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Bulfinch's Mythology

by Thomas Bulfinch · English · Gutenberg #4928 · 1,876,884 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bulfinch's Mythology

Author: Thomas Bulfinch


        
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #4928]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY ***




Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.



BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY

THE AGE OF FABLE

THE AGE OF CHIVALRY

LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE

BY THOMAS BULFINCH

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME


[Editor's Note: The etext contains all three sections.]




PUBLISHERS' PREFACE


No new edition of Bulfinch's classic work can be considered
complete without some notice of the American scholar to whose wide
erudition and painstaking care it stands as a perpetual monument.
"The Age of Fable" has come to be ranked with older books like
"Pilgrim's Progress," "Gulliver's Travels," "The Arabian Nights,"
"Robinson Crusoe," and five or six other productions of world-wide
renown as a work with which every one must claim some acquaintance
before his education can be called really complete. Many readers
of the present edition will probably recall coming in contact with
the work as children, and, it may be added, will no doubt discover
from a fresh perusal the source of numerous bits of knowledge that
have remained stored in their minds since those early years. Yet
to the majority of this great circle of readers and students the
name Bulfinch in itself has no significance.

Thomas Bulfinch was a native of Boston, Mass., where he was born
in 1796. His boyhood was spent in that city, and he prepared for
college in the Boston schools. He finished his scholastic training
at Harvard College, and after taking his degree was for a period a
teacher in his home city. For a long time later in life he was
employed as an accountant in the Boston Merchants' Bank. His
leisure time he used for further pursuit of the classical studies
which he had begun at Harvard, and his chief pleasure in life lay
in writing out the results of his reading, in simple, condensed
form for young or busy readers. The plan he followed in this work,
to give it the greatest possible usefulness, is set forth in the
Author's Preface.

"Age of Fable," First Edition, 1855; "The Age of Chivalry," 1858;
"The Boy Inventor," 1860; "Legends of Charlemagne, or Romance of
the Middle Ages," 1863; "Poetry of the Age of Fable," 1863;
"Oregon and Eldorado, or Romance of the Rivers,"1860.

In this complete edition of his mythological and legendary lore
"The Age of Fable," "The Age of Chivalry," and "Legends of
Charlemagne" are included. Scrupulous care has been taken to
follow the original text of Bulfinch, but attention should be
called to some additional sections which have been inserted to add
to the rounded completeness of the work, and which the publishers
believe would meet with the sanction of the author himself, as in
no way intruding upon his original plan but simply carrying it out
in more complete detail. The section on Northern Mythology has
been enlarged by a retelling of the epic of the "Nibelungen Lied,"
together with a summary of Wagner's version of the legend in his
series of music-dramas. Under the head of "Hero Myths of the
British Race" have been included outlines of the stories of
Beowulf, Cuchulain, Hereward the Wake, and Robin Hood. Of the
verse extracts which occur throughout the text, thirty or more
have been added from literature which has appeared since
Bulfinch's time, extracts that he would have been likely to quote
had he personally supervised the new edition.

Finally, the index has been thoroughly overhauled and, indeed,
remade. All the proper names in the work have been entered, with
references to the pages where they occur, and a concise
explanation or definition of each has been given. Thus what was a
mere list of names in the original has been enlarged into a small
classical and mythological dictionary, which it is hoped will
prove valuable for reference purposes not necessarily connected
with "The Age of Fable."

Acknowledgments are due the writings of Dr. Oliver Huckel for
information on the point of Wagner's rendering of the Nibelungen
legend, and M. I. Ebbutt's authoritative volume on "Hero Myths and
Legends of the British Race," from which much of the information
concerning the British heroes has been obtained





AUTHOR'S PREFACE


If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which
helps to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in
society, then Mythology has no claim to the appellation. But if
that which tends to make us happier and better can be called
useful, then we claim that epithet for our subject. For Mythology
is the handmaid of literature; and literature is one of the best
allies of virtue and promoters of happiness.

Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of
our own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron
calls Rome "the Niobe of nations," or says of Venice, "She looks a
Sea-Cybele fresh from ocean," he calls up to the mind of one
familiar with our subject, illustrations more vivid and striking
than the pencil could furnish, but which are lost to the reader
ignorant of mythology. Milton abounds in similar allusions. The
short poem "Comus" contains more than thirty such, and the ode "On
the Morning of the Nativity" half as many. Through "Paradise Lost"
they are scattered profusely. This is one reason why we often hear
persons by no means illiterate say that they cannot enjoy Milton.
But were these persons to add to their more solid acquirements the
easy learning of this little volume, much of the poetry of Milton
which has appeared to them "harsh and crabbed" would be found
"musical as is Apollo's lute." Our citations, taken from more than
twenty-five poets, from Spenser to Longfellow, will show how
general has been the practice of borrowing illustrations from
mythology.

The prose writers also avail themselves of the same source of
elegant and suggestive illustration. One can hardly take up a
number of the "Edinburgh" or "Quarterly Review" without meeting
with instances. In Macaulay's article on Milton there are twenty
such.

But how is mythology to be taught to one who does not learn it
through the medium of the languages of Greece and Rome? To devote
study to a species of learning which relates wholly to false
marvels and obsolete faiths is not to be expected of the general
reader in a practical age like this. The time even of the young is
claimed by so many sciences of facts and things that little can be
spared for set treatises on a science of mere fancy.

But may not the requisite knowledge of the subject be acquired by
reading the ancient poets in translations? We reply, the field is
too extensive for a preparatory course; and these very
translations require some previous knowledge of the subject to
make them intelligible. Let any one who doubts it read the first
page of the "Aeneid," and see what he can make of "the hatred of
Juno," the "decree of the Parcae," the "judgment of Paris," and
the "honors of Ganymede," without this knowledge.

Shall we be told that answers to such queries may be found in
notes, or by a reference to the Classical Dictionary? We reply,
the interruption of one's reading by either process is so annoying
that most readers prefer to let an allusion pass unapprehended
rather than submit to it. Moreover, such sources give us only the
dry facts without any of the charm of the original narrative; and
what is a poetical myth when stripped of its poetry? The story of
Ceyx and Halcyone, which fills a chapter in our book, occupies but
eight lines in the best (Smith's) Classical Dictionary; and so of
others.

Our work is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling the
stories of mythology in such a manner as to make them a source of
amusement. We have endeavored to tell them correctly, according to
the ancient authorities, so that when the reader finds them
referred to he may not be at a loss to recognize the reference.
Thus we hope to teach mythology not as a study, but as a
relaxation from study; to give our work the charm of a story-book,
yet by means of it to impart a knowledge of an important branch of
education. The index at the end will adapt it to the purposes of
reference, and make it a Classical Dictionary for the parlor.

Most of the classical legends in "Stories of Gods and Heroes" are
derived from Ovid and Virgil. They are not literally translated,
for, in the author's opinion, poetry translated into literal prose
is very unattractive reading. Neither are they in verse, as well
for other reasons as from a conviction that to translate
faithfully under all the embarrassments of rhyme and measure is
impossible. The attempt has been made to tell the stories in
prose, preserving so much of the poetry as resides in the thoughts
and is separable from the language itself, and omitting those
amplifications which are not suited to the altered form.

The Northern mythological stories are copied with some abridgment
from Mallet's "Northern Antiquities." These chapters, with those
on Oriental and Egyptian mythology, seemed necessary to complete
the subject, though it is believed these topics have not usually
been presented in the same volume with the classical fables.

The poetical citations so freely introduced are expected to answer
several valuable purposes. They will tend to fix in memory the
leading fact of each story, they will help to the attainment of a
correct pronunciation of the proper names, and they will enrich
the memory with many gems of poetry, some of them such as are most
frequently quoted or alluded to in reading and conversation.

Having chosen mythology as connected with literature for our
province, we have endeavored to omit nothing which the reader of
elegant literature is likely to find occasion for. Such stories
and parts of stories as are offensive to pure taste and good
morals are not given. But such stories are not often referred to,
and if they occasionally should be, the English reader need feel
no mortification in confessing his ignorance of them.

Our work is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for
the philosopher, but for the reader of English literature, of
either sex, who wishes to comprehend the allusions so frequently
made by public speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and
those which occur in polite conversation.

In the "Stories of Gods and Heroes" the compiler has endeavored to
impart the pleasures of classical learning to the English reader,
by presenting the stories of Pagan mythology in a form adapted to
modern taste. In "King Arthur and His Knights" and "The
Mabinogeon" the attempt has been made to treat in the same way the
stories of the second "age of fable," the age which witnessed the
dawn of the several states of Modern Europe.

It is believed that this presentation of a literature which held
unrivalled sway over the imaginations of our ancestors, for many
centuries, will not be without benefit to the reader, in addition
to the amusement it may afford. The tales, though not to be
trusted for their facts, are worthy of all credit as pictures of
manners; and it is beginning to be held that the manners and modes
of thinking of an age are a more important part of its history
than the conflicts of its peoples, generally leading to no result.
Besides this, the literature of romance is a treasure-house of
poetical material, to which modern poets frequently resort. The
Italian poets, Dante and Ariosto, the English, Spenser, Scott, and
Tennyson, and our own Longfellow and Lowell, are examples of this.

These legends are so connected with each other, so consistently
adapted to a group of characters strongly individualized in
Arthur, Launcelot, and their compeers, and so lighted up by the
fires of imagination and invention, that they seem as well adapted
to the poet's purpose as the legends of the Greek and Roman
mythology. And if every well-educated young person is expected to
know the story of the Golden Fleece, why is the quest of the
Sangreal less worthy of his acquaintance? Or if an allusion to the
shield of Achilles ought not to pass unapprehended, why should one
to Excalibar, the famous sword of Arthur?--

    "Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored,
     With that terrific sword,
     Which yet he brandishes for future war,
     Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star."

[Footnote: Wordsworth]

It is an additional recommendation of our subject, that it tends
to cherish in our minds the idea of the source from which we
sprung. We are entitled to our full share in the glories and
recollections of the land of our forefathers, down to the time of
colonization thence. The associations which spring from this
source must be fruitful of good influences; among which not the
least valuable is the increased enjoyment which such associations
afford to the American traveller when he visits England, and sets
his foot upon any of her renowned localities.

The legends of Charlemagne and his peers are necessary to complete
the subject.

In an age when intellectual darkness enveloped Western Europe, a
constellation of brilliant writers arose in Italy. Of these, Pulci
(born in 1432), Boiardo (1434), and Ariosto (1474) took for their
subjects the romantic fables which had for many ages been
transmitted in the lays of bards and the legends of monkish
chroniclers. These fables they arranged in order, adorned with the
embellishments of fancy, amplified from their own invention, and
stamped with immortality. It may safely be asserted that as long
as civilization shall endure these productions will retain their
place among the most cherished creations of human genius.

In "Stories of Gods and Heroes," "King Arthur and His Knights" and
"The Mabinogeon" the aim has been to supply to the modern reader
such knowledge of the fables of classical and mediaeval literature
as is needed to render intelligible the allusions which occur in
reading and conversation. The "Legends of Charlemagne" is intended
to carry out the same design. Like the earlier portions of the
work, it aspires to a higher character than that of a piece of
mere amusement. It claims to be useful, in acquainting its readers
with the subjects of the productions of the great poets of Italy.
Some knowledge of these is expected of every well-educated young
person.

In reading these romances, we cannot fail to observe how the
primitive inventions have been used, again and again, by
successive generations of fabulists. The Siren of Ulysses is the
prototype of the Siren of Orlando, and the character of Circe
reappears in Alcina. The fountains of Love and Hatred may be
traced to the story of Cupid and Psyche; and similar effects
produced by a magic draught appear in the tale of Tristram and
Isoude, and, substituting a flower for the draught, in
Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream." There are many other
instances of the same kind which the reader will recognize without
our assistance.

The sources whence we derive these stories are, first, the Italian
poets named above; next, the "Romans de Chevalerie" of the Comte
de Tressan; lastly, certain German collections of popular tales.
Some chapters have been borrowed from Leigh Hunt's Translations
from the Italian Poets. It seemed unnecessary to do over again
what he had already done so well; yet, on the other hand, those
stories could not be omitted from the series without leaving it
incomplete.

THOMAS BULFINCH.





CONTENTS


STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES

      I. Introduction
     II. Prometheus and Pandora
    III. Apollo and Daphne--Pyramus and Thisbe--Cephalus and Procris
     IV. Juno and her Rivals, Io and Callisto--Diana and Actaeon
         --Latona and the Rustics
      V. Phaeton
     VI. Midas--Baucis and Philemon
    VII. Proserpine--Glaucus and Scylla
   VIII. Pygmalion--Dryope--Venus and Adonis--Apollo and Hyacinthus
     IX. Ceyx and Halcyone
      X. Vertumnus and Pomona--Iphis and Anaxarete
     XI. Cupid and Psyche
    XII. Cadmus--The Myrmidons
   XIII. Nisus and Scylla--Echo and Narcissus--Clytie--Hero and Leander
    XIV. Minerva and Arachne--Niobe
     XV. The Graeae and Gorgons--Perseus and Medusa--Atlas--Andromeda
    XVI. Monsters: Giants--Sphinx--Pegasus and Chimaera--Centaurs
         --Griffin--Pygmies
   XVII. The Golden Fleece--Medea
  XVIII. Meleager and Atalanta
    XIX. Hercules--Hebe and Ganymede
     XX.  Theseus and Daedalus--Castor and Pollux--Festivals and Games
    XXI. Bacchus and Ariadne
   XXII. The Rural Deities--The Dryads and Erisichthon
         --Rhoecus--Water Deities--Camenae--Winds
  XXIII. Achelous and Hercules--Admetus and Alcestis--Antigone--Penelope
   XXIV. Orpheus and Eurydice--Aristaeus--Amphion--Linus
         --Thamyris--Marsyas--Melampus--Musaeus
    XXV. Arion--Ibycus--Simonides--Sappho
   XXVI. Endymion--Orion--Aurora and Tithonus--Acis and Galatea
  XXVII. The Trojan War
 XXVIII. The Fall of Troy--Return of the Greeks--Orestes and Electra
   XXIX. Adventures of Ulysses--The Lotus-eaters--The Cyclopes
         --Circe--Sirens--Scylla and Charybdis--Calypso
    XXX. The Phaeacians--Fate of the Suitors
   XXXI. Adventures of Aeneas--The Harpies--Dido--Palinurus
  XXXII. The Infernal Regions--The Sibyl
 XXXIII. Aeneas in Italy--Camilla--Evander--Nisus and Euryalus
         --Mezentius--Turnus
  XXXIV. Pythagoras--Egyptian Deities--Oracles
   XXXV. Origin of Mythology--Statues of Gods and Goddesses
         --Poets of Mythology
  XXXVI. Monsters (modern)--The Phoenix--Basilisk--Unicorn--Salamander
 XXXVII. Eastern Mythology--Zoroaster--Hindu Mythology--Castes--Buddha
         --The Grand Lama--Prester John
XXXVIII. Northern Mythology--Valhalla--The Valkyrior
  XXXIX. Thor's Visit to Jotunheim
     XL. The Death of Baldur--The Elves--Runic Letters--Skalds--Iceland
         --Teutonic Mythology--The Nibelungen Lied
         --Wagner's Nibelungen Ring
    XLI. The Druids--Iona

KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS


    I. Introduction
   II. The Mythical History of England
  III. Merlin
   IV. Arthur
    V. Arthur (Continued)
   VI. Sir Gawain
  VII. Caradoc Briefbras; or, Caradoc with the Shrunken Arm
 VIII. Launcelot of the Lake
   IX. The Adventure of the Cart
    X. The Lady of Shalott
   XI. Queen Guenever's Peril
  XII. Tristram and Isoude
 XIII. Tristram and Isoude (Continued)
  XIV. Sir Tristram's Battle with Sir Launcelot
   XV. The Round Table
  XVI. Sir Palamedes
 XVII. Sir Tristram
XVIII. Perceval
  XIX. The Sangreal, or Holy Graal
   XX. The Sangreal (Continued)
  XXI. The Sangreal (Continued)
 XXII. Sir Agrivain's Treason
XXIII. Morte d'Arthur


THE MABINOGEON


      Introductory Note
   I. The Britons
  II. The Lady of the Fountain
 III. The Lady of the Fountain (Continued)
  IV. The Lady of the Fountain (Continued)
   V. Geraint, the Son of Erbin
  VI. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (Continued)
 VII. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (Continued)
VIII. Pwyll, Prince of Dyved
  IX. Branwen, the Daughter of Llyr
   X. Manawyddan
  XI. Kilwich and Olwen
 XII. Kilwich and Olwen (Continued)
XIII. Taliesin


HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE


Beowulf
Cuchulain, Champion of Ireland
Hereward the Wake
Robin Hood

LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE


Introduction
The Peers, or Paladins
The Tournament
The Siege of Albracca
Adventures of Rinaldo and Orlando
The Invasion of France
The Invasion of France (Continued)

Bradamante and Rogero
Astolpho and the Enchantress
The Orc
Astolpho's Adventures continued, and Isabella's begun.
Medoro
Orlando Mad
Zerbino and Isabella
Astolpho in Abyssinia
The War in Africa
Rogero and Bradamante
The Battle of Roncesvalles
Rinaldo and Bayard
Death of Rinaldo
Huon of Bordeaux
Huon of Bordeaux (Continued)
Huon of Bordeaux (Continued)
Ogier, the Dane
Ogier, the Dane (Continued)
Ogier, the Dane (Continued)

GLOSSARY





STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION


The religions of ancient Greece and Rome are extinct. The so-
called divinities of Olympus have not a single worshipper among
living men. They belong now not to the department of theology, but
to those of literature and taste. There they still hold their
place, and will continue to hold it, for they are too closely
connected with the finest productions of poetry and art, both
ancient and modern, to pass into oblivion.

We propose to tell the stories relating to them which have come
down to us from the ancients, and which are alluded to by modern
poets, essayists, and orators. Our readers may thus at the same
time be entertained by the most charming fictions which fancy has
ever created, and put in possession of information indispensable
to every one who would read with intelligence the elegant
literature of his own day.

In order to understand these stories, it will be necessary to
acquaint ourselves with the ideas of the structure of the universe
which prevailed among the Greeks--the people from whom the
Romans, and other nations through them, received their science and
religion.

The Greeks believed the earth to be flat and circular, their own
country occupying the middle of it, the central point being either
Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods, or Delphi, so famous for its
oracle.

The circular disk of the earth was crossed from west to east and
divided into two equal parts by the Sea, as they called the
Mediterranean, and its continuation the Euxine, the only seas with
which they were acquainted.

Around the earth flowed the River Ocean, its course being from
south to north on the western side of the earth, and in a contrary
direction on the eastern side. It flowed in a steady, equable
current, unvexed by storm or tempest. The sea, and all the rivers
on earth, received their waters from it.

The northern portion of the earth was supposed to be inhabited by
a happy race named the Hyperboreans, dwelling in everlasting bliss
and spring beyond the lofty mountains whose caverns were supposed
to send forth the piercing blasts of the north wind, which chilled
the people of Hellas (Greece). Their country was inaccessible by
land or sea. They lived exempt from disease or old age, from toils
and warfare. Moore has given us the "Song of a Hyperborean,"
beginning

    "I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
        Where golden gardens glow,
     Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep,
        Their conch shells never blow."

On the south side of the earth, close to the stream of Ocean,
dwelt a people happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans. They were
named the Aethiopians. The gods favored them so highly that they
were wont to leave at times their Olympian abodes and go to share
their sacrifices and banquets.

On the western margin of the earth, by the stream of Ocean, lay a
happy place named the Elysian Plain, whither mortals favored by
the gods were transported without tasting of death, to enjoy an
immortality of bliss. This happy region was also called the
"Fortunate Fields," and the "Isles of the Blessed."

We thus see that the Greeks of the early ages knew little of any
real people except those to the east and south of their own
country, or near the coast of the Mediterranean. Their imagination
meantime peopled the western portion of this sea with giants,
monsters, and enchantresses; while they placed around the disk of
the earth, which they probably regarded as of no great width,
nations enjoying the peculiar favor of the gods, and blessed with
happiness and longevity.

The Dawn, the Sun, and the Moon were supposed to rise out of the
Ocean, on the eastern side, and to drive through the air, giving
light to gods and men. The stars, also, except those forming the
Wain or Bear, and others near them, rose out of and sank into the
stream of Ocean. There the sun-god embarked in a winged boat,
which conveyed him round by the northern part of the earth, back
to his place of rising in the east. Milton alludes to this in his
"Comus":

    "Now the gilded car of day
     His golden axle doth allay
     In the steep Atlantic stream,
     And the slope Sun his upward beam
     Shoots against the dusky pole,
     Pacing towards the other goal
     Of his chamber in the east"

The abode of the gods was on the summit of Mount Olympus, in
Thessaly. A gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named the
Seasons, opened to permit the passage of the Celestials to earth,
and to receive them on their return. The gods had their separate
dwellings; but all, when summoned, repaired to the palace of
Jupiter, as did also those deities whose usual abode was the
earth, the waters, or the underworld. It was also in the great
hall of the palace of the Olympian king that the gods feasted each
day on ambrosia and nectar, their food and drink, the latter being
handed round by the lovely goddess Hebe. Here they conversed of
the affairs of heaven and earth; and as they quaffed their nectar,
Apollo, the god of music, delighted them with the tones of his
lyre, to which the Muses sang in responsive strains. When the sun
was set, the gods retired to sleep in their respective dwellings.

The following lines from the "Odyssey" will show how Homer
conceived of Olympus:

    "So saying, Minerva, goddess azure-eyed,
    Rose to Olympus, the reputed seat
    Eternal of the gods, which never storms
    Disturb, rains drench, or snow invades, but calm
    The expanse and cloudless shmes with purest day.
    There the inhabitants divine rejoice
    Forever"--Cowper.

The robes and other parts of the dress of the goddesses were woven
by Minerva and the Graces and everything of a more solid nature
was formed of the various metals. Vulcan was architect, smith,
armorer, chariot builder, and artist of all work in Olympus. He
built of brass the houses of the gods; he made for them the golden
shoes with which they trod the air or the water, and moved from
place to place with the speed of the wind, or even of thought. He
also shod with brass the celestial steeds, which whirled the
chariots of the gods through the air, or along the surface of the
sea. He was able to bestow on his workmanship self-motion, so
that the tripods (chairs and tables) could move of themselves in
and out of the celestial hall. He even endowed with intelligence
the golden handmaidens whom he made to wait on himself.

Jupiter, or Jove (Zeus [Footnote: The names included in
parentheses are the Greek, the others being the Roman or Latin
names] ), though called the father of gods and men, had himself a
beginning. Saturn (Cronos) was his father, and Rhea (Ops) his
mother. Saturn and Rhea were of the race of Titans, who were the
children of Earth and Heaven, which sprang from Chaos, of which we
shall give a further account in our next chapter.

There is another cosmogony, or account of the creation, according
to which Earth, Erebus, and Love were the first of beings. Love
(Eros) issued from the egg of Night, which floated on Chaos. By
his arrows and torch he pierced and vivified all things, producing
life and joy.

Saturn and Rhea were not the only Titans. There were others, whose
names were Oceanus, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Ophion, males; and
Themis, Mnemosyne, Eurynome, females. They are spoken of as the
elder gods, whose dominion was afterwards transferred to others.
Saturn yielded to Jupiter, Oceanus to Neptune, Hyperion to Apollo.
Hyperion was the father of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn. He is
therefore the original sun-god, and is painted with the splendor
and beauty which were afterwards bestowed on Apollo.

    "Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself"

     --Shakspeare.

Ophion and Eurynome ruled over Olympus till they were dethroned by
Saturn and Rhea. Milton alludes to them in "Paradise Lost." He
says the heathens seem to have had some knowledge of the
temptation and fall of man.

    "And fabled how the serpent, whom they called
     Ophion, with Eurynome, (the wide-
     Encroaching Eve perhaps,) had first the rule
     Of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driven."

The representations given of Saturn are not very consistent; for
on the one hand his reign is said to have been the golden age of
innocence and purity, and on the other he is described as a
monster who devoured his children. [Footnote: This inconsistency
arises from considering the Saturn of the Romans the same with the
Grecian deity Cronos (Time), which, as it brings an end to all
things which have had a beginning, may be said to devour its own
offspring] Jupiter, however, escaped this fate, and when grown up
espoused Metis (Prudence), who administered a draught to Saturn
which caused him to disgorge his children. Jupiter, with his
brothers and sisters, now rebelled against their father Saturn and
his brothers the Titans; vanquished them, and imprisoned some of
them in Tartarus, inflicting other penalties on others. Atlas was
condemned to bear up the heavens on his shoulders.

On the dethronement of Saturn, Jupiter with his brothers Neptune
(Poseidon) and Pluto (Dis) divided his dominions. Jupiter's
portion was the heavens, Neptune's the ocean, and Pluto's the
realms of the dead. Earth and Olympus were common property.
Jupiter was king of gods and men. The thunder was his weapon, and
he bore a shield called Aegis, made for him by Vulcan. The eagle
was his favorite bird, and bore his thunderbolts.

Juno (Hera) was the wife of Jupiter, and queen of the gods. Iris,
the goddess of the rainbow, was her attendant and messenger. The
peacock was her favorite bird.

Vulcan (Hephaestos), the celestial artist, was the son of Jupiter
and Juno. He was born lame, and his mother was so displeased at
the sight of him that she flung him out of heaven. Other accounts
say that Jupiter kicked him out for taking part with his mother in
a quarrel which occurred between them. Vulcan's lameness,
according to this account, was the consequence of his fall. He was
a whole day falling, and at last alighted in the island of Lemnos,
which was thenceforth sacred to him. Milton alludes to this story
in "Paradise Lost," Book I.:

    "... From morn
    To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
    A summer's day; and with the setting sun
    Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,
    On Lemnos, the Aegean isle."

Mars (Ares), the god of war, was the son of Jupiter and Juno.

Phoebus Apollo, the god of archery, prophecy, and music, was the
son of Jupiter and Latona, and brother of Diana (Artemis). He was
god of the sun, as Diana, his sister, was the goddess of the moon.

Venus (Aphrodite), the goddess of love and beauty, was the
daughter of Jupiter and Dione. Others say that Venus sprang from
the foam of the sea. The zephyr wafted her along the waves to the
Isle of Cyprus, where she was received and attired by the Seasons,
and then led to the assembly of the gods. All were charmed with
her beauty, and each one demanded her for his wife. Jupiter gave
her to Vulcan, in gratitude for the service he had rendered in
forging thunderbolts. So the most beautiful of the goddesses
became the wife of the most ill-favored of gods. Venus possessed
an embroidered girdle called Cestus, which had the power of
inspiring love. Her favorite birds were swans and doves, and the
plants sacred to her were the rose and the myrtle.

Cupid (Eros), the god of love, was the son of Venus. He was her
constant companion; and, armed with bow and arrows, he shot the
darts of desire into the bosoms of both gods and men. There was a
deity named Anteros, who was sometimes represented as the avenger
of slighted love, and sometimes as the symbol of reciprocal
affection. The following legend is told of him:

Venus, complaining to Themis that her son Eros continued always a
child, was told by her that it was because he was solitary, and
that if he had a brother he would grow apace. Anteros was soon
afterwards born, and Eros immediately was seen to increase rapidly
in size and strength.

Minerva (Pallas, Athene), the goddess of wisdom, was the offspring
of Jupiter, without a mother. She sprang forth from his head
completely armed. Her favorite bird was the owl, and the plant
sacred to her the olive.

Byron, in "Childe Harold," alludes to the birth of Minerva thus:

    "Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
     And Freedom find no champion and no child,
     Such as Columbia saw arise, when she
     Sprang forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
     Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
     Deep in the unpruned forest,'midst the roar
     Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
     On infant Washington? Has earth no more
     Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?"

Mercury (Hermes) was the son of Jupiter and Maia. He presided over
commerce, wrestling, and other gymnastic exercises, even over
thieving, and everything, in short, which required skill and
dexterity. He was the messenger of Jupiter, and wore a winged cap
and winged shoes. He bore in his hand a rod entwined with two
serpents, called the caduceus.

Mercury is said to have invented the lyre. He found, one day, a
tortoise, of which he took the shell, made holes in the opposite
edges of it, and drew cords of linen through them, and the
instrument was complete. The cords were nine, in honor of the nine
Muses. Mercury gave the lyre to Apollo, and received from him in
exchange the caduceus.

[Footnote: From this origin of the instrument, the word "shell" is
often used as synonymous with "lyre," and figuratively for music
and poetry. Thus Gray, in his ode on the "Progress of Poesy,"
says:

    "O Sovereign of the willing Soul,
     Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
     Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
     And frantic Passions hear thy soft control."]

Ceres (Demeter) was the daughter of Saturn and Rhea. She had a
daughter named Proserpine (Persephone), who became the wife of
Pluto, and queen of the realms of the dead. Ceres presided over
agriculture.

Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and
Semele. He represents not only the intoxicating power of wine, but
its social and beneficent influences likewise, so that he is
viewed as the promoter of civilization, and a lawgiver and lover
of peace.

The Muses were the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory).
They presided over song, and prompted the memory. They were nine
in number, to each of whom was assigned the presidence over some
particular department of literature, art, or science. Calliope was
the muse of epic poetry, Clio of history, Euterpe of lyric poetry,
Melpomene of tragedy, Terpsichore of choral dance and song, Erato
of love poetry, Polyhymnia of sacred poetry, Urania of astronomy,
Thalia of comedy.

The Graces were goddesses presiding over the banquet, the dance,
and all social enjoyments and elegant arts. They were three in
number. Their names were Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Thalia.

Spenser describes the office of the Graces thus:

    "These three on men all gracious gifts bestow
    Which deck the body or adorn the mind,
    To make them lovely or well-favored show;
    As comely carriage, entertainment kind,
    Sweet semblance, friendly offices that bind,
    And all the complements of courtesy;
    They teach us how to each degree and kind
    We should ourselves demean, to low, to high,
    To friends, to foes; which skill men call Civility."

The Fates were also three--Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their
office was to spin the thread of human destiny, and they were
armed with shears, with which they cut it off when they pleased.
They were the daughters of Themis (Law), who sits by Jove on his
throne to give him counsel.

The Erinnyes, or Furies, were three goddesses who punished by
their secret stings the crimes of those who escaped or defied
public justice. The heads of the Furies were wreathed with
serpents, and their whole appearance was terrific and appalling.
Their names were Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera. They were also
called Eumenides.

Nemesis was also an avenging goddess. She represents the righteous
anger of the gods, particularly towards the proud and insolent.

Pan was the god of flocks and shepherds. His favorite residence
was in Arcadia.

The Satyrs were deities of the woods and fields. They were
conceived to be covered with bristly hair, their heads decorated
with short, sprouting horns, and their feet like goats' feet.

Momus was the god of laughter, and Plutus the god of wealth.

ROMAN DIVINITIES

The preceding are Grecian divinities, though received also by the
Romans. Those which follow are peculiar to Roman mythology:

Saturn was an ancient Italian deity. It was attempted to identify
him with the Grecian god Cronos, and fabled that after his
dethronement by Jupiter he fled to Italy, where he reigned during
what was called the Golden Age. In memory of his beneficent
dominion, the feast of Saturnalia was held every year in the
winter season. Then all public business was suspended,
declarations of war and criminal executions were postponed,
friends made presents to one another and the slaves were indulged
with great liberties. A feast was given them at which they sat at
table, while their masters served them, to show the natural
equality of men, and that all things belonged equally to all, in
the reign of Saturn.

Faunus, [Footnote: There was also a goddess called Fauna, or Bona
Dea.] the grandson of Saturn, was worshipped as the god of fields
and shepherds, and also as a prophetic god. His name in the
plural, Fauns, expressed a class of gamesome deities, like the
Satyrs of the Greeks.

Quirinus was a war god, said to be no other than Romulus, the
founder of Rome, exalted after his death to a place among the
gods.

Bellona, a war goddess.

Terminus, the god of landmarks. His statue was a rude stone or
post, set in the ground to mark the boundaries of fields.

Pales, the goddess presiding over cattle and pastures.

Pomona presided over fruit trees.

Flora, the goddess of flowers.

Lucina, the goddess of childbirth.

Vesta (the Hestia of the Greeks) was a deity presiding over the
public and private hearth. A sacred fire, tended by six virgin
priestesses called Vestals, flamed in her temple. As the safety of
the city was held to be connected with its conservation, the
neglect of the virgins, if they let it go out, was severely
punished, and the fire was rekindled from the rays of the sun.

Liber is the Latin name of Bacchus; and Mulciber of Vulcan.

Janus was the porter of heaven. He opens the year, the first month
being named after him. He is the guardian deity of gates, on which
account he is commonly represented with two heads, because every
door looks two ways. His temples at Rome were numerous. In war
time the gates of the principal one were always open. In peace
they were closed; but they were shut only once between the reign
of Numa and that of Augustus.

The Penates were the gods who were supposed to attend to the
welfare and prosperity of the family. Their name is derived from
Penus, the pantry, which was sacred to them. Every master of a
family was the priest to the Penates of his own house.

The Lares, or Lars, were also household gods, but differed from
the Penates in being regarded as the deified spirits of mortals.
The family Lars were held to be the souls of the ancestors, who
watched over and protected their descendants. The words Lemur and
Larva more nearly correspond to our word Ghost.

The Romans believed that every man had his Genius, and every woman
her Juno: that is, a spirit who had given them being, and was
regarded as their protector through life. On their birthdays men
made offerings to their Genius, women to their Juno.

A modern poet thus alludes to some of the Roman gods:

    "Pomona loves the orchard,
       And Liber loves the vine,
     And Pales loves the straw-built shed
       Warm with the breath of kine;
     And Venus loves the whisper
       Of plighted youth and maid,
     In April's ivory moonlight,
       Beneath the chestnut shade."

    --Macaulay, "Prophecy of Capys."

N.B.--It is to be observed that in proper names the final e and es
are to be sounded. Thus Cybele and Penates are words of three
syllables. But Proserpine and Thebes are exceptions, and to be
pronounced as English words. In the Index at the close of the
volume we shall mark the accented syllable in all words which
appear to require it.





CHAPTER II

PROMETHEUS AND PANDORA


The creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite
the liveliest interest of man, its inhabitant. The ancient pagans,
not having the information on the subject which we derive from the
pages of Scripture, had their own way of telling the story, which
is as follows:

Before earth and sea and heaven were created, all things wore one
aspect, to which we give the name of Chaos--a confused and
shapeless mass, nothing but dead weight, in which, however,
slumbered the seeds of things. Earth, sea, and air were all mixed
up together; so the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid,
and the air was not transparent. God and Nature at last
interposed, and put an end to this discord, separating earth from
sea, and heaven from both. The fiery part, being the lightest,
sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was next in weight and
place. The earth, being heavier, sank below; and the water took
the lowest place, and buoyed up the earth.

Here some god--it is not known which--gave his good offices in
arranging and disposing the earth. He appointed rivers and bays
their places, raised mountains, scooped out valleys, distributed
woods, fountains, fertile fields, and stony plains. The air being
cleared, the stars began to appear, fishes took possession of the
sea, birds of the air, and four-footed beasts of the land.

But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made. It is not known
whether the creator made him of divine materials, or whether in
the earth, so lately separated from heaven, there lurked still
some heavenly seeds. Prometheus took some of this earth, and
kneading it up with water, made man in the image of the gods. He
gave him an upright stature, so that while all other animals turn
their faces downward, and look to the earth, he raises his to
heaven, and gazes on the stars.

Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited
the earth before the creation of man. To him and his brother
Epimetheus was committed the office of making man, and providing
him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for their
preservation. Epimetheus undertook to do this, and Prometheus was
to overlook his work, when it was done. Epimetheus accordingly
proceeded to bestow upon the different animals the various gifts
of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity; wings to one, claws to
another, a shelly covering to a third, etc. But when man came to
be provided for, who was to be superior to all other animals,
Epimetheus had been so prodigal of his resources that he had
nothing left to bestow upon him. In his perplexity he resorted to
his brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, went up to
heaven, and lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and
brought down fire to man. With this gift man was more than a match
for all other animals. It enabled him to make weapons wherewith to
subdue them; tools with which to cultivate the earth; to warm his
dwelling, so as to be comparatively independent of climate; and
finally to introduce the arts and to coin money, the means of
trade and commerce. Woman was not yet made. The story (absurd
enough!) is that Jupiter made her, and sent her to Prometheus and
his brother, to punish them for their presumption in stealing fire
from heaven; and man, for accepting the gift. The first woman was
named Pandora. She was made in heaven, every god contributing
something to perfect her. Venus gave her beauty, Mercury
persuasion, Apollo music, etc. Thus equipped, she was conveyed to
earth, and presented to Epimetheus, who gladly accepted her,
though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and his
gifts. Epimetheus had in his house a jar, in which were kept
certain noxious articles, for which, in fitting man for his new
abode, he had had no occasion. Pandora was seized with an eager
curiosity to know what this jar contained; and one day she slipped
off the cover and looked in. Forthwith there escaped a multitude
of plagues for hapless man,--such as gout, rheumatism, and colic
for his body, and envy, spite, and revenge for his mind,--and
scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the
lid! but, alas! the whole contents of the jar had escaped, one
thing only excepted, which lay at the bottom, and that was HOPE.
So we see at this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never
entirely leaves us; and while we have THAT, no amount of other
ills can make us completely wretched.

Another story is that Pandora was sent in good faith, by Jupiter,
to bless man; that she was furnished with a box, containing her
marriage presents, into which every god had put some blessing. She
opened the box incautiously, and the blessings all escaped, HOPE
only excepted. This story seems more probable than the former; for
how could HOPE, so precious a jewel as it is, have been kept in a
jar full of all manner of evils, as in the former statement?

The world being thus furnished with inhabitants, the first age was
an age of innocence and happiness, called the Golden Age. Truth
and right prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was there any
magistrate to threaten or punish. The forest had not yet been
robbed of its trees to furnish timbers for vessels, nor had men
built fortifications round their towns. There were no such things
as swords, spears, or helmets. The earth brought forth all things
necessary for man, without his labor in ploughing or sowing.
Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up without seed, the
rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey distilled from
the oaks.

Then succeeded the Silver Age, inferior to the golden, but better
than that of brass. Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the
year into seasons. Then, first, men had to endure the extremes of
heat and cold, and houses became necessary. Caves were the first
dwellings, and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of
twigs. Crops would no longer grow without planting. The farmer was
obliged to sow the seed and the toiling ox to draw the plough.

Next came the Brazen Age, more savage of temper, and readier to
the strife of arms, yet not altogether wicked. The hardest and
worst was the Iron Age. Crime burst in like a flood; modesty,
truth, and honor fled. In their places came fraud and cunning,
violence, and the wicked love of gain. Then seamen spread sails to
the wind, and the trees were torn from the mountains to serve for
keels to ships, and vex the face of ocean. The earth, which till
now had been cultivated in common, began to be divided off into
possessions. Men were not satisfied with what the surface
produced, but must dig into its bowels, and draw forth from thence
the ores of metals. Mischievous IRON, and more mischievous GOLD,
were produced. War sprang up, using both as weapons; the guest was
not safe in his friend's house; and sons-in-law and fathers-in-
law, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, could not trust one
another. Sons wished their fathers dead, that they might come to
the inheritance; family love lay prostrate. The earth was wet with
slaughter, and the gods abandoned it, one by one, till Astraea
alone was left, and finally she also took her departure.

[Footnote: The goddess of innocence and purity. After leaving
earth, she was placed among the stars, where she became the
constellation Virgo--the Virgin. Themis (Justice) was the mother
of Astraea. She is represented as holding aloft a pair of scales,
in which she weighs the claims of opposing parties.

It was a favorite idea of the old poets that these goddesses would
one day return, and bring back the Golden Age. Even in a Christian
hymn, the "Messiah" of Pope, this idea occurs:

    "All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
     Returning Justice lift aloft her scale,
     Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
     And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend."

See, also, Milton's "Hymn on the Nativity," stanzas xiv. and xv.]

Jupiter, seeing this state of things, burned with anger. He
summoned the gods to council. They obeyed the call, and took the
road to the palace of heaven. The road, which any one may see in a
clear night, stretches across the face of the sky, and is called
the Milky Way. Along the road stand the palaces of the illustrious
gods; the common people of the skies live apart, on either side.
Jupiter addressed the assembly. He set forth the frightful
condition of things on the earth, and closed by announcing his
intention to destroy the whole of its inhabitants, and provide a
new race, unlike the first, who would be more worthy of life, and
much better worshippers of the gods. So saying he took a
thunderbolt, and was about to launch it at the world, and destroy
it by burning; but recollecting the danger that such a
conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he changed his
plan, and resolved to drown it. The north wind, which scatters the
clouds, was chained up; the south was sent out, and soon covered
all the face of heaven with a cloak of pitchy darkness. The
clouds, driven together, resound with a crash; torrents of rain
fall; the crops are laid low; the year's labor of the husbandman
perishes in an hour. Jupiter, not satisfied with his own waters,
calls on his brother Neptune to aid him with his. He lets loose
the rivers, and pours them over the land. At the same time, he
heaves the land with an earthquake, and brings in the reflux of
the ocean over the shores. Flocks, herds, men, and houses are
swept away, and temples, with their sacred enclosures, profaned.
If any edifice remained standing, it was overwhelmed, and its
turrets lay hid beneath the waves. Now all was sea, sea without
shore. Here and there an individual remained on a projecting
hilltop, and a few, in boats, pulled the oar where they had lately
driven the plough. The fishes swim among the tree-tops; the anchor
is let down into a garden. Where the graceful lambs played but
now, unwieldy sea calves gambol. The wolf swims among the sheep,
the yellow lions and tigers struggle in the water. The strength of
the wild boar serves him not, nor his swiftness the stag. The
birds fall with weary wing into the water, having found no land
for a resting-place. Those living beings whom the water spared
fell a prey to hunger.

Parnassus alone, of all the mountains, overtopped the waves; and
there Deucalion, and his wife Pyrrha, of the race of Prometheus,
found refuge--he a just man, and she a faithful worshipper of the
gods. Jupiter, when he saw none left alive but this pair, and
remembered their harmless lives and pious demeanor, ordered the
north winds to drive away the clouds, and disclose the skies to
earth, and earth to the skies. Neptune also directed Triton to
blow on his shell, and sound a retreat to the waters. The waters
obeyed, and the sea returned to its shores, and the rivers to
their channels. Then Deucalion thus addressed Pyrrha: "O wife,
only surviving woman, joined to me first by the ties of kindred
and marriage, and now by a common danger, would that we possessed
the power of our ancestor Prometheus, and could renew the race as
he at first made it! But as we cannot, let us seek yonder temple,
and inquire of the gods what remains for us to do." They entered
the temple, deformed as it was with slime, and approached the
altar, where no fire burned. There they fell prostrate on the
earth, and prayed the goddess to inform them how they might
retrieve their miserable affairs. The oracle answered, "Depart
from the temple with head veiled and garments unbound, and cast
behind you the bones of your mother." They heard the words with
astonishment. Pyrrha first broke silence: "We cannot obey; we dare
not profane the remains of our parents." They sought the thickest
shades of the wood, and revolved the oracle in their minds. At
length Deucalion spoke: "Either my sagacity deceives me, or the
command is one we may obey without impiety. The earth is the great
parent of all; the stones are her bones; these we may cast behind
us; and I think this is what the oracle means. At least, it will
do no harm to try." They veiled their faces, unbound their
garments, and picked up stones, and cast them behind them. The
stones (wonderful to relate) began to grow soft, and assume shape.
By degrees, they put on a rude resemblance to the human form, like
a block half-finished in the hands of the sculptor. The moisture
and slime that were about them became flesh; the stony part became
bones; the veins remained veins, retaining their name, only
changing their use. Those thrown by the hand of the man became
men, and those by the woman became women. It was a hard race, and
well adapted to labor, as we find ourselves to be at this day,
giving plain indications of our origin.

The comparison of Eve to Pandora is too obvious to have escaped
Milton, who introduces it in Book IV. of "Paradise Lost":

    "More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods
     Endowed with all their gifts; and O, too like
     In sad event, when to the unwiser son
     Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she insnared
     Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
     On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire."

Prometheus and Epimetheus were sons of Iapetus, which Milton
changes to Japhet.

Prometheus has been a favorite subject with the poets. He is
represented as the friend of mankind, who interposed in their
behalf when Jove was incensed against them, and who taught them
civilization and the arts. But as, in so doing, he transgressed
the will of Jupiter, he drew down on himself the anger of the
ruler of gods and men. Jupiter had him chained to a rock on Mount
Caucasus, where a vulture preyed on his liver, which was renewed
as fast as devoured. This state of torment might have been brought
to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had been willing to
submit to his oppressor; for he possessed a secret which involved
the stability of Jove's throne, and if he would have revealed it,
he might have been at once taken into favor. But that he disdained
to do. He has therefore become the symbol of magnanimous endurance
of unmerited suffering, and strength of will resisting oppression.

Byron and Shelley have both treated this theme. The following are
Byron's lines:

    "Titan! to whose immortal eyes
       The sufferings of mortality,
       Seen in their sad reality,
     Were not as things that gods despise;
     What was thy pity's recompense?
     A silent suffering, and intense;
     The rock, the vulture, and the chain;
     All that the proud can feel of pain;
     The agony they do not show;
     The suffocating sense of woe.

    "Thy godlike crime was to be kind;
       To render with thy precepts less
       The sum of human wretchedness,
     And strengthen man with his own mind.
       And, baffled as thou wert from high,
       Still, in thy patient energy
     In the endurance and repulse
       Of thine impenetrable spirit,
     Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
       A mighty lesson we inherit."

Byron also employs the same allusion, in his
"Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte":

    "Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
       Wilt thou withstand the shock?
     And share with him--the unforgiven--
       His vulture and his rock?"





CHAPTER III

APOLLO AND DAPHNE--PYRAMUS AND THISBE CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS


The slime with which the earth was covered by the waters of the
flood produced an excessive fertility, which called forth every
variety of production, both bad and good. Among the rest, Python,
an enormous serpent, crept forth, the terror of the people, and
lurked in the caves of Mount Parnassus. Apollo slew him with his
arrows--weapons which he had not before used against any but
feeble animals, hares, wild goats, and such game. In commemoration
of this illustrious conquest he instituted the Pythian games, in
which the victor in feats of strength, swiftness of foot, or in
the chariot race was crowned with a wreath of beech leaves; for
the laurel was not yet adopted by Apollo as his own tree.

The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere represents the
god after this victory over the serpent Python. To this Byron
alludes in his "Childe Harold," iv., 161:

    "... The lord of the unerring bow,
     The god of life, and poetry, and light,
     The Sun, in human limbs arrayed, and brow
     All radiant from his triumph in the fight
     The shaft has just been shot; the arrow bright
     With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
     And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might
     And majesty flash their full lightnings by,
     Developing in that one glance the Deity."

APOLLO AND DAPHNE

Daphne was Apollo's first love. It was not brought about by
accident, but by the malice of Cupid. Apollo saw the boy playing
with his bow and arrows; and being himself elated with his recent
victory over Python, he said to him, "What have you to do with
warlike weapons, saucy boy? Leave them for hands worthy of them.
Behold the conquest I have won by means of them over the vast
serpent who stretched his poisonous body over acres of the plain!
Be content with your torch, child, and kindle up your flames, as
you call them, where you will, but presume not to meddle with my
weapons." Venus's boy heard these words, and rejoined, "Your
arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike
you." So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and
drew from his quiver two arrows of different workmanship, one to
excite love, the other to repel it. The former was of gold and
sharp pointed, the latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the
leaden shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river
god Peneus, and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart.
Forthwith the god was seized with love for the maiden, and she
abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in woodland sports
and in the spoils of the chase. Many lovers sought her, but she
spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking no thought of
Cupid nor of Hymen. Her father often said to her, "Daughter, you
owe me a son-in-law; you owe me grandchildren." She, hating the
thought of marriage as a crime, with her beautiful face tinged all
over with blushes, threw arms around her father's neck, and said,
"Dearest father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain
unmarried, like Diana." He consented, but at the same time said,
"Your own face will forbid it."

Apollo loved her, and longed to obtain her; and he who gives
oracles to all the world was not wise enough to look into his own
fortunes. He saw her hair flung loose over her shoulders, and
said, "If so charming in disorder, what would it be if arranged?"
He saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not
satisfied with only seeing them. He admired her hands and arms,
naked to the shoulder, and whatever was hidden from view he
imagined more beautiful still. He followed her; she fled, swifter
than the wind, and delayed not a moment at his entreaties. "Stay,"
said he, "daughter of Peneus; I am not a foe. Do not fly me as a
lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk. It is for love I pursue
you. You make me miserable, for fear you should fall and hurt
yourself on these stones, and I should be the cause. Pray run
slower, and I will follow slower. I am no clown, no rude peasant.
Jupiter is my father, and I am lord of Delphos and Tenedos, and
know all things, present and future. I am the god of song and the
lyre. My arrows fly true to the mark; but, alas! an arrow more
fatal than mine has pierced my heart! I am the god of medicine,
and know the virtues of all healing plants. Alas! I suffer a
malady that no balm can cure!"

The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered.
And even as she fled she charmed him. The wind blew her garments,
and her unbound hair streamed loose behind her. The god grew
impatient to find his wooings thrown away, and, sped by Cupid,
gained upon her in the race. It was like a hound pursuing a hare,
with open jaws ready to seize, while the feebler animal darts
forward, slipping from the very grasp. So flew the god and the
virgin--he on the wings of love, and she on those of fear. The
pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and his
panting breath blows upon her hair. Her strength begins to fail,
and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river god:
"Help me, Peneus! open the earth to enclose me, or change my form,
which has brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had she spoken,
when a stiffness seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be
enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became leaves; her arms became
branches; her foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; her face,
became a tree-top, retaining nothing of its former self but its
beauty. Apollo stood amazed. He touched the stem, and felt the
flesh tremble under the new bark. He embraced the branches, and
lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his lips.
"Since you cannot be my wife," said he, "you shall assuredly be my
tree. I will wear you for my crown; I will decorate with you my
harp and my quiver; and when the great Roman conquerors lead up
the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into wreaths
for their brows. And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be
always green, and your leaf know no decay." The nymph, now changed
into a Laurel tree, bowed its head in grateful acknowledgment.

That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not
appear strange, but that medicine should also be assigned to his
province, may. The poet Armstrong, himself a physician, thus
accounts for it:

    "Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
     Expels diseases, softens every pain;
     And hence the wise of ancient days adored
     One power of physic, melody, and song."

The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets.
Waller applies it to the case of one whose amatory verses, though
they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the
poet wide-spread fame:

    "Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
     Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
     All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
     Attend his passion and approve his song.
     Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
     He caught at love and filled his arms with bays."

The following stanza from Shelley's "Adonais" alludes to Byron's
early quarrel with the reviewers:

    "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
    The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;
    The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true,
    Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
    And whose wings rain contagion: how they fled,
    When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
    The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
    And smiled! The spoilers tempt no second blow;
    They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go."

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden,
in all Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied
adjoining houses; and neighborhood brought the young people
together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly
have married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, they
could not forbid--that love should glow with equal ardor in the
bosoms of both. They conversed by signs and glances, and the fire
burned more intensely for being covered up. In the wall that
parted the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in
the structure. No one had remarked it before, but the lovers
discovered it. What will not love discover! It afforded a passage
to the voice; and tender messages used to pass backward and
forward through the gap. As they stood, Pyramus on this side,
Thisbe on that, their breaths would mingle. "Cruel wall," they
said, "why do you keep two lovers apart? But we will not be
ungrateful. We owe you, we confess, the privilege of transmitting
loving words to willing ears." Such words they uttered on
different sides of the wall; and when night came and they must say
farewell, they pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side,
he on his, as they could come no nearer.

Next morning, when Aurora had put out the stars, and the sun had
melted the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot.
Then, after lamenting their hard fate, they agreed, that next
night, when all was still, they would slip away from watchful
eyes, leave their dwellings and walk out into the fields; and to
insure a meeting, repair to a well-known edifice standing without
the city's bounds, called the Tomb of Ninus, and that the one who
came first should await the other at the foot of a certain tree.
It was a white mulberry tree, and stood near a cool spring. All
was agreed on, and they waited impatiently for the sun to go down
beneath the waters and night to rise up from them. Then cautiously
Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by the family, her head covered
with a veil, made her way to the monument and sat down under the
tree. As she sat alone in the dim light of the evening she
descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent slaughter,
approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. Thisbe fled at the
sight, and sought refuge in the hollow of a rock. As she fled she
dropped her veil. The lioness after drinking at the spring turned
to retreat to the woods, and seeing the veil on the ground, tossed
and rent it with her bloody mouth.

Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of meeting.
He saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the color fled
from his cheeks at the sight. Presently he found the veil all rent
and bloody. "O hapless girl," said he, "I have been the cause of
thy death! Thou, more worthy of life than I, hast fallen the first
victim. I will follow. I am the guilty cause, in tempting thee
forth to a place of such peril, and not being myself on the spot
to guard thee. Come forth, ye lions, from the rocks, and tear this
guilty body with your teeth." He took up the veil, carried it with
him to the appointed tree, and covered it with kisses and with
tears. "MY blood also shall stain your texture," said he, and
drawing his sword plunged it into his heart. The blood spurted
from the wound, and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all
red; and sinking into the earth reached the roots, so that the red
color mounted through the trunk to the fruit.

By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to
disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously
for the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had escaped. When
she came to the spot and saw the changed color of the mulberries
she doubted whether it was the same place. While she hesitated she
saw the form of one struggling in the agonies of death. She
started back, a shudder ran through her frame as a ripple on the
face of the still water when a sudden breeze sweeps over it. But
as soon as she recognized her lover, she screamed and beat her
breast, embracing the lifeless body, pouring tears into its
wounds, and imprinting kisses on the cold lips. "O Pyramus," she
cried, "what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it is your own
Thisbe that speaks. Hear me, dearest, and lift that drooping
head!" At the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed
them again. She saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard
empty of its sword. "Thy own hand has slain thee, and for my
sake," she said. "I too can be brave for once, and my love is as
strong as thine. I will follow thee in death, for I have been the
cause; and death which alone could part us shall not prevent my
joining thee. And ye, unhappy parents of us both, deny us not our
united request. As love and death have joined us, let one tomb
contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter. Let thy
berries still serve for memorials of our blood." So saying she
plunged the sword into her breast. Her parents ratified her wish,
the gods also ratified it. The two bodies were buried in one
sepulchre, and the tree ever after brought forth purple berries,
as it does to this day.

Moore, in the "Sylph's Ball," speaking of Davy's Safety Lamp, is
reminded of the wall that separated Thisbe and her lover:

    "O for that Lamp's metallic gauze,
       That curtain of protecting wire,
     Which Davy delicately draws
       Around illicit, dangerous fire!

     The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
       (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)
     Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
       May see each other, but not kiss."

In Mickle's translation of the "Lusiad" occurs the following
allusion to the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, and the metamorphosis
of the mulberries. The poet is describing the Island of Love:

    "... here each gift Pomona's hand bestows
     In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
     The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair
     Than e'er was fostered by the hand of care.
     The cherry here in shining crimson glows,
     And stained with lovers' blood, in pendent rows,
     The mulberries o'erload the bending boughs."

If any of our young readers can be so hard-hearted as to enjoy a
laugh at the expense of poor Pyramus and Thisbe, they may find an
opportunity by turning to Shakspeare's play of the "Midsummer
Night's Dream," where it is most amusingly burlesqued.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS

Cephalus was a beautiful youth and fond of manly sports. He would
rise before the dawn to pursue the chase. Aurora saw him when she
first looked forth, fell in love with him, and stole him away. But
Cephalus was just married to a charming wife whom he devotedly
loved. Her name was Procris. She was a favorite of Diana, the
goddess of hunting, who had given her a dog which could outrun
every rival, and a javelin which would never fail of its mark; and
Procris gave these presents to her husband. Cephalus was so happy
in his wife that he resisted all the entreaties of Aurora, and she
finally dismissed him in displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful
mortal, keep your wife, whom, if I am not much mistaken, you will
one day be very sorry you ever saw again."

Cephalus returned, and was as happy as ever in his wife and his
woodland sports. Now it happened some angry deity had sent a
ravenous fox to annoy the country; and the hunters turned out in
great strength to capture it. Their efforts were all in vain; no
dog could run it down; and at last they came to Cephalus to borrow
his famous dog, whose name was Lelaps. No sooner was the dog let
loose than he darted off, quicker than their eye could follow him.
If they had not seen his footprints in the sand they would have
thought he flew. Cephalus and others stood on a hill and saw the
race. The fox tried every art; he ran in a circle and turned on
his track, the dog close upon him, with open jaws, snapping at his
heels, but biting only the air. Cephalus was about to use his
javelin, when suddenly he saw both dog and game stop instantly.
The heavenly powers who had given both were not willing that
either should conquer. In the very attitude of life and action
they were turned into stone. So lifelike and natural did they
look, you would have thought, as you looked at them, that one was
going to bark, the other to leap forward.

Cephalus, though he had lost his dog, still continued to take
delight in the chase. He would go out at early morning, ranging
the woods and hills unaccompanied by any one, needing no help, for
his javelin was a sure weapon in all cases. Fatigued with hunting,
when the sun got high he would seek a shady nook where a cool
stream flowed, and, stretched on the grass, with his garments
thrown aside, would enjoy the breeze. Sometimes he would say
aloud, "Come, sweet breeze, come and fan my breast, come and allay
the heat that burns me." Some one passing by one day heard him
talking in this way to the air, and, foolishly believing that he
was talking to some maiden, went and told the secret to Procris,
Cephalus's wife. Love is credulous. Procris, at the sudden shock,
fainted away. Presently recovering, she said, "It cannot be true;
I will not believe it unless I myself am a witness to it." So she
waited, with anxious heart, till the next morning, when Cephalus
went to hunt as usual. Then she stole out after him, and concealed
herself in the place where the informer directed her. Cephalus
came as he was wont when tired with sport, and stretched himself
on the green bank, saying, "Come, sweet breeze, come and fan me;
you know how I love you! you make the groves and my solitary
rambles delightful." He was running on in this way when he heard,
or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in the bushes. Supposing
it some wild animal, he threw his javelin at the spot. A cry from
his beloved Procris told him that the weapon had too surely met
its mark. He rushed to the place, and found her bleeding, and with
sinking strength endeavoring to draw forth from the wound the
javelin, her own gift. Cephalus raised her from the earth, strove
to stanch the blood, and called her to revive and not to leave him
miserable, to reproach himself with her death. She opened her
feeble eyes, and forced herself to utter these few words: "I
implore you, if you have ever loved me, if I have ever deserved
kindness at your hands, my husband, grant me this last request; do
not marry that odious Breeze!" This disclosed the whole mystery:
but alas! what advantage to disclose it now! She died; but her
face wore a calm expression, and she looked pityingly and
forgivingly on her husband when he made her understand the truth.

Moore, in his "Legendary Ballads," has one on Cephalus and
Procris, beginning thus:

    "A hunter once in a grove reclined,
       To shun the noon's bright eye,
     And oft he wooed the wandering wind
       To cool his brow with its sigh
     While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
       Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
     His song was still, 'Sweet Air, O come!'
       While Echo answered, 'Come, sweet Air!'"





CHAPTER IV

JUNO AND HER RIVALS, IO AND CALLISTO--DIANA AND ACTAEON--LATONA
AND THE RUSTICS


Juno one day perceived it suddenly grow dark, and immediately
suspected that her husband had raised a cloud to hide some of his
doings that would not bear the light. She brushed away the cloud,
and saw her husband on the banks of a glassy river, with a
beautiful heifer standing near him. Juno suspected the heifer's
form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould--as was, indeed the
case; for it was Io, the daughter of the river god Inachus, whom
Jupiter had been flirting with, and, when he became aware of the
approach of his wife, had changed into that form.

Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer praised its
beauty, and asked whose it was, and of what herd. Jupiter, to stop
questions, replied that it was a fresh creation from the earth.
Juno asked to have it as a gift. What could Jupiter do? He was
loath to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling
a present as a simple heifer? He could not, without exciting
suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was not yet relieved of
her suspicions; so she delivered the heifer to Argus, to be
strictly watched.

Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep
with more than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io
constantly. He suffered her to feed through the day, and at night
tied her up with a vile rope round her neck. She would have
stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but she had no
arms to stretch out, and her voice was a bellow that frightened
even herself. She saw her father and her sisters, went near them,
and suffered them to pat her back, and heard them admire her
beauty. Her father reached her a tuft of grass, and she licked the
outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known to him, and
would have uttered her wish; but, alas! words were wanting. At
length she bethought herself of writing, and inscribed her name--
it was a short one--with her hoof on the sand. Inachus recognized
it, and discovering that his daughter, whom he had long sought in
vain, was hidden under this disguise, mourned over her, and,
embracing her white neck, exclaimed, "Alas! my daughter, it would
have been a less grief to have lost you altogether!" While he thus
lamented, Argus, observing, came and drove her away, and took his
seat on a high bank, from whence he could see all around in every
direction.

Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress,
and calling Mercury told him to go and despatch Argus. Mercury
made haste, put his winged slippers on his feet, and cap on his
head, took his sleep-producing wand, and leaped down from the
heavenly towers to the earth. There he laid aside his wings, and
kept only his wand, with which he presented himself as a shepherd
driving his flock. As he strolled on he blew upon his pipes. These
were what are called the Syrinx or Pandean pipes. Argus listened
with delight, for he had never seen the instrument before. "Young
man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on this stone. There is
no better place for your flocks to graze in than hereabouts, and
here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love." Mercury sat
down, talked, and told stories till it grew late, and played upon
his pipes his most soothing strains, hoping to lull the watchful
eyes to sleep, but all in vain; for Argus still contrived to keep
some of his eyes open though he shut the rest.

Among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which
he played was invented. "There was a certain nymph, whose name was
Syrinx, who was much beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the
wood; but she would have none of them, but was a faithful
worshipper of Diana, and followed the chase. You would have
thought it was Diana herself, had you seen her in her hunting
dress, only that her bow was of horn and Diana's of silver. One
day, as she was returning from the chase, Pan met her, told her
just this, and added more of the same sort. She ran away, without
stopping to hear his compliments, and he pursued till she came to
the bank of the river, where he overtook her, and she had only
time to call for help on her friends the water nymphs. They heard
and consented. Pan threw his arms around what he supposed to be
the form of the nymph, and found he embraced only a tuft of reeds!
As he breathed a sigh, the air sounded through the reeds, and
produced a plaintive melody. The god, charmed with the novelty and
with the sweetness of the music, said, 'Thus, then, at least, you
shall be mine.' And he took some of the reeds, and placing them
together, of unequal lengths, side by side, made an instrument
which he called Syrinx, in honor of the nymph." Before Mercury had
finished his story he saw Argus's eyes all asleep. As his head
nodded forward on his breast, Mercury with one stroke cut his neck
through, and tumbled his head down the rocks. O hapless Argus! the
light of your hundred eyes is quenched at once! Juno took them and
put them as ornaments on the tail of her peacock, where they
remain to this day.

But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated. She sent a gadfly
to torment Io, who fled over the whole world from its pursuit. She
swam through the Ionian sea, which derived its name from her, then
roamed over the plains of Illyria, ascended Mount Haemus, and
crossed the Thracian strait, thence named the Bosphorus (cow-
ford), rambled on through Scythia, and the country of the
Cimmerians, and arrived at last on the banks of the Nile. At
length Jupiter interceded for her, and upon his promising not to
pay her any more attentions Juno consented to restore her to her
form. It was curious to see her gradually recover her former self.
The coarse hairs fell from her body, her horns shrank up, her eyes
grew narrower, her mouth shorter; hands and fingers came instead
of hoofs to her forefeet; in fine there was nothing left of the
heifer, except her beauty. At first she was afraid to speak, for
fear she should low, but gradually she recovered her confidence
and was restored to her father and sisters.

In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following
allusion to the story of Pan and Syrinx occurs:

    "So did he feel who pulled the bough aside,
     That we might look into a forest wide,

     Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
     Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
     Poor nymph--poor Pan--how he did weep to find
     Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
     Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain.
     Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain."

CALLISTO

Callisto was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno, and
the goddess changed her into a bear. "I will take away," said she,
"that beauty with which you have captivated my husband." Down fell
Callisto on her hands and knees; she tried to stretch out her arms
in supplication--they were already beginning to be covered with
black hair. Her hands grew rounded, became armed with crooked
claws, and served for feet; her mouth, which Jove used to praise
for its beauty, became a horrid pair of jaws; her voice, which if
unchanged would have moved the heart to pity, became a growl, more
fit to inspire terror. Yet her former disposition remained, and
with continual groaning, she bemoaned her fate, and stood upright
as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg for mercy, and
felt that Jove was unkind, though she could not tell him so. Ah,
how often, afraid to stay in the woods all night alone, she
wandered about the neighborhood of her former haunts; how often,
frightened by the dogs, did she, so lately a huntress, fly in
terror from the hunters! Often she fled from the wild beasts,
forgetting that she was now a wild beast herself; and, bear as she
was, was afraid of the bears.

One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and
recognized him as her own son, now grown a young man. She stopped
and felt inclined to embrace him. As she was about to approach,
he, alarmed, raised his hunting spear, and was on the point of
transfixing her, when Jupiter, beholding, arrested the crime, and
snatching away both of them, placed them in the heavens as the
Great and Little Bear.

Juno was in a rage to see her rival so set in honor, and hastened
to ancient Tethys and Oceanus, the powers of ocean, and in answer
to their inquiries thus told the cause of her coming: "Do you ask
why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly plains and
sought your depths? Learn that I am supplanted in heaven--my place
is given to another. You will hardly believe me; but look when
night darkens the world, and you shall see the two of whom I have
so much reason to complain exalted to the heavens, in that part
where the circle is the smallest, in the neighborhood of the pole.
Why should any one hereafter tremble at the thought of offending
Juno, when such rewards are the consequence of my displeasure? See
what I have been able to effect! I forbade her to wear the human
form--she is placed among the stars! So do my punishments result--
such is the extent of my power! Better that she should have
resumed her former shape, as I permitted Io to do. Perhaps he
means to marry her, and put me away! But you, my foster-parents,
if you feel for me, and see with displeasure this unworthy
treatment of me, show it, I beseech you, by forbidding this guilty
couple from coming into your waters." The powers of the ocean
assented, and consequently the two constellations of the Great and
Little Bear move round and round in heaven, but never sink, as the
other stars do, beneath the ocean.

Milton alludes to the fact that the constellation of the Bear
never sets, when he says:

    "Let my lamp at midnight hour
     Be seen in some high lonely tower,
     Where I may oft outwatch the Bear," etc.

And Prometheus, in J. R. Lowell's poem, says:

    "One after one the stars have risen and set,
     Sparkling upon the hoar frost of my chain;
     The Bear that prowled all night about the fold
     Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den,
     Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn."

The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Pole-star,
called also the Cynosure. Milton says:

    "Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
     While the landscape round it measures.

     Towers and battlements it sees
     Bosomed high in tufted trees,
     Where perhaps some beauty lies
     The Cynosure of neighboring eyes"

The reference here is both to the Pole-star as the guide of
mariners, and to the magnetic attraction of the North He calls it
also the "Star of Arcady," because Callisto's boy was named Arcas,
and they lived in Arcadia. In "Comus," the brother, benighted in
the woods, says:

    "... Some gentle taper!
     Though a rush candle, from the wicker hole
     Of some clay habitation, visit us
     With thy long levelled rule of streaming light,
     And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,
     Or Tyrian Cynosure."

DIANA AND ACTAEON

Thus in two instances we have seen Juno's severity to her rivals;
now let us learn how a virgin goddess punished an invader of her
privacy.

It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either goal,
when young Actaeon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the youths
who with him were hunting the stag in the mountains:

"Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our
victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and to-morrow we
can renew our labors. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let us
put by our implements and indulge ourselves with rest."

There was a valley thick enclosed with cypresses and pines, sacred
to the huntress queen, Diana. In the extremity of the valley was a
cave, not adorned with art, but nature had counterfeited art in
its construction, for she had turned the arch of its roof with
stones as delicately fitted as if by the hand of man. A fountain
burst out from one side, whose open basin was bounded by a grassy
rim. Here the goddess of the woods used to come when weary with
hunting and lave her virgin limbs in the sparkling water.

One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her
javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another,
while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the
most skilful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and
the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the goddess was thus
employed in the labors of the toilet, behold Actaeon, having
quitted his companions, and rambling without any especial object,
came to the place, led thither by his destiny. As he presented
himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing a man,
screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide her with their
bodies. But she was taller than the rest and overtopped them all
by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or at dawn
came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by surprise.
Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away, and
sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As they were not at
hand, she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, adding
these words: "Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen
Diana unapparelled." Immediately a pair of branching stag's horns
grew out of his head, his neck gained in length, his ears grew
sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms long legs, his body
was covered with a hairy spotted hide. Fear took the place of his
former boldness, and the hero fled. He could not but admire his
own speed; but when he saw his horns in the water, "Ah, wretched
me!" he would have said, but no sound followed the effort. He
groaned, and tears flowed down the face which had taken the place
of his own. Yet his consciousness remained. What shall he do?--go
home to seek the palace, or lie hid in the woods? The latter he
was afraid, the former he was ashamed, to do. While he hesitated
the dogs saw him. First Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal
with his bark, then Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape,
Tigris, and all the rest, rushed after him swifter than the wind.
Over rocks and cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed
impracticable, he fled and they followed. Where he had often
chased the stag and cheered on his pack, his pack now chased him,
cheered on by his huntsmen. He longed to cry out, "I am Actaeon;
recognize your master!" but the words came not at his will. The
air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on
his back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their
master, the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in his
flesh. He groaned,--not in a human voice, yet certainly not in a
stag's,--and falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and would have
raised his arms in supplication, if he had had them. His friends
and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and looked everywhere for
Actaeon, calling on him to join the sport. At the sound of his
name he turned his head, and heard them regret that he should be
away. He earnestly wished he was. He would have been well pleased
to see the exploits of his dogs, but to feel them was too much.
They were all around him, rending and tearing; and it was not till
they had torn his life out that the anger of Diana was satisfied.

In Shelley's poem "Adonais" is the following allusion to the story
of Actaeon:

    "'Midst others of less note came one frail form,
    A phantom among men: companionless
    As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
    Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
    Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
    Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
    With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness;
    And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
    Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey."

    Stanza 31.

The allusion is probably to Shelley himself.

LATONA AND THE RUSTICS

Some thought the goddess in this instance more severe than was
just, while others praised her conduct as strictly consistent with
her virgin dignity. As, usual, the recent event brought older ones
to mind, and one of the bystanders told this story: "Some
countrymen of Lycia once insulted the goddess Latona, but not with
impunity. When I was young, my father, who had grown too old for
active labors, sent me to Lycia to drive thence some choice oxen,
and there I saw the very pond and marsh where the wonder happened.
Near by stood an ancient altar, black with the smoke of sacrifice
and almost buried among the reeds. I inquired whose altar it might
be, whether of Faunus or the Naiads, or some god of the
neighboring mountain, and one of the country people replied, 'No
mountain or river god possesses this altar, but she whom royal
Juno in her jealousy drove from land to land, denying her any spot
of earth whereon to rear her twins. Bearing in her arms the infant
deities, Latona reached this land, weary with her burden and
parched with thirst. By chance she espied on the bottom of the
valley this pond of clear water, where the country people were at
work gathering willows and osiers. The goddess approached, and
kneeling on the bank would have slaked her thirst in the cool
stream, but the rustics forbade her. 'Why do you refuse me water?'
said she; 'water is free to all. Nature allows no one to claim as
property the sunshine, the air, or the water. I come to take my
share of the common blessing. Yet I ask it of you as a favor. I
have no intention of washing my limbs in it, weary though they be,
but only to quench my thirst. My mouth is so dry that I can hardly
speak. A draught Of water would be nectar to me; it would revive
me, and I would own myself indebted to you for life itself. Let
these infants move your pity, who stretch out their little arms as
if to plead for me;' and the children, as it happened, were
stretching out their arms.

"Who would not have been moved with these gentle words of the
goddess? But these clowns persisted in their rudeness; they even
added jeers and threats of violence if she did not leave the
place. Nor was this all. They waded into the pond and stirred up
the mud with their feet, so as to make the water unfit to drink.
Latona was so angry that she ceased to mind her thirst. She no
longer supplicated the clowns, but lifting her hands to heaven
exclaimed, 'May they never quit that pool, but pass their lives
there!' And it came to pass accordingly. They now live in the
water, sometimes totally submerged, then raising their heads above
the surface or swimming upon it. Sometimes they come out upon the
bank, but soon leap back again into the water. They still use
their base voices in railing, and though they have the water all
to themselves, are not ashamed to croak in the midst of it. Their
voices are harsh, their throats bloated, their mouths have become
stretched by constant railing, their necks have shrunk up and
disappeared, and their heads are joined to their bodies. Their
backs are green, their disproportioned bellies white, and in short
they are now frogs, and dwell in the slimy pool."

This story explains the allusion in one of Milton's sonnets, "On
the detraction which followed upon his writing certain treatises."

    "I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
       By the known laws of ancient liberty,
       When straight a barbarous noise environs me
     Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
     As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
       Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
       Which after held the sun and moon in fee."

The persecution which Latona experienced from Juno is alluded to
in the story. The tradition was that the future mother of Apollo
and Diana, flying from the wrath of Juno, besought all the islands
of the Aegean to afford her a place of rest, but all feared too
much the potent queen of heaven to assist her rival. Delos alone
consented to become the birthplace of the future deities. Delos
was then a floating island; but when Latona arrived there, Jupiter
fastened it with adamantine chains to the bottom of the sea, that
it might be a secure resting-place for his beloved. Byron alludes
to Delos in his "Don Juan":

    "The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
       Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
     Where grew the arts of war and peace,
       Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!"





CHAPTER V

PHAETON


Phaeton was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day a
schoolfellow laughed at the idea of his being the son of the god,
and Phaeton went in rage and shame and reported it to his mother.
"If," said he, "I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother,
some proof of it, and establish my claim to the honor." Clymene
stretched forth her hands towards the skies, and said, "I call to
witness the Sun which looks down upon us, that I have told you the
truth. If I speak falsely, let this be the last time I behold his
light. But it needs not much labor to go and inquire for yourself;
the land whence the Sun rises lies next to ours. Go and demand of
him whether he will own you as a son." Phaeton heard with delight.
He travelled to India, which lies directly in the regions of
sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence
his parent begins his course.

The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering
with gold and precious stones, while polished ivory formed the
ceilings, and silver the doors. The workmanship surpassed the
material; [Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.] for upon the
walls Vulcan had represented earth, sea, and skies, with their
inhabitants. In the sea were the nymphs, some sporting in the
waves, some riding on the backs of fishes, while others sat upon
the rocks and dried their sea-green hair. Their faces were not all
alike, nor yet unlike,--but such as sisters' ought to be.
[Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.] The earth had its towns
and forests and rivers and rustic divinities. Over all was carved
the likeness of the glorious heaven; and on the silver doors the
twelve signs of the zodiac, six on each side.

Clymene's son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls
of his disputed father. He approached the paternal presence, but
stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear.
Phoebus, arrayed in a purple vesture, sat on a throne, which
glittered as with diamonds. On his right hand and his left stood
the Day, the Month, and the Year, and, at regular intervals, the
Hours. Spring stood with her head crowned with flowers, and
Summer, with garment cast aside, and a garland formed of spears of
ripened grain, and Autumn, with his feet stained with grape-juice,
and icy Winter, with his hair stiffened with hoar frost.
Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun, with the eye that sees
everything, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor
of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth
replied, "O light of the boundless world, Phoebus, my father,--if
you permit me to use that name,--give me some proof, I beseech
you, by which I may be known as yours." He ceased; and his father,
laying aside the beams that shone all around his head, bade him
approach, and embracing him, said, "My son, you deserve not to be
disowned, and I confirm what your mother has told you. To put an
end to your doubts, ask what you will, the gift shall be yours. I
call to witness that dreadful lake, which I never saw, but which
we gods swear by in our most solemn engagements." Phaeton
immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot
of the sun. The father repented of his promise; thrice and four
times he shook his radiant head in warning. "I have spoken
rashly," said he; "this only request I would fain deny. I beg you
to withdraw it. It is not a safe boon, nor one, my Phaeton, suited
to your youth and strength. Your lot is mortal, and you ask what
is beyond a mortal's power. In your ignorance you aspire to do
that which not even the gods themselves may do. None but myself
may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter, whose terrible
right arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the way is
steep, and such as the horses when fresh in the morning can hardly
climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself can
scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea
stretched beneath me. The last part of the road descends rapidly,
and requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to
receive me, often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add
to all this, the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying
the stars with it. I have to be perpetually on my guard lest that
movement, which sweeps everything else along, should hurry me also
away. Suppose I should lend you the chariot, what would you do?
Could you keep your course while the sphere was revolving under
you? Perhaps you think that there are forests and cities, the
abodes of gods, and palaces and temples on the way. On the
contrary, the road is through the midst of frightful monsters. You
pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near
the Lion's jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one
direction and the Crab in another. Nor will you find it easy to
guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that they
breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. I can scarcely
govern them myself, when they are unruly and resist the reins.
Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall your
request while yet you may. Do you ask me for a proof that you are
sprung from my blood? I give you a proof in my fears for you. Look
at my face--I would that you could look into my breast, you would
there see all a father's anxiety. Finally," he continued, "look
round the world and choose whatever you will of what earth or sea
contains most precious--ask it and fear no refusal. This only I
pray you not to urge. It is not honor, but destruction you seek.
Why do you hang round my neck and still entreat me? You shall have
it if you persist,--the oath is sworn and must be kept,--but I beg
you to choose more wisely."

He ended; but the youth rejected all admonition and held to his
demand. So, having resisted as long as he could, Phoebus at last
led the way to where stood the lofty chariot.

It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan; the axle was of gold, the pole
and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows
of chrysolites and diamonds which reflected all around the
brightness of the sun. While the daring youth, gazed in
admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the
east, and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars
withdrew, marshalled by the Day-star, which last of all retired
also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow, and the
Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the
horses. They obeyed, and led forth from the lofty stalls the
steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the
father bathed the face of his son with a powerful unguent, and
made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set
the rays on his head, and, with a foreboding sigh, said, "If, my
son, you will in this at least heed my advice, spare the whip and
hold tight the reins. They go fast enough of their own accord; the
labor is to hold them in. You are not to take the straight road
directly between the five circles, but turn off to the left. Keep
within the limit of the middle zone, and avoid the northern and
the southern alike. You will see the marks of the wheels, and they
will serve to guide you. And, that the skies and the earth may
each receive their due share of heat, go not too high, or you will
burn the heavenly dwellings, nor too low, or you will set the
earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best. [Footnote:
See Proverbial Expressions] And now I leave you to your chance,
which I hope will plan better for you than you have done for
yourself. Night is passing out of the western gates and we can
delay no longer. Take the reins; but if at last your heart fails
you, and you will benefit by my advice, stay where you are in
safety, and suffer me to light and warm the earth." The agile
youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and grasped the reins
with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant parent.

Meanwhile the horses fill the air with their snortings and fiery
breath, and stamp the ground impatient. Now the bars are let down,
and the boundless plain of the universe lies open before them.
They dart forward and cleave the opposing clouds, and outrun the
morning breezes which started from the same eastern goal. The
steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was lighter than
usual; and as a ship without ballast is tossed hither and thither
on the sea, so the chariot, without its accustomed weight, was
dashed about as if empty. They rush headlong and leave the
travelled road. He is alarmed, and knows not how to guide them;
nor, if he knew, has he the power. Then, for the first time, the
Great and Little Bear were scorched with heat, and would fain, if
it were possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent
which lies coiled up round the north pole, torpid and harmless,
grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive. Bootes, they say,
fled away, though encumbered with his plough, and all unused to
rapid motion.

When hapless Phaeton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in
vast extent beneath him, he grew pale and his knees shook with
terror. In spite of the glare all around him, the sight of his
eyes grew dim. He wished he had never touched his father's horses,
never learned his parentage, never prevailed in his request. He is
borne along like a vessel that flies before a tempest, when the
pilot can do no more and betakes himself to his prayers. What
shall he do? Much of the heavenly road is left behind, but more
remains before. He turns his eyes from one direction to the other;
now to the goal whence he began his course, now to the realms of
sunset which he is not destined to reach. He loses his self-
command, and knows not what to do,--whether to draw tight the
reins or throw them loose; he forgets the names of the horses. He
sees with terror the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of
heaven. Here the Scorpion extended his two great arms, with his
tail and crooked claws stretching over two signs of the zodiac.
When the boy beheld him, reeking with poison and menacing with his
fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands. The
horses, when they felt them loose on their backs, dashed headlong,
and unrestrained went off into unknown regions of the sky, in
among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places, now up
in high heaven, now down almost to the earth. The moon saw with
astonishment her brother's chariot running beneath her own. The
clouds begin to smoke, and the mountain tops take fire; the fields
are parched with heat, the plants wither, the trees with their
leafy branches burn, the harvest is ablaze! But these are small
things. Great cities perished, with their walls and towers; whole
nations with their people were consumed to ashes! The forest-clad
mountains burned, Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and OEte; Ida, once
celebrated for fountains, but now all dry; the Muses' mountain
Helicon, and Haemus; Aetna, with fires within and without, and
Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part
with his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to
Scythia, Caucasus burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than
both, Olympus; the Alps high in air, and the Apennines crowned
with clouds.

Then Phaeton beheld the world on fire, and felt the heat
intolerable. The air he breathed was like the air of a furnace and
full of burning ashes, and the smoke was of a pitchy darkness. He
dashed forward he knew not whither. Then, it is believed, the
people of Aethiopia became black by the blood being forced so
suddenly to the surface, and the Libyan desert was dried up to the
condition in which it remains to this day. The Nymphs of the
fountains, with dishevelled hair, mourned their waters, nor were
the rivers safe beneath their banks: Tanais smoked, and Caicus,
Xanthus, and Meander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus with
golden sands, and Cayster where the swans resort. Nile fled away
and hid his head in the desert, and there it still remains
concealed. Where he used to discharge his waters through seven
mouths into the sea, there seven dry channels alone remained. The
earth cracked open, and through the chinks light broke into
Tartarus, and frightened the king of shadows and his queen. The
sea shrank up. Where before was water, it became a dry plain; and
the mountains that lie beneath the waves lifted up their heads and
became islands. The fishes sought the lowest depths, and the
dolphins no longer ventured as usual to sport on the surface. Even
Nereus, and his wife Doris, with the Nereids, their daughters,
sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to
raise his head above the surface, and thrice was driven back by
the heat. Earth, surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head
and shoulders bare, screening her face with her hand, looked up to
heaven, and with a husky voice called on Jupiter:

"O ruler of the gods, if I have deserved this treatment, and it is
your will that I perish with fire, why withhold your thunderbolts?
Let me at least fall by your hand. Is this the reward of my
fertility, of my obedient service? Is it for this that I have
supplied herbage for cattle, and fruits for men, and frankincense
for your altars? But if I am unworthy of regard, what has my
brother Ocean done to deserve such a fate? If neither of us can
excite your pity, think, I pray you, of your own heaven, and
behold how both the poles are smoking which sustain your palace,
which must fall if they be destroyed. Atlas faints, and scarce
holds up his burden. If sea, earth, and heaven perish, we fall
into ancient Chaos. Save what yet remains to us from the devouring
flame. O, take thought for our deliverance in this awful moment!"

Thus spoke Earth, and overcome with heat and thirst, could say no
more. Then Jupiter omnipotent, calling to witness all the gods,
including him who had lent the chariot, and showing them that all
was lost unless speedy remedy were applied, mounted the lofty
tower from whence he diffuses clouds over the earth, and hurls the
forked lightnings. But at that time not a cloud was to be found to
interpose for a screen to earth, nor was a shower remaining
unexhausted. He thundered, and brandishing a lightning bolt in his
right hand launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at
the same moment from his seat and from existence! Phaeton, with
his hair on fire, fell headlong, like a shooting star which marks
the heavens with its brightness as it falls, and Eridanus, the
great river, received him and cooled his burning frame. The
Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him, and inscribed these words
upon the stone:

    "Driver of Phoebus' chariot Phaeton,
     Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.
     He could not rule his father's car of fire,
     Yet was it much so nobly to aspire"

[Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions]

His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate, were turned
into poplar trees, on the banks of the river, and their tears,
which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the
stream.

Milman, in his poem of "Samor," makes the following allusion to
Phaeton's story:

    "As when the palsied universe aghast
     Lay mute and still,
     When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth
     Devious through Heaven's affrighted signs his sire's
     Ill-granted chariot. Him the Thunderer hurled
     From th' empyrean headlong to the gulf
     Of the half-parched Eridanus, where weep
     Even now the sister trees their amber tears
     O'er Phaeton untimely dead"

In the beautiful lines of Walter Savage Landor, descriptive of the
Sea-shell, there is an allusion to the Sun's palace and chariot.
The water-nymph says:

    "I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
     Within, and things that lustre have imbibed
     In the sun's palace porch, where when unyoked
     His chariot wheel stands midway on the wave.
     Shake one and it awakens; then apply
     Its polished lip to your attentive ear,
     And it remembers its august abodes,
     And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."

    --Gebir, Book I.





CHAPTER VI

MIDAS--BAUCIS AND PHILEMON


Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old schoolmaster and
foster-father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking,
and in that state wandered away, and was found by some peasants,
who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized him, and
treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights
with an unceasing round of jollity. On the eleventh day he brought
Silenus back, and restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon
Bacchus offered Midas his choice of a reward, whatever he might
wish. He asked that whatever he might touch should be changed into
GOLD. Bacchus consented, though sorry that he had not made a
better choice. Midas went his way, rejoicing in his new-acquired
power, which he hastened to put to the test. He could scarce
believe his eyes when he found a twig of an oak, which he plucked
from the branch, become gold in his hand. He took up a stone; it
changed to gold. He touched a sod; it did the same. He took an
apple from the tree; you would have thought he had robbed the
garden of the Hesperides. His joy knew no bounds, and as soon as
he got home, he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast on
the table. Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched
bread, it hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it
defied his teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his
throat like melted gold.

In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to
divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately
coveted. But all in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He
raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus,
begging to be delivered from his glittering destruction. Bacchus,
merciful deity, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to the River
Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there plunge your
head and body in, and wash away your fault and its punishment." He
did so, and scarce had he touched the waters before the gold-
creating power passed into them, and the river-sands became
changed into GOLD, as they remain to this day.

Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the
country, and became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On
a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music with
that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of
skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the mountain god,
was chosen umpire. The senior took his seat, and cleared away the
trees from his ears to listen. At a given signal Pan blew on his
pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great satisfaction to
himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to be
present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the Sun-god, and all
his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with
Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the
ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand
struck the strings. Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once
awarded the victory to the god of the lyre, and all but Midas
acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented, and questioned the
justice of the award. Apollo would not suffer such a depraved pair
of ears any longer to wear the human form, but caused them to
increase in length, grow hairy, within and without, and movable on
their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of those of an
ass.

Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled
himself with the thought that it was possible to hide his
misfortune, which he attempted to do by means of an ample turban
or head-dress. But his hair-dresser of course knew the secret. He
was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire punishment
if he presumed to disobey. But he found it too much for his
discretion to keep such a secret; so he went out into the meadow,
dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the story,
and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds sprang up in
the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began
whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to
this, every time a breeze passes over the place.

The story of King Midas has been told by others with some
variations. Dryden, in the "Wife of Bath's Tale," makes Midas's
queen the betrayer of the secret:

    "This Midas knew, and durst communicate
     To none but to his wife his ears of state."

Midas was king of Phrygia. He was the son of Gordius, a poor
countryman, who was taken by the people and made king, in
obedience to the command of the oracle, which had said that their
future king should come in a wagon. While the people were
deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son came driving his wagon
into the public square.

Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the
oracle, and tied it up in its place with a fast knot. This was the
celebrated Gordian knot, which, in after times it was said,
whoever should untie should become lord of all Asia. Many tried to
untie it, but none succeeded, till Alexander the Great, in his
career of conquest, came to Phrygia. He tried his skill with as
ill success as others, till growing impatient he drew his sword
and cut the knot. When he afterwards succeeded in subjecting all
Asia to his sway, people began to think that he had complied with
the terms of the oracle according to its true meaning.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

On a certain hill in Phrygia stands a linden tree and an oak,
enclosed by a low wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh, formerly
good habitable land, but now indented with pools, the resort of
fen-birds and cormorants. Once on a time Jupiter, in, human shape,
visited this country, and with him his son Mercury (he of the
caduceus), without his wings. They presented themselves, as weary
travellers, at many a door, seeking rest and shelter, but found
all closed, for it was late, and the inhospitable inhabitants
would not rouse themselves to open for their reception. At last a
humble mansion received them, a small thatched cottage, where
Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband Philemon, united when
young, had grown old together. Not ashamed of their poverty, they
made it endurable by moderate desires and kind dispositions. One
need not look there for master or for servant; they two were the
whole household, master and servant alike. When the two heavenly
guests crossed the humble threshold, and bowed their heads to pass
under the low door, the old man placed a seat, on which Baucis,
bustling and attentive, spread a cloth, and begged them to sit
down. Then she raked out the coals from the ashes, and kindled up
a fire, fed it with leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty
breath blew it into a flame. She brought out of a corner split
sticks and dry branches, broke them up, and placed them under the
small kettle. Her husband collected some pot-herbs in the garden,
and she shred them from the stalks, and prepared them for the pot.
He reached down with a forked stick a flitch of bacon hanging in
the chimney, cut a small piece, and put it in the pot to boil with
the herbs, setting away the rest for another time. A beechen bowl
was filled with warm water, that their guests might wash. While
all was doing, they beguiled the time with conversation.

On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed
with sea-weed; and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but
ancient and coarse enough, was spread over that. The old lady,
with her apron on, with trembling hand set the table. One leg was
shorter than the rest, but a piece of slate put under restored the
level. When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-
smelling herbs. Upon it she set some of chaste Minerva's olives,
some cornel berries preserved in vinegar, and added radishes and
cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. All were served in
earthen dishes, and an earthenware pitcher, with wooden cups,
stood beside them. When all was ready, the stew, smoking hot, was
set on the table. Some wine, not of the oldest, was added; and for
dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all, friendly
faces, and simple but hearty welcome.

Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to
see that the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself in
the pitcher, of its own accord. Struck with terror, Baucis and
Philemon recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their knees,
and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for their poor
entertainment. There was an old goose, which they kept as the
guardian of their humble cottage; and they bethought them to make
this a sacrifice in honor of their guests. But the goose, too
nimble, with the aid of feet and wings, for the old folks, eluded
their pursuit, and at last took shelter between the gods
themselves. They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these words:
"We are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay the penalty of
its impiety; you alone shall go free from the chastisement. Quit
your house, and come with us to the top of yonder hill." They
hastened to obey, and, staff in hand, labored up the steep ascent.
They had reached to within an arrow's flight of the top, when
turning their eyes below, they beheld all the country sunk in a
lake, only their own house left standing. While they gazed with
wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate of their neighbors,
that old house of theirs was changed into a temple. Columns took
the place of the corner posts, the thatch grew yellow and appeared
a gilded roof, the floors became marble, the doors were enriched
with carving and ornaments of gold. Then spoke Jupiter in
benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a
husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor have you to ask of
us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few moments; then
declared to the gods their united wish. "We ask to be priests and
guardians of this your temple; and since here we have passed our
lives in love and concord, we wish that one and the same hour may
take us both from life, that I may not live to see her grave, nor
be laid in my own by her." Their prayer was granted. They were the
keepers of the temple as long as they lived. When grown very old,
as they stood one day before the steps of the sacred edifice, and
were telling the story of the place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to
put forth leaves, and old Philemon saw Baucis changing in like
manner. And now a leafy crown had grown over their heads, while
exchanging parting words, as long as they could speak. "Farewell,
dear spouse," they said, together, and at the same moment the bark
closed over their mouths. The Tyanean shepherd still shows the two
trees, standing side by side, made out of the two good old people.

The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a
burlesque style, the actors in the change being two wandering
saints, and the house being changed into a church, of which
Philemon is made the parson. The following may serve as a
specimen:

    "They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft,
     The roof began to mount aloft;
     Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
     The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
     The chimney widened and grew higher,
     Became a steeple with a spire.
     The kettle to the top was hoist.
     And there stood fastened to a joist,
     But with the upside down, to show
     Its inclination for below;
     In vain, for a superior force,
     Applied at bottom, stops its course;
     Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
     'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
     A wooden jack, which had almost
     Lost by disuse the art to roast,
     A sudden alteration feels
     Increased by new intestine wheels;
     And, what exalts the wonder more.
     The number made the motion slower;
     The flier, though't had leaden feet,
     Turned round so quick you scarce could see't;
     But slackened by some secret power,
     Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
     The jack and chimney, near allied,
     Had never left each other's side:
     The chimney to a steeple grown,
     The jack would not be left alone;
     But up against the steeple reared,
     Became a clock, and still adhered;
     And still its love to household cares
     By a shrill voice at noon declares,
     Warning the cook-maid not to burn
     That roast meat which it cannot turn;
     The groaning chair began to crawl,
     Like a huge snail, along the wall;
     There stuck aloft in public view,
     And with small change, a pulpit grew.
     A bedstead of the antique mode,
     Compact of timber many a load,
     Such as our ancestors did use,
     Was metamorphosed into pews,
     Which still their ancient nature keep
     By lodging folks disposed to sleep."





CHAPTER VII

PROSERPINE--GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA


When Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titans and banished
them to Tartarus, a new enemy rose up against the gods. They were
the giants Typhon, Briareus, Enceladus, and others. Some of them
had a hundred arms, others breathed out fire. They were finally
subdued and buried alive under Mount Aetna, where they still
sometimes struggle to get loose, and shake the whole island with
earthquakes. Their breath comes up through the mountain, and is
what men call the eruption of the volcano.

The fall of these monsters shook the earth, so that Pluto was
alarmed, and feared that his kingdom would be laid open to the
light of day. Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot,
drawn by black horses, and took a circuit of inspection to satisfy
himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged,
Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid,
espied him, and said, "My son, take your darts with which you
conquer all, even Jove himself, and send one into the breast of
yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Why should
he alone escape? Seize the opportunity to extend your empire and
mine. Do you not see that even in heaven some despise our power?
Minerva the wise, and Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is
that daughter of Ceres, who threatens to follow their example. Now
do you, if you have any regard for your own interest or mine, join
these two in one." The boy unbound his quiver, and selected his
sharpest and truest arrow; then straining the bow against his
knee, he attached the string, and, having made ready, shot the
arrow with its barbed point right into the heart of Pluto.

In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which
screen it from the fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground
is covered with flowers, and Spring reigns perpetual. Here
Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and
violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them, when
Pluto saw her, loved her, and carried her off. She screamed for
help to her mother and companions; and when in her fright she
dropped the corners of her apron and let the flowers fall,
childlike she felt the loss of them as an addition to her grief.
The ravisher urged on his steeds, calling them each by name, and
throwing loose over their heads and necks his iron-colored reins.
When he reached the River Cyane, and it opposed his passage, he
struck the river-bank with his trident, and the earth opened and
gave him a passage to Tartarus.

Ceres sought her daughter all the world over. Bright-haired
Aurora, when she came forth in the morning, and Hesperus when he
led out the stars in the evening, found her still busy in the
search. But it was all unavailing. At length, weary and sad, she
sat down upon a stone, and continued sitting nine days and nights,
in the open air, under the sunlight and moonlight and falling
showers. It was where now stands the city of Eleusis, then the
home of an old man named Celeus. He was out in the field,
gathering acorns and blackberries, and sticks for his fire. His
little girl was driving home their two goats, and as she passed
the goddess, who appeared in the guise of an old woman, she said
to her, "Mother,"--and the name was sweet to the ears of Ceres,--
"why do you sit here alone upon the rocks?" The old man also
stopped, though his load was heavy, and begged her to come into
his cottage, such as it was. She declined, and he urged her. "Go
in peace," she replied, "and be happy in your daughter; I have
lost mine." As she spoke, tears--or something like tears, for the
gods never weep--fell down her cheeks upon her bosom. The
compassionate old man and his child wept with her. Then said he,
"Come with us, and despise not our humble roof; so may your
daughter be restored to you in safety." "Lead on," said she, "I
cannot resist that appeal!" So she rose from the stone and went
with them. As they walked he told her that his only son, a little
boy, lay very sick, feverish, and sleepless. She stooped and
gathered some poppies. As they entered the cottage, they found all
in great distress, for the boy seemed past hope of recovery.
Metanira, his mother, received her kindly, and the goddess stooped
and kissed the lips of the sick child. Instantly the paleness left
his face, and healthy vigor returned to his body. The whole family
were delighted--that is, the father, mother, and little girl, for
they were all; they had no servants. They spread the table, and
put upon it curds and cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While
they ate, Ceres mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When
night came and all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping
boy, moulded his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three
times a solemn charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His
mother, who had been watching what her guest was doing, sprang
forward with a cry and snatched the child from the fire. Then
Ceres assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all
around. While they were overcome with astonishment, she said,
"Mother, you have been cruel in your fondness to your son. I would
have made him immortal, but you have frustrated my attempt.
Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men the
use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the
cultivated soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her, and
mounting her chariot rode away.

Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to
land, and across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to
Sicily, whence she at first set out, and stood by the banks of the
River Cyane, where Pluto made himself a passage with his prize to
his own dominions. The river nymph would have told the goddess all
she had witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only
ventured to take up the girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her
flight, and waft it to the feet of the mother. Ceres, seeing this,
was no longer in doubt of her loss, but she did not yet know the
cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land. "Ungrateful soil,"
said she, "which I have endowed with fertility and clothed with
herbage and nourishing grain, no more shall you enjoy my favors."
Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the seed
failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too much
rain; the birds stole the seeds--thistles and brambles were the
only growth. Seeing this, the fountain Arethusa interceded for the
land. "Goddess," said she, "blame not the land; it opened
unwillingly to yield a passage to your daughter. I can tell you of
her fate, for I have seen her. This is not my native country; I
came hither from Elis. I was a woodland nymph, and delighted in
the chase. They praised my beauty, but I cared nothing for it, and
rather boasted of my hunting exploits. One day I was returning
from the wood, heated with exercise, when I came to a stream
silently flowing, so clear that you might count the pebbles on the
bottom. The willows shaded it, and the grassy bank sloped down to
the water's edge. I approached, I touched the water with my foot.
I stepped in knee-deep, and not content with that, I laid my
garments on the willows and went in. While I sported in the water,
I heard an indistinct murmur coming up as out of the depths of the
stream: and made haste to escape to the nearest bank. The voice
said, 'Why do you fly, Arethusa? I am Alpheus, the god of this
stream.' I ran, he pursued; he was not more swift than I, but he
was stronger, and gained upon me, as my strength failed. At last,
exhausted, I cried for help to Diana. 'Help me, goddess! help your
votary!' The goddess heard, and wrapped me suddenly in a thick
cloud. The river god looked now this way and now that, and twice
came close to me, but could not find me. 'Arethusa! Arethusa!' he
cried. Oh, how I trembled,--like a lamb that hears the wolf
growling outside the fold. A cold sweat came over me, my hair
flowed down in streams; where my foot stood there was a pool. In
short, in less time than it takes to tell it I became a fountain.
But in this form Alpheus knew me and attempted to mingle his
stream with mine. Diana cleft the ground, and I, endeavoring to
escape him, plunged into the cavern, and through the bowels of the
earth came out here in Sicily. While I passed through the lower
parts of the earth, I saw your Proserpine. She was sad, but no
longer showing alarm in her countenance. Her look was such as
became a queen--the queen of Erebus; the powerful bride of the
monarch of the realms of the dead."

When Ceres heard this, she stood for a while like one stupefied;
then turned her chariot towards heaven, and hastened to present
herself before the throne of Jove. She told the story of her
bereavement, and implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the
restitution of her daughter. Jupiter consented on one condition,
namely, that Proserpine should not during her stay in the lower
world have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her
release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent, accompanied by Spring, to
demand Proserpine of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but, alas!
the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her, and
had sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds. This was enough
to prevent her complete release; but a compromise was made, by
which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and the rest
with her husband Pluto.

Ceres allowed herself to be pacified with this arrangement, and
restored the earth to her favor. Now she remembered Celeus and his
family, and her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. When the
boy grew up, she taught him the use of the plough, and how to sow
the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged dragons,
through all the countries of the earth, imparting to mankind
valuable grains, and the knowledge of agriculture. After his
return, Triptolemus built a magnificent temple to Ceres in
Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the
name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and
solemnity of their observance, surpassed all other religious
celebrations among the Greeks.

There can be little doubt of this story of Ceres and Proserpine
being an allegory. Proserpine signifies the seed-corn which when
cast into the ground lies there concealed--that is, she is carried
off by the god of the underworld. It reappears--that is,
Proserpine is restored to her mother. Spring leads her back to the
light of day.

Milton alludes to the story of Proserpine in "Paradise Lost," Book
IV.:

    ". . . Not that fair field
     Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers,
     Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
     Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
     To seek her through the world,--
     ... might with this Paradise
     Of Eden strive."

Hood, in his "Ode to Melancholy," uses the same allusion very
beautifully:

    "Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
       In woe to come the present bliss;
     As frighted Proserpine let fall
       Her flowers at the sight of Dis."

The River Alpheus does in fact disappear underground, in part of
its course, finding its way through subterranean channels till it
again appears on the surface. It was said that the Sicilian
fountain Arethusa was the same stream, which, after passing under
the sea, came up again in Sicily. Hence the story ran that a cup
thrown into the Alpheus appeared again in Arethusa. It is this
fable of the underground course of Alpheus that Coleridge alludes
to in his poem of "Kubla Khan":

    "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
       A stately pleasure-dome decree,
     Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
     Through caverns measureless to man,
       Down to a sunless sea."

In one of Moore's juvenile poems he thus alludes to the same
story, and to the practice of throwing garlands or other light
objects on his stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards
reproduced at its emerging:

    "O my beloved, how divinely sweet
     Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!
     Like him the river god, whose waters flow,
     With love their only light, through caves below,
     Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids
     And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
     Have decked his current, as an offering meet
     To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
     Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,
     What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
     Each lost in each, till mingling into one,
     Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
     A type of true love, to the deep they run."

The following extract from Moore's "Rhymes on the Road" gives an
account of a celebrated picture by Albano, at Milan, called a
Dance of Loves:

    "'Tis for the theft ef Enna's flower from earth
     These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth,
       Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath;--
         Those that are nearest linked in order bright,
       Cheek after cheek, like rosebuds in a wreath;
       And those more distant showing from beneath
         The others' wings their little eyes of light.
       While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother,
         But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss,
       This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
         Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss."

GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA

Glaucus was a fisherman. One day he had drawn his nets to land,
and had taken a great many fishes of various kinds. So he emptied
his net, and proceeded to sort the fishes on the grass. The place
where he stood was a beautiful island in the river, a solitary
spot, uninhabited, and not used for pasturage of cattle, nor ever
visited by any but himself. On a sudden, the fishes, which had
been laid on the grass, began to revive and move their fins as if
they were in the water; and while he looked on astonished, they
one and all moved off to the water, plunged in, and swam away. He
did not know what to make of this, whether some god had done it or
some secret power in the herbage. "What herb has such a power?" he
exclaimed; and gathering some of it, he tasted it. Scarce had the
juices of the plant reached his palate when he found himself
agitated with a longing desire for the water. He could no longer
restrain himself, but bidding farewell to earth, he plunged into
the stream. The gods of the water received him graciously, and
admitted him to the honor of their society. They obtained the
consent of Oceanus and Tethys, the sovereigns of the sea, that all
that was mortal in him should be washed away. A hundred rivers
poured their waters over him. Then he lost all sense of his former
nature and all consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself
changed in form and mind. His hair was sea-green, and trailed
behind him on the water; his shoulders grew broad, and what had
been thighs and legs assumed the form of a fish's tail. The sea-
gods complimented him on the change of his appearance, and he
fancied himself rather a good-looking personage.

One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of
the water-nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a
sheltered nook, laving her limbs in the clear water. He fell in
love with her, and showing himself on the surface, spoke to her,
saying such things as he thought most likely to win her to stay;
for she turned to run immediately on the sight of him, and ran
till she had gained a cliff overlooking the sea. Here she stopped
and turned round to see whether it was a god or a sea animal, and
observed with wonder his shape and color. Glaucus partly emerging
from the water, and supporting himself against a rock, said,
"Maiden, I am no monster, nor a sea animal, but a god; and neither
Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I. Once I was a mortal, and
followed the sea for a living; but now I belong wholly to it."
Then he told the story of his metamorphosis, and how he had been
promoted to his present dignity, and added, "But what avails all
this if it fails to move your heart?" He was going on in this
strain, but Scylla turned and hastened away.

Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the
enchantress Circe. Accordingly he repaired to her island--the same
where afterwards Ulysses landed, as we shall see in one of our
later stories. After mutual salutations, he said, "Goddess, I
entreat your pity; you alone can relieve the pain I suffer. The
power of herbs I know as well as any one, for it is to them I owe
my change of form. I love Scylla. I am ashamed to tell you how I
have sued and promised to her, and how scornfully she has treated
me. I beseech you to use your incantations, or potent herbs, if
they are more prevailing, not to cure me of my love,--for that I
do not wish,--but to make her share it and yield me a like
return." To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to the
attractions of the sea-green deity, "You had better pursue a
willing object; you are worthy to be sought, instead of having to
seek in vain. Be not diffident, know your own worth. I protest to
you that even I, goddess though I be, and learned in the virtues
of plants and spells, should not know how to refuse you. If she
scorns you scorn her; meet one who is ready to meet you half way,
and thus make a due return to both at once." To these words
Glaucus replied, "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the
ocean, and sea-weed on the top of the mountains, than I will cease
to love Scylla, and her alone."

The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither
did she wish to do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned
all her wrath against her rival, poor Scylla. She took plants of
poisonous powers and mixed them together, with incantations and
charms. Then she passed through the crowd of gambolling beasts,
the victims of her art, and proceeded to the coast of Sicily,
where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the shore to which
Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day, to breathe the air
of the sea, and to bathe in its waters. Here the goddess poured
her poisonous mixture, and muttered over it incantations of mighty
power. Scylla came as usual and plunged into the water up to her
waist. What was her horror to perceive a brood of serpents and
barking monsters surrounding her! At first she could not imagine
they were a part of herself, and tried to run from them, and to
drive them away; but as she ran she carried them with her, and
when she tried to touch her limbs, she found her hands touch only
the yawning jaws of monsters. Scylla remained rooted to the spot.
Her temper grew as ugly as her form, and she took pleasure in
devouring hapless mariners who came within her grasp. Thus she
destroyed six of the companions of Ulysses, and tried to wreck the
ships of Aeneas, till at last she was turned into a rock, and as
such still continues to be a terror to mariners.

Keats, in his "Endymion," has given a new version of the ending of
"Glaucus and Scylla." Glaucus consents to Circe's blandishments,
till he by chance is witness to her transactions with her beasts.
Disgusted with her treachery and cruelty, he tries to escape from
her, but is taken and brought back, when with reproaches she
banishes him, sentencing him to pass a thousand years in
decrepitude and pain. He returns to the sea, and there finds the
body of Scylla, whom the goddess has not transformed but drowned.
Glaucus learns that his destiny is that, if he passes his thousand
years in collecting all the bodies of drowned lovers, a youth
beloved of the gods will appear and help him. Endymion fulfils
this prophecy, and aids in restoring Glaucus to youth, and Scylla
and all the drowned lovers to life.

The following is Glaucus's account of his feelings after his "sea-
change":

    "I plunged for life or death. To interknit
     One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff
     Might seem a work of pain; so not enough
     Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
     And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt
     Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
     Forgetful utterly of self-intent,
     Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
     Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show
     His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
     I tried in fear the pinions of my will.
     'Twas freedom! and at once I visited
     The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed," etc.

    --Keats.





CHAPTER VIII

PYGMALION--DRYOPE-VENUS AND ADONIS--APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS


Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to
abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor,
and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful
that no living woman came anywhere near it. It was indeed the
perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive, and only
prevented from moving by modesty. His art was so perfect that it
concealed itself and its product looked like the workmanship of
nature. Pygmalion admired his own work, and at last fell in love
with the counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it
as if to assure himself whether it were living or not, and could
not even then believe that it was only ivory. He caressed it, and
gave it presents such as young girls love,--bright shells and
polished stones, little birds and flowers of various hues, beads
and amber. He put raiment on its limbs, and jewels on its fingers,
and a necklace about its neck. To the ears he hung earrings and
strings of pearls upon the breast. Her dress became her, and she
looked not less charming than when unattired. He laid her on a
couch spread with cloths of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife,
and put her head upon a pillow of the softest feathers, as if she
could enjoy their softness.

The festival of Venus was at hand--a festival celebrated with
great pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and
the odor of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed
his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar and timidly
said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give me, I pray you, for my
wife"--he dared not say "my ivory virgin," but said instead--"one
like my ivory virgin." Venus, who was present at the festival,
heard him and knew the thought he would have uttered; and as an
omen of her favor, caused the flame on the altar to shoot up
thrice in a fiery point into the air. When he returned home, he
went to see his statue, and leaning over the couch, gave a kiss to
the mouth. It seemed to be warm. He pressed its lips again, he
laid his hand upon the limbs; the ivory felt soft to his touch and
yielded to his fingers like the wax of Hymettus. While he stands
astonished and glad, though doubting, and fears he may be
mistaken, again and again with a lover's ardor he touches the
object of his hopes. It was indeed alive! The veins when pressed
yielded to the finger and again resumed their roundness. Then at
last the votary of Venus found words to thank the goddess, and
pressed his lips upon lips as real as his own. The virgin felt the
kisses and blushed, and opening her timid eyes to the light, fixed
them at the same moment on her lover. Venus blessed the nuptials
she had formed, and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the
city, sacred to Venus, received its name.

Schiller, in his poem the "Ideals," applies this tale of Pygmalion
to the love of nature in a youthful heart. The following
translation is furnished by a friend:

    "As once with prayers in passion flowing,
       Pygmalion embraced the stone,
     Till from the frozen marble glowing,
       The light of feeling o'er him shone,
     So did I clasp with young devotion
       Bright nature to a poet's heart;
     Till breath and warmth and vital motion
       Seemed through the statue form to dart.

    "And then, in all my ardor sharing,
       The silent form expression found;
     Returned my kiss of youthful daring,
       And understood my heart's quick sound.
     Then lived for me the bright creation,
       The silver rill with song was rife;
     The trees, the roses shared sensation,
       An echo of my boundless life."

    --S. G. B.

DRYOPE

Dryope and Iole were sisters. The former was the wife of
Andraemon, beloved by her husband, and happy in the birth of her
first child. One day the sisters strolled to the bank of a stream
that sloped gradually down to the water's edge, while the upland
was overgrown with myrtles. They were intending to gather flowers
for forming garlands for the altars of the nymphs, and Dryope
carried her child at her bosom, precious burden, and nursed him as
she walked. Near the water grew a lotus plant, full of purple
flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered them to the baby, and
Iole was about to do the same, when she perceived blood dropping
from the places where her sister had broken them off the stem. The
plant was no other than the nymph Lotis, who, running from a base
pursuer, had been changed into this form. This they learned from
the country people when it was too late.

Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had done, would
gladly have hastened from the spot, but found her feet rooted to
the ground. She tried to pull them away, but moved nothing but her
upper limbs. The woodiness crept upward, and by degrees invested
her body. In anguish she attempted to tear her hair, but found her
hands filled with leaves. The infant felt his mother's bosom begin
to harden, and the milk cease to flow. Iole looked on at the sad
fate of her sister, and could render no assistance. She embraced
the growing trunk, as if she would hold back the advancing wood,
and would gladly have been enveloped in the same bark. At this
moment Andraemon, the husband of Dryope, with her father,
approached; and when they asked for Dryope, Iole pointed them to
the new-formed lotus. They embraced the trunk of the yet warm
tree, and showered their kisses on its leaves.

Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her tears still
flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she could she spoke. "I
am not guilty. I deserve not this fate. I have injured no one. If
I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with drought and my trunk
be cut down and burned. Take this infant and give it to a nurse.
Let it often be brought and nursed under my branches, and play in
my shade; and when he is old enough to talk, let him be taught to
call me mother, and to say with sadness, 'My mother lies hid under
this bark.' But bid him be careful of river banks, and beware how
he plucks flowers, remembering that every bush he sees may be a
goddess in disguise. Farewell, dear husband, and sister, and
father. If you retain any love for me, let not the axe wound me,
nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since I cannot stoop to
you, climb up hither and kiss me; and while my lips continue to
feel, lift up my child that I may kiss him. I can speak no more,
for already the bark advances up my neck, and will soon shoot over
me. You need not close my eyes, the bark will close them without
your aid." Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; but
the branches retained for some time longer the vital heat.

Keats, in "Endymion," alludes to Dryope thus:

    "She took a lute from which there pulsing came
     A lively prelude, fashioning the way
     In which her voice should wander. 'T was a lay
     More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
     Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;" etc.

VENUS AND ADONIS

Venus, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with
one of his arrows. She pushed him away, but the wound was deeper
than she thought. Before it healed she beheld Adonis, and was
captivated with him. She no longer took any interest in her
favorite resorts--Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in metals.
She absented herself even from heaven, for Adonis was dearer to
her than heaven. Him she followed and bore him company. She who
used to love to recline in the shade, with no care but to
cultivate her charms, now rambles through the woods and over the
hills, dressed like the huntress Diana; and calls her dogs, and
chases hares and stags, or other game that it is safe to hunt, but
keeps clear of the wolves and bears, reeking with the slaughter of
the herd. She charged Adonis, too, to beware of such dangerous
animals. "Be brave towards the timid," said she; "courage against
the courageous is not safe. Beware how you expose yourself to
danger and put my happiness to risk. Attack not the beasts that
Nature has armed with weapons. I do not value your glory so high
as to consent to purchase it by such exposure. Your youth, and the
beauty that charms Venus, will not touch the hearts of lions and
bristly boars. Think of their terrible claws and prodigious
strength! I hate the whole race of them. Do you ask me why?" Then
she told him the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, who were
changed into lions for their ingratitude to her.

Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot drawn by
swans, and drove away through the air. But Adonis was too noble to
heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from his lair,
and the youth threw his spear and wounded the animal with a
sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws, and
rushed after Adonis, who turned and ran; but the boar overtook
him, and buried his tusks in his side, and stretched him dying
upon the plain.

Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached Cyprus, when
she heard coming up through mid-air the groans of her beloved,
and turned her white-winged coursers back to earth. As she drew
near and saw from on high his lifeless body bathed in blood, she
alighted and, bending over it, beat her breast and tore her hair.
Reproaching the Fates, she said, "Yet theirs shall be but a
partial triumph; memorials of my grief shall endure, and the
spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my lamentations shall
be annually renewed. Your blood shall be changed into a flower;
that consolation none can envy me." Thus speaking, she sprinkled
nectar on the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in a
pool on which raindrops fall, and in an hour's time there sprang
up a flower of bloody hue like that of the pomegranate. But it is
short-lived. It is said the wind blows the blossoms open, and
afterwards blows the petals away; so it is called Anemone, or Wind
Flower, from the cause which assists equally in its production and
its decay.

Milton alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his "Comus":

    "Beds of hyacinth and roses
     Where young Adonis oft reposes,
     Waxing well of his deep wound
     In slumber soft, and on the ground
     Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;" etc.

APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS

Apollo was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. He
accompanied him in his sports, carried the nets when he went
fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his
excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him his lyre and
his arrows. One day they played a game of quoits together, and
Apollo, heaving aloft the discus, with strength mingled with
skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched it as it flew, and
excited with the sport ran forward to seize it, eager to make his
throw, when the quoit bounded from the earth and struck him in the
forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as himself, raised
him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and retain the
flitting life, but all in vain; the hurt was past the power of
medicine. As when one has broken the stem of a lily in the garden
it hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth, so the head
of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his
shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," so spoke Phoebus, "robbed of thy
youth by me. Thine is the suffering, mine the crime. Would that I
could die for thee! But since that may not be, thou shalt live
with me in memory and in song. My lyre shall celebrate thee, my
song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a flower inscribed
with my regrets." While Apollo spoke, behold the blood which had
flowed on the ground and stained the herbage ceased to be blood;
but a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang up,
resembling the lily, if it were not that this is purple and that
silvery white. [Footnote: It is evidently not our modern hyacinth
that is here described. It is perhaps some species of iris, or
perhaps of larkspur or of pansy.] And this was not enough for
Phoebus; but to confer still greater honor, he marked the petals
with his sorrow, and inscribed "Ah! ah!" upon them, as we see to
this day. The flower bears the name of Hyacinthus, and with every
returning spring revives the memory of his fate.

It was said that Zephyrus (the West wind), who was also fond of
Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit
out of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus. Keats alludes to
this in his "Endymion," where he describes the lookers-on at the
game of quoits:

    "Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
       On either side, pitying the sad death
       Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
     Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
     Who now ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
       Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain."

An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in Milton's
"Lycidas":

    "Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe."





CHAPTER IX

CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS


Ceyx was king of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace, without
violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the
glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the
daughter of Aeolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him.
Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and
direful prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as
if the gods were hostile to him. He thought best, therefore, to
make a voyage to Carlos in Ionia, to consult the oracle of Apollo.
But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife Halcyone, a
shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew deadly pale.
"What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned your affection
from me? Where is that love of me that used to be uppermost in
your thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the absence of
Halcyone? Would you rather have me away?" She also endeavored to
discourage him, by describing the violence of the winds, which she
had known familiarly when she lived at home in her father's
house,--Aeolus being the god of the winds, and having as much as
he could do to restrain them. "They rush together," said she,
"with such fury that fire flashes from the conflict. But if you
must go," she added, "dear husband, let me go with you, otherwise
I shall suffer not only the real evils which you must encounter,
but those also which my fears suggest."

These words weighed heavily on the mind of King Ceyx, and it was
no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could
not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered,
therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and finished with
these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star,
that if fate permits I will return before the moon shall have
twice rounded her orb." When he had thus spoken, he ordered the
vessel to be drawn out of the shiphouse, and the oars and sails to
be put aboard. When Halcyone saw these preparations she shuddered,
as if with a presentiment of evil. With tears and sobs she said
farewell, and then fell senseless to the ground.

Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped
their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and
measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw her
husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her. She answered
his signal till the vessel had receded so far that she could no
longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the vessel itself
could no more be seen, she strained her eyes to catch the last
glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared. Then, retiring to
her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary couch.

Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays among
the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails.
When half or less of their course was passed, as night drew on,
the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind to
blow a gale. The master gave the word to take in sail, but the
storm forbade obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and
waves his orders are unheard. The men, of their own accord, busy
themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen the ship, to reef the
sail. While they thus do what to each one seems best, the storm
increases. The shouting of the men, the rattling of the shrouds,
and the dashing of the waves, mingle with the roar of the thunder.
The swelling sea seems lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its
foam among the clouds; then sinking away to the bottom assumes the
color of the shoal--a Stygian blackness.

The vessel shares all these changes. It seems like a wild beast
that rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in torrents,
as if the skies were coming down to unite with the sea. When the
lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add its own
darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash, rending the
darkness asunder, and lighting up all with a glare. Skill fails,
courage sinks, and death seems to come on every wave. The men are
stupefied with terror. The thought of parents, and kindred, and
pledges left at home, comes over their minds. Ceyx thinks of
Halcyone. No name but hers is on his lips, and while he yearns for
her, he yet rejoices in her absence. Presently the mast is
shattered by a stroke of lightning, the rudder broken, and the
triumphant surge curling over looks down upon, the wreck, then
falls, and crushes it to fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by
the stroke, sink, and rise no more; others cling to fragments of
the wreck. Ceyx, with the hand that used to grasp the sceptre,
holds fast to a plank, calling for help,--alas, in vain,--upon his
father and his father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the
name of Halcyone. To her his thoughts cling. He prays that the
waves may bear his body to her sight, and that it may receive
burial at her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he
sinks. The Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not
leave the heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds.

In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted
the days till her husband's promised return. Now she gets ready
the garments which he shall put on, and now what she shall wear
when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent incense, but
more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no more, she
prayed incessantly: that he might be safe; that he might come
home; that he might not, in his absence, see any one that he would
love better than her. But of all these prayers, the last was the
only one destined to be granted. The goddess, at length, could not
bear any longer to be pleaded with for one already dead, and to
have hands raised to her altars that ought rather to be offering
funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said, "Iris, my faithful
messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and tell him to
send a vision to Halcyone in the form of Ceyx, to make known to
her the event."

Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tingeing the sky with
her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the Cimmerian
country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god Somnus. Here
Phoebus dares not come, either rising, at midday, or setting.
Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light
glimmers faintly. The bird of dawning, with crested head, never
there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchful dog, nor more sagacious
goose disturbs the silence. No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch
moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the
stillness. Silence reigns there; but from the bottom of the rock
the River Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies
grow abundantly before the door of the cave, and other herbs, from
whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she scatters over the
darkened earth. There is no gate to the mansion, to creak on its
hinges, nor any watchman; but in the midst a couch of black ebony,
adorned with black plumes and black curtains. There the god
reclines, his limbs relaxed with sleep. Around him lie dreams,
resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks,
or the forest leaves, or the seashore sand grains.

As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that
hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god,
scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard upon
his breast, at last shook himself free from himself, and leaning
on his arm, inquired her errand,--for he knew who she was. She
answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer of minds
and soother of care-worn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that
you despatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of Trachine,
representing her lost husband and all the events of the wreck."

Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not
longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness
creeping over her, she made her escape, and returned by her bow
the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous sons,--
Morpheus,--the most expert in counterfeiting forms, and in
imitating the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even
the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of each. But he only
imitates men, leaving it to another to personate birds, beasts,
and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a third, who
turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other things without
life. These wait upon kings and great personages in their sleeping
hours, while others move among the common people. Somnus chose,
from all the brothers, Morpheus, to perform the command of Iris;
then laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself to grateful
repose.

Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to
the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the
form of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he
stood before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed
soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks.
Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do
you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much
changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your husband's shade,
instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me nothing. I
am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my return.
The stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea, waves filled my
mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain messenger tells
you this, no vague rumor brings it to your ears. I come in person,
a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate. Arise! give me tears, give
me lamentations, let me not go down to Tartarus unwept." To these
words Morpheus added the voice, which seemed to be that of her
husband; he seemed to pour forth genuine tears; his hands had the
gestures of Ceyx.

Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her
sleep, striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air.
"Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? let us go together." Her
own voice awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly around, to
see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her
cries, had brought a light. When she found him not, she smote her
breast and rent her garments. She cares not to unbind her hair,
but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause of her
grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers, "she perished with her
Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and dead. I
have seen him, I have recognized him. I stretched out my hands to
seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it was the true
shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed features, not with
the beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and with his hair wet
with sea-water, he appeared to wretched me. Here, in this very
spot, the sad vision stood,"--and she looked to find the mark of
his footsteps. "This it was, this that my presaging mind
foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me, to trust himself
to the waves. Oh, how I wish, since thou wouldst go, thou hadst
taken me with thee! It would have been far better. Then I should
have had no remnant of life to spend without thee, nor a separate
death to die. If I could bear to live and struggle to endure, I
should be more cruel to myself than the sea has been to me. But I
will not struggle, I will not be separated from thee, unhappy
husband. This time, at least, I will keep thee company. In death,
if one tomb may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not
lay my ashes with thine, my name, at least, shall not be
separated." Her grief forbade more words, and these were broken
with tears and sobs.

It was now morning. She went to the seashore, and sought the spot
where she last saw him, on his departure. "While he lingered here,
and cast off his tacklings, he gave me his last kiss." While she
reviews every object, and strives to recall every incident,
looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object
floating in the water. At first she was in doubt what it was, but
by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and it was plainly the body
of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of some
shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears,
saying, "Alas! unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy
wife!" Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she more and more
nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it
approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. It is
her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it, she
exclaims, "O dearest husband, is it thus you return to me?"

There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break
the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She leaped
upon this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so) she flew,
and striking the air with wings produced on the instant, skimmed
along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird. As she flew, her
throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and like the voice of
one lamenting. When she touched the mute and bloodless body, she
enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-formed wings, and tried to
give kisses with her horny beak. Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether
it was only the action of the waves, those who looked on doubted,
but the body seemed to raise its head. But indeed he did feel it,
and by the pitying gods both of them were changed into birds. They
mate and have their young ones. For seven placid days, in winter
time, Halcyone broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea.
Then the way is safe to seamen. Aeolus guards the winds and keeps
them from disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time,
to his grandchildren.

The following lines from Byron's "Bride of Abydos" might seem
borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it were
not stated that the author derived the suggestion from observing
the motion of a floating corpse:

    "As shaken on his restless pillow,
     His head heaves with the heaving billow,
     That hand, whose motion is not life,
     Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
     Flung by the tossing tide on high,
     Then levelled with the wave ..."

Milton in his "Hymn on the Nativity," thus alludes to the fable of
the Halcyon:

    "But peaceful was the night
     Wherein the Prince of light
       His reign of peace upon the earth began;
     The winds with wonder whist
     Smoothly the waters kist
       Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
     Who now hath quite forgot to rave
     While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave."

Keats, also, in "Endymion," says:

    "O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
     That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
     Till it is hushed and smooth."





CHAPTER X

VERTUMNUS AND POMONA


The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Pomona was of this class, and no
one excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit.
She cared not for orests and rivers, but loved the cultivated
country, and trees that bear delicious apples. Her right hand bore
for its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning-knife. Armed with
this, she busied herself at one time to repress the too luxuriant
growths, and curtail the branches that straggled out of place; at
another, to split the twig and insert therein a graft, making the
branch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care, too, that her
favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of water
by them, that the thirsty roots might drink. This occupation was
her pursuit, her passion; and she was free from that which Venus
inspires. She was not without fear of the country people, and kept
her orchard locked, and allowed not men to enter. The Fauns and
Satyrs would have given all they possessed to win her, and so
would old Sylvanus, who looks young for his years, and Pan, who
wears a garland of pine leaves around his head. But Vertumnus
loved her best of all; yet he sped no better than the rest. O how
often, in the disguise of a reaper, did he bring her corn in a
basket, and looked the very image of a reaper! With a hay band
tied round him, one would think he had just come from turning over
the grass. Sometimes he would have an ox-goad in his hand, and you
would have said he had just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a
pruning-hook, and personated a vine-dresser; and again, with a
ladder on his shoulder, he seemed as if he was going to gather
apples. Sometimes he trudged along as a discharged soldier, and
again he bore a fishing-rod, as if going to fish. In this way he
gained admission to her again and again, and fed his passion with
the sight of her.

One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair
surmounted with a cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the
garden and admired the fruit. "It does you credit, my dear," she
said, and kissed her, not exactly with an old woman's kiss. She
sat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with fruit
which hung over her. Opposite was an elm entwined with a vine
loaded with swelling grapes. She praised the tree and its
associated vine, equally. "But," said she, "if the tree stood
alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would have nothing to
attract or offer us but its useless leaves. And equally the vine,
if it were not twined round the elm, would lie prostrate on the
ground. Why will you not take a lesson from the tree and the vine,
and consent to unite yourself with some one? I wish you would.
Helen herself had not more numerous suitors, nor Penelope, the
wife of shrewd Ulysses. Even while you spurn them, they court
you,--rural deities and others of every kind that frequent these
mountains. But if you are prudent and want to make a good
alliance, and will let an old woman advise you,--who loves you
better than you have any idea of,--dismiss all the rest and
accept Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as well as he
knows himself. He is not a wandering deity, but belongs to these
mountains. Nor is he like too many of the lovers nowadays, who
love any one they happen to see; he loves you, and you only. Add
to this, he is young and handsome, and has the art of assuming any
shape he pleases, and can make himself just what you command him.
Moreover, he loves the same things that you do, delights in
gardening, and handles your apples with admiration. But NOW he
cares nothing for fruits nor flowers, nor anything else, but only
yourself. Take pity on him, and fancy him speaking now with my
mouth. Remember that the gods punish cruelty, and that Venus hates
a hard heart, and will visit such offences sooner or later. To
prove this, let me tell you a story, which is well known in Cyprus
to be a fact; and I hope it will have the effect to make you more
merciful.

"Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved
Anaxarete, a noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He
struggled long with his passion, but when he found he could not
subdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion. First he told his
passion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster-child
to favor his suit. And then he tried to win her domestics to his
side. Sometimes he committed his vows to written tablets, and
often hung at her door garlands which he had moistened with his
tears. He stretched himself on her threshold, and uttered his
complaints to the cruel bolts and bars. She was deafer than the
surges which rise in the November gale; harder than steel from the
German forges, or a rock that still clings to its native cliff.
She mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her ungentle
treatment, and gave not the slightest gleam of hope.

"Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love,
and, standing before her doors, he spake these last words:
'Anaxarete, you have conquered, and shall no longer have to bear
my importunities. Enjoy your triumph! Sing songs of joy, and bind
your forehead with laurel,--you have conquered! I die; stony
heart, rejoice! This at least I can do to gratify you and force
you to praise me; and thus shall I prove that the love of you left
me but with life. Nor will I leave it to rumor to tell you of my
death. I will come myself, and you shall see me die, and feast
your eyes on the spectacle. Yet, O ye gods, who look down on
mortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but this: let me be remembered
in coming ages, and add those years to my fame which you have reft
from my life. Thus he said, and, turning his pale face and weeping
eyes towards her mansion, he fastened a rope to the gatepost, on
which he had often hung garlands, and putting his head into the
noose, he murmured, 'This garland at least will please you, cruel
girl!' and falling hung suspended with his neck broken. As he fell
he struck against the gate, and the sound was as the sound of a
groan. The servants opened the door and found him dead, and with
exclamations of pity raised him and carried him home to his
mother, for his father was not living. She received the dead body
of her son, and folded the cold form to her bosom, while she
poured forth the sad words which bereaved mothers utter. The
mournful funeral passed through the town, and the pale corpse was
borne on a bier to the place of the funeral pile. By chance the
home of Anaxarete was on the street where the procession passed,
and the lamentations of the mourners met the ears of her whom the
avenging deity had already marked for punishment.

"'Let us see this sad procession,' said she, and mounted to a
turret, whence through an open window she looked upon the funeral.
Scarce had her eyes rested upon the form of Iphis stretched on the
bier, when they began to stiffen, and the warm blood in her body
to become cold. Endeavoring to step back, she found she could not
move her feet; trying to turn away her face, she tried in vain;
and by degrees all her limbs became stony like her heart. That you
may not doubt the fact, the statue still remains, and stands in
the temple of Venus at Salamis, in the exact form of the lady. Now
think of these things, my dear, and lay aside your scorn and your
delays, and accept a lover. So may neither the vernal frosts
blight your young fruits, nor furious winds scatter your
blossoms!"

When Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old
woman, and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely
youth. It appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud.
He would have renewed his entreaties, but there was no need; his
arguments and the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph
no longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame.

Pomona was the especial patroness of the Apple-orchard, and as
such she was invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider,
in blank verse. Thomson in the "Seasons" alludes to him:

    "Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou
     Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,
     With British freedom, sing the British song."

But Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and
as such is invoked by Thomson:

    "Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves,
     To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
     With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
     Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined
     Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,
     Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit."





CHAPTER XI

CUPID AND PSYCHE


A certain king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the
two elder were more than common, but the beauty of the youngest
was so wonderful that the poverty of language is unable to express
its due praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that strangers
from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and
looked on her with amazement, paying her that homage which is due
only to Venus herself. In fact Venus found her altars deserted,
while men turned their devotion to this young virgin. As she
passed along, the people sang her praises, and strewed her way
with chaplets and flowers.

This perversion of homage due only to the immortal powers to the
exaltation of a mortal gave great offence to the real Venus.
Shaking her ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, "Am I
then to be eclipsed in my honors by a mortal girl? In vain then
did that royal shepherd, whose judgment was approved by Jove
himself, give me the palm of beauty over my illustrious rivals,
Pallas and Juno. But she shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I
will give her cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty."

Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in
his own nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her
complaints. She points out Psyche to him and says, "My dear son,
punish that contumacious beauty; give thy mother a revenge as
sweet as her injuries are great; infuse into the bosom of that
haughty girl a passion for some low, mean, unworthy being, so that
she may reap a mortification as great as her present exultation
and triumph."

Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two
fountains in Venus's garden, one of sweet waters, the other of
bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, and
suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the
chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from
the bitter fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost
moved him to pity; then touched her side with the point of his
arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon Cupid (himself
invisible), which so startled him that in his confusion he wounded
himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound, his whole
thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he poured
the balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets.

Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from
all her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and
every mouth spoke her praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor
plebeian presented himself to demand her in marriage. Her two
elder sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two
royal princes; but Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her
solitude, sick of that beauty which, while it procured abundance
of flattery, had failed to awaken love.

Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger
of the gods, consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received this
answer: "The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover.
Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a
monster whom neither gods nor men can resist."

This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with
dismay, and her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But Psyche
said, "Why, my dear parents, do you now lament me? You should
rather have grieved when the people showered upon me undeserved
honors, and with one voice called me a Venus. I now perceive that
I am a victim to that name. I submit. Lead me to that rock to
which my unhappy fate has destined me." Accordingly, all things
being prepared, the royal maid took her place in the procession,
which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp, and with her
parents, amid the lamentations of the people, ascended the
mountain, on the summit of which they left her alone, and with
sorrowful hearts returned home.

While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear
and with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the
earth and bore her with an easy motion into a flowery dale. By
degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself down on the
grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she
looked round and beheld near by a pleasant grove of tall and
stately trees. She entered it, and in the midst discovered a
fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters, and fast by, a
magnificent palace whose august front impressed the spectator that
it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some
god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she approached the building
and ventured to enter. Every object she met filled her with
pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof,
and the walls were enriched with carvings and paintings
representing beasts of the chase and rural scenes, adapted to
delight the eye of the beholder. Proceeding onward, she perceived
that besides the apartments of state there were others filled with
all manner of treasures, and beautiful and precious productions of
nature and art.

While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though
she saw no one, uttering these words: "Sovereign lady, all that
you see is yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants and
shall obey all your commands with our utmost care and diligence.
Retire, therefore, to your chamber and repose on your bed of down,
and when you see fit repair to the bath. Supper awaits you in the
adjoining alcove when it pleases you to take your seat there."

Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and
after repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in
the alcove, where a table immediately presented itself, without
any visible aid from waiters or servants, and covered with the
greatest delicacies of food and the most nectareous wines. Her
ears too were feasted with music from invisible performers; of
whom one sang, another played on the lute, and all closed in the
wonderful harmony of a full chorus.

She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the
hours of darkness and fled before the dawn of morning, but his
accents were full of love, and inspired a like passion in her. She
often begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would not
consent. On the contrary he charged her to make no attempt to see
him, for it was his pleasure, for the best of reasons, to keep
concealed. "Why should you wish to behold me?" he said; "have you
any doubt of my love? have you any wish ungratified? If you saw
me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but all I ask of
you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as an equal
than adore me as a god."

This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the
novelty lasted she felt quite happy. But at length the thought of
her parents, left in ignorance of her fate, and of her sisters,
precluded from sharing with her the delights of her situation,
preyed on her mind and made her begin to feel her palace as but a
splendid prison. When her husband came one night, she told him her
distress, and at last drew from him an unwilling consent that her
sisters should be brought to see her.

So, calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's
commands, and he, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the
mountain down to their sister's valley. They embraced her and she
returned their caresses. "Come," said Psyche, "enter with me my
house and refresh yourselves with whatever your sister has to
offer." Then taking their hands she led them into her golden
palace, and committed them to the care of her numerous train of
attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at her table,
and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial
delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young
sister possessed of such state and splendor, so much exceeding
their own.

They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a
person her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful
youth, who generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the
mountains. The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon made
her confess that she had never seen him. Then they proceeded to
fill her bosom with dark suspicions. "Call to mind," they said,
"the Pythian oracle that declared you destined to marry a direful
and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of this valley say that
your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent, who nourishes
you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you.
Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife;
put them in concealment that your husband may not discover them,
and when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed, bring forth your
lamp, and see for yourself whether what they say is true or not.
If it is, hesitate not to cut off the monster's head, and thereby
recover your liberty."

Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they
did not fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her
sisters were gone, their words and her own curiosity were too
strong for her to resist. So she prepared her lamp and a sharp
knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. When he had
fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her
lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and
charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his
snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his
shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the
tender blossoms of spring. As she leaned the lamp over to have a
nearer view of his face a drop of burning oil fell on the shoulder
of the god, startled with which he opened his eyes and fixed them
full upon her; then, without saying one word, he spread his white
wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in vain endeavoring to
follow him, fell from the window to the ground. Cupid, beholding
her as she lay in the dust, stopped his flight for an instant and
said, "O foolish Psyche, is it thus you repay my love? After
having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, will
you think me a monster and cut off my head? But go; return to your
sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine. I
inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you forever. Love
cannot dwell with suspicion." So saying, he fled away, leaving
poor Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling the place with
mournful lamentations.

When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around
her, but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found
herself in the open field not far from the city where her sisters
dwelt. She repaired thither and told them the whole story of her
misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful
creatures inwardly rejoiced. "For now," said they, "he will
perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, without saying a word
of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning and
ascended the mountains, and having reached the top, called upon
Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping up,
and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and was
dashed to pieces.

Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose,
in search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain
having on its brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to
herself, "Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there," and directed
her steps thither.

She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in
loose ears and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley.
Scattered about, lay sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of
harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the weary
reapers' hands in the sultry hours of the day.

This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by
separating and sorting everything to its proper place and kind,
believing that she ought to neglect none of the gods, but endeavor
by her piety to engage them all in her behalf. The holy Ceres,
whose temple it was, finding her so religiously employed, thus
spoke to her: "O Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though I cannot
shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach you how best
to allay her displeasure. Go, then, and voluntarily surrender
yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and
submission to win her forgiveness, and perhaps her favor will
restore you the husband you have lost."

Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the temple
of Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and ruminating on what
she should say and how best propitiate the angry goddess, feeling
that the issue was doubtful and perhaps fatal.

Venus received her with angry countenance. "Most undutiful and
faithless of servants," said she, "do you at last remember that
you really have a mistress? Or have you rather come to see your
sick husband, yet laid up of the wound given him by his loving
wife? You are so ill-favored and disagreeable that the only way
you can merit your lover must be by dint of industry and
diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery." Then she
ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where
was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches,
beans, and lentils prepared for food for her pigeons, and said,
"Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind
in a parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done before
evening." Then Venus departed and left her to her task.

But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat
stupid and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable
heap.

While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a
native of the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of the
ant hill, followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects,
approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence, taking grain
by grain, they separated the pile, sorting each kind to its
parcel; and when it was all done, they vanished out of sight in a
moment.

Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of the
gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task
done, she exclaimed, "This is no work of yours, wicked one, but
his, whom to your own and his misfortune you have enticed." So
saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper and
went away.

Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called and said to her,
"Behold yonder grove which stretches along the margin of the
water. There you will find sheep feeding without a shepherd, with
golden-shining fleeces on their backs. Go, fetch me a sample of
that precious wool gathered from every one of their fleeces."

Psyche obediently went to the riverside, prepared to do her best
to execute the command. But the river god inspired the reeds with
harmonious murmurs, which seemed to say, "O maiden, severely
tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the
formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under
the influence of the rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to
destroy mortals with their sharp horns or rude teeth. But when the
noontide sun has driven the cattle to the shade, and the serene
spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then cross in
safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to the bushes
and the trunks of the trees."

Thus the compassionate river god gave Psyche instructions how to
accomplish her task, and by observing his directions she soon
returned to Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece; but she
received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, who said,
"I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you have
succeeded in this task, and I am not satisfied yet that you have
any capacity to make yourself useful. But I have another task for
you. Here, take this box and go your way to the infernal shades,
and give this box to Proserpine and say, 'My mistress Venus
desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in tending
her sick son she has lost some of her own.' Be not too long on
your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the
circle of the gods and goddesses this evening."

Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being
obliged to go with her own feet directly down to Erebus.
Wherefore, to make no delay of what was not to be avoided, she
goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate herself headlong,
thus to descend the shortest way to the shades below. But a voice
from the tower said to her, "Why, poor unlucky girl, dost thou
design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a manner? And what
cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger who hast been so
miraculously supported in all thy former?" Then the voice told her
how by a certain cave she might reach the realms of Pluto, and how
to avoid all the dangers of the road, to pass by Cerberus, the
three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the ferryman, to take her
across the black river and bring her back again. But the voice
added, "When Proserpine has given you the box filled with her
beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be observed by you, that
you never once open or look into the box nor allow your curiosity
to pry into the treasure of the beauty of the goddesses."

Psyche, encouraged by this advice, obeyed it in all things, and
taking heed to her ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto.
She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine, and without
accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was offered
her, but contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered
her message from Venus. Presently the box was returned to her,
shut and filled with the precious commodity. Then she returned the
way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into the
light of day.

But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a
longing desire seized her to examine the contents of the box.
"What," said she, "shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty, not
take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more advantage
in the eyes of my beloved husband!" So she carefully opened the
box, but found nothing there of any beauty at all, but an infernal
and truly Stygian sleep, which being thus set free from its
prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in the midst of
the road, a sleepy corpse without sense or motion.

But Cupid, being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer
to bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the
smallest crack of the window of his chamber which happened to be
left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up the
sleep from her body closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche
with a light touch of one of his arrows. "Again," said he, "hast
thou almost perished by the same curiosity. But now perform
exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, and I will take care
of the rest."

Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of
heaven, presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication.
Jupiter lent a favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of the lovers
so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent
Mercury to bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she
arrived, handing her a cup of ambrosia, he said, "Drink this,
Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid ever break away from the
knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be perpetual."

Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they
had a daughter born to them whose name w

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