Stories of Old Greece and Rome
by Emilie K. Baker · English · Gutenberg #45489 · 510,398 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stories of Old Greece and Rome
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Stories of Old Greece and Rome
Author: Emilie K. Baker
Release date: April 25, 2014 [eBook #45489]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45489
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF OLD GREECE AND ROME ***
STORIES OF OLD GREECE AND ROME
[Illustration: Reading from Homer]
STORIES OF
OLD GREECE AND ROME
BY
EMILIE KIP BAKER
AUTHOR OF
"OUT OF THE NORTHLAND"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1913
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1913,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1913.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
FRANCES
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN THE BEGINNING 1
II. THE STORY OF PANDORA 7
III. THE DELUGE 16
IV. MINERVA 22
V. APOLLO AND KING ADMETUS 30
VI. APOLLO THE MUSICIAN 36
VII. THE LOVE OF APOLLO 44
VIII. DIANA 53
IX. THE STORY OF ENDYMION 60
X. MERCURY 64
XI. VENUS 73
XII. THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 81
XIII. FAMOUS LOVERS
1. Echo and Narcissus 93
2. Pyramus and Thisbe 97
3. Hero and Leander 100
4. Pygmalion and Galatea 104
XIV. THE STORY OF ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 107
XV. MARS AND VULCAN 115
XVI. THE STORY OF PROSERPINA 127
XVII. PLUTO AND THE UNDERWORLD 137
XVIII. NEPTUNE AND THE SEA-GODS 152
XIX. BACCHUS 167
XX. PAN AND THE NYMPHS 183
XXI. THE VESTALS 193
XXII. MINOR DEITIES
1. Æolus 200
2. Janus 204
3. Iris and Aurora 206
4. Vertumnus and Pomona 209
XXIII. HERCULES. Part I 212
XXIV. HERCULES. Part II 223
XXV. PERSEUS 235
XXVI. BELLEROPHON 251
XXVII. THE STORY OF JASON. Part I 262
XXVIII. THE STORY OF JASON. Part II 270
XXIX. THE CALYDONIAN HUNT 278
XXX. THESEUS. Part I 287
XXXI. THESEUS. Part II 295
XXXII. ŒDIPUS 306
XXXIII. THE APPLE OF DISCORD 317
ILLUSTRATIONS
Reading from Homer _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Jupiter 6
Apollo Belvedere 30
Apollo and Daphne 46
Niobe 53
Diana of Versailles 56
Flying Mercury 64
Juno 73
Venus de Milo 78
Psyche 85
Charon and Psyche 91
Cupid and Psyche 92
Hero and Leander 104
Orpheus and Eurydice 112
The Abduction of Proserpina 127
The Three Fates 142
Fountain of Neptune 152
Faun 172
Vestals 193
Tuccia 196
Aurora 206
The Infant Hercules 212
Hercules and the Centaur 223
Hercules serving Omphale 230
Fortuna 232
Perseus 242
Medea 276
Cybele 286
Theseus 302
Œdipus and Antigone 312
Antigone and Ismene 315
Paris 320
GREEK AND ROMAN NAMES OF DEITIES
SATURN (CRONOS).
RHEA (CYBELE, OPS).
JUPITER (JOVE, ZEUS).
JUNO (HERA, HERE).
MINERVA (PALLAS, ATHENE).
APOLLO (PHŒBUS, SOL, HELIOS, PYTHEUS, CYNTHIUS).
DIANA (SELENE, ARTEMIS, PHŒBE, CYNTHIA).
VENUS (APHRODITE, DIONE, CYTHEREA).
MERCURY (HERMES, PSYCHOPOMPUS, ONEICOPOMPUS).
CUPID (EROS).
HEBE (JUVENTAS).
MARS (ARES).
VULCAN (HEPHÆSTUS).
NEPTUNE (POSEIDON).
PLUTO (HADES, DIS, ORCUS, AIDONEUS).
BACCHUS (DIONYSUS, LIBER).
CERES (DEMETER).
PROSERPINA (PERSEPHONE, CORA, PHEREPHATTA).
VESTA (HESTIA).
SOMNUS (HUPNOS).
MORS (THANATOS).
AURORA (EOS).
PAN (CONSENTES).
HERCULES (ALCIDES, HERACLES).
STORIES OF OLD GREECE AND ROME
Chapter I
In the Beginning
In the days of long, long ago when men built altars, and burned
sacrifices, and worshiped their gods in temples of pure white marble,
Jupiter, the greatest of the gods, sat upon his throne on high Olympus
and looked down upon the doings of men. The topmost peak of Mount
Olympus was covered with clouds,--so high it was above all the hills of
Greece,--and its slopes were thickly wooded. Just how high the mountain
really was could only be guessed, for no man had dared to climb even
as high as the first cloud line; though the story goes that once upon
a time a wandering shepherd, looking for a strayed lamb, had ventured
far up the mountain side and had soon lost his way. He groped about
blindly, as the mists began to thicken all around him, and the sound
of his own footsteps terrified him in the dreadful silence that seemed
to be suddenly creeping over him. Then a mighty tempest broke over
his head, and the mountain shook to its very base. From the hand of
wrathful Jupiter fierce thunderbolts were hurled, while the lightning
flashed and gleamed through the darkness of the forest, searching out
the guilty mortal who had dared to climb too high.
No human eye had ever seen the glories of Olympus, no human foot had
ever stepped within its sacred halls, where the ceiling was of gold and
the pavement of pearl and the thrones of the gods shone with a thousand
glittering jewels. Here
"the gods have made,
So saith tradition, their eternal seat;
The tempest shakes it not, nor is it drenched
By showers, and there the snow does never fall.
And in the golden light that lies on all
Day after day the blessed gods rejoice."
--_Odyssey_, Book VI, line 53.
Of the life that was lived among the dwellers on Olympus, not even the
poets could claim to know; but sometimes a tired soldier dozing by his
camp fire dreamed dreams of this wonderful country where the immortal
gods walked by night and day; and sometimes a lonely fisherman, looking
across the blue waters of the Mediterranean to the crimsoning sunset,
saw visions of youth and beauty and life that lasted for ever and ever
and ever.
It was long before the memory of man that the gods first came to live
on Mount Olympus, and it was still longer ago that all the great
powers of the universe fought with each other for the right to rule
the world. In this mighty war, which rent the very heavens with the
crash of battle, Jupiter at last conquered all his jealous enemies,
and made himself ruler of the gods and of the world.[1] On that day
he established his dwelling place on Mount Olympus, and set the earth
below him for a footstool. From his throne in the high heavens he
looked down upon the kingdoms that he had portioned out to each of his
brothers; and he saw Neptune, the god of the sea, driving through the
waves his chariot drawn by huge, misshapen sea-beasts that beat up
the thick white foam until it glistened on the sea-king's beard and
on his crown of shells and seaweed. The other kingdom was so far away
that even the all-seeing eyes of Jupiter were strained to catch any
glimpse of the shapes that moved noiselessly there, for this was the
realm of Pluto, god of the underworld, that dread country of darkness
and unending gloom, where no ray of sunlight ever came, and where the
sad spirits of the dead wept for the lost world of love and light and
laughter.
Sometimes the great billows of clouds that rolled at the foot of the
red-gold throne shut out for a moment all sight of the earth at his
feet; but however thickly the mists gathered, Jupiter could always see
old Atlas standing on the shore of Africa with the heavens resting on
his bent shoulders. This giant had stood so long that forests of huge
trees had sprung up around his feet, and they had grown so tall during
the ages and ages that had passed, that their topmost branches reached
to the giant's waist and almost hid him from the sight of men. No
one offered to relieve him of his burden, not even his two brothers,
Prometheus and Epimetheus, to whom had been given the less difficult
task of creating man and placing him in the rich gardens of the earth.
There was every kind of plant and animal life in the gardens, and all
things were very beautiful in this morning of the world--so beautiful
that the gods, who must forever dwell in Olympus, felt sad that no eyes
like their own could look upon the green meadows and flower-covered
hillsides. So they bade Prometheus and Epimetheus fashion a being
which should be like and yet unlike themselves. There was nothing
but clay out of which to make this new creature called man, but the
brothers spent much time over their task, and, when it was finished,
Jupiter saw that the work was good, for they had given to man all the
qualities that the gods themselves possessed--youth, beauty, health,
strength,--everything but immortality.
Then Prometheus grew ambitious to add even more to the list of man's
blessings; and one day, as he sat brooding by the seashore, he
remembered that there was as yet no fire on the earth; for the only
flame that burned in all the world was glowing in the sacred halls of
Jupiter. For a long time he sat on the seashore, and before night fell
he had formed the daring plan of stealing some of the divine fire that
burned for always and always on Mount Olympus, and carrying it to the
earth that men might revel in its warmth and light.
It was a bold thing to dream of doing, but Prometheus forgot the fear
of Jupiter's wrath, so determined was he to carry out his plan; and one
night, when the gods were in council, seated around the great red-gold
throne, he crept softly into the hall, unseen and unheard. The sacred
fire was burning brightly on a hearth of polished silver. Some of it
Prometheus secreted in a hollow reed and hurried with it back to the
earth. Then he waited, with terror at his heart, for he knew that
sooner or later the vengeance of Jupiter would search him out, even
though he fled to the uttermost parts of the earth.
When the council of the gods was over, Jupiter looked down through the
clouds and saw a strange light on the earth. For a while he did not
realize that it was man, building himself a fire; but when he learned
the truth, his wrath became so terrible that even the gods trembled and
turned away in fear. In a moment Prometheus was seized and carried off
to the Caucasus Mountains, where he was securely chained to a rock,
and a hungry vulture was sent to tear out his liver and devour it. At
night the vulture, having gorged itself, slept on the rocks above its
victim's head; and at night the liver of the wretched Prometheus grew
again, only to be torn out and eaten by the vulture as soon as the sun
rose. This terrible punishment kept on for years and years; for though
Jupiter heard the cries of Prometheus, and many tales were told of his
sufferings, the ruler of the gods never forgave the theft of the sacred
fire, nor would he set Prometheus free. But the story tells us that at
last there came an end to this cruel vengeance, for Hercules, son of
Jupiter, went wandering one day among the mountains, found the tortured
Prometheus, and broke his chains, after killing the vulture that had
been enjoying this hateful feast.
Though the gods were rejoiced at his freedom, the name of Prometheus
was never spoken on Mount Olympus for fear of Jupiter's all-hearing
ears; but on the earth men uttered his name in their prayers and taught
their children to honor the Fire-giver as one of the greatest among
heroes.[2]
[Illustration: Jupiter]
Chapter II
The Story of Pandora
In the early days of man's life on the earth, when everything was
beautiful and new, there was no sickness anywhere, nor any pain, nor
sorrow. Men lived to be very old and very wise, and everywhere was
happiness such as has never been since in all the world. Now Jupiter
had not forgotten about the stealing of the sacred fire, and it angered
him that man should light his own fires and kindle the cheerful blaze
which should by right be glowing only in the halls of Olympus. The
suffering of Prometheus had not softened his wrath. He would not be
satisfied until punishment was visited upon those who had received the
stolen fire. Accordingly he called a council of the gods and spoke to
them of his desire. Though none of the deities wished to see misfortune
brought upon the race of man, they did not dare to dispute the will of
Jupiter. So they agreed to carry out the plan that he unfolded, and
before many days had passed they had fashioned, out of the same clay
from which man was made, a creature that they called woman. To her
each of the gods gave a gift such as softness, or grace, or wonderful
fairness; but Jupiter added one other quality, curiosity, and he
gave the woman the name of Pandora, which means "the gift of all the
gods."[3] Then he bade Mercury, who is the messenger of the gods, take
this new soft thing down to the earth and give her to Epimetheus for
his wife. Now Epimetheus had mourned apart from his fellows ever since
he learned of his brother's dreadful fate; and he sat day and night
in the cool silence of the forest, brooding over his sorrow. But one
day he saw some one coming toward him, led by the hand of Mercury, and
all at once he forgot to be sad; for the sunlight was shining on the
woman's golden hair, and her white arm was stretched out to him in
greeting.
For some time Epimetheus and Pandora lived happily in the gardens of
the earth, and every day Epimetheus thanked the gods for their last
and best gift to man. He never tired of watching Pandora chasing
butterflies through the tall meadow grass, or making cups out of
broad leaves, that she and Epimetheus might drink from the clear,
cool spring. One day as they were resting under the trees and eating
their simple meal of dates and wild honey, they saw a traveler coming
toward them. He was walking very slowly and seemed heavily burdened
with what appeared to be a large box. While he was yet some distance
off, Pandora ran to meet him and asked him to come into the shade and
rest. The stranger was old, and the chest that he carried bent his
shoulders almost to the ground. He looked hungry and thirsty and tired,
so Epimetheus urged him to stop and rest, and offered him some freshly
gathered dates. But the traveler--who was none other than Mercury in
disguise--replied that he could not tarry with them, for he had a long
distance yet to go. He asked them, however, to take care of his great
oak chest, for with that burden off his shoulders he could hurry on and
reach his journey's end before nightfall. He promised to come back for
the chest a few days later. Epimetheus and Pandora were delighted to be
of service to a stranger, and promised to guard the chest with great
care. The traveler thanked them and turned away; but just as they were
saying good-by, he mysteriously disappeared, and whichever way they
looked there was no trace of him to be seen.
Epimetheus was not at all eager to know what was in the mysterious
chest; but as soon as they sat down again under the trees, Pandora
began to ask a thousand questions as to who the traveler might be and
what the chest contained. Epimetheus begged her not to think any more
about it, as nothing could be learned of the old man or his burden;
but Pandora refused to be silent, and talked still more of the
probable treasure that they were guarding for the stranger. At last
Epimetheus got up angrily and walked away, wearied with her insistence.
Pandora then went over to the chest, and kneeling down beside it, she
examined the exquisitely carved figures that were on all its four
sides. Then she studied the fine golden cord that bound the chest. It
looked soft enough, and yet it was very strong; for it was made of
strands of twisted gold and was tied at the end with a curious knot.
There was no lock to be seen, and apparently nothing hindered eager
fingers from opening the lid when once the knot was unfastened and
the golden cord unwound. Pandora's fingers itched to try her skill on
the knot, and she felt sure that if she worked at it long enough, she
could finally loosen it. The figures carved on the lid were groups of
dancing children, and in the very center was one figure whose face was
so strange that Pandora sat for a long time staring at it. Now and
then she turned away, and when she looked at the face again, it had a
different expression from the one she had seen on it before. She knew
that this carved thing was not alive, and yet each time she gazed into
the strange eyes of the wooden face they were quite unlike the eyes
that had smiled or frowned or mocked at her before.
She went to see whether Epimetheus had come back, and finding that he
was still away, she returned to the chest again, but would not let
herself be tempted into so much as touching the golden cord. As she
stood wondering what to do, she thought that she heard some little
voices coming from inside the chest, and they seemed to say:--
"Open, Pandora, please, please open and let us out."
Pandora looked quickly around to see whether Epimetheus were in sight,
then she came a bit nearer to the chest and put one hand on the golden
cord. Again she heard the small voices, this time very distinctly, and
they said:--
"Open, Pandora, please, please open and let us out."
Pandora's heart was now beating fast. What _could_ be in the chest?
What poor imprisoned creatures were calling to her, begging her to
set them free? She put both hands on the golden cord, then she looked
guiltily around; but no one was in sight, no one was watching her
except some inquisitive squirrels who were peering down at her from the
branches just above her head.
Swiftly and deftly she untied the knot, which yielded easily to her
eager fingers; but even then she hesitated, fearing the anger of
Epimetheus.
The little voices cried again:--
"Open, Pandora, please, please open and let us out;" but still she
hesitated, not daring to raise the lid. Just then she heard her
husband calling to her, and she knew that there would be no chance now
to explore the contents of the mysterious chest. She must wait for that
pleasure until another time; meanwhile she would take just one peep
inside to be sure that the voices were not mocking her. So she raised
the lid very gently, but no sooner had she made the smallest opening
than out poured a host of tiny creatures like brown-winged moths; and
they swarmed all around her, biting and pinching and blistering her
soft skin until she cried out in fear and pain.
She tried to fight them off, and rushed away to find Epimetheus; but
the tormenting little sprites followed her, buzzing about her ears and
stinging her again and again. In vain she strove to brush them away,
for they clung to her dress, her hair, and her poor swollen skin. When
she reached Epimetheus she was crying bitterly, and it did not need any
questioning to find out the trouble, for the malicious little creatures
were so numerous that hundreds of them encircled Epimetheus, and bit
and stung him, just as they had done to Pandora. In the unhappy hour
that followed, while husband and wife bound soothing herbs on their
bruised skin, Pandora told Epimetheus how her fatal curiosity had led
her to open the chest and set free the host of evil things.
It was not, however, until later that they realized the extent of
Pandora's folly, for the little brown-winged creatures were all the
spirits of evil that had never before entered the world. Their names
were Sickness and Pain and Sorrow; Envy and Pride and Jealousy; Hunger,
Poverty, and Death. All these ills had envious Jupiter put into the oak
chest, and bound it with only a golden cord. He knew that sooner or
later Pandora would open the chest, and then man's life of untroubled
happiness would be forever at an end. Never again could the gardens of
the earth be places where man might hope to find peace. Evil things
had taken up their dwelling there, and they would stay for always and
always and always, as long as the world should last.
When Epimetheus and Pandora saw the hateful winged creatures settling
down on the leaves and flowers so as to be near at hand to torment
them, they wept bitter tears and wished that the gods had never created
them. In the midst of her sobbing Pandora had not, however, forgotten
about the chest, and she was still wondering what else might be inside
it, for she was sure that those mothlike things could never have wholly
filled it. Suddenly she heard a wee soft whisper coming from within
the chest, and it said: "Open, Pandora, please, please open and let me
out."
Pandora stared in surprise, for she had thought that all the evil
sprites had rushed out in that moment when she raised the lid. Was
there, then, another host of tormenting things still there; and if so,
should she let them out to add to her misery and pain?
Again the little soft voice cried: "Open, Pandora, please, please open
and let me out."
Pandora now called to Epimetheus, and together they listened to the
pleading voice which was so very soft and sweet that they were sure
it could not belong to any evil thing. Still Epimetheus was unwilling
to risk bringing any more trouble into the world; but in spite of her
remorse, Pandora was curious to see what it was that was begging so
plaintively for freedom. So with Epimetheus's consent she opened the
lid once more, and out fluttered a tiny little creature with beautiful
gauzy wings. She flew straight to Pandora, then to Epimetheus, and at
her touch all their hurts were healed and all their pain forgotten.
The name of this gentle messenger was Hope; and she had been hidden in
the chest secretly by one of the pitying gods, who grieved that Jupiter
was sending so many ills to fret mankind. The host of evil beings, once
set free, could never again be shut up in their narrow prison; but
wherever they flew--even to the remotest corner of the earth--Hope
followed them and brought healing in her wings; and when the world grew
wicked, as it did in the days that came after, so that men neglected
the altars of the gods, Hope was still remembered with votive offerings
and her shrines kept garlanded with flowers.
Chapter III
The Deluge
The children of Epimetheus and Pandora wandered in the gardens of the
earth just as their parents had done; and the generations that followed
them lived peacefully and were happy, in spite of the brown-winged
sprites that went about doing mischief. Men helped each other to
cultivate the fruitful soil, and offered sacrifices to the gods in
return for a bountiful harvest.
This golden age of the world's history might have lasted forever if men
had continued to reverence the gods; but after a time they ceased to
offer prayers for health and safety, and boasted proudly of their own
strength. They looked no more to high Olympus for help, but each man
trusted to his own right arm. Then strife and discord arose, and fierce
wars were fought among all the peoples of the earth. Brother killed
brother, and fathers strove with their own sons. Every man's hand was
against his fellow, and he knew no law but that of his own will. Seldom
now were the fires kindled on the neglected altars, and the smell of
burnt offerings dear to the gods no longer mingled with the smoke that
rose up to the white clouds around Olympus. The sacred vessels moldered
in forsaken temples; around the shrines of the gods the snakes crawled
lazily; and the bat and owl dwelt undisturbed among the pillars of the
temples.
For a time the gods sat patient, believing that this state of things
could not last; but seeing that mankind was growing worse instead of
better, year by year, they determined to put an end to godlessness and
to destroy the whole race of man. Then Jupiter called a council of the
gods to decide on the most effective way of wiping out every vestige of
human life so completely that not one soul would be left to tell to his
children the story of those evil days, when men neglected to worship
the immortal gods and allowed their temples to decay.
The most terrible punishment to visit upon man would be to set the
whole world on fire, to make of it one great sacrificial altar on which
human victims, and not the garlanded ox, would burn night and day, and
from which the smoke would rise up into the heavens so thickly that
it would shut out the sight of a blackened and smouldering earth. The
one objection to carrying out this plan was the fear lest the flames
would leap so high that they would reach even to lofty Olympus, and
so endanger the sacred throne of Jupiter. Though the fire might not
utterly destroy it, the gods could not bear to think of its burnished
red-gold base being touched by any flame from earth's unholy fires.
The only other effective method of destruction was water, and this the
gods decided to employ. So on a certain day when men were everywhere
feasting, and singing songs, and boasting of their victories in battle,
Jupiter rent the heavens with a mighty thunderbolt, whose crashing
drowned all sounds of merriment, and made men turn pale with fear. The
skies opened, and the rain poured down in torrents; the rivers became
swollen and flooded their banks; the waves of the sea, rising higher
and higher, swept in great fury over the land, washing everything
before them like so much chaff. Æolus, god of the storm, opened the
cave where he kept the winds securely bound, and let them loose to work
havoc on the earth. Soon all the lowland was covered with water; not a
dry spot remained anywhere but on the hills, and thither the terrified
people rushed in the vain hope that the flood would subside before
the mountains were submerged. But the waves rose higher and higher;
and the winds, rejoicing in their freedom, beat up the water until it
almost touched the clouds. The frail boats to which men had at first
desperately clung were shattered to pieces in the fury of the storm,
and on the crest of the waves the bodies of the dead were tossed like
playthings. Higher and higher rose the water, until at length the
mountain tops were covered, and all dry land had disappeared. So were
the gods avenged.
There was one spot, however, that was not yet hidden under the waters,
and this was the top of Mount Parnassus, the highest hill of Greece.
To this place of refuge had fled Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha, two
virtuous souls who alone, of all the people on the earth, had lived
uprightly and worshiped the gods. When Jupiter saw them standing on the
top of Mount Parnassus and weeping over the universal destruction, he
remembered their piety and decreed that their lives should be spared.
So he gave commands that the rains and the floods and the winds should
cease, and the dry land appear. Then Æolus brought the winds back from
their mad wanderings and bound them again in the cave. Neptune blew
upon his conch-shell, and the angry waves returned again to the sea.
Little by little the tree-tops showed above the water, and the green
earth smiled again under the warm rays of the sun.[4]
But it was upon a desolate and unpeopled world that the eyes of
Deucalion and Pyrrha rested, and in their utter loneliness they almost
wished that they had perished with their friends. They went slowly down
the mountain-side, not knowing where to go, being led blindly by the
will of the gods to the temple at Delphi[5]--the only building that was
not destroyed. To this sacred spot men had been wont to come in the
old, god-fearing days to consult the wishes of the gods and to learn
their own destinies. Here was the divine oracle that not even the most
daring mortal would refuse to obey.
When Deucalion and Pyrrha found themselves at the temple of Delphi,
they made haste to consult the oracle, for they wished to repeople
the land before another morning's sun could look down upon a lifeless
earth. To their surprise the oracle returned them this answer:--
"Depart from here with veiled heads and throw your mother's bones
behind you."
This command seemed impossible to obey; for they could never hope to
find any grave, when all landmarks had been washed away; and, even
could they do so, it was an unheard-of sacrilege to disturb the bones
of the dead. Deucalion sought, therefore, to explain the strange words
of the oracle in some other way; and at length he guessed the meaning
of the god's answer. It was no human remains that he was commanded to
desecrate; the bones referred to were those of Mother Earth. So husband
and wife left the temple with veiled heads; and as they went they
gathered up the stones at their feet and threw these behind them. All
the stones that fell from the hands of Deucalion turned into men, and
those that Pyrrha dropped became women.
Thus it was that through the kindness and wisdom of the immortals
the earth was repeopled with a new race of men that feared evil, and
reverenced piety, and walked humbly before the gods. Never again was
Jupiter forced to send a deluge on the earth, for men no longer let the
altar-fires burn low, nor did they neglect to offer sacrifices because
of forgotten prayers.
Chapter IV
Minerva
I
Although the brown-winged spirits of evil were kept busy flying up and
down the earth, their mischief-making never reached those immortal ones
who dwelt above the cloud-wrapped summit of Olympus. It was, therefore,
a most unheard-of happening when the Father of the gods complained one
day of a terrible pain in his head. Some of the gods were skilled in
the art of healing; but no one could relieve Jupiter's suffering, nor
tell what might be the cause of his pain. The trouble grew worse and
worse until it was too severe for even a god to endure; so Jupiter
bade his son Vulcan take an ax and split open his head. Not daring to
thwart the divine will, Vulcan tremblingly obeyed; and at the first
blow a marvelous thing occurred, for out of Jupiter's head sprang a
maiden clad in armor and bearing a spear in her hand. This was Minerva,
goddess of wisdom, so called because she came full-grown from the
mighty brain of Jupiter. So wise did the Ruler of the gods find this
child of his to be, that he kept her constantly near him, and sought
her counsel in dealing with the affairs of men, while Juno, his stately
wife, stood jealously by, envying the warrior-maiden her place at
Jupiter's side.[6]
Being born equipped for battle, Minerva delighted in war, and had no
feminine shrinking from the noise of clashing steel or the cries of
struggling men. No Trojan hero gloried in the war more exultingly
than she, as she carried aloft the terrible shield of Jupiter--"the
Ægis"--and bore in her hand the mighty spear, "heavy and huge and
strong." When armies met in battle, the goddess was never far away from
the fighting hosts; and ofttimes a dying soldier, turning his eyes for
a last look at his comrades, saw the glint of her spear or the flash of
her shield as she led the favored ones on to victory.
But the azure-eyed Minerva was not always on the battle-field, for in
spite of her warlike appearance she had many very feminine tastes, and
among them was a love of weaving. Often would white-armed Juno taunt
Minerva with her unwomanly fondness for warfare; but when the goddess
took up her weaving, even jealous Juno could not withhold her praise,
for the hand that could wield a spear like a man had also the delicate
touch of a woman.
Now there lived on the earth a maiden named Arachne, who was very proud
of her skill in weaving, and boasted that in the whole length and
breadth of the land there was no one to equal her in this art. Whenever
people spoke with her, she could talk of nothing else but her work;
and if a stranger stopped to rest at her door, she would be sure to
show him her weaving and to ask him whether in all his wanderings he
had seen anything to surpass it. Soon she grew so conceited that she
dared to compare herself with the goddess Minerva, and boasted that
her own work was as beautiful as anything that hung in the halls of
Olympus. Her friends grew frightened at her rash speech, and begged
her not to let her foolish pride go too far, lest some whisper of her
boasting should reach Minerva's ears. But Arachne only grew bolder, and
said openly that she would not be afraid to challenge the goddess to a
contest. These words were overheard by Apollo's raven, who flew quickly
back to Olympus to tell what he had seen and heard.
Minerva had known for some time of Arachne's boasting, but she had not
deigned to notice it. Now, however, when she learned that a mortal
maiden had dared to claim superiority to a goddess, she grew very
angry and determined to punish such presumption. So she cast off her
glittering armor and laid aside her long spear, and went down to
earth in the disguise of an old woman. She found Arachne seated on the
doorstep, weaving; and as she stopped to admire the girl's work, even
Minerva was forced to admit that the weaving was beautifully done. Soon
Arachne began to boast proudly of her skill and told the pretended old
woman that she hoped some day to challenge the goddess Minerva to a
contest. The listener seemed shocked at these daring words, and begged
the maiden to be more humble and not to presume too far; but Arachne
only tossed her head and laughed, saying that she wished the goddess
would hear her and accept the challenge.
At these bold words Minerva's anger broke out, and throwing off her
disguise she commanded the astonished girl to fetch two looms and set
them up in the doorway. Then she bade Arachne make good her boast.
For hours they worked in silence, each weaving with practiced fingers
an exquisite design in the tapestry; and neither one turning her head
to watch her rival's progress. When the last thread was tied and the
work finished, Arachne looked anxiously at the goddess's loom, and one
glance was sufficient to assure her of her own failure. Never in all
her life had she seen work so faultlessly done, and the beauty of it
was like that of visions in a dream.
Humiliated at her defeat, and too proud to endure the taunts that she
felt awaited her from those who had heard her boast, the unhappy
maiden tried to hang herself. But Minerva would not let the world so
easily forget how a mortal had dared to challenge a goddess; so when
she saw Arachne's body hanging by a rope, she quickly changed her into
a spider, and bade her spin and spin as long as she lived. Thus when
strangers came from all the country round to see the maiden whose skill
in weaving had been noised far and wide, there she hung--an ugly black
spider in the midst of her dusty web--a warning to all mortals who
presume.
II
Many, many years had passed since Epimetheus and Pandora wandered in
the gardens of the earth; and many, many generations of men had come
and gone since the day when Deucalion and Pyrrha looked down from Mount
Parnassus upon an unpeopled land. Cities had been built, with marble
palaces and costly temples. Towns had sprung up on river-banks and by
the sea. Everywhere man was making for himself a home, and journeying
into strange and distant lands. The gods, seated in the council-hall of
Jupiter, watched the changes taking place upon the earth; and as each
new city was built and the flames of its altar-fires rose up toward the
white clouds around Olympus, they smiled upon the work of man's hand
and made it prosper. Nowhere was the worship of the gods forgotten,
but in each undertaking the protection of some deity was sought and a
sacrifice offered that success might be assured. Scattered throughout
the land, in town or by the wayside, were shrines where the farmer laid
his offering of doves in return for a rich harvest, or a soldier hung
some trophy of victory upon his safe return from the war or a sailor,
starting on some uncertain voyage, burned spices and incense that the
gods might grant favoring winds to all those who go down to the sea in
ships.
But in every city there was one temple more beautiful than the rest,
and this was dedicated to that particular deity who had named the
city and was its especial protector; and as city after city was built
throughout the fair land of Greece, each of the gods wished to have
the naming of it that he might thereby receive added worship and
honor. There was much jealousy among them on this score, and they
watched eagerly each thriving inland town or seaport, knowing that in
a few years it would become a great city, building costly temples and
erecting statues to the god whom it delighted to honor.
So once, when a certain town on the coast of Greece began to grow into
a large and prosperous city, there was much dispute in the council
hall of Jupiter as to who should have the privilege of naming it.
Perhaps the gods were looking far into the future and saw what this
city was destined to become; but however that may be, the gods and
goddesses argued so fiercely over the matter that Jupiter was obliged
to interfere, lest some murmur of this unusual discord should reach
the earth. Then one by one the various contestants withdrew until only
Neptune and Minerva were left to dispute over their respective rights
to the naming of the city. There being no ground for either's claim,
Jupiter at length decided to give the much-coveted honor to whichever
of these two should present the most useful gift to the people of the
city.
Neptune then struck the ground with his trident, and where the earth
opened there sprang out a horse with snow-white mane and arching neck
and a splendid body on which a king might be proud to ride. The gods
and goddesses who had assembled to witness the contest were delighted
with Neptune's gift, and waited impatiently to see what better thing
Minerva would be able to offer. Surprise, amusement, and contempt
were written on the faces of the spectators when the goddess stepped
forward, holding in her hand an olive branch. But Jupiter, wisest of
them all, did not smile, for he was listening while Minerva told of
the great value her gift would have for the people of the new city.
She described all the uses to which its leaves, its fruit, and even
its bark could be put, adding that the olive branch was to be a sign
of peace among all nations, and was therefore of more true service
to man than a war-horse, which would bring upon him only bloodshed
and disaster. To these wise words the gods were forced to agree, so
to Minerva was granted the privilege of naming the city; and as she
was called Athena, by the Greeks, she named the place Athens, which
it is called to this very day. Before many years passed a splendid
marble temple was built on the hill just above the city, and this
was dedicated to Athena, whose colossal statue, carved by the famous
sculptor Phidias, adorned the interior. They called this temple the
Parthenon,[7] and from the ruins that still remain we know that the
hand of man has never built anything to equal it in beauty.
Chapter V
Apollo and King Admetus
There would have been but little trouble between Jupiter and his
stately wife if no one but Minerva ever gave the watchful Juno[8] cause
for jealousy; but other goddesses, and even mortal maidens, found
favor in the eyes of Jupiter, and for their sake he often left her
side. From his throne in the high heavens the ruler of the world saw
not only the goddesses, with their glory of immortal youth, but also
the daughters of men endowed with that same beauty and grace which
the gods themselves had bestowed upon the first woman. Though Juno
"of the snow-white arms" alone enjoyed the title of queen of heaven,
she knew that she had many rivals for the love of Jupiter; and it was
this jealousy of all loveliness in woman that made her ever watchful
and revengeful. Perhaps it was the cause, too, of the very changeable
temper that her husband accused her of possessing.
[Illustration: Apollo Belvedere]
Whoever won the affections of Jupiter was sure to be persecuted by
"cruel Juno's unrelenting hate," as the poet Virgil says; but this
did not hinder the ruler of the gods from leaving very often the marble
halls of Olympus to wander, in some disguise, about the earth. It was
after such an absence that the watchful Juno learned of Jupiter's love
for fair-haired Latona, goddess of dark nights. As this new rival was
not a mortal maiden who could be punished with death, the wrathful
queen was forced to be content with banishing the goddess forever from
Olympus, and compelling her to live upon the earth. Not satisfied with
this, she decreed that any one who took pity on the unhappy goddess, or
gave her any help, would incur the lasting displeasure of Juno.
For days and nights Latona wandered, not daring to ask for food or
shelter, since all men knew of Juno's decree. She slept at night in
some spot where the trees offered protection from wind and rain,
and her only food was the scanty store that she could gather by the
way--berries, nuts, wild honey, and sometimes bits of bread dropped
by children in their play. One day, being very thirsty, she stopped
beside a clear pool to drink; but some reapers who were passing by saw
her, and hoping to gain favor with Juno they stepped into the pool and
stirred up the water into such muddiness that poor Latona could not
drink. Angered by such uncalled-for cruelty, the goddess prayed to
Jupiter that these wicked men might never leave the spot where they
were standing. Jupiter from his throne in the high heavens heard her
prayer, and in answer he turned the reapers into ugly green frogs and
bade them stay forever in the muddy pool. And ever afterward when men
came upon slimy ponds, where rank weeds grew and the water oozed from
muddy banks, there they found the blinking frogs--even as Jupiter had
willed.
After wandering some miles further Latona came at last to the seashore
and here she begged Neptune, "the god who shakes the shores," to come
to her aid, for she knew that Juno's power did not extend to the ruler
of the sea. Seeing her distress, and pitying the poor persecuted
goddess, Neptune sent her a dolphin, who took her on his back and swam
with her to the floating island of Delos, which the kindly sea-god had
caused to appear out of the depth of the ocean. Here Latona landed,
and was for a time content; but the rocking of the island soon grew
unbearable, and she begged the aid of Neptune a second time. He
obligingly chained the island to the bottom of the Ægean Sea, and
Latona had no further cause for complaint. On this island were born her
two children: Apollo, god of the sun, and Diana, goddess of the moon.
When the children were grown, Jupiter took them to Olympus, though not
without much protest from the ever-jealous Juno. The young Apollo's
beauty and his skill in music gained him great favor among the gods,
and found him worshipers in every town and city throughout the land of
Greece. So conscious of his power did Apollo become, that he sometimes
dared to assert his authority, unmindful of the will of Jupiter; and on
one occasion he so angered his divine parent that he was banished to
the earth, and made to serve Admetus, king of Thessaly.
In spite of his disgrace, Apollo managed to cheer his lonely hours of
labor with his music; and as his work was no more difficult than to
care for the king's sheep, he had abundant leisure to play upon his
lyre while his flocks grazed on the sunny hillsides. As soon as he
touched the strings, all the wild things in the forest crept out to
hear. The fox came slinking from his hole among the rocks, and the
timid deer drew close to the player and stayed beside him, listening.
The strains of the wonderful music were carried across the meadows,
and the mowers stopped their work, wondering where the player might
be. One day they brought word to the king that some god must be among
them, for no mortal could produce such music as they had heard. So
Admetus sent for the shepherd, and when the youth stood before him, he
marveled at his great beauty, and still more at the golden lyre that
Apollo held in his hand. Then when the young musician, in obedience to
the king's command, began to play, all those who heard him were filled
with wonder, and felt sure that a god had come to dwell among them. But
Admetus asked no questions, only made the youth his head shepherd and
treated him with all kindness.
Though a god, and no true shepherd, Apollo served the king faithfully,
and when, at last, his time of service was over and Jupiter called
him back to Olympus, Apollo, wishing to show some favor in return for
the king's kindness, begged for Admetus the gift of immortality. This
request the wise Jupiter granted, but only on the condition that when
the time came for the king to die, some one could be found to take
his place. Apollo agreed to these terms, and Admetus, knowing the
conditions on which the gift was made, accepted his immortality gladly.
For a time all went well; but the inevitable hour came when the Fates
decreed that Admetus's life was ended, and that he must go the way of
all mortals unless some one would die in his stead. The king was much
beloved by his people; but no one's devotion to his sovereign was great
enough to inspire him to make the needed sacrifice.
Then Alcestis, the beautiful wife of Admetus, learned of the price that
must be paid for her husband's immortality and gladly offered her life
in exchange for the king's. So, in all her young grace and beauty,
she went down into the dark region of Hades, where no sunlight ever
came and where her joyous laughter was forever hushed in the silence
that reigns among the dead. Thus Admetus gained immortality; but his
happiness was too dearly bought, for as the days went by he mourned
more and more for his beautiful young wife, and in his dreams he saw
her walking like a shadow among the grim shapes that move noiselessly
in the silent halls of death. Bitterly he repented of his selfishness
in accepting the sacrifice of her life, and his immortality grew
hateful to him since each day only added to his sorrow. So he prayed to
Apollo to recall his gift, and to give him back his wife Alcestis. It
was not in the power of that god to change a decree of Jupiter's; but
the Ruler of all things looked down from heaven, and, seeing the great
grief and remorse of Admetus, he withdrew the gift that had cost the
king so dear, and sent Hercules to the kingdom of Pluto with commands
to let Alcestis go. Very gladly the god carried this message to the
gloomy realm of Hades, where amid the myriad shadow-shapes he sought
and found Alcestis; and out of the dreadful darkness in which she
walked alone, Hercules led her back to earth again.[9]
Chapter VI
Apollo the Musician
I
When Apollo left King Admetus and returned to the halls of Olympus,
he had not rested there long before he found that there was further
service for him to render on the earth. Among the many noted deeds that
he performed, the most famous was his slaying of a monstrous serpent
called the Python, which was born of the slime that remained on the
surface of the earth after the Deluge.[10] Apollo killed the creature
with his golden arrows, and then went to the help of Neptune, who,
though a powerful deity in his own realm, was often obliged to ask
help of the other gods when he wished to accomplish anything on land.
Hearing that Neptune wished to build a great wall around the city of
Troy, and remembering the aid that the sea-god had given his mother
Latona in her great need, Apollo went down to the sea and offered his
services to Neptune. Of course no son of Jupiter could be expected
to do the work of a slave, but this was not necessary, even in the
building of a wall; for Apollo sat down on a grassy bank near by, and,
with his lyre in his hand, began to play such exquisite music that the
very stones were bewitched, and rising from the ground of their own
accord took their places in the wall. Still under the spell of Apollo's
music, others followed in quick succession, and the wall rose higher
and higher, until before nightfall the whole work was finished. When
the last stone had dropped into place, Apollo stopped his playing and
returned to the bright halls of Olympus; while Neptune, shaking the
salt spray from his shaggy eyebrows, stared hard at the walls that had
risen by magic before his wondering eyes.
II
The story of Arachne's sad fate should have been warning enough to all
mortals not to compare themselves with the gods; but such was the pride
of a certain youth named Marsyas that he boasted openly of his skill
in flute-playing, and dared to proclaim himself the equal of Apollo.
Now Marsyas had not always been a musician, for he was by birth a
shepherd--some even say a satyr--and had never seen a flute or heard
it played until one day, as he sat tending his flock on the bank of a
stream, he heard sounds of music coming from some spot near by. He was
very curious to see who the musician might be, but he dared not move
lest he startle the player and make the beautiful melody cease. So he
sat still and waited; and presently there came floating down the stream
a flute--something that Marsyas had never seen before. He hurriedly
snatched it out of the water, and, no longer hearing the wonderful
music, he guessed that it had come from the strange thing he held in
his hand. He put the flute to his lips, and lo, the same sweet melody
greeted his ears, for the flute was not a common thing such as any man
might use--it was a beautiful instrument that belonged to no less a
person than Minerva. The goddess had hidden herself on the bank of the
stream and had been trying her skill as a flute-player; but chancing to
look down into the water, she saw her puffed-out cheeks and distorted
features and angrily threw the flute into the stream. Thus it had
come into Marsyas's possession; and the shepherd, having found such a
treasure, never let it leave his hands. He neglected his work and left
his flocks unguarded while he spent all his days in the delight of
flute-playing.
It was not long before he believed himself to be the greatest musician
in all Greece; and then it was only a step further to declare that even
Apollo could not equal him in the sweetness of his playing. The god of
music allowed this boasting to go for some time unpunished; but at
last he grew angry at the presumption of the shepherd boy, and summoned
Marsyas to a contest in which the nine Muses were to be judges. Nothing
daunted, Marsyas accepted the challenge; and on the morning when the
contest took place, a great silence fell over all the earth, as if
every living thing had stopped to listen. The playing of Marsyas was
wonderfully sweet, and as the soft tones of his flute greeted the
listeners' ears they sat as if under a spell until the last sounds died
away. Then Apollo took up his golden lyre, and when he struck the first
chords, the air was filled with music far sweeter than any melody that
had fallen from the lips of Marsyas. The judges, however, found it
hard to give a verdict in favor of either musician; so a second time
Marsyas began to play, and his music was so strangely wild and sweet
that even Apollo listened in delight. But, charmed as he was by the
youth's playing, the god of music had no intention of being outdone by
a shepherd; so when he took up his golden lyre again, he began to sing,
and added the wonder of his voice to the sweetness of his playing. When
the singing ended there was no longer any doubt to whom the victory
belonged; and Marsyas was forced to admit his defeat. As the price
of failure was to be the terrible penalty of being flayed alive, the
wretched Marsyas had to submit to this cruel death. Apollo bound him
to a tree and slew him with his own hands.
III
When the news of Marsyas's dreadful fate spread abroad, people were
careful for many years not to anger any of the deities by presuming to
rival them; but in time the memory of that tragic event faded away, and
the horror of it was forgotten.
In the halls of King Midas was the noise of great mirth and feasting,
and the sound of music filled the spacious room where the king and
his court sat at the banquet-table. Beside the king stood Pan, his
favorite flute-player, who was no other than the famous sylvan god of
shepherds; and as the wine went round and the king grew boastful of his
possessions, he exclaimed loudly that not even Apollo himself could
produce such exquisite music as fell from the flute of Pan. The guests,
remembering the fate of Marsyas, grew pale and begged the king not to
let his boast be heard; but Midas laughed scornfully and, raising his
drinking cup above his head, called upon Apollo to appear.
To the surprise and dismay of all, the god of music suddenly stood
before them, beautiful as the dawn and glowing with divine wrath.
Though Pan was himself a deity, he had no desire to challenge Apollo,
and looked fearfully at the sun-god's angry frown; but the king, drunk
with pride, commanded him to play, and bade the god of music surpass
the playing if he could. There was, of course, no question as to which
was the better musician, and the guests loudly proclaimed Apollo the
victor. One story tells that to prove further the superiority of
Apollo's playing the company went to the old mountain-god Tmolus, and
let him make the final decision. Tmolus had to clear the trees from
his ears to listen; and having done this he bent his head, and all his
trees leaned with him. He heard with delight both musicians play; and
when the last soft notes fell from Apollo's lyre, the mountain-god
awarded him the victory. But Midas at the beginning of the contest
had demanded the right to decide on the merits of the players, and he
would not accept this verdict. In his mad perversity and fondness for
his favorite, he cried out that Pan was the better player, and would
therefore be awarded the prize. Angered at this unfair decision, Apollo
left the banquet-hall, but not before he had assured Midas that the
injustice would be punished.
These words came true in a most unexpected way, for when the king
looked into his mirror the next morning, he found a pair of large fuzzy
ass's ears growing in the place of his own natural ones. Horrified at
his absurd appearance, Midas did not dare show himself to his people;
but sent in haste for a barber, and bade him make a wig large enough
to cover the monstrous ears. For many hours the barber was closeted
with the king, and when the wig was finished, he was allowed to leave
the palace, after having sworn never to reveal the king's misfortune
under pain of death. For some time the secret was safely kept; but the
poor barber found life unbearable, since he lived in constant fear of
letting out the truth about the king's ears in spite of his frantic
efforts to be silent. Whenever Midas appeared in the city streets, the
barber had to rush home and shut himself up lest he should scream out
the story of the wig.
One day he thought of a happy solution of his difficulty and one that
broke his long seal of silence without endangering his life. He went
out into the fields, dug a deep hole, and putting his head down as far
as he could he shouted:--
"King Midas has ass's ears, King Midas has ass's ears."
Then he went home again, much happier for having told some one of his
secret, even though it was only Mother Earth. But the truth once told
did not stay hidden even in the earth; for in time the hole was filled
again and reeds grew over the spot, and as the wind swayed them back
and forth they murmured: "King Midas has ass's ears. King Midas has
ass's ears."
It was not long before all the people in the countryside had gathered
to hear the strange whispering of the reeds, and then the secret could
be kept no longer. But though every one knew the truth King Midas
continued to wear his wig, and no one ever saw the real size of his
ears.
Chapter VII
The Love of Apollo
I
Like his father, Jupiter, the young Apollo was not content to stay
always in the shining halls of Olympus, but spent many days wandering
over the broad lands of Greece in search of adventure, or for the sake
of some maiden's love. There were many fair ones among the daughters
of men, and they were wont to look with favor upon the beautiful young
god who came down from the high heavens to woo them. Each morning as
he drove across the sky the fiery horses that were harnessed to the
chariot of the sun, some maiden gazed with longing at the splendor
above her, and prayed that the radiant Apollo might look kindly upon
her. Seldom did these prayers go unanswered; but sometimes the heart of
the god was untouched by the devotion so freely offered, and the maiden
pined away over her hopeless love.
Such a one was Clytie,[11] who worshiped the glorious sun-god, and
longed in secret for his love; but in spite of her tears and sighing
she met with only coldness in return. Each day she rose before the dawn
to greet Apollo as soon as his chariot appeared in the heavens, and all
day long she watched him until the last rays of light were lost behind
the hills. But the young god felt no sympathy for her sorrow, and the
unhappy Clytie grew so pale and sick with longing that Jupiter in pity
changed her into a sunflower, that she might always stand watching the
course of the sun, and turn her face forever toward him, no matter
where his beams might shine.
II
The great beauty of Apollo[12] usually assured his success whenever
he stooped from his high estate to love the maidens of the earth; but
once he was repaid for his hard-heartedness to poor Clytie, and failed
in his wooing when he sought the love of the beautiful wood-nymph
Daphne. He was wandering one day in the forest when he came suddenly
upon Daphne as she was gathering flowers, and her beauty and grace
so charmed him that he desired her love above everything else in the
world. Not wishing to frighten her, he stood still and softly spoke her
name. When the nymph heard his voice, she turned quickly and looked at
him with the startled eyes of some wild forest-creature. Surprise and
fear held her for a moment while Apollo spoke again gently and begged
her not to be afraid, for he was no hunter nor even a rude shepherd.
But Daphne only shrank away, fearful of his eagerness; and when Apollo
grew bolder and ventured to draw near, she turned and fled through the
forest. Angered at this rebuff, the god followed her, and though the
nymph ran swiftly she could not escape from her pursuer, who was now
more than ever determined to win her.
[Illustration: Apollo and Daphne]
In and out among the trees she darted, hoping to bewilder him into
giving up the chase; but Apollo kept close behind, and little by little
gained on her flying feet. Wearied but unyielding, Daphne now hurried
her steps toward the stream at the edge of the forest, where she knew
that she would find her father, the river-god Peneus. As she neared the
stream she cried aloud to him for help; and just as Apollo had reached
her side and his outstretched hand was on her shoulder, a rough bark
began to enclose her soft body in its protecting sheath; green branches
sprouted from the ends of her uplifted arms; and her floating hair
became only waving leaves under the grasp of the god's eager fingers.
Apollo stood dismayed at this transformation, and when he saw a laurel
tree rooted in the spot where, but a moment ago, had stood a beautiful
living maiden, he repented of his folly in having pursued her and
sat for many days beside the river, mourning her loss.
Thus it was that the laurel became the favorite tree of Apollo; and
when the god returned sadly to Olympus, he decreed that whenever poet
or musician or any victor in the games was to be crowned with a garland
of leaves, those leaves were to be taken from the laurel tree in memory
of Daphne.
III
In one of the flower-filled meadows of sunny Greece, there played
all day a golden-haired boy named Phaëton,[13] who was the pride and
delight of his mother Clymene, a stately maiden whom Apollo had once
wooed and won. The boy was willful and headstrong, but beautiful as
a young god; and his mother, in her foolish pride, often reminded
him how favored he was above all other children in being the son of
Apollo. Each morning she led him to a place where he could see the sun
rise, and told him that his father was just then harnessing the fiery
steeds to his golden-wheeled car, and would soon be leaving his palace
of burnished gold to drive across the heavens, bringing daylight to
the darkened earth. She told him of Apollo's great beauty, and of his
wonderful music, and of his high position among the gods, because his
chariot was nothing less than the glorious sun. Phaëton never tired of
hearing these stories, and it was no wonder that he became very proud
of his divine parentage, and boasted of it among his playmates. The
children only laughed at his wonderful tales, and to convince them he
grew more arrogant in his bearing, until they, angered by his continued
boasts, bade him give some proof of his claims or else be silent. This
Phaëton could not do; so they taunted him with his godlike appearance,
and sneered at his pretensions until the boy, roused to action by their
repeated insults, ran to his mother, and begged her to tell him whether
he might not speak to his wonderful, but unknown father, and obtain
from him some proof to silence the children's tongues.
Clymene hesitated to send the child on the long necessary journey,
but yielding at last to his entreaties, she showed him the way to his
father's palace. It was night when Phaëton set out, and he was obliged
to travel quickly if he wished to reach his journey's end before the
sun-car left the golden portals of the east. The palace of the sun
was marvelously wrought, and the light from its golden columns and
glittering jeweled towers so dazzled the eyes of Phaëton that he was
afraid to draw near. But remembering the taunts of his playmates, he
grew bolder, and sought out his father to beg the boon for which he had
traveled so far and wearily. When Apollo, from his ivory throne, saw
the boy approaching, he welcomed him kindly and called him by the name
of son. Hearing this, Phaëton lost all fear, and told his father how
the children had refused to believe Clymene's stories, and had taunted
him because he could not prove the truth of his mother's claim.
The lofty brow of Apollo grew cloudy as he listened to Phaëton's words,
and he promised to give the boy the proof he desired by granting him
any favor he might ask. Instantly Phaëton demanded that he be allowed
that very day to drive the sun-chariot; for when those on the earth saw
him in that exalted place, they could no longer refuse to believe that
he was indeed the favored child of Apollo. Dismayed at this unexpected
request, the sun-god sought to persuade Phaëton to ask some other boon,
for he knew that no hand but his own could guide the four winged horses
that were harnessed to the golden sun-car. But the boy was determined
to carry out his plan; and with all the willfulness of a conceited
child, he refused to heed his father's warnings. As Apollo had sworn
by the river Styx--the most terrible of all oaths--to grant Phaëton's
request whatever it might be, he was obliged to fulfill his promise;
and very reluctantly he led the boy to the portals of the palace, where
the impatient horses already stood pawing the ground.
Phaëton gazed at the sun-car in delight, for it was all of gold--except
the spokes of the wheel, which were of silver--and the body of the
chariot was studded with chrysolites and diamonds that reflected the
sun's dazzling brightness. The impatient boy sprang into the chariot
and seized the reins in his hands, while his father bound on his head
the blazing sun rays; but before the journey was begun, Apollo poured
over him a cooling essence, that his skin might not be shriveled by
the burning heat of the sun, and gave him careful instructions how to
handle the restless steeds. Phaëton but half listened to these words,
and fretted to be off on his triumphant course; so Apollo ordered the
gates to be thrown open, and the sun-car dashed out into the heavens.
For a while all went well, for the boy remembered his father's caution
about using a whip on the fiery horses; but as the day wore on he
became reckless, and forgot everything but his own proud triumph.
Faster and faster he drove, flourishing his whip, and never heeding
in what direction the maddened horses sped. Soon he lost his way and
the chariot came so close to the earth that its fierce heat dried up
the rivers and scorched the ground and shriveled up all vegetation,
even turning the natives in that part of the country brown,--which
color they are still to this very day. Smoke rose up from the charred
and blackened earth, and it so clouded the eyes of the now terrified
Phaëton that he could not find his way back to the path of the sun and
drove wildly far away from the earth. This caused terrible disaster,
for under the sudden cold all growing things withered, and the blight
of frost settled over all the land.
Then a great cry arose from the people of the earth when they saw their
country laid waste; and though Jupiter was fast asleep on his golden
couch he heard the cry, and started up in surprise. What _could_ be
happening on the earth that the sound of human wailing should break in
upon the silence of his dreams! One glance was sufficient for him to
see the smoke rising from the burnt-up land and to realize the cause
of all that useless destruction; for far across the heavens--like a
vanishing comet--Phaëton was madly driving the flaming chariot of the
sun. Angered at the sight of a mere boy presuming to take upon himself
so great a task, Jupiter seized one of his deadliest thunderbolts and
hurled it at the unhappy youth, whose scorched body was immediately
dashed from its lofty seat and sank into the calm waters of the
Eridanus River.
Clymene mourned her son's untimely death, and gathered his remains from
the river that they might have honorable burial. Phaëton's dearest
friend, Cycnus, continued to haunt the river's edge, looking for any
relic of his favorite that might chance to rise to the surface of the
water. In recognition of this devotion the gods changed him into a swan
that might stay forever on the river and plunge his head fearlessly
into the clear waters to search for some scattered fragments of his
unfortunate friend.
[Illustration: Niobe]
Chapter VIII
Diana
I
During the childhood of Apollo and Diana the goddess Latona lived
happily on the island of Delos, and forgot all her early misfortunes in
the joy of her children. As they grew up she boasted of their strength
and beauty to all who came to the shores of Delos, and no village or
hamlet--however small--but had heard of Latona's children. When Grecian
mothers put their little ones to bed at night, they told wonderful
tales of an island far out at sea where a brother and sister lived who
were fairer than all the flowers in the meadows; and maidens, sighing
for a loveliness greater than their own, wove garlands to adorn the
shrines of those two who walked the earth in all their immortal grace.
Latona was proud of her children's fame, and boasted of it far and
wide. Few mothers cared to dispute her claim, and these spoke only in
whispers; but there was one, bolder than the rest, who openly laughed
at the goddess's boast and taunted her with having but _two_ such
children whom she could praise. This was Niobe, a Grecian princess and
the mother of fourteen children,--seven sons and seven daughters,--all
of them fair and strong and godlike in spite of their mortal birth.
When Niobe learned that the people in her kingdom were loud in their
praises of Latona's children, and were neglecting to honor her own
splendid sons and daughters, she was very angry and ordered all the
statues of Apollo and Diana to be destroyed; for the people, in their
devotion to beauty, had set up many in the temples and the market
place. Then she bade a messenger go tell the goddess what had been
done, and show her in what contempt the mother of fourteen children
held her who had but two.
When Latona received the message she was so enraged at the insult that
her desire for revenge knew no bounds. She called Apollo and Diana to
her side and commanded them to go forth and slay the children of Niobe.
It was easy for Apollo to accomplish his part of the cruel task, for he
met the seven sons of Niobe hunting, and slew them so quickly that not
one of the brothers had time to ask what he had done to merit the god's
wrath. The daughters of Niobe were in the palace with their mother; but
this did not daunt the young Diana, who put seven sharp arrows in her
quiver, and, bow in hand, went forth to complete Latona's revenge.
She found the maidens seated at Niobe's side, weaving, and one by one
the remorseless goddess shot them down in spite of their mother's
heart-broken cries for mercy. Finding that her entreaties were in vain,
and seeing six of her daughters lying dead beside her, the distracted
Niobe sought to shield the remaining one with her own body while she
prayed wildly to the gods to spare her this one child. But the gods
were deaf to her cries, and Diana, fitting the last arrow to her bow,
shot the maiden as she cowered in her mother's arms.
Over her fallen body the wretched Niobe wept so long that the gods at
last felt pity for her grief, and changed her into stone. This statue
was placed by a running stream, and ever afterward the waters were fed
by the tears that continued to course down the cheeks of the stone
image; and travelers came from foreign lands to gaze on this marvel of
a devoted mother who could not cease from mourning for her children
even when turned into stone.
II
Though the goddess Diana[14] spent most of her daylight hours in
hunting, it was not often that she exercised her skill to such cruel
purpose as was shown in the case of poor Niobe. Wherever the wild deer
roamed, and the pathless forest knew no touch of woodman's ax, there
Diana, fleet-footed and tireless, followed the chase. As soon as the
flaming chariot of the sun threw its first streak of light across the
hills, the goddess donned her short tunic, and, armed with her golden
bow and quiver, set out with her band of nymphs for the day's hunt. At
noontide, wearied with the chase, she sought out some secluded spot
where the mountain stream ran clear, and where the foliage hung round
her like a curtain.
[Illustration: Diana of Versailles]
On a certain day, when she and her maidens were enjoying the refreshing
coolness of the water, they heard a slight rustle among the trees,
and looking around, perceived a young hunter watching them. This was
Actæon, who had himself been following the deer since daybreak, and had
been drawn to this spot by the noise of running water. As he neared
the stream he heard sounds of girlish laughter, and this so roused
his curiosity that he hastily put aside the branches to see who the
merrymakers might be. Great was his dismay when he recognized Diana and
her nymphs; but before he could disappear among the bushes the goddess
saw him, and catching up some water in her hand, she threw it into his
face, crying: "Go now, if you can, and say that you have seen Diana at
her bath."
The moment these words were spoken Actæon felt a queer change coming
over him, and he stared in horror at his hands and feet, which were
becoming hoofs, and at his skin, which was rapidly changing into a
deer's hide. Antlers grew out of his head, he dropped on all fours,
and found himself turned into a stag. Before he quite realized what
had befallen him he heard the baying of hounds, and knew that his only
safety was in flight. He dashed off through the bushes, but the dogs
were on his track. Before he had gone far the pack had overtaken him,
since he knew no lore of the wild things by which they elude their
enemies, and were snapping and snarling at his throat. Deprived of his
human voice he could not cry for help, and in a moment the hounds had
torn him into pieces. So was Diana avenged.
III
There was another young hunter who encountered Diana and her maidens
in the woods, but he met with a kinder fate at the hands of the
goddess than did poor Actæon, whose only fault had been a most natural
curiosity.
The fleet-footed Diana was no more ardent in the chase than was the
hunter Orion, who roamed the forest all day with his faithful dog,
Sirius. One morning, as he rushed eagerly through the woods in
pursuit of a deer, he came suddenly upon the seven Pleiades,--nymphs
of Diana,--who were resting after a long and arduous hunt begun at
daybreak. Charmed with their beauty, Orion drew nearer, but the
maidens, terrified at his outstretched arms, fled away through the
forest. Undaunted by the remembrance of Actæon's fate, the hunter
pursued the flying nymphs, determined that so much beauty should not
escape him. Seeing that he was gaining on them in spite of their swift
feet, the maidens called upon Diana for help, and were at once changed
into seven white pigeons which flew up into the heavens before Orion's
astonished eyes. Sometime later these same Pleiades became seven bright
stars, and were set as a constellation in the sky, where they have
remained ever since.
Orion continued to hunt from early dawn until nightfall without any
misfortune overtaking him on account of his impetuous love-making.
On the contrary his ardor evidently found favor with the goddess
Diana, for one day, when he unexpectedly met her alone in the forest,
she smiled graciously upon him and offered to share the day's sport
with him. Perhaps it was the beauty of the young hunter as well as
his boldness that charmed the goddess; but however that may be, she
continued to meet him in the forest, and they hunted together hour
after hour until the twilight began to fall. Then Diana knew that she
must leave her lover and mount her silver moon-car.
When Apollo learned of his sister's affection for the young hunter,
he was very angry, for Diana had refused the love of the gods, and
had begged of Jupiter the right to live unwed. The sun-god determined
therefore to put an end to Orion's wooing. So he waited at the shadowy
portals of the west until Diana, her nightly journey over, descended
from her silver car and threw the reins on the necks of her wearied
steeds. Then Apollo spoke to his sister of her hunting, and praised
her skill with the bow. Presently he pointed to a tiny speck that was
rising and falling on the crest of the waves a long distance away, and
bidding her use this as a target, he challenged her to prove her skill.
Diana, suspecting no treachery, fitted an arrow into her bow and let
it fly with unerring aim. Great was her distress when she learned what
her brother's trickery had led her to do; for it was no floating log
or bit of seaweed that her arrow had pierced, but the body of Orion.
Apollo had seen the hunter go each morning to the ocean to bathe, and
he thought this an easy way to dispose of the unworthy lover.
Diana mourned Orion[15] many days; and to keep his memory honored she
placed him and his faithful dog, Sirius, in the sky as constellations.
Chapter IX
The Story of Endymion
The chaste Diana was not only a famous huntress, but she was goddess of
the moon as well. By day she roamed the forest with her band of nymphs,
and by night she sailed in her bright moon-car across the star-strewn
sky, and looked down at the sleeping earth lying in the shadow except
where her soft light fell. As soon as Apollo had driven his tired,
foam-flecked horses within the western gates, and twilight had begun to
creep over the hills, Diana mounted her silver car drawn by milk-white
steeds, and started on her nightly journey. During the first hours of
her ride, the friendly twilight kept a faint glow in the heavens, and
the road lay plain before her; but as night came on and the blackness
deepened, her horses might have wandered from their accustomed path had
not the stars wakened from their day-dreaming and come out in great
luminous clusters to light the goddess on her way. Though the journey
was always the same, night after night, Diana never wearied of her
course or found the sleeping earth less lovely, as it unfolded hour by
hour before her eyes.
One evening as she looked down upon the quiet scene, she saw the form
of a shepherd-boy lying upon a grassy hilltop, where the moonlight
shone full upon his upturned face. Diana was not susceptible to love;
but when she saw Endymion sleeping, she marveled at his beauty, and
felt a strange longing to be near him. So she stepped softly from
her silver car and floated down to the earth--to the spot where the
unconscious shepherd lay dreaming. There was perfect stillness all
around, and no whisper came but the soft murmur from the pine-trees,
which sounded like some great creature sighing in its sleep. For some
time the goddess watched the youth in silence, then, stooping, she
gently kissed him. Endymion half wakened at her touch, and looked
sleepily around, bewildered by the radiance that seemed to be enfolding
him in its unearthly light. But in a moment the glory had faded away,
and there was only the deep blueness of the night all about him; for
Diana, frightened at her own boldness, had hurried back to her silver
car and had sped away into the darkness. Endymion thought then that he
had dreamed a dream of some beautiful form that had lingered by his
side, and although he waited patiently and hopefully all through the
night, he saw no other vision, and only the dawn came to greet his
weary eyes.
The next night Diana drove her milk-white horses impatiently and often
at random, until the quiet stars, as they watched her restless course,
wondered and felt half afraid. When the clouds wrapped her closely in
their white embrace, the goddess drove them angrily aside, lest they
shut out from her eyes the sight of the sleeping earth. At last she
drew near the hillside where Endymion lay, and, on seeing him there,
Diana glided again from her silver car and stood beside his unconscious
form. At her light touch he stirred, and tried to rouse himself from
his heavy slumber; but some spell seemed to bind his eyelids, and
through sleep-dimmed eyes he saw the radiance fade away. Night after
night he felt the presence of that bright being whom his eyes so longed
to behold; but only in his dreams could he see her face or touch her
floating garments that passed by him like the rustle of the night wind.
Each night Diana left her restless horses to stand unwatched among
the shifting clouds, while she lingered on the earth to gaze upon the
sleeping shepherd-boy; and as she stood beside him she wished that he
might always be as now--ever beautiful, ever young. So to keep him
untouched by sickness or sorrow or death she took him to Mount Latmus,
where there was a cave dedicated in her honor which no mortal foot had
ever profaned. Here she placed Endymion, and caused an eternal sleep
to fall upon him, so that his body in all its youth and beauty might
never know decay. And every night when her long journey was ended,
and the watchful stars had withdrawn their shining, Diana hastened to
the lonely cave on Mount Latmus, there to linger beside Endymion[16]
sleeping, and touch him with a kiss that could not waken.
Chapter X
Mercury
I
Mercury was the son of Jupiter and Maia, goddess of the plains, and
from the day of his birth he was a most remarkable infant, even for a
god. When scarcely a day old, he sprang from his mother's arms, and ran
some distance off to where a tortoise shell was lying on the ground.
Picking this up, he bored holes in its side, stretched strings across
it, and began to play. Thus it was that the first lyre was made.
[Illustration: Flying Mercury]
Proud of this beginning to his day's adventures, Mercury ran away
again toward evening, when his mother was asleep, and roamed about the
fragrant meadows where Apollo kept his herd of cattle. The pasturage
was rich and the oxen were fat, and the mischievous young god--only a
day old--decided to have some of them for his dinner. He took fifty of
the herd and tied branches of leaves to their feet--so that their hoofs
might leave no print on the smooth turf--and drove them to a quiet spot
far away from the meadow. Here he killed and ate two of the oxen,
and kept the rest in hiding for another day's feast. Then he hurried
back to his mother who had not yet wakened.
When Apollo found late that evening that fifty of his cattle were gone,
he searched but could not find them. As he was about to give them up as
lost, he remembered that a son had been lately born to Jupiter, whom
that divine ruler had appointed to be the god of thieves. Suspecting
that his stolen oxen were in the hands of this master-thief, Apollo
hastened to where Maia and the babe were sleeping. Rousing the child
angrily, the irate god accused him of the theft; but Mercury protested
his innocence, and asked, "How could an infant but a day old ever do
such an unheard-of thing?" Apollo was unconvinced, however, by this
appearance of candor, and feeling sure of the boy's guilt, dragged
him off to Olympus, where Mercury found it impossible to pretend any
longer that he knew nothing of the missing oxen. He acknowledged his
thieving, showed Apollo the hiding place of the stolen cattle, and
in return for those that he had eaten gave the sun-god his wonderful
new lyre. This gift so delighted Apollo that he presented the day-old
prince of thieves with a magic wand, which, when held between any who
were quarreling, would cause all anger and strife to cease. To test
the value of the wand Mercury thrust it between two snakes which were
struggling over the possession of a wounded bird; and immediately they
twined themselves around the staff, and remained coiled together in
perfect friendliness. This pleased Mercury so much that he bade them
stay there forever as long as the wand should last.[17]
There were two other valuable gifts that the gods gave the young
Mercury,--a winged cap and a pair of winged sandals,--so that, as the
messenger of the gods, he might be fleet of foot on his many errands to
and from Olympus.
"Hastily beneath his feet he bound
The fair ambrosial golden sandals, worn
To bear him over ocean like the wind
And o'er the boundless land."
--BRYANT'S Homer's _Odyssey_, Book V, line 56.
Among the varied duties assigned to Mercury was that of conducting
the souls of the dead to Hades; but this did not occupy all the god's
time, and he still had many hours in which to go on other missions. In
spite of his rather doubtful reputation for honesty, the gods often
sought his assistance in their difficulties; and in one very delicate
commission he proved himself a competent ally. This was when Jupiter
went wooing the maiden Io.
The jealous and vengeful Juno was always on the watch whenever her
lord took a fancy to go wandering about the earth; so to woo the
gentle Io unseen by his wife required some diplomacy on Jupiter's part.
Accordingly he spread a thick cloud over the meadow where he was wont
to meet the maiden, and trusted that its appearance would not arouse
Juno's suspicions. He also took the precaution to visit Io at the time
when the watchful queen of heaven was accustomed to sleep; but one
day Juno awoke sooner than usual, and finding Jupiter absent, she at
once surmised that he was adventuring again in some love-affair. When
she looked down at the earth, she saw the thick cloud that hung over
the meadow and noticed that it never altered its position, no matter
how the winds blew. Feeling sure that this was some trick intended to
deceive her, the wrathful goddess glided down to the earth and appeared
at the astonished Jupiter's side--but not before he had had time to
change Io into a heifer.
"Golden-sandaled" Juno walked about the meadow gathering flowers, then
she asked her husband why he was lingering there, so far from bright
Olympus. Jupiter answered that he was amusing himself by creating a
heifer. This explanation did not deceive Juno; but she pretended to be
satisfied, and praised the beautiful creature's glossy skin and large
soft eyes. Then she demanded it of Jupiter as a gift, and the ruler of
the gods, not knowing how to refuse, consented. The triumphant goddess
led away the heifer and put her in charge of Argus. Now Argus had a
hundred eyes, and though he often went to sleep, some of his eyes
always kept awake; so Juno felt sure that no device of Jupiter's could
enable Io to escape from the watchful guardian who never wholly slept.
Meanwhile Jupiter was in despair over this unhappy ending to his
wooing, and sought the help of Mercury, who often lent his ready wits
to gods and mortals in distress. Laying aside his cap and sandals and
snake-entwined wand, by which he might easily be recognized, Mercury
went down to the earth in the disguise of a shepherd. With his pipes
in his hand he strolled through the country until he came to the
mountain-side, where Argus sat watching the heifer; and when he began
to play, the music was so sweet that Argus begged him to stop awhile
that he might listen longer to the wonderful playing. The wily god
consented, and as he piped on, some of the hundred eyes grew drowsy
with sleep, but some of them stayed open and watchful.
The droning of the pipes kept on, and to add to the drowsiness of the
music, Mercury began to tell stories in a low sing-song tone that cast
a kind of spell over the eyes that were still watching. He told of
Apollo's affection for the youth Hyacinthus,[18] whom Zephyrus, god
of the west wind, also loved; and how, when the sun-god was playing
quoits with his friend, Zephyrus in a fit of jealous anger blew aside
the missile hurled by Apollo so that it struck Hyacinthus and killed
him. But the sun-god would not let the fair youth be forgotten, and
changed each drop of his blood into delicate white flowers which were
forever to bear his name.[19] Then Mercury told of Æsculapius, son of
Apollo and Coronis, who was entrusted to the care of Chiron,--most
famous of the Centaurs,--and was also taught by his divine parent the
art of healing. In this he became so skillful that he even restored
the dead to life, and so incurred the wrath of Jupiter, who, fearing
that Æsculapius[20] would receive undue honor, killed him with a
thunderbolt. To these stories Mercury added many more that told of
the loves of the gods, and at last all the hundred eyes of Argus were
closed. Then Mercury, drawing a sharp sword, cut off the great head as
it drooped forward, and rolled it down the rocks.
When Juno heard of the death of her faithful servant she was terribly
angry, and vowed that she would bring punishment on those who had
been the cause of his slaying; but before doing this she commemorated
the fidelity of Argus by taking his hundred eyes and putting them in
the tail of her favorite bird, the peacock. Then she carried out her
revenge by sending an enormous gadfly to torment poor Io, who was
still in the form of a heifer. From one country to another the unhappy
creature wandered; and once, in a desperate effort to escape her
tormentor, she plunged into the sea, which was afterwards called Ionian
in her honor. Across this she swam and reached the shore of Africa;
but even here the gadfly followed her, and the vengeance of Juno never
allowed her a moment's rest. Jupiter could do nothing to ease her
sufferings by interceding for her to the remorseless queen of heaven;
but at last Juno consented to send away the gadfly and to restore Io
to her own form if Jupiter would promise never to visit her again.
Reluctantly the ruler of the gods agreed to this demand, and Io became
once more a beautiful maiden.
II
When Jupiter went wandering on the earth in search of adventures other
than the wooing of some maiden, he often made Mercury his companion,
for this slender young god was his favorite among all the dwellers of
Olympus. One day both the gods, disguised as travelers, stopped at
the hut of an aged couple named Philemon and Baucis; and pretending
weariness, they asked to be allowed to rest. The old couple were
delighted that strangers had honored their humble roof, and in order
to extend the hospitality still further, Philemon decided to kill the
one thing he had that could furnish meat for the guests. This was a
large fat goose, who had no mind to be killed and eaten, even to supply
a meal for gods; so when the old man tried to catch him, he sought
refuge between Jupiter's knees. When the ruler of the gods learned
that the couple intended to sacrifice their one possession, he was
greatly touched by their kindness, but would not allow them to kill the
trusting bird that had fled to him for protection.
Then the good wife Baucis set before her guests olives, and cornel
berries preserved in vinegar, and cheese, with eggs cooked in the
ashes. She laid earthen cups and dishes on the table, which she had
already rubbed with sweet-smelling herbs, and placed beside them an
earthen pitcher full of their best wine. While the simple meal was
going on, and the guests were partaking of a dessert of apples and wild
honey, Baucis was so fluttered over her duties as hostess that she did
not observe the pitcher; but old Philemon looked on in astonishment at
the wine which renewed itself in the pitcher as fast as it was poured
out. He whispered to his wife to watch this miracle; and when she, too,
saw the never-empty pitcher, she was filled with a vague terror, and
looked fearfully at the smiling strangers. So Jupiter told the old
man and his wife who their guests really were, and bade them ask of
him some boon, swearing by the terrible river Styx to grant whatever
they might desire. Then Philemon and Baucis begged that they might be
allowed to serve the gods as long as they lived; and that when their
time of service was over, they might die together. Pleased with the
simplicity of this request, Jupiter gladly promised that all should
be as they wished; and he transformed their humble cottage into a
beautiful temple, where they might worship the gods all their days. And
when after years of faithful service Philemon and Baucis died, Jupiter
changed them into lordly oaks, which stood before the pillars of the
temple as a monument to their fidelity.
[Illustration: Juno]
Chapter XI
Venus
I
Once the stately Juno looked down from high-peaked Olympus and saw
Jupiter walking in a meadow with a maiden so exquisitely fair that
the flowers at her feet looked dull and faded beside her dazzling
whiteness. This was Callisto, so famous for her beauty that suitors
came from distant lands to woo her; but she cared nothing for their
rich gifts, nor would she listen to any vows of love. Then Jupiter
sought her as she wandered alone in the meadow; and the maiden gladly
yielded to the great ruler of the gods the love that no mortal man
had been able to win. When white-armed Juno learned how many hours
Jupiter spent by the side of Callisto, she determined to punish the
helpless maiden, and accordingly turned her into a bear. For a long
time Jupiter sought her in the familiar meadow, but she never came
again to meet him. Then one day he found her in the forest with her
little son Arcas--both turned into bears by the jealous hate of Juno.
Grieved as he was at this misfortune, the ruler of Olympus could not
restore them to their human form; but he took them to the heavens, that
they might suffer no further harm, and placed them in the sky as the
constellations of the Great and Little Bear.
Jupiter often assumed the form of a bird or animal so as to escape
Juno's watchful eyes. As a swan he won the love of Leda, and their
child was the fair-haired Helen whose beauty cost the men of Troy
so dear. As a white bull he wooed the gentle maid Europa, who was
frightened at his sudden appearance in the meadow where she was
playing; but as soon as she saw how tame the beautiful animal was and
how anxious to be petted, she lost all her fear. She made a wreath
of flowers to hang about his neck, and grew so accustomed to her new
playmate that she got upon his back as he bent his lordly head to
receive her garlands. The bull then galloped away toward the sea, and
before the terrified girl could realize what had happened he plunged
with her into the waves. As soon as they were far from the land, the
white bull spoke gently to Europa and told her who he really was and
how, for love of her, he had assumed this strange disguise. So the
maiden was no longer afraid, but allowed herself to be carried to an
unknown land that was afterward called Europe in her honor.
It was no wonder that Juno kept watch over the earth as no other
goddess needed to do, for she knew that the loveliness that belonged to
the daughters of men could easily lure great Jupiter from his golden
throne. She was therefore very reasonably angry when she looked one
day through the white clouds around Olympus and saw--not on the earth,
but in the lap of the ever-tossing sea--the most beautiful being that
could exist outside of a dream. So wonderfully fair was this maiden
upon whom Juno fixed her resentful gaze, that she seemed too perfect
to be made of flesh and blood, and the jealous watcher was almost
persuaded that it was no real living thing which rested softly on the
crest of the waves, but some creature made from the rainbow colors and
white mist of the sea. The ocean rocked her lightly on its breast, and
Zephyrus, the west wind, bore her gently toward the shore. The sunlight
shone on her rosy flesh, and her long hair lay out upon the waves,
glistening like spun gold. The sky above her was not more soft or deep
than the blueness of her eyes, and the smile upon her perfect lips was
of a subtle sweetness more alluring than the breath of spring. As she
lay pillowed in the arms of the slow-swinging sea, the west wind bore
her to the island of Cyprus; and when her foot touched the warm sand,
the goddess rose from the waves, which were so loth to yield her to
the waiting earth, and stepped lightly upon the shore. She flung the
wet ringlets from her forehead, shook the foam from her breast and
shoulders--white as the purest marble--and stood upright in the warm
sunshine--the most perfect thing that the wondering old earth had ever
looked upon. This was Venus,[21] goddess of love and beauty, born of
the foam of the sea, and destined to be the most far-famed of all the
dwellers in Olympus.
It was not long before others than the watchful Juno had seen this
vision of loveliness, and she was eagerly welcomed by the gods as soon
as she appeared among them. The beauty and grace of the new goddess
so charmed them that all were eager to yield her homage, and she was
immediately sought in marriage--even Jupiter himself becoming an
enamored suitor. But "laughter-loving" Venus refused to be wed, and
would not listen to any wooing. Then the ruler of the gods, finding his
proffered love scorned by the proud goddess, determined to punish her
by compelling her to marry Vulcan, the ugliest and most ill-favored of
deities; and as Jupiter's word was law in all the universe, Venus was
obliged to obey. But though married, she was by no means a devoted or
faithful wife, and she caused poor Vulcan many unhappy moments; for he
saw how his misshapen form repelled her, and he knew that she would
soon seek for happiness elsewhere.
The first to win the love of "golden" Venus was Mars, the handsome god
of war, who, though delighted at being honored as the chosen one of
beauty, was careful that the goddess's preference should not be known.
When he and Venus met in some lover's bower, they placed Alectryon--the
attendant of Mars--on guard, so that no one, not even prying Juno,
would come upon them unawares. Things went on happily for some time;
but one day Alectryon fell asleep at his post, and slept so soundly
that he did not see Apollo, in his golden chariot, driving close to
the trysting place of the lovers. When the sun-god realized what was
happening, he went straightway to Vulcan and told him how much his wife
was enjoying the society of Mars.
Vulcan, angry and ashamed, set to work to forge a net of linked steel;
and when it was finished, he hurried with it to the spot where Venus
and the god of war were still conversing together. Stepping up softly
behind them, Vulcan drew the net over their heads, and thus held them
fast. Then he hastened back to Olympus, where he told his story and
bade all the gods go look upon the ridiculous and humiliating plight of
the imprisoned lovers. When the captured pair were at last set free,
Mars rushed off to find Alectryon and to learn why they had not been
warned of Apollo's approach. Finding his sentinel peacefully sleeping,
unmindful of the disaster that had occurred through his neglect of
duty, Mars was so enraged that he changed Alectryon into a cock, and
commanded him to rise early every morning and crow to announce the
coming of the sun.
II
The next fancy of Venus was for Adonis,[22] a handsome young hunter,
who was so fearless in his pursuit of game that the goddess often felt
anxious for his safety. She urged him to give up the chase and spend
all his day with her; but however much Adonis enjoyed the society of
Venus, he also loved to roam the forests, and no entreaties could
induce him to give up his favorite sport. One day Adonis was following
a wild boar, and believing that the creature was wounded, he boldly
drew near, when the boar turned suddenly upon him and drove his long
tusks into the youth's side. As he lay dying in the forest, Venus heard
of the tragic ending of the day's hunt and hurried to save him. So
careless was she of her own hurt that she rushed heedlessly through the
rough briers, which tore her soft skin and scattered drops of blood on
the white wood flowers. When she reached Adonis, he was already past
her help and could not respond to her caresses. Holding his lifeless
body in her arms, Venus wept and mourned for her beloved; and her
tears, as they fell upon the sympathizing earth, were changed into
anemones. Then to hide from her eyes the painful sight of the young
hunter's mangled body, the kindly earth again took pity on her grief
and turned the drops of blood that came from Adonis's side into red
roses. Still the goddess would not be comforted, but sat mourning alone
with her dead.
Then Mercury came to lead the soul of Adonis to gloomy Hades; and
when the messenger of the gods had departed with his slight burden,
Venus went back to Olympus, and throwing herself on the ground before
Jupiter's throne, she besought him to give Adonis back to her, or else
to allow her to stay with him in Hades. Since the world could not well
spare the goddess of beauty, Jupiter refused to let her go to the
sunless realm of Pluto; but neither would that dread ruler consent
to give up Adonis to her longing arms. Then the gods, touched by the
depth of Venus's grief, interceded in her behalf, and reluctantly Pluto
agreed to allow Adonis to spend six months with the goddess in the
warmth and joy of the sunlight if for the rest of the year he would be
content to dwell in Hades.
III
Another of the fortunate ones who gained the love of Venus was
Anchises, prince of Troy; but though the goddess lavished much
affection upon him, she was rather ashamed of her attachment, for
Anchises was of only mortal birth. She therefore bade him to keep the
matter secret, and for a time Anchises obeyed; but being proud of his
relation to the goddess he forgot her instructions, and boasted of his
good fortune. This so angered the willful Venus that she never bestowed
her favors on him again; but transferred all her affection to her son
Æneas, who fared better at her hands than his father Anchises. In
the many adventures that befell this famous hero, Venus was always a
ready protectress, and whenever Æneas was involved in some apparently
hopeless situation, his goddess mother would immediately hide him in a
thick mist which was sure to baffle his enemies. Sometimes, as in the
Trojan war, she wrapped him in her shining robe and bore him from the
battle-field; and if the hero _was_ constantly in tears, as the poet
Virgil says, it was certainly not the fault of Venus.
As to the ultimate fate of Anchises, some authorities say that the
offended goddess borrowed one of Jupiter's thunderbolts and disposed
of her talkative lover in this fashion; but the most probable story
is that he lived to see Æneas become a famous prince of Troy, and was
himself carried from the ruins of that burning city on the shoulders of
his devoted son.
Chapter XII
The Story of Cupid and Psyche
Cupid,[23] god of love, was the son of Mars and Venus; and though he
was always the happiest of children, his mother was distressed because
he never grew up, but remained year after year a chubby, dimpled child.
When she consulted Themis, the goddess of Justice, to find out why
Cupid was never any older, she was told that "Love cannot grow without
Passion." This explanation was at first very mystifying; but later,
when Anteros was born, Venus understood the meaning of the strange
words. Cupid then developed into a tall slender youth who did not
revert to his childish form except in his brother's absence, when he
again became a rosy, mischievous child. Though grown larger in stature,
the god of love still kept his gauzy wings, and always carried a bow
and a quiver full of arrows. No mortal ever saw him, though many knew
when he had come and gone; but should any one be touched by a shaft
sent carelessly from Cupid's golden bow, he was henceforth a slave to
the slender winged god who bore lightly in his hand so much of human
happiness and misery.
There was once a king who had three daughters whose beauty was
famed far and wide; but the loveliness of the youngest was so great
that people called her the goddess of Beauty and worshiped her with
offerings of flowers. The maiden, Psyche, was troubled over all this
adoration, and begged her followers to cease from their mad worship;
for she knew that Venus would be sure to punish the one who usurped
her title and received the homage due only to an immortal. The people
continued, however, to call Psyche the goddess of beauty; and when
Venus saw her own temple forsaken and her shrines ungarlanded, she was
so incensed at the insult that she vowed to punish poor Psyche, who had
been a most unwilling object of all this mistaken devotion. The goddess
summoned her son Cupid to her presence and bade him go slay the maiden
who had presumed to be her rival in beauty.
Believing that his mother's anger was justified, Cupid was quite
willing to kill the offending mortal with one of his poisoned arrows;
and accordingly he went in search of Psyche, whom he found asleep
in one of the rooms of her father's palace. It was night, and the
moonlight shone through the open window, falling softly upon the couch
where the maiden, unconscious of her doom, lay sleeping. One bright
beam had lightly touched her forehead just as Cupid entered, and he saw
with delight the loveliness that his mother had been eager to destroy.
As he leaned nearer to the sleeping maiden one of his own arrows grazed
his side, and all unknowingly he was wounded. Not wishing to harm the
beauty that he was now beginning to love, Cupid softly left the room
and went back to Olympus.
When Venus found that her rival was not dead, and that Cupid refused
to hurt a thing so fair, she began to persecute poor Psyche until
life grew unbearable for the helpless maiden, and she determined to
kill herself. So she stole secretly from the palace and climbed up a
high mountain, where there was a ledge of rock overhanging a steep
cliff. It was rather fearful to look down into the valley from the
rocky ledge, and for a moment Psyche's heart failed her; but then she
remembered the daily annoyances that Venus inflicted upon her, and she
remembered also the words of the oracle which said that her future
husband was to be "no mortal, but a monster whom neither gods nor men
can resist." So, summoning all her courage, she threw herself over the
cliff, expecting to be dashed to pieces upon the rocks below. But Cupid
had been watching over her, ever since she began her weary journey up
the mountain; and when he realized what she meant to do, he commanded
Zephyrus to keep very near and to catch her lightly when she fell. So
it was not upon the cruel rocks that Psyche's soft body lay, but in the
friendly arms of the west wind who bore her to a distant island, where
Cupid had already made preparations for her coming.
[Illustration: Psyche]
On the thick grass in the midst of a beautiful garden, Zephyrus laid
his slight burden; and when Psyche opened her eyes, she found herself
unhurt, though bewildered by her strange journey through the air and
by its unexpected ending. She rose from the grass and began to wander
about the garden, wondering where she might be and what land lay beyond
the blue water whose waves rolled lazily upon the beach that stretched
away for miles at the foot of the garden. Then she strolled further
inland among the flowers, and soon came to a beautiful palace whose
doors were opened wide as if to welcome her. Timidly she entered the
stately hall, and saw before her a richly-laden table and a chair
placed in readiness for the coming guest. Soon she heard voices
speaking to her gently, and they bade her eat and drink, for the feast
was spread in her honor. Seeing no one, but reassured by the kindly
voices, she ate of the food so generously provided. Then she went again
into the garden, but left it soon and hurried down to the sea; for when
evening came on, she began to be lonely, and the silence of the garden
grew oppressive. On the beach she heard the sound of lapping water
and felt herself a part of the life that beats forever in the restless
changing sea.
At night she sought the palace where the unseen servitors again
ministered to her wants; and in the darkness, Cupid came to woo her.
He did not reveal his name, but he told how he had rescued her from
death and brought her to this island, that she might never again be
persecuted by jealous Venus. Everything that she wished for would be
hers for the mere asking, and the invisible attendants would always be
on hand to do her bidding. He himself would ever be her loyal lover;
and would come each night to cheer her solitude. The only thing that
he asked in return was that she should never seek to know his name or
try to see his face. Psyche listened to the words of Cupid, and was
won by the soft pleading of his voice. She was content to stay on the
unknown island, and to be with her unseen lover, whose name and face
must remain forever a mystery. Many happy weeks passed, and Psyche
never wished to leave her new home, for though she was often lonely as
she walked each day in the rose-garden, she forgot the long hours of
solitude when Cupid came at night to gladden her with his love and to
tell her of his wanderings.
As time went on Psyche began to wonder how things were faring at her
father's palace; and she wished very much to see her sisters who must
have long since believed her dead. Cupid had told her she might ask for
anything that she wished save the two forbidden things, so she summoned
the west wind and bade him bring her sisters to her. Zephyrus gladly
obeyed, and soon Psyche saw her two sisters standing beside her, more
astonished than she to find themselves there. For hours they talked
together, and Psyche told them of her adventure on the mountain and how
she had been rescued by the friendly west wind. She told them of her
mysterious lover, of his riches and his great kindness, and regretted
that she could not describe his appearance; but, she explained, this
was impossible since she herself had never seen him. As the sisters
listened to Psyche's story, their hearts were filled with bitter envy
that she should be thus favored above all other maidens; and they
planned to rob her of her happiness. They reminded her of the words of
the oracle that she should marry a monster; and under the pretense of
a loving interest in her welfare, they urged her to break her promise
to her lover and to find out whether he was in truth a monster that
was only waiting his time to devour her. Psyche at first scorned these
malicious suggestions, but by and by they began to make an impression
on her troubled mind, and she found herself ready to listen and to
believe. Finally she agreed to carry out the plan that her sisters
arranged, which was to secrete a sharp knife in her room and use it to
kill the monster as he slept.
When Zephyrus had taken the sisters back to their own home, and Psyche
was once more alone, she felt ashamed of the promise that she had made
them; but at the same time she could not forget the words of the oracle
nor cast off the suspicions that now filled her mind. She was anxious,
too, to see her lover's face and to be able to confront her sisters
with the truth when they should taunt her again. So that night when
Cupid was fast asleep, she rose softly, and by the light of a tiny
lamp which she noiselessly lit, she groped for the knife with which
she intended to slay the creature who--her sisters assured her--was so
frightful that he dared not show his face. Cautiously she stepped to
Cupid's side, and held over him the flickering lamp; but how astonished
she was to behold--not an ugly monster as she had expected--but a
slender youth whose beauty was so great that she felt her heart beat
fast with joy. Breathless she gazed at the unconscious form, and dared
not move for fear of waking him; but as she bent adoringly over him a
drop of oil fell from her lamp on Cupid's shoulder, and he awoke.
For a moment he stared with startled eyes at the knife and the lamp
held in her trembling hands; then he understood the meaning of it
all, and his beautiful face grew sad. In a voice full of pity he spoke
to the now remorseful Psyche, and told her that, as she had broken
her promise, he must go away from her and never come again. In vain
Psyche wept and begged him to forgive her rash deed, confessing that
it was her sisters who had tempted her to betray her trust. But Cupid
gently freed himself from her clinging arms, and spreading his gauzy
wings flew out into the night. Psyche, still weeping, went down into
the garden, hoping that Love might relent and return in spite of his
parting words; but as the hours passed she was still waiting alone, and
when the morning came it found her fast asleep, lying wet-eyed among
the dew-laden flowers.
When at last Psyche awoke, it was midday; and looking around she found
to her surprise that she was in a deep valley with mountains on all
sides, and that the palace with its rose-garden had vanished. All day
she wandered in the valley, meeting no one who might direct her to
her home; and when at length she came to a stately marble temple, she
was glad to enter it and rest. Though she did not know to whom the
temple was dedicated, Psyche prayed to the gods for help; and Ceres,
at whose altar she was kneeling, heard her, and in pity answered her
prayers. She told the disheartened maiden that her lover was no other
than Cupid, the god of Love, "whom neither gods nor man can resist,"
and that if she wished to gain favor in the eyes of his mother,--and
thereby win her lover back,--she would do well to seek the temple of
Venus and offer her services to the offended goddess.
Psyche listened to these friendly words, and thanked Ceres for taking
pity on her suffering. When she left the temple she walked many miles
through the valley, until she came to a shrine on which were hung
flowers, fruit, and jewels, which the suppliants of Venus had brought
as votive offerings. Before this shrine Psyche knelt very humbly, and
implored the goddess of Beauty to accept her service and set her some
task by which she could prove her fidelity. Venus was still angry at
the memory of Psyche's former honors, and she was not to be placated by
any prayers, however sincere. She accepted the maiden's service, but
determined to torment her by setting impossible tasks.
She brought Psyche into a granary, where there were thousands of
different kinds of seeds all thrown in bewildering and unsorted heaps.
Pointing to these, the goddess bade her separate them all, and pile
them together so that by nightfall each seed should be in its proper
place. Poor Psyche was in despair at ever being able to tell one kind
of seed from another; but Cupid, hearing her sighs, sent an army of
ants who worked silently and swiftly at the enormous heap of seeds,
and before twilight came the work was done.
[Illustration: Charon and Psyche]
When Venus saw this almost impossible task accomplished, she knew that
Psyche had never done the work unaided; so reproving her angrily for
her incompetence, she gave the maiden another commission, which was
to gather some golden fleece from the sheep that were browsing in a
meadow not far from Venus's shrine. Next morning Psyche set about her
task, but as she neared the river that must be crossed before she could
reach the meadow, the kindly reeds on the water's edge spoke to her,
and warned her of the danger of her undertaking. They told her that the
rams in the flock were so fierce that they would surely destroy her
if she ventured at this hour among them; but that if she waited until
noontide, when they grew drowsy and lay down on the grass beside the
river, then she could cross in safety, and gather the bits of golden
fleece which she would find caught on the bushes. Psyche listened
gratefully to this advice; and when the sun was high overhead, and the
panting sheep were gathered by the river, lulled to sleep by the drowsy
murmur of the reeds, she crossed the water fearlessly, and gathered
an armful of golden fleece from the bushes among which the flock had
wandered. That night she delivered her precious burden to Venus, who
again reproved her angrily, knowing well that it was through Cupid's
intervention that she had escaped the dangerous rams.
Then the goddess gave her a third errand, and bade her go down to
gruesome Hades to beg of Proserpina, Pluto's queen, a box of her
magic ointment, which could restore all fading beauty to its former
perfection. In the early morning Psyche set out on her journey,
fearful of the dangers that lurked by the way, but eager to gain the
favor of her hard-hearted mistress, so that she might thereby win her
lover back. When she had walked many hours, not knowing where to find
the entrance to remote and unsought Hades, a voice whispered softly
in her ear, telling her of a certain cave through which she might
enter the dreaded region of the dead. Then the voice directed her
how to go unharmed past Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and how to
persuade Charon, the silent ferryman, to row her across the black and
swiftly-flowing river. Encouraged by this timely help, Psyche was able
to secure the desired box, and to come safely out of that dark country
from which only the gods are privileged to return.
As she trod wearily up the valley back to the shrine of Venus, it
occurred to her to take a little of the magic ointment for herself, for
she knew that these days of waiting and working had dimmed the beauty
that once charmed Cupid's eyes. So she opened the box and out sprang
the invincible Spirit of Sleep, who seized upon poor unresisting
Psyche and laid her, apparently lifeless, by the roadside. But Cupid
was watching over his beloved through all the stages of her journey;
and when he saw her unconscious on the ground, he flew quickly to her
assistance, and fought with the masterful Spirit of Sleep until he
conquered it, and compelled it to return to the box from which it had
been set free. Then he roused Psyche from her sudden sleep and told her
that her troubles were at an end, for henceforth he would always stay
beside her. Together they went up to bright Olympus and stood before
Jupiter's throne, where Cupid besought the gods to look with favor upon
their love and to grant to Psyche the gift of immortal life. To this
great Jupiter gladly consented; and Venus, who was now ready to forgive
her one-time rival, welcomed her as the fitting wife of Cupid,--for
Psyche is but another name for Soul, and the Soul, to find its true
happiness, must dwell forever with Love.[24]
[Illustration: Cupid and Psyche]
Chapter XIII
Famous Lovers
I. Echo and Narcissus
Echo was a wood-nymph and a follower of Diana; and she had the one
fault of wanting to talk all the time, especially if she found some
one who was willing to listen. One day Juno went down in great haste
to the earth, suspecting that Jupiter was spending too much time in
the society of the nymphs; but before she had gone very far into the
forest she met Echo and stopped to speak to her. Now Echo knew that
the ruler of the gods was happily engaged with the nymphs, and would
not be pleased at his wife's sudden appearance; so she began to talk
rapidly to Juno, and to tell her such entertaining stories that the
unsuspicious goddess waited to listen. While Echo was thus keeping the
jealous queen from seeking for her husband, Jupiter--warned of her
coming--left the nymphs and returned in haste to Olympus. When, later
on, Juno learned that Echo had intentionally kept her listening so
that Jupiter could make his retreat unseen, she was so angry with the
officious nymph that she forbade her ever to speak again, except to
repeat the last word of any conversation she might hear. Thus she could
never more tell beguiling stories, or interfere in behalf of Jupiter.
At first Echo was very miserable over this misfortune; but in spite
of it she managed to spend her time happily in the forest, and to
hunt with the other nymphs of Diana. One evening as she stopped at a
brookside to drink, she met a handsome youth named Narcissus, and at
once fell in love with him; but unfortunately she could not tell him
of her affection except by languishing looks and sighs. Narcissus was
not at all pleased by her evident interest in him, for many maidens had
loved him, and he had turned coldly from their advances, preferring
to roam the forest alone. Sometime later Narcissus was hunting with
a companion, and, having rushed away in pursuit of a stag, he found
that his friend was no longer in sight. He called to him, but no one
answered except the devoted Echo who was always dogging his footsteps.
When Narcissus called "Are you here?" Echo replied, "Here." "Come!"
cried the youth, and Echo answered, "Come." Then she appeared before
the young hunter and mutely begged for his love; but Narcissus
scornfully turned from her, exclaiming, "You shall never have me."
"Have me," cried the unhappy maiden; but her frank offer was repulsed,
and the hard-hearted youth turned away. Echo made no further attempt
to win his love, but went into the mountains to live out her sad life
alone. No one ever saw her again, and in time she pined away and died;
but her voice remained to whisper among the hills, and to give back the
last word to any one who sought to call her.
As for Narcissus, his scorn of love brought its just punishment, for
Venus decreed that he should suffer even as poor Echo had done. One
day when he was hunting in a remote part of the forest, he came upon a
beautiful deep pool in which all objects were reflected as clearly as
in a mirror. No wild things had ever come to drink of the cool stream;
no feet of beasts had ever trampled the grass on its margin or muddied
its pure waters; not even a floating leaf had ruffled its calm surface.
When Narcissus knelt on the lush grass at the pool's edge and looked
down into the clear water, he was surprised to see a beautiful face
gazing up at him from the depth of the pool. He leaned nearer, and
the face did not withdraw, but seemed to approach his own. Then he
put out his arms to the water-nymph who, he believed, was returning
his advances, and he was delighted to see two white arms stretched
out as if to clasp him in their embrace. But as soon as he attempted
to grasp them, there was only the cool water in his hands, and the
nymph had vanished. When the surface of the pool had grown clear again,
and Narcissus leaned anxiously over it to see what had become of this
baffling maiden, there she was still, gazing at him with her beautiful
eyes. Again and again Narcissus strove to embrace her, but she eluded
his eager arms, and each time he clasped only the unsubstantial water.
Maddened by these repeated defeats, he spoke reproachfully to the
water-nymph, and asked her why she thus tormented him; but though the
lovely mouth so near his own seemed to move as if framing words, no
answer came to his appeal.
Each day Narcissus sought the forest pool, and each day he found the
nymph ready to return his smiles and fond looks, but always escaping
from his touch. By and by he spent all his time beside her, and cared
for nothing else than to gaze beseechingly into the lovely eyes that
looked into his own with the same fever of longing. Absorbed in the
adoration of this strange being who seemed so responsive to his passion
and yet so unwilling to allow him near, he forgot to eat or sleep,
and became only a wan shadow of his former self. The nymph, too, was
pining away with hopeless love, for her face grew pale and thin, and
the deep-shadowed eyes were full of sadness. Sometimes Narcissus slept
from sheer exhaustion; but when the moonlight fell on the calm water,
he would wake with a start and look anxiously to see whether the nymph
was sharing his weary vigil. And always he found her waiting there
in the cool depths of the pool. Finally he grew so sick with longing
that he died of his hopeless love without ever knowing that it was no
water-nymph whom he adored, but only his own reflection. The gods,
believing that such devotion should not go unrecognized, changed him
into a white flower which bears his name; and this is usually found
blooming beside some clear lake or tiny crystal pool.
II. Pyramus and Thisbe
In far-off Babylon there dwelt a youth and maiden whose families lived
in adjoining houses with a party-wall between the two estates. As
the heads of these households were sworn enemies, in spite of their
proximity, the wall was made so high that no one could climb over it,
much less see what was on the other side. The maiden Thisbe, as she
walked in her garden, often wondered who it was whose feet she could
hear pacing up and down along the wall; and one day she was delighted
to find a small crack in the masonry which enabled her to peep into
the adjoining garden. About this time young Pyramus was planning some
way to scale the wall, when he, too, discovered the same chink; and
when he peered cautiously through it, he found to his great joy that
there was a sweet-faced maiden standing near, who hastened to assure
him that she did not share in the family feud. This acquaintance soon
ripened into friendship, and Pyramus and Thisbe spent many hours
standing patiently by the chink in the wall, which was the only way in
which they could exchange confidences. Soon they grew dissatisfied with
this meager allowance of space in which to see each other, for by this
time they had become so much in love that the tender whispers breathed
through the broken wall only made them long to be together without this
cruel barrier between them.
So they planned to steal away from their watchful parents on a certain
night, and meet just outside the city walls at Ninus's tomb, where a
great white mulberry tree would hide them in its protecting shadow.
Accordingly, at the appointed hour, the trembling Thisbe wrapped
herself closely in her veil and crept out of the house. Finding that
she had come first to the trysting-place, she waited under the mulberry
tree, and idly watched the moonlight shining on a broad pool that lay
close to Ninus's tomb. Suddenly a lioness stole out of the bushes,
her mouth bloody with the recent gorging of oxen, and slunk down to
the pool to drink. Thisbe, terrified at the sight of the creature's
dripping jaws, fled into a near-by cave for refuge; but in her fright
she let fall her silken veil, and it dropped on the ground near the
tree.
The lioness having drunk her fill walked over to the tree and sniffed
curiously at the bit of silk, then worried at it with her bloody teeth,
as a dog plays with a rag. Just as the lioness departed, Pyramus
came hurrying to the trysting-place, and seeing Thisbe's torn and
blood-stained veil and the print of the lioness's feet on the ground,
he was beside himself with remorse and horror. Being certain that his
beloved had been torn to pieces by some wild beast, he cursed his own
carelessness in letting her come first to a spot so full of dangers.
Then he drew his sword, exclaiming that he no longer wished to live now
that Thisbe was dead. He called upon the mulberry tree to bear witness
to his oath of undying devotion, and then fell heroically upon his
sword, uttering the name of Thisbe with his last breath. As his blood
gushed out upon the ground at the foot of the tree, the earth absorbed
it so quickly that the white fruit of the tree turned a deep purple,
and its juice became like drops of crimson blood.
All this time Thisbe was hiding safely in the cave, and when she at
length ventured out, she gazed fearfully around to be sure that no
lioness was lying in wait to devour her. When she reached the spot
where she hoped to meet her lover, what was her terror and dismay to
find him stretched dead upon the ground with her veil held close to his
parted lips. Realizing what had happened, and that it was too late now
to convince him of his terrible mistake, Thisbe knelt down beside him
and vainly strove to bring him back to life. Finding this useless, she
seized Pyramus's sword and plunged it into her heart determined to die
with him. As she sank forward on her lover's lifeless body, she prayed
the gods to have pity on her great love and to allow her to be buried
in the same tomb with her beloved Pyramus. The gods heard her dying
prayer and answered it by making the hard hearts of the parents relent
so far that they consented to bury the lovers together. A costly tomb
was erected over them as a fitting monument to these two unfortunates
whom life so cruelly divided.[25]
III. Hero and Leander
In the town of Sestus on the Hellespont lived a beautiful maiden
named Hero, who was a priestess in the temple of Venus. Most of her
time was spent in the service of the goddess; but when these hours of
attendance were over, and she was free to leave the temple, Hero was
glad to seek her own dwelling-place, which was a lonely tower on the
cliffs overlooking the sea. Here the maiden loved to sit, watching the
white-winged gulls as they skimmed over the waves, or listening to the
breakers as they dashed angrily against the rocks at the foot of her
tower. The beauty of Hero was famed throughout the country-side; and
many a youth sought the temple of Venus at festival time under the
pretext of honoring the goddess, but really to gaze upon the lovely
young priestess. Among those most eager to see the maiden was Leander,
a youth who lived in a town just across the Hellespont and within
sight of Hero's tower. When he joined the solemn procession that came
to do homage to Venus, he saw the beautiful priestess and determined
to win her in spite of the many restrictions that forbade even an
acquaintance with one dedicated to the temple. Ignoring the thought of
the inevitable punishment that would be meted out to him if his rash
presumption were known, Leander managed to find an opportunity to speak
with Hero and to tell her of his love.
At first she would not listen to his pleading; but at last she was won
by the sincerity of his words, and consented to disregard her sacred
vows by receiving him in her tower. Leander did not dare to visit her
until nightfall; and as he would have to swim across the Hellespont in
the darkness, Hero promised to put a light in her tower so that he
might have some beacon to guide him as he breasted the uncertain sea.
When night came and Leander stood impatiently on the shore, waiting
for the promised signal, suddenly a torch blazed in the distance, and
he knew that Hero was awaiting him in her lonely tower. He plunged
fearlessly into the waves; and though the current was swift, he struck
out boldly and was carried out of its dangerous grip. Now and then he
looked up to where the light was still burning, and his heart beat fast
with hope when he saw it grow larger and brighter as he neared the
land. At last he reached the rocks at the foot of the tower and was
soon standing beside the trembling Hero, who had feared each moment to
see him sink beneath the waves.
The lovers were so happy in being together that each night Leander swam
across the treacherous sea, and Hero placed her torch in the tower
to light him on his perilous journey. All summer they lived in this
idyllic happiness, but when winter came with its storms and its icy
hand, Hero feared for her lover's safety and begged him not to venture
into the sea. Leander laughed however at her fears and continued to
brave the narrow stretch of water that lay between his home and Hero's
tower. The wind often beat him out of his path, and the icy water
numbed his limbs; but he kept bravely on, with his eyes fixed on the
welcoming light. One morning a fierce storm broke over the sea, and
increased in fury through the day, so that by night the waves were
lashing themselves madly against the rocks, and the wind beat the
sea-gulls back to land. Hero dreaded the approach of that hour when
Leander would start on his nightly journey, for she knew that he would
not hesitate to risk his life in the maddened sea for the sake of being
beside her.
When the time came for her to light the torch, she did so reluctantly,
hoping that Leander would not come. On the opposite shore stood the
impatient lover, waiting for the accustomed signal, and when it blazed
out into the night, he plunged boldly into the waves. But now the
sea was too strong even for his experienced arms, and the huge waves
tossed him about as though he were so much foam. The wind and rain
beat upon his defenseless body, and the cold sea gripped him in its
deadly embrace. He struggled bravely to make some headway, and called
upon the gods for help; but his cries were drowned in the howling of
the storm. His strength began to fail as he fought desperately with
the current,--grown terrible in its swiftness,--but now and then he
lifted his head weakly above the waves to see whether Hero's torch was
still burning. Just as he was making a last heroic effort to reach
the land, a sudden gust of wind blew out the light; and seeing this,
Leander with a despairing cry, gave up his unequal battle and sank down
into the sea. The next morning when Hero, anxious and fearful, stood
on the rocks at the foot of the tower, she saw Leander's body, which
had been tossed there in wanton cruelty by the waves. Unable to endure
this sight, and not wishing to live any longer now that her lover had
perished, Hero threw herself into the sea; and when the tardy fishermen
came to launch their boats on the furious waves, they found the
white-robed body of the young priestess lying dead beside her faithful
Leander.[26]
[Illustration: Hero and Leander]
IV. Pygmalion and Galatea
Pygmalion, king of Cyprus, was a sworn bachelor, and had shunned the
society of women for many years. He was also a famous sculptor, and
spent all his leisure hours carving wonderful things out of marble
and ivory. Though he would not deign to admire any living woman, he
had lofty ideals of feminine beauty, and loved to carve statues whose
perfection of form and exquisite grace surpassed any charms that
could be claimed for a flesh-and-blood maiden. Once Pygmalion made a
beautiful ivory statue that was such a marvel of loveliness that even
the sculptor himself became enamored of it, and lavished upon it a
devotion that was hardly consistent with his supposed indifference to
love. This perfect creation he called Galatea, and he treated her with
all the extravagant fondness that a lover bestows upon his mistress.
He brought her presents of quaint seashells and delicately perfumed
flowers, beads, pearls, and the rarest of jewels, and even gayly
colored birds. Sometimes he hung a string of precious stones about her
neck, and draped her white body in softest silks, treating her in every
way as a maiden reluctant to be wooed.
When the festival of Venus was being celebrated, Pygmalion joined in
the procession and placed a rich offering on the goddess's shrine. As
he did so he looked up toward high Olympus and prayed Venus to grant
him a wife like his peerless Galatea. The goddess heard his prayer,
and as the patroness of all true lovers, she inclined with favor to
his wish; so when Pygmalion returned to his home and hastened into the
presence of his adored statue, he was bewildered at the change that
seemed to be coming over it. A beam of sunset light that was streaming
in through the open window had touched the ivory coldness of the statue
and warmed it with a rosy glow that made it look wonderfully soft and
yielding. But this was not all, for as the astonished sculptor stood
wondering at this unexpected answer to his prayer, the beautiful face
of Galatea turned toward him, and the perfect lips parted as if to
speak. Breathlessly Pygmalion watched the statue gradually warming
into life, and when he was at last assured that it was no longer a
piece of unresponsive ivory, but a breathing, blushing maiden, he knelt
adoringly at her feet and besought her to be his queen.[27]
Chapter XIV
The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice
The deeds of the immortal gods were told and sung at every fireside in
Greece; and among these hero-tales there was none more popular than the
story of how Apollo built for Neptune the famous wall of Troy. Many
musicians would have been glad to perform a similar service for the
mere fame that it would bring them, but they feared that the attempt to
imitate Apollo would only result in failure and ridicule. So no mortal
ever presumed to say that he could make rocks and stones obedient to
the spell of his music. There was, however, one musician, Amphion,
king of Thebes, who was anxious to prove that his playing was equal
to Apollo's, but knowing how unwise it was to vie with an immortal,
he determined not to test his skill publicly, but to carry out his
cherished plan at night, when men were dreaming in their beds. He was
eager to build a high wall around Thebes, and to build it as Apollo
did the wall of Troy; so when the sun set, and darkness crept over the
earth, Amphion stood just outside the city gates and began to play
on his lyre. Immediately the stones rose from the ground and moved
rhythmically into their places in the wall, which soon rose strong and
high--a firmer defense than any that could be built by men's hands.[28]
Another famous musician was Arion, who won not only praise for his
great skill in playing, but also much wealth. Whenever a contest
was held in which a prize of money was given, Arion was usually a
competitor; and, as his music was really finer than that of most
players, he easily won the reward. Once he was returning from a
festival in Sicily whither many musicians had gone on account of the
rich prize; and as he had come off victor, he was leaving the foreign
shores well-laden with gold. Unfortunately he happened to embark on
a ship owned by pirates who had heard of his great wealth, and were
plotting to seize whatever part of it he had on board. As the easiest
way to do this was to kill him, the pirates began to bind him with
ropes that he might not be able to struggle when thrown over-board.
Arion calmly accepted his fate, but begged the brutal crew to allow
him to play once upon his lyre before going to his death. To this
the pirates consented, and when the wonderful music filled the air,
a school of dolphins swam toward the ship and kept close beside it,
charmed by Arion's playing. Feeling sure that there was some magic in
the music, the pirates hastened to throw the player and his lyre into
the sea without waiting to bind him; but Arion did not drown as they
had expected, for a friendly dolphin caught him on its back and swam
with him to the shore, where he landed in safety. When in the course of
time Arion died, the gods placed him, together with his lyre and the
kindly dolphin, in the sky as constellations.
The most famous of all musicians, except the one who played in the
shining halls of Olympus, was Orpheus, son of Apollo and of the muse
Calliope.[29] When he was a mere child, his father gave him a lyre and
taught him to play upon it; but Orpheus needed very little instruction,
for as soon as he laid his hand upon the strings the wild beasts crept
out of their lairs to crouch beside him; the trees on the mountain-side
moved nearer so that they might listen; and the flowers sprang up in
clusters all around him, unwilling to remain any longer asleep in the
earth.
When Orpheus sought in marriage the golden-haired Eurydice, there
were other suitors for her hand, but though they brought rich gifts,
gathered out of many lands, they could not win the maiden's love, and
she turned from them to bestow her hand upon Orpheus who had no way to
woo her but with his music. On the wedding day there was the usual
mirth and feasting, but one event occurred that cast a gloom over the
happiness of the newly-married pair. When Hymen, god of marriage, came
with his torch to bless the nuptial feast, the light that should have
burned clear and pure began to smoke ominously, as if predicting future
disaster.
This evil omen was fulfilled all too soon, for one day when Eurydice
was walking in the meadow, she met the youth Aristæus, who was so
charmed with her beauty that he insisted upon staying beside her to
pour his ardent speeches into her unwilling ears. To escape from these
troublesome attentions, Eurydice started to run away, and as she ran
she stepped on a poisonous snake, which quickly turned and bit her. She
had barely time to reach her home before the poison had done its work,
and Orpheus heard the sad story from her dying lips. As soon as Mercury
had led away the soul of Eurydice, the bereaved husband hastened to the
shining halls of Olympus, and throwing himself down before Jupiter's
golden throne, he implored that great ruler of gods and men to give
him back his wife. There was always pity in the hearts of the gods for
those who die in flowering time, so Jupiter gave permission to Orpheus
to go down into Hades, and beg of Pluto the boon he craved.
It was a steep and perilous journey to the kingdom of the dead, and
the road was one that no mortal foot had ever trod; but through his
love for Eurydice Orpheus forgot the dangers of the way, and when he
spoke her name, the terrors of the darkness vanished. In his hand he
held his lyre, and when he arrived at the gate of Hades, where the
fierce three-headed dog Cerberus refused to let him pass, Orpheus stood
still in the uncertain darkness and began to play. And as he played the
snarling of the dog ceased and the noise of its harsh breathing grew
faint. Then Orpheus went on his way undisturbed, but still he played
softly on his lyre, and the sounds floated far into the dismal interior
of Hades, where the souls of the condemned labor forever at their
tasks. Tantalus heard the music, and ceased to strive for a drop of the
forbidden water; Ixion rested a moment beside his ever-revolving wheel;
and Sisyphus stood listening, while the rock which he must roll through
all eternity fell from his wearied arms. The daughters of Danaüs laid
down their urns beside the sieve into which they were forever pouring
water, and as the mournful wailing of Orpheus's lyre told the story of
his lost love, they wept then for a sorrow not their own. So plaintive,
indeed, was the music, that all the shadowy forms that flitted
endlessly by shed tears of sympathy for the player's grief, and even
the cheeks of the Furies were wet.
When Orpheus came before the throne of Pluto, that relentless monarch
repulsed him angrily as he attempted to plead his cause, and commanded
him to depart. Then the son of Apollo began to play upon his lyre,
and through his music he told the story of his loss, and besought the
ruler of these myriad souls to give him the single one he craved. So
wonderfully did Orpheus play that the hard heart of Pluto was touched
with pity, and he consented to restore Eurydice to her husband on
condition that as they went out together from the loathed country of
the dead he should not once turn his head to look upon her. To this
strange decree Orpheus gladly promised obedience; so Eurydice was
summoned from among the million shadow-shapes that throng the silent
halls of death. Pluto told her the condition on which her freedom was
to be won, and then bade her follow her husband.
[Illustration: Orpheus and Eurydice]
During all the wearisome journey back to earth, Orpheus never forgot
the promise he had made, though he often longed to give just a hurried
glance at the face of Eurydice to see whether it had lost its sadness.
As they neared the spot where the first faint glimmerings of light
filtered down into the impenetrable darkness, Orpheus thought he heard
his wife calling, and he looked quickly around to find whether she
was still following him. At that moment the slight form close behind
him began to fade away, and a mournful voice--seemingly far in the
distance--called to him a sad farewell.
He knew that no second chance would be given him to win his wife from
Pluto's hold, even if he could again charm the three-headed Cerberus
or persuade Charon, the grim ferryman, to take him across the river.
So he went forlornly back to earth and lived in a forest cave far
from the companionship of men. At first there was only his lyre to
share his solitude, but soon the forest creatures came to live beside
him, and often sat listening to his music, looking exceedingly wise
and sorrowful. Even in his sleepless hours, when he fancied he heard
Eurydice calling, he was never quite alone, for the bat and owl and
the things that love the darkness flitted about him, and he saw the
glow-worms creep toward him out of the night-cold grass.
One day a party of Bacchantes found him seated outside the cave,
playing the mournful music that told of his lost love, and they bade
him change the sad notes to something gay so that they might dance.
But Orpheus was too wrapped up in his sorrow to play any strain of
cheerful music, and he refused to do as they asked. The Bacchantes were
half maddened by their festival days of drinking, and this refusal so
enraged them that they fell upon the luckless musician and tore him to
pieces. Then they threw his mangled body into the river, and as the
head of Orpheus drifted down the stream, his lips murmured again and
again "Eurydice," until the hills echoed the beloved name, and the
rocks and trees and rivers repeated it in mournful chorus. Later on,
the Muses gathered up his remains to give them honorable burial; and it
is said that over Orpheus's grave the nightingale sings more sweetly
than in any other spot in Greece.[30]
Chapter XV
Mars and Vulcan
I
The three children of Jupiter and Juno were Hebe, Mars, and Vulcan.
Hebe, goddess of youth, was cupbearer at the feasts of Olympus and
poured from golden flagons the sparkling, ruby-tinted nectar. Many
times were the brimming cups emptied and filled again, for the gods
loved long draughts of the life-giving nectar that kept off all
sickness and decay. No wine of earth's yielding ever appeared at these
royal banquets, nor were there seen here the heaped-up platters of food
such as mortals crave; for the gods ate only of the divine ambrosia
which insured to them eternal youth and beauty.
For so long a time had fair-haired Hebe served at the feasts of Olympus
that the gods never thought that she could be deprived of her office;
but once, as she was handing Jupiter a well-filled cup, she stumbled
and fell, and the ruler of gods and men was so angry that he vowed that
she should never again be cupbearer. Since no one among the gods was
willing to fill this humble position, Jupiter was obliged to seek over
the earth for some mortal to take the place of poor disgraced Hebe.
To make the journey as speedily as possible he assumed the form of an
eagle, and spent many days soaring over the land before he found the
youth whose slender grace made him feel assured that its possessor
would be able to serve the gods less awkwardly than Hebe. On the sunny
slopes of Mount Ida he saw a group of youths playing games, and among
them was one whom Jupiter determined to bear away at once to Olympus.
This was Ganymede, a prince of Troy; and the fact that he was no common
mortal, but a king's son, did not deter Jupiter from swooping down upon
the astonished youth, and carrying him aloft on his wings. Whether
Ganymede was happy in Olympus we do not know; but the story goes that
he remained forever at Jupiter's side, and the city of Troy never saw
him again, nor did the king his father ever know the reason for his
strange disappearance.
II
Mars[31] was the god of war; and though he was the least loved of
all the deities in Olympus, he was the one most feared by the people
of every land. As he was always a hater of peace, and would stir
up strife among men for the mere delight of fighting and bloodshed,
the poet Homer calls him "the slayer of men, one steeped in blood,
the destroyer of walled towns." His shrines were never wreathed with
flowers, nor were children often found among the people grouped
about his altars. Instead of the yearling ox with gilded horns, men
sacrificed a savage bull to the god who took no pleasure in the tame
shedding of blood. Sometimes Bellona, goddess of war, accompanied Mars
in his chariot to watch over his safety; and since she was equally
eager to urge men on to bloody fighting, their appearance together
on the battle-field brought terror to the bravest heart. Seldom were
prayers addressed to these two deities, except those of vengeance upon
enemies; and there was little hope of peace for the nation when men
thronged the temples where Mars and Bellona were jointly worshiped. The
fiercest passions were kindled at their shrines, and their altars were
the only ones that were ever defiled by human sacrifices.
Though so fierce in warfare, Mars was as susceptible to love as were
all the immortals; for he was not only the chosen one of golden-haired
Venus, but was also the devoted lover of the vestal Rhea Silvia.[32]
This maiden, being dedicated to the goddess Vesta, did not dare to
listen to any words of love until her time of service in the temple
was over; for the penalty of breaking her solemn vows would be the
terrible one of being buried alive. But Mars was not to be denied; so
at last the vestal yielded, but kept her marriage secret and continued
to live in the temple until the birth of her twin sons Romulus and
Remus. When her parents learned that she had failed to keep the sacred
promise made at the altar fire of Vesta, they demanded that she should
suffer the prescribed punishment. She was therefore taken at night into
an underground room of the temple and inclosed in the wall which had
been built to allow for just such a tragic event. As her children were
declared outcasts, they were taken into the forest and left to perish
by the teeth of wild beasts. Romulus and Remus did not die, however;
for a she-wolf carried them to her lair and reared them with her own
cubs. Later on they were found by a kindly shepherd who took care of
them until they grew to manhood. Then they left him, and went out into
the world to seek adventures, which soon ended in Romulus killing his
brother Remus and himself becoming the founder of Rome.
When this new city was well established, Mars was made its patron deity
and protector; and before an army set out on any military campaign the
leader would first go into the temple where the sacred shield--the
Ancile--hung; and touching it fearfully would pray, "Oh, Mars, watch
over us." This shield was carefully guarded in Rome, for upon it
depended the safety of the city. It was a special token sent by the god
of war to show that the people of Rome were under his protection; for
once when a plague was raging among them and the dead were numbered
by thousands, the Romans fled to the temple of Mars and begged him to
help them. As they were praying, a shield fell from the skies into
their midst, and a voice told them that as long as this--the sacred
Ancile--was with them, no harm could come to Rome. That day the plague
ceased, and ever afterward the shield was jealously guarded. To insure
its safety, eleven other shields were made so like the Ancile that no
one but the Salii, the priests of the temple, knew which it was. These
were carried in the streets during the festivals in honor of Mars which
were held in March--the month that bears his name; and as the priests
bore aloft the shields they sang war-songs and performed rude war
dances. Sometimes the shields were displayed on the broad grounds where
the soldiers and youths of the city held their exercises. This place
was dedicated to the god of war, and was called the Campus Martius, or
Field of Mars.
During the war between the gods and giants, Mars was so eager to prove
his skill in warfare that he engaged in a fierce battle with Otus and
Ephialtes. These two giants were only nine years old; but they were
already of immense size, as they increased in height at the rate of
nine inches every month. The young giants were very proud of having
conquered the god of war, and carried him off the battle-field in
triumph. They bound Mars with iron chains, and kept a careful guard
over him so that none of the gods could set him free. Whenever Mars
attempted to escape at night, believing that the giants were asleep,
the rattle of the chains woke his guardians, and all hope of rescuing
him was over. In this disgraceful bondage the unhappy Mars lingered for
fifteen months until Mercury, the prince of thieves, unfastened the
chains and restored the god to freedom.
When Cadmus went on his search for his sister Europa, whom Jupiter, in
the form of a white bull, had carried off to a distant land,[33] the
devoted brother was at last bidden to give up his hopeless quest, to
settle in the country, later called Bœotia, and to found a city there.
Cadmus was glad to rest after his long march, and he sent some of his
men in search of a spring. When they did not come back, he sent others
to look for them, and when these did not return, he went himself to see
what had caused all this delay. He carried his sword in his hand, and
also a long spear, for he guessed that some disaster had overtaken his
men. He wandered some time before he discovered any trace of them, and
then at the edge of a forest he came upon the lifeless body of one of
those who had first set out to find the spring. As he went farther into
the forest he found others of his men, all of them lifeless, and soon
he came to a large cave, at the entrance of which bubbled a fountain of
purest water.
Not knowing that this was a grove sacred to Mars, and a fountain that
had never been polluted by mortal touch, Cadmus stooped to drink, when
suddenly, out of the deep shadows of the cave, rushed a huge dragon
with crested head and glittering scales and a triple tongue vibrating
between triple rows of teeth. This monster, twisting his body into a
huge coil, darted toward Cadmus with gleaming fangs; but the young
prince dealt his assailant a terrific blow that pierced the dragon in
a vital spot, and it rolled over dead upon the floor of the cave. Then
Cadmus heard a voice telling him to take out the dragon's teeth and
to sow them in the ground where he wished to build his future city of
Thebes. As soon as the teeth were sown, a crop of giants in glittering
armor sprang up out of the ground, and when they were about to turn
their spears upon Cadmus, he again heard the voice--this time bidding
him throw a stone into the midst of the armed men. This caused a
terrific battle to begin among the giants themselves, and soon they
were all killed except five who laid down their weapons and offered
their services to Cadmus.
As a punishment for the desecration of his grove and the slaying of
its sacred guardian, Mars compelled Cadmus to serve him for eight
years. At the end of this time the prince was made ruler of the new
city of Thebes, and Mars so far forgave the sacrilege of his grove
as to give Cadmus his daughter Harmonia in marriage. The career of
the new king was very prosperous at first, and Cadmus was supposed to
have contributed a great boon to his people by the invention of the
alphabet. Later on he incurred the wrath of the gods by forgetting to
offer them suitable sacrifices, and both he and his wife Harmonia were
changed into serpents.
Just above the city of Athens was a hill called the Areopagus (from the
Greek word meaning Mars Hill), which received its name from a famous
trial that took place there. Neptune's son had carried off the daughter
of Mars; and when the god of war learned of the abduction, he hurried
after the daring youth and killed him. Then Neptune demanded that Mars
should be punished for his deed of blood; and to decide the matter,
both were summoned to appear before a court of justice, which was held
on the hill above Athens. As it was the custom for all important cases
to be tried at night, so that the judges might not be prejudiced by
the favorable appearance of either party, the court assembled in the
darkness, and Mars told the story of his daughter's capture and his
own subsequent revenge. In spite of Neptune's objections to what he
considered an unfair verdict, the judges decided in favor of Mars, and
he was therefore acquitted. The hill was afterwards called by his name,
and the judges of the principal court of justice were always termed
_areopagitæ_.
III
Vulcan,[34] god of fire and the forge, was not often seen in the halls
of Olympus, for he knew that the gods despised him for his ungainly
appearance, and he preferred to stay in his own sooty workshop. He had
also no desire for the society of his divine parents, since his mother
had never shown anything but indifference toward him, and his father
had been the cause of his deformity. Jupiter was once so angry with
Juno for interfering in his love affairs that he fastened her to the
end of a strong chain, and hung her out of heaven. Vulcan, seeing his
mother in this sad plight, dragged at the chain and finally succeeded
in drawing Juno into safety. Full of wrath at this defiance of his
wishes, Jupiter kicked his son out of heaven; and as the distance of
the fall was so great, it was a whole day and night before Vulcan
reached the earth. Had he been a mortal, there would have been nothing
left to tell the story of his meteorlike descent; but being a god, he
still lived and had only a slight deformity and lameness as the result
of his fall. When he learned that Juno was so unconcerned over his fate
that she had never even inquired whether he was badly hurt, he would
not go back to Olympus, but shut himself up in the heart of Mount Etna,
where he established a mighty forge that poured out fire and smoke for
many years after.
Vulcan did not forget about his mother's heartless indifference; but
none of the gods suspected him of harboring any revenge, until one
day a beautiful golden throne arrived in Olympus as a present to Juno
from her son. The goddess admired the exquisite designs carved on
its polished surface, and seated herself in it proudly. Now Vulcan
had contrived to hide some springs in the interior of the throne,
and these were so skillfully arranged that the moment a person was
seated, the entire structure quickly contracted and held the occupant
prisoner. So in a moment proud Juno found herself securely caught, and
no assistance that the gods could render her was of the least avail.
Then Jupiter sent Mercury to the grimy abode of Vulcan to beg politely
that the god of fire would honor, with his presence, the feast that
was that day to be held in Olympus; but Vulcan was not to be moved
by any flattery, for he well knew why he was so much desired at this
particular time. So Mercury returned alone to Olympus, and Jupiter was
obliged to think of some other device for luring Vulcan from his forge.
This time he sent Bacchus, god of wine; and when the scowling deity
of Etna saw Bacchus's jolly red face and heard his hearty laugh, he
welcomed the jovial visitor and drank freely of the wine that Bacchus
poured. The roisterous god of revels, who dearly loved to see good
wine flowing, beguiled Vulcan into taking draught after draught of the
choice vintage that he had purposely brought, until the sullen master
of the forge was unable to tell what was happening, and allowed himself
to be led unresistingly to Olympus. Once there the gods persuaded him
to release the repentant Juno, and to allow himself to be reinstated in
Jupiter's favor.
Though Vulcan grudgingly complied with these requests, he would not
consent to live in Olympus, but returned to his workshop in Mount
Etna. There he made many things out of gold and precious stones and
gave them to the gods as an evidence that he no longer bore them any
ill will. Their golden thrones were made by Vulcan's crafty hands, and
the wonderful palaces, with all their costly furnishings, were the
best result of his skill. He also forged Jupiter's thunderbolts and
fashioned the weapons that the gods used in battle. He made Apollo's
marvelous sun-chariot, and even deigned to use his skill in shaping the
arrows that Cupid used in his golden bow.
When Jupiter decreed[35] that laughter-loving Venus should wed his
misshapen son, Vulcan took his reluctant wife to the smoky workshop in
Mount Etna, and for a while Venus was amused at the unusual sights and
sounds that greeted her in her new home; but she soon wearied of the
dirt and darkness, and left the society of her surly husband to return
to Olympus, where there was plenty to delight her pleasure-loving
soul.
[Illustration: The Abduction of Proserpina]
Chapter XVI
The Story of Proserpina
When Jupiter made himself ruler of the world, he imprisoned some of
the warring giants under Mount Etna in Sicily, much to the disgust
of Pluto, who was always fearing that when the giants got restless
and turned over and over underground (thus causing earthquakes), they
would some day make such a large crack in the earth that daylight would
be let into Hades. So Pluto often went up out of his sunless land to
look carefully over the island, and to be sure that no new fissure
was being made in the earth's surface. One day, as he was driving his
four coal-black horses through the vale of Enna, he saw a group of
maidens gathering violets on the hillside; and among them was one so
exquisitely fair that Pluto determined to take her for his wife. This
was Proserpina,[36] daughter of Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, a
maiden who had ever shunned the thought of marriage and preferred to
spend her life playing games, and dancing in the beautiful plain of
Enna, where there is never any frost or snow, but springtime lasts
through all the year.
Pluto had often tried to gain a wife by gentle means, but no one would
consent to share his grewsome home; so, knowing that this maiden he
desired would never listen to soft words of love, he determined to take
her by force. Driving his fiery horses at full speed, he rushed toward
the group of laughing girls, who scattered and fled at his approach.
Proserpina alone stood still, and stared, frightened and wondering, at
the grim figure confronting her, while the flowers she had gathered
dropped from her trembling hands. In a moment Pluto had seized her in
his strong arms; and, trampling all her violets under his ruthless
feet, he sprang into the chariot and urged his horses to their full
speed, hoping to reach Hades before the maiden's cries brought Ceres to
the rescue.
As he neared the Cyane River the waters, wishing to befriend
Proserpina, began to rise higher and higher, and with tossing waves
opposed the madly-rushing steeds. Fearing to risk the chariot in the
angry waters, Pluto struck the ground with his terrible two-pronged
fork, and a great chasm opened before him, into which the ruler of
Hades hurriedly plunged. Then the earth closed again over him and the
captured maiden. During the dreadful moments when Proserpina felt
herself held a prisoner in the arms of this bold wooer, she called
wildly to her mother for help; but soon she realized that her cries
would never reach Ceres's ears, and that she must find some other way
to let the goddess know of her unhappy fate. So she summoned enough
strength to struggle in her captor's embrace until she freed one arm
from his hold, and with it loosened her girdle, which she flung into
the Cyane River just before the yawning earth hid her so completely
that no traces were left to tell where she had gone.
When Ceres[37] came that evening into the vale of Enna and found that
her daughter was not playing as usual with the other maidens, she
questioned them, and learned their tearful story of the chariot with
its four black horses and terrible driver. Just what had become of
Proserpina no one could tell her; so the distracted mother began her
search, not knowing whether she might at any moment come upon her
daughter's body mangled by the chariot wheels. For days and days she
wandered, never stopping to rest except for a few hours at night when
it was too dark for her to see her way. Rosy-fingered Aurora, when she
left her soft couch to open the gates of the morning, and Hesperus,
when he led out the stars at evening, saw her still searching for the
lost Proserpina. Sometimes she was so weary that she sank down by the
roadside and let the night-dew drench her aching limbs. Sometimes she
rested under the trees when a storm broke over her head; but even here
the rain beat down upon her, and the wind blew its cold breath in her
face. Kindly people gave her food whenever she stopped to ask for it,
and though none knew that she was a goddess, they sympathized with her
grief when she told them that she was seeking her lost child. Only once
did she meet with unkindness. She was sitting at a cottage door eating
gruel from a bowl, and a lad--Stellio by name--laughed insolently at
her enjoyment of the meal. To punish him for his rudeness the goddess
threw some of the gruel in his face, and immediately he was changed
into a lizard.
One day Ceres found herself near the city of Eleusis, and to avoid
being recognized as a goddess, she disguised herself as an old beggar
woman. She sat for a long time on a stone by the roadside, mourning
her lost Proserpina, until a little girl came by, driving some goats.
Seeing the old woman's tearful face, the child stopped to ask her her
trouble, but before Ceres could answer, the girl's father joined her
and together they begged the stranger to come to their cottage and
rest. The goddess yielded at last to their kindly insistence, and as
she walked beside the old man, whose name was Celeus, he told her that
at home he had a sick boy who had lately grown so ill that to-day they
believed he would surely die. Ceres listened to his pathetic story, and
for a moment forgot her own grief. Seeing a chance to return the old
man's kindness, she followed him into the cottage; but first stopped by
the meadow to gather a handful of poppies. When the parents led her to
the sick child's bedside, she stooped and kissed the pale little face
and immediately it became rosy with health. The boy sprang up well and
strong again, to the great astonishment of his delighted family.
As they sat at the simple evening meal, the goddess put some
poppy-juice in the glass of milk set out for the boy; and that night,
when he was in a heavy sleep, she rubbed his body with oil, murmured
over him a solemn charm, and was about to lay him on the red-hot ashes
in the fire--that his mortal parts might be consumed and he himself
be made immortal--when his mother chanced to enter the room, and
springing forward with a cry of horror, snatched the boy from the fire.
Before the excited mother could vent her wrath on the old woman, Ceres
assumed her goddess form and quietly reproved the intruder; for her
interference had not averted a harm, but had prevented a great gift
from being conferred upon the unconscious child.
When Ceres left the cottage of Celeus, she continued her wanderings
over the earth, and finally returned, discouraged and heartbroken,
to Sicily. Chancing to be near the river Cyane, she went down to
the water's edge to drink, and happily discovered the girdle that
Proserpina had dropped there in her flight. This made her hopeful of
finding further traces of her lost daughter, so she lingered by the
river bank, eagerly scanning the overflowing stream. As she stood there
holding the recovered girdle in her hand, she heard a low murmuring
sound as if some one were speaking in whispers. The goddess listened,
wondering from what place the voice came; and soon she found that the
soft tones proceeded from a fountain which was so close to her that its
lightly-tossed spray fell on her hand. The murmur was often indistinct,
but Ceres understood enough to realize that the words were addressed to
her, and that the fountain was trying to tell her how Pluto had come up
from Hades and carried off Proserpina to be his wife.
While the goddess was musing over this painful revelation, the fountain
went on to say that it had not always been a stream in sunny Sicily,
but was once a maiden named Arethusa[38] and a native of the country
of Elis. As a follower of Diana she had roamed the wooded hills; and
one day, being wearied from the chase, she sought refreshment in the
forest stream. The drooping willows hung protectingly over the water,
and here the nymph bathed fearlessly, believing herself alone. But
Alpheus, the river-god, heard the splashing of the water, and rose
from his grassy bed to see who was disturbing his noon-day rest. At
the sight of Arethusa he was so delighted that he ventured to approach
her; but she fled terrified through the forest, calling on Diana for
help. The goddess, hearing her cries, changed her into a fountain; and
to further baffle the pursuing Alpheus, she wrapped it in a thick mist.
As the river-god could no longer see the nymph, he was about to give up
the chase, when Zephyrus maliciously blew away the cloud, and Alpheus
saw the bubbling fountain. Suspecting that this was Arethusa, the god
changed himself into a rushing torrent, and was preparing to mingle
his impetuous waves with the waters of the fountain, when the nymph
again called on Diana to protect her. The goddess came to her rescue by
opening a crevice in the earth, and here the shivering waters of the
fountain found a speedy refuge. To keep far out of the reach of Alpheus
it continued to flow underground for many miles, and even crept beneath
the sea until it reached Sicily, where Diana again cleft the earth and
allowed the fountain to come up into the sunlight. During her journey
through the dark underworld, Arethusa said that she had seen Proserpina
sitting, tearful and sad, on a throne beside the grim ruler of the
dead.
When she heard this story, Ceres was no longer in doubt where her lost
daughter could be found; but the knowledge gave her little comfort,
for she was aware how useless it would be to ask Pluto to give up the
wife he had so daringly won. Seeing no hope of regaining her child,
Ceres retired to a cave in the hills, and paid no heed to the waiting
earth that had suffered so long from her neglect. There was drought
in the land, and the crops were failing for want of water. The fruit
trees were drying up, and the flowers were withering on the parched
hillsides. Everything cried out for the protecting care of Ceres; but
the goddess stayed her hand, and in the solitude of the cave mourned
unceasingly for Proserpina. Famine spread over the land, but the
people, in spite of their dire need of food, burned sacrifices of sheep
and oxen on the altars of Ceres, while they importuned her with their
prayers. Jupiter heard their cries and besought the goddess to take the
earth again under her wise care; but Ceres refused to listen, for she
was indifferent now to the welfare of men, and no longer delighted in
the ripening harvest.
When sickness and death followed hard upon the famine, Jupiter saw
that he must save the sorely-stricken land, so he promised the goddess
that her daughter should be restored to her if she had eaten nothing
during all her sojourn in Pluto's realm. Mercury was sent to lead
Proserpina out of Hades; but when he reached there, he found that Pluto
had already given his wife some pomegranate seeds, hoping that she
would thereby stay forever in his keeping. Dismayed at this unexpected
downfall of her hopes, Ceres was about to shut herself up again in the
cave, when Jupiter, in behalf of the suffering earth, made a compromise
with Pluto whereby Proserpina was to spend half her time with her
mother in the land of sunshine and flowers, and the rest with her
husband in cold and cheerless Hades. Each spring Mercury was sent to
lead Proserpina up from the underworld lest her eyes, grown accustomed
only to shadows, should be dazzled by the blinding sunlight, and she
herself should lose the way. All things awaited her coming; and as soon
as her foot touched the winter-saddened earth the flowers bloomed to
delight her eyes, the grass sprang up to carpet her way with greenness,
the birds sang to cheer her long-depressed spirit, and above her the
sun shone brilliantly in the blue Sicilian sky.
Ceres no longer mourned, nor did she again suffer a great famine to
afflict the land. The patient old earth smiled again on Proserpina's
return, for then her mother gave the blighted vegetation a redoubled
care. But her happiness did not make the goddess forget the kindly old
man who had given her food and shelter at Eleusis, for she returned
there and taught the boy Triptolemus all the secrets of agriculture.
She also gave him her chariot, and bade him journey everywhere,
teaching the people how to plow and sow and reap, and care for their
harvests. Triptolemus carried out all her instructions; and as he
traveled over the country he was eagerly welcomed alike by prince and
peasant until he came to Scythia, where the cruel King Lyncus would
have killed him, in a fit of jealous wrath, had not Ceres interfered
with timely aid and changed the treacherous monarch into a lynx.
Chapter XVII
Pluto and the Underworld
In the beginning of the world, before the gods came to dwell in
Olympus, all the universe was in the hands of the Titans; and among
these the greatest was Saturn,--or Cronos,[39]--who wedded his sister
Rhea (also called Cybele) and became the father of three sons and
three daughters, Jupiter, Pluto, Neptune, Ceres, Vesta, and Juno. For
many ages Saturn and Rhea, having subdued all the opposing Titans,
ruled over heaven and earth; but when the cruelty of Saturn drove his
children into rebellion, there arose a mighty war in the universe, in
which the sons and daughters of Saturn leagued against their father,
who had called upon the other Titans for aid. After years of combat
the six brothers and sisters, helped by the Cyclops,[40] defeated the
allied Titans and imprisoned them in the black abyss of Tartarus--all
except a few who had not joined in the war against the children of
Saturn. Among those who were wise enough to accept the new sovereignty
were Mnemosyne (Memory) and Themis, goddess of justice. Those
descendants of the Titans who refused to acknowledge the supremacy of
Jupiter were consigned to the center of Mount Etna, and were the giants
who constantly turned over and over, making Pluto fear for the safety
of his realm. A few of the giants were spared: Atlas, whose punishment
was to hold the heavens on his shoulders, and Prometheus and Epimetheus
who had espoused the cause of Jupiter and so escaped the fate of
the conquered Titans. When the children of Saturn found themselves
masters of the world, they agreed to accept Jupiter as their ruler, on
condition that the two other brothers be given a share in the universe.
So a division was made whereby Pluto became king of the underworld--or
Hades; Neptune took the dominion of the sea; and Jupiter, having
married his sister, Juno, established his dwelling in Olympus as lord
of heaven and earth.
The kingdom of Pluto[41] was dreaded by all mortals, and its ruler
inspired men with great fear. Though Pluto was known to visit the earth
from time to time, no one wished to see his face, and each man dreaded
the moment when he should be obliged to appear before the grim monarch
of Hades, and be assigned a place among the innumerable dead. No
temples were dedicated to Pluto, though altars were sometimes erected
on which men burned sacrifices to this inexorable god while petitioning
him to be merciful to the souls of the departed. The festivals held in
his honor were celebrated only once in a hundred years, and on these
occasions none but black animals were killed for the sacrifice.
The underworld, over which Pluto reigned, was deep in the heart of the
earth; but there were several entrances to it, one being near Lake
Avernus, where the mist rising from the waters was so foul that no
bird could fly over it. The lake itself was in an extinct volcano near
Vesuvius. It was very deep, and was surrounded by high banks covered
with a thick forest. The first descent into Hades could be easily
accomplished (_facilis descensus Averno_, says the poet Virgil); but no
mortal was daring enough to venture far into the black depths, lest he
should never again see the light of day.
At the portals of Hades sits the fierce three-headed dog Cerberus, who
keeps all living things from entering the gate, and allows no spirit
that has once been admitted to pass out again. From here a long dark
pathway leads deeper into Hades, and is finally lost in the rivers that
flow around Pluto's throne. The waters of the river Cocytus are salt,
as they are made of the tears that stream forever from the eyes of
those unhappy souls who are condemned to labor in Tartarus--that part
of Hades that is the exclusive abode of the wicked. The Phlegethon
River, which is always on fire, separates Tartarus from the rest of
Hades, and wretched indeed is the soul that is forced to cross its
seething waters. On the banks of the Acheron, a black and turbid river,
stand the souls who come fresh from the sunlit earth; for all must pass
this river and be brought before the judgment-throne of Pluto. There is
no bridge over the murky stream, and the current is so swift that the
boldest swimmer would not trust himself to its treacherous waters. The
only way to cross is by the leaky, worm-eaten boat rowed by Charon, an
aged ferryman who has plied his oar ever since the day that the curse
of death first came upon the earth.
No spirit is allowed to enter the leaky craft until he has first paid
Charon the fee of a small coin called the obolus. (During the funeral
services, before the body is committed for burial, this coin is laid on
the tongue of the dead, that the soul may have no trouble in passing
to the throne of Pluto.) If any spirits cannot furnish the necessary
money, they are ruthlessly pushed aside by the mercenary boatman and
are required to wait a hundred years. At the end of this time Charon
grudgingly ferries them over the river free of charge. As the unstable
boat can hold but few, there is always an eager group of spirits on
the further bank, clamoring to be taken across the river; but Charon
is never in a hurry, and repulses, sometimes with his oar, the pitiful
crowd that waits his grim pleasure.
There is also in Hades the river Styx, by whose sacred waters the gods
swear the most terrible of all oaths, and on the other side of Pluto's
throne is the softly flowing Lethe, of which only those souls can drink
who are to spend endless days of happiness in the Elysian Fields. As
soon as those blessed spirits have tasted of the waters of Lethe, all
regrets for friends that mourn completely vanish, and the joy and
grief, and pleasure and pain of the soul's life on earth are forgotten.
In the Elysian Fields there is no darkness such as fills the rest of
Hades with its thick gloom; but a soft light spreads over the meadows
where the spirits of the thrice-blessed wander. There are willows here,
and stately silver poplars, and the "meads of Asphodel" breathe out a
faint perfume from their pale flowers.
"There do men lead easiest lives.
No snow, no bitter cold, no beating rains are there."
--BRYANT'S _Odyssey_, Book IV, line 722.
The sighs and groans that rise by night and day from the black abyss
of Tartarus do not reach the ears of those who dwell at peace in the
Elysian Fields, and the sight of its painful torments is hid forever
from their eyes.
Beside Pluto's throne sit the three Fates (also called Parcæ), those
deathless sisters who hold the threads of life and death in their
hands. Clotho, the youngest, spins the thread; Lachesis, the second,
twines into it the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears that make up human
experience; and Atropos, the eldest sister, sits by with huge shears in
her hand, waiting for the time when she may cut the slender thread.
[Illustration: The Three Fates]
Pluto and his queen Proserpina are seated side by side on a sable
throne, ruling over the myriad souls that compose the vast kingdom
of the dead. Perched on the back of the throne is the blinking owl,
who loves this eternal darkness, and the black-winged raven that was
once a bird of snowy plumage and the favorite messenger of Apollo. The
raven fell from his high estate on account of some unwelcome tidings
that he once brought to Apollo when that god was an ardent lover of
the fair-haired Coronis. Believing that no one could supplant him in
the maiden's affections, Apollo was happy in the thought of being
beloved by so beautiful a mortal; but one day his snow-white raven
flew in haste to Olympus to tell him that the maiden was listening to
the wooing of another lover. Enraged at this duplicity, Apollo seized
his bow and shot the faithless Coronis; but the moment that he saw
her lying dead, he repented of his rash deed and vainly sought to
restore her to life. Though skilled in the art of healing, Apollo
could not save the maiden; and in his frenzied grief he cursed the
unfortunate raven that had brought the evil tidings, and banished it
forever from his sight.
"Then he turned upon the Raven,
'Wanton babbler! see thy fate!
Messenger of mine no longer,
Go to Hades with thy prate!
'Weary Pluto with thy tattle!
Hither, monster, come not back;
And--to match thy disposition--
Henceforth be thy plumage black.'"
--SAXE.
Near Pluto's throne are seated the three judges of Hades (Minos,
Rhadamanthus, and Æacus) who question all souls that are brought across
the river. When they have learned every detail of the newcomer's past
life, they deliver the cowering spirit into the hands of Themis, the
blindfolded goddess of justice, who weighs impartially the good and bad
deeds in her unerring scales. If the good outweighs the evil, the soul
is led gently to the Elysian Fields; but if the bad overbalances the
good, then the wretched spirit is driven to Tartarus, there to suffer
for all its wrongdoings in the fires that burn forever and ever behind
the brazen gates. To these gates the guilty one is urged by the three
Furies,[42] whose snaky hair shakes hideously as they ply their lashes
to goad the shrinking soul to its place of torment. Sometimes they are
joined by Nemesis, goddess of revenge, who hurries the doomed spirit
over the fiery waters of the Phlegethon with her merciless whip, and
sees that it follows no path but the one leading to the brazen gates of
Tartarus.
As soon as the gates close on the newly-admitted soul, there is a
renewed clamor of voices, while heart-breaking sighs and groans mingle
with the curses of those who in their misery dare to defy the gods.
And beneath all the awful sounds that greet the listener's ears,
there is an undertone of pitiful wailing like the sea's "melancholy,
long-withdrawing roar" that seems to come from millions of throats
too feeble to utter a loud cry. The deepest sighs proceed from the
Danaïdes,--the beautiful daughters of Danaüs, king of Argos,--who
must forever strive to fill a bottomless cask with water. They form a
sad procession as, with their urns on their arms, they go down to the
stream to begin their hopeless task, and then climb wearily up the
steep bank to pour the water into the ever-empty cask. If they pause a
moment, exhausted with fatigue, the whips of some avenging attendants
of Pluto lash them again into action. Their punishment is severe,
but the crime for which they are suffering was a dreadful one. The
fifty daughters of Danaüs were once pledged in marriage to the fifty
sons of Ægyptus, brother of Danaüs; but when the wedding was being
celebrated, their father remembered the words of an ancient prophecy
that said that he would die by the hand of his son-in-law. Fearing for
his life, he confided to his daughters what the oracle had foretold,
and gave them each a dagger, bidding them slay their husbands. On
the evening of the wedding, when the sons of Ægyptus were heavy with
wine, the new-made wives stole in upon them and killed them as they
slept. Danaüs then believed himself safe, until he learned that one
of his daughters had spared her husband out of love for him. This
son-in-law was eager to avenge his brothers' murder, and having sought
out the wicked Danaüs, fulfilled the prophecy by killing the king with
the very dagger intended for his own death. The gods punished the
cruel daughters--except Hypermnestra, who had saved her husband--by
condemning them to labor in Tartarus at their impossible task.
Near the Danaïdes stands Tantalus, the father of Niobe, who on earth
was a most inhuman and brutal king. He ill-treated his subjects, defied
the gods, and dared to make his own will the religion of his kingdom.
He boasted that the gods were not so omniscient as people were led to
believe; and insulted the immortals by offering them at a banquet the
flesh of his own son Pelops, believing that they would never learn the
truth of this loathsome feast. But the gods were not deceived, and left
the meal untouched,--all except poor Ceres, who, still mourning over
her daughter's detention in Hades, did not realize what was happening
and bit off some of the lad's shoulder. When the gods restored Pelops
to life, Ceres was very sorry for her carelessness and gave him a
shoulder of ivory. The inhuman Tantalus was condemned to the torments
of Tartarus, where he stands up to his chin in a clear stream. Though
frenzied with thirst he can never drink of the water, for whenever he
bends his head the stream recedes from his parched lips. Above him
hangs a branch of delicious fruit; but when, tormented with hunger,
he strives to grasp it, the branch eludes his eager fingers. Thus he
stays, always "tantalized" by the sight of food and drink he never can
secure.
Not far from Tantalus is Salmoneus, also a king, who dared to challenge
the gods by impersonating Jupiter. He made a huge bridge of brass, and
drove heavily over it while he threw lighted torches among the people
who were waiting below, hoping thus to frighten them into believing
that he was the very ruler of the heavens who hurls the mighty
thunderbolts. This insult to his divinity so angered Jupiter that
he seized a real thunderbolt and soon dispatched the arrogant king.
When Salmoneus came before the throne of Pluto, his fate was quickly
decided, and he was driven to terrible Tartarus, where he sits under a
huge rock that threatens every moment to fall and crush him beneath its
weight.
Another unhappy king is Sisyphus, who, when ruler of Corinth, became
a famous robber, and in the pride of his great wealth dared to set
the gods at naught. Therefore he was consigned to Tartarus, and his
punishment is to roll an immense stone to the top of a steep hill. As
soon as he reaches the summit, the rock slips from his aching arms
and tumbles to the foot of the hill, and he must at once start on the
hopeless task of pushing it up the long ascent again.
"With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone."
--HOMER--Pope's translation.
Beyond Sisyphus lies Tityus, a giant whose huge body covers nine acres
of ground. He was condemned to the blackness of Tartarus because he
dared to affront a goddess with his addresses, and so was doomed to
suffer, like Prometheus, by being chained to a rock, while a vulture
tears at his liver. Near him is Ixion, who was promised the hand of a
certain maiden in marriage, on condition that he would give her father
a large sum of money. Ixion agreed, but when the maiden became his
wife, he refused to give the stipulated sum, in spite of her father's
clamorous demands. At length, wearied by the old man's insistence,
Ixion slew him; but the deed did not go unpunished, for the gods
summoned him to appear before them and answer for his cruelty. Ixion
pleaded his cause so well that Jupiter was about to dismiss him, when
he saw the presumptuous mortal making love to Juno. This offense could
not be overlooked, so Ixion was sent to Tartarus, where he was bound to
an ever-revolving wheel of fire.
If any one could follow the course of the gentle Lethe River, it would
lead beyond the sunless realm of Pluto to a quiet and far-distant
valley, where, in a soundless cave, live Somnus, the god of sleep, and
his twin brother Mors, god of death. "Here the sun, whether rising
or in his mid course, or setting, can never come; and fogs, mingled
with the dimness, form a strange twilight. No wakeful bird calls forth
the morn, nor do watchful dogs disturb the brooding silence. No sound
of wild beast or cattle, nor any noise of creaking bough, nor human
voice, breaks in upon the perfect stillness, where mute Rest has her
abode. Before the cave bloom abundant poppies and other sleep-producing
herbs, which Night gathers, that she may distil their juice and scatter
slumbers on the darkened earth. Within the cave is no door that could
creak on rusty hinges, and no porter stands at the entrance of that
inner room where, on a downy couch made of black ebony and draped with
sable curtains, over which black plumes wave, lies Somnus, the god of
sleep,--Sleep, the repose of all things, gentlest of the deities from
whom all care flies, the peace of mind who can sooth the hearts of men
wearied with the toils of the day, and can refit them for labor."[43]
Near Somnus sits Morpheus, one of his many sons, who watches over his
slumbers and sees that no one shall break in upon his sleep. This god
holds a vase in one hand, and with the other he shakes the nodding
poppies that bring drowsiness and sleep. Sometimes he assumes varied
forms in which he appears to men at night, and always he flies through
the darkness with wings that make no noise. Around the couch of Somnus
hover shadowy forms, the Dreams,[44] which are as numerous as the
forest leaves or the sands upon the seashore. In a distant corner of
the room lurk the horrid Nightmares, which creep out of the cave to
visit sleeping mortals, but are never led to earth by Mercury, as are
the welcomed Dreams. Two gates lead out of the valley of sleep, one of
horn and one of ivory.
"Of dreams, O stranger, some are meaningless
And idle, and can never be fulfilled.
Two portals are there for their shadowy shapes,
Of ivory one, and one of horn. The dreams
That come through the carved ivory deceive
With promises that never are made good;
But those which pass the doors of polished horn,
And are beheld of men, are ever true."
--BRYANT'S Homer's _Odyssey_, Book XIX, line 679.
"Sunt geminæ Somni portæ, quarumaltera fertur
Cornea, qua veris facilis datur exitus Umbris;
Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto,
Sed falsa ad cælum mittunt insomnia Manes."[45]
--VIRGIL, _Æneid_, Book VI, line 893.
Mors, god of death, occupies one of the rooms in the cave of sleep. He
is a fearful-looking deity, cadaverous as a skeleton, and wrapped in a
winding sheet. He holds an hourglass in one hand, and a sharp scythe in
the other; and stands watching the sand run out of his glass that he
may know when a human life is nearing its end. Then, as the last grains
fall, he glides from the valley of sleep and stalks silently and unseen
upon the earth, where he cuts down the unhappy mortal, who cannot even
hear the rustle of his garments as he approaches. It is nothing to him
whether the life he takes belongs to childhood or youth, for he mows
them down as relentlessly as he does tottering old age. And to the rich
he is as unsparing as to the poor.
"Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas regumque
turres."[46]
--HORACE, _Carminum_, Book I, § IV, line 13.
The divinities who dwelt in the Cave of Sleep were distrusted by the
ancients, and Mors was held in universal dread. No homage was ever
offered to him, and no temples were dedicated in his honor; though
sacrifices were sometimes made to ward off his dreaded coming. He was
never represented in art except in a pleasing aspect, for although they
believed him to have in reality the fearful appearance that tradition
ascribed to him, yet the beauty-loving Greeks refused to have this kind
of horror embodied in marble. So when Death appears in sculpture, it is
usually with his brother Sleep, and both are represented as sleeping
youths, whose heads are crowned with poppies or amaranths, and who hold
inverted torches in their listless hands.
Chapter XVIII
Neptune and the Sea-Gods
I
In the days when the Titans ruled the universe, Oceanus, with his wife
Tethys, controlled all the lakes, rivers, and seas; but when the Titans
were overthrown, Neptune took possession of this great kingdom, and
old Oceanus reluctantly gave up his dominion over the waters of the
earth. Though anxious to assert his supreme authority, Neptune allowed
some of the descendants of the Titans to keep their small kingdoms,
on condition that they own allegiance to him as their ruler. Among
these was Nereus, son of Oceanus, who was celebrated for his vast
knowledge, his gift of prophecy, and his love of truth and justice. He
and his wife Doris (also a child of Oceanus) had fifty daughters called
Nereids,[47] and they were so beautiful that Neptune chose one of them,
named Amphitrite, for his wife. There were two others of the Nereids
who became famous: Galatea, beloved by the Cyclops Polyphemus,[48]
and Thetis, the mother of Achilles; but none of them equaled Amphitrite
in beauty.
[Illustration: Fountain of Neptune]
When Neptune first went wooing the Nereid, she was frightened by
his formidable appearance, for he drove in a chariot drawn by huge
sea-horses with brazen hoofs and golden manes; and the god himself
carried his terrible trident, or three-pronged spear, with which he
shatters rocks, and commands the storms, and shakes the shores of
earth. None knew better than Amphitrite the extent of Neptune's power,
for she had often watched him, when a storm was at its height, raise
his all-compelling trident, and immediately the waves would cease
raging and there would be a great calm. Sometimes she saw a ship,
doomed by the sea-god to disaster, gliding confidently in quiet waters,
when all at once a fierce storm would break over its head; and the
hapless sailors, as they breasted the angry waves, would pray vainly to
Neptune for the help that would never come. Many a good ship had nearly
gained her port when
"He spake and round about him called the clouds
And roused the ocean--wielding in his hand
The trident--summoned all the hurricanes
Of all the winds, and covered earth and sky
At once with mists, while from above the night
Fell suddenly."
_Odyssey_, Book V, line 348, Bryant's trans.
When Amphitrite saw this imposing-looking god driving toward her, she
was frightened by so much splendor, though she could not help admiring
Neptune himself with his sea-green beard, and his long flowing hair
crowned with shells and seaweed. Since the enamored god could never
come near enough to plead his suit, he sent one of his dolphins to
do the wooing; and this was so successful that the fair Nereid was
persuaded to become Neptune's wife, and share his golden throne in the
heart of the sea. To reward the dolphin for its skill in having won
for him his much-desired bride, Neptune placed it in the sky, where it
forms a well-known constellation.
Though Neptune had undisputed control over all the waters of the earth,
and over all that moves through the paths of the sea, he once aspired
to greater power, and even plotted to dethrone Jupiter. But the ruler
of gods and men discovered his wicked plans, and to punish him deprived
him of his kingdom for some years, during which time he was obliged to
submit to the humiliation of serving Laomedon, king of Troy. It was
while he was in service here that he sought Apollo's help in building
the wall of Troy, whose stones fell into place under the spell of the
sun-god's music.[49] Laomedon had promised Neptune a large reward if
the wall was built within a certain time; but when it was finished, he
refused to pay the sum agreed upon. Though angered at this treachery,
Neptune had to endure the king's injustice until his years of service
were over; but as soon as he was restored to his former power, he
created a terrible sea-monster, which spread terror and death over all
the land. Not knowing how to meet this calamity, the Trojans consulted
an oracle, and were advised to sacrifice to the monster a beautiful
maiden each year; and so prevent the wrath of Neptune from overwhelming
the whole country in disaster.
Reluctantly the sorrowing people prepared to obey the oracle; and a
victim was chosen by lot, and led by the priest to a large rock on the
seashore, where she was securely chained. Then the hideous sea-beast
glided out of its cave in the slimy rocks and devoured her. Each year
this terrible ceremony was repeated, and at last the lot fell upon
Hesione, the king's only daughter. Laomedon tried in vain to save her,
but the lot was cast, and nothing could avert the appointed sacrifice.
In despair, the wretched father saw the fatal hour approaching; and
when the day drew near when Hesione was to be led down to the sea, he
forgot his avarice and proclaimed throughout the land that a great
reward would be given to any one who could slay the monster. Hercules
appeared just in time to save the doomed maiden, and killed the monster
with his oaken club as it was dragging Hesione into its cave. The
king was overjoyed at his daughter's rescue, and told Hercules that he
might claim the reward; but even when he saw the hero come with the
beast's head as a proof that he had slain it, he refused to part with
his much-loved gold. So Hercules returned home, but he did not forget
Laomedon's perfidy; and when later on he came again to Troy, he killed
the king and took his children captive to Greece.[50]
Neptune, like all the immortals, loved more than once; and among those
who shared his affections was a maiden named Theophane, who had so
many suitors that it kept the jealous sea-god in constant fear lest
she should prefer some earthly lover. So he took her to the island of
Crumissa, and there changed her into a sheep, while he carried on his
wooing in the form of a ram. The offspring of this marriage was the
famous golden-fleeced ram, whose pelt was the object of that ill-fated
expedition made by Jason and his fellow Argonauts.
Neptune also loved the goddess Ceres, and followed her during the
long time that she spent in search of her daughter Proserpina. Cer
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/45489