Half a Hundred Hero Tales of Ulysses and The Men of Old
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Title: Half a Hundred Hero Tales of Ulysses and The Men of Old
Editor: Francis Storr
Illustrator: Frank Cheyne Papé
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HALF A HUNDRED HERO TALES OF ULYSSES AND THE MEN OF OLD ***
[Illustration: HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES]
HALF A HUNDRED
HERO TALES
OF ULYSSES AND THE MEN OF OLD
EDITED BY
FRANCIS STORR
EDITOR OF "THE JOURNAL OF EDUCATION," LONDON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FRANK C. PAPÉ
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1911,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_Published January, 1911_
THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.
PREFACE
The apology offered for adding yet another book of Classical Stories
to the endless existing versions, ancient and modern, in verse and in
prose, is the plea that Vivien offers to Merlin for her "tender
rhyme":
"It lives dispersedly in many hands,
And every minstrel sings it differently."
"You Greeks," said the Egyptian priest to Herodotus, "are always
children," and Greece will never lose the secret of eternal youth. The
tale of Troy divine, of Thebes and Pelops' line, the song of sweet
Colonus, the most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby, Dido with a
willow in her hand--these old stories of Homer and Sophocles, of
Virgil and Ovid, have not lost their gloss and freshness. "The
innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet." They have been
sung or said by Wace and Caxton, by Chaucer and Wordsworth, by Keats
and William Morris; they have been adapted for young readers by
Fénelon, by Niebuhr, by Kingsley, by Hawthorne, and yet the last word
has not been said. Each new editor makes his own selection, chooses
some new facet, or displays the jewel in a new light. As Sainte-Beuve
remarks of "Don Quixote" and other world classics, "One can discover
there something more than the author first of all tried to see there,
and certainly more than he dreamed of putting there."
The present collection of Fifty Stories (there might well have been
five hundred) makes no pretense either of completeness or of
uniformity. Some of the contributors have followed closely the texts,
others have given free play to their fancy, but in every case the
myths have been treated simply as stories and no attempt has been made
either to trace their origin or to indicate their religious or ethical
significance. Most of the stories point their own moral, and need no
more commentary than Jack the Giant-killer or the Sleeping Beauty.
Young readers of to-day resent the sermons even of a Kingsley. From
"Tanglewood Tales," a book that was the joy of our childhood, we have
borrowed ten stories, and have taken the liberty of dividing into
chapters and slightly abridging the longest of Hawthorne's Tales. All
but one of the remaining forty are original versions.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PLUTO AND PROSERPINE 1
By H. P. Maskell
PAN AND SYRINX 5
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
THE STORY OF PHAETON 13
By M. M. Bird
ARETHUSA 19
By V. C. Turnbull
THE STORY OF DAPHNE 24
By M. M. Bird
DEUCALION AND PYRRHA 28
By M. M. Bird
EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA 33
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
EUROPA AND THE GOD-BULL 50
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
CADMUS AND THE DRAGON'S TEETH 65
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 83
By V. C. Turnbull
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES 89
I. HERCULES AND THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES 98
II. HERCULES AND ATLAS
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
HERCULES AND NESSUS 107
By H. P. Maskell
THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE 111
By M. M. Bird
HOW THESEUS FOUND HIS FATHER 124
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THESEUS AND THE WITCH MEDEA 131
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR 138
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THESEUS AND ARIADNE 144
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
PARIS AND OENONE 154
By V. C. Turnbull
IPHIGENIA 161
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
PROTESILAUS 166
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 173
By V. C. Turnbull
THE WOODEN HORSE 180
By F. Storr
THE SACK OF TROY 185
By F. Storr
THE DEATH OF AJAX 191
By F. Storr
THE FLIGHT OF ÆNEAS FROM TROY 196
By F. Storr
ÆNEAS AND DIDO 201
By V. C. Turnbull
ÆNEAS IN HADES 209
By V. C. Turnbull
NISUS AND EURYALUS 217
By F. Storr
ULYSSES IN HADES 224
By M. M. Bird
CIRCE'S PALACE 232
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS 262
By Hope Moncrieff
THE SIRENS 271
By V. C. Turnbull
THE STORY OF NAUSICAA 275
By M. M. Bird
THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES 283
By M. M. Bird
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON 292
By H. P. Maskell
HYPERMNESTRA 296
By V. C. Turnbull
OEDIPUS AT COLONOS 302
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
MIDAS 308
By H. P. Maskell
PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 313
By V. C. Turnbull
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA 320
By H. P. Maskell
THE STORY OF DÆDALUS AND ICARUS 326
By M. M. Bird
SCYLLA, THE DAUGHTER OF NISUS 330
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
THE STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE 340
By M. M. Bird
HERO AND LEANDER 344
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE 352
By F. Storr
CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS 359
By H. P. Maskell
ECHO AND NARCISSUS 364
By Thomas Bulfinch
THE RING OF POLYCRATES 369
By M. M. Bird
ROMULUS AND REMUS 375
By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd
ILLUSTRATIONS
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
THE STORY OF DAPHNE 26
HERCULES AND NESSUS 108
THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR 138
ÆNEAS IN HADES 212
ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS 266
PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 316
ROMULUS AND REMUS 380
HALF A HUNDRED HERO TALES
PLUTO AND PROSERPINE
BY H. P. MASKELL
In the very heart of Sicily are the groves of Enna--a land of flowers
and rippling streams, where the spring-tide lasts all through the
year. Thither Proserpine, daughter of Ceres, betook herself with her
maidens to gather nosegays of violets and lilies. Eager to secure the
choicest posy, she had wandered far from her companions, when Pluto,
issuing, as was his wont, from his realm of shadows to visit the
earth, beheld her, and was smitten by her childlike beauty. Dropping
her flowers in alarm, the maiden screamed for her mother and
attendants. 'Twas in vain; the lover seized her and bore her away in
his chariot of coal-black steeds. Faster and faster sped the team as
their swart master called to each by name and shook the reins on their
necks. Through deep lakes they sped, by dark pools steaming with
volcanic heat, and on past the twin harbors of Syracuse.
When they came to the abode of Cyane, the nymph rose up from her
crystal pool and perceived Pluto. "No farther shalt thou go!" she
cried. "A maiden must be asked of her parents, not stolen away against
her mother's will!" For answer the wrathful son of Saturn lashed his
foam-flecked steeds. He hurled his royal scepter into the very bed of
the stream. Forthwith the earth opened, making a way down into
Tartarus; and the chariot vanished through the yawning cave, leaving
Cyane dissolved in tears of grief for the ravished maiden and her own
slighted domain.
Meanwhile Ceres, anxious mother, had heard her daughter's cry for
help. Through every clime and every sea she sought and sought in vain.
From dawn to dewy eve she sought, and by night she pursued the quest
with torches kindled by the flames of Ætna. Then, by Enna's lake, she
found the scattered flowers and shreds of the torn robe, but further
traces there were none.
Weary and overcome with thirst, she chanced on a humble cottage and
begged at the door for a cup of water. The goodwife brought out a
pitcher of home-made barley wine, which she drained at a draught. An
impudent boy jeered at the goddess, and called her "toss-pot." Dire
and swift was the punishment that overtook him. Ceres sprinkled over
him the few drops that remained; and, changed into a speckled newt, he
crept away into a cranny.
Too long would be the tale of all the lands and seas where the goddess
sought for her child. When she had visited every quarter of the world
she returned once more to Sicily. Cyane, had she not melted away in
her grief, might have told all. Still, however, on Cyane's pool the
girdle of Proserpine was found floating, and thus the mother knew that
her daughter had been carried off by force. When this was brought home
to her, she tore her hair and beat her breast. Not as yet did she know
the whole truth, but she vowed vengeance against all the earth, and on
Sicily most of all, the land of her bereavement. No longer, she
complained, was ungrateful man worthy of her gifts of golden grain.
A famine spread through all the land. Plowshares broke while they were
turning the clods, the oxen died of pestilence, and blight befell the
green corn. An army of birds picked up the seed as fast as it was
sown; thistles, charlock, and tares sprang up in myriads and choked
the fields before the ear could show itself.
Then Arethusa, the river nymph, who had traveled far beneath the ocean
to meet in Sicily her lover Alpheus, raised her head in pity for the
starving land, and cried to Ceres: "O mourning mother, cease thy
useless quest, and be not angered with a land which is faithful to
thee. While I was wandering by the river Styx I beheld thy Proserpine.
Her looks were grave, yet not as of one forlorn. Take comfort! She is
a queen, and chiefest of those who dwell in the world of darkness. She
is the bride of the infernal king."
Ceres was but half consoled, and her wrath was turned from Sicily to
the bold ravisher of her daughter. She hastened to Olympus, and laid
her plaint before Jupiter. She urged that her daughter must be
restored to her. If only Pluto would resign possession of Proserpine,
she would forgive the ravisher.
Jupiter answered mildly: "This rape of the god lover can scarce be
called an injury. Pluto is my brother, and like me a king, except that
he reigns below, whereas I reign above. Give your consent, and he will
be no disgrace as a son-in-law."
Still Ceres was resolved to fetch her daughter back, and Jupiter at
length agreed that it should be so on condition that Proserpine,
during her sojourn in the shades, had allowed no food to pass her
lips.
In joy the mother hurried down to Tartarus and demanded her daughter.
But the fates were against her. The damsel had broken her fast. As
she wandered in the fair gardens of Elysium she had picked a
pomegranate from the bending tree, and had eaten seven of the sweet
purple seeds. Only one witness had seen her in the fatal act. This was
Ascalaphus, a courtier of Pluto, who some say had first put it into
the mind of the king to carry off Proserpine. In revenge for this
betrayal, Ceres changed him into an owl, and doomed him ever after to
be a bird of ill-omen who cannot bear the light of day, and whose
nightly hooting portends ill tidings to mortals.
But Ceres was not doomed to lose Proserpine utterly. Jupiter decreed
that for six months of each year her daughter was to reign in dark
Tartarus by Pluto's side; for the other six months she was to return
to earth and dwell with her mother. Joy returned to the mother's
saddened heart; the barren earth at her bidding once more brought
forth its increase. Soon the fields were smiling with golden corn, and
the mellow grapes hung heavy on the vines, and once again that favored
land became the garden of the world.
PAN AND SYRINX
BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD
Long ages ago in the pleasant land of Arcadia, where the kindly
shepherds fed their flocks on the green hills, there lived a fair
maiden named Syrinx. Even as a tiny child she loved to toddle forth
from her father's house and lose herself in the quiet woods. Often
were they forced to seek long and far before they found her, when the
dew was falling and the stars coming out in the dark blue sky; but
however late it was, they never found her afraid nor eager to be safe
at home. Sometimes she was curled up on the soft moss under the
shelter of a spreading tree, fast asleep; sometimes she was lying by
the side of a stream listening to the merry laughter of the water;
sometimes, sitting over the stones upon the hillside, she would be
watching with wonder and delight the lady moon, with her bright train
of clouds, racing across the sky as if in hot chase.
Years passed on, and Syrinx grew into a tall and slender maiden, with
long fair hair and great gray eyes, with a look in them that made her
seem to be always listening. Out in the woods there are so many sounds
for any one who has ears to hear--the different notes of the birds,
the hum of the insects, the swift, light rustle as some furry
four-legged hunter creeps through the underwood. Then there is the
pleasant, happy murmur of the breeze among the leaves, with a
different sound in it for every different tree, or the wild shriek of
the gale that rends the straining branches, or the bubbling of the
spring, or the prattle of the running stream, or the plash of the
waterfall. Many are the sounds of the woods, and Syrinx knew and loved
them all until
"Beauty born of murmuring sound,
Had passed into her face."
"Have a care, Syrinx," her playfellows would say sometimes. "If you
wander alone in the woods, some day you will see the terrible god
Pan."
"I should like well to see him," the maiden made answer one day to an
old crone who thus warned her. "The great god Pan loves the woods and
everything that lives in them, and so do I. We must needs be friends
if we meet."
The old woman looked at her in horror and amaze. "You know not what
you say, child," she made answer. "Some aver that none can look upon
Pan and live, but of that I am none so sure, for I have heard of
shepherds to whom he has spoken graciously, and they never the worse
for it. But of this there is no doubt--whoever hears the shout of Pan
runs mad with the sound of it. So be not too venturesome, or evil will
come of it."
Now Syrinx might have taken warning from these wise and kindly words.
As it was, she treasured them, and only wondered what this god could
be like, the sound of whose shout made men run mad. She feared to see
him, and would have run swiftly away if she had caught a glimpse of
him, and yet she went continually to the far and silent groves
whither, so the shepherds said, Pan was most wont to resort.
It chanced one day that Syrinx had wandered farther than was her wont;
she had been in the woods since daybreak, and now it was high noon.
She was tired and hot, and lay down to rest on a bank beneath a tall
ash tree that was all covered with ivy, and resting there she soon
fell fast asleep. While she slept the wild things of the woods came to
look upon her with wonder. A doe that was passing with her fawn stood
for a moment gazing mildly upon the maiden, and the fawn stooped and
licked her fingers, but at the touch Syrinx stirred in her sleep and
both doe and fawn bounded away among the bushes. A little squirrel
dropped lightly from a tree and sat up close beside her, his tail
curled jauntily over his back, his bright eyes fixed upon her face.
The little furry rabbits first peeped at her out of their holes, and
then growing bolder came quite close and sat with their soft paws
tucked down and their ears cocked very stiffly, listening to her quiet
breathing. And last of all, stepping noiselessly over the grass, came
the lord of all the wild things, the great god Pan himself.
His legs and feet were like those of a goat, so that he could move
more quickly and lightly than the wild gazelle, and his ears were long
and pointed--ears like those of a squirrel, so that he could hear the
stirring of a nestling not yet out of its egg. Softly he drew nigh to
the maiden, and there was a wicked smile in his bright dark eyes. But
as he bent to look into her face she stirred, and he leapt lightly
back and sat himself down a little space from her, leaning on his arm
among the brushwood till he was half hidden from her. Beside him lay a
great bough torn from the tree by some winter storm; Pan drew this to
him and began to cut from it a piece of wood whereof to fashion a
dainty little drinking-cup. And lying there, cutting at the wood, Pan
began to whistle low and sweetly to himself, just as though he had
been some shepherd or huntsman resting in the shade.
At first the soft notes made for the half-awakened maiden a dream of
singing birds and rippling water; then her drowsy eyes unclosed and
she became aware of a bearded face turned half away from her and bent
over some sort of work. For a time she lay still, and Pan forebore to
glance at her, but cut away at the piece of wood he was fashioning,
and whistled to himself as though he had not marked the maiden.
Presently, broad awake, Syrinx raised herself upon her elbow and gazed
full upon the stranger, who glanced round at her in a careless,
friendly way, and nodded to her with a kindly smile.
"Thou hast slept well, fair maiden," said Pan, in a low, gentle voice,
that sounded like the far-off murmur of a winter torrent.
And Syrinx, reassured by the gleam of the merry dark eyes, made
answer: "Yea, fair sir, for I had wandered far, and was aweary."
"How hast thou dared to wander so far from the haunts of men?" asked
the sylvan god, "Art thou not afeard of all that might meet thee here
in the deep forest?"
"I fear none of the wild things of the wood," answered Syrinx simply,
"for none has ever done me hurt. If thou art, as I judge thee, a
hunter, thou knowest that it is through fear alone that the beasts of
the forest do harm to man. But I move ever quietly among them, and do
not startle them, and they go on their ways and leave me in peace."
"Thou art passing wise," said Pan; "there are few indeed of thy years
who have attained to thy knowledge. When a man perceives a rustling
in the brushwood he flings his spear at the place; while women, for
the most part, scream and flee. But the fearless may walk quiet and
unharmed through the depths of the forest."
"There is one fear in my heart, kind stranger," said Syrinx earnestly.
"There be shepherds who say that in these forest paths they have seen
and spoken with the great god Pan himself. But some say that it is
death to see him, and all say that men run mad at the sound of his
shout. How thinkest thou? Hast thou ever caught a glimpse of him?"
There was a merry twinkle in those dancing eyes as the stranger made
answer: "Nay, maiden, I have never seen him of whom thou speakest; but
cast away thy last fear, for sure I am that the sight of him is not
death to any living thing. He loves and cares for all that hath life;
and as for his shout, that is only heard in battle, for he never cries
aloud save in wrath, and then indeed it brings confusion to his
enemies or to those who withstand him, but to his friends it brings
courage and triumph."
Syrinx heaved a sigh of relief, and lay back again, one arm under her
head, her long fair hair rippling over her shoulder, and her beautiful
gray eyes fixed upon the face of the stranger.
Pan gazed upon her, and crept a little nearer through the brushwood.
"Sure I am that thou art as wise as thou art kind, fair stranger,"
said the innocent maiden. "There has ever been within me a secret
thought that Pan, the lord of all the wild things of the wood, could
not be fierce and cruel as men said, and ever have I been assured that
could I meet and speak with him I should love him well."
"Love, love, love, love," said the deep soft voice of the great god
Pan. "Every tree, every flower, every bird, every beast lives for
nothing else. Dost thou indeed understand what thou sayest, fair
maiden?"
And the girl nodded her pretty head wisely, for she quite thought she
did. "Yea, kind stranger," she answered, "for when I look into the
eyes of one to whom I have never yet spoken a word, I know at once
whether his speech and company are like to be pleasant to me, or
whether I would have him pass on and speak no word. When I lay half
asleep but now, and listened to your merry whistling, I could feel
within me that it was a sweet and a friendly sound, and good to hear.
It was like the speech of the forest, which I have loved since I was a
baby."
Pan laughed gently to himself as he fashioned his wooden cup; but
there was a new gleam in his downcast eyes, and when next he glanced
at her Syrinx saw the change, and a vague uneasiness awoke in her. She
looked at the sky, already beginning to glow with the radiance of the
setting sun.
"It grows late," she said; "I must away, for I have far to go ere
night-fall. Farewell, gentle stranger."
"Nay, but stay a little longer," said Pan gently. "I know every path
of the forest, and if the darkness falls upon thee I can guide thee
safely, never fear."
But the maiden feared the more, as she sprang to her feet.
"Nay, I must tarry no longer," she said hastily; "it is already
over-late." Tossing her hair back from her flushed face she sprang
away down the slope like a frightened fawn.
Forgetting all but his wish to stay her Pan leapt up to follow her,
and glancing back over her shoulder Syrinx saw his goat feet, and
knew with whom she had been speaking. With a sudden start she plunged
into the brushwood, and as she disappeared from his sight Pan, anxious
only to bring her back, uttered a mighty cry.
The sound smote upon the ear of the terrified maiden, and her brain
reeled. With one wild shriek of terror she turned and fled, and before
even those swift goat's feet could overtake her she had plunged into
the river, and was gone--a reed lost among the river-reeds.
And the great god Pan sat down upon the river bank sorrowful and
baffled; and as he gazed upon the water, flushed with the light of the
setting sun, he saw the very bank of water-reeds where Syrinx had
disappeared. Slender and graceful they were, as the maiden who was
gone, and they trembled as she had done when she looked behind and saw
who was her pursuer, and their tufted heads, golden in the evening
light, reminded Pan of the golden hair of Syrinx. He stepped forward
to the edge of the water, and stooping, plucked a handful of the
reeds. They snapped with a sharp crack in his strong fingers, and as
he looked down at them he sighed deeply. His sigh came back to him
with a low musical note, and Pan went back to the bank, and sitting
himself down he scanned and fingered tenderly the hollow stalks. Long
did he sit there with his newly found treasure; the sun went down, the
crimson clouds turned to dark lines across the pale saffron sky, the
full moon rose slowly from behind the hill, and still Pan bent over
his handful of water-reeds, and breathed upon them this way and that,
and cut and fashioned them with care.
Next day the shepherds were all abroad in the woods searching for
Syrinx, but of her they found no trace; only, as they moved hither and
thither, they heard sweet and strange and far-off music. It was as if
all the sounds of the forest had been modulated and harmonized; now it
swelled and grew loud and joyous, and now it died away in pitiful
lamenting. It was Pan, playing upon the sevenfold pipe that he had
made, and when at length he gave it to the sons of men, and taught
them to play upon it too, he gave it the name of Syrinx, the beautiful
and hapless maiden whom he had loved and lost.
THE STORY OF PHAETON
BY M. M. BIRD
A fiery and high-spirited youth, Phaeton could not brook the taunts of
his playmate Epaphus, who claimed divine descent from Isis. When
Phaeton boasted that his father was Phoebus the Sun-god, Epaphus only
laughed and called him a base-born pretender. So one day Phaeton,
stung to madness by these taunts, went boldly to his mother Clymené
and demanded that she should give him some clear proof that he was
indeed, as she averred, the very son of Phoebus. Clymené lifted her
beautiful hands to the Sun, who rode gorgeous in the Heavens, and
swore by him that none other than Phoebus was the father of the boy.
"Nevertheless," said she, "if this doth suffice you not, and you seek
other proof, travel yourself to his Eastern Mansion, which lies not so
far remote from here, and ask him whether you are not his son."
The ambitious youth hastened to follow her counsel; he longed to see
his father, and to visit the Eastern Mansion where he abode. Through
India he traveled in haste, never resting till afar off he saw the
wondrous light that shimmered perpetually over the Palace of the Sun.
High it stood on columns of burnished gold ablaze with jewels. The
folding doors were of silver, the walls of ivory, and Vulcan had
wrought the precious metals in designs of wonderful beauty. The seas,
the earth, the fair forms of the immortal gods, all graced the carven
portals.
Phaeton, toiling up the steep ascent, saw at a great distance the
dazzling god, seated high on an imperial throne, all sparkling with
gems. The Hours, Days, Months, and Years, were ranged on either hand.
He saw Spring decked in flowers, Summer with her garner of grain,
Autumn bowed beneath his burden of grapes and fruits, and hoary Winter
shivering behind them. The all-beholding eye of the god perceived him
from afar, and before he had spoken a word, a voice from the throne
bade him welcome: "What wants my son? For my son thou art." Thus
encouraged, the youth, though dazzled by the exceeding brightness,
poured out his tale and proffered his petition.
The god was touched by his tale of wrong. Flinging aside the awful
glories that surrounded him, he bade his son advance, and embraced him
with tenderness.
"Make of me some request," he said, "and to convince thee that I am
thy father, I swear by Styx to grant it, whate'er it be."
The youth was transported with delight, and asked at once to be
permitted to guide the Sun's bright chariot for one day.
Phoebus was grieved beyond measure at the young man's rash ambition,
and bitterly repented of his oath; but even a god, when he has sworn
by Styx, cannot take back or annul that awful oath.
"Ask of me some other proof," he begged. "Too vast and hazardous this
task for thy strength and years. Not one of all the gods--not Jupiter
himself, ruler of the sky--dares mount that burning chariot, save I
alone!" He told him how with pain and labor the wild steeds climb up
the arc of the sky--how from the topmost pinnacles of Heaven the Earth
and Ocean lie so far beneath that even he himself is sometimes seized
with giddiness and his brain reels. And when down the steep descent of
the western sky the horses plunge headlong, it needs a strong and
steady hand to check them in their course. He told him how, through
all his daily task, the brave Sun has to front the opposing forces of
the Bear, the Scorpion, and the Dog Star, and guide his steeds among
their influences. Through a thousand snares his progress lies, with
forms of starry monsters ready to devour him if he strays by a hair's
breadth from the appointed way. And the very horses themselves, when
their mettle is up, are a team that only a god may control. "My son,"
he besought him, "do not require of me a fatal gift."
But the fond father pleaded in vain. The bold youth was unaffrighted,
and the oath was binding.
The time had come: Aurora heralded the new day. The golden chariot
made by Vulcan was drawn forth; the spokes of the wheels were of
silver, its seat was starred with gems.
The nimble Hours brought forth from their stalls the fiery steeds.
With last words of warning and advice, the father bade his son
farewell, and watched him wend forth on his perilous journey. The
youth leaped into the seat, he gathered up the reins, and gave his
father such praise and thanks for his indulgence as cut him to the
heart.
The horses neighed and pranced, breathing fire from their distended
nostrils. They sprang out through the gates of Dawn and flew over the
clouds, leaving the light breezes of Morn far behind them.
The youth was light; he could not poise or weight the chariot as did
its accustomed rider. The bounding car was tossed to and fro, the
sport of winds and currents. Wildly they hurtled headlong up the sky.
The steeds perceived the lighter weight, the weaker hands. They
plunged, and plunging, left the stated course.
The youth became confused; he looked around him, but could no longer
recognize the track. He did not know which way to steer, nor would the
horses have obeyed his hand. Wildly they careered and brought the heat
of midday into far regions of the Heavens that were unused to its
untempered rays. All around him monstrous threatening shades awoke and
stirred in the Heavens as he vexed them with the heat. Far, far below
the affrighted youth could see Earth and Ocean spread out. But as his
chariot raced madly down the heights, the clouds were dispersed by his
fierce rays, the high mountains began to smoke, the forests to burn;
ripened harvests were devoured by fire, whole cities were turned to
ashes. Pindus and Parnassus were steaming, the fountains of Mount Ida
were dried up, and Ætna raged with redoubled heat. Even the towering
Apennines and Caucasus lost their snows, and the huge Alps were one
range of living flame.
The horrified youth beheld the universe burn around him, and he could
scarce endure the sultry vapors that rose about him as from a furnace.
Lost in clouds of whirling smoke and ashes, the steeds careered madly
to and fro, he knew not whither. It is said that in that day the Moor
began to change his hue and turn black, and Libya and all the deserts
of Africa were then first drained of their moisture and left in great
tracts of parching sandy waste. The great rivers, the Ganges,
Euphrates, and the Danube, rose up in clouds of hissing steam, and
the frightened Nile ran off and hid his head in the sands, and there
for centuries and centuries it has lain hid.
Stern Neptune, in amazement and anger, thrice reared his head above
the shrinking waves where his fishes all were dying, and thrice the
fierce flames drove him back.
At length Earth, wrapped in her scalding seas, uplifting her scorching
brows, appealed to Jupiter.
"See how fierce vapors choke my breath; see my singed hair, my
withered face, the heaps of cinders that defile my fair body.... Have
pity."
Jupiter heard her prayer. He mounted his high ethereal throne, called
all powers, even the god whose son drove the chariot, to witness that
what he did he was compelled to do, and launched a thunderbolt at the
head of the despairing Phaeton.
Thus with fire the god of gods suppressed the raging fire. Lifeless
from the chariot the boy fell like a falling star, and his charred
body dropped to the earth far from his own land, far in the western
world, beside the river Po.
The horses broke loose from their harness, the chariot was splintered
into a thousand shining fragments and scattered far over the steaming
earth.
And the story goes, that for the space of one whole day, from morn
till eve, the world existed without a sun, lighted only by the lurid
glare of the burning ruins.
Beside the waters of the river the Latian nymphs came round and gazed
with awe upon the dead youth. His charred body they inclosed in a
marble urn and wrote on it an epitaph:
"Here lies a youth as beautiful as brave,
Who through the heavens his father's chariot drave."
His mother Clymené, frantic with grief, ceased not to roam the world,
followed by her weeping daughters, until at last she came to the banks
of Po, and found there the sculptured urn. She hung above it, bedewing
the marble with her tears, crying aloud the name so dear to her. Her
daughters stood around, weeping and lamenting with her. All night long
they kept their watch, and returning day found them still calling on
their brother's name. Four days and nights they kept their stand, till
at length, when for their weariness they would have sought rest, they
found they could not move. Phaethusa's arms were covered with
hardening bark and branching boughs; Lampetia stood rooted to the
ground; Æglé, as she tore her hair, only filled her hands with leaves.
While their faces were yet untransformed, they cried to their mother
for help. But, alas! she was powerless. She tore the bark from their
fair bodies, she stripped the leaves from their sprouting fingers, she
clung to their hardening limbs in vain. Only blood came trickling
where she tore away the leaves and bark, and in faint voices the
maidens cried that she only wounded her daughters when she tore their
trees.
Then the bark covered their fair faces, and they stood for ever dumb,
waving green boughs in the sun, while tears of amber rolled slowly
down the encrusting bark.
ARETHUSA
BY V. C. TURNBULL
Lord of all waters was Oceanus, the ancient Titan god, whose beard,
like a foaming cataract, swept to his girdle. Many fair daughters had
he, of whom poets sing, yet the fairest of all was the nymph Arethusa.
She had not lacked for wooers, but she shunned the haunts of men and
abode on the Acroceraunian heights whence she had sprung, or when she
descended to the plain hid herself in tangled bushes and overhanging
alders. She loved the quiet woodland ways, and had vowed herself to
the chaste huntress Diana, and in her train loved to fleet through the
woods and over the plains of Achaia, chasing the flying deer.
Now it happened one day that Arethusa, wearied with hunting and with
the great heat, wandered alone among the woods and meadows, seeking a
place of rest. Presently she heard the ripple of waters, and soon she
came to a river flowing between straight poplars and hoary willows.
Swiftly and quietly it ran, making no eddies, and so pure were its
waters that she could count the pebbles lying in its deep bed like
jewels in an open casket.
Joyfully then the tired maiden unbound her sandals, and, sitting down
upon the bank, dipped her white feet in the cool water. For a while
she sat there undisturbed, and idly watched the growing ripples as she
dabbled in the stream. But while she thus rested and played, a
strange commotion drew her eyes to the middle of the stream, and a
fear fell upon her, for she knew that it could be none other than
Alpheus, the god of that river. Quickly she sprang to her feet, and
while yet she stood trembling and irresolute, a hollow voice cried to
her from mid-stream. And (oh marvel!) the voice was not terrible like
that of a god, but tender and full of pleading love.
"Whither dost thou hasten, Arethusa?" it said. And again: "Whither
dost thou hasten?"
But Arethusa, a maiden who cared nothing for love, would be wooed by
neither god nor man.
Swiftly she fled from the enchanted spot, even before the young
river-god had sprung from the stream with love and longing in his
eyes. And now began that long chase of which the end was even stranger
than the beginning. Arethusa, weary no longer, darted like a fawn from
the river, and Alpheus, more ardent still as the maid was coy, swiftly
followed her flying steps. Through woods and meadows, over hills and
across valleys--yes, and past more than one city, fled pursuer and
pursued. But now, as the day drew towards sunsetting, Arethusa's
strong limbs wearied, her strength flagged, and her pace slackened,
and in her sick heart she knew how vain a thing it is for a mortal to
strive against a god. For no weariness weighed down the feet of
Alpheus; straight and swift he ran as his own river. Now so near was
he to the maiden that his long shadow fell across her feet; but no
faster could she go, for the sun smote fiercely upon her, and her
strength was failing. Louder and louder sounded the footsteps of the
god. Now she could feel his hard breathing in her long hair; was there
no escape? With her last strength she cried to her sovereign
mistress: "Help, O Huntress, thy huntress maiden! Aid her who so
often carried thy bow and thine arrows in the chase!"
And the goddess answered her votary.
For at once Arethusa was wrapped in a dense cloud, so dense indeed
that even the burning eyes of her pursuer could not pierce it. There,
then, she crouched, like a hare on its form, while outside she heard
the footsteps of Alpheus pacing round her hiding-place, searching and
baffled. But he, having come so near his prize, would not now give it
up, and she knew that he would watch the cloud till she came forth. At
the thought, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and ran down to
her feet. Faster and faster it poured; she was as ice that melts in
the sun; and she realized with joy that the goddess was opening for
her another way of escape. All her weariness and terror slid from her
straightway; her tired limbs melted into a liquid ease, and it was no
maiden but a laughing stream that shot from under the cloud and fled
singing towards the western sea.
But Alpheus, noting the guile of the goddess, laughed aloud, for could
he not at will become even as his own river? He changed even as he
conceived the thought; and now the chase began once more, only this
time river pursued stream, leaping from crag to crag, and rushing
across wide wastes of marshy country.
And again Arethusa, finding herself in straits, cried aloud to her
sovereign mistress Diana. And, behold, in answer to her prayer, the
earth was suddenly rent asunder and a vast black chasm yawned in her
path. Into it she plunged, and down, down, down she fell. And into it
in pursuit plunged also Alpheus, who loved her so well that he was
ready to follow her to the depths of the earth.
* * * * *
The darkness passed, and overhead was a beautiful green light, and on
all sides a profound and solemn silence. Arethusa had left the land
behind, and was pushing across the floor of the ocean. And behind her
came the waters of Alpheus. Then into the maiden heart, which as yet
had known not love, came something better than fear. From the lover
who could follow her even hither why should she fly? On he came,
undeterred and unpolluted by the brackish sea, his waters as fresh and
pure as when they had first run laughing through the sunlit meadows of
Arcadia.... Arethusa sought no more to fly. Love had conquered--Love,
the lord of gods and men, who mocks at maidens' vows and melts the
coldest breast. So there, amid the alien waters of the sea, the two
met in loving embrace, never again to part. And after this the gods
brought them once again to the light of the sun. For, finding at
length a way of escape through a fissure of the rocks, they rushed
forth as that Arethusan Fount which springs up in the Sicilian island
of Ortygia.
"And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
Down one dale where the morning basks
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of Asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;--
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more."
SHELLEY
THE STORY OF DAPHNE
BY M. M. BIRD
Phoebus Apollo, the Sun-god, a hunter unmatched in the chase, had
slain the awful Python with his shafts. To commemorate such a doughty
deed, he instituted the Pythian Games wherein noble youths should
strive for mastery. The prize was a simple green wreath, the symbol of
victory. The laurel was not yet the leaf dedicated to the wreaths the
gods bestowed upon the happy victors, but every kind of green was worn
with promiscuous grace upon the flowing locks of Phoebus.
Flushed with pride in his new success against the Python, Phoebus saw
Cupid, Venus' immortal son, bending his bow and aiming his feathered
shafts at unwary mortals. A heart once pricked by one of those tiny
darts felt all the bitter-sweet of love, and never recovered from the
wound. Him Phoebus taunted. "Are such as these fit weapons for chits?"
he cried. "Know that such archery is my proper business. My shafts fly
resistless. See how the Python has met his just doom at my hands. Take
up thy torch, and, with that only, singe the feeble souls of lovers."
Cupid returned him answer that though on all beside Apollo's shafts
might be resistless, to Cupid would justly be the fame when he himself
was conquered. The mischievous boy flew away to the heights of
Parnassus, and thence winged one of his sharpest arrows against the
breast of the bold deity. Another and different shaft he took, blunt
and tipped with lead, and this he aimed at the heart of a certain
nymph of surpassing fairness, a shaft designed to provoke disdain of
love in her chaste bosom. Her name was Daphne, the young daughter of
Peneus. She was a follower of Diana, the divine huntress. All her days
she spent in the woods among the wild creatures, or scoured the open
plains with swift feet. All her love was given to the free life of the
forest: she roamed in fearless pursuit of beasts of prey, her quiver
at her side, her bow in hand, her lovely hair bound in many a fillet
about her head. Her father often blamed her. "Thou owest it," he said,
"to thyself and me to take a husband."
But she, casting her young arms about his neck, begged him to leave
her free to pursue the life she loved, and not set the yoke of
marriage on her unwilling shoulders. "No more I beg of thee," she
said, "than Diana's fond parent granted her."
Her soft-hearted father consented to respect her whim, but warned her
that she would soon rue her unnatural wish.
As Daphne was one day hunting in the forest, Apollo perceived her. The
arrow winged by Cupid had not failed of its effect, and the poison of
love ran like fever through his veins. He saw the polished argent of
her bared shoulder; he saw the disheveled hair that the wind had
loosened from its snood; he saw the eyes, limpid and innocent as a
fawn's, the beauty and speed of her feet as she fled down the forest
glade, her taper fingers as they fitted an arrow to the bow-string. He
saw and burned.
Swift as the wind the startled damsel had fled as she espied him, nor
when he overtook her would she stay to hearken to his flattering
words.
"Stay, nymph!" he cried. "It is no foe who follows you. Why should
you flee as the trembling doe from the lion, the lamb from the hungry
wolf, the dove from the pursuing falcon? It is a god who loves and
follows. It is a god you flee from, a god who loves, and will not be
denied."
Still she fled and still he followed; he the loving, she the loath, he
pleading and she deaf to his prayers. As a hare doubles to elude the
greyhound that is gaining on her, the flying maid turned back and
sought thus to elude her pursuer. In vain she strove against a god.
Terror winged her feet, but there is no escape from Love. He gained
ground upon her, and now she felt his hot breath on her hair; his arm
was just outstretched to clasp her.
The nymph grew pale with mortal terror. Spent with her long, hard race
for freedom, she cast a despairing look around her. No help was to be
seen, but near by ran the waters of a little brook. "Oh, help!" she
cried, "if water gods are deities indeed. Earth, I adjure you, gape
and entomb this unhappy wretch; or change my form, the cause of all my
fear!"
The kind earth heard her frenzied prayer. The frightened nymph found
her feet benumbed with cold and rooted to the ground. As Apollo's arms
were flung about her a filmy rind grew over her body, her outflung
arms were changed to leafy boughs, her hair, her fingers, all were
turned to shuddering leaves; only the smoothness of her skin remained.
"Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!" For a maiden he clasped a
laurel tree, and his hot lips were pressed upon the cold and senseless
bark.
[Illustration: THE STORY OF DAPHNE]
Yet Apollo is a gracious god, and presently, when his passion had
cooled, he repented him of his mad pursuit and its desperate ending.
The idea of the coy maiden, roaming the forest fancy-free, crept into
his imagination, more delicate and lovely than when she lived in deed.
So he vowed that the laurel should be his peculiar tree. Her leaves
should be bound for poet's brow, should crown the victor in the
chariot race, and the conqueror as he marched in the great triumph.
Secure from thunder should she stand, unfading as the immortal gods;
and as the locks of Apollo are unshorn, her boughs should be decked in
perpetual green through all the changing seasons.
And the grateful tree could only bend her fair boughs above him and
wave the leafy burden of her head.
DEUCALION AND PYRRHA
BY M. M. BIRD
To the golden age of innocence, when the world was young and men a
race of happy children, succeeded an age of silver, and then an age of
brass. Last came an age of iron, when every man's hand was against his
neighbor, and Justice fled affrighted to the sky. Then the sons of
earth, the giants, no longer curbed by law or fear of the gods, waxed
bold and wanton. Piling mountain upon mountain they essayed to scale
the heavens and hurl its monarch from his throne. These Jupiter
blasted with his red lightnings and transfixed with his winged bolts.
But from their blood, as from seed that the sower scatters, there
arose a race of men, a feeble folk, but no less godless and lawless
than their sires. Then Jupiter, beholding the ways of men that they
were evil and that none was righteous in his eyes, determined to
destroy this world and people it with a new race unlike the first. He
was minded at first to destroy it by fire, and made ready his
artillery of thunderbolts, but then he bethought him that the vast
conflagration might blaze up to heaven itself and scorch the gods on
their golden thrones. So he dropped the bolts from his hand.
"Water," he cried, "as my poet has sung 'is the best of all elements';
by water I will drown the world."
First he bound the North Wind that freezes floods by its icy breath,
then loosed the South Wind that brings fog and darkness and horror on
its wings. From his beard and eyebrows he rained showers, from his
robe and mantle the unceasing floods streamed down and wreathing mists
encircled his frowning brow.
He swept above the earth, wringing the waters from the high clouds,
while peal on peal of thunder rolled about him.
The bearded corn bent before the driving rain, and the farmers
lamented their ruined crops. But not alone in the skies was Jupiter
content to open the watergates. He summoned to his aid the powers of
Neptune. The ocean, the natural enemy of the fruitful earth, swelled
with pride at this request, and rushed inland to meet the swollen
torrents that gushed from the hills across the sodden plains. The
floods gathered deep over the lowlands, the fields were drowned, the
ruined grain was submerged. Sheep and cattle, peasants and their
plows, trees and wild beasts, were all borne out upon the resistless
waters. Even the houses, sapped by the water, fell into the angry
flood, and all the household goods were swallowed up. Some climbed
high cliffs to escape the general doom, other launched out in little
boats and floated above the submerged chimneys of their homes or cast
anchor among their vines. Hills and valleys were alike engulfed by the
heaving waters; those who had sought safety on the hilltops died of
starvation, and those in boats were swamped.
Jupiter, looking down from his starry heights, saw nothing but a lake
of troubled waters where the blooming earth had been. The destruction
was complete. Then he unloosed the North Wind, and set fierce Boreas
to drive away the clouds. Neptune he commanded to lay his trident on
the rough waves and smooth out their furrows. And he bade Triton, who
appeared above the waves, give the signal for the waters to retire
within their proper bounds. Triton blew a blast on his shell, and the
note was borne from wave to wave, from marge to marge. The waters,
obedient to the summons, ran off the shores. The streams shrank by
slow degrees to their accustomed level, and the green shoulders of the
earth rose up from out their watery shroud. The tops of the drooping
trees emerged all matted with mud, the houses lay in heaps of reeking
ruin, the whole world lay desolate and wore a sickly hue.
I have said that all men were evil, yet among this sinful race were
two righteous found, and though they could not save others from
destruction, they themselves were saved. In a far vale of Thessaly
there lived an aged couple, who had fled there to escape from the
wickedness of men, Deucalion and Pyrrha his wife. When the flood came
they had seen a little skiff floating by their cottage door and had
embarked in it. For many days the skiff had floated like a cork above
the surging flood, and when the flood abated they found themselves
stranded on the heights of Parnassus.
They were the sole survivors, and they blessed the gods for their
deliverance, but as they looked upon the scene of desolation they were
sad at heart. It was a silent world. No human voice to greet them, no
sound of beast or bird. They were childless and without hope of
children, and if one of them were to die, how could the other live on?
Yet in their misery they forgot not to pay their reverent vows to
Jupiter, the God of Deliverance, and then together made their way down
from Parnassus and sought the now ruined shrine of Themis. The roofs
were green with moss and slime; no fire burned on the deserted altar.
They fell prostrate and implored the goddess: "O righteous Themis, if
the gods can be moved to love or pity by our prayers; if the miseries
of men can touch them; if there is forgiveness and renewed favor to be
found in them, tell how we may restore mankind, and by a miracle
repeople all the world!"
The gracious goddess bowed to them and said: "Depart! Veil your heads
and cast each behind you the bones of your mighty mother."
The pair stood amazed and dumb with wonder.
Pyrrha could not bring herself to obey the dire and seemingly impious
command.
"Forbid it, Heaven," she cried, "that I should tear those sacred
relics from their sepulcher!"
But Deucalion pondered in his heart the word of the goddess, ever
seeking in it some hidden meaning not at first made clear. At length
his eye brightened; he called Pyrrha to him and said: "If I understand
it right, there is an answer to the dark enigma that will free the
goddess's word from taint of sacrilege. Our mighty mother is the
earth; the stones are her bones. These we must cast behind us."
With renewed hope and gladness Pyrrha heard his words, and though
doubting still resolved to try.
Descending from the mountain to the plain that was strewn with stones,
reverently they veiled their heads, and, taking up one stone after
another, they flung them over their shoulders.
And as the stones fell to the ground a miracle was wrought. As each
stone fell it visibly changed. At first but the imperfect rudiments of
a form appeared, such as is seen in marble where the chisel has begun
to chip it out, and the sculptor has not yet lavished on it his
finished art. Then by degrees the stones seemed to swell and soften
like ripening fruit, till at last the life-blood ran through the blue
veins, while the bones kept their hardness and supported the
new-formed frame.
By divine power each stone thrown by Deucalion turned into a man;
while each that Pyrrha threw bloomed into a fair woman. Thus was the
earth repeopled.
'Tis a marvelous tale, but if you doubt its truth go question the
Egyptian rustics. They will tell you that when the Nile subsides they
find in the slime rude stones shaped like a man's body, with a knob
like a head and bosses like the beginnings of arms and legs. These are
stones that Deucalion and Pyrrha threw, but such as fell at their feet
instead of behind them, and only began to turn into men and women.
EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there
was a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother;
and that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and
motherless like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him,
and be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which
she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this: "Epimetheus,
what have you in that box?"
"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and
you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was
left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it
contains."
"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?"
"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.
"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way!"
"Oh, come, don't think of it any more!" cried Epimetheus. "Let us run
out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it
was in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no
fathers and mothers to take care of the children, because there was no
danger or trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there
was always plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his
dinner, he found it growing on a tree; and if he looked at the tree in
the morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night's
supper; or, at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's
breakfast. It was a very pleasant life indeed. No labor to be done, no
tasks to be studied; nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices
of children talking, or caroling like birds, or gushing out in merry
laughter throughout the livelong day.
It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had
ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to discover
the secret of the mysterious box.
This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but every day it
grew more and more substantial, until before a great while the cottage
of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other
children.
"Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to
herself and to Epimetheus. "And what on earth can be inside of it?"
"Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus at last; for he had
grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would
try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe
figs, and eat them under the trees for our supper. And I know a vine
that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted."
"Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora pettishly.
"Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a good-tempered child, "let us
run out and have a merry time with our playmates."
"I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!"
answered our pettish little Pandora. "And besides, I never do have
any. This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the
time. I insist upon you telling me what is inside of it."
"As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied
Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is
inside?"
"You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus,
"and then we could see for ourselves."
"Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus.
And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a
box which had been confided to him on the condition of his never
opening it, that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more.
Still, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
"At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."
"It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came,
by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could
hardly forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd
kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of
feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings."
"What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.
"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was
like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so
naturally that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive."
"I know him," said Pandora thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a
staff. It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the
box. No doubt he intended it for me; and most probably it contains
pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or
something very nice for us both to eat!"
"Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until
Quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any
right to lift the lid of the box."
"What a dull boy it is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the
cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!"
For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without
asking Pandora to accompany him. He was tired to death of hearing
about the box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was
the messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where
Pandora would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did
babble about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the
box! It seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage
were not big enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually
stumbling over it and making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and
bruising all four of their shins.
Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his
ears from morning to night, especially as the little people of the
earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that
they knew not how to deal with them. Thus a small vexation made as
much disturbance then as a far bigger one would in our own times.
After Epimetheus was gone Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had
called it ugly above a hundred times; but in spite of all that she had
said against it, it was in truth a very handsome article of furniture.
It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins
spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that little
Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other
looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on
this account.
The edges and corners of the box were carved with wonderful skill.
Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and
the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a
profusion of flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so
exquisitely represented, and were wrought together in such harmony,
that flowers, foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a
wreath of mingled beauty.
But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved foliage,
Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely, which
stole the beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more
closely, she could discover nothing of the kind. Some face, that was
really beautiful, had been made to look ugly by her catching a sideway
glimpse at it.
The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief,
in the center of the lid. There was nothing else save the dark, smooth
richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a
garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a
great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked,
or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features,
indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression,
which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips
and utter itself in words.
Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:
"Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box?
Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and
have ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not
find something very pretty!"
The box was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such
contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord. There appeared
to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never was a knot so
cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly
defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet, by the
very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more tempted to
examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three times
already she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her
thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.
"I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it
was done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again after undoing it. There
could be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me
for that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without
the foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied."
First she tried to lift it. It was heavy; much too heavy for the
slender strength of a child like Pandora. She raised one end of the
box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again with a pretty
loud thump. A moment afterwards she almost fancied that she heard
something stir inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as
possible and listened. Positively there did seem to be a kind of
stifled murmur within. Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears?
Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite
satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all
events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.
As she drew back her head her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.
"It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said
Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am
resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."
So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its
intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or
quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in
attempting to undo it. Meanwhile the bright sunshine came through the
open window, as did likewise the merry voices of the children playing
at a distance; and, perhaps, the voice of Epimetheus among them.
Pandora stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not
be wiser if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no
more about the box, but run and join her little playfellows and be
happy?
All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with
the knot; and, happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the
lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at
her.
"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether
it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the
world to run away!"
But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a
twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined
itself as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.
"This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will
Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"
She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it
quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that
she could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled
into one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and
appearance of the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her
mind. Nothing was to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as
it was until Epimetheus should come in.
"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that
I have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked
into the box?"
And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since
she would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just
as well do so at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You
should have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving
undone what was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus
would have said or believed. And so perhaps she might, if the
enchanted face on the lid of the box had not looked so bewitchingly
persuasive at her, and if she had not seemed to hear, more distinctly
than before, the murmur of small voices within. She could not tell
whether it was fancy or no; but there was quite a little tumult of
whispers in her ear--or else it was her curiosity that whispered:
"Let us out, dear Pandora; pray let us out! We will be such nice
pretty playfellows for you! Only let us out!"
"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the
box? Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep;
and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot
possibly be any harm in just one little peep!"
But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.
This was the first time since his little playmate had come to dwell
with him that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did
not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on
other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if
Epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs);
or, if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be
cloying. In short, he grew so uneasy and discontented, that the other
children could not imagine what was the matter with Epimetheus.
Neither did he himself know what ailed him any better than they did.
At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all
the play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in
a humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her
pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which
he meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely--roses and
lilies, and orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail
of fragrance behind as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath
was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of
a boy. The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are
the fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it in those
days rather better than they can now.
Meanwhile a great black cloud had been gathering in the sky for some
time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun. But just as
Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to intercept the
sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.
He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora
and fling the wreath of flowers over her head before she should be
aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his
treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he pleased
without much probability of Pandora's hearing his footsteps. She was
too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his entering the cottage
the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was on the point of
opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her. If he had cried out
Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal mystery
of the box might never have been known.
But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his
own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that
Pandora was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his
playfellow should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if
there were anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take
half of it to himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora
about restraining her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as
foolish, and nearly as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame
Pandora for what happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at
Epimetheus likewise.
As Pandora raised the lid the cottage grew very dark and dismal, for
the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have
buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low
growling and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of
thunder. But Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid
nearly upright and looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of
winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box,
while, at the same instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a
lamentable tone, as if he were in pain.
"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora! why have you
opened this wicked box?"
Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see
what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the
room that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she
heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or
gigantic mosquitoes, were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more
accustomed to the imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little
shapes, with bats' wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with
terribly long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had
stung Epimetheus. Nor was it a great while before Pandora herself
began to scream, in no less pain and affright than her playfellow, and
making a vast deal more hubbub about it. An odious little monster had
settled on her forehead, and would have stung her I know not how
deeply if Epimetheus had not run and brushed it away.
Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be which had
made their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the
whole family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were
a great many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and
fifty Sorrows; there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and
painful shapes; there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be
of any use to talk about. In short, everything that has since
afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the
mysterious box, and given to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely,
in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested
by them. Had they been faithful to their trust, all would have gone
well. No grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had
cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment.
But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a
calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that
miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing
her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem
very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as
you will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly
swarm in their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing
they did was to fling open the doors and windows in hope of getting
rid of them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all
abroad, and so pestered and tormented the small people everywhere
about that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards.
And, what was very singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on
earth, not one of which had hitherto faded, now began to droop and
shed their leaves, after a day or two. The children, moreover, who
before seemed immortal in their childhood, now grew older, day by day,
and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women by and by,
and aged people, before they dreamed of such a thing.
Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,
remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung,
and were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to
them, because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since
the world began. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly bad humor,
both with themselves and with one another. In order to indulge it to
the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back
towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and rested
her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying bitterly, and
sobbing as if her heart would break.
Suddenly there was a gentle tap on the inside of the lid.
"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head.
But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of
humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.
"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to
me!"
Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand,
knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.
"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
"Who are you, inside of this naughty box?"
A sweet little voice spoke from within: "Only lift the lid, and you
shall see."
"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob, "I have had enough
of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and
there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and
sisters already flying about the world. You need never think that I
shall be so foolish as to let you out!"
She looked towards Epimetheus as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he
would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered
that she was wise a little too late.
"Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me
out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their
tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at
once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty
Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"
And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that
made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice
asked. Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter at every word that
came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner,
had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than
before.
"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little
voice?"
"Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good humor as
yet. "And what of it?"
"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.
"Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief
already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other
Trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can
make no very great difference."
"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her
eyes.
"Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch
and laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear
Pandora, lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only
let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are
not quite so dismal as you think them!"
"Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open
the box!"
"And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across
the room, "I will help you!"
So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew
a sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room,
throwing a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine
dance into dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass?
Well, so looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger
amid the gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the
least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had
stung him, and immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed
Pandora on the forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.
After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered
sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them
that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened
the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a
prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.
"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora.
"I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I
am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box to make amends
to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which was destined
to be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well in
spite of them all."
"Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How
very beautiful!"
"Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my
nature is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles."
"And you will stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "for ever and ever?"
"As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile, "and
that will be as long as you live in the world--I promise never to
desert you. There may be times and seasons, now and then, when you
will think that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and
again, when perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer
of my wings on the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and
I know something very good and beautiful that is to be given you,
hereafter!"
"Oh, tell us," they exclaimed; "tell us what it is!"
"Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
"But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on
this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true."
"We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.
And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,
that has since been alive. And, to tell you the truth, I cannot help
being glad (though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for
her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora
peeped into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying
about the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than
lessened, and are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous
stings in their tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel
them more as I grow older. But then that lovely and lightsome figure
of Hope! What in the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes
the earth; Hope makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and
brightest aspect, Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite
bliss hereafter.
EUROPA AND THE GOD-BULL
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, and their
little sister Europa (who was a very beautiful child), were at play
together near the sea-shore in their father's kingdom of Phoenicia.
They had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents
dwelt, and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the
sea, all sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently
against the beach. The three boys were very happy gathering flowers
and twining them into garlands, with which they adorned the little
Europa. Seated on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an
abundance of buds and blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily
out, and, as Cadmus said, was the prettiest of all the flowers.
Just then there came a splendid butterfly fluttering along the meadow,
and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out
that it was a flower with wings. Europa, who was a little wearied with
playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers,
but sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes. For a
while she listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a
voice saying "Hush!" and bidding her go to sleep. But the pretty
child, if she slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment,
when she heard something trample on the grass not far from her, and
peeping out from the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull.
And whence could this bull have come? Europa and her brothers had been
a long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other
living thing, either there or on the neighboring hills.
"Brother Cadmus!" cried Europa, starting up out of the midst of the
roses and lilies. "Phoenix! Cilix! Where are you all? Help! Help! Come
and drive away this bull!"
But her brothers were too far off to hear, especially as the fright
took away Europa's voice and hindered her from calling very loudly. So
there she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white
lilies that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands.
Nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the
bull, rather than anything frightful in its appearance, that caused
Europa so much alarm. On looking at him more attentively, she began to
see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly
amiable expression in his face. As for his breath--the breath of
cattle, you know, is always sweet--it was as fragrant as if he had
been grazing on no other food than rosebuds, or, at least, the most
delicate of clover blossoms. Never before did a bull have such bright
and tender eyes, and such smooth horns of ivory, as this one. And the
bull ran little races, and capered sportively around the child; so
that she quite forgot how big and strong he was, and, from the
gentleness and playfulness of his actions, soon came to consider him
as innocent a creature as a pet lamb.
Thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen
Europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and
taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and
ivory horns. Then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them
out of her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be
friends with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had
touched. Well, my stars! was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty,
and amiable creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a
little girl?
When the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is
really wonderful to think of), when he saw that Europa was no longer
afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself for
delight. He frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making
sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping
from twig to twig. Indeed, his motion was as light as if he were
flying through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their
print in the grassy soil over which he trod. With his spotless hue, he
resembled a snow-drift wafted along by the wind. Once he galloped so
far away that Europa feared lest she might never see him again; so,
setting up her childish voice, she called him back.
"Come back, pretty creature!" she cried. "Here is a nice clover
blossom."
And then it was delightful to witness the gratitude of this amiable
bull, and how he was so full of joy and thankfulness that he capered
higher than ever. He came running and bowed his head before Europa, as
if he knew her to be a king's daughter, or else recognized the
important truth that a little girl is everybody's queen. And not only
did the bull bend his neck, he absolutely knelt down at her feet, and
made such intelligent nods, and other inviting gestures, that Europa
understood what he meant just as well as if he had put it in so many
words.
"Come, dear child," was what he wanted to say, "let me give you a ride
on my back."
At the first thought of such a thing Europa drew back. But then she
considered in her wise little head that there could be no possible
harm in taking just one gallop on the back of this docile and friendly
animal, who would certainly set her down the very instant she desired
it. And how it would surprise her brothers to see her riding across
the green meadow! And what merry times they might have, either taking
turns for a gallop, or clambering on the gentle creature, all four
children together, and careering round the field with shouts of
laughter that would be heard as far off as King Agenor's palace!
"I think I will do it," said the child to herself.
And, indeed, why not? She cast a glance around, and caught a glimpse
of Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, who were still in pursuit of the
butterfly, almost at the other end of the meadow. It would be the
quickest way of rejoining them, to get upon the white bull's back. She
came a step nearer to him, therefore; and--sociable creature that he
was--he showed so much joy at this mark of her confidence, that the
child could not find it in her heart to hesitate any longer. Making
one bound (for this little princess was as active as a squirrel),
there sat Europa on the beautiful bull, holding an ivory horn in each
hand lest she should fall off.
"Softly, pretty bull, softly!" she said, rather frightened at what she
had done. "Do not gallop too fast."
Having got the child on his back, the animal gave a leap into the air,
and came down so like a feather that Europa did not know when his
hoofs touched the ground. He then began to race to that part of the
flowery plain where her three brothers were, and where they had just
caught their splendid butterfly. Europa screamed with delight; and
Phoenix, Cilix, and Cadmus stood gaping at the spectacle of their
sister mounted on a white bull, not knowing whether to be frightened,
or to wish the same good luck for themselves. The gentle and innocent
creature (for who could possibly doubt that he was so?) pranced round
among the children as sportively as a kitten. Europa all the while
looked down upon her brothers, nodding and laughing, but yet with a
sort of stateliness in her rosy little face. As the bull wheeled about
to take another gallop across the meadow, the child waved her hand and
said "Good-by," playfully pretending that she was now bound on a
distant journey, and might not see her brothers again for nobody could
tell how long.
"Good-by," shouted Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, all in one breath.
But, together with her enjoyment of the sport, there was still a
little remnant of fear in the child's heart; so that her last look at
the three boys was a troubled one, and made them feel as if their dear
sister were really leaving them forever. And what do you think the
snowy bull did next? Why, he set off, as swift as the wind, straight
down to the sea-shore, scampered across the sand, took an airy leap,
and plunged right in among the foaming billows. The white spray rose
in a shower over him and little Europa, and fell spattering down upon
the water.
Then what a scream of terror did the poor child send forth! The three
brothers screamed manfully, likewise, and ran to the shore as fast as
their legs would carry them, with Cadmus at their head. But it was too
late. When they reached the margin of the sand, the treacherous animal
was already away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and
tail emerging, and poor little Europa between them, stretching out one
hand towards her dear brothers, while she grasped the bull's ivory
horn with the other. And there stood Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix,
gazing at this sad spectacle through their tears, until they could no
longer distinguish the bull's snowy head from the white-capped billows
that seemed to boil up out of the sea's depth around him. Nothing more
was ever seen of the white bull--nothing more of the beautiful child.
This was a mournful story, as you may well think, for the three boys
to carry home to their parents. King Agenor, their father, was the
ruler of the whole country; but he loved his little daughter Europa
better than his kingdom, or than all his other children, or than
anything else in the world. Therefore, when Cadmus and his two
brothers came crying home, and told him how that a white bull had
carried off their sister, and swam with her over the sea, the king was
quite beside himself with grief and rage. Although it was now
twilight, and fast growing dark, he bade them set out instantly in
search of her.
"Never shall you see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring me
back my little Europa to gladden me with her smiles and her pretty
ways. Begone, and enter my presence no more, till you come leading her
by the hand."
As King Agenor said this his eyes flashed fire (for he was a very
passionate king), and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys
did not even venture to ask for their suppers, but slunk away out of
the palace, and only paused on the steps a moment to consult whither
they should go first. While they were standing there, all in dismay,
their mother, Queen Telephassa (who happened not to be by when they
told the story to the king), came hurrying after them, and said that
she too would go in quest of her daughter.
"Oh, no, mother!" cried the boys. "The night is dark, and there is no
knowing what troubles and perils we may meet with."
"Alas! my dear children," answered poor Queen Telephassa, weeping
bitterly, "that is only another reason why I should go with you. If I
should lose you too, as well as my little Europa, what would become of
me?"
In this manner they went down the palace steps, and began a journey
which turned out to be a great deal longer than they dreamed of. The
last that they saw of King Agenor, he came to the door, with a servant
holding a torch beside him, and called after them into the gathering
darkness:
"Remember! Never ascend these steps again without the child!"
"Never!" sobbed Queen Telephassa; and the three brothers answered,
"Never! Never! Never! Never!"
And they kept their word. Year after year King Agenor sat in the
solitude of his beautiful palace, listening in vain for their
returning footsteps, hoping to hear the familiar voice of the queen
and the cheerful talk of his sons entering the door together, and the
sweet, childish accents of little Europa in the midst of them. But so
long a time went by that, at last, if they had really come, the king
would not have known that this was the voice of Telephassa, and these
the younger voices that used to make such joyful echoes when the
children were playing about the palace. We must now leave King Agenor
to sit on his throne, and must go along with Queen Telephassa and her
three youthful companions.
They went on and on, and traveled a long way, and passed over
mountains and rivers and sailed over seas. Here and there, and
everywhere, they made continual inquiry if any person could tell them
what had become of Europa. The rustic people, of whom they asked this
question, paused a little while from their labors in the field, and
looked very much surprised. They thought it strange to behold a woman
in the garb of a queen (for Telephassa, in her haste, had forgotten to
take off her crown and her royal robes) roaming about the country,
with three lads around her, on such an errand as this seemed to be.
But nobody could give them any tidings of Europa--nobody had seen a
little girl dressed like a princess, and mounted on a snow-white bull,
which galloped as swiftly as the wind.
I cannot tell you how long Queen Telephassa, and Cadmus, and Phoenix,
and Cilix, her three sons, went wandering along the highways and
by-paths, or through the pathless wildernesses of the earth, in this
manner. But certain it is that, before they reached any place of rest,
their splendid garments were quite worn out. They all looked very much
travel-stained, and would have had the dust of many countries on their
shoes, if the streams, through which they waded, had not washed it all
away. When they had been gone a year, Telephassa threw away her crown,
because it chafed her forehead.
"It has given me many a headache," said the poor queen, "and it cannot
cure my heartache."
As fast as their princely robes got torn and tattered, they exchanged
them for such mean attire as ordinary people wore. By and by they
came to have a wild and homeless aspect; so that you would much sooner
have taken them for a gipsy family than a queen and three princes, who
had once a palace for their home, and a train of servants to do their
bidding. The three boys grew up to be tall young men, with sunburnt
faces. Each of them girded a sword to defend himself against the
perils of the way. When the husbandmen at whose farmhouses they sought
hospitality, needed their assistance in the harvest-field, they gave
it willingly; and Queen Telephassa (who had done no work in her
palace, save to braid silk threads with golden ones) came behind them
to bind the sheaves. If payment was offered, they shook their heads,
and only asked for tidings of Europa.
"There are bulls enough in my pasture," the old farmers would reply;
"but I never heard of one like this you tell me of. A snow-white bull
with a little princess on his back! Ho! ho! I ask your pardon, good
folks; but there never was such a sight seen hereabouts."
At last, when his upper lip began to have the down on it, Phoenix grew
weary of rambling hither and thither to no purpose. So one day, when
they happened to be passing through a pleasant and solitary tract of
country, he sat himself down on a heap of moss.
"I can go no farther," said Phoenix, "it is a mere foolish waste of
life to spend it, as we do, in always wandering up and down, and never
coming to any home at nightfall. Our sister is lost, and never will be
found. She probably perished in the sea, or to whatever shore the
white bull may have carried her. It is now so many years ago that
there would be neither love nor acquaintance between us, should we
meet again. My father has forbidden us to return to his palace, so I
shall build me a hut of branches and dwell here."
"Well, son Phoenix," said Telephassa sorrowfully, "you have grown to
be a man, and must do as you judge best. But, for my part, I will
still go in quest of my poor child."
"And we two will go along with you!" cried Cadmus and Cilix.
But before setting out they all helped Phoenix to build a habitation.
When completed it was a sweet rural bower, roofed overhead with an
arch of living boughs. Inside there were two pleasant rooms, one of
which had a soft heap of moss for a bed, while the other was furnished
with a rustic seat or two, curiously fashioned out of the crooked
roots of trees. So comfortable and homelike did it seem, that
Telephassa and her two companions could not help sighing to think that
they must still roam about the world instead of spending the remainder
of their lives in some such cheerful abode as they had there built for
Phoenix. But, when they bade him farewell, Phoenix shed tears, and
probably regretted that he was no longer to keep them company.
However, he had fixed upon an admirable place to dwell in. And by and
by there came other people, who chanced to have no home; and seeing
how pleasant a spot it was, they built themselves huts in the
neighborhood of Phoenix's habitation. Thus, before many years went by,
a city had grown up there, in the center of which was seen a stately
palace of marble, wherein dwelt Phoenix, clothed in a purple robe, and
wearing a golden crown upon his head. For the inhabitants of the new
city, finding that he had royal blood in his veins, had chosen him to
be their king. The very first decree of state which King Phoenix
issued was, that if a maiden happened to arrive in the kingdom,
mounted on a snow-white bull and calling herself Europa, his subjects
should treat her with the greatest kindness and respect, and
immediately bring her to the palace. You may see by this that
Phoenix's conscience never quite ceased to trouble him for giving up
the quest of his dear sister, and sitting himself down to be
comfortable, while his mother and her companions went onward.
But often and often, at the close of a weary day's journey, did
Telephassa, Cadmus, and Cilix remember the pleasant spot in which they
had left Phoenix. It was a sorrowful prospect for these wanderers,
that on the morrow they must again set forth; and that, after many
nightfalls, they would, perhaps, be no nearer the close of their
toilsome pilgrimage than now. These thoughts made them all melancholy
at times, but appeared to torment Cilix more than the rest of the
party. At length, one morning, when they were taking their staffs in
hand to set out, he thus addressed them:
"My dear mother, and you, good brother Cadmus, methinks we are like
people in a dream. There is no substance in the life which we are
leading. It is such a dreary length of time since the white bull
carried off my sister Europa, that I have quite forgotten how she
looked, and the tones of her voice, and, indeed, almost doubt whether
such a little girl ever lived in the world. And whether she once lived
or no, I am convinced that she no longer survives, and that therefore
it is the merest folly to waste our own lives and happiness in seeking
her. Were we to find her, she would now be a woman grown, and would
look upon us all as strangers. So, to tell you the truth, I have
resolved to take up my abode here; and I entreat you, mother, and
you, brother, to follow my example."
"Not I, for one," said Telephassa; although the poor queen, firmly as
she spoke, was so travel-worn that she could hardly put her foot to
the ground. "Not I, for one! In the depths of my heart little Europa
is still the rosy child who ran to gather flowers so many years ago.
She has not grown to womanhood, nor forgotten me. At noon, at night,
journeying onward, sitting down to rest, her childish voice is always
in my ears, calling, 'Mother! mother!' Stop here who may, there is no
repose for me."
"Nor for me," said Cadmus, "while my dear mother pleases to go
onward."
They remained with Cilix a few days, however, and helped him to build
a rustic bower, resembling the one which they had formerly built for
Phoenix.
When they were bidding him farewell, Cilix burst into tears, and told
his mother that it seemed just as melancholy a dream to stay there in
solitude as to go onward. If she really believed that they would ever
find Europa, he was willing to continue the search with them even now.
But Telephassa bade him remain there, and be happy, if his own heart
would let him. So the pilgrims took their leave of him and departed,
and were hardly out of sight before some other wandering people came
along that way and saw Cilix's habitation, and were greatly delighted
with the appearance of the place. There being abundance of unoccupied
ground in the neighborhood, these strangers built huts for themselves,
and were soon joined by a multitude of new settlers, who quickly
formed a city. In the middle of it was seen a magnificent palace of
colored marble, on the balcony of which, every noontide, appeared
Cilix, in a long purple robe, and with a jeweled crown upon his head;
for the inhabitants, when they found out that he was a king's son, had
considered him the fittest of all men to be a king himself.
One of the first acts of King Cilix's government was to send out an
expedition, consisting of a grave ambassador and an escort of bold and
hardy young men, with orders to visit the principal kingdoms of the
earth, and inquire whether a young maiden had passed through those
regions, galloping swiftly on a white bull. It is therefore plain to
my mind, that Cilix secretly blamed himself for giving up the search
for Europa, as long as he was able to put one foot before the other.
Telephassa and Cadmus were now pursuing their weary way, with no
companion but each other. The queen leaned heavily upon her son's arm,
and could walk only a few miles a day. But for all her weakness and
weariness, she would not be persuaded to give up the search. It was
enough to bring tears into the eyes of bearded men to hear the
melancholy tone with which she inquired of every stranger whether he
could tell her any news of the lost child.
"Have you seen a little girl--no, no, I mean a young maiden of full
growth--passing by this way, mounted on a snow-white bull, which
gallops as swiftly as the wind?"
"We have seen no such wondrous sight," the people would reply; and
very often, taking Cadmus aside, they whispered to him, "Is this
stately and sad-looking woman your mother? Surely she is not in her
right mind; and you ought to take her home, and make her comfortable,
and do your best to get this dream out of her fancy."
"It is no dream," said Cadmus. "Everything else is a dream, save
that."
But one day Telephassa seemed feebler than usual, and leaned almost
her whole weight on the arm of Cadmus, and walked more slowly than
ever before. At last they reached a solitary spot, where she told her
son that she must needs lie down, and take a good long rest.
"A good long rest!" she repeated, looking Cadmus tenderly in the face.
"A good long rest, thou dearest one!"
"As long as you please, dear mother," answered Cadmus.
Telephassa bade him sit down on the turf beside her, and then she took
his hand.
"My son," said she, fixing her dim eyes most lovingly upon him, "this
rest that I speak of will be very long indeed! You must not wait till
it is finished. Dear Cadmus, you do not comprehend me. You must make a
grave here, and lay your mother's weary frame into it. My pilgrimage
is over."
Cadmus burst into tears, and for a long time refused to believe that
his dear mother was now to be taken from him. But Telephassa reasoned
with him, and kissed him, and at length made him discern that it was
better for her spirit to pass away out of the toil, the weariness, the
grief, and disappointment which had burdened her on earth, ever since
the child was lost. He therefore repressed his sorrow, and listened to
her last words.
"Dearest Cadmus," said she, "thou hast been the truest son that ever
mother had, and faithful to the very last. Who else would have borne
with my infirmities as thou hast? It is owing to thy care, thou
tenderest child, that my grave was not dug long years ago, in some
valley or on some hillside, that lies far, far behind us. It is
enough. Thou shalt wander no more on this hopeless search. But when
thou hast laid thy mother in the earth, then go, my son, to Delphi,
and inquire of the oracle what thou shalt do next."
"Oh, mother, mother," cried Cadmus, "couldst thou but have seen my
sister before this hour!"
"It matters little now," answered Telephassa, and there was a smile
upon her face. "I go now to the better world, and sooner or later,
shall find my daughter there."
I will not sadden you with telling how Telephassa died and was buried,
but will only say, that her dying smile grew brighter, instead of
vanishing from her dead face; so that Cadmus felt convinced that, at
her very first step into the better world, she had caught Europa in
her arms. He planted some flowers on his mother's grave, and left them
to grow there and make the place beautiful when he should be far
away.
CADMUS AND THE DRAGON'S TEETH
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
After performing this last sorrowful duty, he set forth alone, and
took the road towards the famous oracle of Delphi, as Telephassa had
advised him. On his way thither he still inquired of most people whom
he met whether they had seen Europa; for, to say the truth, Cadmus had
grown so accustomed to ask the question, that it came to his lips as
readily as a remark about the weather. He received various answers.
Some told him one thing, and some another. Among the rest, a mariner
affirmed that, many years before, in a distant country, he had heard a
rumor about a white bull, which came swimming across the sea with a
child on his back, dressed up in flowers that were blighted by the sea
water. He did not know what had become of the child or the bull; and
Cadmus suspected, indeed, by a queer twinkle in the mariner's eyes,
that he was putting a joke upon him, and had never really heard
anything about the matter.
Poor Cadmus found it more wearisome to travel alone than to bear all
his dear mother's weight, while she had kept him company. His heart,
you will understand, was now so heavy that it seemed impossible,
sometimes, to carry it any farther. But his limbs were strong and
active, and well accustomed to exercise. He walked swiftly along,
thinking of King Agenor and Queen Telephassa, and his brothers, all of
whom he had left behind him, at one point of his pilgrimage or
another, and never expected to see them any more. Full of these
remembrances, he came within sight of a lofty mountain, which the
people thereabouts told him was called Parnassus. On the slope of
Mount Parnassus was the famous Delphi whither Cadmus was going.
This Delphi was supposed to be the very midmost spot of the whole
world. The place of the oracle was a certain cavity in the
mountain-side, over which, when Cadmus came thither, he found a rude
bower of branches. It reminded him of those which he had helped to
build for Phoenix and Cilix. In later times, when multitudes of people
came from great distances to put questions to the oracle, a spacious
temple of marble was erected over the spot. But in the days of Cadmus,
as I have told you, there was only this rustic bower, with its
abundance of green foliage and a tuft of shrubbery that ran wild over
the mysterious hole in the hillside.
When Cadmus had thrust a passage through the tangled boughs, and made
his way into the bower, he did not at first discern the half-hidden
cavity. But soon he felt a cold stream of air rushing out of it, with
so much force that it shook the ringlets on his cheeks. Pulling away
the shrubbery which clustered over the hole, he bent forward and spoke
in a distinct but reverential tone, as if addressing some unseen
personage inside of the mountain.
"Sacred oracle of Delphi," said he, "whither shall I go next in quest
of my dear sister Europa?"
There was at first a deep silence, and then a rushing sound, or a
noise like a long sigh, proceeding out of the interior of the earth.
This cavity, you must know, was looked upon as a sort of fountain of
truth, which sometimes gushed out in audible words; although, for the
most part, these words were such a riddle that they might as well have
stayed at the bottom of the hole. But Cadmus was more fortunate than
many others who went to Delphi in search of truth. By and by the
rushing noise began to sound like articulate language. It repeated,
over and over again, the following sentence, which, after all, was so
like the vague whistle of a blast of air, that Cadmus really did not
quite know whether it meant anything or not: "Seek her no more! Seek
her no more! Seek her no more!"
"What, then, shall I do?" asked Cadmus.
For ever since he was a child, you know, it had been the great object
of his life to find his sister. From the very hour that he left
following the butterfly in the meadow, near his father's palace, he
had done his best to follow Europa, over land and sea. And now, if he
must give up the search, he seemed to have no more business in the
world.
But again the sighing gust of air grew into something like a hoarse
voice.
"Follow the cow!" it said. "Follow the cow! Follow the cow!"
And when these words had been repeated until Cadmus was tired of
hearing them (especially as he could not imagine what cow it was, or
why he was to follow her), the gusty hole gave vent to another
sentence.
"Where the stray cow lies down, there is your home."
These words were pronounced but a single time, and died away into a
whisper before Cadmus was fully satisfied that he had caught the
meaning. He put other questions but received no answer; only the gust
of wind sighed continually out of the cavity, and blew the withered
leaves rustling along the ground before it.
"Did there really come any words out of the hole?" thought Cadmus; "or
have I been dreaming all this while?"
He turned away from the oracle, and thought himself no wiser than when
he came thither. Caring little what might happen to him, he took the
first path that offered itself, and went along at a sluggish pace;
for, having no object in view, nor any reason to go one way more than
another, it would certainly have been foolish to make haste. Whenever
he met anybody, the old question was at his tongue's end: "Have you
seen a beautiful maiden, dressed like a king's daughter, and mounted
on a snow-white bull, that gallops as swiftly as the wind?"
But, remembering what the oracle had said, he only half uttered the
words, and then mumbled the rest indistinctly; and from his confusion,
people must have imagined that this handsome young man had lost his
wits.
I know not how far Cadmus had gone, nor could he himself have told
you, when, at no great distance before him, he beheld a brindled cow.
She was lying down by the wayside, and quietly chewing her cud; nor
did she take any notice of the young man until he had approached
pretty nigh. Then getting leisurely upon her feet, and giving her head
a gentle toss, she began to move along at a moderate pace, often
pausing just long enough to crop a mouthful of grass. Cadmus loitered
behind, whistling idly to himself, and scarcely noticing the cow,
until the thought occurred to him, whether this could possibly be the
animal which, according to the oracle's response, was to serve him for
a guide. But he smiled at himself for fancying such a thing. He could
not seriously think that this was the cow, because she went along so
quietly, behaving just like any other cow. Evidently she neither knew
nor cared so much as a wisp of hay about Cadmus, and was only thinking
how to get her living along the wayside, where the herbage was green
and fresh. Perhaps she was going home to be milked.
"Cow, cow, cow!" cried Cadmus. "Hey, Brindle, hey! Stop, my good cow."
He wanted to come up with the cow, so as to examine her, and see if
she would appear to know him, or whether there were any peculiarities
to distinguish her from a thousand other cows, whose only business is
to fill the milk-pail, and sometimes kick it over. But still the
brindled cow trudged on, whisking her tail to keep the flies away, and
taking as little notice of Cadmus as she well could. If he walked
slowly, so did the cow, and seized the opportunity to graze. If he
quickened his pace, the cow went just so much faster; and once, when
Cadmus tried to catch her by running, she threw out her heels, stuck
her tail straight on end, and set off at a gallop, looking as queerly
as cows generally do while putting themselves to their speed.
When Cadmus saw that it was impossible to come up with her, he walked
on moderately, as before. The cow, too, went leisurely on, without
looking behind. Wherever the grass was greenest, there she nibbled a
mouthful or two. Where a brook glistened brightly across the path,
there the cow drank, and breathed a comfortable sigh, and drank again,
and trudged onward at the pace that best suited herself and Cadmus.
"I do believe," thought Cadmus, "that this may be the cow that was
foretold me. If it be the one, I suppose she will lie down somewhere
hereabouts."
Whether it was the oracular cow or some other one, it did not seem
reasonable that she should travel a great way farther. So, whenever
they reached a particularly pleasant spot on a breezy hillside, or in
a sheltered vale, or flowery meadow, on the shore of a calm lake, or
along the bank of a clear stream, Cadmus looked eagerly around to see
if the situation would suit him for a home. But still, whether he
liked the place or no, the brindle cow never offered to lie down. On
she went at the quiet pace of a cow going homeward to the barn-yard;
and every moment Cadmus expected to see a milkmaid approaching with a
pail, or a herdsman running to head the stray animal and turn her back
towards the pasture. But no milkmaid came; no herdsman drove her back;
and Cadmus followed the stray brindle till he was almost ready to drop
down with fatigue.
"Oh, brindled cow," cried he, in a tone of despair, "do you never mean
to stop?"
He had now grown too intent on following her to think of lagging
behind, however long the way and whatever might be his fatigue.
Indeed, it seemed as if there were something about the animal that
bewitched people. Several persons who happened to see the brindled
cow, and Cadmus following behind, began to trudge after her, precisely
as he did. Cadmus was glad of somebody to converse with, and therefore
talked very freely to these good people. He told them all his
adventures, and how he had left King Agenor in his palace, and Phoenix
at one place, and Cilix at another, and his dear mother, Queen
Telephassa, under a flowery sod; so that now he was quite alone, both
friendless and homeless. He mentioned likewise, that the oracle had
bidden him be guided by a cow, and inquired of the strangers whether
they supposed that this brindled animal could be the one.
"Why, 'tis a very wonderful affair," answered one of his new
companions. "I am pretty well acquainted with the ways of cattle, and
I never knew a cow, of her own accord, go so far without stopping. If
my legs will let me, I'll never leave following the beast till she
lies down."
"Nor I!" said a second.
"Nor I!" cried a third. "If she goes a hundred miles farther, I'm
determined to see the end of it."
The secret of it was, you must know, that the cow was an enchanted
cow, and that, without their being conscious of it, she threw some of
her enchantment over everybody that took so much as half-a-dozen steps
behind her. They could not possibly help following her, though all the
time they fancied themselves doing it of their own accord. The cow was
by no means very nice in choosing her path, so that sometimes they had
to scramble over rocks, or wade through mud and mire, and were all in
a terribly bedraggled condition, and tired to death, and very hungry,
into the bargain. What a weary business it was!
But still they kept trudging stoutly forward, and talking as they
went. The strangers grew very fond of Cadmus, and resolved never to
leave him, but to help him build a city wherever the cow might lie
down. In the center of it there should be a noble palace, in which
Cadmus might dwell and be their king, with a throne, a crown and
scepter, a purple robe, and everything else that a king ought to have;
for in him there were the royal blood, and the royal heart, and the
head that knew how to rule.
While they were talking of these schemes, and beguiling the
tediousness of the way with laying out the plan of the new city, one
of the company happened to look at the cow.
"Joy! joy!" cried he, clapping his hands. "Brindle is going to lie
down."
They all looked; and, sure enough, the cow had stopped and was staring
leisurely about her, as other cows do when on the point of lying down.
And slowly, slowly did she recline herself on the soft grass, first
bending her fore-legs, and then crouching her hind ones. When Cadmus
and his companions came up with her, there was the brindled cow taking
her ease, chewing her cud, and looking them quietly in the face; as if
this was just the spot she had been seeking for, and as if it were all
a matter of course.
"This, then," said Cadmus, gazing around him, "this is to be my home."
It was a fertile and lovely plain, with great trees flinging their
sun-speckled shadows over it, and hills fencing it in from the rough
weather. At no great distance they beheld a river gleaming in the
sunshine. A home feeling stole into the heart of poor Cadmus. He was
very glad to know that here he might awake in the morning without the
necessity of putting on his dusty sandals to travel farther and
farther. The days and the years would pass over him, and find him
still in this pleasant spot. If he could have had his brothers with
him, and could have seen his dear mother under a roof of his own, he
might here have been happy, after all their disappointments. Some day
or other, too, his sister Europa might have come quietly to the door
of his home, and smiled round upon the familiar faces. But, indeed,
since there was no hope of regaining the friends of his boyhood, or
ever seeing his dear sister again, Cadmus resolved to make himself
happy with these new companions who had grown so fond of him while
following the cow.
"Yes, my friends," said he to them, "this is to be our home. Here we
will build our habitations. The brindled cow which has led us hither
will supply us with milk. We will cultivate the neighboring soil, and
lead an innocent and happy life."
His companions joyfully assented to this plan; and, in the first
place, being very hungry and thirsty, they looked about them for the
means of providing a comfortable meal. Not far off they saw a tuft of
trees, which appeared as if there might be a spring of water beneath
them. They went thither to fetch some, leaving Cadmus stretched on the
ground along with the brindled cow; for, now that he had found a place
of rest, it seemed as if all the weariness of his pilgrimage, ever
since he left King Agenor's palace, had fallen upon him at once. But
his new friends had not long been gone when he was suddenly startled
by cries, shouts, and screams, and the noise of a most terrible
struggle, and in the midst of it all a most awful hissing, which went
right through his ears like a rough saw.
Running towards the tuft of trees, he beheld the head and fiery eyes
of an immense serpent or dragon, with the widest jaws that ever a
dragon had, and a vast many rows of horribly sharp teeth. Before
Cadmus could reach the spot, this pitiless reptile had killed his poor
companions, and was busily devouring them, making but a mouthful of
each man.
It appears that the fountain of water was enchanted, and that the
dragon had been set to guard it, so that no mortal might ever quench
his thirst there. As the neighboring inhabitants carefully avoided the
spot, it was now a long time (not less than a hundred years, or
thereabouts) since the monster had broken his fast; and, as was
natural enough, his appetite had grown to be enormous, and was not
half satisfied by the poor people whom he had just eaten up. When he
caught sight of Cadmus, therefore, he set up another abominable hiss,
and flung back his immense jaws, until his mouth looked like a great
red cavern, at the farther end of which were seen the legs of his last
victim, whom he had hardly had time to swallow.
But Cadmus was so enraged at the destruction of his friends, that he
cared neither for the size of the dragon's jaws nor for his hundreds
of sharp teeth. Drawing his sword he rushed at the monster, and flung
himself right into his cavernous mouth. This bold method of attacking
him took the dragon by surprise; for, in fact, Cadmus had leaped so
far down into his throat, that the rows of terrible teeth could not
close upon him, nor do him the least harm in the world. Thus, though
the struggle was a tremendous one, and though the dragon shattered the
tuft of trees into small splinters by the lashing of his tail, yet, as
Cadmus was all the while slashing and stabbing at his very vitals, it
was not long before the scaly wretch bethought himself of slipping
away. He had not gone his length, however, when the brave Cadmus gave
him a sword thrust that finished the battle; and, creeping out of the
gateway of the creature's jaws, there he beheld him still wriggling
his vast bulk, although there was no longer life enough in him to harm
a little child.
But do not you suppose that it made Cadmus sorrowful to think of the
melancholy fate which had befallen those poor, friendly people, who
had followed the cow along with him? It seemed as if he were doomed to
lose everybody whom he loved, or to see them perish in one way or
another. And here he was, after all his toils and troubles, in a
solitary place, with not a single human being to help him build a hut.
"What shall I do?" cried he aloud. "It were better for me to have been
devoured by the dragon, as my poor companions were."
"Cadmus," said a voice--but whether it came from above or below him,
or whether it spoke within his own breast, the young man could not
tell--"Cadmus, pluck out the dragon's teeth, and plant them in the
earth."
This was a strange thing to do; nor was it very easy, I should
imagine, to dig out all those deep-rooted fangs from the dead dragon's
jaws. But Cadmus toiled and tugged, and after pounding the monstrous
head almost to pieces with a great stone, he at last collected as many
teeth as might have filled a bushel or two. The next thing was to
plant them. This, likewise, was a tedious piece of work, especially as
Cadmus was already exhausted with killing the dragon and knocking his
head to pieces, and had nothing to dig the earth with, that I know of,
unless it were his sword-blade. Finally, however, a sufficiently large
tract of ground was turned up, and sown with this new kind of seed;
although half of the dragon's teeth still remained to be planted some
other day.
Cadmus, quite out of breath, stood leaning upon his sword, and
wondering what was to happen next. He had waited but a few moments
when he began to see a sight which was as great a marvel as the most
marvelous thing I ever told you about.
The sun was shining slantwise over the field, and showed all the
moist, dark soil, just like any other newly planted piece of ground.
All at once, Cadmus fancied he saw something glisten very brightly,
first at one spot, then at another, and then at a hundred and a
thousand spots together. Soon he perceived them to be the steel heads
of spears, sprouting up everywhere like so many stalks of grain, and
continually growing taller and taller. Next appeared a vast number of
bright sword-blades, thrusting themselves up in the same way. A moment
afterwards, the whole surface of the ground was broken by a multitude
of polished brass helmets, coming up like a crop of enormous beans. So
rapidly did they grow, that Cadmus now discerned the fierce
countenance of a man beneath every one. In short, before he had time
to think what a wonderful affair it was, he beheld an abundant harvest
of what looked like human beings, armed with helmets and breastplates,
shields, swords, and spears; and before they were well out of the
earth, they brandished their weapons, and clashed them one against
another, seeming to think, little while as they had yet lived, that
they had wasted too much of life without battle. Every tooth of the
dragon had produced one of these sons of deadly mischief.
Up sprouted, also, a great many trumpeters; and with the first breath
that they drew, they put their brazen trumpets to their lips, and
sounded a tremendous and ear-shattering blast; so that the whole
space, just now so quiet and solitary, reverberated with the clash and
clang of arms, the bray of warlike music, and the shouts of angry men.
So enraged did they all look, that Cadmus fully expected them to put
the whole world to the sword. How fortunate would it be for a great
conqueror, if he could get a bushel of the dragon's teeth to sow!
"Cadmus," said the same voice which he had before heard, "throw a
stone into the midst of the armed men."
So Cadmus seized a large stone, and, flinging it into the middle of
the army, saw it strike the breastplate of a gigantic and
fierce-looking warrior. Immediately on feeling the blow, he seemed to
take it for granted that somebody had struck him; and, uplifting his
weapon, he smote his next neighbor a blow that cleft his helmet
asunder and stretched him on the ground. In an instant those nearest
the fallen warrior began to strike at one another with their swords,
and stab with their spears. The confusion spread wider and wider. Each
man smote down his brother, and was himself smitten down before he had
time to exult in his victory. The trumpeters, all the while, blew
their blasts shriller and shriller; each soldier shouted a battle-cry,
and often fell with it on his lips. It was the strangest spectacle of
causeless wrath, and of mischief for no good end, that had ever been
witnessed; but, after all, it was neither more foolish nor more wicked
than a thousand battles that have since been fought, in which men have
slain their brothers with just as little reason as these children of
the dragon's teeth. It ought to be considered, too, that the dragon
people were made for nothing else; whereas other mortals were born to
love and help one another.
Well, this memorable battle continued to rage until the ground was
strewn with helmeted heads that had been cut off. Of all the thousands
that began the fight, there were only five left standing. These now
rushed from different parts of the field, and, meeting in the middle
of it, clashed their swords and struck at each other's hearts as
fiercely as ever.
"Cadmus," said the voice again, "bid those five warriors sheathe their
swords. They will help you to build the city."
Without hesitating an instant, Cadmus stepped forward, with the aspect
of a king and a leader, and extending his drawn sword amongst them,
spoke to the warriors in a stern and commanding voice.
"Sheathe your weapons!" said he.
And forthwith, feeling themselves bound to obey him, the five
remaining sons of the dragon's teeth made him a military salute with
their swords, returned them to the scabbards, and stood before Cadmus
in a rank, eying him as soldiers eye their captain while awaiting the
word of command.
These five men had probably sprung from the biggest of the dragon's
teeth, and were the boldest and strongest of the whole army. They were
almost giants, indeed, and had good need to be so, else they never
could have lived through so terrible a fight. They still had a very
furious look, and, if Cadmus happened to glance aside, would glare at
one another with fire flashing out of their eyes. It was strange, too,
to observe how the earth, out of which they had so lately grown, was
incrusted here and there on their bright breastplates, and even
begrimed their faces; just as you may have seen it clinging to beets
and carrots when pulled out of their native soil. Cadmus hardly knew
whether to consider them as men, or some odd kind of vegetable;
although, on the whole, he concluded that there was human nature in
them, because they were so fond of trumpets and weapons, and so ready
to shed blood.
They looked him earnestly in the face, waiting for his next order, and
evidently desiring no other employment than to follow him from one
battlefield to another, all over the wide world. But Cadmus was wiser
than these earth-born creatures, with the dragon's fierceness in them,
and knew better how to use their strength and hardihood.
"Come!" said he. "You are sturdy fellows. Make yourselves useful!
Quarry some stones with those great swords of yours, and help me to
build a city."
The five soldiers grumbled a little, and muttered that it was their
business to overthrow cities, not to build them up. But Cadmus looked
at them with a stern eye, and spoke to them in a tone of authority, so
that they knew him for their master, and never again thought of
disobeying his commands. They set to work in good earnest, and toiled
so diligently, that, in a very short time, a city began to make its
appearance. At first, to be sure, the workmen showed a quarrelsome
disposition. Like savage beasts, they would doubtless have done one
another mischief, if Cadmus had not kept watch over them and quelled
the fierce old serpent that lurked in their hearts when he saw it
gleaming out of their wild eyes. But, in course of time, they got
accustomed to honest labor, and had sense enough to feel that there
was more true enjoyment in living at peace, and doing good to one's
neighbor, than in striking at him with a two-edged sword. It may not
be too much to hope that the rest of mankind will by and by grow as
wise and peaceable as these five earth-begrimed warriors who sprang
from the dragon's teeth.
And now the city was built, and there was a home in it for each of the
workmen. But the palace of Cadmus was not yet erected, because they
had left it till the last, meaning to introduce all the new
improvements of architecture, and make it very commodious, as well as
stately and beautiful. After finishing the rest of their labors, they
all went to bed betimes, in order to rise in the gray of the morning,
and to get at least the foundation of the edifice laid before
nightfall. But, when Cadmus arose and took his way towards the site
where the palace was to be built, followed by his five sturdy workmen
marching all in a row, what do you think he saw?
What should it be but the most magnificent palace that had ever been
seen in the world? It was built of marble and other beautiful kinds of
stone, and rose high into the air, with a splendid dome and a portico
along the front, and carved pillars, and everything else that befitted
the habitation of a mighty king. It had grown up out of the earth in
almost as short a time as it had taken the armed host to spring from
the dragon's teeth; and what made the matter more strange, no seed of
the stately edifice had ever been planted.
When the five workmen beheld the dome, with the morning sunshine
making it look golden and glorious, they gave a great shout.
"Long live King Cadmus," they cried, "in his beautiful palace!"
And the new king, with his five faithful followers at his heels,
shouldering their pickaxes and marching in a rank (for they still had
a soldier-like sort of behavior, as their nature was), ascended the
palace steps. Halting at the entrance, they gazed through a long vista
of lofty pillars that were ranged from end to end of a great hall. At
the farther extremity of this hall, approaching slowly towards him,
Cadmus beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful, and adorned with
a royal robe, and a crown of diamonds over her golden ringlets, and
the richest necklace that ever a queen wore. His heart thrilled with
delight. He fancied it his long-lost sister Europa, now grown to
womanhood, coming to make him happy, and to repay him, with her sweet
sisterly affection, for all those weary wanderings in quest of her
since he left King Agenor's palace--for the tears that he had shed, on
parting with Phoenix and Cilix--for the heartbreakings that had made
the whole world seem dismal to him over his dear mother's grave.
But, as Cadmus advanced to meet the beautiful stranger, he saw that
her features were unknown to him, although, in the little time that it
required to tread along the hall, he had already felt a sympathy
betwixt himself and her.
"No, Cadmus," said the same voice that had spoken to him in the field
of the armed men, "this is not that dear sister Europa whom you have
sought so faithfully all over the wide world. This is Harmonia, a
daughter of the sky, who is given you instead of sister, and brothers,
and mother. You will find all those dear ones in her alone."
So King Cadmus dwelt in the palace, with his new friend Harmonia, and
found a great deal of comfort in his magnificent abode, but would
doubtless have found as much, if not more, in the humblest cottage by
the wayside. Before many years went by, there was a group of rosy
little children (but how they came thither has always been a mystery
to me) sporting in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the
palace, and running joyfully to meet King Cadmus when affairs of state
left him at leisure to play with them. They called him father, and
Queen Harmonia mother. The five old soldiers of the dragon's teeth
grew very fond of these small urchins, and were never weary of
showing them how to shoulder sticks, flourish wooden swords, and march
in military order, blowing a penny trumpet, or beating an abominable
rub-a-dub upon a little drum.
But King Cadmus, lest there should be too much of the dragon's tooth
in his children's disposition, used to find time from his kingly
duties to teach them their A B C--which he invented for their benefit,
and for which many little people, I am afraid, are not half so
grateful to him as they ought to be.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
BY V. C. TURNBULL
"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.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing-care and grief-of-heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die."
SHAKESPEARE.
Never was musician like Orpheus, who sang songs, inspired by the
Muses, to a lyre that was given to him by Apollo. So mighty indeed was
the magic of his music, that Nature herself owned his sway. Not only
did rocks and rills repeat his lays, but the very trees uprooted
themselves to follow in his train, and the savage beasts of the forest
were tamed and fawned upon him as he played and sang.
But of all who hearkened enchanted to those matchless strains, none
drew deeper delight therefrom than the singer's newly wed wife, the
young and lovely Eurydice. Hour by hour she sat at his feet hearkening
to the music of his voice and lyre, and the gods themselves might
have envied the happy pair.
And surely some god did look with envious eye upon those two. For on
an evil day, Eurydice, strolling with her maidens through a flowery
meadow, was bitten on her foot by a viper and perished in all her
beauty ere the sun went down.
Then Orpheus, terrible in his anguish, swore that death itself should
not forever rob him of his love. His song, which could tame wild
beasts and drag the ancient trees from their roots, should quell the
powers of hell and snatch back Eurydice from their grasp.
Thus he swore, calling on the gods to help him; and taking his lyre in
his hand he set forth on that fearful pilgrimage from which never
man--unless, like Hercules, he was a hero, half man and half god--had
returned alive.
And now he reaches the downward path, the end whereof is lost in
gloom. Deeper and deeper he descended till the light of day was quite
shut out, and with it all the sounds of the pleasant earth. Downward
through the silence as of the grave, downward through darkness deeper
than that of any earthly night. Then out of the darkness, faint at
first, but louder as he went on, came sounds that chilled his
blood--shrieks and groans of more than mortal anguish, and the
terrible voices of the Furies, speaking words that cannot be uttered
in any human tongue.
When Orpheus heard these things his knees shook and his feet paused as
if rooted to the ground. But remembering once more his love and all
his grief, he struck his lyre and sang, till his dirge, reverberating
like a coronach or funeral march, drowned all the sounds of hell. And
Charon, the old ferryman, subdued by the melody, ferried him over the
ninefold Styx which none save the dead might cross; and when Orpheus
reached the other side great companies of pale ghosts flocked round
him on that drear shore; for the singer was no shadowy ghost like
themselves, but a mortal, beautiful though woebegone, and his song
spoke to them as with a thousand voices of the sunlight and the
familiar earth, and of those who were left behind in their well-loved
homes.
But Orpheus, not finding Eurydice among these, made no tarrying.
Onward he passed, over the flaming flood of Phlegethon, through the
cloud-hung and adamantine portals of Tartarus. Here Pluto, lord of the
under-world, sits enthroned, and round him sinners do penance for the
evil that they wrought upon earth. There Ixion, murderer of his
father-in-law, is racked upon the ever-turning wheel, and Tantalus,
who slew his son, endures eternal hunger in sight of food and eternal
fear from the stone ever ready to fall. There the daughters of Danaüs
cease not to pour water into bottomless urns. There Sisyphus, who
broke faith with the gods when they permitted him to return a little
while to the upper world, evermore rolls up a steep hill a great stone
that, falling back from the summit, crushes the wretch in its downward
rush.
But now a great marvel was seen in hell. For as Orpheus entered
singing, his melodies, the first that had ever sounded in that dread
abode, caused all its terrors for a moment to cease. Tantalus caught
no more at the fruits that slipped through his fingers, Ixion's wheel
ceased to turn, the daughters of Danaüs paused at their urns, and
Sisyphus rested on his rock. Nay, the very Furies themselves ceased to
scourge their victims, and the snakes that mingled with their locks
hung down, forgetting to hiss.
So came Orpheus to the throne of great Pluto, by whose side sat
Proserpine, his Queen. And the king of the infernal gods asked: "What
wouldst thou, mortal, who darest to enter unbidden this our realm of
death?"
Orpheus answered, touching his lyre the while: "Not as a spy or a foe
have I come where no living wight hath ventured before, but I seek my
wife, slain untimely by the fangs of a serpent. Such love as mine for
a maiden such as she must melt the stoniest heart. Thy heart is not
all of stone, and thou too didst once love an earthly maiden. By these
places filled with horrors, and by the silence of these boundless
realms, I entreat thee restore Eurydice to life."
He paused, and all Tartarus waited with him for a reply. The terrible
eyes of Pluto were cast down, and to Proserpine came a memory of the
far-off days when she too was a maid upon earth sporting in the
flowery meads of Enna. Then Orpheus struck again his magic strings and
sang: "To thee we all belong; to thee soon or late we all must come.
It is but for a little space that I crave my Eurydice. Nay, without
her I will not return. Grant, therefore, my prayer, O Pluto, or slay
me here and now."
Then Pluto raised his head and spoke: "Bring hither Eurydice."
And Eurydice, still pale and limping from her mortal wound, was
brought from among the shades of the newly dead.
And Pluto said: "Take back, Orpheus, thy wife Eurydice, and lead her
to the upper world again. But go thou before and leave her to follow
after. Look not once back till thou hast passed my borders and canst
see the sun, for in the moment when thou turnest thy head, thy wife is
lost to thee again and forever."
Then with great joy Orpheus turned and led Eurydice from thence. They
left behind the tortured dead and the gibbering ghosts; they crossed
the flaming Phlegethon, and Charon rowed them once more over the
ninefold Styx; and up the dark path they went, the cries of Tartarus
sounding ever fainter in their ears; and anon the light of the sun
shone faint and far where the path returned to earth, and as they
pressed forward the song of the little birds made answer to the lyre
of Orpheus.
But the cup of happiness was dashed from the lips that touched its
brim. For even as they stood upon the uttermost verge of the dark
place, the light of the sun just dawning upon their faces and their
feet within a pace of earthly soil, Eurydice stumbled and cried out in
pain.
Without a thought Orpheus turned to see what ailed her, and in that
moment was she caught from him. Far down the path he saw her, a ghost
once more, fading from his sight like smoke as her faint form was lost
in the gloom; only for a moment could he see her white arms stretched
towards him in vain; only once could he hear her last heart-broken
farewell.
Down the path rushed Orpheus, clamoring for his Eurydice lost a second
time; but vain was all his grief, for not again would Charon row him
across the Styx. So the singer returned to earth, his heart broken,
and all joy gone from his life. Thenceforth his one consolation was to
sit upon Mount Rhodope singing his love and his loss. And the Thracian
women, worshipers of Bacchus, kindling at his strains, called to him
to join in their wild rites. But when he turned from them with
loathing, they fell upon him, tearing him limb from limb. And his head
they cast into the river Hebrus, whose banks bore to the Ægean Sea
that long-drawn wail: "Eurydice, Eurydice!" And still as we hear the
music of that sweet name we think of "infinite passion, and the pain
of finite hearts that yearn."
But the gods, first punishing the Thracian women by turning them into
trees, took the lyre of Orpheus and set it among the stars. And
Orpheus himself, once more entering by the gate of death the regions
of the dead, seeks and finds his beloved Eurydice. Now may they walk
side by side, now Orpheus, if he goes before, may look back in safety
upon the face of his loved one. For the sorrows of life are over and
the pangs of death are past, and no shadow of parting can come between
the singer and his love in the Elysium of the Blessed.
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES
PART I. HERCULES AND THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the
Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price by
the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of
nowadays! But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit
on a single tree in the wide world. Not so much as a seed of those
apples exists any longer.
And even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of
the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, many doubted whether there
could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their
branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen
any. Children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to stories
of the golden apple tree, and resolved to discover it when they should
be big enough. Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing
than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit. Many of
them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples. No wonder
that they found it impossible to gather them! It is said that there
was a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of
which were always on the watch while the other fifty slept.
But it was quite a common thing with youths, when tired of too much
peace and rest, to go in search of the garden of the Hesperides. And
once the adventure was undertaken by a hero who had enjoyed very
little peace or rest since he came into the world. At the time of
which I am going to speak, he was wandering through the pleasant land
of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand and a bow and quiver slung
across his shoulders. He was wrapped in the skin of the biggest and
fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had
killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind and generous and noble,
there was a good deal of the lion's fierceness in his heart. As he
went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the right
road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew
anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have
laughed at the question, if the stranger had not carried so big a
club.
So he journeyed on, still making the same inquiry, until at last he
came to the brink of a river, where some beautiful girls sat twining
wreaths of flowers.
"Can you tell me, pretty maidens," asked the stranger, "whether this
is the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?"
The girls had been having a fine time together, weaving the flowers
into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads. But, on hearing the
stranger's question, they dropped all their flowers on the grass and
gazed at him with astonishment.
"The garden of the Hesperides!" cried one. "We thought mortals had
been weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments. And pray,
bold stranger, what do you want there?"
"A certain king, who is my cousin," replied he, "has ordered me to get
him three of the golden apples."
"Most of the young men who go in quest of these apples," observed
another of the damsels, "desire to obtain them for themselves, or to
present to some fair maiden whom they love. Do you, then, love this
king, your cousin, so very much?"
"Perhaps not," replied the stranger, sighing. "He has often been
severe and cruel to me. But it is my destiny to obey him."
"And do you know," asked the damsel who had first spoken, "that a
terrible dragon, with a hundred heads, keeps watch under the golden
apple tree?"
"I know it well," answered the stranger calmly. "But from my cradle
upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with
serpents and dragons."
The maidens looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion's skin
which he wore, and likewise at his heroic limbs and figure; and they
whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who might
reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of other men.
But then, the dragon with a hundred heads! What mortal, even if he
possessed a hundred lives, could hope to escape the fangs of such a
monster? So kind-hearted were the maidens, that they could not bear to
see this brave and handsome traveler attempt what was so very
dangerous, and devote himself, most probably, to become a meal for the
dragon's hundred ravenous mouths.
"Go back," cried they all; "go back to your own home! Your mother,
beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she
do more, should you win ever so great a victory? No matter for the
golden apples! No matter for the king, your cruel cousin! We do not
wish the dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up!"
The stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances. He
carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that
lay half buried in the earth near by. With the force of that idle
blow, the great rock was shattered all to pieces. It cost the stranger
no more effort to achieve this feat of strength than for one of the
young maidens to touch her sister's rosy cheek with a flower.
"Do you not believe," said he, looking at the damsels with a smile,
"that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon's hundred
heads?"
Then he sat down on the grass and told them the story of his life, or
as much of it as he could remember, from the day when he was first
cradled in a warrior's brazen shield.
When the stranger had finished the story of his adventures, he looked
around at the attentive faces of the maidens.
"Perhaps you may have heard of me before," said he, modestly. "My name
is Hercules."
"We had already guessed it," replied the maidens; "for your wonderful
deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange any
longer that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the
Hesperides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!"
Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty
shoulders, so that the lion's skin was almost entirely covered with
roses. They took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it
about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms that
not a finger's breadth of its oaken substance could be seen. It
looked all like a huge bunch of flowers. Lastly, they joined hands,
and danced around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own
accord, and grew into a choral song in honor of the illustrious
Hercules.
And Hercules was rejoiced, as any other hero would have been, to know
that these fair young girls had heard of the valiant deeds which it
had cost him so much toil and danger to achieve. But still he was not
satisfied. He could not think that what he had already done was worthy
of so much honor, while there remained any bold adventure to be
undertaken.
"Dear maidens," said he, when they paused to take breath, "now that
you know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of
the Hesperides?"
"Ah! must you go so soon?" they exclaimed. "You that have performed so
many wonders, and spent such a toilsome life--cannot you content
yourself to repose a little while on the margin of this peaceful
river?"
Hercules shook his head.
"I must depart now," said he.
"We will then give you the best directions we can," replied the
damsels. "You must go to the sea-shore, and find out the Old One, and
compel him to inform you where the golden apples are to be found."
"The Old One!" repeated Hercules, laughing at this odd name. "And pray
who may the Old One be?"
"Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure!" answered one of the
damsels. "He has fifty daughters, whom some people call very
beautiful; but we do not think it proper to be acquainted with them,
because they have sea-green hair, and taper away like fishes. You must
talk to this Old Man of the Sea. He is a seafaring person, and knows
all about the garden of the Hesperides, for it is situated in an
island which he is often in the habit of visiting."
Hercules then asked whereabouts the Old One was most likely to be met
with. When the damsels had informed him, he thanked them for all their
kindness; most of all for telling him the right way; and immediately
set forth upon his journey.
But, before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after
him.
"Keep fast hold of the Old One when you catch him!" cried she,
smiling, and lifting her finger to make the caution more impressive.
"Do not be astonished at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast,
and he will tell you what you wish to know."
Hercules again thanked her, and pursued his way, while the maidens
resumed their pleasant labor of making flower-wreaths. They talked
about the hero long after he was gone.
"We will crown him with the loveliest of our garlands," said they,
"when he returns hither with the three golden apples, after slaying
the dragon with a hundred heads."
Meanwhile Hercules traveled constantly onward, over hill and dale, and
through the solitary woods.
Hastening forward, without ever pausing or looking behind, he by and
by heard the sea roaring at a distance. At this sound he increased his
speed, and soon came to a beach, where the great surf-waves tumbled
themselves upon the hard sand, in a long line of snowy foam. At one
end of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot, where some green
shrubbery clambered up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and
beautiful. A carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with
sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of
the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules espy there but an old
man, fast asleep!
But was it really and truly an old man? Certainly, at first sight, it
looked very like one; but on closer inspection it rather seemed to be
some kind of a creature that lived in the sea. For on his legs and
arms there were scales such as fishes have; he was web-footed and
web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, being
of a greenish tinge, had more the appearance of a tuft of seaweed than
of an ordinary beard. Have you never seen a stick of timber that has
long been tossed about by the waves, and has got all overgrown with
barnacles, and at last, drifting ashore, seems to have been thrown up
from the very deepest bottom of the sea? Well, the old man would have
put you in mind of just such a wave-tossed spar! But Hercules, the
instant he set his eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it
could be no other than the Old One, who was to direct him on his way.
Yes; it was the self-same Old Man of the Sea whom the hospitable
maidens had talked to him about. Thanking his stars for the lucky
accident of finding the old fellow asleep, Hercules stole on tiptoe
towards him and caught him by the arm and leg.
"Tell me," cried he, before the Old One was well awake, "which is the
way to the garden of the Hesperides?"
As you may imagine, the Old Man of the Sea awoke in a fright. But his
astonishment could hardly have been greater than was that of Hercules
the next moment. For, all of a sudden, the Old One seemed to disappear
out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the fore and
hind leg! But still he kept fast hold. Then the stag disappeared, and
in its stead there was a sea-bird, fluttering and screaming, while
Hercules clutched it by the wing and claw! But the bird could not get
away. Immediately afterwards, there was an ugly three-headed dog,
which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped fiercely at the
hands by which he held him! But Hercules would not let him go. In
another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should appear
but Geryon, the six-legged man-monster, kicking at Hercules with five
of his legs in order to get the remaining one at liberty! But Hercules
held on. By and by no Geryon was there, but a huge snake, like one of
those which Hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a hundred
times as big; and it twisted and twined about the hero's neck and
body, and threw its tail high in the air, and opened its deadly jaws
as if to devour him outright; but Hercules was no whit disheartened,
and squeezed the great snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss
with pain.
But, as Hercules held on so stubbornly and only squeezed the Old One
so much the tighter at every change of shape, and really put him to no
small torture, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own
figure. So there he was again, a fishy, scaly, web-footed sort of
personage, with something like a tuft of seaweed at his chin.
"Pray, what do you want with me?" cried the Old One, as soon as he
could take his breath; for it was quite a tiresome affair to go
through so many false shapes. "Why do you squeeze me so hard? Let me
go this moment, or I shall begin to consider you an extremely uncivil
person!"
"My name is Hercules!" roared the mighty stranger. "And you will never
get out of my clutch until you tell me the nearest way to the garden
of the Hesperides!"
When the old fellow heard who it was that had caught him, he saw with
half an eye that it would be necessary to tell him everything that he
wanted to know. He had often heard of the fame of Hercules, and of the
wonderful things that he was constantly performing in various parts of
the earth, and how determined he always was to accomplish whatever he
undertook. He therefore made no more attempts to escape, but told the
hero how to find the garden of the Hesperides, and likewise warned him
of many difficulties which must be overcome before he could arrive
thither.
"You must go on, thus and thus," said the Old Man of the Sea, after
taking the points of the compass, "till you come in sight of a very
tall giant, who holds the sky on his shoulders. And the giant, if he
happens to be in the humor, will tell you exactly where the garden of
the Hesperides lies."
"And if the giant happens not to be in the humor," remarked Hercules,
balancing his club on the tip of his finger, "perhaps I shall find
means to persuade him!"
HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES
PART II. HERCULES AND ATLAS
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Thanking the Old Man of the Sea, and begging his pardon for having
squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey.
Nothing was before him save the foaming, dashing, measureless ocean.
But suddenly, as he looked towards the horizon, he saw something, a
great way off, which he had not seen the moment before. It gleamed
very brightly, almost as you may have beheld the round, golden disk of
the sun when it rises or sets over the edge of the world. It evidently
drew nearer; for at every instant this wonderful object became larger
and more lustrous. At length it had come so nigh that Hercules
discovered it to be an immense cup or bowl, made either of gold or
burnished brass. How it had got afloat upon the sea is more than I can
tell you. There it was, at all events, rolling on the tumultuous
billows, which tossed it up and down and heaved their foamy tops
against its sides, but without ever throwing their spray over the
brim.
"I have seen many giants in my time," thought Hercules, "but never one
that would need to drink his wine out of a cup like this!"
And, true enough, what a cup it must have been! It was as large--as
large--but, in short, I am afraid to say how immeasurably large it
was. To speak within bounds, it was ten times larger than a great
mill-wheel; and, all of metal as it was, it floated over the heaving
surges more lightly than an acorn-cup adown the brook. The waves
tumbled it onward until it grazed against the shore within a short
distance of the spot where Hercules was standing.
As soon as this happened, he knew what was to be done; for he had not
gone through so many remarkable adventures without learning pretty
well how to conduct himself whenever anything came to pass a little
out of the common rule. It was just as clear as daylight that this
marvelous cup had been set adrift by some unseen power, and guided
hitherward, in order to carry Hercules across the sea on his way to
the garden of the Hesperides. Accordingly, without a moment's delay,
he clambered over the brim and slid down on the inside, where,
spreading out his lion's skin, he proceeded to take a little repose.
He had scarcely rested until now, since he bade farewell to the
damsels on the margin of the river. The waves dashed there with a
pleasant and ringing sound against the sides of the hollow cup; it
rocked lightly to and fro, and the motion was so soothing that it
speedily rocked Hercules into an agreeable slumber.
His nap had probably lasted a good while, when the cup chanced to
graze against a rock, and resounded and reverberated through its metal
substance a hundred times as loudly as ever you heard a church-bell.
The noise awoke Hercules, who instantly started up and gazed around
him, wondering whereabouts he was. He was not long in discovering that
the cup had floated across a great part of the sea, and was
approaching the shore of what seemed to be an island. And on that
island, what do you think he saw? It was a giant!
But such an intolerably big giant! A giant as tall as a mountain; so
vast a giant, that the clouds rested about his midst like a girdle,
and hung like a hoary beard from his chin, and flitted before his huge
eyes, so that he could neither see Hercules nor the golden cup in
which he was voyaging. And, most wonderful of all, the giant held up
his great hands and appeared to support the sky, which, so far as
Hercules could discern through the clouds, was resting upon his head!
Meanwhile the bright cup continued to float onward, and finally
touched the strand. Just then a breeze wafted away the clouds from
before the giant's visage, and Hercules beheld it, with all its
enormous features: eyes, each of them as big as yonder lake, a nose a
mile long, and a mouth of the same width.
Poor fellow! He had evidently stood there a long while. An ancient
forest had been growing and decaying round his feet; and oak trees, of
six or seven centuries old, had sprung from the acorn, and forced
themselves between his toes.
The giant now looked down from the far height of his great eyes, and
perceiving Hercules, roared out in a voice that resembled thunder
proceeding out of the cloud that had just flitted away from his face:
"Who are you down at my feet there? And whence do you come in that
little cup?"
"I am Hercules!" thundered back the hero, in a voice pretty nearly or
quite as loud as the giant's own. "And I am seeking the garden of the
Hesperides!"
"Ho! ho! ho!" roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter. "That is
a wise adventure, truly!"
"And why not?" cried Hercules, getting a little angry at the giant's
mirth. "Do you think I am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads!"
Just at this time, while they talking together, some black clouds
gathered about the giant's middle and burst into a tremendous storm of
thunder and lightning, causing such a pother that Hercules found it
impossible to distinguish a word. Only the giant's immeasurable legs
were to be seen, standing up into the obscurity of the tempest; and
now and then a momentary glimpse of his whole figure mantled in a
volume of mist. He seemed to be speaking most of the time; but his
big, deep, rough voice chimed in with the reverberations of the
thunder-claps, and rolled away over the hills, like them.
At last the storm swept over as suddenly as it had come. And there
again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, and the
pleasant sunshine beaming over his vast height, and illuminating it
against the background of the sullen thunder-clouds. So far above the
shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was moistened by the
raindrops!
When the giant could see Hercules still standing on the sea-shore, he
roared out to him anew.
"I am Atlas, the mightiest giant in the world! And I hold up the sky
upon my head!"
"So I see," answered Hercules. "But can you show me the way to the
garden of the Hesperides?"
"What do you want there?" asked the giant.
"I want three of the golden apples," shouted Hercules, "for my cousin,
the king."
"There is nobody but myself," quoth the giant, "that can go to the
garden of the Hesperides and gather the golden apples. If it were not
for this little business of holding up the sky, I would make half a
dozen steps across the sea and get them for you."
"You are very kind," replied Hercules. "And cannot you rest the sky
upon a mountain?"
"None of them are quite high enough," said Atlas, shaking his head,
"But if you were to take your stand on the summit of that nearest me,
your head would be pretty nearly on a level with mine. You seem to be
a fellow of some strength. What if you should take my burden on your
shoulders while I do your errand for you?"
Hercules, as you must be careful to remember, was a remarkably strong
man; and though it certainly requires a great deal of muscular power
to uphold the sky, yet, if any mortal could be supposed capable of
such an exploit, he was the one. Nevertheless, it seemed so difficult
an undertaking that, for the first time in his life, he hesitated.
"Is the sky very heavy?" he inquired.
"Why, not particularly so, at first," answered the giant, shrugging
his shoulders. "But it gets to be a little burthensome after a
thousand years!"
"And how long a time," asked the hero, "will it take you to get the
golden apples?"
"Oh, that will be done in a few moments," cried Atlas. "I shall take
ten or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again
before your shoulders begin to ache."
"Well, then," answered Hercules, "I will climb the mountain behind you
there and relieve you of your burden."
The truth is, Hercules had a kind heart of his own, and considered
that he should be doing the giant a favor by allowing him this
opportunity for a ramble. And besides, he thought that it would be
still more for his own glory, if he could boast of upholding the sky,
than merely to do so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a
hundred heads. Accordingly, without more words, the sky was shifted
from the shoulders of Atlas and placed upon those of Hercules.
When this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did
was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious
spectacle he was then. Next, he slowly lifted one of his feet out of
the forest that had grown up around it; then the other. Then, all at
once he began to caper, and leap, and dance for joy at his freedom;
flinging himself nobody knows how high into the air, and floundering
down again with a shock that made the earth tremble. Then he
laughed--Ho! ho! ho!--with a thunderous roar that was echoed from the
mountains, far and near, as if they and the giant had been so many
rejoicing brothers. When his joy had a little subsided, he stepped
into the sea; ten miles at the first stride, which brought him mid-leg
deep; and ten miles at the second, when the water came just above his
knees; and ten miles more at the third, by which he was immersed
nearly to his waist. This was the greatest depth of the sea.
Hercules watched the giant, as he still went onward; for it was really
a wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles
off, half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall, and
misty, and blue, as a distant mountain. At last the gigantic shape
faded entirely out of view. And now Hercules began to consider what he
should do, in case Atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were
to be stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads which
guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. If any such misfortune
were to happen, how could he ever get rid of the sky? And, by the by,
its weight began already to be a little irksome to his head and
shoulders.
"I really pity the poor giant," thought Hercules. "If it wearies me so
much in ten minutes, how must it have wearied him in a thousand
years?"
I know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he beheld
the huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the
sea. At his nearer approach, Atlas held up his hand, in which Hercules
could perceive three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins,
all hanging from one branch.
"I am glad to see you again," shouted Hercules, when the giant was
within hearing. "So you have got the golden apples?"
"Certainly, certainly," answered Atlas; "and very fair apples they
are. I took the finest that grew on the tree, I assure you. Ah! it is
a beautiful spot, that garden of the Hesperides. Yes; and the dragon
with a hundred heads is a sight worth any man's seeing. After all, you
had better have gone for the apples yourself."
"No matter," replied Hercules. "You have had a pleasant ramble, and
have done the business as well as I could. I heartily thank you for
your trouble. And now, as I have a long way to go and am rather in
haste--and as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden
apples--will you be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders
again?"
"Why, as to that," said the giant, chucking the golden apples into the
air twenty miles high, or thereabouts, and catching them as they came
down--"as to that, my good friend, I consider you a little
unreasonable. Cannot I carry the golden apples to the king, your
cousin, much quicker than you could? As his majesty is in such a hurry
to get them, I promise you to take my longest strides. And besides, I
have no fancy for burdening myself with the sky just now."
Here Hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders.
It being now twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble
out of their places. Everybody on earth looked upward in affright,
thinking that the sky might be going to fall next.
"Oh, that will never do!" cried Giant Atlas, with a great roar of
laughter. "I have not let fall so many stars within the last five
centuries. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will
begin to learn patience!"
"What!" shouted Hercules very wrathfully, "do you intend to make me
bear this burden for ever?"
"We will see about that, one of these days," answered the giant. "At
all events, you ought not to complain, if you have to bear it the next
hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it a good while
longer, in spite of the back-ache. Well, then, after a thousand years,
if I happen to feel in the mood, we may possibly shift about again.
You are certainly a very strong man, and can never have a better
opportunity to prove it. Posterity will talk of you, I warrant it!"
"Pish! a fig for its talk!" cried Hercules, with another hitch of his
shoulders. "Just take the sky upon your head one instant, will you? I
want to make a cushion of my lion's skin for the weight to rest upon.
It really chafes me, and will cause unnecessary inconvenience in so
many centuries as I am to stand here."
"That's no more than fair, and I'll do it!" quoth the giant; for he
had no unkind feeling toward Hercules, and was merely acting with a
too selfish consideration of his own ease. "For just five minutes,
then, I'll take back the sky. Only for five minutes, recollect! I have
no idea of spending another thousand years as I spent the last.
Variety is the spice of life, say I."
Ah, the thick-witted old rogue of a giant! He threw down the golden
apples, and received back the sky from the head and shoulders of
Hercules upon his own, where it rightly belonged. And Hercules picked
up the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins,
and straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the
slightest heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed
after him to come back. Another forest sprang up around his feet, and
grew ancient there; and again might be seen oak trees of six or seven
centuries old, that had waxed thus aged betwixt his enormous toes.
And there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands
a mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the
thunder rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of
Giant Atlas bellowing after Hercules!
HERCULES AND NESSUS
BY H. P. MASKELL
Fairest among the maidens of Ætolia was Deianira, daughter of Oeneus,
King of Calydon. From far and wide came suitors seeking her hand in
marriage, but her father promised to give her only to him who could
prove his strength and courage above all others. What lover, however
ardent his desire, dare venture to try his skill against Hercules? And
when the hero came to court only Achelous the river-god would enter
the lists against him.
Long and fierce was the battle between these two as they rushed
together, grasping each other foot to foot, fingers pressed upon
fingers, and forehead to forehead. For some time they seemed equal in
strength, but Hercules pressed harder, and seizing his enemy by the
shoulders threw him to the earth. In vain Achelous changed himself
into a serpent; his throat was grasped with a grip that would strangle
him in spite of all his lithe, winding folds, and the hissing as he
darted forth his forked tongue. In vain, too, he sought to change the
issue of the fight in the form of a wild bull. The hero took him by
the horns, and held him to the ground. One of the horns he tore off by
main force. The Naiads took this horn, filled it with fruit and
flowers, and offered it to the goddess of Plenty.
So Hercules was victor in the lists of love, and won for prize the
king's fair daughter. Many years the happy pair abode in Calydon, and
children were born to them. Deianira was a happy wife, and her only
grief was that her lord was so often absent from home, for Hercules
would never rest from his toils. On one of these adventures he had
been persuaded by his wife to take her with him, and on their way home
they came to a broad and rapid river. The stream was swollen with
winter rains, and the eddies were deep and dangerous. Nessus the
Centaur, who lived in a cavern close by, offered to carry Deianira
over on his back. He knew the fords, and his strength was as the
strength of ten. So Hercules trusted his wife to the Centaur, although
she was almost as much afraid of Nessus as she was of the dark roaring
torrent. He himself threw his club and crooked bow across, and plunged
boldly into the stream.
Just as he reached the farther bank and was taking up his bow he heard
a scream. Nessus had betrayed his trust, and was about to carry off
Deianira in the very sight of her husband. Swiftly flew an arrow from
the bow, which pierced the traitor's back. It was tinged with poison
from the hydra, and the wound was mortal. Nessus, as he drew the
barbed steel from his body, muttered to himself, "I will not die
unavenged." Then handing his blood-stained tunic to Deianira, he
cried, "I have sinned, and am justly punished. Pardon a dying man, and
in token of forgiveness accept from me a dying gift. Keep this tunic
as a talisman. If ever thy lord's love should wax cold, or he should
look upon another woman to love her more than thee, give him this
charmed tunic to wear, and it will rekindle his old passion."
[Illustration: HERCULES AND NESSUS]
Time passed by, and the feats of the mighty Hercules were known all
over the world. Returning victorious from battle he was preparing a
sacrifice vowed to Jupiter on Mount Oeta, when he found he lacked the
proper dress, and sent a messenger to Deianira for a robe. Meanwhile
rumor had been busy, and a tale had reached the ears of Deianira that
Hercules was in love with Iole, daughter of Eurytus, whom he had
lately vanquished and slain. As she loved him, she believed it, and
alarmed with the story burst into a torrent of grief. But soon she
took comfort. "Why these tears? They will only flatter my rival. I
must seek some means to keep my husband for myself." And then she
bethought herself of the tunic that Nessus had given her. What if she
gave this tunic to the messenger, so that Hercules should wear it, and
so by its virtue her husband be restored to her again?
The fatal gift was sent. Hercules, not knowing whose it had been, put
it on as he went to sacrifice. As he was pouring wine on the altars
the venom from the garment began to work. He tried to tear the tunic
from him, but it clung to him like a coat of pitch. He rolled in agony
on the ground, he tore away his very flesh, he roared in agony like a
wounded bull, and the hollows of Oeta reverberated his groans. At last
he fell exhausted, and his comrades bore him on a litter to the ships.
Then Hercules knew that his end was come, and, preparing himself to
die as a hero should, he gave his last injunctions to his son.
A pile was built with trees at the top of the mountain. To his friend
Philoctetes he gave the famous bow and quiver. Then, when the fire had
been kindled, he spread over all the skin of the Nemæan lion, and laid
himself down upon it, with his head resting on his club, as calmly as
a guest resting after the banquet.
Jupiter, looking down from heaven, saw the hero thus peaceful amid
the flames of the burning pile. "He who has conquered all men," he
cried, "shall conquer also these fires. Only that which is mortal and
which he received from his mother can perish there. His immortal part
I will receive into the realms above." And the other gods assented.
Even Juno, who had pursued the hero so cruelly during his life, had no
word to urge against their decision. The burning pile was shrouded in
a mist of dark smoke; and while the mortal body of Hercules fell into
ashes, him the great father, taking up among circling clouds, bore
aloft to the glittering stars in his chariot drawn by four fiery
steeds.
THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE
BY M. M. BIRD
The great hall was decked for a banquet. Revelers sat round the laden
board and feasted and sang and quaffed rich wines from silver goblets.
The king on his daïs toyed with his jeweled wine-cup and gazed down
the length of the hall at the flushed faces of the feasters, and heard
their gay laughter peal up to the vaulted roof. Yet the eyes of
Pelias, the king, were dark, and a settled scowl was on his brow.
Terror of Heaven's vengeance still haunted him. He had commanded this
festival in honor of Neptune, and yet he knew that the anger of
Jupiter was unappeased while the Golden Fleece still hung in the wood
at Colchis.
For Phrixus, son of Æolus, had fled on the Sacred Ram with the Fleece
of Gold, to Æetes, King of Colchis, who had protected him and given
him his daughter Chalciope to wife. Though Phrixus was now dead, Æetes
still held the Fleece in Colchis, and the line of Æolus languished
under the wrath of Jupiter till such time as it was restored to
Greece.
This was the subject of the king's meditations as he looked down on
the gay company assembled at his feast. And of a sudden his eyes
lighted on a travel-stained figure making his way up the long hall to
the steps of his throne, in spite of the soiled and tattered weeds. He
recognized his royal kinsman. It was Jason son of Æson, his own
nephew, who, determined to have speech with his uncle the king, had
now dared the crossing of the river Anaurus, although swollen by
winter rains, and had hardly won through. Till he entered the palace
he did not know of the great feast that was being held, but he stood
not on ceremony, and made his way to the foot of the throne, just as
he was. One of his sandals had stuck in the mire and been left in the
river bed.
Now an oracle had come to the king but a short time before, warning
him to beware of a man coming in from the field with one sandal
lacking. And King Pelias shrank from the sight of the innocent youth
who stood before him; and in the dark depths of his heart devised a
cruel plot for his destruction, whereby he might rid himself of the
menace and, at the same time, be restored to the favor of Jupiter.
Undaunted by the tyrant's frown, Jason stood before him and asserted
his claim to the throne. "I, Jason, son of Æson, of the line of Æolus,
live as a peasant among peasants on the banks of Anaurus," he cried,
in his brave young voice. "Restore me to my rightful place as son of
the late king."
The king dared not openly dispute the claim, but with a feigned smile
he answered: "Fetch hither the Golden Fleece held by Æetes in Colchis,
that you may thus prove worthy to boast yourself of the proud line of
Æolus. Deliver your father's house from the wrath of Jupiter, and then
come to claim your birthright!"
He devised this task, thinking that even could Jason perchance
overcome the Colchians, he must assuredly be slain by enemies or lost
in the sea ere ever he won home again. For it was well known that
Æetes had hung the Golden Fleece in an enchanted wood, and set a
sleepless serpent to guard the treasure against any who should pass
his men-at-arms.
At first Jason was cast into despair at the greatness of this task,
but strong in his own innocence and determined to vindicate his
rights, he took up the challenge. "I go," he cried, "at the ruthless
behest of a tyrannous king and the doom of a god! Who will go in my
company--who?"
And from east and west and south the heroes of a hundred deeds came
hasting to join him on his quest, for all had heard of the Golden
Fleece and its theft by the Colchian men.
And the fame of its quest was noised abroad so that all who loved a
bold venture came to proffer Jason their aid; and with others it was
the lust of gold that drew them; and with others, again, love of
justice and pity for the youth robbed of his birthright by an unjust
king. Thus there came to Iolcus the mighty Hercules, and the twin sons
of Jupiter, Castor and Pollux, Orpheus with his magic lute, Idmon the
seer, and Tiphys the steersman, and others all famous for their
prowess in war, the sons of gods and heroes, too many to name.
Then Jason set himself to prepare for his great enterprise, gathering
stores and arms, and eagerly seeking information of those who had
traveled afar off of the Colchians and their king Æetes, and the famed
Fleece of Gold, while the good ship _Argo_ was daily growing under the
fashioning hands of Argus and his men, who, instructed by Minerva,
built so gallant a ship as had never before sailed the seas. And daily
there were added to Jason's company valiant warriors and men of
renown, young and old, till at last the day came when the _Argo_ was
launched for her great enterprise, and the last sacrifices were paid
to the protecting gods, and the last feast was eaten on the Pagasæan
shore. Then the heroes cast lots for their places at the oars--for all
but the place of honor at the middle thwart, which was given to
Hercules and his companion Ancæus. Tiphys, by common consent, was set
at the helm, while Jason was proclaimed captain and chief, in peace
and in war, of all the goodly band.
And thus it came that such a company of heroes as had never before
been gathered together on one quest sailed forth from Iolcus in the
_Argo_ in search of the Golden Fleece.
For many days they pursued their way, braving the storms of those
dangerous seas, landing on strange coasts where sometimes they found
shelter and kindness, but oftener had to fight for life and honor. But
ever the glorious quest inspired them, the Golden Fleece brightened
their dreams, and they strove loyally together to win through all
temptations and dangers. But not all of them survived to reach their
goal. Great Hercules was left on the Mysian hills seeking his lost
armor-bearer Hylas; and Idmon the seer, faring across a marshy plain,
was suddenly attacked by a wild boar and so wounded that he died. For
three whole days the heroes mourned his loss; and while they mourned,
Tiphys the steersman fell sick, and his sickness was unto death. For
grief then the band had gone no farther on the quest had not Ancæus
rekindled their courage with brave words and offered himself as their
steersman. And by general acclamation he was elected to the post, and
they set forth on their way with renewed faith.
But at last the gallant _Argo_ won through the Pontus Sea and the
dreadful Dark Blue Crags, and the voyagers knew themselves to be near
to Colchis and the end of their journeying. Picture to yourselves the
storm-tossed _Argo_ flying over the seas, and great eagles swooping
and wheeling overhead, by which Jason, the captain, knew that they
approached the island of Mars, where those winged messengers of the
gods were wont to attack any who dared effect a landing. But by his
command the heroes armed themselves, and the oarsmen were protected by
the shields of their comrades from the feathered darts rained down
upon them by the furious birds. And with loud clashing and clanging of
their harness the creatures were scared away. So the heroes reached
the shore and rested there in peace after their battling with the
storm. And as they lay on the shore they saw in the waves a great
spar, and four young men clinging to it, tossed hither and thither,
till at length it was cast up on to the beach. These proved to be the
four sons of Phrixus, who had been thrust out of Colchis by their
stern grandsire Æetes, and sent away in a little boat. Their skiff had
been too frail to withstand the storm that the good ship _Argo_ had
outlived.
When these heard of the quest, they offered Jason their allegiance,
and begged him to accept their aid in his perilous venture, which he
gladly did. So, in calm weather, they sailed gaily on to Colchis,
elated to have thus escaped all the perils and to be within sight of
their goal.
The Golden Fleece burned ever brighter before the longing eyes of that
hero band; courage and loyalty inspired each heart and nerved each
arm; they were ready to give life itself, if need be, to achieve their
task and bring again the miraculous Fleece to Greece--and such a
spirit is unconquerable.
Now Æetes, King of Colchis, dwelt in his city by the sea. He had but
two daughters, the elder, Chalciope, was the widow of that Phrixus who
had come hither riding on the Golden Ram, while the younger was Medea,
a sorceress. She was a priestess of Hecate, and served the dreadful
mysteries of the goddess. She was versed in all poisons and philters,
and would wander out into wild places beyond the city to gather herbs
for the brewing of her mystic potions. She lived with her brothers,
the sons of Æetes, and Chalciope her sister, in a palace in the city,
and beside it stood a temple to Hecate.
It happened on a certain day that Medea, as was her wont, went into
the hall of the temple, and as she stood there she saw a crowd
approaching up the street. Foremost in the throng she saw her sister's
four sons, who had been mourned as lost for ever. She cried aloud, and
the waiting-women in the palace heard her cry and dropped their
broideries, and with Chalciope her sister came running to learn the
cause of her fear. And Chalciope saw her sons and clasped them to her
with tears of joy. But Medea stood gazing at the splendid strangers
who came with them--Jason and his two friends, Telamon and Augias. And
as she gazed, Cupid let fly one of his burning shafts, and it pierced
the maiden's bosom and there burned with a dull flame. And her eyes
were fastened on Jason's comely face, and the conscious blushes flamed
in the whiteness of her cheeks, and she stood as if bound by one of
her own spells.
Hearing the commotion, the king and queen inquired the cause; and when
they saw the handsome strangers they gave them fair welcome, and
invited them to join their banquet. Though Æetes looked sourly on the
sons of Phrixus, of whom he had thought to have rid himself for ever,
he was constrained to receive them also with their rescuers.
When seated at the banquet, Argus, one of Phrixus' sons, explained to
the king all the circumstances of Jason's coming, and the quest on
which he came. "Not to take the Fleece by force he comes," pleaded
Argus, "but is minded to pay a fair price for thy gift. He has heard
of the bitter enmity of the Sauromatæ: these rebels he will subdue for
thee, and put them under thy sway."
The king's wrath waxed hot, and chiefly with his daughter's sons, for
he deemed that they had stirred up Jason to this quest. "Not for the
Fleece come ye!" he cried; "but my scepter and my kingly honor ye come
to steal! Now, if ye had not broken bread at my table before ye spoke,
your tongues had I surely cut out, and had hewn your hands from your
wrists, and had sent you forth with naught but your feet to fare
through the land! So should ye refrain hereafter from coming on such
like quest."
But Jason made gentle answer to the angry king, assuring him that no
such wild dream had brought him to this land, but the ruthless behest
of a tyrannous king and the doom of a god.
Then the king inly pondered whether to fall on the heroes and do them
to death or put their might to the test. And this he decided to be the
better way, for they were mighty men and renowned for valor, and he
saw that he should have to overcome them by subtlety. So he set Jason
this impossible task: On the plain of Mars were two brazen-hoofed
bulls, breathing flames of fire; these Jason must yoke, and by them
drive four plowshares across the plain from dawn to dusk. And in the
furrows sow the teeth of a dragon, from which out of the earth armed
warriors should spring, and these he must smite and conquer!
The hero sat speechless in his despair, for he deemed no man
sufficient for so terrible a task. But Argus went out with him, and
knowing his own and his brothers' fate to hang on him, implored him to
consult his mother's sister, Medea, the sorceress. Jason, for
kindness, consented, but with little hope of the issue.
So Argus returned to his mother, to beg her to intercede with Medea.
Medea, torn with love for Jason, spent the night in mourning over his
certain fate unless he craved her aid in his gigantic task, and was
longing, yet ashamed, to proffer it. It was, therefore, to the relief
of her indecision that her sister Chalciope came to her at length, and
begged her to interfere to save her four sons from the doom that
threatened them. Medea was glad, for she was thus enabled to save her
dignity, and in obeying the dictates of her heart seem only to be
concerned with the safety of her sister's sons.
Next morning, therefore, she called her maidens and went out in her
chariot to the fane of Hecate on the plain beyond the city, a place
where she was often wont to go to gather herbs. There Jason met her,
and he sacrificed his pride to beg her assistance. She was torn
between love for him and a sense of duty to her father; but yet love
was the stronger, and she promised him her aid. Long they talked
together in that wilderness till the shades of evening fell and her
attendants became uneasy at her long tarrying. She gave him a magic
drug that would render his body and arms invulnerable against all
attack, and gave him also minute directions for his guidance in his
dreadful conflict. And Jason saw how beautiful and tender she was,
and love for her awoke in his heart, and he wooed her with gentle
words, and vowed that if she would go with him to Greece she should
there be made his honored wife.
Evening drew on, and Medea went sadly back to her night of anguished
vigil in her palace in the city, while Jason prepared himself for his
doubtful conflict. At midnight he bathed alone in the sacred river.
Then he digged a pit in the plain as Medea had directed him, and
offered a lamb by the pit's brink, and kindled a pyre and burned the
carcase. Mingled libations he also poured, and then, calling on
Hecate, drew back and strode from the place, and looked not once
behind him at the awful queen he had invoked, nor the shapes of fear
that accompanied her, nor turned at the wild baying of the hounds of
hell.
Then he sprinkled his corslet, his helm, and his arms with the drug
Medea gave him, and his comrades proved his harness with all their
might and main, whose ringing blows fell harmless upon it. Then he
sprinkled his own limbs with the magic drug and fared forth
invincible.
At dawn, the heroes sailed in the _Argo_ up the river till they came
near to the plain of Mars, and there anchored. King Æetes came out
from the city in procession to the lists, and all the men of Colchis
were gathered on the one hand and the heroes on the other to watch the
outcome of this terrible strife.
So Jason set to his task. Bearing with him his helm full of the
dragon's teeth he crossed the field, and there saw the brazen yoke
lying, and the plow of massive stone. Suddenly, from their lair, the
bulls rushed out together and bore down upon him. Jason, setting his
feet wide, caught their charge on his shield and withstood the shock.
Mightily he seized the horn of one of the monsters, haled with all his
strength, and striking its hoof with his foot cast it down on its
knees. And, to the amazement of all, he did likewise to its fellow.
Then he cast away his shield, and holding them down set the brazen
yoke on their necks. All marveled at his superhuman strength. The brow
of Æetes was black, but the heroes rejoiced and cheered their leader
right lustily.
Then he took with him the helm full of dragon's teeth, and his spear
for a goad, and forced those frantic beasts to draw the massive plow
across the plain, and sowed his baneful seed as he went. All day long
he drove his resisting team across the stony plain; and as the granite
plowshare tore its way through the earth he cast the dragon's teeth
among the upturned clods.
And at length the evening fell, and he unloosed the yoke, and with
smiting and shouting scared the bulls across the plain to their caves.
Then he gladly returned to the _Argo_, plunged his helm into the river,
and was about to slake his terrible thirst, when he turned to see the
whole earth bristling with armed warriors, row on row of shields and
spears and helms. The words of Medea came to his remembrance then, and
ere he fell upon them he took up from the earth a great round boulder
such as four strong men of to-day scarce could move, and flung it in
their midst.
Loudly the Colchians shouted, but speechless fear seized on their king
when he saw the flight of that massive crag and beheld the earthborn
slaying each other. And among them stood Jason, beautiful as a god,
hewing them down with his sword, till not one was left alive.
Then the night fell and Jason slept, for he knew that his task was
accomplished. Æetes and his princes went silently back to their city,
for the superhuman power of the hero inspired them with nameless
fears.
And in the palace Medea was smitten with terror, for she knew that it
must come to the ears of the king her father, that by her arts Jason
had been helped to victory, and she dreaded his vengeance. She knew
not where to turn for aid but to Jason himself; so she veiled herself,
and thrusting her secret drugs and poisons into her bosom, she fled in
the darkness from her palace. Through the night she hastened, weeping
piteously, torn between love and duty to her parents and her passion
for the man her spells had helped, till she saw the gleam of the fire
where the heroes were feasting on the river bank. And through the
noise of their revelry and the ringing of their gay laughter a bitter
cry was heard--a woman's cry. And the sons of Phrixus, her nephews,
and Jason, her lover, knew her voice, and they hastily thrust out from
the bank and rowed to the place where she stood, and Jason leaped to
the bank beside her.
Then Medea clung to his knees and besought him to carry her away lest
her father's vengeance should fall heavy upon her. Therefore, before
them all, he swore to take her to Greece and wed her there.
Then she adjured them to go in haste, wasting no more precious hours
in revelry, to fetch the Golden Fleece before Æetes came in pursuit of
them. "Speed," she cried, "while darkness covers your deeds!"
So they went in all haste, till they came to the enchanted wood where
the Fleece was hanging on an oak tree. And Medea landed there with
Jason, and together they sped through the wood till they saw the
Fleece shining like flame through the dusk, while before it, in coil
on coil, loathsome, with open, watchful eyes, the awful serpent reared
its head.
Then Medea called the magic of sleep to her aid. She anointed the
serpent's head with her drugs, and rained her spells on its unsleeping
eyes, and it sank down upon the earth in lazily undulating folds,
until at length it slept.
Then Jason cast the great Fleece across his shoulder, and it fell down
all his height and trailed upon the ground. And he caught it up about
him and hastened from the spot. The Argonauts, watching anxiously, saw
it come flaming through the trees. They greeted the achieving of their
quest with shouts of joy, and strove among themselves to touch the
glorious Fleece. But Jason was seized with fear lest some god or man
should arrive to wrest his treasure from him, so he covered the
shimmering Fleece with a mantle, and it lay in the stern of the
_Argo_, with the maiden beside it, and Jason stood above them with his
harness on his back and his great sword in his hand.
And the rowers bent to their oars, and the strong blades beat the
waves, and swifter than a flying bird the good ship sped down the
tide.
By this King Æetes and the Colchians knew of Medea's love and her
deeds of rebellion. They swarmed on the river banks, and Æetes on his
white charger pursued the flying boat. But he could not reach his
disobedient daughter nor stay the flight of the hero band who had
escaped the death he plotted, by the aid of love. And in his wrath the
king sent ships after them and charged his captains: "Except ye lay
hands on the maiden and bring her so that I may pour the fury with
which I burn upon her, on your heads shall all these things light,
and ye shall learn the full measure of my wrath."
But far across the seas the good ship _Argo_ flew, and though the
Colchians pursued, Medea was never taken, but after all adventure
reached Iolcus with Jason, her lover and her lord.
For it was ordained of the high gods that the Golden Fleece should be
brought back to Greece by the might of Jason and his brotherhood of
heroes, that the wrath of Jupiter might be appeased. For the heroes
went on the quest armed with the strength of innocence, and love
fought on their side that they might prove mightier than a ruthless
king or the doom of an offended god.
HOW THESEUS FOUND HIS FATHER
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
In the old city of Troezene, at the foot of a lofty mountain, there
lived, a very long time ago, a little boy named Theseus. His
grandfather, King Pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was
reckoned a very wise man; so that Theseus, being brought up in the
royal palace, and being naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of
profiting by the old king's instructions. His mother's name was Æthra.
As for his father, the boy had never seen him. But, from his earliest
remembrance, Æthra used to go with little Theseus into a wood, and sit
down upon a moss-grown rock, which was deeply sunken into the earth.
Here she often talked with her son about his father, and said that he
was called Ægeus, and that he was a great king, and ruled over Attica,
and dwelt at Athens, which was as famous a city as any in the world.
Theseus was very fond of hearing about King Ægeus, and often asked his
good mother Æthra why he did not come and live with them at Troezene.
"Ah, my dear son," answered Æthra, with a sigh, "a monarch has his
people to take care of. The men and women over whom he rules are in
the place of children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his
own children as other parents do. Your father will never be able to
leave his kingdom for the sake of seeing his little boy."
"Well, but, dear mother," asked the boy, "why cannot I go to this
famous city of Athens, and tell King Ægeus that I am his son?"
"That may happen by and by," said Æthra. "Be patient, and we shall
see. You are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an
errand."
"And how soon shall I be strong enough?" Theseus persisted in
inquiring.
"You are but a tiny boy as yet," replied his mother. "See if you can
lift this rock on which we are sitting."
The little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength. So,
grasping the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled
amain, and got himself quite out of breath, without bei
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