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 ship 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.
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 her
arms around her father's neck, and said, "Dearest father, grant
me this favour, 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 of ten 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."
Although Baldung
Pyramus and Thisbe
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 neighbourhood 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
ardour 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 the
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
colour 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 colour 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 colour 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 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 of Pomona's hand bestows
In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
The flavour 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 Shakespeare's play of the
"Midsummer Night's Dream," where it is most amusingly
burlesqued.
Joachim Wtewael Cephalus and Procris
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 favourite 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
allow 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, lily 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 endeavouring 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!'"
