, in spite of these few hardships, the people were happy, far
happier than their descendants during the Age of Brass, which
speedily followed, when strife became customary, and differences were
settled by blows.
But by far the worst of all was the Iron Age, when men's passions knew
no bounds, and they even dared refuse all homage to the immortal gods.
War was waged incessantly; the earth was saturated with blood; the
rights of hospitality were openly violated; and murder, rape, and
theft were committed on all sides.
[Sidenote: The Deluge.]
Jupiter had kept a close watch over men's actions during all these
years; and this evil conduct aroused his wrath to such a point, that
he vowed he would annihilate the human race. But the modes of
destruction were manifold, and, as he could not decide which would
eventually prove most efficacious, he summoned the gods to deliberate
and aid him by their counsels. The first suggestion offered, was to
destroy the world by fire, kindled by Jupiter's much-dreaded
thunderbolts; and the king of gods was about to put it into instant
execution, when his arm was stayed by the objection that the rising
flames might set fire to his own abode, and reduce its magnificence to
unsightly ashes. He therefore rejected the plan as impracticable, and
bade the gods devise other means of destruction.
After much delay and discussion, the immortals agreed to wash mankind
off the face of the earth by a mighty deluge. The winds were
instructed to gather together the rain clouds over the earth. Neptune
let loose the waves of the sea, bidding them rise, overflow, and
deluge the land. No sooner had the gods spoken, than the elements
obeyed: the winds blew; the rain fell in torrents; lakes, seas,
rivers, and oceans broke their bonds; and terrified mortals,
forgetting their petty quarrels in a common impulse to flee from the
death which threatened them, climbed the highest mountains, clung to
uprooted trees, and even took refuge in the light skiffs they had
constructed in happier days. Their efforts were all in vain, however;
for the waters rose higher and higher, overtook them one after another
in their ineffectual efforts to escape, closed over the homes where
they might have been so happy, and drowned their last despairing
cries in their seething depths.
"Now hills and vales no more distinction know,
And level'd nature lies oppress'd below;
The most of mortals perish in the flood."
Ovid (Dryden's tr.).
[Sidenote: Story of Deucalion and Pyrrha.]
The rain continued to fall, until, after many days, the waves covered
all the surface of the earth except the summit of Mount Parnassus, the
highest peak in Greece. On this mountain, surrounded by the
ever-rising flood, stood the son of Prometheus, Deucalion, with his
faithful wife Pyrrha, a daughter of Epimetheus and Pandora. From
thence they, the sole survivors, viewed the universal desolation with
tear-dimmed eyes.
In spite of the general depravity, the lives of this couple had always
been pure and virtuous; and when Jupiter saw them there alone, and
remembered their piety, he decided not to include them in the general
destruction, but to save their lives. He therefore bade the winds
return to their cave, and the rain to cease. Neptune, in accordance
with his decree, blew a resounding blast upon his conch shell to
recall the wandering waves, which immediately returned within their
usual bounds.
"At length the world was all restor'd to view,
But desolate, and of a sickly hue;
Nature beheld herself, and stood aghast,
A dismal desert and a silent waste."
Ovid (Dryden's tr.).
Deucalion and Pyrrha followed the receding waves step by step down the
steep mountain side, wondering how they should repeople the desolate
earth. As they talked, they came to the shrine of Delphi, which alone
had been able to resist the force of the waves. There they entered to
consult the wishes of the gods. Their surprise and horror were
unbounded, however, when a voice exclaimed, "Depart from hence with
veiled heads, and cast your mother's bones behind you!" To obey such
a command seemed sacrilegious in the extreme; for the dead had always
been held in deep veneration by the Greeks, and the desecration of a
grave was considered a heinous crime, and punished accordingly. But,
they reasoned, the gods' oracles can seldom be accepted in a literal
sense; and Deucalion, after due thought, explained to Pyrrha what he
conceived to be the meaning of this mysterious command.
"The Earth," said he, "is the mother of all, and the stones may be
considered her bones." Husband and wife speedily decided to act upon
this premise, and continued their descent, casting stones behind them.
All those thrown by Deucalion were immediately changed into men, while
those cast by Pyrrha became women.
Thus the earth was peopled for the second time with a blameless race
of men, sent to replace the wicked beings slain by Jupiter. Deucalion
and Pyrrha shortly after became the happy parents of a son named
Hellen, who gave his name to all the Hellenic or Greek race; while his
sons Æolus and Dorus, and grandsons Ion and Achæus, became the
ancestors of the Æolian, Dorian, Ionian, and Achaian nations.
Other mythologists, in treating of the deluvian myths, state that
Deucalion and Pyrrha took refuge in an ark, which, after sailing about
for many days, was stranded on the top of Mount Parnassus. This
version was far less popular with the Greeks, although it betrays
still more plainly the common source whence all these myths are
derived.
"Who does not see in drown Deucalion's name,
When Earth her men and Sea had lost her shore,
Old Noah!"
Fletcher.
CHAPTER II.
JUPITER.
[Sidenote: Jupiter's titles.]
Jupiter, Jove, or Zeus, king of the gods, supreme ruler of the
universe, the special deity of mankind, the personification of the sky
and of all the phenomena of the air, and the guardian of political
order and peace, was the most prominent of all the Olympian
divinities: the others were obliged to submit to his will, and
trembled at his all-powerful nod.
"He, whose all-conscious eyes the world behold,
The eternal Thunderer sat, enthroned in gold.
High heaven the footstool of his feet he makes,
And wide beneath him all Olympus shakes."
"He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows,
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate and sanction of the god:
High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the center shook."
Homer (Pope's tr.).
The Fates and Destiny alone dared oppose Jupiter's sovereign will, and
they continued to issue their irrevocable decrees, even after he
supplanted his father and began to rule over all.
In common with all other Greek and Roman divinities, Jupiter, though
immortal, was subject to pleasure, pain, grief, and anger, and a prey
to all the passions which rule the hearts of men.
[Illustration: OLYMPIAN ZEUS.--Flaxman.]
It was he who presided at the councils held on the top of "many-peaked
Olympus," and summoned the gods whenever he wished to discuss with
them any matter of importance, or to indulge in a sumptuous repast,
when they ate the celestial ambrosia and quaffed the fragrant nectar.
He is generally represented as a fine majestic figure, with long
curling hair and beard, clad in flowing drapery, his redoubtable
thunderbolts or scepter in one hand, and a statue of Victory in the
other. The world is his footstool; and the eagle, emblem of strength
and power, is generally seen close beside him.
[Sidenote: Jupiter's attendants.]
Jupiter had his own special attendants, such as Victoria, or Nice, the
goddess of victory, who was ever ready to obey his slightest behest,
and it is said her master loved her so dearly, that he generally held
an image of her in his hand.
The hundred-tongued goddess of fame, Fama, trumpet in hand,
proclaimed, at his bidding, anything he wished, never questioning
whether it were true or false.
"Fame than who never plague that runs
Its way more swiftly wins:
Her very motion lends her power:
She flies and waxes every hour.
At first she shrinks, and cowers for dread:
Ere long she soars on high:
Upon the ground she plants her tread,
Her forehead in the sky."
Virgil (Conington's tr.).
Close by Jupiter's side was sometimes seen Fortuna, goddess of
fortune, poised on a constantly revolving wheel, whereon she journeyed
throughout the world, scattering with careless hands her numerous
gifts, and lavishing with indifference her choicest smiles; while
Hebe, or Juventas, the goddess of youth, was ever ready at his wish to
pour out the nectar, in which the gods were wont to pledge each other.
"Hebe, honored of them all,
Ministered nectar, and from cups of gold
They pledged each other."
Homer (Bryant's tr.).
[Illustration: GANYMEDE AND THE EAGLE. (National Museum, Naples.)]
But this fair goddess awkwardly tripped and fell on a solemn
occasion, and was forced to resign her office. To replace her, the
father of the gods was obliged to go in quest of another cup-bearer.
To facilitate his search, he assumed the form of an eagle, and winged
his flight over the earth. He had not flown far, before he beheld a
youth of marvelous beauty, alone on a neighboring hill. To swoop down,
catch him up in his mighty talons, and bear him safely off to Olympus,
was but a moment's work; and there the kidnapped youth Ganymede, the
son of a king of Troy, was carefully instructed in the duties he was
called upon to perform in the future.
"And godlike Ganymede, most beautiful
Of men; the gods beheld and caught him up
To heaven, so beautiful was he, to pour
The wine to Jove, and ever dwell with them."
Homer (Bryant's tr.).
[Sidenote: Story of Philemon and Baucis.]
Solicitous for the welfare of mankind, Jupiter often visited the
earth, taking great care to assume some disguise which would enable
him to ascertain all he wished without any risk of detection. One day
he and Mercury, his special messenger and favorite among the gods,
took the forms of needy, belated travelers, and entered the lowly hut
of a worthy old couple, Philemon and Baucis.
Eager to offer their best to the strangers, these poor people decided
to kill their sole remaining goose; but their efforts to secure it
were vain, and finally the persecuted fowl took refuge between
Jupiter's knees. Touched with their zeal, yet anxious to prevent the
death of the confiding goose, Jupiter revealed himself to his faithful
worshipers, and in gratitude for their intended sacrifice bade them
ask any boon, promising by the great river Styx--the most binding and
solemn oath a god could utter--to grant their request.
Contrary to the custom current in similar cases, Philemon and Baucis
made a modest and judicious choice, and proffered a timid request that
they might serve the gods as long as life and strength endured, and
finally die together. This most reasonable wish was immediately
granted; and Jupiter, moreover, changed their humble abode into a
superb temple, where they could offer daily sacrifices on his altars.
"Their little shed, scarce large enough for two,
Seems, from the ground increased, in height and bulk to grow.
A stately temple shoots within the skies,
The crotches of their cot in columns rise;
The pavement polish'd marble they behold,
The gates with sculpture grac'd, the spires and tiles of gold."
Ovid (Dryden's tr.).
After many years of faithful service, when age had made them long for
death, Philemon and Baucis were transformed into majestic oaks, which
stood for many a century in front of the temple, monuments of the love
and faith which had bound the pair through life.
Although married to Juno, Jupiter often indulged in love affairs with
other goddesses, and even with mortal maidens. The ancients themselves
did not practice polygamy, but their gods were supposed to be able to
indulge all their passions with impunity. As the personification of
the sky, Jupiter, therefore, consorted at times with Juno (the
Atmosphere), with Dione (Moisture), with Themis (Justice), etc.,
without incurring any reproach; for these marriages, in their
estimation, were all symbolical.
But Juno being of a jealous disposition, Jupiter was forced to conduct
his courtships with great secrecy and circumspection, and therefore
generally adopted the precaution of a disguise. To win Europa, the
fair daughter of Agenor, for instance, he became a bull.
"The gods themselves,
Humbling their deities to love, have taken
The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter
Became a bull, and bellow'd."
Shakespeare.
[Sidenote: Jupiter kidnaps Europa.]
One day Europa was playing in her father's meadows with her three
brothers, Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, when she suddenly saw a white
bull coming towards her; not with fiery eyes and lowered horns, but
gently, as if to express a mute request to be petted. The maiden,
delighted, stroked the beast, and decked him with bright garlands of
meadow-blossoms. Then, seeing him kneel, as if to invite her to mount,
she lightly sprang upon his broad back, calling to her companions to
follow her example; but, before they could do as she wished, the bull
had risen to his feet, and galloped off towards the sea with his fair
burden on his back.
Instead of turning when he saw the foam-crested waves, he plunged into
the midst of them, and in a few minutes disappeared from view, so
rapidly did he swim away. To reassure the frightened girl, the bull
now spoke in gentle accents, bidding her dismiss all fear, for he was
the great Jupiter in disguise.
"Take courage, gentle maid! nor fear the tide:
I, though near-seen a bull, am heavenly Jove:
I change my shape at will."
Moschus (Elton's tr.).
Pleased with the novelty of her situation, and flattered by the god's
evident admiration, Europa ceased to struggle, wound her arms more
closely around the bull's neck to prevent the waves from washing her
off her perilous seat, and allowed herself to be carried away.
Jupiter finally deposited his fair burden upon the shores of a new
land, to which he gallantly gave her name, Europe. He then resumed his
wonted form, explained at length his reasons for so unceremoniously
kidnapping her, and finally won her consent to their union. Their
three sons were Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Sarpedon. The two former were
subsequently appointed judges in the Infernal Regions, while the third
found an early but glorious death during the Trojan war.
[Illustration: THE ABDUCTION OF EUROPA.--Albani. (Uffizi Palace,
Florence.)]
[Sidenote: Search for Europa.]
All unconscious of their sister's fate, the young princes had
returned in haste to their father's palace to announce her sudden
involuntary departure. Agenor, whose favorite she had always been,
rent his garments for grief, and bade his sons go forth and seek her,
and not to return till they had found her. Accompanied by their
mother, Telephassa, they immediately set out on their journey,
inquiring of all they met if they had seen their sister. Search and
inquiry proved equally fruitless.
At last, weary of this hopeless quest, Phoenix refused his further
aid, and allowed his sorrowing relatives to continue without him,
remaining in a land which from him was called Phoenicia. Cilix, too,
soon followed his example, and settled in a fertile country which they
had reached, hence called Cilicia; and finally Telephassa, worn out
with grief and fatigue, lay down to die, charging her oldest son to go
on alone.
Cadmus wandered on till he came to Delphi, where he consulted the
oracle; but, to his great dismay, the only reply he received was,
"Follow the cow, and settle where she rests."
In deep perplexity he left the temple, and, from force of habit,
journeyed on, patiently questioning all he met. Soon he perceived a
cow leisurely walking in front of him, and, mindful of the oracle, he
ceased his search and followed her. Urged by curiosity, many
adventurers joined him on the way, and, when the cow at last lay down
in the land since called Boeotia, they all promised to aid Cadmus,
their chosen leader, to found their future capital, which was to be
called Thebes.
[Sidenote: Founding of Thebes.]
Parched with thirst after their long walk, the men then hastened to a
neighboring spring, but, to Cadmus' surprise, time passed and still
they did not return. Armed with his trusty sword, he finally went down
to the spring to discover the cause of their delay, and found that
they had all been devoured by a huge dragon, which lived in the
hollow. The prince raised his sword to avenge their death, and dealt
the dragon such a deadly blow upon the head, that he put an immediate
end to its existence.
While Cadmus stood there contemplating his lifeless foe, a voice bade
him extract the dragon's teeth, and sow them in the ground already
broken for his future city. No human being was within sight: so Cadmus
knew the order proceeded from the immortal gods, and immediately
prepared to obey it. The dragon's teeth were no sooner planted, than a
crop of giants sprang from the soil, full grown, and armed to the
teeth. They were about to fall upon Cadmus, when the same voice bade
him cast a stone in the midst of their close-drawn phalanx. Cadmus,
seeing the giants were almost upon him, and that no time was to be
lost, quickly threw a stone. The effect produced was almost
instantaneous; for the giants, each fancying it had been thrown by his
neighbor, began fighting among themselves. In a few minutes the number
of giants was reduced to five, who sheathed their bloodstained
weapons, and humbly tendered their services to Cadmus. With their aid,
the foundations of the city were laid; but their labor was not very
arduous, as the gods caused some of the public buildings to rise up
out of the ground, all complete, and ready for use.
To reward Cadmus for his loving and painstaking search for Europa,
Jupiter gave him the hand of the fair princess Harmonia, a daughter of
Mars and Venus, in marriage. Cadmus, the founder of Thebes, is
supposed to have invented the alphabet, and introduced its use into
Greece. Although his career was very prosperous at first, he finally
incurred the wrath of the gods by forgetting, on a solemn occasion, to
offer them a suitable sacrifice; and, in anger at his dereliction,
they changed him and Harmonia into huge serpents.
[Sidenote: Worship of Jupiter.]
Jupiter was, of course, very widely and generally worshiped by the
ancients; and his principal temples--the Capitol at Rome, and the
shrine of Jupiter Ammon in Libya--have been world-renowned. He also
had a noted temple at Dodona, where an oak tree gave forth mysterious
prophecies, which were supposed to have been inspired by the king of
gods; this long lost shrine has recently been discovered.
"Oh, where, Dodona! is thine aged grove,
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine?
What valley echoed the response of Jove?
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine?
All, all forgotten!"
Byron.
A magnificent temple at Olympia, on the Peloponnesus, was also
dedicated to Jupiter; and here every fifth year the people of Greece
were wont to assemble to celebrate games, in honor of Jupiter's great
victory over the Titans. These festivals were known as the Olympian
Games; and the Greeks generally reckoned time by olympiads, that is to
say, by the space of time between the celebrations. Within the temple
at Olympia stood a wonderful statue of gold and ivory, the work of
Phidias. Its proportions and beauty were such, that it was counted one
of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. It is said, too, that the
artist, having completed this masterpiece, longed for some sign of
approval from heaven, and fervently prayed for a token that the god
accepted his labor. Jupiter, in answer to this prayer, sent a vivid
flash of lightning, which played about the colossal image,
illuminating it, but leaving it quite unharmed.
The Greeks were indebted to Phidias for many of their most exquisite
statues of the gods; but none of the others equaled this figure of
Jupiter in size, dignity of attitude, or elaborate finish.
"Wise Phidias, thus his skill to prove,
Through many a god advanc'd to Jove,
And taught the polish'd rocks to shine
With airs and lineaments divine;
Till Greece, amaz'd, and half afraid,
Th' assembled deities survey'd."
Addison.
[Illustration: JUNO. (Vatican, Rome.)]
CHAPTER III.
JUNO.
[Sidenote: Juno's marriage.]
Juno (Hera, Here), queen of heaven, and goddess of the atmosphere and
of marriage, was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, and consequently the
sister of Jupiter; but, as soon as the latter had dethroned his
parents and seized the scepter, he began to look about him for a
suitable helpmate. Juno won his affections by her great beauty; and he
immediately began his courtship, which he carried on in the guise of a
cuckoo, to infuse a little romance into it. He evidently found favor
in her sight, and won her consent to share his throne; for shortly
afterward their wedding was celebrated with great pomp on Mount
Olympus. It was on this solemn occasion that the immortal conclave of
the gods declared that Juno should be henceforth honored as goddess of
marriage.
"Juno, who presides
Supreme o'er bridegrooms and o'er brides."
Virgil (Conington's tr.).
But although in the beginning this union seemed very happy, there soon
arose subjects for contention; for unfortunately Jupiter was inclined
to be faithless, and Juno jealous, and, like the element she
personified, exceedingly variable in her moods. On such occasions she
gave way to her violent temper, and bitterly reproached her husband,
who, impatient of her censure, punished her severely, and, instead of
reforming, merely continued his numerous intrigues with renewed zest.
[Sidenote: Story of Callisto and Arcas.]
On one occasion he fell deeply in love with a maiden named Callisto,
gentle, fair, and slender; but, in spite of all the precautions which
he took when visiting her, Juno discovered the object of his
affections. Night and day she thought and planned, until she devised a
species of revenge which seemed adequate. The graceful girl was
suddenly bereft of speech, changed into a rough, ungainly bear, and
driven out into the solitudes of the great forests, which were from
that time forth to be her home. Jupiter vainly sought his missing
ladylove, and it was only long afterward that he discovered her and
her little bear son Arcas. In pity for all they had suffered, he
transferred them both to the sky, where they are still known as the
constellations of the Great and Little Bear.
[Sidenote: Juno's attendant.]
Juno, like her husband, had also her special attendant, Iris (the
Rainbow), whom she frequently employed as messenger,--a task which
this deity accomplished with as much celerity as Mercury. Her flight
through the air was so rapid, that she was seldom seen; and no one
would have known she had passed, had it not been for the brilliant
trail her many-colored robe left behind her in the sky.
"Like fiery clouds, that flush with ruddy glare,
Or Iris, gliding through the purple air;
When loosely girt her dazzling mantle flows,
And 'gainst the sun in arching colors glows."
Flaccus (Elton's tr.).
Juno is the mother of Mars, Hebe, and Vulcan, and is always described
and represented as a beautiful, majestic woman, clad in flowing robes,
with a diadem and scepter. The peacock and cuckoo were both sacred to
her, and are therefore often seen at her side.
[Illustration: IRIS.--Tito Conti.]
[Sidenote: Worship of Juno.]
Her principal places of worship were at Mycenæ, Sparta, Argos, Rome,
and Heræum. She had also numerous other sanctuaries scattered
throughout the ancient world, and was worshiped in the same temples as
Jupiter. Many fine statues of this goddess were found in Greece and
Italy, some of which are still extant, and serve to show the
ancients' exalted conception of the Queen of Heaven.
[Sidenote: Story of Cleobis and Biton.]
Juno's festivals, the Matronalia, in Rome, were always celebrated with
great pomp. Less important feasts were held in each city where a
temple was dedicated to her. On one of these occasions an old
priestess was very anxious to go to the temple at Argos, where she had
ministered to the goddess for many years, and which she had left only
to be married. The way was long and dusty: so the aged woman, who
could no longer walk such a distance, bade her sons, Cleobis and
Biton, harness her white heifers to her car. The youths hastened to do
her bidding; but, although they searched diligently, the heifers could
not be found. Rather than disappoint their aged mother, who had set
her heart upon attending the services, these kind-hearted sons
harnessed themselves to the cart, and drew her through the city to the
temple gates, amid the acclamations of all the people, who admired
this trait of filial devotion.
The mother was so touched by her sons' affection, that, as she knelt
before the altar, she fervently prayed Juno to bestow upon them the
greatest boon in her power. At the conclusion of the services the
ex-priestess went into the portico, where her sons had thrown
themselves to rest after their unwonted exertions; but instead of
finding them merely asleep, as she expected, she found them dead. The
Queen of Heaven had transported them while asleep to the Elysian
Fields, the place of endless bliss, where such as they enjoyed eternal
life.
CHAPTER IV.
MINERVA.
[Sidenote: Birth of Minerva.]
Although immortal, the gods were not exempt from physical pain. One
day Jupiter suffered intensely from a sudden headache, and, in hopes
that some mode of alleviation would be devised, he summoned all the
gods to Olympus. Their united efforts were vain, however; and even the
remedies suggested by Apollo, god of medicine, proved inefficacious.
Unwilling, or perchance unable, to endure the racking pain any longer,
Jupiter bade one of his sons, Vulcan, cleave his head open with an ax.
With cheerful alacrity the dutiful god obeyed; and no sooner was the
operation performed, than Minerva (Pallas, Athene) sprang out of her
father's head, full-grown, clad in glittering armor, with poised
spear, and chanting a triumphant song of victory.
"From his awful head
Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike armor drest,
Golden, all radiant."
Shelley.
The assembled gods recoiled in fear before this unexpected apparition,
while at the same time a mighty commotion over land and sea proclaimed
the advent of a great divinity.
The goddess, who had thus joined the inhabitants of Olympus, was
destined to preside over peace, defensive war, and needlework, to be
the incarnation of wisdom, and to put to flight the obscure deity
called Dullness, who until then had ruled the world.
[Illustration: MINERVA. (National Museum, Naples.)]
"Ere Pallas issu'd from the Thund'rer's head,
Dullness o'er all possess'd her ancient right,
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night."
Pope.
Minerva, having forced her unattractive predecessor to beat an
ignominious retreat, quickly seized the scepter, and immediately began
to rule in her stead.
[Sidenote: Naming of Athens.]
Not long after her birth, Cecrops, a Phoenician, came to Greece, where
he founded a beautiful city in the province since called Attica. All
the gods watched his undertaking with great interest; and finally,
seeing the town promised to become a thriving place, each wished the
privilege of naming it. A general council was held, and after some
deliberation most of the gods withdrew their claims. Soon none but
Minerva and Neptune were left to contend for the coveted honor.
To settle the quarrel without evincing any partiality, Jupiter
announced that the city would be intrusted to the protection of the
deity who would create the most useful object for the use of man.
Raising his trident, Neptune struck the ground, from which a noble
horse sprang forth, amid the exclamations of wonder and admiration of
all the spectators. His qualities were duly explained by his proud
creator, and all thought it quite impossible for Minerva to surpass
him. Loudly they laughed, and scornfully too, when she, in her turn,
produced an olive tree; but when she had told them the manifold uses
to which wood, fruit, foliage, twigs, etc., could be applied, and
explained that the olive was a sign of peace and prosperity, and
therefore far more desirable than the horse, the emblem of war and
wretchedness, they could but acknowledge her gift the most
serviceable, and award her the prize.
To commemorate this victory over her rival, Minerva gave her own name
of Athene to the city, whose inhabitants, from that time forth, were
taught to honor her as their tutelary goddess.
Ever at Jupiter's side, Minerva often aided him by her wise counsels,
and in times of war borrowed his terrible shield, the Ægis, which she
flung over her shoulder when she sallied forth to give her support to
those whose cause was just.
"Her shoulder bore
The dreadful Ægis with its shaggy brim
Bordered with Terror. There was Strife, and there
Was Fortitude, and there was fierce Pursuit,
And there the Gorgon's head, a ghastly sight,
Deformed and dreadful, and a sign of woe."
Homer (Bryant's tr.).
The din of battle had no terrors for this doughty goddess, and on
every occasion she was wont to plunge into the thickest of the fray
with the utmost valor.
[Sidenote: Story of Arachne.]
These virile tastes were, however, fully counterbalanced by some
exclusively feminine, for Minerva was as deft with her needle as with
her sword. In Greece there lived in those olden times a maiden by the
name of Arachne. Pretty, young, and winsome, she would have been loved
by all had it not been for her inordinate pride, not in her personal
advantages, but in her skill as a needlewoman.
Arachne, in her conceit, fancied that no one could equal the work done
by her deft fingers, so she boasted far and wide that she would have
no fear to match her skill with Minerva's. She made this remark so
loudly and so frequently, that the goddess was finally annoyed, and
left her seat in high Olympus to come down upon earth and punish the
maiden. In the guise of an old crone, she entered Arachne's house,
seated herself, and began a conversation. In a few minutes the maiden
had resumed her usual strain, and renewed her rash boast. Minerva
gently advised her to be more modest, lest she should incur the wrath
of the gods by her presumptuous words; but Arachne was so blinded by
her conceit, that she scorned the well-meant warning, saucily tossed
her head, and declared she wished the goddess would hear her, and
propose a contest, in which she would surely be able to prove the
truth of her assertions. This insolent speech so incensed Minerva,
that she cast aside her disguise and accepted the challenge.
Both set up their looms, and began to weave exquisite designs in
tapestry: Minerva choosing as her subject her contest with Neptune;
and Arachne, the kidnapping of Europa. In silence the fair weavers
worked, and their webs grew apace under their practiced fingers. The
assembled gods, the horse, the olive tree, seemed to live and move
under Minerva's flashing shuttle.
"Emongst these leaves she made a Butterflie,
With excellent device and wondrous slight,
Fluttring among the Olives wantonly,
That seem'd to live, so like it was in sight:
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken downe with which his backe is dight,
His broad outstretched hornes, his hayrie thies,
His glorious colours, and his glistering eies."
Spenser.
Arachne, in the mean while, was intent upon her swimming bull, against
whose broad breast the waves splashed, and upon a half-laughing,
half-frightened girl, who clung to the bull's horns, while the wind
played with her flowing tresses and garments.
"Sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
The mild bull's golden horn."
Tennyson.
The finishing touches all given, each turned to view her rival's work,
and at the very first glance Arachne was forced to acknowledge her
failure. To be thus outstripped, after all her proud boasts, was
humiliating indeed. Bitterly did Arachne now repent of her folly; and
in her despair she bound a rope about her neck, and hung herself.
Minerva saw her discomfited rival was about to escape: so she quickly
changed her dangling body into a spider, and condemned her to weave
and spin without ceasing,--a warning to all conceited mortals.
[Sidenote: Worship of Minerva.]
Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was widely worshiped. Temples and
altars without number were dedicated to her service, the most
celebrated of all being the Parthenon at Athens. Naught but the ruins
of this mighty pile now exist; but they suffice to testify to the
beauty of the edifice, which served, in turn, as temple, church,
mosque, and finally as powder magazine.
"Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown.
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep
In all their beauty still--and thine is gone!
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered.
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine.
The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd
Thy walls; and thou--their fate must soon be thine!"
Hemans.
Statues of Minerva--a beautiful, majestic woman, fully clothed and
armed--were very numerous. The most celebrated of all, by the renowned
Greek sculptor Phidias, measured full forty feet in height. Festivals
were celebrated in honor of Minerva wherever her worship was
held,--some, the Greek Panathenæa, for instance, only every four
years; others, such as the Minervalia and Quinquatria, every year. At
these festivals the Palladium, a statue of the goddess, said to have
fallen from heaven, was carried in procession through the city, where
the people hailed its appearance with joyful cries and songs of
praise.
CHAPTER V.
APOLLO.
The most glorious and beautiful among all the gods was Apollo
(Phoebus, Sol, Helios, Cynthius, Pytheus), god of the sun, of
medicine, music, poetry, and all fine arts.
"Bright-hair'd Apollo!--thou who ever art
A blessing to the world--whose mighty heart
Forever pours out love, and light, and life;
Thou, at whose glance, all things of earth are rife
With happiness; to whom, in early spring,
Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er they cling
On the steep mountain side, or in the vale
Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale
And weary earth looks up, when winter flees,
With patient gaze: thou for whom wind-stripped trees
Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light
That glitters in thine eye: thou in whose bright
And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye
With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his joy to thee, by all the names
That thou dost bear--whether thy godhead claims
Phoebus or Sol, or golden-hair'd Apollo,
Cynthian or Pythian, if thou dost follow
The fleeing night, oh, hear
Our hymn to thee, and willingly draw near!"
Pike.
Apollo was the son of Jupiter and Latona, or Leto, the goddess of dark
nights. Juno's jealousy had been aroused by Jupiter's preference for
her rival. To avenge herself, she banished Latona to earth, and
declared that if any one, mortal or immortal, showed her any pity or
gave her any assistance, he would incur her lasting resentment.
After long, painful wanderings on earth, poor Latona, weary and
parched with thirst, drew near a small pool by the wayside to refresh
herself; but, urged by Juno, some reapers bade her pass on, and then,
seeing she paid no heed to their commands, they sprang into the
shallow waters, and stirred up the mud at the bottom until it was
quite unpalatable. With tear-dimmed eyes, Latona prayed these cruel
men might never leave the spot whereon they now stood; and Jupiter, in
answer to her prayer, immediately transformed them into huge green
frogs, which creatures have since then showed great preference for
muddy pools.
Driven on once more by Juno's unrelenting hatred, Latona finally came
to the seashore, where she stretched out imploring hands to Neptune,
who sent a dolphin to bear her in safety to the floating island of
Delos, raised in her behalf from the depths of the sea. The rocking
motion, however, proving disagreeable to the goddess, Neptune chained
the island fast in the Ægean Sea; and there in that delightful
climate, justly praised by poets, were born to Jupiter and Latona twin
children, Apollo and Diana, the divinities of the sun and moon.
[Sidenote: Story of Coronis.]
Apollo, having attained manhood, could not avoid the usual lot of the
gods, as well as of mortal men,--the pangs of love. They were first
inspired by Coronis, a fair maiden, who kindled within his breast an
ardent flame. The sun god wooed the girl warmly and persistently, and
at length had the deep satisfaction of seeing his affections returned.
His bliss, however, proved but fleeting; for Coronis, reasoning, that,
if one lover were so delightful, two would be doubly so, secretly
encouraged another suitor.
"Flirted with another lover
(So at least the story goes)
And was wont to meet him slyly,
Underneath the blushing rose."
Saxe.
Although so cleverly managed, these trysts could not escape the
bright eyes of Apollo's favorite bird, the snowy raven,--for such was
his hue in those early times,--so _he_ flew off in haste to his master
to report the discovery he had made. Desperate with love and jealousy,
Apollo did not hesitate, but, seizing his bow and deadly arrows, shot
Coronis through the heart.
The deed was no sooner accomplished, than all his love returned with
tenfold power; and, hastening to Coronis' side, he vainly tried all
his remedies (he was god of medicine) to recall her to life.
"The god of Physic
Had no antidote; alack!
He who took her off so deftly
Couldn't bring the maiden back!"
Saxe.
Bending over the lifeless body of his beloved one, he bewailed his
fatal haste, and cursed the bird which had brought him the unwelcome
tidings of her faithlessness.
"Then he turned upon the Raven,
'Wanton babbler! see thy fate!
Messenger of mine no longer,
Go to Hades with thy prate!
"'Weary Pluto with thy tattle!
Hither, monster, come not back;
And--to match thy disposition--
Henceforth be thy plumage black!'"
Saxe.
[Sidenote: Æsculapius.]
The only reminder of this unfortunate episode was a young son of
Apollo and Coronis, Æsculapius (Asklepios), who was carefully
instructed by Apollo in the healing art. The disciple's talent was so
great, that he soon rivaled his master, and even, it is said, recalled
the dead to life. Of course, these miracles did not long remain
concealed from Jupiter's all-seeing eye; and he, fearing lest the
people would forget him and worship their physician, seized one of
his thunderbolts, hurled it at the clever youth, and thus brought to
an untimely end his brilliant medical career.
"Then Jove, incensed that man should rise
From darkness to the upper skies,
The leech that wrought such healing hurled
With lightning down to Pluto's world."
Virgil (Conington's tr.).
Æsculapius' race was not entirely extinct, however, for he left two
sons--Machaon and Podalirius, who inherited his medical skill--and a
daughter, Hygeia, who watched over the health of man.
[Sidenote: Admetus and Alcestis.]
Maddened with grief at the unexpected loss of his son, Apollo would
fain have wreaked his vengeance upon the Cyclopes, the authors of the
fatal thunderbolt; but ere he could execute his purpose, Jupiter
interfered, and, to punish him, banished him to earth, where he
entered the service of Admetus, King of Thessaly. One consolation
alone now remained to the exiled god,--his music. His dulcet tones
soon won the admiration of his companions, and even that of the king,
who listened to his songs with pleasure, and to reward him gave him
the position of head shepherd.
"Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:
"And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half sleep
Three times his kingly beard he smoothed
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep."
Lowell.
Time passed. Apollo, touched by his master's kindness, wished to
bestow some favor in his turn, and asked the gods to grant Admetus
eternal life. His request was complied with, but only on condition,
that, when the time came which had previously been appointed for the
good king's death, some one should be found willing to die in his
stead. This divine decree was reported to Alcestis, Admetus' beautiful
young wife, who in a passion of self-sacrifice offered herself as
substitute, and cheerfully gave her life for her husband. But
immortality was too dearly bought at such a price; and Admetus mourned
until Hercules, pitying his grief, descended into Hades, and brought
her back from the tomb.
"Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb
Alcestis, a reanimated Corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?"
Wordsworth.
[Sidenote: The walls of Troy.]
Apollo, after endowing Admetus with immortality, left his service, and
went to assist Neptune, who had also been banished to earth, to build
the walls of Troy. Scorning to perform any menial tasks, the God of
Music seated himself near by, and played such inspiring tunes that the
stones waltzed into place of their own accord.
[Sidenote: Apollo slays Python.]
Then, his term of exile being ended, he returned to heaven, and there
resumed his wonted duties. From his exalted position he often cast
loving glances down upon men, whose life he had shared for a short
time, whose every privation he had endured; and, in answer to their
prayers, he graciously extended his protection over them, and
delivered them from misfortunes too numerous to mention. Among other
deeds done for men was the slaying of the monster serpent Python, born
from the slime and stagnant waters which remained upon the surface of
the earth after the Deluge. None had dared approach the monster; but
Apollo fearlessly drew near, and slew him with his golden shafts. The
victory over the terrible Python won for Apollo the surname of Pytheus
(the Slayer), by which appellation he was frequently invoked.
[Illustration: APOLLO BELVEDERE. (Vatican, Rome.)]
This annihilation of Python is, of course, nothing but an allegory,
illustrating the sun's power to dry up marshes and stagnant pools,
thus preventing the lurking fiend malaria from making further inroads.
Apollo has always been a favorite subject for painters and sculptors.
The most beautiful statue of him is the Apollo Belvedere, which
represents him at the moment of his conquest of the Python.
[Sidenote: Apollo and Hyacinthus.]
Although successful in war, Apollo was very unfortunate indeed in
friendship. One day he came down to earth to enjoy the society of a
youth of mortal birth, named Hyacinthus. To pass the time agreeably,
the friends began a game of quoits, but had not played long, before
Zephyrus, god of the south wind, passing by, saw them thus occupied.
Jealous of Apollo, for he too loved Hyacinthus, Zephyrus blew Apollo's
quoit aside so violently that it struck his playmate, and felled him
to the ground. Vainly Apollo strove to check the stream of blood which
flowed from the ghastly wound. Hyacinthus was already beyond aid, and
in a few seconds breathed his last in his friend's arms. To keep some
reminder of the departed, Apollo changed the fallen blood drops into
clusters of flowers, ever since called, from the youth's name,
hyacinths; while Zephyrus, perceiving too late the fatal effect of his
jealousy, hovered inconsolable over the sad spot, and tenderly
caressed the dainty flowers which had sprung from his friend's
lifeblood.
"Zephyr penitent,
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower."
Keats.
[Sidenote: Apollo and Cyparissus.]
To divert his mind from the mournful fate of Hyacinthus, Apollo sought
the company of Cyparissus, a clever young hunter; but this friendship
was also doomed to a sad end, for Cyparissus, having accidentally
killed Apollo's pet stag, grieved so sorely over this mischance, that
he pined away, and finally died. Apollo then changed his lifeless clay
into a cypress tree, which he declared should henceforth be used to
shade the graves of those who had been greatly beloved through life.
[Sidenote: Apollo and Daphne.]
Some time after this episode, Apollo encountered in the forest a
beautiful nymph by the name of Daphne, the daughter of the river god
Peneus. Love at first sight was the immediate consequence on Apollo's
part, and he longed to speak to the maid and win her affections. He
first tried to approach her gently, so as not to frighten her; but,
before he could reach her side, she fled, and he, forgetful of all
else, pursued her flying footsteps. As he ran, he called aloud to
Daphne, entreating her to pause were it only for a moment, and
promising to do her no harm.
"Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head;
With kind regard a panting lover view;
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue:
Pathless, alas! and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.
"You fly, alas! not knowing whom you fly;
No ill-bred swain, nor rustic clown, am I."
Prior.
The terrified girl paid no heed to promises or entreaties, but sped on
until her strength began to fail, and she perceived, that,
notwithstanding her utmost efforts, her pursuer was gaining upon her.
Panting and trembling, she swerved aside, and rushed down to the edge
of her father's stream, calling out loudly for his protection. No
sooner had she reached the water's edge, than her feet seemed rooted
to the ground. A rough bark rapidly inclosed her quivering limbs,
while her trembling hands were filled with leaves. Her father had
granted her prayer by changing her into a laurel tree.
[Illustration: APOLLO AND DAPHNE.--Bernini. (Villa Borghese, Rome.)]
Apollo, coming up just then with outstretched arms, clasped nothing
but a rugged tree trunk. At first he could not realize that the fair
maiden had vanished from his sight forever; but, when the truth
dawned upon him, he declared that from henceforth the laurel would be
considered his favorite tree, and that prizes awarded to poets,
musicians, etc., should consist of a wreath of its glossy foliage.
"I espouse thee for my tree:
Be thou the prize of honor and renown;
The deathless poet, and the poem, crown;
Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,
And, after poets, be by victors worn."
Ovid (Dryden's tr.).
This story of Apollo and Daphne was an illustration of the effect
produced by the sun (Apollo) upon the dew (Daphne). The sun is
captivated by its beauty, and longs to view it more closely; the dew,
afraid of its ardent lover, flies, and, when its fiery breath touches
it, vanishes, leaving nothing but verdure in the selfsame spot where
but a moment before it sparkled in all its purity.
[Sidenote: Cephalus and Procris.]
The ancients had many analogous stories, allegories of the sun and
dew, amongst others the oft-quoted tale of Cephalus and Procris.
Cephalus was a hunter, who fell in love with and married one of
Diana's nymphs, Procris. She brought him as dowry a hunting dog,
Lelaps, and a javelin warranted never to miss its mark. The newly
married pair were perfectly happy; but their content was viewed with
great displeasure by Eos (Aurora), goddess of dawn, who had previously
tried, but without success, to win Cephalus' affections, and who now
resolved to put an end to the bliss she envied.
All day long Cephalus hunted in the forest, and, when the evening
shadows began to fall, joined his loving wife in their cozy dwelling.
Her marriage gifts proved invaluable, as Lelaps was swift of foot, and
tireless in the chase. One day, to test his powers, the gods from
Olympus watched him course a fox, a special creation of theirs; and so
well were both animals matched in speed and endurance, that the chase
bade fair to end only with the death of one or both of the
participants. The gods, in their admiration for the fine run,
declared the animals deserved to be remembered forever, and changed
them into statues, which retained all the spirited action of the
living creatures.
In the warm season, when the sun became oppressive, Cephalus was wont
to rest during the noon hour in some shady spot, and as he flung
himself down upon the short grass he often called for a breeze,
bidding it cool his heated brow.
"A hunter once in that grove reclin'd,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he woo'd the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh.
While mute lay ev'n the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still, 'Sweet air, oh come!'
While Echo answer'd, 'Come, sweet air!'"
Moore.
Eos heard of this habit, and was fully aware that he merely addressed
the passing wind; nevertheless she sought Procris, and informed her
that her husband was faithless, and paid court to a fair maid, who
daily met him at noonday in the forest solitudes. Procris, blinded by
sudden jealousy, gave credit to the false story, and immediately
resolved to follow her husband.
The morning had well-nigh passed, and the sun was darting its
perpendicular rays upon the earth, when Cephalus came to his usual
resort, near which Procris was concealed.
"Sweet air, oh come!" the hunter cried; and Procris, cut to the heart
by what she considered an infallible proof of his infidelity, sank
fainting to the ground. The rustle caused by her swoon attracted
Cephalus' attention. Under the mistaken impression that some wild
beast was lurking there, ready to pounce upon him, he cast his
unerring javelin into the very midst of the thicket, and pierced the
faithful bosom of his wife. Her dying moan brought him with one bound
to her side; ere she breathed her last, an explanation was given and
received; and Procris died with the blissful conviction that her
husband had not deserved her unjust suspicions, and that his heart
was all her own.
There are, of course, many other versions of these selfsame myths; but
one and all are intended to illustrate the same natural phenomena, and
are subject to the same interpretation.
Apollo's principal duty was to drive the sun chariot. Day after day he
rode across the azure sky, nor paused on his way till he reached the
golden boat awaiting him at the end of his long day's journey, to bear
him in safety back to his eastern palace.
"Helios all day long his allotted labor pursues;
No rest to his passionate heart and his panting horses given,
From the moment when roseate-fingered Eos kindles the dews
And spurns the salt sea-floors, ascending silvery the heaven,
Until from the hand of Eos Hesperos, trembling, receives
His fragrant lamp, and faint in the twilight hangs it up."
Owen Meredith.
[Sidenote: Clytie.]
A fair young maiden, named Clytie, watched Apollo's daily journey with
strange persistency; and from the moment when he left his palace in
the morning until he came to the far western sea in the evening, she
followed his course with loving eyes, thought of the golden-haired
god, and longed for his love. But, in spite of all this fervor, she
never won favor in Apollo's eyes, and languished until the gods, in
pity, changed her into a sunflower.
Even in this altered guise, Clytie could not forget the object of her
love; and now, a fit emblem of constancy, she still follows with
upturned face the glowing orb in its daily journey across the sky.
"No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turn'd when he rose."
Moore.
[Sidenote: Apollo and Marsyas.]
A young shepherd, lying in the cool grass one summer afternoon, became
aware of a distant sound of music, so sweet, so thrilling, that he
fairly held his breath to listen. These weird, delightful tones were
produced by Minerva, who, seated by the banks of a small stream, was
trying her skill on the flute. As she bent over the limpid waters, she
suddenly beheld her puffed cheeks and distorted features, and
impetuously threw the instrument into the water, vowing never to touch
it again.
"Hence, ye banes of beauty, hence!
What? shall I my charms disgrace
By making such an odious face?"
Melanippides.
The sudden break in the entrancing music caused the youth, Marsyas, to
start from his abstraction and look about him. He then perceived the
rejected flute sailing gently down the stream past his feet. To seize
the instrument and convey it to his lips was the work of an instant;
and no sooner had he breathed into it, than the magic strain was
renewed. No recollection of his pastoral duties could avail to tear
Marsyas away from his new-found treasure; and so rapidly did his skill
increase, that he became insufferably conceited, and boasted he could
rival Apollo, whom he actually challenged to a musical contest.
Intending to punish him for his presumption, Apollo accepted the
challenge, and selected the nine Muses--patronesses of poetry and
music--as umpires. Marsyas was first called upon to exhibit his
proficiency, and charmed all by his melodious strains.
"So sweet that alone the south wind knew,
By summer hid in green reeds' jointed cells
To wait imprisoned for the south wind's spells,
From out his reedy flute the player drew,
And as the music clearer, louder grew,
Wild creatures from their winter nooks and dells,
Sweet furry things with eyes like starry wells,
Crept wanderingly out; they thought the south wind blew.
With instant joyous trust, they flocked around
His feet who such a sudden summer made,
His eyes, more kind than men's, enthralled and bound
Them there."
H. H.
The Muses bestowed much deserved praise, and then bade Apollo surpass
his rival if he could. No second command was necessary. The god seized
his golden lyre, and poured forth impassioned strains. Before
pronouncing their decision, the Muses resolved to give both musicians
a second hearing, and again both strove; but on this occasion Apollo
joined the harmonious accents of his godlike voice to the tones of his
instrument, causing all present, and the very Muses too, to hail him
as conqueror.
"And, when now the westering sun
Touch'd the hills, the strife was done,
And the attentive Muses said:
'Marsyas, thou art vanquished!'"
Matthew Arnold.
According to a previous arrangement,--that the victor should have the
privilege of flaying his opponent alive,--Apollo bound Marsyas to a
tree, and slew him cruelly. As soon as the mountain nymphs heard of
their favorite's sad death, they began to weep, and shed such torrents
of tears, that they formed a new river, called Marsyas, in memory of
the sweet musician.
[Sidenote: Apollo and Pan.]
The mournful termination of this affair should have served as a
warning to all rash mortals. Such was not the case, however; and
shortly after, Apollo found himself engaged in another musical contest
with Pan, King Midas' favorite flute player. Upon this occasion Midas
himself retained the privilege of awarding the prize, and, blinded by
partiality, gave it to Pan, in spite of the marked inferiority of his
playing. Apollo was so incensed by this injustice, that he determined
to show his opinion of the dishonest judge by causing generous-sized
ass's ears to grow on either side of his head.
"The god of wit, to show his grudge,
Clapt asses' ears upon the judge;
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild nor hide."
Swift.
Greatly dismayed by these new ornaments, Midas retreated into the
privacy of his own apartment, and sent in hot haste for a barber, who,
after having been sworn to secrecy, was admitted, and bidden to
fashion a huge wig, which would hide the deformity from the eyes of
the king's subjects. The barber acquitted himself deftly, and, before
he was allowed to leave the palace, was again charged not to reveal
the secret, under penalty of immediate death.
But a secret is difficult to keep; and this one, of the king's long
ears, preyed upon the poor barber's spirits, so that, incapable of
enduring silence longer, he sallied out into a field, dug a deep hole,
and shouted down into the bosom of the earth,--
"'King Midas wears
(These eyes beheld them, these) such ass's ears!'"
Horace.
Unspeakably relieved by this performance, the barber returned home.
Time passed. Reeds grew over the hole, and, as they bent before the
wind which rustled through their leaves, they were heard to murmur,
"Midas, King Midas, has ass's ears!" and all who passed by caught the
whisper, and noised it abroad, so that the secret became the general
topic of all conversations.
[Sidenote: Orpheus and Eurydice.]
As Apollo had frequent opportunities of meeting the Muses, it is not
to be wondered at that he fell a victim to the charms of the fair
Calliope, who, in her turn, loved him passionately, and even wrote
verses in his honor. This being the state of her feelings, she readily
consented to their union, and became the proud mother of Orpheus, who
inherited his parents' musical and poetical gifts.
"Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops, that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
"Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by."
Shakespeare.
This talent waxed greater as the years passed by, and became so
remarkable, that the youth's fame was very widespread; and when he
fell in love with Eurydice, he brought all his skill into play to
serenade her, and wooed her with voice and glance and with tender,
passionate music. Eurydice was touched by his courtship, and ere long
requited the love lavished upon her by conferring her hand upon
Orpheus.
Shortly after their union, while walking alone in the fields, the
bride encountered a youth named Aristæus, whose bold admiration proved
so distasteful, that she fled from him as quickly as possible. In her
haste she accidentally trod upon a venomous serpent lurking in the
long grass, which immediately turned upon her, and bit her heel. A
short period of agonized suffering ensued; then Eurydice died, and her
spirit was conducted down into the gloomy realms of Pluto, leaving
Orpheus broken-hearted.
Plaintive, heartrending laments now replaced the joyous wedding
strains; but even the charms of music failed to make life endurable,
and Orpheus wandered off to Olympus, where he so piteously implored
Jupiter to restore his wife to his longing arms, that the great god's
heart was moved to compassion. He gave him permission, therefore, to
go down into the Infernal Regions to seek his wife, but warned him at
the same time that the undertaking was perilous in the extreme.
Nothing daunted, Orpheus hastened to the entrance of Hades, and there
saw the fierce three-headed dog, named Cerberus, who guarded the
gate, and would allow no living being to enter, nor any spirit to pass
out of Hades. As soon as this monster saw Orpheus, he began to growl
and bark savagely, to frighten him away; but Orpheus merely paused,
and began to play such melting chords, that Cerberus' rage was
appeased, and he finally allowed him to pass into Pluto's dark
kingdom.
The magic sounds penetrated even into the remote depths of Tartarus,
where the condemned suspended their toil for a moment, and hushed
their sighs and groans to listen.
"E'en Tantalus ceased from trying to sip
The cup that flies from his arid lip;
Ixion, too, the magic could feel,
And, for a moment, blocked his wheel;
Poor Sisyphus, doomed to tumble and toss
The notable stone that gathers no moss,
Let go his burden, and turned to hear
The charming sounds that ravished his ear."
Saxe.
No living being had ever before penetrated thus into the Infernal
Regions, and Orpheus wandered on until he came to the throne of Pluto,
king of these realms, whereon the stern ruler sat in silence, his wife
Proserpina beside him, and the relentless Fates at his feet.
Orpheus made known his errand in operatic guise, and succeeded in
moving the royal pair to tears, whereupon they graciously consented to
restore Eurydice to life and to her fond husband's care.
"Hell consented
To hear the Poet's prayer:
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er death, and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Tho' fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious."
Pope.
[Illustration: ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.--Beyschlag.]
But one condition was imposed before he was allowed to depart; i.e.,
that he should leave the Infernal Regions without turning once to look
into his beloved wife's face.
Orpheus accepted the condition joyfully, and wended his way out of
Hades, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but straight
before him; and as he walked he wondered whether Eurydice were changed
by her sojourn in these rayless depths. His longing to feast his eyes
once more upon her loved features made him forget the condition
imposed by Pluto, and turn just before he reached the earth; but he
only beheld the vanishing form of the wife he had so nearly snatched
from the grave.
All was now over. He had tried and failed. No hope remained. In
despair, the lonely musician retreated to the forest solitudes, and
there played his mournful laments,--
"Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regained Eurydice."
Milton.
But there were none to hear except the trees, winds, and wild beasts
in the forest, who strove in their dumb way to comfort him as he moved
restlessly about, seeking a solace for his bursting heart. At times it
seemed to his half-delirious fancy that he could discern Eurydice
wandering about in the dim distance, with the selfsame mournful
expression of which he had caught a mere glimpse as she drifted
reluctantly back into the dark shadows of Hades.
"At that elm-vista's end I trace
Dimly thy sad leave-taking face,
Eurydice! Eurydice!
The tremulous leaves repeat to me
Eurydice! Eurydice!"
Lowell.
At last there dawned a day when some Bacchantes overtook him in the
forest, and bade him play some gay music, so they might indulge in a
dance. But poor Orpheus, dazed with grief, could not comply with their
demands; and the sad notes which alone he now could draw from his
instrument so enraged the merrymakers, that they tore him limb from
limb, and cast his mangled remains into the Hebrus River.
As the poet-musician's head floated down the stream, the pallid lips
still murmured, "Eurydice!" for even in death he could not forget his
wife; and, as his spirit drifted on to join her, he incessantly called
upon her name, until the brooks, trees, and fountains he had loved so
well caught up the longing cry, and repeated it again and again.
Nothing was now left to remind mortals of the sweet singer who had
thus perished, except his lute, which the gods placed in the heavens
as a bright constellation, Lyra, also called by Orpheus' name.
Another musician celebrated in mythological annals is Amphion, whose
skill was reported to be but little inferior to Orpheus'.
"Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He left a small plantation;
Wherever in a lonely grove
He set up his forlorn pipes,
The gouty oak began to move,
And flounder into hornpipes."
Tennyson.
[Sidenote: Story of Amphion.]
This musician, a son of Jupiter and Antiope, had a twin brother
Zethus, who, however, shared none of his artistic tastes. Hearing that
their mother Antiope had been repudiated by her second husband, Lycus,
so that he might marry another wife by the name of Dirce, these youths
hastened off to Thebes, where they found the state of affairs even
worse than represented; for poor Antiope was now imprisoned, and
subject to her rival's daily cruel treatment.
[Illustration: FARNESE BULL. (National Museum, Naples.)]
Zethus and Amphion, after besieging and taking the city, put Lycus to
death, and, binding Dirce to the tail of a wild bull, let him loose to
drag her over briers and stones until she perished. This punishment
inflicted upon Dirce is the subject of the famous group once belonging
to the Farnese family, and now called by their name.
Amphion's musical talent was of great use to him when he subsequently
became King of Thebes, and wished to fortify his capital by building a
huge rampart all around it; for the stones moved in rhythmic time,
and, of their own volition, marched into their places.
[Sidenote: Arion.]
Second to him only, in musical fame, was Arion, the musician who won
untold wealth by his talent. On one occasion, having gone to Sicily to
take part in a musical contest which had attracted thither the most
famous musicians from all points of the compass, he resolved to return
home by sea.
Unfortunately for him, the vessel upon which he had embarked was
manned by an avaricious, piratical crew, who, having heard of his
treasures, resolved to murder him to obtain possession of them. He was
allowed but scant time to prepare for death; but, just as they were
about to toss him overboard, he craved permission to play for the last
time. The pirates consented. His clear notes floated over the sea, and
allured a school of dolphins, which came and played about the ship.
The pirates, terrified by the power of his music, and in dread lest
their hearts should be moved, quickly laid hands upon him, and hurled
him into the water, where he fell upon the broad back of a dolphin,
who bore him in safety to the nearest shore.
"Then was there heard a most celestiall sound
Of dainty musicke, which did next ensew
Before the spouse: that was Arion crownd;
Who, playing on his harpe, unto him drew
The eares and hearts of all that goodly crew,
That even yet the Dolphin, which him bore
Through the Agean seas from Pirates vew,
Stood still by him astonisht at his lore,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to rore."
Spenser.
To commemorate this miracle, the gods placed Arion's harp, together
with the dolphin, in the heavens, where they form a constellation.
In the sunny plains of Greece there once dwelt Clymene, a fair nymph.
She was not alone, however, for her golden-haired little son Phaeton
was there to gladden her heart with all his childish graces.
[Sidenote: Story of Phaeton.]
Early in the morning, when the sun's bright orb first appeared above
the horizon, Clymene would point it out to her boy, and tell him that
his father, Apollo, was setting out for his daily drive. Clymene so
often entertained her child with stories of his father's beauty and
power, that at last Phaeton became conceited, and acquired a habit of
boasting rather loudly of his divine parentage. His playmates, after a
time, wearied of his arrogance, and, to avoid the constant repetition
of his vain speeches, bade him show some proof of his divine origin,
or keep his peace.
Stung to the quick by some insolent taunts which they added, Phaeton
hastened to his mother, and begged her to direct him to his father,
that he might obtain the desired proof. Clymene immediately gave him
all necessary information, and bade him make haste if he would reach
his father's palace in the far east before the sun chariot passed out
of its portals to accomplish its daily round. Directly eastward
Phaeton journeyed, nor paused to rest until he came in view of the
golden and jeweled pinnacles and turrets of his father's abode.
"The sun's bright palace, on high columns rais'd
With burnish'd gold and flaming jewels blaz'd,
The folding gates diffus'd a silver light,
And with a milder gleam refresh'd the sight."
Addison.
Quite undazzled by this splendor, the youth still pressed on,
straining his eyes to catch the first glimpse of the godly father,
whose stately bearing and radiant air his mother had so
enthusiastically described.
Apollo, from his golden throne, had watched the boy's approach, and,
as he drew nearer, recognized him as his own offspring. Timidly now
Phaeton advanced to the steps of his father's throne, and humbly
waited for permission to make his errand known. Apollo addressed him
graciously, called him his son, and bade him speak without fear. In a
few minutes the youth impetuously poured out the whole story, and
watched with pleasure the frown which gathered on Apollo's brow when
he repeated his companions' taunts. As soon as he had finished his
tale, Apollo exclaimed that he would grant him any proof he wished,
and confirmed these words by a solemn oath.
"'By the terrible Styx!' said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
'To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!'"
Saxe.
This oath was the most solemn any god could utter, and in case of
perjury he was obliged to drink the waters of this river, which would
lull him into senseless stupidity for one whole year. During nine
years following he was deprived of his office, banished from Olympus,
and not allowed to taste of the life-giving nectar and ambrosia.
With a flash of triumph in his dark eyes, Phaeton, hearing this oath,
begged permission to drive the sun chariot that very day, stating that
all the world would be sure to notice his exalted position, and that
none would ever dare doubt his veracity after such a signal mark of
Apollo's favor.
When the god heard this presumptuous request, he started back in
dismay, for he alone could control the four fiery steeds which drew
the golden-wheeled sun car. Patiently he then explained to Phaeton
the great danger of such an undertaking, earnestly begging him to
select some other, less fatal boon.
"Choose out a gift from seas, or earth, or skies,
For open to your wish all nature lies;
Only decline this one unequal task,
For 'tis a mischief, not a gift, you ask."
Addison.
But Phaeton, who, like many another conceited youth, fancied he knew
better than his sire, would not give heed to the kindly warning, and
persisted in his request, until Apollo, who had sworn the irrevocable
oath, was obliged to fulfill his promise.
The hour had already come when the Sun usually began his daily
journey. The pawing, champing steeds were ready; rosy-fingered Aurora
only awaited her master's signal to fling wide the gates of morn; and
the Hours were ready to escort him as usual.
Apollo, yielding to pressure, quickly anointed his son with a cooling
essence to preserve him from the burning sunbeams, gave him the
necessary directions for his journey, and repeatedly and anxiously
cautioned him to watch his steeds with the utmost care, and to use the
whip but sparingly, as they were inclined to be very restive.
The youth, who had listened impatiently to cautions and directions,
then sprang into the seat, gathered up the reins, signaled to Aurora
to fling the gates wide, and dashed out of the eastern palace with a
flourish.
For an hour or two Phaeton bore in mind his father's principal
injunctions, and all went well; but later, elated by his exalted
position, he became very reckless, drove faster and faster, and soon
lost his way. In finding it again he drove so close to the earth, that
all the plants shriveled up, the fountains and rivers were dried in
their mossy beds, the smoke began to rise from the parched and
blackened earth, and even the people of the land over which he was
passing were burned black,--a hue retained by their descendants to
this day.
[Illustration: AURORA.--Guido Reni. (Rospigliosi Palace, Rome.)]
Terrified at what he had done, Phaeton whipped up his steeds, and
drove so far away, that all the vegetation which had survived the
intense heat came to an untimely end on account of the sudden cold.
The cries of mortals rose in chorus, and their clamors became so loud
and importunate, that they roused Jupiter from a profound sleep, and
caused him to look around to discover their origin. One glance of his
all-seeing eye sufficed to reveal the damaged earth and the youthful
charioteer. How had a beardless youth dared to mount the sun chariot?
Jupiter could scarcely credit what he saw. In his anger he vowed he
would make the rash mortal expiate his presumption by immediate death.
He therefore selected the deadliest thunderbolt in his arsenal, aimed
it with special care, and hurled it at Phaeton, whose burned and
blackened corpse fell from his lofty seat down into the limpid waves
of the Eridanus River.
"And Phaethon, caught in mid career,
And hurled from the Sun to utter sunlessness,
Like a flame-bearded comet, with ghastliest hiss,
Fell headlong in the amazed Eridanus,
Monarch of streams, who on the Italian fields
Let loose, and far beyond his flowery lips
Foam-white, ran ruinous to the Adrian deep."
Worsley.
[Sidenote: The Heliades.]
The tidings of his death soon reached poor Clymene, who mourned her
only son, and refused to be comforted; while the Heliades, Phaeton's
sisters, three in number,--Phaetusa, Lampetia, and Ægle,--spent their
days by the riverside, shedding tears, wringing their white hands, and
bewailing their loss, until the gods, in pity, transformed them into
poplar trees, and their tears into amber, which substance was supposed
by the ancients to flow from the poplar trees like teardrops.
Phaeton's intimate friend, Cycnus, piously collected his charred
remains, and gave them an honorable burial. In his grief he
continually haunted the scene of his friend's death, and repeatedly
plunged into the river, in the hope of finding some more scattered
fragments, until the gods changed him into a swan; which bird is ever
sailing mournfully about, and frequently plunging, his head into the
water to continue his sad search.
Apollo, as the dearly loved leader of the nine Muses,--daughters of
Jupiter and Mnemosyne, goddess of memory,--was surnamed Musagetes.
"Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold,
And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount,
Placed him as Musagetes on their throne."
Longfellow.
Although the Muses united at times in one grand song, they had each
separate duties assigned them.
[Sidenote: The nine Muses.]
Clio, the Muse of history, recorded all great deeds and heroic
actions, with the names of their authors, and was therefore generally
represented with a laurel wreath and a book and stylus, to indicate
her readiness to note all that happened to mortal men or immortal
gods.
Euterpe, the graceful "Mistress of Song," was represented with a
flute, and garlands of fragrant flowers.
Thalia, Muse of pastoral poetry, held a shepherd's crook and mask, and
wore a crown of wild flowers.
"Mild pastoral Muse!
That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears,
And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath,
Preferr'st a garland culled from purple heath!"
Wordsworth.
Her graver sister, Melpomene, who presided over tragedy, wore a crown
of gold, and wielded a dagger and a scepter; while Terpsichore, the
light-footed Muse of dancing, was represented treading an airy
measure.
[Illustration: APOLLO AND THE MUSES.--Mengs.]
Erato, who preferred lyric poetry to all other styles of composition,
was pictured with a lyre; and Polyhymnia, Muse of rhetoric, held a
scepter to show that eloquence rules with resistless sway.
Calliope, Muse of heroic poetry, also wore a laurel crown; and Urania,
Muse of astronomy, held mathematical instruments, indicative of her
love of the exact sciences.
This glorious sisterhood was wont to assemble on Mount Parnassus or on
Mount Helicon, to hold their learned debates on poetry, science, and
music.
Apollo's favorite attendant was Eos (Aurora), the fair goddess of
dawn, whose rose-tipped fingers opened wide the eastern gates of
pearl, and who then flashed across the sky to announce her master's
coming.
"Hail, gentle Dawn! mild blushing goddess, hail!
Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread
O'er half the skies; gems pave thy radiant way,
And orient pearls from every shrub depend."
Somerville.
[Sidenote: Story of Aurora and Tithonus.]
This dainty goddess loved and married Tithonus, Prince of Troy, and
won from the gods the boon of everlasting life to confer upon him.
Alas! however, she forgot to ask at the same time for continued youth;
and her husband grew older and older, and finally became so decrepit,
that he was a burden to her. Knowing he would never die, and wishing
to rid herself of his burdensome presence, she changed him into a
grasshopper.
At this time the goddess fell in love with Cephalus, the young hunter,
and frequently visited him on Mount Hymettus.
"'Come,' Phoebus cries, 'Aurora, come--too late
Thou linger'st slumbering with thy wither'd mate!
Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair!
Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there!'
The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays,
But mounts, and, driving rapidly, obeys."
Keats.
[Sidenote: Worship of Apollo.]
The principal temples dedicated to the worship of Apollo were at
Delos, his birthplace, and at Delphi, where a priestess called Pythia
gave out mysterious oracles purporting to have come from the god. The
ancients everywhere could not fail to recognize the sun's kindly
influence and beneficent power, and were therefore ever ready to
worship Apollo.
"I marvel not, O sun! that unto thee
In adoration man should bow the knee,
And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love;
For like a God thou art, and on thy way
Of glory sheddest with benignant ray,
Beauty, and life, and joyance from above."
Southey.
The most renowned among the numerous festivals held in honor of Apollo
were, without exception, the Pythian Games, celebrated at Delphi every
three years.
A manly, beardless youth of great beauty, Apollo is generally crowned
with laurels, and bears either a bow or a lyre.
"The Lord of the unerring bow,
The God of life, and poesy, and light--
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
The shaft hath just been shot--the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity."
Byron.
One of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world, the famous Colossus of
Rhodes, was a statue of Apollo, his head encircled with a halo of
bright sunbeams, and his legs spread wide apart to allow vessels, with
all their sails spread, to pass in and out of the harbor, whose
entrance he guarded for many a year.
[Illustration: DIANA OF VERSAILLES. (Louvre, Paris.)]
CHAPTER VI.
DIANA.
Diana (Cynthia, Phoebe, Selene, Artemis), the fair twin sister of
Apollo, was not only goddess of the moon, but also of the chase.
"'Goddess serene, transcending every star!
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove,
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove.'"
Byron.
In works of art this goddess is generally represented as a beautiful
maiden, clad in a short hunting dress, armed with a bow, a quiver full
of arrows at her side, and a crescent on her well-poised head.
Proud of her two children, Apollo and Diana, Latona boasted far and
wide that such as hers had never been, for they excelled all others in
beauty, intelligence, and power.
[Sidenote: Story of Niobe.]
The daughter of Tantalus, Niobe, heard this boast, and laughed in
scorn; for she was the mother of fourteen children,--seven manly sons
and seven beautiful daughters. In her pride she called aloud to
Latona, and taunted her because her offspring numbered but two.
Shortly after, Niobe even went so far as to forbid her people to
worship Apollo and Diana, and gave orders that all the statues
representing them in her kingdom should be torn down from their
pedestals, and destroyed. Enraged at this insult, Latona called her
children to her side, and bade them go forth and slay all her luckless
rival's offspring.
Provided with well-stocked quivers, the twins set out to do her
bidding; and Apollo, meeting the seven lads out hunting, cut their
existence short with his unfailing arrows.
"Phoebus slew the sons
With arrows from his silver bow, incensed
At Niobe."
Homer (Bryant's tr.).
With all proverbial speed the tidings reached Niobe, whose heart
failed when she heard that her seven sons, her pride and delight, had
fallen under Apollo's shafts, and that they now lay cold and stiff in
the forest, where they had eagerly hastened a few hours before, to
follow the deer to its cover.
As she mourned their untimely death, she thought her cup of sorrow was
full; but long ere her first passion of grief was over, Diana began to
slay her daughters.
"But what is this? What means this oozing flood?
Her daughters, too, are weltering in their blood:
One clasps her mother's knees, one clings around
Her neck, and one lies prostrate on the ground;
One seeks her breast; one eyes the coming woe
And shudders; one in terror crouches low."
Meleager.
In vain the poor girls sought to escape the flying arrows. In vain
Niobe sought to protect them, and called upon all the gods of Olympus.
Her daughters fell one by one, never to rise again. The last clung
convulsively to her mother's breast; but, even in that fond mother's
passionate embrace, death found and claimed her. Then the gods,
touched by the sight of woe so intense, changed Niobe into stone, just
as she stood, with upturned face, streaming eyes, and quivering lips.
This statue was placed on Mount Sipylus, close to a stream of running
water; and it was said that tears continually flowed down the marble
cheeks, for, though changed, Niobe still felt, and wept for her great
loss.
[Illustration: NIOBE. (Uffizi Palace, Florence.)]
This story is an allegory, in which Niobe, the mother, represents
winter, hard, cold, and proud; until Apollo's deadly arrows, the
sunbeams, slay her children, the winter months. Her tears are emblems
of the natural thaw which comes in spring, when winter's pride has
melted.
[Sidenote: Diana's avocations.]
As soon as the young Goddess of the Moon had been introduced in
Olympus, all the gods expressed a wish to marry her; but she refused
to listen to their entreaties, begged her father's permission to
remain single all her life, and pleaded her cause so ably, that
Jupiter was forced to grant her request.
Every evening, as soon as the Sun had finished his course, Diana
mounted her moon car, and drove her milk-white steeds across the
heavens, watched over and loved by the countless stars, which shone
their brightest to cheer her on her way; and as she drove she often
bent down to view the sleeping earth, so shadowy and dreamlike, and to
breathe the intoxicating perfume of the distant flowers. It always
seemed to her then as if Nature, so beautiful during the day, borrowed
additional charms from the witching hours of the night.
"'Twas now the time when Phoebus yields to night,
And rising Cynthia sheds her silver light,
Wide o'er the world in solemn pomp she drew
Her airy chariot hung with pearly dew."
[Sidenote: Story of Endymion.]
One evening, as she was driving noiselessly along, she suddenly
checked her steeds; for there on the hillside she saw a handsome young
shepherd, fast asleep, his upturned face illumined by the moon's soft
light. Diana wonderingly gazed upon his beauty, and before long felt
her heart beat with more than admiration. Gliding gently from her
chariot, she floated to his side, bent slowly, and dropped an airy
kiss upon his slightly parted lips.
The youth Endymion, only partially awakened by this demonstration,
half raised his fringed lids, and for a moment his sleep-dimmed eyes
rested wonderingly upon the beautiful vision. That one glance,
although it drove Diana away in great haste, kindled in his heart an
inextinguishable passion. He rose with a start, and rubbed his sleepy
eyes; but when he saw the moon, which he fancied close beside him,
sailing away across the deep-blue sky, he felt sure the whole
occurrence had been but a dream, but so sweet a dream that he cast
himself down upon the sward, hoping to woo it to visit him once more.
It did not come again that night, however; but the next night, as he
lay on the selfsame spot, it recurred in all its sweetness; and night
after night it was repeated when the pale moonbeams fell athwart his
sleeping face.
"Then, as the full orb poised upon the peak,
There came a lovely vision of a maid,
Who seemed to step as from a golden car
Out of the low-hung moon."
Lewis Morris.
Diana, fully as enamored as he, could not bear to pass him by without
a caress, and invariably left her car for a moment, as it touched the
mountain peak, to run to him and snatch a hasty kiss.
"Chaste Artemis, who guides the lunar car,
The pale nocturnal vigils ever keeping,
Sped through the silent space from star to star,
And, blushing, stooped to kiss Endymion sleeping."
Boyesen.
But, even when asleep, Endymion watched for her coming, and enjoyed
the bliss of her presence; yet a spell seemed to prevent his giving
any sign of consciousness.
Time passed thus. Diana, who could not bear to think of the youth's
beauty being marred by want, toil, and exposure, finally caused an
eternal sleep to fall upon him, and bore him off to Mount Latmus,
where she concealed him in a cave held sacred to her, and never
profaned by human gaze. There each night the goddess paused to gaze
enraptured upon his beloved countenance, and to press a soft kiss upon
his unconscious lips. Such is the tale of Diana and her lowly
sweetheart, which has inspired poets of all ages.
"Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shrine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine."
Keats.
[Sidenote: Story of Orion.]
Endymion was not, however, the only mortal loved by Diana, for
mythologists report that her affections were also bestowed upon a
young hunter by the name of Orion. All day long this youth scoured the
forest, his faithful dog Sirius at his heels.
One day, in the dense shade of the forest, he met a group of Diana's
nymphs, the seven Pleiades, daughters of Atlas. These fair maidens
needed but to be seen to be passionately loved, and Orion's heart
burned as he sought to approach them; but they were very coy, and, as
he drew near and addressed them, turned and fled.
Afraid lest he should never see them again were he now to lose sight
of them, he pursued them hotly; but the nymphs sped on, until, their
strength failing, they called upon their patroness's aid. Their prayer
was no sooner heard than answered, and Orion, panting and weary, came
up just in time to see seven snow-white pigeons wing their way up into
the azure sky.
There a second transformation overtook the Pleiades, who were changed
into a constellation, composed of seven bright stars, and there they
shone undimmed for ages; but when Troy fell into the enemy's hands,
all grew pale with grief, and one, more timid and impressionable than
the rest, withdrew from sight to hide her anguish from the curious
eyes of men.
"And is there glory from the heavens departed?--
O void unmark'd!--thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!"
Hemans.
Orion, like a fickle youth, was soon consoled for their disappearance,
and loved Merope, daughter of Oenopion, King of Chios, who consented
to their union on condition that his future son-in-law should win his
bride by some heroic deed. Now, as Orion was anything but a patient
man, the delay was very unwelcome indeed, and he made up his mind to
abduct his bride instead of marrying her openly; but the plan was
frustrated by Oenopion's watchfulness, and Orion was punished by the
loss not only of his bride, but also of his eyesight.
Blind, helpless, and alone, he now wandered from place to place,
hoping to find some one capable of restoring his sight. At last he
reached the Cyclopes' cave, and one of them took pity on him, and led
him to the Sun, from whose radiance he borrowed a store of light,--
"When, blinded by Oenopion,
He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
And, climbing up the mountain gorge,
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun."
Longfellow.
Happy once more, he resumed his favorite sport, and hunted from morn
till eve. Diana met him in the forest, and, sharing his tastes, soon
learned to love him; but this affection was viewed with great
displeasure by Apollo, from whose piercing glance nothing that
occurred by day could be hidden, and he resolved to put an end to his
sister's infatuation. He therefore summoned her to his side. To divert
her suspicions, he began to talk of archery, and, under the pretext of
testing her skill as a markswoman, bade her shoot at a dark speck
rising and falling far out at sea.
Diana seized her bow, feathered her arrow, and sent it with such force
and accurate aim, that she touched the point, and saw it vanish
beneath the waves, little suspecting that the dark head of Orion, who
was refreshing himself by a sea bath, was given her as a target. When
she discovered her error, she mourned his loss with many tears, vowed
never to forget him, and placed him and his faithful dog Sirius as
constellations in the sky.
[Sidenote: Story of Actæon.]
When Diana had finished her nightly journey in her moon car, she
seized her bow and arrows, and, attended by her nymphs, was wont to
sally forth to hunt the wild beasts in the forest.
One summer afternoon, after an unusually long and exciting pursuit,
Diana and her followers came to one of the still mountain pools where
they had often resorted to enjoy a plunge. The cool waters rippled so
invitingly, that the goddess and her attendants hastened to divest
themselves of their short hunting garments, and lave their heated
limbs.
But unfortunately the goddess and her attendant nymphs had not been
the only ones out hunting that day. Actæon, the huntsman, had risen at
dawn to stalk the deer; and now, weary and parched with thirst, he too
sought the well-known mountain spring,
"Deep in the cool recesses of the wood,
Where the cold crystal of a mossy pool
Rose to the flowery marge, and gave again
The soft green lawn where ofttimes, overspent,
I lay upon the grass and eager bathed
My limbs in the clear lymph."
Lewis Morris.
As he drew near the accustomed spot, Actæon fancied he heard bursts of
silvery laughter: so he crept on very cautiously, and soon, gently
parting the thick branches of the underbrush, beheld the sporting
group.
At the selfsame moment Diana turned to ascertain the cause of the
rustle which had caught her practiced ear, and met the admiring gaze
of the astonished young hunter. Speechless with indignation that a
mortal had beheld her thus, she caught some water in her hollow palm,
flung it in his face, and bade him go and declare, if he could, that
he had seen Diana disrobed.
The glittering drops had no sooner touched the young man's face, than
he turned to obey her command, and found himself transformed into a
stag, with slender, sinewy limbs, furry skin, and wide-branching
antlers. Nothing remained of his former self except the woeful
consciousness of his transformation; and as he stood there, motionless
and dismayed, the distant baying of his hounds coming to join him fell
upon his ear.
An electric thrill of fear shot through every vein, as, mindful of his
new form, he bounded away through the forest. Alas! too late; for the
pack had caught one glimpse of his sleek sides, and were after him in
full cry.
In vain poor Actæon strained every muscle. His limbs refused their
support, and, as he sank exhausted to the ground, the hounds sprang at
his quivering throat.
"Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud,
With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam;
And when I strove to check their savagery,
Speaking with words, no voice articulate came,
Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throng
Leapt swift on me, and tore me as I lay!"
Lewis Morris.
Diana was widely worshiped, and temples without number were dedicated
to her service; among others, the world-renowned sanctuary of Ephesus.
The ancients also celebrated many festivals in honor of this fair
goddess of the moon, who was ever ready to extend her protection over
all deserving mortals.
[Illustration: VENUS DE MILO. (Louvre, Paris.)]
CHAPTER VII.
VENUS.
[Sidenote: Venus' birth.]
Venus (Dione, Aphrodite, Cytherea), the goddess of beauty, love,
laughter, and marriage, is said by some mythologists to be the
daughter of Jupiter and Dione, goddess of moisture: others report that
she sprang from the foam of the sea.
"Look, look, why shine
Those floating bubbles with such light divine?
They break, and from their mist a lily form
Rises from out the wave, in beauty warm.
The wave is by the blue-veined feet scarce press'd,
Her silky ringlets float about her breast,
Veiling its fairy loveliness; while her eye
Is soft and deep as the blue heaven is high.
The Beautiful is born; and sea and earth
May well revere the hour of that mysterious birth."
Shelley.
The ocean nymphs were the first to discover her, cradled on a great
blue wave; and they carried her down into their coral caves, where
they tenderly nursed her, and taught her with the utmost care. Then,
her education being completed, the sea nymphs judged it time to
introduce her to the other gods, and, with that purpose in view,
carried her up to the surface of the sea,--where Tritons, Oceanides,
and Nereides all crowded around her, loudly expressing their ardent
admiration,--and offered her pearls and choice bits of coral from the
deep, as a tribute to her charms.
[Illustration: FOURTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT.--Raphael.]
Then they pillowed her softly on a great wave, and intrusted her to
the care of Zephyrus, the soft south wind, who blew a gentle breath,
and wafted her to the Island of Cyprus.
The four beautiful Horæ (the Seasons), daughters of Jupiter and
Themis, goddess of justice, stood there on the shore to welcome her.
"An ethereal band
Are visible above: the Seasons four,--
Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store
In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar."
Keats.
And they were not alone to watch for her coming, for the three
Charites (Graces, or Gratiæ) were also present.
"'These three on men all gracious gifts bestow,
Which decke the body or adorne the mynde,
To make them lovely or well-favoured show;
As comely carriage, entertainement kynde,
Sweete semblaunt, friendly offices that bynde,
And all the complements of curtesie:
They teach us how to each degree and kynde
We should our selves demeane, to low, to hie,
To friends, to foes; which skill men call Civility.'"
Spenser.
Daughters of Jupiter and Eurynome, these maidens, who bore the
respective names of Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia, longed to show
their love for their new mistress. When the wave upon which she
reclined came nearer still, the "rosy-bosomed Hours, fair Venus'
train," appeared. The wind finally brought the fair goddess in safety
to the shore; and, as soon as her foot touched the white sand, all
bent in homage to her surpassing beauty, and reverentially watched her
dry her hair.
"Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells,
With rosy slender fingers backward drew
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat
And shoulder: from the violets her light foot
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form
Between the shadows of the vine bunches
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved."
Tennyson.
This hasty and somewhat primitive toilet completed, Venus and her
followers set out for Mount Olympus, and on their way thither were
joined by Himerus, god of the desire of love; Pothos, god of the
amities of love; Suadela, god of the soft speech of love; and Hymen,
god of marriage.
[Sidenote: Venus and Vulcan.]
A throne had been prepared for the expected goddess, and, when she
suddenly appeared to take possession of it, the assembled gods could
not restrain a rapturous murmur of admiration. Her beauty took them by
storm, and her grace won their hearts; but, although they one and all
expressed a desire to marry her, Venus scornfully rejected their
proposals. Even the king of gods was slighted, and, to punish her for
her pride, he decreed she should marry Vulcan, god of the forge, the
most ill-favored of all the heavenly council.
This compulsory union was anything but a happy one; for Venus never
showed any affection for her deformed consort, and, instead of being a
faithful wife, soon deserted him, and openly declared she would please
herself.
[Sidenote: Story of Alectryon.]
Her first fancy was for Mars, the handsome god of war, who was not
slow in reciprocating the fair goddess's affections, and many and
sweet were the secret interviews they enjoyed. Yet, fearful lest some
of the gods passing by should discover them together, Mars always
placed his attendant Alectryon on guard, bidding him give due warning
of any one's approach, and especially to call him before the sun rose,
as the lovers were particularly anxious that Apollo should not witness
their parting caresses.
All prospered according to their desires, until one night the
unfortunate Alectryon fell asleep; and so profound were his slumbers,
that he did not even stir when Aurora flung open the gates of the
east, and Apollo flashed forth to receive the melodious greetings of
the feathered denizens of the forest.
The sun god drove rapidly on, glancing right and left, and taking note
of all he saw. Nothing escaped his bright and piercing eye, as it
flashed its beams hither and thither, and he was soon aware of the
sleeping watchman and of the guilty lovers. As fast as his
fleet-footed steeds could carry him, Apollo hastened to Vulcan, to
whom he vividly described the sight which had greeted his eyes.
The irate husband lost no time, but, seizing a net of linked steel,
went in search of his runaway wife. Stealthily he approached the
lovers' bower, and deftly flung the net over both sleepers, who were
caught in its fine meshes, and could not escape; and there he kept
them imprisoned, in spite of their entreaties, until all the gods had
seen their humiliating plight, and turned them into ridicule. But when
he at last set them free, Mars darted away, vowing vengeance upon the
negligent sentinel, who was still blissfully sleeping. Pouncing upon
him, Mars awakened him roughly, administered a sharp reproof, changed
him into a cock, banished him into the barnyard, and condemned him to
give daily warning of the sun's approach.
"And, from out a neighboring farmyard,
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed."
Longfellow.
[Sidenote: Venus' children.]
Several beautiful children were born to Mars and Venus. Hermione, or
Harmonia, their daughter, married Cadmus, King of Thebes; and Cupid
(Cupido, Eros, Amor), their little son, was appointed god of love.
Although nursed with tender solicitude, this second-born child did not
grow as other children do, but remained a small, rosy, chubby child,
with gauzy wings and roguish, dimpled face. Alarmed for his health,
Venus consulted Themis, who oracularly replied, "Love cannot grow
without Passion."
In vain the goddess strove to catch the concealed meaning of this
answer. It was only revealed to her when Anteros, god of passion, was
born. When with his brother, Cupid grew and flourished, until he
became a handsome, slender youth; but when separated from him, he
invariably resumed his childish form and mischievous habits.
[Sidenote: Venus and Adonis.]
Venus, however, did not lavish all her love upon Mars, for she is said
to have felt a tender passion for a young man named Adonis, a bold
young hunter, whose rash pursuit of dangerous game caused Venus many
anxious alarms. In vain she besought him to forego the pleasures of
the chase and remain with her. He laughingly escaped, and continued to
join the other hunters in his favorite sport. But, alas! one day,
after an exciting pursuit, he boldly attacked a wild boar, which,
goaded to madness, turned upon him, buried his strong tusk in the
youth's unprotected side, and trampled him to death.
"The white tusk of a boar has transpierced his white thigh.
* * * * *
"The youth lieth dead while his dogs howl around,
And the nymphs weep aloud from the mists of the hill."
Bion (Mrs. Browning's tr.).
Venus ran straight to the scene of his tragic death, rushing through
underbrush and briers, tearing her delicate skin, and her blood
tingeing all the white roses along her way to a faint pink. When she
arrived, she found her beloved Adonis cold in death, and her
passionate caresses met with no response. Then she burst into such a
passion of tears, that the wood and water nymphs, the gods, men, and
all nature in fact, joined with her to mourn the beloved youth.
"Her loss the Loves deplore:
Woe, Venus, woe! Adonis is no more."
Bion (Elton's tr.).
[Illustration: SLEEPING LOVE.--Perrault.]
Very reluctantly Mercury at last appeared to lead the soul of the
departed down into the Infernal Regions, where it was welcomed by
Proserpina, queen of the realm, and led to the place where pure and
virtuous mortals enjoyed an eternity of bliss. Venus, still
inconsolable, shed countless tears, which, as they dropped upon the
ground, were changed to anemones, while the red drops which had fallen
from Adonis' side were transformed into red roses.
"As many drops as from Adonis bled,
So many tears the sorrowing Venus shed:
For every drop on earth a flower there grows:
Anemones for tears; for blood the rose."
Bion (Elton's tr.).
As time did not soften Venus' grief, but, on the contrary, made it
more and more unendurable, she went to Olympus, where she fell at
Jupiter's feet, imploring him to release Adonis from death's embrace,
or allow her to share his lot in Hades.
To allow Beauty to desert the earth was not possible, nor could he
resist her pleading: so he finally decreed that Adonis should be
restored to her longing arms. But Pluto, whose subject he had now
become, refused to yield up Adonis; and after much dispute a
compromise was agreed upon, by virtue of which Adonis was allowed to
spend one half of the year on earth, providing he spent the remaining
six months in the Elysian Fields.
In early spring, therefore, Adonis left the Lower World, and came with
bounding tread to join his beloved. On his path the flowers bloomed
and the birds sang, to show their joy at his coming. An emblem of
vegetation, which rises from the ground in early spring to deck the
earth with beautiful foliage and flowers, and cause the birds to sing
for gladness, Adonis reluctantly returned to Hades, when Winter, the
cruel boar, slew him again with his white tusk, and made nature again
droop, and mourn his departure.
"But even in death, so strong is Love,
I could not wholly die; and year by year,
When the bright springtime comes, and the earth lives,
Love opens these dread gates, and calls me forth
Across the gulf."
Lewis Morris.
[Sidenote: Venus and Anchises.]
The Goddess of Beauty also loved Anchises, Prince of Troy, but,
ashamed of lavishing favors upon a mere mortal, extorted from him a
promise that he would never reveal their secret marriage.
Unfortunately, however, Anchises was of a boastful disposition, and
ere long yielded to temptation and revealed the secret, incurring her
wrath to such an extent, that some mythologists accuse her of
borrowing one of Jupiter's thunderbolts and slaying him. Others,
however, report that Anchises lived to a ripe old age, and escaped
from burning Troy on his son Æneas' back. Venus' love was, however,
all transferred to her son Æneas, whom she signally protected
throughout his checkered career.
[Sidenote: Story of Hero and Leander.]
Venus' most ardent admirers and faithful worshipers were the young
people, for she delighted in their youthful sentiments, and was ever
ready to lend a helping hand to all true lovers when apparently
insurmountable obstacles appeared on their path.
This was the case with a lovely maiden by the name of Hero, who was
dedicated by her parents to Venus' service, and, as soon as old
enough, spent all her time in the temple, ministering to the goddess,
or in a lonely tower by the sea, where she dwelt alone with her aged
nurse.
"Honey-sweet Hero, of a princely race,
Was priestess to Queen Venus in that place;
And at her father's tower, by the sea set--
Herself a Queen of Love, though maiden yet--
Dwelt."
Edwin Arnold.
The maiden's beauty increased with her years, until the fame of her
loveliness spread throughout her native city Sestus, and even passed
over the Hellespont and reached Abydus, where Leander, the bravest
and handsomest youth of the town, was fired with a desire to view the
charming young priestess.
Just at that time a solemn festival in honor of Venus was to be
celebrated at Sestus, to which all the youths and maidens were
cordially invited. Under pretext of paying homage to the goddess,
Leander entered her temple, and saw the young priestess, whose charms
far surpassed all descriptions.
Venus, as has already been stated, was always deeply interested in
young lovers; and when she saw these two, so well matched in beauty
and grace, she bade Cupid pierce them with his love darts, which
behest the mischief-loving god immediately obeyed.
"God Eros, setting notch to string,
Wounded two bosoms with one shaft-shooting,
A maiden's and a youth's--Leander he,
And lovely Hero, Sestos' sweetest, she;
She of her town, and he of his, the boast;
A noble pair!"
Edwin Arnold.
An undying passion was thus simultaneously kindled in both young
hearts; and, thanks to Venus' assistance, Leander managed to exchange
a few words with Hero, declared his love, implored her to view his
suit kindly, and, above all, to grant him a private interview, or he
would surely die.
The maiden listened to his pleading with mingled joy and terror, for
she knew her parents would never consent to their union. Then, afraid
lest some one should notice that she was talking to a stranger, she
bade him depart; but he refused to go until he had learned where she
lived, and proposed to swim across the Hellespont when the shades of
night had fallen, and none could see his goal, and pay her a visit in
her lonely tower.
"'Sweet! for thy love,' he cried, 'the sea I'd cleave,
Though foam were fire, and waves with flame did heave,
I fear not billows if they bear to thee;
Nor tremble at the hissing of the sea!
And I will come--oh! let me come--each night,
Swimming the swift flood to my dear delight:
For white Abydos, where I live, doth front
Thy city here, across our Hellespont.'"
Edwin Arnold.
At last his prayers overcame the maiden's scruples, and she arranged
to receive him in her sea-girt tower, promising at a given hour to
light a torch and hold it aloft to guide him safely across the sea.
Then only he departed.
Night came on; darkness stole over the earth; and Leander impatiently
paced the sandy shore, and watched for the promised signal, which no
sooner appeared, than he exultantly plunged into the dark waves, and
parted them with lusty strokes, as he hastened across the deep to join
his beloved. At times the huge billows towered above his head; but
when he had escaped their threatening depths, and rose up on their
foamy crests, he could catch a glimpse of the torch burning brightly,
and pictured to himself the shy, sweet blushes which would dye Hero's
cheek as he clasped her to his passionate heart.
"Leander had no fear--he cleft the wave--
What is the peril fond hearts will not brave!"
Landon.
Venus, from the top of "many-peaked Olympus," smilingly viewed the
success of her scheme, and nerved Leander's arm to cleave the rapid
current. At last he reached the tower steps, and was lovingly greeted
by Hero, whose heart had throbbed with anxiety at the thought of the
perils her lover was braving for the sake of seeing her once more.
It was only when the dawn began to whiten the east, that the lovers
finished their interview and parted, he to return to Abydus, and she
to prepare for the daily duties which would soon claim her attention.
But separation by day was all these fond lovers could endure, and
night after night, as soon as the first stars appeared, Hero lighted
her torch, and Leander hastened to her, to linger by her side till
dawn.
"Thus pass'd the summer shadows in delight:
Leander came as surely as the night,
And when the morning woke upon the sea,
It saw him not, for back at home was he."
Hunt.
No one suspected their meetings; and all went well until the first
fierce storms of winter swept down over the Hellespont. Hero, in the
gray dawn of a winter's morning, besought her lover not to leave her
to battle against the waves, which beat so violently against the stone
tower; but he gently laughed at her fears, and departed, promising to
return at night as usual.
The storm, which had raged so fiercely already in the early morning,
increased in violence as the day wore on, until the waves were lashed
into foam, while the wind howled more and more ominously as the
darkness came on again; but none of these signs could deter Leander
from visiting Hero.
"There came one night, the wildest of the year,
When the wind smote like edge of hissing spear,
And the pale breakers thundered on the beach."
Edwin Arnold.
All day long Hero had hoped that her lover would renounce his nightly
journey; but still, when evening came, she lighted her torch to serve
as beacon, should he risk all to keep his word. The wind blew so
fiercely, that the torch wavered and flickered, and nearly went out,
although Hero protected its feeble flame by standing over it with
outstretched robes.
At sight of the wonted signal, Leander, who had already once been
beaten back by the waves, made a second attempt to cross the strait,
calling upon the gods to lend him their aid. But this time his prayers
were unheard, drowned in the fury of the storm; yet he struggled on a
while longer, with Hero's name on his lips.
[Illustration: HERO AND LEANDER.--Bodenhausen.]
At last, exhausted and ready to sink, he lifted his eyes once more to
view the cheering light. It was gone, extinguished by a passing gust
of wind. Like a stone Leander sank, once, twice, thrice, and the
billows closed forever over his head.
Hero in the mean while had relighted her torch, and, quite unconscious
of the tragedy which had taken place, stood on the tower, straining
her eyes to pierce the darkness. All night long she waited and watched
for the lover who did not come; and, when the first sunbeams shone
over the tossing sea, she cast an anxious glance over the waters to
Abydus. No one was in sight as far as she could see. She was about to
descend to pursue her daily tasks, when, glancing at the foot of the
tower, she saw her lover's corpse heaving up and down on the waves.
"As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then level'd with the wave."
Byron.
Hero's heart broke at this sad sight, and she longed to die, too, that
she might not be parted from Leander. To hasten their meeting, she
threw herself into the sea, and perished in the waves, close by his
side. Thus lived and died the faithful lovers, whose attachment has
passed into a proverb.
Byron, the celebrated English bard, attempted Leander's feat of
swimming across the Hellespont, and, on his return from that dangerous
venture, wrote the following lines, which are so familiar to all
English-speaking people:--
"The winds are high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormy water
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
Oh! when alone along the sky
Her turret torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale, and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home;
And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds, forbade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear,
Or sound or sign foreboding fear;
His eye but saw that light of love,
The only star it hail'd above;
His ear but rang with Hero's song,
'Ye waves, divide not lovers long!'
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true."
[Sidenote: Pyramus and Thisbe.]
An equally loving and unfortunate pair were Pyramus and Thisbe.
Although no waves divided them, and they had the good fortune to
occupy adjoining houses in Babylon, their parents having quarreled,
they were forbidden to see or speak to each other. This decree wrung
their tender hearts; and their continuous sighs finally touched Venus,
who prepared to give them her aid. Thanks to this goddess's kind
offices, a crack was discovered in the party wall, through which the
lovers could peep at each other, converse, and even, it is said,
exchange a kiss or two.
Sundry stolen interviews through this crack made them long for
uninterrupted and unrestrained meetings: so they made an appointment
to meet on a certain day and hour, under a white mulberry tree, just
without the city gates.
Thisbe, anxious to see her lover, was the first to reach the trysting
place, and, as she slowly paced back and forth to while away the time
of waiting, she wondered what had happened to delay Pyramus. Her
meditation was suddenly broken by a rustling sound in some neighboring
bushes; and, thinking Pyramus was concealed there, she was about to
call to him that he was discovered, when, instead of her lover, she
saw a lion emerge from the thicket and come towards her, slowly
lashing his sides with his tail, and licking his bloody jaws. With one
terrified shriek the girl ran away, dropping her veil, which the lion
caught in his bloody mouth and tore to shreds, before beating a
retreat into the forest.
Shortly after, Pyramus came rushing up, out of breath, and full of
loving excuses for Thisbe, who was not there, however, to receive
them. Wondering at her absence, Pyramus looked around, and after a
short investigation discerned the lion's footprints and the mangled
veil. These signs sufficed to convince him that Thisbe had perished,
and in a fit of despair he drew his dagger from its sheath and thrust
it into his heart.
A few minutes later, Thisbe cautiously drew near, peering anxiously
about to discover whether the lion were still lurking near. Her first
glance showed her Pyramus stretched dead beneath the mulberry tree,
with her bloody veil pressed convulsively to his lips. With a cry of
terror she flew to his side, and tried to revive him; but, when
assured that all her efforts were in vain, she drew the dagger from
his breast, and, plunging it into her own bosom, fell beside him quite
lifeless.
"In her bosom plunged the sword,
All warm and reeking from its slaughtered lord."
Ovid (Eusden's tr.).
Since that ominous day the fruit of the mulberry tree, which had been
white, assumed a blood-like hue, dyed by the blood which flowed from
the death wounds of Pyramus and Thisbe.
[Sidenote: Echo and Narcissus.]
The lovely and talkative nymph Echo lived free from care and whole of
heart until she met Narcissus, hunting in the forest. This frivolous
young lady no sooner beheld the youth, than she fell deeply in love
with him, and was proportionately grieved when she saw that he did not
return her affections.
All her blandishments were unavailing, and, in her despair at his
hard-heartedness, she implored Venus to punish him by making him
suffer the pangs of unrequited love; then, melancholy and longing to
die, she wandered off into the mountains, far from the haunts of her
former companions, and there, brooding continually over her sorrow,
pined away until there remained naught of her but her melodious voice.
The gods, displeased at her lack of proper pride, condemned her to
haunt rocks and solitary places, and, as a warning to other impulsive
maidens, to repeat the last sounds which fell upon her ear.
"But her voice is still living immortal,--
The same you have frequently heard
In your rambles in valleys and forests,
Repeating your ultimate word."
Saxe.
Venus alone had not forgotten poor Echo's last passionate prayer, and
was biding her time to punish the disdainful Narcissus. One day, after
a prolonged chase, he hurried to a lonely pool to slake his thirst.
"In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping."
Keats.
Quickly he knelt upon the grass, and bent over the pellucid waters to
take a draught; but he suddenly paused, surprised. Down near the
pebbly bottom he saw a face so passing fair, that he immediately lost
his heart, for he thought it belonged to some water nymph gazing up at
him through the transparent flood.
With sudden passion he caught at the beautiful apparition; but, the
moment his arms touched the water, the nymph vanished. Astonished and
dismayed, he slowly withdrew to a short distance, and breathlessly
awaited the nymph's return.
The agitated waters soon resumed their mirrorlike smoothness; and
Narcissus, approaching noiselessly on tiptoe, and cautiously peeping
into the pool, became aware first of curly, tumbled locks, and then of
a pair of beautiful, watchful, anxious eyes. Evidently the nymph had
just concluded to emerge from her hiding place to reconnoiter.
More prudent this time, the youth gradually bent further over the
pool; and, reassured by his kindly glances, the nymph's whole head
appeared. In gentle tones the youth now addressed her; and her ruby
lips parted and moved as if she were answering, though not a sound
came to his ear. In his excitement he began to gesticulate, whereupon
two snowy arms repeated his every gesture; but when, encouraged by her
loving glances and actions, he tried once more to clasp her in his
arms, she vanished as rapidly as the first time.
Time and again the same pantomime was enacted, and time and again the
nymph eluded his touch; but the enamored youth could not tear himself
away from the spot haunted by this sweet image, whose sensitive face
reflected his every emotion, and who grew as pale and wan as
he,--evidently, like him, a victim to love and despair.
Even the shades of night could not drive Narcissus away from his post,
and, when the pale moonbeams illumined his retreat, he bent over the
pool to ascertain whether she too were anxious and sleepless, and saw
her gazing longingly up at him.
There Narcissus lingered day and night, without eating or drinking,
until he died, little suspecting that the fancied nymph was but his
own image reflected in the clear waters. Echo was avenged; but the
gods of Olympus gazed compassionately down upon the beautiful corpse,
and changed it into a flower bearing the youth's name, which has ever
since flourished beside quiet pools, wherein its pale image is clearly
reflected.
"A lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love."
Keats.
[Sidenote: Pygmalion and Galatea.]
Pygmalion, King of Cyprus, was a very celebrated sculptor. All his
leisure moments were spent in the faithful portrayal of the gods and
goddesses. One day his practiced hand fashioned an image of Galatea.
It was so beautiful that even before it was entirely finished its
author loved it. When completed, Pygmalion admired it still more,
deemed it too beautiful to remain inanimate, and besought Venus to
give it life, stating that he wished a wife just like it.
As Pygmalion had always been an obdurate bachelor, and had frequently
declared he would never marry, Venus was delighted to see him at last
a victim of the tender passion, and resolved to grant his request.
Pygmalion clasped the exquisite image to his breast to infuse some of
his own warmth into the icy bosom, and pressed kiss after kiss upon
the chiseled lips, until at last they grew soft and warm at his touch,
and a faint color flushed the pale cheeks, as a breath dilated her
lungs, and sent her blood coursing along her veins,--
"As once with prayers in passion flowing,
Pygmalion embraced the stone,
Till, from the frozen marble glowing,
The light of feeling o'er him shone."
Schiller.
Pygmalion's delight at seeing his fair image a living and breathing
maiden was unbounded, and after a short but passionate wooing the
object of his affections became his happy wife.
[Sidenote: Cupid and Psyche.]
In those same remote ages of "sweet mythology" there lived a king
whose three daughters were world-renowned on account of their
matchless beauty. Psyche, the youngest of the sisters, was so lovely,
that her father's subjects declared her worthy to be called the
Goddess of Beauty, and offered to pay homage to her instead of to
Venus. Offended by this proposal, which Psyche had good sense enough
to refuse, Venus resolved to demonstrate forcibly to that benighted
race that the maiden was mortal. She therefore bade her son Cupid slay
her.
Armed with his bow and arrows, and provided with a deadly poison,
Cupid set out to do her bidding, and at nightfall reached the palace,
crept noiselessly past the sleeping guards, along the deserted halls,
and came to Psyche's apartment, into which he glided unseen.
Stealthily he approached the couch upon which the fair maiden was
sleeping, and bent over her to administer the poisoned dose.
A moonbeam falling athwart her face revealed her unequaled loveliness,
and made Cupid start back in surprise; but, as he did so, one of his
own love arrows came into contact with his rosy flesh, and inflicted a
wound, from which he was to suffer for many a weary day.
All unconscious of the gravity of his hurt, he hung enraptured over
the sleeping maiden, and let her fair image sink into his heart; then,
noiselessly as he had entered, he stole out again, vowing he would
never harm such innocence and beauty.
Morning dawned. Venus, who had expected to see the sun illumine her
rival's corpse, saw her sporting as usual in the palace gardens, and
bitterly realized that her first plan had completely failed. She
therefore began to devise various torments of a petty kind, and
persecuted the poor girl so remorselessly, that she fled from home
with the firm intention of putting an end to the life she could no
longer enjoy in peace.
To achieve this purpose, Psyche painfully toiled up a rugged mountain,
and, creeping to the very edge of a great precipice, cast herself
down, expecting to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below; but
Cupid, who had indignantly though helplessly seen all his mother's
persecutions, had followed Psyche unseen, and, when he perceived her
intention to commit suicide, he called to Zephyrus (the South Wind),
and entreated him to catch the maiden in his strong yet gentle arms,
and bear her off to a distant isle.
Consequently, instead of a swift, sharp fall and painful death, Psyche
felt herself gently wafted over hill and dale, across sparkling
waters; and, long before she wearied of this new mode of travel, she
was gently laid on a flowery bank, in the midst of an exquisite
garden.
Bewildered, she slowly rose to her feet, rubbed her pretty eyes to
make sure she was not dreaming, and wonderingly strolled about the
beautiful grounds. Ere long she came to an enchanted palace, whose
portals opened wide to receive her, while gentle voices bade her
enter, and invisible hands drew her over the threshold and waited upon
her.
When night came, and darkness again covered the earth, Cupid appeared
in search of his beloved Psyche. In the perfumed dusk he confessed his
love, and tenderly begged for some return.
Now, although the fading light would not permit her to discern the
form or features of her unknown lover, Psyche listened to his soft
tones with unconcealed pleasure, and soon consented to their union.
Cupid then entreated her to make no attempt to discover his name, or
to catch a glimpse of his face, warning her that if she did so he
would be forced to leave her, never to return.
"'Dear, I am with thee only while I keep
My visage hidden; and if thou once shouldst see
My face, I must forsake thee: the high gods
Link Love with Faith, and he withdraws himself
From the full gaze of Knowledge.'"
Lewis Morris.
Psyche solemnly promised to respect her mysterious lover's wishes, and
gave herself up entirely to the enjoyment of his company. All night
long they talked; and when the first faint streak of light appeared
above the horizon, Cupid bade Psyche farewell, promising to return
with the welcome shades of night. All day long Psyche thought of him,
longed for him, and, as soon as the sun had set, sped to the bower
where the birds were sleepily trilling forth their evening song, and
breathlessly waited until he came to join her.
"Now on broad pinions from the realms above
Descending Cupid seeks the Cyprian grove;
To his wide arms enamor'd Psyche springs,
And clasps her lover with aurelian wings.
A purple sash across His shoulder bends,
And fringed with gold the quiver'd shafts suspends."
Darwin.
Although the hours of day seemed interminable, spent as they were in
complete solitude, Psyche found the hours of night all too short in
the sweet society of Love. Her every wish was gratified almost as soon
as expressed; and at last, encouraged by her lover's evident anxiety
to please her, she gave utterance to her longing to see and converse
with her sisters once more. The ardent lover could not refuse to grant
this request, yet Psyche noticed that his consent seemed somewhat
hesitating and reluctant.
The next morning, while enjoying a solitary stroll, Psyche suddenly
encountered her two sisters. After rapturous embraces and an
incoherent volley of questions and answers, they settled down to enjoy
a long talk. Psyche related her desperate attempt at suicide, her
miraculous preservation from certain death, her aërial journey, her
entrance into the enchanted palace, her love for her mysterious
nightly visitor,--all, in short, that had happened since she had left
her father's home.
Now, the elder sisters had always been jealous of Psyche's superior
beauty; and when they saw her luxurious surroundings, and heard her
raptures about her lover, they were envious, and resolved to mar the
happiness which they could not enjoy. They therefore did all in their
power to convince poor Psyche that her lover must be some monster, so
hideous that he dare not brave the broad light of day, lest he should
make her loathe him, and further added, that, if she were not very
careful, he would probably end by devouring her.
[Illustration: CUPID AWAKENING PSYCHE.--Thumann.]
They thereupon advised poor troubled Psyche to conceal a lamp and
dagger in her lover's apartment, and to gaze upon him in secret, when
his eyes were closed in sleep. If the light of the lamp revealed, as
they felt sure it would, the hideous countenance and distorted form
of a monster, they bade her use the dagger to kill him. Then,
satisfied with their work, the sisters departed, leaving Psyche alone
to carry out their evil suggestions.
When safe at home once more, the sisters constantly brooded over the
tale Psyche had poured into their ears, and, hoping to secure as
luxurious a home and as fascinating a lover, they each hurried off in
secret to the mountain gorge, cast themselves over the precipice,
and--perished.
Night having come, bringing the usually so welcome Cupid, Psyche,
tortured with doubt, could with difficulty conceal her agitation.
After repeated efforts to charm her from her silent mood, Cupid fell
asleep; and, as soon as his regular breathing proclaimed him lost in
slumber, Psyche noiselessly lighted her lamp, seized her dagger, and,
approaching the couch with great caution, bent over her sleeping
lover. The lamp, which she held high above her head, cast its light
full upon the face and form of a handsome youth.
"Now trembling, now distracted; bold,
And now irresolute she seems;
The blue lamp glimmers in her hold,
And in her hand the dagger gleams.
Prepared to strike, she verges near,
Then, the blue light glimmering from above,
The hideous sight expects with fear--
And gazes on the god of Love."
Apollonius.
Psyche's heart beat loudly with joy and pride as she beheld, instead
of the monster, this graceful youth; and as she hung over him,
enraptured, she forgot all caution. An inadvertent motion tipped her
lamp, and one drop of burning oil, running over the narrow brim, fell
upon Cupid's naked shoulder.
The sudden pain made him open his eyes with a start. The lighted lamp,
the glittering dagger, the trembling Psyche, told the whole story.
Cupid sprang from the couch, seized his bow and arrows, and, with a
last sorrowful, reproachful glance at Psyche, flew away through the
open window, exclaiming,--
"'Farewell! There is no Love except with Faith,
And thine is dead! Farewell! I come no more!'"
Lewis Morris.
[Sidenote: Psyche forsaken.]
When he had vanished into the dusky air without, the balmy night winds
ceased to blow; and suddenly a tempest began to rage with such fury,
that poor frightened Psyche dared not remain alone in the palace, but
hastened out into the gardens, where she soon lost consciousness of
her misery in a deep swoon. When she opened her eyes once more, the
storm had ceased, the sun was high in the heavens, and palace and
gardens had vanished.
Poor Psyche lingered there the following and many succeeding nights,
vainly hoping for Cupid's return, and shedding many bitter tears of
repentance. Finally she resolved to commit suicide, and, with that
purpose in view, plunged into a neighboring river; but the god of the
stream caught and carried her ashore, where his daughters, the water
nymphs, restored her to life. Thus forced to live, Psyche wandered
about disconsolate, seeking Cupid, and questioning all she met, the
nymphs, Pan, and Ceres, who compassionately listened to her confession
of love for her husband.
"Not as the earthly loves which throb and flush
Round earthly shrines was mine, but a pure spirit,
Lovelier than all embodied love, more pure
And wonderful; but never on his eyes
I looked, which still were hidden, and I knew not
The fashion of his nature; for by night,
When visual eyes are blind, but the soul sees,
Came he, and bade me seek not to inquire
Or whence he came or wherefore. Nor knew I
His name. And always ere the coming day,
As if he were the Sun god, lingering
With some too well loved maiden, he would rise
And vanish until eve."
Lewis Morris.
Ceres had often seen Cupid, and had heard that very morning that he
was having a wound in his shoulder dressed by Venus: so she advised
Psyche to go to the Goddess of Beauty, to enter her service, and to
perform every task with cheerful alacrity, knowing that such a course
would ultimately bring about a meeting and reconciliation between the
lovers.
Psyche gratefully accepted and followed Ceres' advice, and labored
early and late to satisfy her exacting mistress, who appointed such
difficult tasks, that the poor girl would never have been able to
accomplish them had she not been aided by all the beasts and insects,
who loved her dearly.
[Sidenote: Psyche's journey to Hades.]
Venus repeatedly tested her fidelity and endurance, and finally
resolved, as a crucial experiment, to send her to Hades to fetch a box
of beauty ointment, for which Proserpina alone had the recipe.
Directed by Zephyrus, her old friend, Psyche encountered the terrors
of Hades in safety, delivered her message, and in return received a
small box. The gates of Hades were closed behind her, and she had
nearly finished her last task, when she suddenly fancied that it would
be wise to appropriate a little of the magic preparation to efface the
traces of sleepless nights and many tears.
The box, however, contained naught but the spirit of Sleep, who,
pouncing upon Psyche, laid her low by the roadside. Cupid, passing by,
saw her there, marked the ravages of grief, remembered his love and
her suffering, and, wrestling with the spirit, forced him to reënter
the narrow bounds of his prison, and woke Psyche with a loving kiss.
"'Dear, unclose thine eyes.
Thou mayst look on me now. I go no more,
But am thine own forever.'"
Lewis Morris.
[Illustration: CHARON AND PSYCHE.--Neide.]
Then, hand in hand, they winged their flight to Olympus, entered the
council hall; and there Cupid presented Psyche, his chosen bride, to
the assembled deities, who all promised to be present at the nuptial
ceremony. Venus even, forgetting all her former envy, welcomed the
blushing bride, who was happy ever after.
The ancients, for whom Cupid was an emblem of the heart, considered
Psyche the personification of the soul, and represented her with
butterfly wings; that little insect being another symbol of the soul,
which cannot die.
[Sidenote: Berenice's Hair.]
One of the latest myths concerning Venus is that of Berenice, who,
fearing for her beloved husband's life, implored the goddess to
protect him in battle, vowing to sacrifice her luxuriant hair if he
returned home in safety. The prayer was granted, and Berenice's
beautiful locks laid upon Venus' shrine, whence they, however, very
mysteriously disappeared. An astrologer, consulted concerning the
supposed theft, solemnly pointed to a comet rapidly coming into view,
and declared that the gods had placed Berenice's hair among the stars,
there to shine forever in memory of her wifely sacrifice.
[Sidenote: Worship of Venus.]
Venus, goddess of beauty, is represented either entirely naked, or
with some scanty drapery called a "cestus." Seated in her chariot,
formed of a single pearl shell, and drawn by snow-white doves, her
favorite birds, she journeyed from shrine to shrine, complacently
admiring the lavish decorations of jewels and flowers her worshipers
provided. The offerings of young lovers were ever those which found
most favor in her sight.
"Venus loves the whispers
Of plighted youth and maid,
In April's ivory moonlight
Beneath the chestnut shade."
Macaulay.
Numerous ancient and some modern statues of this goddess grace the
various art galleries, but among them all the most perfect is the
world-renowned Venus de Milo.
Venus' festivals were always scenes of graceful amusements; and her
votaries wore wreaths of fresh, fragrant flowers, the emblem of all
natural beauty.
CHAPTER VIII.
MERCURY.
[Sidenote: Birth of Mercury.]
As already repeatedly stated in the course of this work, Jupiter was
never a strictly faithful spouse, and, in spite of his wife's
remonstrances, could not refrain from indulging his caprice for every
pretty face he met along his way. It is thus, therefore, that he
yielded to the charms of Maia, goddess of the plains, and spent some
blissful hours in her society. This divine couple's happiness
culminated when they first beheld their little son, Mercury (Hermes,
Psychopompus, Oneicopompus), who was born in a grotto on Mount
Cyllene, in Arcadia,--
"Mercury, whom Maia bore,
Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top."
Virgil (Cowper's tr.).
This infant god was quite unlike mortal children, as will readily be
perceived by the numerous pranks he played immediately after his
birth. First he sprang from his mother's knee, grasped a tortoise
shell lying on the ground, bored holes in its sides, stretched strings
across its concavity, and, sweeping his hands over them, produced
strains of sweetest music, thus inventing the first lyre.
"So there it lay, through wet and dry,
As empty as the last new sonnet,
Till by and by came Mercury,
And, having mused upon it,
'Why here,' cried he, 'the thing of things
In shape, material, and dimension!
Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,
A wonderful invention.'"
Lowell.
[Sidenote: Mercury's theft.]
Being very hungry toward evening, young Mercury escaped from his
sleeping mother, and sallied out in search of food. He had not gone
very far, before he came to a wide meadow, where Apollo's herds were
at pasture. The oxen were fat and sleek; and the mischievous little
god, after satisfying himself that they were young, and therefore
promised to be tender and juicy, drove fifty of them off to a secluded
spot, taking good care to envelop their feet in leafy branches, so
they would leave no traces. Then, his hiding place being reached in
safety, Mercury coolly killed two of the oxen, which he proceeded to
eat.
Apollo soon missed his cattle, and began to search for some clew to
their hiding place or to the thief. He could, however, discover
nothing but some broken twigs and scattered leaves. Suddenly he
remembered that the babe whose birth had been announced early that
morning in high Olympus had been appointed god of thieves. He
therefore lost no more time in useless search and conjecture, but
strode off to Mount Cyllene, where he found Mercury peacefully
sleeping in his cradle. With a rude shake, the sun god roused him from
his slumbers, and bade him restore the stolen cattle. Mercury
pretended innocence, until Apollo, exasperated, dragged him off to
Olympus, where he was convicted of the theft, and condemned to restore
the stolen property. Mercury yielded to the decree, produced the
remaining oxen, and, in exchange for the two missing, gave Apollo the
lyre he had just fashioned.
[Illustration: FLYING MERCURY.--Bologna. (National Museum, Florence.)]
This, like most other myths, admits of a natural explanation. Apollo
(the Sun) was supposed by the ancients to possess great herds of
cattle and sheep,--the clouds; and Mercury, the personification of the
wind, born in the night, after a few hours' existence waxes
sufficiently strong to drive away the clouds and conceal them, leaving
no trace of his passage except a few broken branches and scattered
leaves.
[Sidenote: Mercury's wand, cap, and shoes.]
The gift of the lyre pleased Apollo so well, that he in return wished
to make a present to Mercury, and gave him a magic wand, called
Caduceus, which had the power of reconciling all conflicting elements.
Mercury, anxious to test it, thrust it between two quarreling snakes,
who immediately wound themselves in amity around it. This so pleased
him, that he bade them remain there forever, and used the wand on all
occasions.
"A snake-encircl'd wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus
And highly fam'd for several uses."
Goldsmith.
Mercury was in due time appointed messenger of the gods, who, to make
him fleet of foot, presented him with winged sandals, the Talaria,
which endowed him with marvelous rapidity of motion. As these sandals
did not seem quite sufficient, however, the gods added the winged cap,
Petasus, to the winged shoes.
"Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime
Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt
Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt
One moment from his home; only the sward
He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward
Swifter than sight was gone."
Keats.
Mercury was not only the messenger of the gods, but was also appointed
god of eloquence, commerce, rain, wind, and the special patron of
travelers, shepherds, cheats, and thieves.
[Sidenote: Story of Io.]
Jupiter often intrusted to Mercury messages of a delicate nature, and
always found him an invaluable ally; but the faithful messenger was
never so much needed or so deeply appreciated as during Jupiter's
courtship of Io, the peerless daughter of the river god Inachus.
To avoid Juno's recriminations, Jupiter had carried on this affair
with even more than his usual secrecy, visiting his beloved only when
quite certain that his wife was asleep, and taking the further
precaution of spreading a cloud over the spot where he generally met
her, to shield her from all chance of being seen from Olympus.
One fine afternoon, all conditions being favorable, Jupiter hastened
down to earth to see Io, and began to stroll with her up and down the
river edge. They heeded not the noonday heat, for the cloud over their
heads screened them from the sun's too ardent rays.
From some cause Juno's slumbers were less protracted than usual, and
she soon arose from her couch to look about her realm, the atmosphere,
and convince herself that all was well. Her attention was soon
attracted by an opaque, immovable cloud near the earth,--a cloud which
had no business there, for had she not bidden them all lie still on
the blue until she awoke? Her suspicions being aroused by the presence
of this cloud, she sought her husband in Olympus, and, not finding
him, flew down to earth, brushing the cloud aside in her haste.
Jupiter, thus warned of her coming, had but time to change the maiden
beside him into a heifer, ere his wife alighted and inquired what he
was doing there. Carelessly the god pointed to the heifer, and
declared he had been whiling away the time by creating it; but the
explanation failed to satisfy Juno, who, seeing no other living
creature near, suspected that her spouse had been engaged in a
clandestine flirtation, and had screened its fair object from her
wrath only by a sudden transformation.
Dissimulating these suspicions with care, Juno begged her husband to
give her his new creation, which request he could not refuse, but
granted most reluctantly, thus adding further confirmation to her
jealous fears. The Queen of Heaven then departed, taking Io with her,
and placed her under the surveillance of Argus, one of her servants,
who possessed myriad eyes, but one half of which he closed at a time.
"The eyes of Argus, sentinel of Heaven:
Those thousand eyes that watch alternate kept,
Nor all o'er all his body waked or slept."
Statius (Elton's tr.).
[Sidenote: Argus' watch.]
She bade him watch the heifer closely, and report anything unusual in
its actions. One day, therefore, as he was watching his charge pasture
by the river, Argus heard her relate to her father, Inachus, the story
of her transformation, and immediately imparted his discovery to Juno,
who, advising still closer watchfulness, sent him back to his post.
Jupiter, in the mean while, was in despair; for days had passed
without his being able to exchange a word with Io, or deliver her from
her imprisonment. Finally he called Mercury to his aid, and bade him
devise some plan to rescue her. Armed with a handful of poppies,
Mercury approached Argus, and offered to while away the time by
telling him tales.
As Mercury was the prince of story-tellers, this offer was not to be
despised, and Argus joyfully accepted; but instead of exerting himself
to be entertaining, Mercury droned out such lengthy, uninteresting
stories, that Argus soon closed half his eyes in profound sleep. Still
talking in the same monotonous way, Mercury softly shook the poppies
over the giant's head, until one by one the remaining eyelids closed,
and Argus was wrapped in complete slumber.
Then Mercury seized the giant's sword, and with one well-directed blow
severed his head from the huge trunk. Only one half of the task was
successfully accomplished; and while Mercury was driving the heifer
away, Juno discovered his attempt, and promptly sent an enormous
gadfly to torment the poor beast, who, goaded to madness by its cruel
stings, fled wildly from one country to another, forded streams, and
finally plunged into the sea, since called Ionian. After swimming
across it, she took refuge in Egypt, where Jupiter restored her to all
her girlish loveliness, and where her son Epaphus was born, to be the
first king and the founder of Memphis.
"In coming time that hollow of the sea
Shall bear the name Ionian, and present
A monument of Io's passage through,
Unto all mortals."
E. B. Browning.
Juno mourned the loss of her faithful Argus most bitterly, and,
gathering up his myriad eyes, scattered them over the tail of her
favorite bird, the peacock, to have some memento of her faithful
servant ever near her.
"F
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