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 up 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 lip, 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, herd and consented. "Go," said he, "to
River Pactolus, trace its fountain-head, there plunge yourself
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 splendour, 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.
Adam
Elsheimer Jupiter and Mercury at Philemon and Baucis.
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 honour 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,
laboured 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 neighbours, 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 old. Then spoke
Jupiter in benignant accents:
"Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a husband, speak,
tell us your wishes; what favour 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 root 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."
