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see also:
illustrations
Greek
and Roman Myths in Art
Homer
"Odyssey" illustrations by
John Flaxman
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BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY
THE AGE OF FABLE OR STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES
by Thomas Bulfinch
1855
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CONTENTS:
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ILLUSTRATIONS
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CHAPTER I. Introduction.
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Aid
Amazons
Amphitrite
Anthiope
Arachne
Ceres
Charon
Circe
Danae
Driads
Eos
Erinyes
Europe
Flora
Graces
Helios
Icarus
Jupiter
Kallisto
Leda
Maia
Mars
Mercury
Minotaur
Neptune
Nereids
Nikta
Nymphs
Pan
Saturn
Satyrs
Selene
Silenus
Sirens
Sisyph
Triton
Vulcan
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CHAPTER II. Prometheus And Pandora.
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Prometheus
Pandora
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CHAPTER III. Apollo And Daphne- Pyramus And Thisbe-
Cephalus And Procris.
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Apollo
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CHAPTER IV. Juno And Her Rivals, Io And Callisto-
Diana And Actaeon- Latona And The Rustics.
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Juno
Io
Diana
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CHAPTER V. Phaeton.
CHAPTER VI. Midas- Baucis And Philemon.
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Phaethon
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CHAPTER VII. Proserpine- Glaucus And Scylla.
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Proserpine
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CHAPTER VIII. Pygmalion- Dryope- Venus And Adonis-
Apollo And Hyacinthus.
CHAPTER IX. Ceyx And Halcyone: Or, The Halcyon Birds.
CHAPTER X. Vertumnus And Pomona.
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Pygmalion
Venus
Apollo
Hyacinth
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CHAPTER XI. Cupid And Psyche.
CHAPTER XII. Cadmus- The Myrmidons.
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Cupid
Psyche
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CHAPTER XIII. Nisus And Scylla- Echo And
Narcissus- Clytie- Hero And Leander.
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Narcissus
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CHAPTER XIV. Minerva- Niobe.
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Minerva
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CHAPTER XV. The Graeae And Gorgons- Perseus-
Medusa- Atlas- Andromeda.
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Perseus
Medusa
Atlant
Andromeda
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CHAPTER XVI. Monsters. Giants, Sphinx, Pegasus,
And Chimaera, Centaurs, Griffin, And Pygmies.
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Centaurs
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CHAPTER XVII. The Golden Fleece- Medea
CHAPTER XVIII. Meleager And Atalanta.
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Jason
Medea
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CHAPTER XIX. Hercules- Hebe And Ganymede.
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Hercules
Ganymede
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CHAPTER XX. Theseus- Daedalus- Castor And Pollux.
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Theseus
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CHAPTER XXI. Bacchus- Ariadne.
CHAPTER XXII. The Rural Deities- Erisichthon- Rhoecus-
The Water Deities- The Camenae- The Winds.
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Bacchus
Ariadne
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CHAPTER XXIII. Achelous And Hercules- Admetus And
Alcestis- Antigone- Penelope.
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Hercules
Penelope
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CHAPTER XXIV. Orpheus And Eurydice- Aristaeus-
Amphion- Linus- Thamyris- Marsyas- Melampus- Musaeus.
CHAPTER XXV. Arion- Ibycus- Simonides- Sappho.
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Orpheus
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CHAPTER XXVI. Endymion- Orion- Aurora And Tithonus-
Acis And Galatea.
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Aurora
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CHAPTER XXVII. The Trojan War.
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Paris and
Helen
Achilles
Peleus and Thetis
Iphigenia
Chiron
Hector and Andromache
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CHAPTER XXVIII. The Fall Of Troy- Return Of The
Greeks- Agamemnon, Orestes And Electra.
CHAPTER XXIX. Adventures Of Ulysses- The Lotus-eaters-
Cyclopse- Circe -sirens- Scylla And
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Agamemnon
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Charybdis- Calypso.
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Odysseus
Penelope
Cyclops
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CHAPTER XXX. The Phaeacians- Fate Of The Suitors.
CHAPTER XXXI. Adventures Of Aeneas- The Harpies- Dido-
Palinurius.
CHAPTER XXXII. The Infernal Regions- The Sibyl.
CHAPTER XXXIII. Aeneas In Italy- Camilla- Evander- Nisus
And Euryalus- Mezentius- Turnus.
CHAPTER XXXIV. Pythagoras- Egyptian Deities- Oracles.
CHAPTER XXXV. Origin Of Mythology- Statues Of Gods And
Goddesses- Poets Of Mythology.
CHAPTER XXXVI. Modern Monsters- The Phoenix- Basilisk-
Unicorn- -salamander.
CHAPTER XXXVII. Eastern Mythology- Zoroaster- Hindu
Mythology- Castes- Buddha- Grand Lama.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. Northern Mythology- Valhalla- The
Valkyrior.
CHAPTER XXXIX. Thor's Visit To Jotunheim.
CHAPTER XL. The Death Of Baldur- The Elves- Runic
Letters- Skalds- Iceland.
CHAPTER XLI. The Druids- Iona.
CHAPTER XLII. Beowulf.
Proverbial Expressions
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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 favoured 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
favoured 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 favour 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 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,
Facing 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 godesses 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 under-world. 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 shines with purest day.
There the inhabitants divine rejoice
For ever." 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, armourer, 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*), 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.
* The names in parentheses are the Greek, the others being
the Roman or Latin names.
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
splendour and beauty which were afterwards bestowed on Apollo.
"Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself."
Shakespeare.
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.* 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.
* 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.
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 favourite 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 favourite 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-favoured of gods.
Venus possessed an embroidered girdle called Cestus, which had
the power of inspiring love. Her favourite 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 favourite 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 honour of
the nine Muses. Mercury gave the lyre to Apollo, and received
from him in exchange the caduceus.*
* 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-favoured 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 favourite
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,* 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.
* There was also a goddess called Fauna, or Bona Dea.
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 of 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.
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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 labour 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 honour 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 the
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.
* 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 favourite 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
labour 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 win, 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
demeanour, 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 labour, 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 favourite 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 favour.
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 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."
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.
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!'"
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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 bad 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 round 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 be 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
honour 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 (cowford), 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 be, 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
neighbourhood 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 honour, 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
neighborbood 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 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 Polestar,
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 neighbouring eyes."
The reference here is both to the Polestar 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 labours. 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 labours 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 colour 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 cliffs, through mountain gorges 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 labours, 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 neighbouring 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 in 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 favour. 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!"
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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 honour."
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 labour 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;* 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.*(2) 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.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 1.
*(2) See Proverbial Expressions, no. 2.
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 splendour 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 honour, 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 labour 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 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.* 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.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 3.
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 course 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 here 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 some 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."
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 4.
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 thee 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 1.
|
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.
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."
|
CHAPTER VII.
PROSERPINE- GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA.
WHEN Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titars 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-coloured 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 on 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
vigour 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 splendour 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 labour
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 favours." 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, endeavouring 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 favour. 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 splendour 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 of 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, not 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 honour 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
favourite 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 colour. 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 his 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 odour 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 favour, 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 ardour 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 ardour sharing,
The silent form expression found;
Returned my kiss of youth 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. 'Twas 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
favourite 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 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
lamentation 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.* And
this was not enough for Phoebus; but to confer still greater
honour, 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 is evidently not our modern hyacinth that is here
described. It is perhaps some species of iris, or perhaps of
larkspur or pansy.
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."
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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
endeavoured 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 harbour, 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 colour 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 be 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 colours, and tinging 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,
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
creep. ing 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 rumour 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 forests 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 favourites 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 grey 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 favour 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 rumour 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 gate-post, 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. Endeavouring 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, be 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 neighbouring 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 honours 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
honours. 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 honours, 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
splendour 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 endeavouring 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 for ever. 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 mountain, 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
endeavour 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 favour will restore you the husband you have lost."
Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the
temple of Venus, endeavouring 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-favoured 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 odours 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 favouring 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 was Pleasure.
The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered
allegorical. The Greek name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the
same word means the soul. There is no illustration of the
immortality of the soul so striking and beautiful as the
butterfly, bursting on brilliant wings from the tomb in which it
has lain, after a dull, grovelling, caterpillar existence, to
flutter in the blaze of day and feed on the most fragrant and
delicate productions of the spring. Psyche, then, is the human
soul, which is purified by sufferings and misfortunes, and is
thus prepared for the enjoyment of true and pure happiness.
In works of art Psyche is represented as a maiden with the
wings of a butterfly, along with Cupid, in the different
situations described in the allegory.
Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the
conclusion of his "Comus":
"Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced,
After her wandering labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal bride;
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn."
The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well
presented in the beautiful lines of T. K. Harvey:
"They wove bright fables in the days of old,
When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings;
When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold,
And told in song its high and mystic things!
And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
The pilgrim heart, to whom a dream was given,
That led her through the world,- Love's worshipper,-
To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!
"In the full city,- by the haunted fount,-
Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars,-
'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount,
Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
The painted valley, and the scented air,
She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
And found his footsteps' traces everywhere.
"But nevermore they met! since doubts and fears,
Those phantom shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
Had learned to seek him only in the skies;
Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
And she became Love's angel bride in heaven!"
The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of
Apuleius, a writer of the second century of our era. It is
therefore of much more recent date than most of the legends of
the Age of Fable. It is this that Keats alludes to in his "Ode
to Psyche":
"O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor virgin choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet,
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming."
In Moore's "Summer Fete" a fancy ball is described, in which
one of the characters personated is Psyche-
"...not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veiled her light;-
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.
His wedded bride, by holiest vow
Pledged in Olympus, and made known
To mortals by the type which now
Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,
That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
Which means the soul, (though few would think it,)
And sparkling thus on brow so white
Tells us we've Psyche here to-night."
|
CHAPTER XII.
CADMUS- THE MYRMIDONS.
JUPITER, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away Europa,
the daughter of Agenor, king of Phoenicia. Agenor commanded his
son Cadmus to go in search of his sister, and not to return
without her. Cadmus went and sought long and far for his sister,
but could not find her, and not daring to return unsuccessful,
consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what country he should
settle in. The oracle informed him that he should find a cow in
the field, and should follow her wherever she might wander, and
where she stopped, should build a city and call it Thebes.
Cadmus had hardly left the Castalian cave, from which the oracle
was delivered, when he saw a young cow slowly walking before
him. He followed her close, offering at the same time his
prayers to Phoebus. The cow went on till she passed the shallow
channel of Cephisus and came out into the plain of Panope. There
she stood still, raising her broad forehead to the sky filled
the air with her lowings. Cadmus gave thanks, and stooping down
kissed the foreign soil, then lifting his eyes, greeted the
surrounding mountains. Wishing to offer a sacrifice to Jupiter,
he sent his servants to seek pure water for a libation. Near by
there stood an ancient grove which had never been profaned by
the axe, in the midst of which there was a cave, thick covered
with the growth of bushes, its roof forming a low arch, from
beneath which burst forth a fountain of purest water. In the
cave lurked a horrid serpent with a crested head and scales
glittering like gold. His eyes shone like fire, his body was
swollen with venom, he vibrated a triple tongue, and showed a
triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians dipped their
pitchers in the fountain, and the in-gushing waters made a
sound, than the glittering serpent raised his head out of the
cave and uttered a fearful hiss. The vessels fell from their
hands, the blood left their cheeks, they trembled in every limb.
The serpent, twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, raised his
head so as to overtop the tallest trees, and while the Tyrians
from terror could neither fight nor fly, slew some with his
fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous
breath.
Cadmus, having waited for the return of his men till midday,
went in search of them. His covering was a lion's hide, and
besides his Javelin he carried in his hand a lance, and in his
breast a bold heart, a surer reliance than either. When he
entered the wood and saw the lifeless bodies of his men, and the
monster with his bloody jaws, he exclaimed, "O faithful friends,
I will avenge you, or share your death." So saying he lifted a
huge stone and threw it with all his force at the serpent. Such
a block would have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no
impression on the monster. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which
met with better success, for it penetrated the serpent's scales,
and pierced through to his entrails. Fierce with pain, the
monster turned back his head to view the wound, and attempted to
draw out the weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving
the iron point rankling in his flesh. His neck swelled with
rage, bloody foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his
nostrils poisoned the air around. Now he twisted himself into a
circle, then stretched himself out on the ground like the trunk
of a fallen tree. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before
him, holding his spear opposite to the monster's opened jaws.
The serpent snapped at the weapon and attempted to bite its iron
point. At last Cadmus, watching his chance, thrust the spear at
a moment when the animal's head thrown back came against the
trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in pinning him to its side.
His weight bent the tree as he struggled in the agonies of
death.
While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its
vast size, a voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but he
heard it distinctly) commanding him to take the dragon's teeth
and sow them in the earth. He obeyed. He made a furrow in the
ground, and planted the teeth, destined to produce a crop of
men. Scarce had he done so when the clods began to move, and the
points of spears to appear above the surface. Next helmets with
their nodding plumes came up, and next the shoulders and breasts
and limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed
warriors. Cadmus, alarmed, prepared to encounter a new enemy,
but one of them said to him, "Meddle not with our civil war."
With that he who had spoken smote one of his earth-born brothers
with a sword, and he himself fell pierced with an arrow from
another. The latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner
the whole crowd dealt with each other till all fell, slain with
mutual wounds, except five survivors. One of these cast away his
weapons and said, "Brothers, let us live in peace!" These five
joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the
name of Thebes.
Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus.
The gods left Olympus to honour the occasion with their
presence, and Vulcan presented the bride with a necklace of
surpassing brilliancy, his own workmanship. But a fatality hung
over the family of Cadmus in consequence of his killing the
serpent sacred to Mars. Semele and Ino, his daughters, and
Actaeon and Pentheus, his grandchildren, all perished unhappily,
and Cadmus and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to
them, and emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who
received them with honour and made Cadmus their king. But the
misfortunes of their children still weighed upon their minds;
and one day Cadmus exclaimed, "If a serpent's life is so dear to
the gods, I would I were myself a serpent." No sooner had he
uttered the words than he began to change his form. Harmonia
beheld it and prayed to the gods to let her share his fate. Both
became serpents. They live in the woods, but mindful of their
origin, they neither avoid the presence of man nor do they ever
injure any one.
There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the
letters of the alphabet which were invented by the Phoenicians.
This is alluded to by Byron, where, addressing the modern
Greeks, he says:
"You have the letters Cadmus gave,
Think you he meant them for a slave?"
Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded
of the serpents of the classical stories and says:
..."-pleasing was his shape,
And lovely: never since the serpent kind
Lovelier; not those that in Illyria changed
Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god
In Epidaurus."
For an explanation of the last allusion, see EPIDAURUS.
THE MYRMIDONS.
The Myrmidons were the solders of Achilles, in the Trojan
war. From them all zealous and unscrupulous followers of a
political chief are called by that name, down to this day. But
the origin of the Myrmidons would not give one the idea of a
fierce and bloody race, but rather of a laborious and peaceful
one.
Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of AEgina to
seek assistance of his old friend and ally AEacus, the king, in
his war with Minos, king of Crete. Cephalus was most kindly
received, and the desired assistance readily promised. "I have
people enough," said AEacus, "to protect myself and spare you
such a force as you need." "I rejoice to see it," replied
Cephalus, "and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to find
such a host of youths as I see around me, all apparently of
about the same age. Yet there are many individuals whom I
previously knew, that I look for now in vain. What has become of
them?" AEacus groaned, and replied with a voice of sadness, "I
have been intending to tell you, and will now do so, without
more delay, that you may see how from the saddest beginning a
happy result sometimes flows. Those whom you formerly knew are
now dust and ashes! A plague sent by angry Juno devastated the
land. She hated it because it bore the name of one of her
husband's female favourites. While the disease appeared to
spring from natural causes we resisted it as we best might, by
natural remedies; but it soon appeared that the pestilence was
too powerful for our efforts, and we yielded. At the beginning
the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth, and thick clouds
shut in the heated air. For four months together a deadly south
wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells and springs;
thousands of snakes crept over the land and shed their poison in
the fountains. The force of the disease was first spent on the
lower animals- dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The luckless
ploughman wondered to see his oxen fall in the midst of their
work, and lie helpless in the unfinished furrow. The wool fell
from the bleating sheep, and their bodies pined away. The horse,
once foremost in the race, contested the palm no more, but
groaned at his stall and died an inglorious death. The wild boar
forgot his rage, the stag his swiftness, the bears no longer
attacked the herds. Everything languished; dead bodies lay in
the roads, the fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned by
them. I tell you what is hardly credible, but neither dogs nor
birds would touch them, nor starving wolves. Their decay spread
the infection. Next the disease attacked the country people, and
then the dwellers in the city. At first the cheek was flushed,
and the breath drawn with difficulty. The tongue grew rough and
swelled, and the dry mouth stood open with its veins enlarged
and gasped for the air. Men could not bear the heat of their
clothes or their beds, but preferred to lie on the bare ground;
and the ground did not cool them, but, on the contrary, they
heated the spot where they lay. Nor could the physicians help,
for the disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick
gave them infection, so that the most faithful were the first
victims. At last all hope of relief vanished, and men learned to
look upon death as the only deliverer from disease. Then they
gave way to every inclination, and cared not to ask what was
expedient, for nothing was expedient. All restraint laid aside,
they crowded around the wells and fountains and drank till they
died, without quenching thirst. Many had not strength to get
away from the water, but died in the midst of the stream, and
others would drink of it notwithstanding. Such was their
weariness of their sick beds that some would creep forth, and if
not strong enough to stand, would die on the ground. They seemed
to hate their friends, and got away from their homes, as if, not
knowing the cause of their sickness, they charged it on the
place of their abode. Some were seen tottering along the road,
as long as they could stand, while others sank on the earth, and
turned their dying eyes around to take a last look, then closed
them in death.
"What heart had I left me, during all this, or what ought I
to have had, except to hate life and wish to be with my dead
subjects? On all sides lay my people strewn like over-ripened
apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak.
You see yonder a temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter.
O how many offered prayers there, husbands for wives, fathers
for sons, and died in the very act of supplication! How often,
while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell,
struck down by disease without waiting for the blow. At length
all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown:
out unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought
with one another for the possession of them. Finally there were
none left to mourn; sons and husbands, old men and youths,
Perished alike unlamented.
"Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven. 'O
Jupiter,' I said, 'if thou art indeed my father, and art not
ashamed of thy offspring, give me back my people, or take me
also away!' At these words a clap of thunder was heard. 'I
accept the omen,' I cried; 'O may it be a sign of a favourable
disposition towards me!' By chance there grew by the place where
I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to Jupiter.
I observed a troop of ants busy with their labour, carrying
minute grains in their mouths and following one another in a
line up the trunk of the tree. Observing their numbers with
admiration, I said, 'Give me, O father, citizens as numerous as
these, and replenish my empty city.' The tree shook and gave a
rustling sound with its branches, though no wind agitated them.
I trembled in every limb, yet I kissed the earth and the tree. I
would not confess to myself that I hoped, yet I did hope. Night
came on and sleep took possession of my frame oppressed with
cares. The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous
branches all covered with living, moving creatures. It seemed to
shake its limbs and throw down over the ground a multitude of
those industrious grain-gathering animals, which appeared to
gain in size, and grow larger and larger, and by and by to stand
erect, lay aside their superfluous legs and their black colour,
and finally to assume the human form. Then I awoke, and my first
impulse was to chide the gods who had robbed me of a sweet
vision and given me no reality in its place. Being still in the
temple, my attention was caught by the sound of many voices
without; a sound of late unusual to my ears. While I began to
think I was yet dreaming, Telamon, my son, throwing open the
temple gates, exclaimed: 'Father, approach, and behold things
surpassing even your hopes!' I went forth; I saw a multitude of
men such as I had seen in my dream, and they were passing in
procession in the same manner. While I gazed with wonder and
delight they approached, and kneeling hailed me as their king. I
paid my vows to Jove, and proceeded to allot the vacant city to
the new-born race, and to parcel out the fields among them. I
called them Myrmidons, from the ant (myrmex) from which they
sprang. You have seen these persons; their dispositions resemble
those which they had in their former shape. They are a diligent
and industrious race, eager to gain, and tenacious of their
gains. Among them you may recruit your forces. They will follow
you to the war, young in years and bold in heart."
This description of the plague is coped by Ovid from the
account which Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives of the
plague of Athens. The historian drew from life, and all the
poets and writers of fiction since his day, when they have had
occasion to describe a similar scene, have borrowed their
details from him.
|
CHAPTER XIII.
NISUS AND SCYLLA- ECHO AND NARCISSUS- CLYTIE-
HERO AND LEANDER.
NISUS AND SCYLLA.
MINOS, king of Crete, made war upon Megara. Nisus was king of
Megara, and Scylla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted
six months and the city still held out, for it was decreed by
fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple
lock, which glittered among the hair of King Nisus, remained on
his head. There was a tower on the city walls, which overlooked
the plain where Minos and his army were encamped. To this tower
Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the
hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned
to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular,
excited her admiration. Arrayed in his helmet, and bearing his
shield, she admired his graceful deportment; if he threw his
javelin skill seemed combined with force in the discharge; if he
drew his bow Apollo himself could not have done it more
gracefully. But when he laid aside his helmet, and in his purple
robes bestrode his white horse with its gay caparisons, and
reined in its foaming mouth, the daughter of Nisus was hardly
mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with admiration. She
envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins that he held. She
felt as if she could, if it were possible, go to him through the
hostile ranks; she felt an impulse to cast herself down from the
tower into the midst of his camp, or to open the gates to him,
or to do anything else, so only it might gratify Minos. As she
sat in the tower, she talked thus with herself: "I know not
whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad war. I grieve that
Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any cause that brings him
to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing to grant us peace, and
receive me as a hostage. I would fly down, if I could, and
alight in his camp, and tell him that we yield ourselves to his
mercy. But then, to betray my father! No! rather would I never
see Minos again. And yet no doubt it is sometimes the best thing
for a city to be conquered, when the conqueror is clement and
generous. Minos certainly has right on his side. I think we
shall be conquered; and if that must be the end of it, why
should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of leaving it to
be done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter if we can. And
O if any one should wound or kill Minos! No one surely would
have the heart to do it; yet ignorantly, not knowing him, one
might. I will, I will surrender myself to him, with my country
as a dowry, and so put an end to the war. But how? The gates are
guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he only stands in my way.
O that it might please the gods to take him away! But why ask
the gods to do it? Another woman, loving as I do, would remove
with her own hands whatever stood in the way of her love. And
can any other woman dare more than I? I would encounter fire and
sword to gain my object; but here there is no need of fire and
sword. I only need my father's purple lock. More precious than
gold to me, that will give me all I wish."
While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole
palace was buried in sleep. She entered her father's bedchamber
and cut off the fatal lock; then passed out of the city and
entered the enemy's camp. She demanded to be led to the king,
and thus addressed him: "I am Scylla, the daughter of Nisus. I
surrender to you my country and my father's house. I ask no
reward but yourself: for love of you I have done it. See here
the purple lock! With this I give you my father and his
kingdom." She held out her hand with the fatal spoil. Minos
shrunk back and refused to touch it. "The gods destroy thee,
infamous woman," he exclaimed; "disgrace of our time! May
neither earth nor sea yield thee a resting-place! Surely, my
Crete, where Jove himself was cradled, shall not be polluted
with such a monster!" Thus he said, and gave orders that
equitable terms should be allowed to the conquered city, and
that the fleet should immediately sail from the island.
Scylla was frantic. "Ungrateful man," she exclaimed, "is it
thus you leave me?- me who have given you victory,- who have
sacrificed for you parent and country! I am guilty, I confess,
and deserve to die, but not by your hand." As the ships left the
shore, she leaped into the water, and seizing the rudder of the
one which carried Minos, she was borne along an unwelcome
companion of their course. A sea-eagle soaring aloft,- it was
her father who had been changed into that form,- seeing her,
pounced down upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws.
In terror she let go the ship and would have fallen into the
water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The
sea-eagle still cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he
espies her in his lofty flight you may see him dart down upon
her, with beak and claws, to take vengeance for the ancient
crime.
ECHO AND NARCISSUS.
Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills,
where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a
favourite of Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had
one failing; she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or
argument, would have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her
husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among
the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess
till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she
passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the
use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for
that one purpose you are so fond of- reply. You shall still have
the last word, but no power to speak first."
This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued
the chase upon the mountains. She loved him and followed his
footsteps. O how she longed to address him in the softest
accents, and win him to converse! but it was not in her power.
She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her
answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his
companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here."
Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come."
Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again,
"Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us join
one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her
heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to
throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming,
"Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me!" "Have
me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went
to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time
forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form
faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her
bones were changed into rocks and there was nothing left of her
but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one
who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last
word.
Narcissus's cruelty in this case was not the only instance.
He shunned all the rest of the nymphs, as he had done poor Echo.
One day a maiden who had in vain endeavoured to attract him
uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what it
was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging
goddess heard and granted the prayer.
There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which
the shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats
resorted, nor any of the beasts of the forests; neither was it
defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh
around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came
one day the youth, fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He
stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he
thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living in the
fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes,
those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the
rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of
health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He
brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to
embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned
again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not
tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest. while he
hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own
image. He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful
being, do you shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you.
The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon
me. When I stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile
upon me and answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell
into the water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he
exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you,
if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same
kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by
degrees be lost his colour, his vigour, and the beauty which
formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him,
however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! alas! she answered him
with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade
passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a
look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him,
especially the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts
Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile and would
have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its
place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves,
which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.
Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the
Lady's song in "Comus." She is seeking her brothers in the
forest, and sings to attract their attention:
"Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies."
Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account
which he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected
in the fountain.
"That day I oft remember when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as the expanse of heaven; I tither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me. I started back;
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;" etc.
Paradise Lost, Book IV.
No one of the fables of antiquity has been oftener alluded to
by the poets than that of Narcissus. Here are two epigrams which
treat it in different ways. The first is by Goldsmith:
"ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
"Sure 'twas by Providence designed
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be like Cupid blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate."
The other is by Cowper:
"ON AN UGLY FELLOW.
"Beware, my friend, of crystal brook
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook,
Thy nose, thou chance to see;
Narcissus' fate would then be thine,
And self-detested thou would'st pine,
As self-enamoured he."
CLYTIE.
Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her
no return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold
ground, with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders.
Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own
tears, and the chilly dew her only food. She gazed on the sun
when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his
setting; she saw no other object, her face turned constantly on
him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face
became a flower,* which turns on its stem so as always to face
the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to that
extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.
* The sunflower.
Hood, in his "Flowers," thus alludes to Clytie:
"I will not have the mad Clytie:
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom therefore I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one."
The sunflower is a favourite emblem of constancy. Thus Moore
uses it:
"The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look that she turned when he rose."
HERO AND LEANDER.
Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the
strait which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore,
in the town of Sestos, lived the maiden Hero, a priestess of
Venus. Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait nightly to
enjoy the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which she
reared upon the tower for the purpose. But one night a tempest
arose and the sea was rough; his strength failed, and he was
drowned. The waves bore his body to the European shore, where
Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself
down from the tower into the sea and perished.
The following sonnet is by Keats:
"ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER.
"Come hither all sweet Maidens soberly
Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!"
The story of Leander's swimming the Hellespont was looked
upon as fabulous, and the feat considered impossible, till Lord
Byron proved its possibility by performing it himself. In the
"Bride of Abydos" he says,
"These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne."
The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and
there is a constant current setting out from the Sea of Marmora
into the Archipelago. Since Byron's time the feat has been
achieved by others; but it yet remains a test of strength and
skill in the art of swimming sufficient. to give a wide and
lasting celebrity to any one of our readers who may dare to make
the attempt and succeed in accomplishing it.
In the beginning, of the second canto of the same poem, Byron
thus alludes to this story:
"The winds are high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormiest water,
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
O, when alone along the sky
The turret-torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;
And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds forbade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear
Or sound or sight foreboding fear.
His eye but saw that light of love,
The only star it hailed above;
His ear but rang with Hero's song,
'Ye waves, divide not lovers long.'
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true."
|
CHAPTER XIV.
MINERVA- NIOBE.
MINERVA.
MINERVA, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She
was said to have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and in
complete armour. She presided over the useful and ornamental
arts, both those of men- such as agriculture and navigation- and
those of women,- spinning, weaving, and needlework. She was also
a warlike divinity; but it was defensive war only that she
patronized, and she had no sympathy with Mars's savage love of
violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own
city, awarded to her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who
also aspired to it, The tale ran that in the reign of Cecrops,
the first king of Athens, the two deities contended for the
possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be
awarded to that one who produced the gift most useful to
mortals. Neptune gave the horse; Minerva produced the olive. The
gods gave judgment that the olive was the more useful of the
two, and awarded the city to the goddess; and it was named after
her, Athens, her name in Greek being Athene.
There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in
competition with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who
had attained such skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery
that the nymphs themselves would leave their groves and
fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only
beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing. To
watch her, as she took the wool in its rude state and formed it
into rolls, or separated it with her fingers and carded it till
it looked as light and soft as a cloud, or twirled the spindle
with skilful touch, or wove the web, or, after it was woven,
adorned it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva
herself had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear
to be thought a pupil even of a goddess. "Let Minerva try her
skill with mine," said she; "if beaten I will pay the penalty."
Minerva heard this and was displeased. She assumed the form of
an old woman and went and gave Arachne some friendly advice. "I
have had much experience," said she, "and I hope you will not
despise my counsel. Challenge your fellow-mortals as you will,
but do not compete with a goddess. On the contrary, I advise you
to ask her forgiveness for what you have said, and as she is
merciful perhaps she will pardon you." Arachne stopped her
spinning and looked at the old dame with anger in her
countenance. "Keep your counsel," said she, "for your daughters
or handmaids; for my part I know what I say, and I stand to it.
I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if she
dare venture." "She comes," said Minerva; and dropping her
disguise stood confessed. The nymphs bent low in homage, and all
the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified.
She blushed, indeed; a sudden colour dyed her cheek, and then
she grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish
conceit of her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbore no
longer nor interposed any further advice. They proceed to the
contest. Each takes her station and attaches the web to the
beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out among the
threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes the woof into its
place and compacts the web. Both work with speed; their skilful
hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the
labour light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of
other colours, shaded off into one another so adroitly that the
joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges
the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower,* in
which, where the colours meet they seem as one, but a little
distance from the point of contact are wholly different.
* This correct description of the rainbow is literally
translated from Ovid.
Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with
Neptune. Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter,
with august gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of
the sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the
earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted
herself with helmed head, her AEgis covering her breast. Such
was the central circle; and in the four corners were represented
incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such
presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These
were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest
before it was too late.
Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to
exhibit the failings and errors of the gods. One scene
represented Leda caressing the swan, under which form Jupiter
had disguised himself; and another, Danae, in the brazen tower
in which her father had imprisoned her, but where the god
effected his entrance in the form of a golden shower. Still
another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise
of a bull. Encouraged by the tameness of the animal Europa
ventured to mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the
sea and swam with her to Crete, You would have thought it was a
real bull, so naturally was it wrought, and so natural the water
in which it swam. She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon
the shore she was leaving, and to call to her companions for
help. She appeared to shudder with terror at the sight of the
heaving waves, and to draw back her feel, from the water.
Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully
well done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety.
Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant at the
insult. She struck the web with her shuttle and rent it in
pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne and made her
feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it and went and
hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended by a
rope. "Live," she said, "guilty woman! and that you may preserve
the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, both you and your
descendants, to all future times." She sprinkled her with the
juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her
nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew
smaller yet; her fingers cleaved to her side and served for
legs. All the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her
thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as
when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider.
Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his "Muiopotmos,"
adhering very closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him
in the conclusion of the story. The two stanzas which follow
tell what was done after the goddess had depicted her creation
of the olive tree:
"Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
With excellent device and wondrous slight,
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colours, and his glistening eyes."*
"Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And mastered with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare,
And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
The victory did yield her as her share:
Yet did she inly fret and felly burn,
And all her blood to poisonous rancour turn."
* Sir James Mackintosh says of this, "Do you think that even
a Chinese could paint the gay colours of a butterfly with more
minute exactness than the following lines: 'The velvet nap,'
etc.?"- Life, Vol. II. 246.
And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own
mortification and vexation, and not by any direct act of the
goddess.
The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by
Garrick:
"UPON A LADY'S EMBROIDERY
"Arachne once, as poets tell,
A goddess at her art defied,
And soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.
"O, then beware Arachne's fate;
Be prudent, Chloe, and submit,
For you'll most surely meet her hate,
Who rival both her art and wit."
Tennyson, in his "Palace of Art," describing the works of art
with which the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa:
"...sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped
From off her shoulder, backward borne,
From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
The mild bull's golden horn."
In his "Princess" there is this allusion to Danae:
"Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me."
NIOBE.
The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country,
and served as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to
compare themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a
matron too, failed to learn the lesson of humility. It was
Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud of;
but it was not her husband's fame, nor her own beauty, nor their
great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her.
It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would
Niobe have been if only she had not claimed to be so. It was on
occasion of the annual celebration in honour of Latona and her
offspring, Apollo and Diana,- when the people of Thebes were
assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense
to the altars and paying their vows,- that Niobe appeared among
the crowd. Her attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her
aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood
and surveyed the people with haughty looks. "What folly," said
she, "is this!- to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who
stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honoured with
worship, and none be paid to me? My father was Tantalus, who was
received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a
goddess. My husband built and rules this city, Thebes, and
Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I
survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence
unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add I have seven sons
and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and
daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I
not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the
Titan's daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as
many. Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will
any one deny this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself
too strong for Fortune to subdue. She may take from me much; I
shall still have much left. Were I to lose some of my children,
I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only.
Away with you from these solemnities,- put off the laurel from
your brows,- have done with this worship!" The people obeyed,
and left the sacred services uncompleted.
The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top where
she dwelt she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children,
I who have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold
myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin
now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived
of my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was
proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no
more," said he; "speech only delays punishment." So said Diana
also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted
on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a
broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their warlike
sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest,- some
mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay
chariots, Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming
steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, "Ah me!"
dropped the reins, and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound
of the bow,- like the boatman who sees the storm gathering and
makes all sail for the port,- gave the reins to his horses and
attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him, as he
fled. Two others, younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone
to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As they stood
breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a
cry together, together cast a parting look around them, and
together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing
them fall, hastened to the spot to render assistance, and fell
stricken in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left,
Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer
might not avail. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all,
in his ignorance that all needed not his intercessions; and
Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the
string, and it was too late.
The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon
made Niobe acquainted with what had taken place. She could
hardly think it possible; she was indignant that the gods had
dared, and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband,
Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas! how
different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away
the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course
through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of
her foes! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed now
one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to
heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "feed full your rage with my
anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my
seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am
still richer than you, my conqueror." Scarce had she spoken,
when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except
Niobe's alone. She was brave from excess of grief, The sisters
stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead
brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse
she was bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother,
suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A
third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment,
another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were
now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in
her arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. "Spare me
one, and that the youngest! O spare me one of so many!" she
cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she
sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid
with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no colour was on her
cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of
life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her
mouth, and her veins ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck
bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was
changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to
flow; and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still
remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows,
the tribute of her never-ending grief.
The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine
illustration of the fallen condition of modern Rome:
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now:
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."
Childe Harold, IV. 79.
As an illustration of this story there is a celebrated statue
in the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure
of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the
pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother clasped by the
arm of her terrified child is one of the most admired of the
ancient statues. It ranks with the Laocoon and the Apollo among
the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a
Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue:
"To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
The sculptor's art has made her breathe again."
Tragic as is the Story of Niobe, we cannot forbear to smile
at the use Moore has made of it in "Rhymes on the Road":
"'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don't do him wrong,
'Twixt death and epics passed his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long;
Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes."
Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at same time a
very prolific and very tasteless poet, whose works are now
forgotten, unless when recalled to mind by some wit like Moore
for the sake of a joke.
|
CHAPTER XV.
THE GRAEAE AND GORGONS- PERSEUS- MEDUSA- ATLAS-
ANDROMEDA.
THE GRAEAE AND GORGONS.
THE Graeae were three sisters who were gray-haired from their
birth, whence their name. The Gorgons were monstrous females
with huge teeth like those of swine, brazen claws, and snaky
hair. None of these beings make much figure in mythology except
Medusa, the Gorgon, whose story we shall next advert to. We
mention them chiefly to introduce an ingenious theory of some
modern writers, namely, that the Gorgons and Graeae were only
personifications of the terrors of the sea, the former denoting
the strong billows of the wide open main, and the latter the
white-crested waves that dash against the rocks of the coast.
Their names in Greek signify the above epithets.
PERSEUS AND MEDUSA.
Perseus was the son of Jupiter and Danae. His grandfather
Acrisius, alarmed by an oracle which had told him that his
daughter's child would be the instrument of his death, caused
the mother and child to be shut up in a chest and set adrift on
the sea. The chest floated towards Seriphus, where it was found
by a fisherman who conveyed the mother and infant to Polydectes,
the king of the country, by whom they were treated with
kindness. When Perseus was grown up Polydectes sent him to
attempt the conquest of Medusa, a terrible monster who had laid
waste the country. She was once a beautiful maiden whose hair
was her chief glory but as she dared to vie in beauty with
Minerva, the goddess deprived her of her charms and changed her
beautiful ringlets into hissing serpents. She became a cruel
monster of so frightful an aspect that no living thing could
behold her without being turned into stone. All around the
cavern where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men
and animals which had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had
been petrified with the sight. Perseus, favoured by Minerva and
Mercury, the former of whom lent him her shield and the latter
his winged shoes, approached Medusa while she slept and taking
care not to look directly at her, but guided by her image
reflected in the bright shield which he bore, he cut off her
head and gave it to Minerva, who fixed it in the middle of her
AEgis.
Milton, in his "Comus," thus alludes to the AEgis:
"What thus snaky-headed Gorgon-shield
That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin,
Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone,
But rigid looks of chaste austerity,
And noble grace that dashed brute violence
With sudden adoration and blank awe!"
Armstrong, the poet of the "Art of Preserving Health," thus
describes the effect of frost upon the waters:
"Now blows the surly North and chills throughout
The stiffening regions, while by stronger charms
Than Circe e'er or fell Medea brewed,
Each brook that wont to prattle to its banks
Lies all bestilled and wedged betwixt its banks,
Nor moves the withered reeds...
The surges baited by the fierce North-east,
Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads,
E'en in the foam of all their madness struck
To monumental ice.
. . . . . . . .
Such execution,
So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect
Of terrible Medusa,
When wandering through the woods she turned to stone
Their savage tenants; just as the foaming Lion
Sprang furious on his prey, her speedier power
Outran his haste,
And fixed in that fierce attitude he stands
Like Rage in marble!"- Imitations of Shakespeare.
PERSEUS AND ATLAS.
After the slaughter of Medusa, Perseus, bearing with him the
head of the Gorgon, flew far and wide, over land and sea. As
night came on, he reached the western limit of the earth, where
the sun goes down. Here he would gladly have rested till
morning. It was the realm of King Atlas, whose bulk surpassed
that of all other men. He was rich iii flocks and herds and had
no neighbour or rival to dispute his state. But his chief pride
was in his gardens whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden
branches, half hid with golden leaves. Perseus said to him, "I
come as a guest. If you honour illustrious descent, I claim
Jupiter for my father; if mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of
the Gorgon. I seek rest and food." But Atlas remembered that an
ancient prophecy had warned him that a son of Jove should one
day rob him of His golden apples. So he answered, "Begone! or
neither your false claims of glory nor parentage shall protect
you;" and he attempted to thrust him out. Perseus, finding the
giant too strong for him, said, "Since you value my friendship
so little, deign to accept a present;" and turning his face
away, he held up the Gorgon's head. Atlas, with all his bulk,
was changed into stone. His beard and hair became forests, his
arms and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones
rocks. Each part increased in bulk till be became a mountain,
and (such was the pleasure of the gods) heaven with all its
stars rests upon his shoulders.
THE SEA-MONSTER.
Perseus, continuing his flight, arrived at the country of the
AEthiopians, of which Cepheus was king. Cassiopeia his queen,
proud of her beauty, had dared to compare herself to the
Sea-nymphs, which roused their indignation to such a degree that
they sent a prodigious sea-monster to ravage the coast. To
appease the deities, Cepheus was directed by the oracle to
expose his daughter Andromeda to be devoured by the monster. As
Perseus looked down from his aerial height he beheld the virgin
chained to a rock, and waiting the approach of the serpent. She
was so pale and motionless that if it had not been for her
flowing tears and her hair that moved in the breeze, he would
have taken her for a marble statue. He was so startled at the
sight that he almost forgot to wave his wings. As he hovered
over her he said, "O virgin, undeserving of those chains, but
rather of such as bind fond lovers together, tell me, I beseech
you, your name, and the name of your country, and why you are
thus bound." At first she was silent from modesty, and, if she
could, would have hid her face with her hands; but when he
repeated his questions, for fear she might be thought guilty of
some fault which she dared not tell, she disclosed her name And
that of her country, and her mother's pride of beauty. Before
she had done speaking, a sound was heard off upon the water, and
the sea-monster appeared, with his head raised above the
surface, cleaving the waves with his broad breast. The virgin
shrieked, the father and mother who had now arrived at the
scene, wretched both, but the mother more justly so, stood by,
not able to afford protection, but only to pour forth
lamentations and to embrace the victim. Then spoke Perseus;
"There will be time enough for tears; this hour is all we have
for rescue. My rank as the son of Jove and my renown as the
slayer of the Gorgon might make me acceptable as a suitor; but I
will try to win her by services rendered, if the gods will only
be propitious. If she be rescued by my valour, I demand that she
be my reward." The parents consent (how could they hesitate?)
and promise a royal dowry with her.
And now the monster was within the range of a stone thrown by
a skilful slinger, when with a sudden bound the youth soared
into the air. As an eagle, when from his lofty flight he sees a
serpent basking in the sun, pounces upon him and seizes him by
the neck to prevent him from turning his head round and using
his fangs, so the youth darted down upon the back of the monster
and plunged his sword into its shoulder. Irritated by the wound,
the monster raised himself into the air, then plunged into the
depth; then, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of barking
dogs, turned swiftly from side to side, while the youth eluded
its attacks by means of his wings. Wherever he can find a
passage for his sword between the scales he makes a wound,
piercing now the side, now the flank, as it slopes towards the
tail. The brute spouts from his nostrils water mixed with blood.
The wings of the hero are wet with it, and he dares no longer
trust to them. Alighting on a rock which rose above the waves,
and holding on by a projecting fragment, as the monster floated
near he gave him a death stroke. The people who had gathered on
the shore shouted so that the hills reechoed with the sound. The
parents, transported with joy, embraced their future son-in-law,
calling him their deliverer and the saviour of their house, and
the virgin, both cause and reward of the contest, descended from
the rock.
Cassiopeia was an AEthiopian, and consequently, in spite of
her boasted beauty, black; at least so Milton seems to have
thought, who alludes to this story in his "Penseroso," where he
addresses Melancholy as the
"...goddess, sage and holy,
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And, therefore, to our weaker view,
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem.
Or that starred AEthiop queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended."
Cassiopeia is called "the starred AEthiop, queen" because
after her death she was placed among the stars, forming the
constellation of that name. Though she attained this honour, yet
the Sea-Nymphs, her old enemies, prevailed so far as to cause
her to be placed in that part of the heaven near the pole, where
every night she is half the time held with her head downward, to
give her a lesson of humility.
Memnon was an AEthiopian prince, of whom we shall tell in a
future chapter.
THE WEDDING FEAST.
The joyful parents, with Perseus and Andromeda, repaired to
the palace, where a banquet was spread for them, and all was joy
and festivity. But suddenly a noise was heard of warlike clamour,
and Phineus, the betrothed of the virgin, with a party of his
adherents, burst in, demanding the maiden as his own. It was in
vain that Cepheus remonstrated- "You should have claimed her
when she lay bound to the rock, the monster's victim. The
sentence of the gods dooming her to such a fate dissolved all
engagements, as death itself would have done." Phineus made no
reply, but hurled his javelin at Perseus, but it missed its mark
and fell harmless. Perseus would have thrown his in turn, but
the cowardly assailant ran and took shelter behind the altar.
But his act was a signal for an onset by his hand upon the
guests of Cepheus. They defended themselves and a general
conflict ensued, the old king retreating from the scene after
fruitless expostulations, calling the gods to witness that he
was guiltless of this outrage on the rights of hospitality.
Perseus and his friends maintained for some time the unequal
contest; but the numbers of the assailants were too great for
them, and destruction seemed inevitable, when a sudden thought
struck Perseus,- "I will make my enemy defend me." Then with a
loud voice he exclaimed, "If I have any friend here let him turn
away his eyes!" and held aloft the Gorgon's head. "Seek not to
frighten us with your jugglery," said Thescelus, and raised his
javelin in the act to throw, and became stone in the very
attitude. Ampyx was about to plunge his sword into the body of a
prostrate foe, but his arm stiffened and he could neither thrust
forward nor withdraw it. Another, in the midst of a vociferous
challenge, stopped, his mouth open, but no sound issuing. One of
Perseus's friends, Aconteus, caught sight of the Gorgon and
stiffened like the rest. Astyages struck him with his sword, but
instead of wounding, it recoiled with a ringing noise.
Phineus beheld this dreadful result of his unjust aggression,
and felt confounded. He called aloud to his friends, but got no
answer; he touched them and found them stone. Falling on his
knees and stretching out his hands to Perseus, but turning his
head away, he begged for mercy. "Take all," said he, "give me
but my life." "Base coward," said Perseus, "thus much I will
grant you; no weapon shall touch you; moreover, you shall be
preserved in my house as a memorial of these events." So saying,
he held the Gorgon's head to the side where Phineus was looking,
and in the very form which he knelt, with his hands outstretched
and face averted, he became fixed immovably, a mass of stone!
The following allusion to Perseus is from Milman's "Samor":
"As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood
Perseus in stern tranquillity of wrath,
Half stood, half floated on his ankle-plumes
Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield
Looked into stone the raging fray; so rose,
But with no magic arms, wearing alone
Th' appalling and control of his firm look,
The Briton Samor; at his rising awe
Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute."
|
CHAPTER XVI.
MONSTERS.
GIANTS, SPHINX, PEGASUS, AND CHIMAERA, CENTAURS, GRIFFIN,
AND PYGMIES.
MONSTERS, in the language of mythology, were beings of unnatural
proportions or parts, usually regarded with terror, as
possessing immense strength and ferocity, which they employed
for the injury and annoyance of men. Some of them were supposed
to combine the members of different animals; such were the
Sphinx and Chimaera and to these all the terrible qualities of
wild beasts were attributed, together with human sagacity and
faculties. Others, as the giants, differed from men chiefly in
their size; and in this particular we must recognize a wide
distinction among them. The human giants, if so they may be
called, such as the Cyclops, Antaeus, Orion, and others, must be
supposed not to be altogether disproportioned to human beings,
for they mingled in love and strife with them. But the
super-human giants, who warred with the gods, were of vastly
larger dimensions. Tityus, we are told, when stretched on the
plain, covered nine acres, and Enceladus required the whole of
Mount AEtna to be laid upon him to keep him down.
We have already spoken of the war which the giants waged
against the gods, and of its result. While this war lasted the
giants proved a formidable enemy. Some of them, like Briareus,
had a hundred arms; others, like Typhon, breathed out fire. At
one time they put the gods to such fear that they fled into
Egypt and hid themselves under various forms. Jupiter took the
form of a ram, whence he was afterwards worshipped in Egypt as
the god Ammon, with curved horns. Apollo became a crow, Bacchus
a goat, Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish, Mercury a bird.
At another time the giants attempted to climb up into heaven,
and for that purpose took up the mountain Ossa and piled it on
Pelion.* They were at last subdued by thunderbolts, which
Minerva invented, and taught Vulcan and his Cyclops to make for
Jupiter.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 5.
THE SPHINX.
Laius, king of Thebes, was warned by an oracle that there was
danger to his throne and life if his new-born son should be
suffered to grow up. He therefore committed the child to the
care of a herdsman with orders to destroy him; but the herdsman,
moved with pity, yet not daring entirely to disobey, tied up the
child by the feet and left him hanging to the branch of a tree.
In this condition the infant was found by a peasant, who carried
him to his master and mistress, by whom he was adopted and
called OEdipus, or Swollen-foot.
Many years afterwards Laius being on his way to Delphi,
accompanied only by one attendant, met in a narrow road a young
man also driving in a chariot. On his refusal to leave the way
at their command the attendant killed one of his horses, and the
stranger, filled with rage, slew both Laius and his attendant.
The young man was OEdipus who thus unknowingly became the slayer
of his own father.
Shortly after this event the city of Thebes was afflicted
with a monster which infested the highroad. It was called the
Sphinx. It had the body of a lion and the upper part of a woman.
It lay crouched on the top of a rock, and arrested all
travellers who came that way, proposing to them a riddle, with
the condition that those who could solve it should pass safe,
but those who failed should be killed. Not one had yet succeeded
in solving it, and all had been slain. OEdipus was not daunted
by these alarming accounts, but boldly advanced to the trial.
The Sphinx asked him, "What animal is that which in the morning
goes on feet, at noon on two, and in the evening upon three?"
Oedipus replied, "Man, who in childhood creeps on hands and
knees, in manhood walks erect, and in old age with the aid of a
staff." The Sphinx was so mortified at the solving of her riddle
that she cast herself down from the rock and perished.
The gratitude of the people for their deliverance was so
great that they made OEdipus their king, giving him in marriage
their queen Jocasta. OEdipus, ignorant of his parentage, had
already become the slayer of his father; in marrying the queen
he became the husband of his mother. These horrors remained
undiscovered, till at length Thebes was afflicted with famine
and pestilence, and the oracle being consulted, the double crime
of Oedipus came to light. Jocasta put an end to her own life,
and Oedipus, seized with madness, tore out his eyes and wandered
away from Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all except his
daughters, who faithfully adhered to him, till after a tedious
period of miserable wandering he found the termination of his
wretched life.
PEGASUS AND THE CHIMAERA.
When Perseus cut off Medusa's head, the blood sinking into
the earth produced the winged horse Pegasus. Minerva caught and
tamed him and presented him to the Muses. The fountain
Hippocrene, on the Muse's mountain Helicon, was opened by a kick
from his hoof.
The Chimaera was a fearful monster, breathing fire. The fore
part of its body was a compound of the lion and the goat, and
the hind part a dragon's. It made great havoc in Lycia, so that
the king, Iobates, sought for some hero to destroy it. At that
time there arrived at his court a gallant young warrior, whose
name was Bellerophon. He brought letters from Proetus, the
son-in-law of Iobates, recommending Bellerophon in the warmest
terms as an unconquerable hero, but added at the close a request
to his father-in-law to put him to death. The reason was that
Proetus was jealous of him, suspecting that his wife Antea
looked with too much admiration on the young warrior. From this
instance of Bellerophon being unconsciously the bearer of his
own death warrant, the expression "Bellerophontic letters"
arose, to describe any species of communication which a person
is made the bearer of, containing matter prejudicial to himself.
Iobates, on perusing the letters, was puzzled what to do, not
willing to violate the claims of hospitality, yet wishing to
oblige his son-in-law. A lucky thought occurred to him, to send
Bellerophon to combat with the Chimaera. Bellerophon accepted
the proposal, but before proceeding to the combat consulted the
soothsayer Polyidus, who advised him to procure if possible the
horse Pegasus for the conflict. For this purpose he directed him
to pass the night in the temple of Minerva. He did so, and as he
slept Minerva came to him and gave him a golden bridle. When he
awoke the bridle remained in his hand. Minerva also showed him
Pegasus drinking at the well of Pirene, and at sight of the
bridle the winged steed came willingly and suffered himself to
be taken. Bellerophon mounted him, rose with him into the air,
soon found the Chimaera, and gained an easy victory over the
monster.
After the conquest of the Chimaera Bellerophon was exposed to
further trials and labours by his unfriendly host, but by the
aid of Pegasus he triumphed in them all, till at length Iobates,
seeing that the hero was a special favourite of the gods, gave
him his daughter in marriage and made him his successor on the
throne. At last Bellerophon by his pride and presumption drew
upon himself the anger of the gods; it is said he even attempted
to fly up into heaven on his winged steed, but Jupiter sent a
gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw his rider, who
became lame and blind in consequence. After this Bellerophon
wandered lonely through the Aleian field, avoiding the paths of
men, and died miserably.
Milton alludes to Bellerophon in the beginning of the seventh
book of "Paradise Lost":
"Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing.
Upled by thee,
Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air
(Thy tempering); with like safety guided down
Return me to my native element;
Lest, from this flying steed unreined (as once
Bellerophon, though from a lower clime),
Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall,
Erroneous there to wander and forlorn."
Young, in his "Night Thoughts," speaking of the sceptic,
says:
"He whose blind thought futurity denies,
Unconscious bears, Bellerophon, like thee
His own indictment; he condemns himself.
Who reads his bosom reads immortal life,
Or nature there, imposing on her sons,
Has written fables; man was made a lie."
Vol. II., p. 12.
Pegasus, being the horse of the Muses, has always been at the
service of the poets. Schiller tells a pretty story of his
having been sold by a needy poet and put to the cart and the
plough. He was not fit for such service, and his clownish master
could make nothing of him. But a youth stepped forth and asked
leave to try him. As soon as he was seated on his back the
horse, which had appeared at first vicious, and afterwards
spirit-broken, rose kingly, a spirit, a god, unfolded the
splendour of his wings, and soared towards heaven. Our own poet
Longfellow also records adventure of this famous steed in his
"Pegasus in Pound."
Shakespeare alludes to Pegasus in "Henry IV.," where Vernon
describes Prince Henry:
"I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuishes on this thighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship."
THE CENTAURS.
These monsters were represented as men from the head to the
loins, while the remainder of the body was that of a horse. The
ancients were too fond of a horse to consider the union of his
nature with man's as forming a very degraded compound, and
accordingly the Centaur is the only one of the fancied monsters
of antiquity to which any good traits are assigned. The Centaurs
were admitted to the companionship of man, and at the marriage
of Pirithous with Hippodamia they were among the guests. At the
feast Eurytion, one of the Centaurs, becoming intoxicated with
the wine, attempted to offer violence to the bride; the other
Centaurs followed his example, and a dreadful conflict arose in
which several of them were slain. This is the celebrated battle
of the Lapithae and Centaurs, a favourite subject with the
sculptors and poets of antiquity.
But not all the Centaurs were like the rude guests of
Pirithous. Chiron was instructed by Apollo and Diana, and was
renowned for his skill in hunting, medicine, music, and the art
of prophecy. The most distinguished heroes of Grecian story were
his pupils. Among the rest the infant AEsculapius was intrusted
to his charge by Apollo, his father. When the sage returned to
his home bearing the infant, his daughter Ocyrhoe came forth to
meet him, and at sight of the child burst forth into a prophetic
strain (for she was a prophetess), foretelling the glory that he
was to achieve. AEsculapius when grown up became a renowned
physician, and even in one instance succeeded in restoring the
dead to life. Pluto resented this, and Jupiter, at his request,
struck the bold physician with lightning, and killed him, but
after his death received him into the number of the gods.
Chiron was the wisest and justest of all the Centaurs, and at
his death Jupiter placed him among the stars as the
constellation Sagittarius.
THE PYGMIES
The Pygmies were a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek
word which means the cubit or measure of about thirteen inches,
which was said to be the height of these people. They lived near
the sources of the Nile, or according to others, in India. Homer
tells us that the cranes used to migrate every winter to the
Pygmies' country, and their appearance was the signal of bloody
warfare to the puny inhabitants, who had to take up arms to
defend their cornfields against the rapacious strangers. The
Pygmies and their enemies the Cranes form the subject of several
works of art.
Later writers tell of an army of Pygmies which finding
Hercules asleep, made preparations to attack him, as if they
were about to attack a city. But the hero, awaking, laughed at
the little warriors, wrapped some of them up in his lion's skin,
and carried them to Eurystheus.
Milton uses the Pygmies for a simile, "Paradise Lost," Book
I.:
"...like that Pygmaean race
Beyond the Indian mount, of fairy elves
Whose midnight revels by a forest side,
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees
(Or dreams he sees), while overhead the moon
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
Wheels her pale course; they on their mirth and dance
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear.
At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds."
THE GRIFFIN, OR GRYPHON.
The Griffin is a monster with the body of a lion, the head and
wings of an eagle, and back covered with feathers. Like birds it
builds its nest, and instead of an egg lays an agate therein. It
has long claws and talons of such a size that the people of that
country make them into drinking-cups. India was assigned as the
native country of the Griffins. They found gold in the mountains
and built their nests of it, for which reason their nests were
very tempting to the hunters, and they were forced to keep
vigilant guard over them. Their instinct led them to know where
buried treasures lay, and they did their best to keep plunderers
at a distance. The Arimaspians, among whom the Griffins
flourished, were a one-eyed people of Scythia.
Milton borrows a simile from the Griffins, "Paradise Lose,"
Book II.:
"As when a Gryphon through the wilderness
With winged course, o'er hill and moory dale,
Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth
Had from his wakeful custody purloined
The guarded gold," etc.
|
CHAPTER XVII.
THE GOLDEN FLEECE- MEDEA
THE GOLDEN FLEECE
IN very ancient times there lived in Thessaly a king and queen
name Athamas and Nephele. They had two children, a boy and a
girl. After a time Athamas grew indifferent to his wife, put her
away, and took another. Nephele suspected danger to her children
from the influence of the step-mother, and took measures to send
them out of her reach. Mercury assisted her, and gave her a ram
with a golden fleece, on which she set the two children,
trusting that the ram would convey them to a place of safety.
The ram vaulted into the air with the children on his back,
taking his course to the East, till when crossing the strait
that divides Europe and Asia, the girl, whose name was Helle,
fell from his back into the sea, which from her was called the
Hellespont,- now the Dardanelles. The ram continued his career
till he reached the kingdom of Colchis, on the eastern shore of
the Black Sea, where he safely landed the boy Phryxus, who was
hospitably received by AEetes, king of the country. Phryxus
sacrificed the ram to Jupiter, and gave the Golden Fleece to
AEetes, who placed it in a consecrated rove, under the care of a
sleepless dragon.
There was another kingdom in Thessaly near to that of
Athamas, and ruled over by a relative of his. The king AEson,
being tired of the cares of government, surrendered his crown to
his brother Pelias on condition that he should hold it only
during the minority of Jason, the son of AEson. When Jason was
grown up and came to demand the crown from his uncle, Pelias
pretended to be willing to yield it, but at the same time
suggested to the young man the glorious adventure of going in
quest of the Golden Fleece, which it was well known was in the
kingdom of Colchis, and was, as Pelias pretended, the rightful
property of their family. Jason was pleased, with the thought
and forthwith made preparations for the expedition. At that time
the only species of navigation known to the Greeks consisted of
small boats or canoes hollowed out from trunks of trees, so that
when Jason employed Argus to build him a vessel capable of
containing fifty men, it was considered a gigantic undertaking.
It was accomplished, however, and the vessel named "Argo," from
the name of the builder. Jason sent his invitation to all the
adventurous young men of Greece, and soon found himself at the
head of a band of bold youths, many of whom afterwards were
renowned among the heroes and demigods of Greece. Hercules,
Theseus, Orpheus, and Nestor were among them. They are called
the Argonauts, from the name of their vessel.
The "Argo" with her crew of heroes of Thessaly and having
touched at the Island of Lemnos, thence crossed to Mysia and
thence to Thrace. Here they found the sage Phineus, and from him
received instruction as to their future course. It seems the
entrance of the Euxine Sea was impeded by two small rocky
islands, which floated on the surface, and in their tossings and
heavings occasionally came together, crushing and grinding to
atoms any object that might be caught between them. They were
called the Symplegades, or Clashing Islands. Phineus instructed
the Argonauts how to pass this dangerous strait. When they
reached the islands they let go a dove, which took her way
between the rocks, and passed in safety, only losing some
feathers of her tail. Jason and his men seized the favourable
moment of the rebound, plied their oars with vigour, and passed
safe through, though the islands closed behind them, and
actually grazed their stern. They now rowed along the shore till
they arrived at the eastern end of the sea, and landed at the
kingdom of Colchis.
Jason made known his message to the Colchian king, AEetes,
who consented to give tip the golden fleece if Jason would yoke
to the plough two fire-breathing bulls with brazen feet, and sow
the teeth of the dragon which Cadmus had slain, and from which
it was well known that a crop of armed men would spring up, who
would turn their weapons against their producer. Jason accepted
the conditions, and a time was set for making the experiment.
Previously, however, he found means to plead his cause to Medea,
daughter of the king. He promised her marriage, and as they
stood before the altar of Hecate, called the goddess to witness
his oath. Medea yielded, and by her aid, for she was a potent
sorceress, he was furnished with a charm, by which he could
encounter safely the breath of the fire-breathing bulls and the
weapons of the armed men.
At the time appointed, the people assembled at the grove of
Mars, and the king assumed his royal seat, while the multitude
covered the hill-sides. The brazen-footed bulls rushed in,
breathing fire from their nostrils that burned up the herbage as
they passed. The sound was like the roar of a furnace, and the
smoke like that of water upon quick-lime. Jason advanced boldly
to meet them. His friends, the chosen heroes of Greece, trembled
to behold him. Regardless of the burning breath, he soothed
their rage with his voice, patted their necks with fearless
hand, and adroitly slipped over them the yoke, and compelled
them to drag the plough. The Colchians were amazed; the Greeks
shouted for joy. Jason next proceeded to sow the dragon's teeth
and plough them in. And soon the crop of armed men sprang up,
and, wonderful to relate! no sooner had they reached the surface
than they began to brandish their weapons and rush upon Jason.
The Greeks trembled for their hero, and even she who had
provided him a way of safety and taught him how to use it, Medea
herself, grew pale with fear. Jason for a time kept his
assailants at bay with his sword and shield, till, finding their
numbers overwhelming, he resorted to the charm which Medea had
taught him, seized a stone and threw it in the midst of his
foes. They immediately turned their arms against one another,
and soon there was not one of the dragon's brood left alive. The
Greeks embraced their hero, and Medea, if she dared, would have
embraced him too.
It remained to lull to sleep the dragon that guarded the
fleece, and this was done by scattering over him a few drops of
a preparation which Medea had supplied. At the smell he relaxed
his rage, stood for a moment motionless, then shut those great
round eyes, that had never been known to shut before, and turned
over on his side, fast asleep. Jason seized the fleece and with
his friends and Medea accompanying, hastened to their vessel
before AEetes the king could arrest their departure, and made
the best of their way back to Thessaly, where they arrived safe,
and Jason delivered the fleece to Pelias, and dedicated the
"Argo" to Neptune. What became of the fleece afterwards we do
not know, but perhaps it was found after all, like many other
golden prizes, not worth the trouble it had cost to procure it.
This is one of those mythological tales, says a late writer,
in which there is reason to believe that a substratum of truth
exists, though overlaid by a mass of fiction. It probably was
the first important maritime expedition, and like the first
attempts of the kind of all nations, as we know from history,
was probably of a half-piratical character. If rich spoils were
the result it was enough to give rise to the idea of the golden
fleece.
Another suggestion of a learned mythologist, Bryant, is that
it is a corrupt tradition of the story of Noah and the ark. The
name "Argo" seems to countenance this, and the incident of the
dove is another confirmation.
Pope, in his "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," thus celebrates the
launching of the ship "Argo," and the power of the music of
Orpheus, whom he calls the Thracian:
"So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demigods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound."
In Dyer's poem of "The Fleece" there is an account of the
ship "Argo" and her crew, which gives a good picture of this
primitive maritime adventure:
"From every region of AEgea's shore
The brave assembled; those illustrious twins
Castor and Pollux; Orpheus, tuneful bard;
Zetes and Calais, as the wind in speed;
Strong Hercules and many a chief renowned.
On deep Ioclos' sandy shore they thronged,
Gleaming in armour, ardent of exploits;
And soon, the laurel cord and the huge stone
Uplifting to the deck, unmoored the bark;
Whose keel of wondrous length the skilful hand
Of Argus fashioned for the proud attempt;
And in the extended keel a lofty mast
Upraised, and sails full swelling; to the chiefs
Unwonted objects. Now first, now they learned
Their bolder steerage over ocean wave,
Led by the golden stars, as Chiron's art
Had marked the sphere celestial," etc.
Hercules left the expedition at Mysia, for Hylas, a youth
beloved by him, having gone for water, was laid hold of and kept
by the nymphs of the spring, who were fascinated by his beauty.
Hercules went in quest of the lad, and while he was absent the
"Argo" put to sea and left him. Moore, in one of his songs,
makes a beautiful allusion to this incident:
"When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields of light and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers in the way.
"Thus many like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine."
MEDEA AND AESON
Amid the rejoicings for the recovery of the Golden Fleece, Jason
felt that one thing was wanting, the presence of AEson, his
father, who was prevented by his age and infirmities from taking
part in them. Jason said to Medea, "My spouse, would that your
arts, whose power I have seen so mighty for my aid, could do me
one further service, take some years from my life and add them
to my father's." Medea replied, "Not at such a cost shall it be
done, but if my art avails me, his life shall be lengthened
without abridging yours." The next full moon she issued forth
alone, while all creatures slept; not a breath stirred the
foliage, and all was still, To the stars she addressed her
incantations, and to the moon; to Hecate,* the goddess of the
under-world, and to Tellus the goddess of the earth, by whose
power plants potent for enchantment are produced. She invoked
the gods of the woods and caverns, of mountains and valleys, of
lakes and rivers, of winds and vapours. While she spoke the
stars shone brighter, and presently a chariot descended through
the air, drawn by flying serpents. She ascended it, and borne
aloft made her way to distant regions, where potent plants grew
which she knew how to select for her purpose. Nine nights she
employed in her search, and during that time came not within the
doors of her palace nor under any roof, and shunned all
intercourse with mortals.
* Hecate was a mysterious divinity sometimes identified with
Diana and sometimes with Proserpine. As Diana represents the
moonlight splendour of night, so Hecate represents its darkness
and terrors. She was the goddess of sorcery and witchcraft, and
was believed to wander by night along the earth, seen only by
the dogs, whose barking told her approach.
She next erected two altars, the one to Hecate, the other to
Hebe, the goddess of youth, and sacrificed a black sheep,
pouring libations of milk and wine. She implored Pluto and his
stolen bride that they would not hasten to take the old man's
life. Then she directed that AEson should be led forth, and
having thrown him into a deep sleep by a charm, had him laid on
a bed of herbs, like one dead. Jason and all others were kept
away from the place, that no profane eyes might look upon her
mysteries. Then, with streaming hair, she thrice moved round the
altars, dipped flaming twigs in the blood, and laid them thereon
to burn. Meanwhile the cauldron with its contents was got ready.
In it she put magic herbs, with seeds and flowers of acrid
juice, stones from the distant east, and sand from the shore of
all-surrounding ocean; hoar frost, gathered by moonlight, a
screech owl's head and wings, and the entrails of a wolf. She
added fragments of the shells of tortoises, and the liver of
stags- animals tenacious of life- and the head and beak of a
crow, that outlives nine generations of men. These with many
other things "without a name" she boiled together for her
purposed work, stirring them up with a dry olive branch; and
behold! the branch when taken out instantly became green, and
before long was covered with leaves and a plentiful growth of
young olives; and as the liquor boiled and bubbled, and
sometimes ran over, the grass wherever the sprinklings fell shot
forth with a verdure like that of spring.
Seeing that all was ready, Medea cut the throat of the old
man and let out all his blood, and poured into his mouth and
into his wound the juices of her cauldron. As soon as he had
completely imbibed them, his hair and beard laid by their
whiteness and assumed the blackness of youth; his paleness and
emaciation were gone; his veins were full of blood, his limbs of
vigour and robustness. AEson is amazed at himself, and remembers
that such as he now is, he was in his youthful days, forty years
before.
Medea used her arts here for a good purpose, but not so in
another instance, where she made them the instruments of
revenge. Pelias, our readers will recollect, was the usurping
uncle of Jason, and had kept him out of his kingdom. Yet he must
have had some good qualities, for his daughters loved him, and
when they saw what Medea had done for AEson, they wished her to
do the same for their father. Medea pretended to consent, and
prepared her cauldron as before. At her request an old sheep was
brought and plunged into the cauldron. Very soon a bleating was
heard in the kettle, and when the cover was removed, a lamb
jumped forth and ran frisking away into the meadow. The
daughters of Pelias saw the experiment with delight, and
appointed a time for their father to undergo the same operation.
But Medea prepared her cauldron for him in a very different way.
She put in only water and a few simple herbs. In the night she
with the sisters entered the bed chamber of the old king, while
he and his guards slept soundly under the influence of a spell
cast upon them by Medea. The daughters stood by the bedside with
their weapons drawn, but hesitated to strike, till Medea chid
their irresolution. Then turning away their faces, and giving
random blows they smote him with their weapons. He, starting
from his sleep, cried out, "My daughters, what are you doing?
Will you kill your father?" Their hearts failed them and their
weapons fell from their hands, but Medea struck him a fatal
blow, and prevented his saying more.
Then they placed him in the cauldron, and Medea hastened to
depart in her serpent-drawn chariot before they discovered her
treachery or their vengeance would have been terrible. She
escaped, however, but had little enjoyment of the fruits of her
crime. Jason, for whom she had done so much, wishing to marry
Creusa, princess of Corinth, put away Medea. She, enraged at his
ingratitude, called on the gods for vengeance, sent a poisoned
robe as a gift to the bride, and then killing her own children,
and setting fire to the palace, mounted her serpent-drawn
chariot and fled to Athens, where she married King AEgeus, the
father of Theseus, and we shall meet her again when we come to
the adventures of that hero.
The incantations of Medea will remind the reader of those of
the witches in "Macbeth." The following lines are those which
seem most strikingly to recall the ancient model:
"Round about the cauldron go;
In the poisoned entrails throw.
Fillet of a fenny snake
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing;
Maw of ravening salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digged in the dark," etc.
Macbeth, Act IV. Scene I.
And again:
Macbeth.- What is't you do?
Witches.- A deed without a name.
There is another story of Medea almost too revolting for
record even of a sorceress, a class of persons to whom both
ancient and modern poets have been accustomed to attribute every
degree of atrocity. In her flight from Colchis she had taken her
young brother Absyrtus with her. Finding the pursuing vessels of
AEetes gaining upon the Argonauts, she caused the lad to be
killed and his limbs to be strewn over the sea. AEetes on
reaching the place found these sorrowful traces of his murdered
son; but while he tarried to collect the scattered fragments and
bestow upon them an honourable interment, the Argonauts escaped.
In the poems of Campbell will be found a translation of one
of the choruses of the tragedy of "Medea," where the poet
Euripides has taken advantage of the occasion to pay a glowing
tribute to Athens, his native city. It begins thus:
"O haggard queen! to Athens dost thou guide
Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore;
Or seek to hide thy damned parricide
Where peace and justice dwell for evermore?"
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CHAPTER XVIII.
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA.
ONE of the heroes of the Argonautic expedition was Meleager, son
of OEneus and Althea, king and queen of Calydon. Althea, when
her son was born, beheld the three destinies, who as they spun
their fatal thread, foretold that the life of the child should
last no longer than a brand then burning upon the hearth. Althea
seized and quenched the brand, and carefully preserved it for
years, while Meleager grew to boyhood, youth and manhood. It
chanced, then, that OEneus, as he offered sacrifices to the
gods, omitted to pay due honours to Diana; and she, indignant at
the neglect, sent a wild boar of enormous size to lay waste the
fields of Calydon. Its eyes shone with blood and fire, its
bristles stood like threatening spears, its tusks were like
those of Indian elephants. The growing corn was trampled, the
vines and olive trees laid waste, the flocks and herds were
driven in wild confusion by the slaughtering foe. All common aid
seemed vain; but Meleager called on the heroes of Greece to join
in a bold hunt for the ravenous monster. Theseus and his friend
Pirithous, Jason, Peleus, afterwards the father of Achilles,
Telamon the father of Ajax, Nestor, then a youth, but who in his
age bore arms with Achilles and Ajax in the Trojan war- these
and many more joined in the enterprise. With them came Atalanta,
the daughter of Iasius, king of Arcadia. A buckle of polished
gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver hung on her left
shoulder, and her left hand bore the bow. Her face blent
feminine beauty with the best graces of martial youth. Meleager
saw and loved.
But now already they were near the monster's lair. They
stretched strong nets from tree to tree; they uncoupled their
dogs, they tried to find the footprints of their quarry in the
grass. From the wood was a descent to marshy grounds. Here the
boar, as he lay among the reeds, heard the shouts of his
pursuers, and rushed forth against them. One and another is
thrown down and slain. Jason throws his spear, with a prayer to
Diana for success; and the favouring goddess allows the weapon
to touch, but not to wound, removing the steel point of the
spear in its flight. Nestor, assailed, seeks and finds safety in
the branches of a tree. Telamon rushes on, but stumbling at a
projecting root, falls prone. But an arrow from Atalanta at
length for the first time tastes the monster's blood. It is a
slight wound, but Meleager sees and joyfully proclaims it.
Anceus, excited to envy by the praise given to a female, loudly
Proclaims his own valour, and defies alike the boar and the
goddess who had sent it; but as he rushes on, the infuriated
beast lays him low with a mortal wound. Theseus throws his
lance, but it is turned aside by a projecting bough. The dart of
Jason misses its object, and kills instead one of their own
dogs. But Meleager, after one unsuccessful stroke, drives his
spear into the monster's side, then rushes on and despatches him
with repeated blows.
Then rose a shout from those around; they congratulated the
conqueror, crowding to touch his hand. He, placing his foot upon
the head of the slain boar, turned to Atalanta and bestowed on
her the head and the rough hide which were the trophies of his
success. But at this, envy excited the rest to strife. Plexippus
and Toxeus, the brothers of Meleager's mother, beyond the rest
opposed the gift, and snatched from the maiden the trophy she
had received. Meleager, kindling with rage at the wrong done to
himself, and still more at the insult offered to her whom he
loved, forgot the claims of kindred, and plunged his sword into
the offenders' hearts.
As Althea bore gifts of thankfulness to the temples for the
victory of her son, the bodies of her murdered brothers met her
sight. She shrieks, and beats her breast, and hastens to change
the garments of rejoicing for those of mourning. But when the
author of the deed is known, grief gives way to the stern desire
of vengeance on her son. The fatal brand, which once she rescued
from the flames, the brand which the destinies had linked with
Meleager's life, she brings forth, and commands a fire to be
prepared. Then four times she essays to place the brand upon the
pile; four times draws back, shuddering at the thought of
bringing destruction on her son. The feelings of the mother and
the sister contend within her. Now she is pale at the thought of
the proposed deed, now flushed again with anger at the act of
her son. As a vessel, driven in one direction by the wind, and
in the opposite by the tide, the mind of Althea hangs suspended
in uncertainty. But now the sister prevails above the mother,
and she begins as she holds the fatal wood: "Turn, ye Furies,
goddesses of punishment! turn to behold the sacrifice I bring!
Crime must atone for crime. Shall OEneus rejoice in his victor
son, while the house of Thestius is desolate? But, alas! to what
deed am I borne along? Brothers, forgive a mother's weakness! my
hand fails me. He deserves death, but not that I should destroy
him. But shall he then live, and triumph, and reign over
Calydon, while you, my brothers, wander unavenged among the
shades? No! thou hast lived by my gift; die, now, for thine own
crime. Return the life which twice I gave thee, first at thy
birth, again when I snatched this brand from the flames. O that
thou hadst then died! Alas! evil is the conquest; but, brothers,
ye have conquered." And, turning away her face, she threw the
fatal wood upon the burning pile.
It gave, or seemed to give, a deadly groan. Meleager, absent
and unknowing of the cause, felt a sudden pang. He burns, and
only by courageous pride conquers the pain which destroys him.
He mourns only that he perishes by a bloodless and unhonoured
death. With his last breath he calls upon his aged father, his
brother, and his fond sisters, upon his beloved Atalanta, and
upon his mother, the unknown cause of his fate. The flames
increase, and with them the pain of the hero. Now both subside;
now both are quenched. The brand is ashes, and the life of
Meleager is breathed forth to the wandering winds.
Althea, when the deed was done, laid violent hands upon
herself. The sisters of Meleager mourned their brother with
uncontrollable grief; till Diana, pitying the sorrows of the
house that once had aroused her anger, turned them into birds.
ATALANTA.
The innocent cause of so much sorrow was a maiden whose face
you might truly say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a
boy. Her fortune had been told, and it was to this effect: "Atalanta,
do not marry; marriage will be your ruin." Terrified by this
oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted herself to the
sports of the chase. To all suitors (for she had many) she
imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving
her of their persecutions- "I will be the prize of him who shall
conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who
try and fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try.
Hippomenes was to be judge of the race. "Can it be possible that
any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. But
when he saw her lay aside her robe for the race, he changed his
mind, and said, "Pardon me, youths, I knew not the prize you
were competing for." As he surveyed them he wished them all to
be beaten, and swelled with envy of any one that seemed at all
likely to win. While such were his thoughts, the virgin darted
forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than ever. The
breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over her
shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind
her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a
crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors were
distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not
daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said,
"Why boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the
contest." Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and
hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What
god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away? I
pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his
youth. I wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so
mad, I hope he may outrun me." While she hesitates, revolving
these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and
her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a
prayer to Venus: "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on." Venus
heard and was propitious.
In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is
a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit.
Hence she gathered three golden apples, and unseen by any one
else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The
signal is given; each starts from the goal and skims over the
sand. So light their tread, you would almost have thought they
might run over the river surface or over the waving grain
without sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered
Hippomenes,- "Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain on
her! relax not! one more effort!" It was doubtful whether the
youth or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure.
But his breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal
yet far off. At that moment be threw down one of the golden
apples. The virgin was all amazement. She stopped to pick it up.
Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts burst forth from all sides. She
redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him. Again he threw an
apple. She stopped again, but again came up with him. The goal
was near; one chance only remained. "Now, goddess," said he,
"prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off at one side.
She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn
aside for it. She did so, and was vanquished. The youth carried
off his prize.
But the lovers were so full of their own happiness that they
forgot to pay due honour to Venus; and the goddess was provoked
at their ingratitude. She caused them to give offence to Cybele.
That powerful goddess was not to be insulted with impunity. She
took from them their human form and turned them into animals of
characters resembling their own: of the huntress-heroine,
triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness, and
of her lord and master a lion, and yoked them to her car, where
they are still to be seen in all representations, in statuary or
painting, of the goddess Cybele.
Cybele is the Latin name of the goddess called by the Greeks
Rhea and Ops. She was the wife of Cronos and mother of Zeus. In
works of art she exhibits the matronly air which distinguishes
Juno and Ceres. Sometimes she is veiled, and seated on a throne
with lions at her side, at other times riding in a chariot drawn
by lions. She wears a mural crown, that is, a crown whose rim is
carved in the form of towers and battlements. Her priests were
called Corybantes.
Byron, in describing the city of Venice, which is built on a
low island in the Adriatic Sea, borrows an illustration from
Cybele:
"She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers."
Childe Harold, IV.
In Moore's "Rhymes on the Road," the poet, speaking of Alpine
scenery, alludes to the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes thus:
"Even here, in this region of wonders, I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind,
Or at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way."
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CHAPTER XIX.
HERCULES- HEBE AND GANYMEDE.
HERCULES.
HERCULES was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena. As Juno was always
hostile to the offspring of her husband by mortal mothers, she
declared war against Hercules from his birth. She sent two
serpents to destroy him as he lay in his cradle, but the
precocious infant strangled them with his own hands. He was,
however, by the arts of Juno rendered subject to Eurystheus and
compelled to perform all his commands. Eurystheus enjoined upon
him a succession of desperate adventures, which are called the
"Twelve Labours of Hercules." The first was the fight with the
Nemean lion. The valley of Nemea was infested by a terrible
lion. Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring him the skin of this
monster. After using in vain his club and arrows against the
lion, Hercules strangled the animal with his hands. He returned
carrying the dead lion on his shoulders; but Eurystheus was so
frightened at the sight of it and at this proof of the
prodigious strength of the hero, that he ordered him to deliver
the account of his exploits in future outside the town.
His next labour was the slaughter of the Hydra. This monster
ravaged the country of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well
of Amymone. This well had been discovered by Amymone when the
country was suffering from drought, and the story was that
Neptune, who loved her, had permitted her to touch the rock with
his trident, and a spring of three outlets burst forth. Here the
Hydra took up his position, and Hercules was sent to destroy
him. The Hydra had nine heads, of which the middle one was
immortal. Hercules struck off its heads with his club, but in
the place of the head knocked off, two new ones grew forth each
time. At length with the assistance of his faithful servant
Iolaus, he burned away the heads of the Hydra, and buried the
ninth or immortal one under a huge rock.
Another labour was the cleaning of the Augean stables.
Augeas, king of Elis, had a herd of three thousand oxen, whose
stalls had not been cleansed for thirty years. Hercules brought
the rivers Alpheus and Peneus through them, and cleansed them
thoroughly in one day.
His next labour was of a more delicate kind. Admeta, the
daughter of Eurystheus, longed to obtain the girdle of the queen
of the Amazons, and Eurystheus ordered Hercules to go and get
it. The Amazons were a nation of women. They were very warlike
and held several flourishing cities. It was their custom to
bring up only the female children; the boys were either sent
away to the neighbouring nations or put to death. Hercules was
accompanied by a number of volunteers, and after various
adventures at last reached the country of the Amazons.
Hippolyta, the queen, received him kindly, and consented to
yield him her girdle, but Juno, taking the form of an Amazon,
went and persuaded the rest that the strangers were carrying off
their queen. They instantly armed and came in great numbers down
to the ship. Hercules, thinking that Hippolyta, had acted
treacherously, slew her, and taking her girdle made sail
homewards.
Another task enjoined him was to bring to Eurystheus the oxen
of Geryon, a monster with three bodies, who dwelt in the island
of Erytheia (the red), so called because it lay at the west,
under the rays of the setting sun. This description is thought
to apply to Spain, of which Geryon was king. After traversing
various countries, Hercules reached at length the frontiers of
Libya and Europe, where he raised the two mountains of Calpe and
Abyla, as monuments of his progress, or, according to another
account, rent one mountain into two and left half on each side,
forming the straits of Gibraltar, the two mountains being called
the Pillars of Hercules. The oxen were guarded by the giant
Eurytion and his two-headed dog, but Hercules killed the giant
and his dog and brought away the oxen in safety to Eurystheus.
The most difficult labour of all was getting the golden
apples of the Hesperides, for Hercules did not know where to
find them. These were the apples which Juno had received at her
wedding from the goddess of the Earth, and which she had
intrusted to the keeping of the daughters of Hesperus, assisted
by a watchful dragon. After various adventures Hercules arrived
at Mount Atlas in Africa. Atlas was one of the Titans who had
warred against the gods, and after they were subdued, Atlas was
condemned to bear on his shoulders the weight of the heavens. He
was the father of the Hesperides, and Hercules thought might, if
any one could, find the apples and bring them to him. But how to
send Atlas away from his post, or bear up the heavens while he
was gone? Hercules took the burden on his own shoulders, and
sent Atlas to seek the apples. He returned with them, and though
somewhat reluctantly, took his burden upon his shoulders again,
and let Hercules return with the apples to Eurystheus.
Milton, in his "Comus," makes the Hesperides the daughters of
Hesperus and niece of Atlas:
"...amidst the gardens fair
Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree."
The poets, led by the analogy of the lovely appearance of the
western sky at sunset, viewed the west as a region of brightness
and glory. Hence they placed in it the Isles of the Blest, the
ruddy Isle Erytheia, on which the bright oxen of Geryon were
pastured, and the Isle of the Hesperides. The apples are
supposed by some to be the oranges of Spain, of which the Greeks
had heard some obscure accounts.
A celebrated exploit of Hercules was his victory over
Antaeus. Antaeus, the son of Terra, the Earth, was a mighty
giant and wrestler, whose strength was invincible so long as he
remained in contact with his mother Earth. He compelled all
strangers who came to his country to wrestle with him, on
condition that if conquered (as they all were) they should be
put to death. Hercules encountered him, and finding that it was
of no avail to throw him, for he always rose with renewed
strength from every fall, he lifted him up from the earth and
strangled him in the air.
Cacus was a huge giant, who inhabited a cave on Mount
Aventine, and plundered the surrounding country. When Hercules
was driving home the oxen of Geryon, Cacus stole part of the
cattle, while the hero slept. That their footprints might not
serve to show where they had been driven, be dragged them
backward by their tails to his cave; so their tracks all seemed
to show that they had gone in the opposite direction. Hercules
was deceived by this stratagem, and would have failed to find
his oxen, if it had not happened that in driving the remainder
of the herd past the cave where the stolen ones were concealed,
those within began to low, and were thus discovered. Cacus was
slain by Hercules.
The last exploit we shall record was bringing Cerberus from
the lower world. Hercules descended into Hades, accompanied by
Mercury and Minerva. He obtained permission from Pluto to carry
Cerberus to the upper air, provided he could do it without the
use of weapons; and in spite of the monster's struggling, he
seized him, held him fast, and carried him to Eurystheus, and
afterwards brought him back again. When he was in Hades he
obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and imitator, who
had been detained a prisoner there for an unsuccessful attempt
to carry off Proserpine.
Hercules in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus, and
was condemned for this offence to become the slave of Queen
Omphale for three years. While in this service the hero's nature
seemed changed. He lived effeminately, wearing at times the
dress of a woman, and spinning wool with the hand-maidens of
Omphale, while the queen wore his lion's skin. When this service
was ended he married Dejanira and lived in peace with her three
years. On one occasion as he was travelling with his wife, they
came to a river, across which the Centaur Nessus carried
travellers for a stated fee. Hercules himself forded the river,
but gave Dejanira to Nessus to be carried across. Nessus
attempted to run away with her, but Hercules heard her cries and
shot an arrow into the heart of Nessus. The dying Centaur told
Dejanira to take a portion of his blood and keep it, as it might
be used as a charm to preserve the love of her husband.
Dejanira did so, and before long fancied she had occasion to
use it. Hercules in one of his conquests had taken prisoner a
fair maiden, named Iole, of whom he seemed more fond than
Dejanira approved. When Hercules was about to offer sacrifices
to the gods in honour of his victory, he sent to his wife for a
white robe to use on the occasion. Dejanira, thinking it a good
opportunity to try her love-spell, steeped the garment in the
blood of Nessus. We are to suppose she took care to wash out all
traces of it, but the magic power remained, and as soon as the
garment became warm on the body of Hercules the poison
penetrated into all his limbs and caused him the most intense
agony. In his frenzy he seized Lichas, who had brought him the
fatal robe, and hurled him into the sea. He wrenched off the
garment, but it stuck to his flesh, and with it he tore away
whole pieces of his body. In this state he embarked on board a
ship and was conveyed home. Dejanira, on seeing what she had
unwittingly done, hung herself. Hercules, prepared to die,
ascended Mount OEta, where he built a funeral pile of trees,
gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, and laid himself down on
the pile, his head resting on his club, and his lion's skin
spread over him. With a countenance as serene as if he were
taking his place at a festal board he commanded Philoctetes to
apply the torch. The flames spread apace and soon invested the
whole mass.
Milton thus alludes to the frenzy of Hercules:
"As when Alcides* from OEchalia crowned
With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore,
Through pain, up by the roots Thessalian pines
And Lichas from the top of OEta threw
Into the Euboic Sea."
* Alcides. a name of Hercules.
The gods themselves felt troubled at seeing the champion of
the earth so brought to his end. But Jupiter with cheerful
countenance thus addressed them: "I am pleased to see your
concern, my princes, and am gratified to perceive that I am the
ruler of a loyal people, and that my son enjoys your favour. For
although your interest in him arises from his noble deeds, yet
it is not the less gratifying to me. But now I say to you, Fear
not. He who conquered all else is not to be conquered by those
flames which you see blazing on Mount OEta. Only his mother's
share in him can perish; what he derived from me is immortal. I
shall take him, dead to earth, to the heavenly shores, and I
require of you all to receive him kindly. If any of you feel
grieved at his attaining this honour, yet no one can deny that
he has deserved it." The gods all gave their assent; Juno only
heard the closing words with some displeasure that she should be
so particularly pointed at, yet not enough to make her regret
the determination of her husband. So when the flames had
consumed the mother's share of Hercules, the diviner part,
instead of being injured thereby, seemed to start forth with new
vigour, to assume a more lofty port and a more awful dignity.
Jupiter enveloped him in a cloud, and took him up in a
four-horse chariot to dwell among the stars. As he took his
place in heaven, Atlas felt the added weight.
Juno, now reconciled to him, gave him her daughter Hebe in
marriage.
The poet Schiller, in one of his pieces called the "Ideal and
Life," illustrates the contrast between the practical and the
imaginative in some beautiful stanzas, of which the last two may
be thus translated:
"Deep degraded to a coward's slave,
Endless contests bore Alcides brave,
Through the thorny path of suffering led;
Slew the Hydra, crushed the lion's might,
Threw himself, to bring his friend to light,
Living, in the skiff that bears the dead.
All the torments, every toil of earth
Juno's hatred on him could impose,
Well he bore them, from his fated birth
To life's grandly mournful close.
"Till the god, the earthly part forsaken,
From the man in flames asunder taken,
Drank the heavenly ether's purer breath.
Joyous in the new unwonted lightness,
Soared he upwards to celestial brightness,
Earth's dark heavy burden lost in death.
High Olympus gives harmonious greeting
To the hall where reigns his sire adored;
Youth's bright goddess, with a blush at meeting,
Gives the nectar to her lord."
S. G. B.
HEBE AND GANYMEDE.
Hebe, the daughter of Juno, and goddess of youth, was cup-bearer
to the gods. The usual story is that she resigned her office on
becoming the wife of Hercules. But there is another statement
which our countryman Crawford, the sculptor, has adopted in his
group of Hebe and Ganymede, now in the Athenaeum gallery.
According to this, Hebe was dismissed from her office in
consequence of a fall which she met with one day when in
attendance on the gods. Her successor was Ganymede, a Trojan
boy, whom Jupiter, in the disguise of an eagle, seized and
carried off from the midst of his play-fellows on Mount Ida,
bore up to heaven, and installed in the vacant place.
Tennyson, in his "Palace of Art," describes among the
decorations on the walls a picture representing this legend:
"There, too, flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh
Half buried in the eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot through the sky
Above the pillared town."
And in Shelley's "Prometheus" Jupiter calls to his cup-bearer
thus:
"Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Ganymede,
And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire."
The beautiful legend of the "Choice of Hercules" may be found
in the "Tatler," No. 97.
|
CHAPTER XX.
THESEUS- DAEDALUS- CASTOR AND POLLUX.
THESEUS
THESEUS was the son of AEgeus, king of Athens, and of AEthra,
daughter of the king of Troezen. He was brought up at Troezen,
and when arrived at manhood was to proceed to Athens and present
himself to his father. AEgeus on parting from AEthra, before the
birth of his son, placed his sword and shoes under a large stone
and directed her to send his son to him when he became strong
enough to roll away the stone and take them from under it. When
she thought the time had come, his mother led Theseus to the
stone, and he removed it with ease and took the sword and shoes.
As the roads were infested with robbers, his grandfather pressed
him earnestly to take the shorter and safer way to his father's
country- by sea; but the youth, feeling in himself the spirit
and the soul of a hero, and eager to signalize himself like
Hercules, with whose fame all Greece then rang, by destroying
the evil-doers and monsters that oppressed the country,
determined on the more perilous and adventurous journey by land.
His first day's journey brought him to Epidaurus, where dwelt
a man named Periphetes, a son of Vulcan. This ferocious savage
always went armed with a club of iron, and all travellers stood
in terror of his violence. When he saw Theseus approach he
assailed him, but speedily fell beneath the blows of the young
hero, who took possession of his club and bore it ever
afterwards as a memorial of his first victory.
Several similar contests with the petty tyrants and marauders
of the country followed, in all of which Theseus was victorious.
One of these evil-doers was called Procrustes, or the Stretcher.
He had an iron bedstead, on which he used to tie all travellers
who fell into his hands. If they were shorter than the bed, he
stretched their limbs to make them fit it; if they were longer
than the bed, he lopped off a portion. Theseus served him as he
had served others.
Having overcome all the perils of the road, Theseus at length
reached Athens, where new dangers awaited him. Medea, the
sorceress, who had fled from Corinth after her separation from
Jason, had become the wife of AEgeus, the father of Theseus.
Knowing by her arts who he was, and fearing the loss of her
influence with her husband if Theseus should be acknowledged as
his son, she filled the mind of AEgeus with suspicions of the
young stranger, and induced him to present him a cup of poison;
but at the moment when Theseus stepped forward to take it, the
sight of the sword which he wore discovered to his father who he
was, and prevented the fatal draught. Medea, detected in her
arts, fled once more from deserved punishment, and arrived in
Asia, where the country afterwards called Media, received its
name from her. Theseus was acknowledged by his father, and
declared his successor.
The Athenians were at that time in deep affliction, on
account of the tribute which they were forced to pay to Minos,
king of Crete. This tribute consisted of seven youths and seven
maidens, who were sent every year to be devoured by the
Minotaur, a monster with a bull's body and a human head. It was
exceedingly strong and fierce, and was kept in a labyrinth
constructed by Daedalus, so artfully contrived that whoever was
enclosed in it could by no means find his way out unassisted.
Here the Minotaur roamed, and was fed with human victims.
Theseus resolved to deliver his countrymen from this
calamity, or to die in the attempt. Accordingly, when the time
of sending off the tribute came, and the youths and maidens
were, according to custom, drawn by lot to be sent, he offered
himself as one of the victims, in spite of the entreaties of his
father. The ship departed under black sails, as usual, which
Theseus promised his father to change for white, in case of his
returning victorious. When they arrived in Crete, the youths and
maidens were exhibited before Minos; and Ariadne, the daughter
of the king, being present, became deeply enamoured of Theseus,
by whom her love was readily returned. She furnished him with a
sword, with which to encounter the Minotaur, and with a clue of
thread by which he might find his way out of the labyrinth. He
was successful, slew the Minotaur, escaped from the labyrinth,
and taking Ariadne as the companion of his way, with his rescued
companions sailed for Athens. On their way they stopped at the
island of Naxos, where Theseus abandoned Ariadne, leaving her
asleep.* His excuse for this ungrateful treatment of his
benefactress was that Minerva appeared to him in a dream and
commanded him to do so.
* One of the finest pieces of sculpture in Italy, the
recumbent Ariadne of the Vatican, represents this incident. A
copy is in the Athenaeum gallery, Boston.
On approaching the coast of Attica, Theseus forgot the signal
appointed by his father, and neglected to raise the white sails,
and the old king, thinking his son had perished, put an end to
his own life. Theseus thus became king of Athens.
One of the most celebrated of the adventures of Theseus is
his expedition against the Amazons. He assailed them before they
had recovered from the attack of Hercules, and carried off their
queen Antiope. The Amazons in their turn invaded the country of
Athens and penetrated into the city itself; and the final battle
in which Theseus overcame them was fought in the very midst of
the city. This battle was one of the favourite subjects of the
ancient sculptors, and is commemorated in several works of art
that are still extant.
The friendship between Theseus and Pirithous was of a most
intimate nature, yet it originated in the midst of arms.
Pirithous had made an irruption into the plain of Marathon, and
carried off the herds of the king of Athens. Theseus went to
repel the plunderers. The moment Pirithous beheld him, he was
seized with admiration; he stretched out his hand as a token of
peace, and cried, "Be judge thyself- what satisfaction dost thou
require?" "Thy friendship," replied the Athenian, and they swore
inviolable fidelity. Their deeds corresponded to their
professions, and they ever continued true brothers in arms. Each
of them aspired to espouse a daughter of Jupiter. Theseus fixed
his choice on Helen, then but a child, afterwards so celebrated
as the cause of the Trojan war, and with the aid of his friend
he carried her off. Pirithous aspired to the wife of the monarch
of Erebus; and Theseus, though aware of the danger, accompanied
the ambitious lover in his descent to the underworld. But Pluto
seized and set them on an enchanted rock at his palace gate,
where they remained till Hercules arrived and liberated Theseus,
leaving Pirithous to his fate.
After the death of Antiope, Theseus married Phaedra, daughter
of Minos, king of Crete. Phaedra saw in Hippolytus, the son of
Theseus, a youth endowed with all the graces and virtues of his
father, and of an age corresponding to her own. She loved him,
but he repulsed her advances, and her love was changed to hate.
She used her influence over her infatuated husband to cause him
to be jealous of his son, and he imprecated the vengeance of
Neptune upon him. As Hippolytus was one day driving his chariot
along the shore, a sea-monster raised himself above the waters,
and frightened the horses so that they ran away and dashed the
chariot to pieces. Hippolytus was killed, but by Diana's
assistance AEsculapius restored him to life. Diana removed
Hippolytus from the power of his deluded father and false
stepmother, and placed him in Italy under the protection of the
nymph Egeria.
Theseus at length lost the favour of his people, and retired
to the court of Lycomedes, king of Scyros, who at first received
him kindly, but afterwards treacherously slew him. In a later
age the Athenian general Cimon discovered the place where his
remains were laid, and caused them to be removed to Athens,
where they were deposited in a temple called the Theseum,
erected in honour of the hero.
The queen of the Amazons whom Theseus espoused is by some
called Hippolyta. That is the name she bears in Shakespeare's
"Midsummer Night's Dream,"- the subject of which is the
festivities attending the nuptials of Theseus and Hippolyta.
Mrs. Hemans has a poem on the ancient Greek tradition that
the "Shade of Theseus" appeared strengthening his countrymen at
the battle of Marathon.
Theseus is a semi-historical personage. It is recorded of him
that he united the several tribes by whom the territory of
Attica was then possessed into one state, of which Athens was
the capital. In commemoration of this important event, he
instituted the festival of Panathenaea, in honour of Minerva,
the patron deity of Athens. This festival differed from the
other Grecian games chiefly in two particulars. It was peculiar
to the Athenians, and its chief feature was a solemn procession
in which the Peplus, or sacred robe of Minerva, was carried to
the Parthenon, and suspended be, fore the statue of the goddess.
The Peplus was covered with embroidery, worked by select virgins
of the noblest families in Athens. The procession consisted of
persons of all ages and both sexes. The old men carried olive
branches in their hands, and the young men bore arms. The young
women carried baskets on their heads, containing the sacred
utensils, cakes, and all things necessary for the sacrifices.
The procession formed the subject of the bas-reliefs which
embellished the outside of the temple of the Parthenon. A
considerable portion of these sculptures is now in the British
Museum among those known as the "Elgin marbles."
OLYMPIC AND OTHER GAMES.
It seems not inappropriate to mention here the other
celebrated national games of the Greeks. The first and most
distinguished were the Olympic, founded, it was said, by Jupiter
himself. They were celebrated at Olympia in Elis. Vast numbers
of spectators flocked to them from every part of Greece, and
from Asia, Africa and Sicily. They were repeated every fifth
year in midsummer, and continued five days. They gave rise to
the custom of reckoning time and dating events by Olympiads. The
first Olympiad is generally considered as corresponding with the
year 776 B.C. The Pythian games were celebrated in the vicinity
of Delphi, the Isthmian on the Corinthian Isthmus, the Nemean at
Nemea, a city of Argolis.
The exercises in these games were of five sorts: running,
leaping, wrestling, throwing the quoit, and hurling the javelin,
or boxing. Besides these exercises of bodily strength and
agility there were contests in music, poetry and eloquence. Thus
these games furnished poets, musicians and authors the best
opportunities to present their productions to the public, and
the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide.
DAEDALUS.
The labyrinth from which Theseus escaped by means of the clew
of Ariadne was built by Daedalus, a most skilful artificer. It
was an edifice with numberless winding passages and turnings
opening into one another, and seeming to have neither beginning
nor end, like the river Maeander, which returns on itself, and
flows now onward, now backward, in its course to the sea.
Daedalus built the labyrinth for King Minos, but afterwards lost
the favour of the king, and was shut up in a tower. He contrived
to make his escape from his prison, but could not leave the
island by sea, as the king kept strict watch on all the vessels,
and permitted none to sail without being carefully searched.
"Minos may control the land and sea," said Daedalus, "but not
the regions of the air. I will try that way." So he set to work
to fabricate wings for himself and his young son Icarus. He
wrought feathers together, beginning with the smallest and
adding larger, so as to form an increasing surface. The larger
ones he secured with thread and the smaller with wax, and gave
the whole a gentle curvature like the wings of a bird. Icarus,
the boy, stood and looked on, sometimes running to gather up the
feathers which the wind had blown away, and then handling the
wax and working it over with his fingers, by his play impeding
his father in his labours. When at last the work was done, the
artist, waving his wings, found himself buoyed upward, and hung
suspended, poising himself on the beaten air. He next equipped
his son in the same manner and taught him how to fly, as a bird
tempts her young ones from the lofty nest into the air. When all
was prepared for flight he said, "Icarus, my son, I charge you
to keep at a moderate height, for if you fly too low the damp
will clog your wings, and if too high the heat will melt them.
Keep near me and you will be safe." While he gave him these
instructions and fitted the wings to his shoulders, the face of
the father was wet with tears, and his hands trembled. He kissed
the boy, not knowing that it was for the last time. Then rising
on his wings, he flew off, encouraging him to follow, and looked
back from his own flight to see how his son managed his wings.
As they flew the ploughman stopped his work to gaze, aid the
shepherd leaned on his staff and watched them, astonished at the
sight, and thinking they were gods who could thus cleave the
air.
They passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the
right, when the boy, exulting in his career, began to leave the
guidance of his companion and soar upward as if to reach heaven.
The nearness of the blazing sun softened the wax which held the
feathers together, and they came off. He fluttered with his
arms, but no feathers remained to hold the air. While his mouth
uttered cries to his father it was submerged in the blue waters
of the sea which thenceforth was called by his name. His father
cried, "Icarus, Icarus, where are you?" At last he saw the
feathers floating on the water, and bitterly lamenting his own
arts, he buried the body and called the land Icaria in memory of
his child. Daedalus arrived safe in Sicily, where he built a
temple to Apollo, and hung up his wings, an offering to the god.
Daedalus was so proud of his achievements that he could not
bear the idea of a rival. His sister had placed her son Perdix
under his charge to be taught the mechanical arts. He was an apt
scholar and gave striking evidences of ingenuity. Walking on the
seashore he picked up the spine of a fish. Imitating it, he took
a piece of iron and notched it on the edge, and thus invented
the saw. He, put two pieces of iron together, connecting them at
one end with a rivet, and sharpening the other ends, and made a
pair of compasses. Daedalus was so envious of his nephew's
performances that he took an opportunity, when they were
together one day on the top of a high tower to push him off. But
Minerva, who favours ingenuity, saw him falling, and arrested
his fate by changing him into a bird called after his name, the
Partridge. This bird does not build his nest in the trees, nor
take lofty flights, but nestles in the hedges, and mindful of
his fall, avoids high places.
The death of Icarus is told in the following lines by Darwin:
"...with melting wax and loosened strings
Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings;
Headlong he rushed through the affrighted air,
With limbs distorted and dishevelled hair;
His scattered plumage danced upon the wave,
And sorrowing Nereids decked his watery grave;
O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed,
And strewed with crimson moss his marble bed;
Struck in their coral towers the passing bell,
And wide in ocean tolled his echoing knell."
CASTOR AND POLLUX.
Castor and Pollux were the offspring of Leda and the Swan, under
which disguise Jupiter had concealed himself. Leda gave, birth
to an egg from which sprang the twins. Helen, so famous
afterwards as the cause of the Trojan war, was their sister.
When Theseus and his friend Pirithous had carried off Helen
from Sparta, the youthful heroes, Castor and Pollux, with their
followers, hastened to her rescue. Theseus was absent from
Attica and the brothers were successful in recovering their
sister.
Castor was famous for taming and managing horses, and Pollux
for skill in boxing. They were united by the warmest affection
and inseparable in all their enterprises. They accompanied the
Argonautic expedition. During the voyage a storm arose, and
Orpheus prayed to the Samothracian gods, and played on his harp,
whereupon the storm ceased and stars appeared on the heads of
the brothers. From this incident, Castor and Pollux came
afterwards to be considered the patron deities of seamen and
voyagers, and the lambent flames, which in certain states of the
atmosphere play round the sails and masts of vessels, were
called by their names.
After the Argonautic expedition, we find Castor and Pollux
engaged in a war with Idas and Lynceus. Castor was slain, and
Pollux, inconsolable for the loss of his brother, besought
Jupiter to be permitted to give his own life as a ransom for
him. Jupiter so far consented as to allow the two brothers to
enjoy the boon of life alternately, passing one day under the
earth and the next in the heavenly abodes. According to another
form of the story, Jupiter rewarded the attachment of the
brothers by placing them among the stars as Gemini the Twins.
They received divine honours under the name of Dioscuri (sons
of Jove). They were believed to have appeared occasionally in
later times, taking part with one side or the other, in
hard-fought fields, and were said on such occasions to be
mounted on magnificent white steeds. Thus in the early history
of Rome they are said to have assisted the Romans at the battle
of Lake Regillus, and after the victory a temple was erected in
their honour on the spot where they appeared.
Macaulay, in his "Lays of Ancient Rome," thus alludes to the
legend:
"So like they were, no mortal
Might one from other know;
White as snow their armour was,
Their steeds were white as snow.
Never on earthly anvil
Did such rare armour gleam,
And never did such gallant steeds
Drink of an earthly stream.
"Back comes the chief in triumph
Who in the hour of fight
Hath seen the great twin Brethren
In harness on his right.
Safe comes the ship to haven,
Through billows and through gales,
If once the great Twin Brethren
Sit shining on the sails."
|
CHAPTER XXI.
BACCHUS- ARIADNE.
BACCHUS.
BACCHUS was the son of Jupiter and Semele. Juno, to gratify her
resentment against Semele, contrived a plan for her destruction.
Assuming the form of Beroe, her aged nurse, she insinuated
doubts whether it was indeed Jove himself who came as a lover.
Heaving a sigh, she said, "I hope it will turn out so, but I
can't help being afraid. People are not always what they pretend
to be. If he is indeed Jove, make him give some proof of it. Ask
him to come arrayed in all his splendours, such as he wears in
heaven. That will put the matter beyond a doubt." Semele was
persuaded to try the experiment. She asks a favour, without
naming what it is. Jove gives his promise, and confirms it with
the irrevocable oath, attesting the river Styx, terrible to the
gods themselves. Then she made known her request. The god would
have stopped her as she spake, but she was too quick for him.
The words escaped, and he could neither unsay his promise nor
her request. In deep distress he left her and returned to the
upper regions. There he clothed himself in his splendours, not
putting on all his terrors, as when he overthrew the giants, but
what is known among the gods as his lesser panoply. Arrayed in
this, he entered the chamber of Semele. Her mortal frame could
not endure the splendours of the immortal radiance. She was
consumed to ashes.
Jove took the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the
Nysaean nymphs, who nourished his infancy and childhood, and for
their care were rewarded by Jupiter by being placed, as the
Hyades, among the stars. When Bacchus grew up he discovered the
culture of the vine and the mode of extracting its precious
juice; but Juno struck him with madness, and drove him forth a
wanderer through various parts of the earth. In Phrygia the
goddess Rhea cured him and taught him her religious rites, and
he set out on a progress through Asia, teaching the people the
cultivation of the vine. The most famous part of his wanderings
is his expedition to India, which is said to have lasted several
years. Returning in triumph, he undertook to introduce his
worship into Greece, but was opposed by some princes, who
dreaded its introduction on account of the disorder and madness
it brought with it.
As he approached his native city Thebes, Pentheus the king,
who had no respect for the new worship, forbade its rites to be
performed. But when it was known that Bacchus was advancing, men
and women, but chiefly the latter, young and old, poured forth
to meet him and to join his triumphal march.
Mr. Longfellow in his "Drinking Song" thus describes the
march of Bacchus:
"Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;
Ivy crowns that brow, supernal
As the forehead of Apollo,
And possessing youth eternal.
"Round about him fair Bacchantes,
Bearing cymbals, flutes and thyrses,
Wild from Naxian groves of Zante's
Vineyards, sing delirious verses."
It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded and
threatened. "Go," said he to his attendants, "seize this
vagabond leader of the rout and bring him to me. I will soon
make him confess his false claim of heavenly parentage and
renounce his counterfeit worship." It was in vain his nearest
friends and wisest counsellors remonstrated and begged him not
to oppose the god. Their remonstrances only made him more
violent.
But now the attendants returned whom he had despatched to
seize Bacchus. They had been driven away by the Bacchanals, but
had succeeded in taking one of them prisoner, whom, with his
hands tied behind him, they brought before the king. Pentheus,
beholding him with wrathful countenance, said "Fellow! you shall
speedily be put to death, that your fate may be a warning to
others; but though I grudge the delay of your punishment, speak,
tell us who you are, and what are these new rites you presume to
celebrate."
The prisoner, unterrified, responded, "My name is Acetes; my
country is Maeonia; my parents were poor people, who had no
fields or flocks to leave me, but they left me their fishing
rods and nets and their fisherman's trade. This I followed for
some time, till growing weary of remaining in one place, I
learned the pilot's art and how to guide my course by the stars.
It happened as I was sailing for Delos we touched at the island
of Dia and went ashore. Next morning I sent the men for fresh
water, and myself mounted the hill to observe the wind; when my
men returned bringing with them a prize, as they thought, a boy
of delicate appearance, whom they had found asleep. They judged
he was a noble youth, perhaps a king's son, and they might get a
liberal ransom for him. I observed his dress, his walk, his
face, There was something in them which I felt sure was more
than mortal. I said to my men, 'What god there is concealed in
that form I know not, but some one there certainly is. Pardon
us, gentle deity, for the violence we have done you, and give
success to our undertakings.' Dictys, one of my best hands for
climbing the mast and coming down by the ropes, and Melanthus,
my steersman, and Epopeus, the leader of the sailor's cry, one
and all exclaimed, 'Spare your prayers for us.' So blind is the
lust of gain! When they proceeded to put him on board I resisted
them. 'This ship shall not be profaned by such impiety,' said I.
'I have a greater share in her than any of you.' But Lycabas, a
turbulent fellow, seized me by the throat and attempted to throw
my overboard, and I scarcely saved myself by clinging to the
ropes. The rest approved the deed.
"Then Bacchus (for it was indeed he), as if shaking off his
drowsiness, exclaimed, 'What are you doing with me? What is this
fighting about? Who brought me here? Where are you going to
carry me?' One of them replied, 'Fear nothing; tell us where you
wish to go and we will take you there.' 'Naxos is my home,' said
Bacchus; 'take me there and you shall be well rewarded.' They
promised so to do, and told me to pilot the ship to Naxos. Naxos
lay to the right, and I was trimming the sails to carry us
there, when some by signs and others by whispers signified to me
their will that I should sail in the opposite direction, and
take the boy to Egypt to sell him for a slave, I was confounded
and said, 'Let some one else pilot the ship;' withdrawing myself
from any further agency in their wickedness. They cursed me, and
one of them, exclaiming, 'Don't flatter yourself that we depend
on you for our safety,' took my place as pilot, and bore away
from Naxos.
"Then the god, pretending that he had just become aware of
their treachery, looked out over the sea and said in a voice of
weeping, 'Sailors, these are not the shores you promised to take
me to; yonder island is not my home. What have I done that you
should treat me so? It is small glory you will gain by cheating
a poor boy.' I wept to hear him, but the crew laughed at both of
us, and sped the vessel fast over the sea. All at once- strange
as it may seem, it is true,- the vessel stopped, in the mid sea,
as fast as if it was fixed on the ground. The men, astonished,
pulled at their oars, and spread more sail, trying to make
progress by the aid of both, but all in vain. Ivy twined round
the oars and hindered their motion, and clung to the sails, with
heavy clusters of berries. A vine, laden with grapes, ran up the
mast, and along the sides of the vessel. The sound of flutes was
heard and the odour of fragrant wine spread all around. The god
himself had a chaplet of vine leaves, and bore in his hand a
spear wreathed with ivy. Tigers crouched at his feet, and forms
of lynxes and spotted panthers played around him. The men were
seized with terror or madness; some leaped overboard; others
preparing to do the same beheld their companions in the water
undergoing a change, their bodies becoming flattened and ending
in a crooked tail. One exclaimed, 'What miracle is this!' and as
he spoke his mouth widened, his nostrils expanded, and scales
covered all his body. Another, endeavouring to pull the oar,
felt his hands shrink up and presently to be no longer hands but
fins; another, trying to raise his arms to a rope, found he had
no arms, and curving his mutilated body jumped into the sea.
What had been his legs became the two ends of a crescent-shaped
tail. The whole crew became dolphins and swam about the ship,
now upon the surface, now under it, scattering the spray, and
spouting the water from their broad nostrils. Of twenty men I
alone was left. Trembling with fear, the god cheered me. 'Fear
not,' said he; 'steer towards Naxos.' I obeyed, and when we
arrived there, I kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred
rites of Bacchus."
Pentheus here exclaimed, "We have wasted time enough on this
silly story. Take him away and have him executed without delay."
Acetes was led away by the attendants and shut up fast in
prison; but while they were getting ready the instruments of
execution the prison doors came open of their own accord and the
chains fell from his limbs, and when they looked for him he was
nowhere to be found.
Pentheus would take no warning, but instead of sending
others, determined to go himself to the scene of the
solemnities. The mountain Citheron was all alive with
worshippers, and the cries of the Bacchanals resounded on every
side. The noise roused the anger of Pentheus as the sound of a
trumpet does the fire of a war-horse. He penetrated through the
wood and reached an open space where the chief scene of the
orgies met his eyes. At the same moment the women saw him; and
first among them his own mother, Agave, blinded by the god,
cried out, "See there the wild boar, the hugest monster that
prowls in these woods! Come on, sisters! I will be the first to
strike the wild boar." The whole band rushed upon him, and while
he now talks less arrogantly, now excuses himself, and now
confesses his crime and implores pardon, they press upon him and
wound him. In vain he cries to his aunts to protect him from his
mother. Autonoe seized one arm, Ino the other, and between them
he was torn to pieces, while his mother shouted, "Victory!
Victory! we have done it; the glory is ours!"
So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece.
There is an allusion to the story of Bacchus and the mariners
in Milton's "Comus," at line 46. The story of Circe will be
found in Chapter XXIX.
"Bacchus that first from out the purple grapes
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan mariners transformed,
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed
On Circe's island fell; (who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun? whose charmed cup
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
And downward fen into a grovelling swine.)"
ARIADNE.
We have seen in the story of Theseus how Ariadne, the daughter
of King Minos, after helping Theseus to escape from the
labyrinth, was carried by him to the island of Naxos and was
left there asleep, while the ungrateful Theseus pursued his way
home without her. Ariadne, on waking and finding herself
deserted, abandoned herself to grief. But Venus took pity on
her, and consoled her with the promise that she should have an
immortal lover, instead of the mortal one she had lost.
The island where Ariadne was left was the favourite island of
Bacchus, the same that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to
carry him to, when they so treacherously attempted to make prize
of him. As Ariadne sat lamenting her fate, Bacchus found her,
consoled her, and made her his wife. As a marriage present he
gave her a golden crown, enriched with gems, and when she died,
he took her crown and threw it up into the sky. As it mounted
the gems grew brighter and were turned into stars, and
preserving its form Ariadne's crown remains fixed in the heavens
as a constellation, between the kneeling Hercules and the man
who holds the serpent.
Spenser alludes to Ariadne's crown, though he has made some
mistakes in his mythology. It was at the wedding of Pirithous,
and not Theseus, that the Centaurs and Lapithae quarrelled.
"Look how the crown which Ariadne wore
Upon her ivory forehead that same day
That Theseus her unto his bridal bore,
Then the bold Centaurs made that bloody fray
With the fierce Lapiths which did them dismay;
Being now placed in the firmament,
Through the bright heaven doth her beams display,
And is unto the stars an ornament,
Which round about her move in order excellent."
|
CHAPTER XXII.
THE RURAL DEITIES- ERISICHTHON- RHOECUS- THE
WATER DEITIES- THE CAMENAE- THE WINDS.
THE RURAL DEITIES.
PAN, the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds, dwelt
in grottos, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused
himself with the chase or in leading the dances of the nymphs.
He was fond of music, and was, as we have seen, the inventor of
the syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he himself played in a
masterly manner. Pan, like other gods who dwelt in forests, was
dreaded by those whose occupations caused them to pass through
the woods by night, for the gloom and loneliness of such scenes
dispose the mind to superstitious fears. Hence sudden fright
without any visible cause was ascribed to Pan, and called a
Panic terror.
As the name of the god signifies all, Pan came to be
considered a symbol of the universe and personification of
Nature; and later still to be regarded as a representative of
all the gods and of heathenism itself.
Sylvanus and Faunus were Latin divinities, whose
characteristics are so nearly the same as those of Pan that we
may safely consider them as the same personage under different
names.
The wood-nymphs, Pan's partners in the dance, were but one
class of nymphs. There were besides them the Naiads, who
presided over brooks and fountains, the Oreads, nymphs of
mountains and grottos, and the Nereids, sea-nymphs. The three
last named were immortal, but the wood-nymphs, called Dryads or
Hamadryads, were believed to perish with the trees which had
been their abode and with which they had come into existence. It
was therefore an impious act wantonly to destroy a tree, and in
some aggravated cases was severely punished, as in the instance
of Erisichthon, which we are about to record.
Milton in his glowing description of the early creation, thus
alludes to Pan as the personification of Nature:
"...Universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal spring."
And describing Eve's abode:
"...In shadier bower,
More sacred or sequestered, though but feigned,
Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nymph
Nor Faunus haunted."
Paradise Lost, B. IV.
It was a pleasing trait in the old Paganism that it loved to
trace in every operation of nature the agency of deity. The
imagination nation of the Greeks peopled all the regions of
earth and sea with divinities, to whose agency it attributed
those phenomena which our philosophy ascribes to the operation
of the laws of nature. Sometimes in our poetical moods we feel
disposed to regret the change, and to think that the heart has
lost as much as the head has gained by the substitution. The
poet Wordsworth thus strongly expresses this sentiment:
"...Great God, I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea
And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."
Schiller, in his poem "Die Gotter Griechenlands," expresses
his regret for the overthrow of the beautiful mythology of
ancient times in a way which has called forth an answer from a
Christian poet, Mrs. E. Barrett Browning, in her poem called
"The Dead Pan." The two following verses are a specimen:
"By your beauty which confesses
Some chief Beauty conquering you,
By our grand heroic guesses
Through your falsehood at the True,
We will weep not! earth shall roll
Heir to each god's aureole,
And Pan is dead.
"Earth outgrows the mythic fancies
Sung beside her in her youth;
And those debonaire romances
Sound but dull beside the truth.
Phoebus' chariot course is run!
Look up, poets, to the sun!
Pan, Pan is dead."
These lines are founded on an early Christian tradition that
when the heavenly host told the shepherds at Bethlehem of the
birth of Christ, a deep groan, heard through all the isles of
Greece, told that the great Pan was dead, and that all the
royalty of Olympus was dethroned and the several deities were
sent wandering in cold and darkness. So Milton in his "Hymn on
the Nativity":
"The lonely mountains o'er
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent:
With flower-enwoven tresses torn,
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn."
ERISICHTHON.
Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods, On
one occasion he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred
to Ceres. There stood in this grove a venerable oak, so large
that it seemed a wood in itself, its ancient trunk towering
aloft, whereon votive garlands were often hung and inscriptions
carved expressing the gratitude of suppliants to the nymph of
the tree. Often had the Dryads danced round it hand in hand. Its
trunk measured fifteen cubits round, and it overtopped the other
trees as they overtopped the shrubbery. But for all that,
Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare it and he ordered
his servants to cut it down. When he saw them hesitate he
snatched an axe from one, and thus impiously exclaimed: "I care
not whether it be a tree beloved of the goddess or not; were it
the goddess herself it should come down if it stood in my way."
So saying, he lifted the axe and the oak seemed to shudder and
utter a groan. When the first blow fell upon the trunk blood
flowed from the wound. All the bystanders were horror-struck,
and one of them ventured to remonstrate and hold back the fatal
axe. Erisichthon, with a scornful look, said to him, "Receive
the reward of your piety;" and turned against him the weapon
which he had held aside from the tree, gashed his body with many
wounds, and cut off his head. Then from the midst of the oak
came a voice, "I who dwell in this tree am a nymph beloved of
Ceres, and dying by your hands forewarn you that punishment
awaits you." He desisted not from his crime, and at last the
tree, sundered by repeated blows and drawn by ropes, fell with a
crash and prostrated a great part of the grove in its fall.
The Dryads, in dismay at the loss of their companion and at
seeing the pride of the forest laid low, went in a body to
Ceres, all clad in garments of mourning, and invoked punishment
upon Erisichthon. She nodded her assent, and as she bowed her
head the grain ripe for harvest in the laden fields bowed also.
She planned a punishment so dire that one would pity him, if
such a culprit as he could be pitied- to deliver him over to
Famine. As Ceres herself could not approach Famine, for the
Fates have ordained that these two goddesses shall never come
together, she called an Oread from her mountain and spoke to her
in these words: "There is a place in the farthest part of
ice-clad Scythia, a sad and sterile region without trees and
without crops. Cold dwells there, and Fear and Shuddering, and
Famine. Go and tell the last to take possession of the bowels of
Erisichthon. Let not abundance subdue her, nor the power of my
gifts drive her away. Be not alarmed at the distance" (for
Famine dwells very far from Ceres), "but take my chariot. The
dragons are fleet and obey the rein, and will take you through
the air in a short time." So she gave her the reins, and she
drove away and soon reached Scythia. On arriving at Mount
Caucasus she stopped the dragons and found Famine in a stony
field, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage. Her
hair was rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her lips blanched,
her jaws covered with dust, and her skin drawn tight, so as to
show all her bones. As the Oread saw her afar off (for she did
not dare to come near), she delivered the commands of Ceres;
and, though she stopped as short a time as possible, and kept
her distance as well as she could, yet she began to feel hungry,
and turned the dragons' heads and drove back to Thessaly.
Famine obeyed the commands of Ceres and sped through the air
to the dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bedchamber of the
guilty man, and found him asleep. She enfolded him with her
wings and breathed herself into him, infusing her poison into
his veins. Having discharged her task, she hastened to leave the
land of plenty and returned to her accustomed haunts.
Erisichthon still slept, and in his dreams craved food, and
moved his jaws as if eating. When he awoke, his hunger was
raging. Without a moment's delay he would have food set before
him, of whatever kind earth, sea, or air produces; and
complained of hunger even while he ate. What would have sufficed
for a city or a nation, was not enough for him. The more he ate
the more he craved. His hunger was like the sea, which receives
all the rivers, yet is never filled; or like fire, that burns
all the fuel that is heaped upon it, yet is still voracious for
more.
His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands
of his appetite, but his hunger continued unabated. At length he
had spent all and had only his daughter left, a daughter worthy
of a better parent. Her too he sold. She scorned to be a slave
of a purchaser and as she stood by the seaside raised her hands
in prayer to Neptune. He heard her prayer, and though her new
master was not far off and had his eye upon her a moment before,
Neptune changed her form and made her assume that of a fisherman
busy at his occupation. Her master, looking for her and seeing
her in her altered form, addressed her and said, "Good
fisherman, whither went the maiden whom I saw just now, with
hair dishevelled and in humble garb, standing about where you
stand? Tell me truly; so may your luck be good and not a fish
nibble at your hook and get away." She perceived that her prayer
was answered and rejoiced inwardly at hearing herself inquired
of about herself. She replied, "Pardon me, stranger, but I have
been so intent upon my line that I have seen nothing else; but I
wish I may never catch another fish if I believe any woman or
other person except myself to have been hereabouts for some
time." He was deceived and went his way, thinking his slave had
escaped. Then she resumed her own form. Her father was well
pleased to find her still with him, and the money too that he
got by the sale of her; so he sold her again. But she was
changed by the favour of Neptune as often as she was sold, now
into a horse, now a bird, now an ox, and now a stag- got away
from her purchasers and came home. By this base method the
starving father procured food; but not enough for his wants, and
at last hunger compelled him to devour his limbs, and he strove
to nourish his body by eating his body, till death relieved him
from the vengeance of Ceres.
RHOECUS.
The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish
injuries. The story of Rhoecus proves this. Rhoecus, happening
to see an oak just ready to fall, ordered his servants to prop
it up. The nymph, who had been on the point of perishing with
the tree, came and expressed her gratitude to him for having
saved her life and bade him ask what reward he would. Rhoecus
boldly asked her love and the nymph yielded to his desire. She
at the same time charged him to be constant and told him that a
bee should be her messenger and let him know when she would
admit his society. One time the bee came to Rhoecus when he was
playing at draughts and he carelessly brushed it away. This so
incensed the nymph that she deprived him of sight.
Our countryman, J. R. Lowell, has taken this story for the
subject of one of his shorter poems. He introduces it thus:
"Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
As full of freedom, youth and beauty still,
As the immortal freshness of that grace
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze."
THE WATER DEITIES.
Oceanus and Tethys were the Titans who ruled over the watery
elements. When Jove and his brothers overthrew the Titans and
assumed their power, Neptune and Amphitrite succeeded to the
dominion of the waters in place of Oceanus and Tethys.
NEPTUNE.
Neptune was the chief of the water deities. The symbol of his
power was the trident, or spear with three points, with which he
used to shatter rocks, to call forth or subdue storms, to shake
the shores and the like. He created the horse and was the patron
of horse races. His own horses had brazen hoofs and golden
manes. They drew his chariot over the sea, which became smooth
before him, while the monsters of the deep gambolled about his
path.
AMPHITRITE.
Amphitrite was the wife of Neptune. She was the daughter of
Nereus and Doris, and the mother of Triton. Neptune, to pay his
court to Amphitrite, came riding on a dolphin. Having won her he
rewarded the dolphin by placing him among the stars.
NEREUS AND DORIS.
Nereus and Doris were the parents of the Nereids, the most
celebrated of whom were Amphitrite, Thetis, the mother of
Achilles, and Galatea, who was loved by the Cyclops Polyphemus:
Nereus was distinguished for his knowledge and his love of truth
and justice, whence he was termed an elder; the gift of prophecy
was also assigned to him.
TRITON AND PROTEUS.
Triton was the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and the poets
made him his father's trumpeter. Proteus was also a son of
Neptune. He, like Nereus, is styled a sea-elder for his wisdom
and knowledge of future events. His peculiar power was that of
changing his shape at will.
THETIS.
Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, was so beautiful
that Jupiter himself sought her in marriage; but having learned
from Prometheus the Titan that Thetis should bear a son who
should be greater than his father, Jupiter desisted from his
suit and decreed that Thetis should be the wife of a mortal. By
the aid of Chiron the Centaur, Peleus succeeded in winning the
goddess for his bride and their son was the renowned Achilles.
In our chapter on the Trojan war it will appear that Thetis was
a faithful mother to him, aiding him in all difficulties, and
watching over his interests from the first to the last.
LEUCOTHEA AND PALAEMON.
Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, flying from
her frantic husband with her little son Melicertes in her arms,
sprang from a cliff into the sea. The gods, out of compassion,
make her a goddess of the sea, under the name of Leucothea, and
him a god, under that of Palaemon. Both were held powerful to
save from shipwreck and were invoked by sailors. Palaemon was
usually represented riding on a dolphin. The Isthmian games were
celebrated in his honour. He was called Portunus by the Romans,
and believed to have jurisdiction of the ports and shores.
Milton alludes to all these deities in the song at the
conclusion of "Comus":
"Sabrina fair...
Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus;
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave, majestic pace;
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian wizard's hook,*
By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son who rules the strands;
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet,
And the songs of Sirens sweet;" etc.
* Proteus.
Armstrong, the poet of the "Art of Preserving Health," under
the inspiration of Hygeia, the goddess of health, thus
celebrates the Naiads. Paeon is a name both of Apollo and
AEsculapius.
"Come ye Naiads! to the fountains lead!
Propitious maids! the task remains to sing
Your gifts (so Paeon, so the powers of Health
Command), to praise your crystal element.
O comfortable streams! with eager lips
And trembling hands the languid thirsty quaff
New life in you; fresh vigour fills their veins.
No warmer cups the rural ages knew,
None warmer sought the sires of humankind;
Happy in temperate peace their equal days
Felt not the alternate fits of feverish mirth
And sick dejection; still serene and pleased,
Blessed with divine immunity from ills,
Long centuries they lived; their only fate
Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death."
THE CAMENAE.
By this name the Latins designated the Muses, but included under
it also some other deities, principally nymphs of fountains.
Egeria was one of them, whose fountain and grotto are still
shown. It was said that Numa, the second king of Rome, was
favoured by this nymph with secret interviews, in which she
taught him those lessons of wisdom and of law which he embodied
in the institutions of his rising nation. After the death of
Numa the nymph pined away and was changed into a fountain.
Byron, in "Childe Harold," Canto IV., thus alludes to Egeria
and her grotto:
"Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
Egeria! all thy heavenly bosom beating
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy;" etc.
Tennyson, also, in his "Palace of Art," gives us a glimpse of
the royal lover expecting the interview:
"Holding one hand against his ear,
To list a footfall ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stayed the Tuscan king to hear
Of wisdom and of law."
THE WINDS.
When so many less active agencies were personified, it is not to
be supposed that the winds failed to be so. They were Boreas or
Aquilo, the north wind; Zephyrus or Favonius, the west; Notus or
Auster, the south; and Eurus, the east. The first two have been
chiefly celebrated by the poets, the former as the type of
rudeness, the latter of gentleness. Boreas loved the nymph
Orithyia, and tried to play the lover's part, but met with poor
success. It was hard for him to breathe gently, and sighing was
out of the question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavours, he
acted out his true character, seized the maiden and carried her
off. Their children were Zetes and Calais, winged warriors, who
accompanied the Argonautic expedition, and did good service in
an encounter with those monstrous birds the Harpies.
Zephyrus was the lover of Flora. Milton alludes to them in
"Paradise Lost," where he describes Adam waking and
contemplating Eve still asleep.
"...He on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love,
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty which; whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice,
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: 'Awake!
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight.'"
Dr. Young, the poet of the "Night Thoughts," addressing the
idle and luxurious, says:
"Ye delicate! who nothing can support
(Yourselves most insupportable) for whom
The winter rose must blow,...
....and silky soft
Favonius breathe still softer or be chid!"
|
CHAPTER XXIII.
ACHELOUS AND HERCULES- ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS-
ANTIGONE- PENELOPE.
ACHELOUS AND HERCULES.
THE river-god Achelous told the story of Erisichthon to Theseus
and his companions, whom he was entertaining at his hospitable
board, while they were delayed on their journey by the overflow
of his waters. Having finished his story, he added, "But why
should I tell of other persons' transformations when I myself am
an instance of the possession of this power? Sometimes I become
a serpent, and sometimes a bull, with horns on my head. Or I
should say I once could do so; but now I have but one horn,
having lost one." And here he groaned and was silent.
Theseus asked him the cause of his grief, and how he lost his
horn. To which question the river-god replied as follows: "Who
likes to tell of his defeats? Yet I will not hesitate to relate
mine, comforting myself with the thought of the greatness of my
conqueror, for it was Hercules. Perhaps you have heard of the
fame of Dejanira, the fairest of maidens, whom a host of suitors
strove to win. Hercules and myself were of the number, and the
rest yielded to us two. He urged in his behalf his descent from
Jove and his labours by which he had exceeded the exactions of
Juno, his stepmother. I, on the other hand, said to the father
of the maiden, 'Behold me, the king of the waters that flow
through your land. I am no stranger from a foreign shore, but
belong to the country, a part of your realm. Let it not stand in
my way that royal Juno owes me no enmity nor punishes me with
heavy tasks. As for this man, who boasts himself the son of
Jove, it is either a false pretence, or disgraceful to him if
true, for it cannot be true except by his mother's shame.' As I
said this Hercules scowled upon me, and with difficulty
restrained his rage. 'My hand will answer better than my
tongue,' said he. 'I yield to you the victory in words, but
trust my cause to the strife of deeds.' With that he advanced
towards me, and I was ashamed, after what I had said, to yield.
I threw off my green vesture and presented myself for the
struggle. He tried to throw me, now attacking my head, now my
body. My bulk was my protection, and he assailed me in vain. For
a time we stopped, then returned to the conflict. We each kept
our position, determined not to yield, foot to foot, I bending
over him, clenching his hand in mine, with my forehead almost
touching his. Thrice Hercules tried to throw me off, and the
fourth time he succeeded, brought me to the ground, and himself
upon my back. I tell you the truth, it was as if a mountain had
fallen on me. I struggled to get my arms at liberty, panting and
reeking with perspiration. He gave me no chance to recover, but
seized my throat. My knees were on the earth and my mouth in the
dust.
"Finding that I was no match for him in the warrior's art, I
resorted to others and glided away in the form of a serpent. I
curled my body in a coil and hissed at him with my forked
tongue. He smiled scornfully at this, and said, 'It was the
labour of my infancy to conquer snakes.' So saying he clasped my
neck with his hands. I was almost choked, and struggled to get
my neck out of his grasp. Vanquished in this form, I tried what
alone remained to me and assumed the form of a bull. He grasped
my neck with his arm, and dragging my head down to the ground,
overthrew me on the sand. Nor was this enough. His ruthless hand
rent my horn from my head. The Naiads took it, consecrated it,
and filled it with fragrant flowers. Plenty adopted my horn and
made it her own, and called it 'Cornucopia.'"
The ancients were fond of finding a hidden meaning in their
mythological tales. They explain this fight of Achelous with
Hercules by saying Achelous was a river that in seasons of rain
overflowed its banks. When the fable says that Achelous loved
Dejanira, and sought a union with her, the meaning is that the
river in its windings flowed through part of Dejanira's kingdom.
It was said to take the form of a snake because of its winding,
and of a bull because it made a brawling or roaring in its
course. When the river swelled, it made itself another channel.
Thus its head was horned. Hercules prevented the return of these
periodical overflows by embankments and canals; and therefore he
was said to have vanquished the river-god and cut off his horn.
Finally, the lands formerly subject to overflow, but now
redeemed, became very fertile, and this is meant by the horn of
plenty.
There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia.
Jupiter at his birth was committed by his mother Rhea to the
care of the daughters of Melisseus, a Cretan king. They fed the
infant deity with the milk of the goat Amalthea. Jupiter broke
off one of the horns of the goat and gave it to his nurses, and
endowed it with the wonderful power of becoming filled with
whatever the possessor might wish.
The name of Amalthea is also given by some writers to the
mother of Bacchus. It is thus used by Milton, "Paradise Lost,"
Book IV.:
"...That Nyseian isle,
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea and her florid son,
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye."
ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS.
AEsculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with
such skill in the healing art that he even restored the dead to
life. At this Pluto took alarm, and prevailed on Jupiter to
launch a thunderbolt at AEsculapius. Apollo was indignant at the
destruction of his son, and wreaked his vengeance on the
innocent workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the
Cyclopses, who have their workshop under Mount AEtna, from which
the smoke and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing.
Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopses, which so incensed
Jupiter that he condemned him as a punishment to become the
servant of a mortal for the space of one year. Accordingly
Apollo went into the service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and
pastured his flocks for him on the verdant banks of the river
Amphrysos.
Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis,
the daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come
for her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus
performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made
happy in the possession of Alcestis. But Admetus fell ill, and
being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him
on condition that some one would consent to die in his stead.
Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the
ransom, and perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment
which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents
fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was
not so. Brave warriors, who would willingly have perilled their
lives for their prince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him
on the bed of sickness; and old servants who had experienced his
bounty and that of his house from their childhood up, were not
willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show
their gratitude. Men asked, "Why does not one of his parents do
it? They cannot in the course of nature live much longer, and
who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave
from an untimely end?" But the parents, distressed though they
were at the thought of losing him, shrunk from the call. Then
Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as
the substitute. Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have
submitted to receive it at such a cost; Lut there was no remedy.
The condition imposed by the Fates had been met, and the decree
was irrevocable. Alcestis sickened as Admetus revived, and she
was rapidly sinking to the grave.
Just at this time Hercules arrived at the Palace of Admetus,
and found all the inmates in great distress for the impending
loss of the devoted wife and beloved mistress. Hercules, to whom
no labour was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. He
went and lay in wait at the door of the chamber of the dying
queen, and when Death came for his prey, he seized him and
forced him to resign his victim. Alcestis recovered, and was
restored to her husband.
Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet "on his
deceased wife":
"Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint."
J. R. Lowell has chosen the "Shepherd of King Admetus" for
the subject of a short poem. He makes that event the first
introduction of poetry to men.
"Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw,
And yet unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.
"And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother was a god."
ANTIGONE.
A large proportion both of the interesting persons and of the
exalted acts of legendary Greece belongs to the female sex.
Antigone was as bright an example of filial and sisterly
fidelity as was Alcestis of connubial devotion. She was the
daughter of OEdipus and Jocasta, who with all their descendants
were the victims of an unrelenting fate, dooming them to
destruction. OEdipus in his madness had torn out his eyes, and
was driven forth from his kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned
by all men, as an object of divine vengeance. Antigone, his
daughter, alone shared his wanderings and remained with him till
he died, and then returned to Thebes.
Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the
kingdom between them, and reign alternately year by year. The
first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time
expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother.
Polynices fled to Adrastus, king of Argos, who gave him his
daughter in marriage, and aided him with an army to enforce his
claim to the kingdom. This led to the celebrated expedition of
the "Seven against Thebes," which furnished ample materials for
the epic and tragic poets of Greece.
Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the
enterprise, for he was a soothsayer, and knew by his art that no
one of the leaders except Adrastus would live to return. But
Amphiaraus, on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king's sister, had
agreed that whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion,
the decision should be left to Eriphyle. Polynices, knowing
this, gave Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and thereby gained
her to his interest. This collar or necklace was a present which
Vulcan had given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus, and
Polynices had taken it with him on his flight from Thebes.
Eriphyle could not resist so tempting a bribe, and by her
decision the war was resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his
certain fate. He bore his part bravely in the contest, but could
not avert his destiny. Pursued by the enemy, he fled along the
river, when a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter opened the ground,
and he, his chariot, and his charioteer were swallowed up.
It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of
heroism or atrocity which marked the contest; but we must not
omit to record the fidelity of Evadne as an offset to the
weakness of Eriphyle. Capaneus, the husband of Evadne, in the
ardour of the fight declared that he would force his way into
the city in spite of Jove himself. Placing a ladder against the
wall he mounted, but Jupiter, offended at his impious language,
struck him with a thunderbolt. When his obsequies were
celebrated, Evadne cast herself on his funeral pile and
perished.
Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer
Tiresias as to the issue. Tiresias in his youth had by chance
seen Minerva bathing. The goddess in her wrath deprived him of
his sight, but afterwards relenting gave him in compensation the
knowledge of future events. When consulted by Eteocles, he
declared that victory should fall to Thebes if Menoeceus, the
son of Creon, gave himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth,
learning the response, threw away his life in the first
encounter.
The siege continued long, with various success. At length
both hosts agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel
by single combat. They fought and fell by each other's hands.
The armies then renewed the fight, and at last the invaders were
forced to yield, and fled, leaving their dead unburied. Creon,
the uncle of the fallen princes, now become king, caused
Eteocles to be buried with distinguished honour, but suffered
the body of Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every one
on pain of death to give it burial.
Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the
revolting edict which consigned her brother's body to the dogs
and vultures, depriving it of those rites which were considered
essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading
counsel of an affectionate but timid sister, and unable to
procure assistance, she determined to brave the hazard, and to
bury the body with her own hands. She was detected in the act,
and Creon gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having
deliberately set at naught the solemn edict of the city. Her
lover, Haemon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate, would
not survive her, and fall by his own hand.
Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the
Grecian poet Sophocles. Mrs. Jameson, in her "Characteristics of
Women," has compared her character with that of Cordelia, in
Shakspeare's "King Lear."
The following is the lamentation of Antigone over OEdipus,
when death has at last relieved him from his sufferings:
"Alas! I only wished I might have died
With my poor father; wherefore should I ask
For longer life?
O, I was fond of misery with him;
E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved
When he was with me. O my dearest father,
Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,
Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still
Wast dear, and shalt be ever."
Francklin's Sophocles
PENELOPE.
Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were
rather those of character and conduct than of person. She was
the daughter of Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, king of
Ithaca, sought her in marriage, and won her, over all
competitors. When the moment came for the bride to leave her
father's house, Icarius, unable to bear the thoughts of parting
with his daughter, tried to persuade her to remain with him, and
not accompany her husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope her
choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but
dropped her veil over her face. Icarius urged her no further,
but when she was gone erected a statue to Modesty on the spot
where they parted.
Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a
year when it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses
to the Trojan war. During his long absence, and when it was
doubtful whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he
would ever return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors,
from whom there seemed no refuge but in choosing one of them for
her husband. Penelope, however, employed every art to gain time,
still hoping for Ulysses' return. One of her arts of delay was
engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of
Laertes, her husband's father. She pledged herself to make her
choice among the suitors when the robe was finished. During the
day she worked at the robe, but in the night she undid the work
of the day. This is the famous Penelope's web, which is used as
a proverbial expression for anything which is perpetually doing
but never done. The rest of Penelope's history will be told when
we give an account of her husband's adventures.
|
CHAPTER XXIV.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE- ARISTAEUS- AMPHION- LINUS-
THAMYRIS- MARSYAS- MELAMPUS- MUSAEUS.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
ORPHEUS was the son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. He was
presented by his father with a lyre and taught to play upon it,
which he did to such perfection that nothing could withstand the
charm of his music. Not only his fellow-mortals, but wild beasts
were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by
their fierceness, and stood entranced with his lay. Nay, the
very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The former
crowded round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their
hardness, softened by his notes.
Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials
of Orpheus with Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no
happy omens with him. His very torch smoked and brought tears
into their eyes. In coincidence with such prognostics, Eurydice,
shortly after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her
companions, was seen by the shepherd Aristaeus, who was struck
by her beauty and made advances to her. She fled, and in flying
trod upon a snake in the grass, was bitten in the foot, and
died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air,
both gods and men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to
seek his wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave
situated on the side of the promontory of Taenarus and arrived
at the Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts and
presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine.
Accompanying the words with the lyre, he sung, "O deities of the
under-world, to whom all we who live must come, hear my words,
for they are true. I come not to spy out the secrets of
Tartarus, nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog
with snaky hair who guards the entrance. I come to seek my wife,
whose opening years the poisonous viper's fang has brought to an
untimely end. Love has led me here, Love, a god all powerful
with us who dwell on the earth, and, if old traditions say true,
not less so here. I implore you by these abodes full of terror,
these realms of silence and uncreated things, unite again the
thread of Eurydice's life. We all are destined to you, and
sooner or later must pass to your domain. She too, when she
shall have filled her term of life, will rightly be yours. But
till then grant her to me, I beseech you. If you deny me, I
cannot return alone; you shall triumph in the death of us both."
As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears.
Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his
efforts for water, Ixion's wheel stood still, the vulture ceased
to tear the giant's liver, the daughters of Danaus rested from
their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his
rock to listen. Then for the first time, it is said, the cheeks
of the Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist,
and Pluto himself gave way. Eurydice was called. She came from
among the new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot.
Orpheus was permitted to take her away with him on one
condition, that he should not turn around to look at her till
they should have reached the upper air. Under this condition
they proceeded on their way, he leading, she following, through
passages dark and steep, in total silence, till they had nearly
reached the outlet into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus,
in a moment of forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was
still following, cast a glance behind him, when instantly she
was borne away. Stretching out their arms to embrace each other,
they grasped only the air! Dying now a second time, she yet
cannot reproach her husband, for how can she blame his
impatience to behold her? "Farewell," she said, "a last
farewell,"- and was hurried away, so fast that the sound hardly
reached his ears.
Orpheus endeavoured to follow her, and besought permission to
return and try once more for her release; but the stern ferryman
repulsed him and refused passage. Seven days he lingered about
the brink, without food or sleep; then bitterly accusing of
cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the
rocks and mountains, melting the hearts of tigers and moving the
oaks from their stations. He held himself aloof from womankind,
dwelling constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance.
The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he
repulsed their advances. They bore with him as long as they
could; but finding him insensible one day, excited by the rites
of Bacchus, one of them exclaimed, "See yonder our despiser!"
and threw at him her javelin. The weapon, as soon as it came
within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless at his feet. So did
also the stones that they threw at him. But the women raised a
scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the missiles
reached him and soon were stained with his blood. The maniacs
tore him limb from limb, and threw his head and his lyre into
the river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music,
to which the shores responded a plaintive symphony. The Muses
gathered up the fragments of his body and buried them at
Libethra, where the nightingale is said to sing over his grave
more sweetly than in any other part of Greece. His lyre was
placed by Jupiter among the stars. His shade passed a second
time to Tartarus. where he sought out his Eurydice and embraced
her with eager arms. They roam the happy fields together now,
sometimes he leading, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes as much
as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty for a
thoughtless glance.
The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration
of the power of music, for his "Ode for St. Cecilia's Day." The
following stanza relates the conclusion of the story:
"But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
All alone,
He makes his moan,
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost!
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows.
See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies;
Hark! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries.
Ah, see, he dies!
Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:
Eurydice the woods
Eurydice the floods
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung."
The superior melody of the nightingale's song over the grave
of Orpheus is alluded to by Southey in his "Thalaba":
"Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose!
Far music and the distance-mellowed song
From bowers of merriment;
The waterfall remote;
The murmuring of the leafy groves;
The single nightingale
Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,
That never from that most melodious bird
Singing a love song to his brooding mate,
Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,
Though there the spirit of the sepulchre
All his own power infuse, to swell
The incense that he loves."
ARISTAEUS, THE BEE-KEEPER.
Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals
for his own advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping bees.
Honey must first have been known as a wild product, the bees
building their structures in hollow trees or holes in the rocks,
or any similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the
carcass of a dead animal would be occupied by the bees for that
purpose. It was no doubt from some such incident that the
superstition arose that the bees were engendered by the decaying
flesh of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story, shows
how this supposed fact may be turned to account for renewing the
swarm when it has been lost by disease or accident.
Aristaeus, who first taught the management of bees, was the
son of the water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished, and he
resorted for aid to his mother. He stood at the river side and
thus addressed her: "O mother, the pride of my life is taken
from me! I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have
availed me nothing, and you, my mother, have not warded off from
me the blow of misfortune." His mother heard these complaints as
she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river, with her
attendant nymphs around her. They were engaged in female
occupations, spinning and weaving, while one told stories to
amuse the rest. The sad voice of Aristaeus interrupting their
occupation, one of them put her head above the water and seeing
him, returned and gave information to his mother, who ordered
that he should be brought into her presence. The river at her
command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood curled
like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region where
the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the enormous
receptacles of waters and was almost deafened with the roar,
while he surveyed them hurrying off in various directions to
water the face of the earth. Arriving at his mother's apartment,
he was hospitably received by Cyrene and her nymphs, who spread
their table with the richest dainties. They first poured out
libations to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the feast,
and after that Cyrene thus addressed him: "There is an old
prophet named Proteus, who dwells in the sea and is a favourite
of Neptune, whose herd of sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold
him in great respect, for he is a learned sage and knows all
things, past, present, and to come. He can tell you, my son, the
cause of the mortality among your bees and how you may remedy
it. But he will not do it voluntarily, however you may entreat
him. You must compel him by force. If you seize him and chain
him, he will answer your questions in order to get released, for
he cannot by all his arts get away if you hold fast the chains.
I will carry you to his cave, where he comes at noon to take his
midday repose. Then you may easily secure him. But when he finds
himself captured, his resort is to a power he possesses of
changing himself into various forms. He will become a wild boar
or a fierce tiger, a scaly dragon or lion with yellow mane. Or
be will make a noise like the crackling of flames or the rush of
water, so as to tempt you to let go the chain, when he will make
his escape. But you have only to keep him fast bound, and at
last when he finds all his arts unavailing, he will return to
his own figure and obey your commands." So saying she sprinkled
her son with fragrant nectar, the beverage of the gods, and
immediately an unusual vigour filled his frame, and courage his
heart, while perfume breathed all around him.
The nymph led her son to the prophet's cave and concealed him
among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her
place behind the clouds. When noon came and the hour when men
and herds retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet
slumber, Proteus issued from the water, followed by his herd of
sea-calves which spread themselves along the shore. He sat on
the rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself on the
floor of the cave and went to sleep. Aristaeus hardly allowed
him to get fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and
shouted aloud. Proteus, waking and finding himself captured,
immediately resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a
flood, then a horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But
finding all would not do, he at last resumed his own form and
addressed the youth in angry accents: "Who are you, bold youth,
who thus invade my abode, and what do you want with me?"
Aristaeus replied, "Proteus, you know already, for it is
needless for any one to attempt to deceive you. And do you also
cease your efforts to elude me. I am led hither by divine
assistance, to know from you the cause of my misfortune and how
to remedy it." At these words the prophet, fixing on him his
grey eyes with a piercing look, thus spoke: "You receive the
merited reward of your deeds, by which Eurydice met her death,
for in flying from you she trod upon a serpent, of whose bite
she died. To avenge her death, the nymphs, her companions, have
sent this destruction to your bees. You have to appease their
anger, and thus it must be done: Select four bulls, of perfect
form and size, and four cows of equal beauty, build four altars
to the nymphs, and sacrifice the animals, leaving their
carcasses in the leafy grove. To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall
pay such funeral honours as may allay their resentment.
Returning after nine days, you will examine the bodies of the
cattle slain and see what will befall." Aristaeus faithfully
obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he left their
bodies in the grove, he offered funeral honours to the shades of
Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day he
examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate! a
swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses and
were pursuing their labours there as in a hive.
In "The Task," Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when
speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia.
He has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in
connection with waterfalls. etc.:
"Less worthy of applause though more admired
Because a novelty, the work of man,
Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
The wonder of the north. No forest fell
When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores
T' enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods
And make thy marble of the glassy wave.
In such a palace Aristaeus found
Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
Of his lost bees to her maternal ear."
Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene
in his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the
river Severn, in the Guardian-spirit's song in "Comus":
"Sabrina fair!
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-drooping hair;
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake!
Listen and save."
The following are other celebrated mythical poets and
musicians, some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself:
AMPHION.
Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes.
With his twin brother Zethus, he was exposed at birth on Mount
Cithaeron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing
their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre and taught him to
play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and
tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had
been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of
Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her
children of their rights and to summon them to her assistance.
With a band of their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew
Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let
him drag her till she was dead.* Amphion, having become king of
Thebes, fortified the city with a wall. It is said that when he
played on his lyre the stones moved of their own accord and took
their places in the wall.
See Tennyson's poem of "Amphion" for an amusing use made of
this story.
* The punishment of Dirce is the subject of a celebrated
group of statuary now in the Museum at Naples.
LINUS.
Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one
day reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of
Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him.
THAMYRIS.
An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged
the Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the
contest, was deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to
him with other blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness,
"Paradise Lost," Book III. 35.
MARSYAS.
Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight
of all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid
having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made
while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away,
and it fell down to earth and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon
it, and drew from it such ravishing sounds that he was tempted
to challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of
course triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.
MELAMPUS.
Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers.
Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's
nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus
took care of the young ones and fed them carefully. One day when
he was asleep under the oak the serpents licked his ears with
their tongues. On awaking he was astonished to find that he now
understood the language of birds and creeping things. This
knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a
renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive
and kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of the
night heard the woodworms in the timbers talking together, and
found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten
through and the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors and
demanded to be let out, warning them also. They took his
warning, and thus escaped destruction, and regarded Melampus and
held him in high honour.
MUSAEUS.
A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one
tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written
sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of
Orpheus in his "Il Penseroso":
"But O, sad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek."
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CHAPTER XXV.
ARION- IBYCUS- SIMONIDES- SAPPHO.
THE poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real
persons some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on
poets who succeeded them is yet more important than their
poetical remains. The adventures recorded of them in the
following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives
of the "Age of Fable," that is, of the poets who have told them.
In their present form, the first two are translated from the
German, Arion from Schlegel, and Ibycus from Schiller.
ARION.
Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of
Periander, king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favourite.
There was to be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to
compete for the prize, He told his wish to Periander, who
besought him like a brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay
with me," he said, "and be contented. He who strives to win may
lose." Arion answered, "A wandering life best suits the free
heart of a poet. The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would
fain make a source of pleasure to others. And if I win the
prize, how will the enjoyment of it be increased by the
consciousness of my widespread fame!" He went, won the prize,
and embarked with his wealth in a Corinthian ship for home. On
the second morning after setting sail, the wind breathed mild
and fair. "O Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your fears! Soon
shall you forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings
will we display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we
be at the festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious.
Not a cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to
the ocean- but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging
hints with one another, and found they were plotting to possess
themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud
and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die! If you would have
a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if
otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will nothing satisfy
you but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome, I
willingly buy my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare
you. Your life would be too dangerous to us. Where could we go
to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been
robbed by us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on
returning home, we could never more be free from fear." "Grant
me, then," said he, "a last request, since nought will avail to
save my life, that I may die, as I have lived, as becomes a
bard. When I shall have sung my death song, and my harp-strings
shall have ceased to vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life,
and yield uncomplaining to my fate." This prayer, like the
others, would have been unheeded,- they thought only of their
booty,- but to hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude
hearts. "Suffer me," he added, "to arrange my dress. Apollo will
not favour me unless I be clad in my minstrel garb."
He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple
fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels
adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and
over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with
odours. His left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand
with which he struck its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to
drink the morning air and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen
gazed with admiration. He strode forward to the vessel's side
and looked down into the deep blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he
sang, "Companion of my voice, come with me to the realm of
shades. Though Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can
tame his rage. Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the
darkling flood,- ye happy souls, soon shall I join your band.
Yet can ye relieve my grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me.
Thou, who didst find thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as
found; when she had vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate
the cheerful light! I must away, but I will not fear. The gods
look down upon us. Ye who slay me unoffending, when I am no
more, your time of trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive
your guest, who throws himself upon your mercy!" So saying, he
sprang into the deep sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen
held on their way, fancying themselves safe from all danger of
detection.
But the strains of his music had drawn round him the
inhabitants of the deep to listen, and Dolphins followed the
ship as if chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves,
a Dolphin offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon
safe to shore. At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass
was afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the
memory of the event.
When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element,
Arion thus poured forth his thanks: "Farewell, thou faithful,
friendly fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst
not wend with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not
have. May Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favour,
and thou, proud of the burden, draw her chariot over the smooth
mirror of the deep."
Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the
towers of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he
went, full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and
mindful only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He
entered the hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the
embrace of Periander. "I come back to thee, my friend," he said.
"The talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of
thousands, but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned
treasure; yet I retain the consciousness of widespread fame."
Then he told Periander all the wonderful events that had
befallen him, who heard him with amazement. "Shall such
wickedness triumph?" said he. "Then in vain is power lodged in
my hands. That we may discover the criminals, you must remain
here in concealment, and so they will approach without
suspicion." When the ship. arrived in the harbour, he summoned
the mariners before him. "Have you heard anything of Arion?" he
inquired. "I anxiously look for his return." They replied, "We
left him well and prosperous in Tarentum." As they said these
words, Arion stepped forth and faced them. His well-proportioned
limbs were arrayed in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic
fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his arms, his
brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and
shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odours; his left hand
held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its
chords. They fell prostrate at his feet, as if a lightning bolt
had struck them. "We meant to murder him, and he has become a
god. O Earth, open and receive us!" Then Periander spoke. "He
lives, the master of the lay! Kind Heaven protects the poet's
life. As for you, I invoke not the spirit of vengeance; Arion
wishes not your blood. Ye slaves of avarice, begone! Seek some
barbarous land, and never may aught beautiful delight your
souls!"
Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin,
accompanying the train of Neptune and Amphitrite:
"Then was there heard a most celestial sound
Of dainty music which did next ensue,
And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
Arion with his harp unto him drew
The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
Through the AEgean Seas from pirates' view,
Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."
Byron, in his "Childe Harold," Canto II., alludes to the
story of Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one
of the seamen making music to entertain the rest:
"The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move
Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove."
IBYCUS.
In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows it is
necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients
were immense fabrics capable of containing from ten to thirty
thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal
occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually
filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the
performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling
representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It
is recorded that AEschylus, the tragic poet, having on one
occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers,
the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were
thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like
representation for the future.
Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races
and musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which
attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the
gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his
way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of
Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered
with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was
in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead taking the same
course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. "Good
luck to you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my
companions from across the sea. I take your company for a good
omen. We come from far and fly in search of hospitality. May
both of us meet that kind reception which shields the stranger
guest from harm!"
He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood.
There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and
barred his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand, accustomed
to the lyre, and not to the strife of arms, sank powerless. He
called for help on men and gods, but his cry reached no
defender's ear. "Then here must I die," said he, "in a strange
land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and see none
to avenge my, cause." Sore wounded, he sank to the earth, when
hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. "Take up my cause, ye
cranes," he said, "since no voice but yours answers to my cry."
So saying he closed his eyes in death.
The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though
disfigured with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth
who had expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored
to me?" he exclaimed. "I who hoped to entwine your temples with
the wreath of triumph in the strife of song!"
The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with
dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.
They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded
vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.
But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from
amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendour of the
feast? Did he fall by the hands of robbers or did some private
enemy slay him? The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no
other eye beheld it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now
walks in the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his
crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their
own temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in
this throng of men that now presses into the amphitheatre.
For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fills the
seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The
murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the
circles widening in their ascent rise tier on tier, as if they
would reach the sky.
And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the
chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances
with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre.
Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can
that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings?
The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands
torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were
bloodless, and in place of hair writhing and swelling serpents
curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings
sang their hymns, rending the hearts of the guilty, and
enchaining all their faculties. It rose and swelled,
overpowering the sound of the instruments, stealing the
judgment, palsying the heart, curdling the blood.
"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime!
Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure
from us. But woe! woe! to him who has done the deed of secret
murder. We, the fearful family of Night, fasten ourselves upon
his whole being. Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still
faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet, and bring
him to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our
course; still on and on, to the end of life, we give him no
peace nor rest." Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn
cadence, while stillness like the stillness of death sat over
the whole assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings;
and then in solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre,
they passed out at the back of the stage.
Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every
breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful
power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of
destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the
uppermost benches- "Look! look! comrade, yonder are the cranes
of Ibycus!" And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a
dark object which a moment's inspection showed to be a flock of
cranes flying directly over the theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he
say?" The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As
wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to
mouth the words, "Of Ibycus! him whom we all lament, whom some
murderer's hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?"
And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning's
flash the thought sped through every heart, "Observe the power
of the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! the murderer
has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry
and the other to whom he spoke!"
The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was
too late. The faces of the murderers, pale with terror, betrayed
their guilt. The people took them before the judge, they
confessed their crime, and suffered the punishment they
deserved.
SIMONIDES.
Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of
Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have
descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies. In
the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His
genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with
truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The "Lamentation of
Danae," the most important of the fragments which remain of his
poetry, is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant
son were confined by order of her father, Acrisius, in a chest
and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island
of Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and
carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and
protected them. The child, Perseus, when grown up became a
famous hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous
chapter.
Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes,
and often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes,
receiving his reward from the munificence of those whose
exploits he celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but
closely resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus,
described by Homer, or of Homer himself, as recorded by
tradition.
On one occasion, when residing at the court of Scopas, king
of Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in
celebration of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In
order to diversify his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for
his piety, introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and
Pollux. Such digressions were not unusual with the poets on
similar occasions, and one might suppose an ordinary mortal
might have been content to share the praises of the sons of
Leda. But vanity is exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal
board among his courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every verse
that did not rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached
to receive the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the
expected sum, saying, "Here is payment for my portion of thy
performance; Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee
for so much as relates to them." The disconcerted poet returned
to his seat amidst the laughter which followed the great man's
jest. In a little time he received a message that two young men
on horseback were waiting without and anxious to see him.
Simonides hastened to the door, but looked in vain for the
visitors. Scarcely, however, had he left the banqueting hall
when the roof fell in with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all
his guests beneath the ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance
of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied
that they were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves.
SAPPHO.
Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of
Greek literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they
are enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius.
The story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was
passionately in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and
failing to obtain a return of affection she threw herself from
the promontory of Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition
that those who should take that "Lover's-leap" would, if not
destroyed, be cured of their love.
Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in "Childe Harold,"
Canto II.:
"Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spot
Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave,
And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
The lover's refuge and the Lesbian's grave.
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
"'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar; etc.
Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her "leap" are
referred to the "Spectator," Nos. 223 and 229. See also Moore's
"Evenings in Greece."
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CHAPTER XXVI.
ENDYMION- ORION- AURORA AND TITHONUS- ACIS AND GALATEA.
ENDYMION was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount
Latmos. One calm, clear night Diana, the moon, looked down and
saw him sleeping. The cold heart of the virgin goddess was
warmed by his surpassing beauty, and she came down to him,
kissed him, and watched over him while he slept.
Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of
perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we
can have but few adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took
care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life,
for she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs
from the wild beasts.
The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human
meaning which it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young
poet, his fancy and his heart seeking in vain for that which can
satisfy them, finding his favourite hour in the quiet moonlight,
and nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent
witness the melancholy and the ardour which consume him. The
story suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life spent more in
dreams than in reality, and an early and welcome death.- S. G.
B.
The "Endymion" of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem,
containing some exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon:
"...The sleeping kine
Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;" etc., etc.
Dr. Young, in the "Night Thoughts," alludes to Endymion thus:
"...These thoughts, O Night, are thine;
From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs,
While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,
In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured less
Than I of thee."
Fletcher, in the "Faithful Shepherdess," tells:
"How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest."
ORION.
Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a
mighty hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through
the depths of the sea, or, as others say, of walking on its
surface.
Orion loved Merope, the daughter of OEnopion, king of Chios,
and sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild
beasts, and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his
beloved; but as OEnopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion
attempted to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her
father, incensed at this conduct, having made Orion drunk,
deprived him of his sight and cast him out on the seashore. The
blinded hero followed the sound, of a Cyclops' hammer till he
reached Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking
pity on him, gave him Kedalion, one of his men, to be his guide
to the abode of the sun. Placing Kedalion on his shoulders,
Orion proceeded to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was
restored to sight by his beam.
After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was
a favourite, and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her
brother was highly displeased and often chid her, but to no
purpose. One day, observing Orion wading through the sea with
his head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his
sister and maintained that she could not hit that black thing on
the sea. The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim.
The waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and
bewailing her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him
among the stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle,
sword, lion's skin, and club. Sirius, his dog, follows him, and
the Pleiads fly before him.
The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's
train. One day Orion saw them and became enamoured and pursued
them. In their distress they prayed to the gods to change their
form, and Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, and then
made them a constellation in the sky. Though their number was
seven, only six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it
is said left her place that she might not behold the ruin of
Troy, for that city was founded by her son Dardanus. The sight
had such an effect on her sisters that they have looked pale
ever since.
Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the "Occultation of Orion." The
following lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic
story. We must premise that on the celestial globe Orion is
represented as robed in a lion's skin and wielding a club. At
the moment the stars of the constellation, one by one, were
quenched in the light of the moon, the poet tells us
"Down fell the red skin of the lion
Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; but he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
When blinded by OEnopion
He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
And climbing up the narrow gorge,
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun."
Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads:
"Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow
shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid."
Locksley Hall.
Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:
"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."
See also Mrs. Hemans's verses on the same subject.
AURORA AND TITHONUS.
The goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at
times inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favourite
was Tithonus son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away,
and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but,
forgetting to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she
began to discern, to her great mortification, that he was
growing old. When his hair was quite white she left his society;
but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial
food, and was clad in celestial raiment. At length he lost the
power of using his limbs, and then she shut him up in his
chamber, whence his feeble voice might at times be heard.
Finally she turned him into a grasshopper.
Memnon was the son of Aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the
AEthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of
Ocean. He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his
father in the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great
honours, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the
wonders of the ocean shore.
The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose,
led his troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of
Nestor, fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight,
when Achilles appeared and restored the battle. A long and
doubtful contest ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at
length victory declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the
Trojans fled in dismay.
Aurora, who from her station in the sky had viewed with
apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall,
directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the
banks of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora
came, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and
lamented over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread
the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of
the Dawn. The AEthiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the
stream in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks
and cinders of his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which,
dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell
into the flames. Every year at the anniversary of his death they
return and celebrate his obsequies in like manner. Aurora
remains inconsolable for the loss of her son. Her tears still
flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops
on the grass.
Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there still
exist some memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in
Egypt, are two colossal statues, one of which is said to be the
statue of Memnon. Ancient writers record that when the first
rays of the rising sun fall upon this statue a sound is heard to
issue from it, which they compare to the snapping of a
harp-string. There is some doubt about the identification of the
existing statue with the one described by the ancients, and the
mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there are not
wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible. It
has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making
its escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given
some ground for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late
traveller, of the highest authority, examined the statue itself,
and discovered that it was hollow, and that "in the lap of the
statue is a stone, which on being struck emits a metallic sound,
that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who was
predisposed to believe its powers."
The vocal statue of Memnon is a favourite subject of allusion
with the poets. Darwin, in his "Botanic Garden," says:
"So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane
Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
And holy echoes swell the adoring song."
Book I., 1. 182.
ACIS AND GALATEA.
Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favourite of the
Sea-Nymphs. She had many suitors, but repelled them all, and
would go to the grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she was
persecuted. One day the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair,
listened to the story, and then replied, "Yet, maiden, your
persecutors are of the not ungentle race of men, whom, if you
will, you can repel; but I, the daughter of Nereus, and
protected by such a band of sisters, found no escape from the
passion of the Cyclops but in the depths of the sea;" and tears
stopped her utterance, which when the pitying maiden had wiped
away with her delicate finger, and soothed the goddess, "Tell
me, dearest," said she, "the cause of your grief." Galatea then
said, "Acis was the son of Faunus, and a Naiad. His father and
mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal to mine.
For the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and he was
just sixteen years old, the down just beginning to darken his
cheeks. As much as I sought his society, so much did the Cyclops
seek mine; and if you ask me whether my love for Acis or my
hatred of Polyphemus was the stronger, I cannot tell you; they
were in equal measure. O Venus, how great is thy power! this
fierce giant, the terror of the woods, whom no hapless stranger
escaped unharmed, who defied even Jove himself, learned to feel
what love was, and, touched with a passion for me, forgot his
flocks and his well-stored caverns. Then for the first time he
began to take some care of his appearance, and to try to make
himself agreeable; he harrowed those coarse locks of his with a
comb, and mowed his beard with a sickle, looked at his harsh
features in the water, and composed his countenance. His love of
slaughter, his fierceness and thirst of blood prevailed no more,
and ships that touched at his island went away in safety. He
paced up and down the sea-shore, imprinting huge tracks with his
heavy tread, and, when weary, lay tranquilly in his cave.
"There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes
it on either side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended,
and sat down while his flocks spread themselves around. Laying
down his staff, which would have served for a mast to hold a
vessel's sail, and taking his instrument compacted of numerous
pipes, he made the hills and the waters echo the music of his
song. I lay hid under a rock by the side of my beloved Acis, and
listened to the distant strain. It was full of extravagant
praises of my beauty, mingled with passionate reproaches of my
coldness and cruelty.
"When he had finished he rose up, and, like a raging bull
that cannot stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I
thought no more of him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which
gave him a view of us as we sat. 'I see you,' he exclaimed, 'and
I will make this the last of your love-meetings.' His voice was
a roar such as an angry Cyclops alone could utter. AEtna
trembled at the sound. I, overcome with terror, plunged into the
water. Acis turned and fled, crying, 'Save me, Galatea, save me,
my parents!' The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from
the side of the mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner
of it touched him, it overwhelmed him.
"All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him
with the honours of his grandfather, the river-god. The purple
blood flowed out from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler
and looked like the stream of a river rendered turbid by rains,
and in time it became clear. The rock cleaved open, and the
water, as it gushed from the chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur."
Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the
name of Acis.
Dryden, in his "Cymon and Iphigenia," has told the story of a
clown converted into a gentleman by the power of love, in a way
that shows traces of kindred to the old story of Galatea and the
Cyclops.
"What not his father's care nor tutor's art
Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,
The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,
As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.
Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife
Soon taught the sweet civilities of life."
|
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE TROJAN WAR.
MINERVA was the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a
very foolish thing; she entered into competition with Juno and
Venus for the prize of beauty. It happened thus: At the nuptials
of Peleus and Thetis all the gods were invited with the
exception of Eris, or Discord. Enraged at her exclusion, the
goddess threw a golden apple among the guests, with the
inscription, "For the fairest." Thereupon Juno, Venus, and
Minerva each claimed the apple. Jupiter, not willing to decide
in so delicate a matter, sent the goddesses to Mount Ida, where
the beautiful shepherd Paris was tending his flocks, and to him
was committed the decision. The goddesses accordingly appeared
before him. Juno promised him power and riches, Minerva glory
and renown in war, and Venus the fairest of women for his wife,
each attempting to bias his decision in her own favour. Paris
decided in favour of Venus and gave her the golden apple, thus
making the two other goddesses his enemies. Under the protection
of Venus, Paris sailed to Greece, and was hospitably received by
Menelaus, king of Sparta. Now Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was
the very woman whom Venus had destined for Paris, the fairest of
her sex. She had been sought as a bride by numerous suitors, and
before her decision was made known, they all, at the suggestion
of Ulysses, one of their number, took an oath that they would
defend her from all injury and avenge her cause if necessary.
She chose Menelaus, and was living with him happily when Paris
became their guest. Paris, aided by Venus, persuaded her to
elope with him, and carried her to Troy, whence arose the famous
Trojan war, the theme of the greatest poems of antiquity, those
of Homer and Virgil.
Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to
fulfil their pledge, and join him in his efforts to recover his
wife. They generally came forward, but Ulysses, who had married
Penelope, and was very happy in his wife and child, had no
disposition to embark in such a troublesome affair. He therefore
hung back and Palamedes was sent to urge him. When Palamedes
arrived at Ithaca Ulysses pretended to be mad. He yoked an ass
and an ox together to the plough and began to sow salt.
Palamedes, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the
plough, whereupon the father turned the plough aside, showing
plainly that he was no madman, and after that could no longer
refuse to fulfil his promise. Being now himself gained for the
undertaking, he lent his aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs,
especially Achilles. This hero was the son of that Thetis at
whose marriage the apple of Discord had been thrown among the
goddesses. Thetis was herself one of the immortals, a sea-nymph,
and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if he
went on the expedition, she endeavoured to prevent his going.
She sent him away to the court of King Lycomedes, and induced
him to conceal himself in the disguise of a maiden among the
daughters of the king. Ulysses, hearing he was there, went
disguised as a merchant to the palace and offered for sale
female ornaments, among which he had placed some arms. While the
king's daughters were engrossed with the other contents of the
merchant's pack, Achilles handled the weapons and thereby
betrayed himself to the keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great
difficulty in persuading him to disregard his mother's prudent
counsels and join his countrymen in the war.
Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer
of Helen, was his son. Paris had been brought up in obscurity,
because there were certain ominous forebodings connected with
him from his infancy that he would be the ruin of the state.
These forebodings seemed at length likely to be realized, for
the Grecian armament now in preparation was the greatest that
had ever been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, and
brother of the injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief.
Achilles was their most illustrious warrior. After him ranked
Ajax, gigantic in size and of great courage, but dull of
intellect; Diomede, second only to Achilles in all the qualities
of a hero; Ulysses, famous for his sagacity; and Nestor, the
oldest of the Grecian chiefs, and one to whom they all looked up
for counsel. But Troy was no feeble enemy. Priam, the king, was
now old, but he had been a wise prince and had strengthened his
state by good government at home and numerous alliances with his
neighbours. But the principal stay and support of his throne was
his own Hector, one of the noblest characters painted by heathen
antiquity. He felt, from the first, a presentiment of the fall
of his country, but still persevered in his heroic resistance,
yet by no means justified the wrong which brought this danger
upon her. He was united in marriage with Andromache, and as a
husband and father his character was not less admirable than as
a warrior. The principal leaders on the side of the Trojans,
besides Hector, were AEneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus and Sarpedon.
After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army
assembled in the port of Aulis in Boeotia. Here Agamemnon in
hunting killed a stag which was sacred to Diana, and the goddess
in return visited the army with pestilence, and produced a calm
which prevented the ships from leaving the port. Calchas, the
soothsayer, thereupon announced that the wrath of the virgin
goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin on
her altar, and that none other but the daughter of the offender
would be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his
consent, and the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the
pretence that she was to be married to Achilles. When she was
about to be sacrificed the goddess relented and snatched her
away, leaving a hind in her place, and Iphigenia, enveloped in a
cloud, was carried to Tauris, where Diana made her priestess of
her temple.
Tennyson, in his "Dream of Fair Women," makes Iphigenia thus
describe her feelings at the moment of sacrifice:
"I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;
My father held his hand upon his face;
I, blinded by my tears,
"Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry
The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,
Waiting to see me die.
"The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,
The temples and the people and the shore;
One drew a shark knife through my tender throat
Slowly,- and- nothing more."
The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the
forces to the coast of Troy. The Trojans came to oppose their
landing, and at the first onset Protesilaus fell by the hand of
Hector. Protesilaus had left at home his wife, Laodamia, who was
most tenderly attached to him. When the news of his death
reached her she implored the gods to be allowed to converse with
him only three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led
Protesilaus back to the upper world, and when he died a second
time Laodamia died with him. There was a story that the nymphs
planted elm trees round his grave which grew very well till they
were high enough to command a view of Troy, and then withered
away, while fresh branches sprang from the roots.
Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia
for the subject of a poem. It seems the oracle had declared that
victory should be the lot of that party from which should fall
the first victim to the war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on
his brief return to earth, as relating to Laodamia the story of
his fate:
"'The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved
The oracle, upon the silent sea;
And if no worthier led the way, resolved
That of a thousand vessels mine should be
The foremost prow impressing to the strand,-
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
"'Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
The paths which we had trod,- these fountains, flowers;
My new planned cities and unfinished towers.
"'But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
"Behold they tremble! haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die?"
In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought
In act embodied my deliverance wrought.'
. . . . . . .
"...upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight,
A constant interchange of growth and blight!"
"THE ILIAD".
The war continued without decisive results for nine years.
Then an event occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the
cause of the Greeks, and that was a quarrel between Achilles and
Agamemnon. It is at this point that the great poem of Homer,
"The Iliad," begins. The Greeks, though unsuccessful against
Troy, had taken the neighbouring and allied cities, and in the
division of the spoil a female captive, by name Chryseis,
daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share
of Agamemnon. Chryses came bearing the sacred emblems of his
office, and begged the release of his daughter. Agamemnon
refused. Thereupon Chryses implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks
till they should be forced to yield their prey. Apollo granted
the prayer of his priest, and sent pestilence into the Grecian
camp. Then a council was called to deliberate how to allay the
wrath of the gods and avert the plague. Achilles boldly charged
their misfortunes upon Agamemnon as caused by his withholding
Chryseis. Agamemnon, enraged, consented to relinquish his
captive, but demanded that Achilles should yield to him in her
stead Briseis, a maiden who had fallen to Achilles' share in the
division of the spoil. Achilles submitted, but forthwith
declared that he would take no further part in the war. He
withdrew his forces from the general camp and openly avowed his
intention of returning home to Greece.
The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this
famous war as the parties themselves. It was well known to them
that fate had decreed that Troy should fall, at last, if her
enemies should persevere and not voluntarily abandon the
enterprise. Yet there was room enough left for chance to excite
by turns the hopes and fears of the powers above who took part
with either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence of the slight
put upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans;
Venus for the opposite cause favoured them. Venus enlisted her
admirer Mars on the same side, but Neptune favoured the Greeks.
Apollo was neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the
other, and Jove himself, though he loved the good King Priam,
yet exercised a degree of impartiality; not, however, without
exceptions.
Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury
done to her son. She repaired immediately to Jove's palace and
besought him to make the Greeks repent of their injustice to
Achilles by granting success to the Trojan arms. Jupiter
consented, and in the battle which ensued the Trojans were
completely successful. The Greeks were driven from the field and
took refuge in their ships.
Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest
chiefs. Nestor advised that an embassy should be sent to
Achilles to persuade him to return to the field; that Agamemnon
should yield the maiden, the cause of the dispute, with ample
gifts to atone for the wrong he had done. Agamemnon consented,
and Ulysses, Ajax and Phoenix were sent to carry to Achilles the
penitent message. They performed that duty, but Achilles was
deaf to their entreaties. He positively refused to return to the
field, and persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece
without delay.
The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and
now instead of besieging Troy they were in a manner besieged
themselves, within their rampart. The next day after the
unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, a battle was fought, and the
Trojans, favoured by Jove, were successful, and succeeded in
forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart, and were about to
set fire to the ships. Neptune, seeing the Greeks so pressed,
came to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the
prophet, encouraged the warriors with his shouts, and appealed
to each individually till he raised their ardour to such a pitch
that they forced the Trojans to give way. Ajax performed
prodigies of valour, and at length encountered Hector. Ajax
shouted defiance, to which Hector replied, and hurled his lance
at the huge warrior. It was well aimed and struck Ajax, where
the belts that bore his sword and shield crossed each other on
the breast. The double guard prevented its penetrating and it
fell harmless. Then Ajax, seizing a huge stone, one of those
that served to prop the ships, hurled it at Hector. It struck
him in the neck and stretched him on the plain. His followers
instantly seized him and bore him off, stunned an wounded.
While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the
Trojans, Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his
attention had been drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno.
That goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and to crown
all had borrowed of Venus her girdle, called "Cestus," which had
the effect to heighten the wearer's charms to such a degree that
they were quite irresistible. So prepared, Juno went to Join her
husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle. When he beheld
her she looked so charming that the fondness of his early love
revived, and, forgetting the contending armies and all other
affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle go
as it would.
But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon
turning his eyes downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the
plain almost lifeless from pain and bruises, he dismissed Juno
in a rage, commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him. When
Iris came he sent her with a stern message to Neptune, ordering
him instantly to quit the field. Apollo was despatched to heal
Hector's bruises and to inspirit his heart. These orders were
obeyed with such speed that, while the battle still raged,
Hector returned to the field and Neptune betook himself to his
own dominions.
An arrow from Paris's bow wounded Machaon, son of
AEsculapius, who inherited his father's art of healing, and was
therefore of great value to the Greeks as their surgeon, besides
being one of their bravest warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his
chariot and conveyed him from the field. As they passed the
ships of Achilles, that hero, looking out over the field, saw
the chariot of Nestor and recognized the old chief, but could
not discern who the wounded chief was. So calling Patroclus, his
companion and dearest friend, he sent him to Nestor's tent to
inquire.
Patroclus, arriving at Nestor's tent, saw Machaon wounded,
and having told the cause of his coming would have hastened
away, but Nestor detained him, to tell him the extent of the
Grecian calamities. He reminded him also how, at the time of
departing for Troy, Achilles and himself had been charged by
their respective fathers with different advice: Achilles to
aspire to the highest pitch of glory, Patroclus, as the elder,
to keep watch over his friend, and to guide his inexperience.
"Now," said Nestor, "is the time for such influence. If the gods
so please, thou mayest win him back to the common cause; but if
not let him at least send his soldiers to the field, and come
thou, Patroclus, clad in his armour, and perhaps the very sight
of it may drive back the Trojans."
Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened
back to Achilles, revolving in his mind all he had seen and
heard. He told the prince the sad condition of affairs at the
camp of their late associates: Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon,
Machaon, all wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among
the ships preparing to burn them, and thus to cut off all means
of return to Greece. While they spoke the flames burst forth
from one of the ships. Achilles, at the sight, relented so far
as to grant Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons (for so
were Achilles' soldiers called) to the field, and to lend him
his armour, that he might thereby strike more terror into the
minds of the Trojans. Without delay the soldiers were
marshalled, Patroclus put on the radiant armour and mounted the
chariot of Achilles, and led forth the men ardent for battle.
But before he went, Achilles strictly charged him that he should
be content with repelling the foe. "Seek not," said he, "to
press the Trojans without me, lest thou add still more to the
disgrace already mine." Then exhorting the troops to do their
best he dismissed them full of ardour to the fight.
Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest
where it raged hottest; at the sight of which the joyful
Grecians shouted and the ships re-echoed the acclaim. The
Trojans, at the sight of the well-known armour, struck with
terror, looked everywhere for refuge. First those who had got
possession of the ship and set it on fire left and allowed the
Grecians to retake it and extinguish the flames. Then the rest
of the Trojans fled in dismay. Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons
of Nestor performed prodigies of valour. Hector was forced to
turn his horses' heads and retire from the enclosure, leaving
his men entangled in the fosse to escape as they could.
Patroclus drove them before him, slaying many, none daring to
make a stand against him.
At last Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in
fight to Patroclus. Jupiter looked down upon him and would have
snatched him from the fate which awaited him, but Juno hinted
that if he did so it would induce all others of the inhabitants
of heaven to interpose in like manner whenever any of their
offspring were endangered; to which reason Jove yielded.
Sarpedon threw his spear, but missed Patroclus, but Patroclus
threw his with better success. It pierced Sarpedon's breast and
he fell, and, calling to his friends to save his body from the
foe, expired. Then a furious contest arose for the possession of
the corpse. The Greeks succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his
armour; but Jove would not allow the remains of his son to be
dishonoured, and by his command Apollo snatched from the midst
of the combatants the body of Sarpedon and committed it to the
care of the twin brothers Death and Sleep, by whom it was
transported to Lycia, the native land of Sarpedon, where it
received due funeral rites.
Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in
repelling the Trojans and relieving his countrymen, but now came
a change of fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted
him. Patroclus threw a vast stone at Hector, which missed its
aim, but smote Cebriones, the charioteer, and knocked him from
the car. Hector leaped from the chariot to rescue his friend,
and Patroclus also descended to complete his victory. Thus the
two heroes met face to face. At this decisive moment the poet,
as if reluctant to give Hector the glory, records that Phoebus
took part against Patroclus. He struck the helmet from his head
and the lance from his hand. At the same moment an obscure
Trojan wounded him in the back, and Hector, pressing forward,
pierced him with his spear. He fell mortally wounded.
Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus,
but his armour was at once taken possession of by Hector, who
retiring a short distance divested himself of his own armour and
put on that of Achilles, then returned to the fight. Ajax and
Menelaus defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors
struggled to capture it. The battle raged with equal fortunes,
when Jove enveloped the whole face of heaven with a dark cloud.
The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking
round for some one whom he might despatch to Achilles to tell
him of the death of his friend, and of the imminent danger that
his remains would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no
suitable messenger. It was then that he exclaimed in those
famous lines so often quoted,
"Father of heaven and earth! deliver thou
Achaia's host from darkness; clear the skies;
Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,
Destruction with it; but, O, give us day."
Cowper.
Or, as rendered by Pope,
"...Lord of earth and air!
O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!
Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;
Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;
If Greece must perish we thy will obey,
But let us perish in the face of day."
Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Then Ajax
sent Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus's
death, and of the conflict raging for his remains. The Greeks at
last succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely
pursued by Hector and AEneas and the rest of the Trojans.
Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that
Antilochus feared for a while that he would destroy himself. His
groans reached the ears of his mother, Thetis, far down in the
deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to him to
inquire the cause. She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach
that he had indulged his resentment so far, and suffered his
friend to fall a victim to it. But his only consolation was the
hope of revenge. He would fly instantly in search of Hector. But
his mother reminded him that he was now without armour, and
promised him, if he would but wait till the morrow, she would
procure for him a suit of armour from Vulcan more than equal to
that he had lost. He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired
to Vulcan's palace. She found him busy at his forge making
tripods for his own use, so artfully constructed that they moved
forward of their own accord when wanted, and retired again when
dismissed. On hearing the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately
laid aside his work and hastened to comply with her wishes. He
fabricated a splendid suit of armour for Achilles, first a
shield adorned with elaborate devices, then a helmet crested
with gold, then a corselet and greaves of impenetrable temper,
all perfectly adapted to his form, and of consummate
workmanship. It was all done in one night, and Thetis, receiving
it, descended with it to earth and laid it down at Achilles'
feet at the dawn of day.
The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the
death of Patroclus was at the sight of this splendid armour. And
now, arrayed in it, he went forth into the camp, calling all the
chiefs to council. When they were all assembled he addressed
them. Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly
lamenting the miseries that had resulted from it, he called on
them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon made a suitable
reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of discord; and
thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the heroes.
Then Achilles went forth to battle inspired with a rage and
thirst for vengeance that made him irresistible. The bravest
warriors fled before him or fell by his lance. Hector, cautioned
by Apollo, kept aloof; but the god, assuming the form of one of
Priam's sons, Lycaon, urged AEneas to encounter the terrible
warrior. AEneas, though he felt himself unequal, did not decline
the combat. He hurled his spear with all his force against the
shield, the work of Vulcan. It was formed of five metal plates;
two were of brass, two of tin, and one of gold. The spear
pierced two thicknesses, but was stopped in the third. Achilles
threw his with better success. It pierced through the shield of
AEneas, but glanced near his shoulder and made no wound. Then
AEneas seized a stone, such as two men of modern times could
hardly lift, and was about to throw it, and Achilles, with sword
drawn, was about to rush upon him, when Neptune, who looked out
upon the contest, moved with pity for AEneas, who he saw would
surely fall a victim if not speedily rescued, spread a cloud
between the combatants, and lifting AEneas from the ground, bore
him over the heads of warriors and steeds to the rear of the
battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away, looked round in
vain for his adversary, and acknowledging the prodigy, turned
his arms against other champions. But none dared stand before
him, and Priam looking down from the city walls beheld his whole
army in full flight towards the city. He gave command to open
wide the gates to receive the fugitives, and to shut them as
soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the enemy should
enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit that that
would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the form of
Agenor, Priam's son, encountered Achilles for a while, then
turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city. Achilles
pursued and had chased his supposed victim far from the walls,
when Apollo disclosed himself, and Achilles, perceiving how he
had been deluded, gave up the chase.
But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood
without determined to await the combat. His old father called to
him from the walls and begged him to retire nor tempt the
encounter. His mother, Hecuba, also besought him to the same
effect, but all in vain. "How can I," said he to himself, "by
whose command the people went to this day's contest, where so
many have fallen, seek safety for myself against a single foe?
But what if I offer him to yield up Helen and all her treasures
and ample of our own beside? Ah, no! it is too late. He would
not even hear me through, but slay me while I spoke." While he
thus ruminated, Achilles approached, terrible as Mars, his
armour flashing lightning as he moved. At that sight Hector's
heart failed him and he fled. Achilles swiftly pursued. They
ran, still keeping near the walls, till they had thrice
encircled the city. As often as Hector approached the walls
Achilles intercepted him and forced him to keep out in a wider
circle. But Apollo sustained Hector's strength and would not let
him sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the form of
Deiphobus, Hector's bravest brother, appeared suddenly at his
side. Hector saw him with delight, and thus strengthened stopped
his flight and turned to meet Achilles. Hector threw his spear,
which struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back. He. turned
to receive another from the hand of Deiphobus, but Deiphobus was
gone. Then Hector understood his doom and said, "Alas! it is
plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at hand, but
Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will not fall
inglorious." So saying he drew his falchion from his side and
rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secure behind his shield,
waited the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his
spear, Achilles choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where
the armour leaves the neck uncovered, aimed his spear at that
part and Hector fell, death-wounded, and feebly said, "Spare my
body! Let my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites
from the sons and daughters of Troy." To which Achilles replied,
"Dog, name not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have brought
such dire distress. No! trust me, nought shall save thy carcass
from the dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were
offered, I would refuse it all."
So saying he stripped the body of its armour, and fastening
cords to the feet tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body
to trail along the ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed
the steeds and so dragged the body to and fro before the city.
What words can tell the grief of King Priam and Queen Hecuba at
this sight! His people could scarce restrain the old king from
rushing forth. He threw himself in the dust and besought them
each by name to give him way. Hecuba's distress was not less
violent. The citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of the
mourning reached the ears of Andromache, the wife of Hector, as
she sat among her maidens at work, and anticipating evil she
went forth to the wall. When she saw the sight there presented,
she would have thrown herself headlong from the wall, but
fainted and fell into the arms of her maidens. Recovering, she
bewailed her fate, picturing to herself her country ruined,
herself a captive, and her son dependent for his bread on the
charity of strangers.
When Achilles and the Greeks had taken their revenge on the
killer of Patroclus they busied themselves in paying due funeral
rites to their friend. A pile was erected, and the body burned
with due solemnity; and then ensued games of strength and skill,
chariot races, wrestling, boxing and archery. Then the chiefs
sat down to the funeral banquet and after that retired to rest.
But Achilles neither partook of the feast nor of sleep. The
recollection of his lost friend kept him awake, remembering
their companionship in toil and dangers, in battle or on the
perilous deep. Before the earliest dawn he left his tent, and
joining to his chariot his swift steeds, he fastened Hector's
body to be dragged behind. Twice he dragged him round the tomb
of Patroclus, leaving him at length stretched in the dust. But
Apollo would not permit the body to be torn or disfigured with
all this abuse, but preserved it free from all taint or
defilement.
While Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing brave
Hector, Jupiter in pity summoned Thetis to his presence. He told
her to go to her son and prevail on him to restore the body of
Hector to his friends. Then Jupiter sent Iris to King Priam to
encourage him to go to Achilles and beg the body of his son.
Iris delivered her message, and Priam immediately prepared to
obey. He opened his treasuries and took out rich garments and
cloths, with ten talents in gold and two splendid tripods and a
golden cup of matchless workmanship. Then he called to his sons
and bade them draw forth his litter and place in it the various
articles designed for a ransom to Achilles. When all was ready,
the old king with a single companion as aged as himself, the
herald Idaeus, drove forth from the gates, parting there with
Hecuba, his queen, and all his friends, who lamented him as
going to certain death.
But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king,
sent Mercury to be his guide and protector. Mercury, assuming
the form of a young warrior, presented himself to the aged
couple, and while at the sight of him they hesitated whether to
fly or yield, the god approached, and grasping Priam's hand
offered to be their guide to Achilles' tent. Priam gladly
accepted his offered service, and he, mounting the carriage,
assumed the reins and soon conveyed them to the tent of
Achilles. Mercury's wand put to sleep all the guards, and
without hindrance he introduced Priam into the tent where
Achilles sat, attended by two of his warriors. The old king
threw himself at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those terrible
hands which had destroyed so many of his sons. "Think, O
Achilles," he said, "of thy own father, full of days like me,
and trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Perhaps even now some
neighbour chief oppresses him and there is none at hand to
succour him in his distress. Yet doubtless knowing that Achilles
lives he still rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy
face again. But no comfort cheers me, whose bravest sons, so
late the flower of Ilium, all have fallen. Yet one I had, one
more than all the rest the strength of my age, whom, fighting
for his country, thou hast slain. I come to redeem his body,
bringing inestimable ransom with me. Achilles! reverence the
gods! recollect thy father! for his sake show compassion to me!"
These words moved Achilles, and he wept remembering by turns his
absent father and his lost friend. Moved with pity of Priam's
silver locks and beard, he raised him from the earth, and thus
spake: "Priam, I know that thou hast reached this place
conducted by some god, for without aid divine no mortal even in
his prime of youth had dared the attempt. I grant thy request,
moved thereto by the evident will of Jove." So saying he arose,
and went forth with his two friends, and unloaded of its charge
the litter, leaving two mantles and a robe for the covering of
the body, which they placed on the litter, and spread the
garments over it, that not unveiled it should be borne back to
Troy. Then Achilles dismissed the old king with his attendants,
having first pledged himself to allow a truce of twelve days for
the funeral solemnities.
As the litter approached the city and was descried from the
walls, the people poured forth to gaze once more on the face of
their hero. Foremost of all, the mother and the wife of Hector
came, and at the sight of the lifeless body renewed their
lamentations. The people all wept with them, and to the going
down of the sun there was no pause or abatement of their grief.
The next day preparations were made for the funeral
solemnities. For nine days the people brought wood and built the
pile, and on the tenth they placed the body on the summit and
applied the torch; while all Troy thronging forth encompassed
the pile. When it had completely burned, they quenched the
cinders with wine, collected the bones and placed them in a
golden urn, which they buried in the earth, and reared a pile of
stones over the spot.
"Such honours Ilium to her hero paid,
And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade."
Pope.
|
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE FALL OF TROY- RETURN OF THE GREEKS-
AGAMEMNON, ORESTES AND ELECTRA.
THE FALL OF TROY.
THE story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector, and it is
from the Odyssey and later poems that we learn the fate of the
other heroes. After the death of Hector, Troy did not
immediately fall, but receiving aid from new allies still
continued its resistance. One of these allies was Memnon, the
AEthiopian prince, whose story we have already told. Another was
Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, who came with a band of
female warriors. All the authorities attest their valour and the
fearful effect of their war cry. Penthesilea slew many of the
bravest warriors, but was at last slain by Achilles. But when
the hero bent over his fallen foe, and contemplated her beauty,
youth and valour, he bitterly regretted his victory. Thersites,
an insolent brawler and demagogue, ridiculed his grief, and was
in consequence slain by the hero.
Achilles by chance had seen Polyxena, daughter of King Priam,
perhaps on occasion of the truce which was allowed the Trojans
for the burial of Hector. He was captivated with her charms, and
to win her in marriage agreed to use his influence with the
Greeks to grant peace to Troy. While in the temple of Apollo,
negotiating the marriage, Paris discharged at him a poisoned
arrow, which, guided by Apollo, wounded Achilles in the heel,
the only vulnerable part about him. For Thetis his mother had
dipped him when an infant in the river Styx, which made every
part of him invulnerable except the heel by which she held him.*
* The story of the invulnerability of Achilles is not found
in Homer, and is inconsistent with his account. For how could
Achilles require the aid of celestial armour if he were
invulnerable?
The body of Achilles so treacherously slain was rescued by
Ajax and Ulysses. Thetis directed the Greeks to bestow her son's
armour on the hero who of all the survivors should be judged
most deserving of it. Ajax and Ulysses were the only claimants;
a select number of the other chiefs were appointed to award the
prize. It was awarded to Ulysses, thus placing wisdom before
valour, whereupon Ajax slew himself. On the spot where his blood
sank into the earth a flower sprang up, called the hyacinth,
bearing on its leaves the first two letters of the name of Ajax,
Ai, the Greek for "woe." Thus Ajax is a claimant with the boy
Hyacinthus for the honour of giving birth to this flower. There
is a species of Larkspur which represents the hyacinth of the
poets in preserving the memory of this event, the Delphinium
Ajacis- Ajax's Larkspur.
It was now discovered that Troy could not be taken but by the
aid of the arrows of Hercules. They were in possession of
Philoctetes, the friend who had been with Hercules at the last
and lighted his funeral pyre. Philoctetes had joined the Grecian
expedition against Troy, but had accidentally wounded his foot
with one of the poisoned arrows, and the smell from his wound
proved so offensive that his companions carried him to the isle
of Lemnos and left him there. Diomed was now sent to induce him
to rejoin the army. He succeeded. Philoctetes was cured of his
wound by Machaon, and Paris was the first victim of the fatal
arrows. In his distress Paris bethought him of one whom in his
prosperity he had forgotten. This was the nymph OEnone, whom he
had married when a youth, and had abandoned for the fatal beauty
Helen. OEnone remembering the wrongs she had suffered, refused
to heal the wound, and Paris went back to Troy and died. OEnone
quickly repented, and hastened after him with remedies, but came
too late, and in her grief hung herself.*
* Tennyson has chosen OEnone as the subject of a short poem;
but he has omitted the most poetical part of the story, the
return of Paris wounded, her cruelty and subsequent repentance.
There was in Troy a celebrated statue of Minerva called the
Palladium. It was said to have fallen from heaven, and the
belief was that the city could not be taken so long as this
statue remained within it. Ulysses and Diomed entered the city
in disguise and succeeded in obtaining the Palladium, which they
carried off to the Grecian camp.
But Troy still held out, and the Greeks began to despair of
ever subduing it by force, and by advice of Ulysses resolved to
resort to stratagem. They pretended to be making preparations to
abandon the siege, and a portion of the ships were withdrawn and
lay hid behind a neighbouring island. The Greeks then
constructed an immense wooden horse, which they gave out was
intended as a propitiatory offering to Minerva, but in fact was
filled with armed men. The remaining Greeks then betook
themselves to their ships and sailed away, as if for a final
departure. The Trojans, seeing the encampment broken up and the
fleet gone, concluded the enemy to have abandoned the siege. The
gates were thrown open, and the whole population issued forth
rejoicing at the long-prohibited liberty of passing freely over
the scene of the late encampment. The great horse was the chief
object of curiosity. All wondered what it could be for. Some
recommended to take it into the city as a trophy; others felt
afraid of it.
While they hesitate, Laocoon, the priest of Neptune,
exclaims, "What madness, citizens, is this? Have you not learned
enough of Grecian fraud to be on your guard against it? For my
part, I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts."* So saying
he threw his lance at the horse's side. It struck, and a hollow
sound reverberated like a groan. Then perhaps the people might
have taken his advice and destroyed the fatal horse and all its
contents; but just at that moment a group of people appeared,
dragging forward one who seemed a prisoner and a Greek.
Stupefied with terror, he was brought before the chiefs, who
reassured him, promising that his life should be spared on
condition of his returning true answers to the questions asked
him. He informed them that he was a Greek, Sinon by name, and
that in consequence of the malice of Ulysses he had been left
behind by his countrymen at their departure. With regard to the
wooden horse, he told them that it was a propitiatory offering
to Minerva, and made so huge for the express purpose of
preventing its being carried within the city; for Calchas the
prophet had told them that if the Trojans took possession of it
they would assuredly triumph over the Greeks. This language
turned the tide of the people's feelings and they began to think
how they might best secure the monstrous horse and the
favourable auguries connected with it, when suddenly a prodigy
occurred which left no room to doubt. There appeared, advancing
over the sea, two immense serpents. They came upon the land, and
the crowd fled in all directions. The serpents advanced directly
to the spot where Laocoon stood with his two sons. They first
attacked the children, winding round their bodies and breathing
their pestilential breath in their faces. The father, attempting
to rescue them, is next seized and involved in the serpents'
coils. He struggles to tear them away, but they overpower all
his efforts and strangle him and the children in their poisonous
folds. This event was regarded as a clear indication of the
displeasure of the gods at Laocoon's irreverent treatment of the
wooden horse, which they no longer hesitated to regard as a
sacred object, and prepared to introduce with due solemnity into
the city. This was done with songs and triumphal acclamations,
and the day closed with festivity. In the night the armed men
who were enclosed in the body of the horse, being let out by the
traitor Sinon, opened the gates of the city to their friends,
who had returned under cover of the night. The city was set on
fire; the people, overcome with feasting and sleep, put to the
sword, and Troy completely subdued.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 6.
One of the most celebrated groups of statuary in existence is
that of Laocoon and his children in the embrace of the serpents.
The original is in the Vatican at Rome. The following lines are
from the "Childe Harold" of Byron:
"Now turning to the Vatican go see
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain;
A father's love and mortal's agony
With an immortal's patience blending;- vain
The struggle! vain against the coiling strain
And gripe and deepening of the dragon's grasp
The old man's clinch; the long envenomed chain
Rivets the living links; the enormous asp
Enforces pang on pang and stifles gasp on gasp."
The comic poets will also occasionally borrow a classical
allusion. The following is from Swift's "Description of a City
Shower":
"Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, run them through);
Laocoon struck the outside with a spear,
And each imprisoned champion quaked with fear."
King Priam lived to see the downfall of his kingdom and was
slain at last on the fatal night when the Greeks took the city.
He had armed himself and was about to mingle with the
combatants, but was prevailed on by Hecuba, his aged queen, to
take refuge with herself and his daughters as a suppliant at the
altar of Jupiter. While there, his youngest son Polites, pursued
by Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, rushed in wounded, and expired
at the feet of his father; whereupon Priam, overcome with
indignation, hurled his spear with feeble hand against Pyrrhus,*
and was forthwith slain by him.
* Pyrrhus's exclamation, "Not such aid nor such defenders
does the time require," has become proverbial. See Proverbial
Expressions, no. 7.
Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives
to Greece. Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, and he gave her
the gift of prophecy; but afterwards offended with her, he
rendered the gift unavailing by ordaining that her predictions
should never be believed. Polyxena, another daughter, who had
been loved by Achilles, was demanded by the ghost of that
warrior, and was sacrificed by the Greeks upon his tomb.
MENELAUS AND HELEN.
Our readers will be anxious to know the fate of Helen, the
fair but guilty occasion of so much slaughter. On the fall of
Troy Menelaus recovered possession of his wife, who had not
ceased to love him, though she had yielded to the might of Venus
and deserted him for another. After the death of Paris she aided
the Greeks secretly on several occasions, and in particular when
Ulysses and Diomed entered the city in disguise to carry off the
Palladium. She saw and recognized Ulysses, but kept the secret
and even assisted them in obtaining the image. Thus she became
reconciled to her husband, and they were among the first to
leave the shores of Troy for their native land. But having
incurred the displeasure of the gods they were driven by storms
from shore to shore of the Mediterranean, visiting Cyprus,
Phoenicia and Egypt. In Egypt they were kindly treated and
presented with rich gifts, of which Helen's share was a golden
spindle and a basket on wheels. The basket was to hold the wool
and spools for the queen's work.
Dyer, in his poem of the "Fleece," thus alludes to this
incident:
"...many yet adhere
To the ancient distaff, at the bosom fixed,
Casting the whirling spindle as they walk.
. . . . . . . .
This was of old, in no inglorious days,
The mode of spinning, when the Egyptian prince
A golden distaff gave that beauteous nymph,
Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly gift."
Milton also alludes to a famous recipe for an invigorating
draught, called Nepenthe, which the Egyptian queen gave to
Helen:
"Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone
In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena,
Is of such power to stir up joy as this,
To life so friendly or so cool to thirst."
Comus.
Menelaus and Helen at length arrived in safety at Sparta,
resumed their royal dignity, and lived and reigned in splendour;
and when Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, in search of his
father, arrived at Sparta, he found Menelaus and Helen
celebrating the marriage of their daughter Hermione to
Neoptolemus, son of Achilles.
AGAMEMNON, ORESTES AND ELECTRA.
Agamemnon, the general-in-chief of the Greeks, the brother of
Menelaus, and who had been drawn into the quarrel to avenge his
brother's wrongs, not his own, was not so fortunate in the
issue. During his absence his wife Clytemnestra had been false
to him, and when his return was expected, she with her paramour,
AEgisthus, laid a plan for his destruction, and at the banquet
given to celebrate his return, murdered him.
It was intended by the conspirators to slay his son Orestes
also, a lad not yet old enough to be an object of apprehension,
but from whom, if he should be suffered to grow up, there might
be danger. Electra, the sister of Orestes, saved her brother's
life by sending him secretly away to his uncle Strophius, King
of Phocis. In the palace of Strophius Orestes grew up with the
king's son Pylades, and formed with him that ardent friendship
which bas become proverbial. Electra frequently reminded her
brother by messengers of the duty of avenging his father's
death, and when grown up he consulted the oracle of Delphi,
which confirmed him in his design. He therefore repaired in
disguise to Argos, pretending to be a messenger from Strophius,
who had come to announce the death of Orestes, and brought the
ashes of the deceased in a funeral urn. After visiting his
father's tomb and. sacrificing upon it, according to the rites
of the ancients he made himself known to his sister Electra, and
soon after slew both AEgisthus and Clytemnestra.
This revolting act, the slaughter of a mother by her son,
though alleviated by the guilt of the victim and the express
command of the gods, did not fail to awaken in the breasts of
the ancients the same abhorrence that it does in ours. The
Eumenides, avenging deities, seized upon Orestes, and drove him
frantic from land to land. Pylades accompanied him in his
wanderings and watched over him. At length, in answer to a
second appeal to the oracle, he was directed to go to Tauris in
Scythia, and to bring thence a statue of Diana which was
believed to have fallen from heaven. Accordingly Orestes and
Pylades went to Tauris, where the barbarous people were
accustomed to sacrifice to the goddess all strangers who fell
into their hands. The two friends were seized and carried bound
to the temple to be made victims. But the priestess of Diana was
no other than Iphigenia, the sister of Orestes, who, our readers
will remember, was snatched away by Diana at the moment when she
was about to be sacrificed. Ascertaining from the prisoners who
they were, Iphigenia disclosed herself to them, and the three
made their escape with the statue of the goddess, and returned
to Mycenae.
But Orestes was not yet relieved from the vengeance of the
Erinyes. At length he took refuge with Minerva at Athens. The
goddess afforded him protection, and appointed the court of
Areopagus to decide his fate. The Erinyes brought forward their
accusation, and Orestes made the command of the Delphic oracle
his excuse. When the court voted and the voices were equally
divided, Orestes was acquitted by the command of Minerva.
Byron, in "Childe Harold," Canto IV., alludes to the story of
Orestes:
"O thou who never yet of human wrong
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss,
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss,
For that unnatural retribution,-just
Had it but been from hands less near,- in this,
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!"
One of the most pathetic scenes in the ancient drama is that
in which Sophocles represents the meeting of Orestes and
Electra, on his return from Phocis. Orestes, mistaking Electra
for one of the domestics, and desirous of keeping his arrival a
secret till the hour of vengeance should arrive, produces the
urn in which his ashes are supposed to rest. Electra, believing
him to be really dead, takes the urn and, embracing it, pours
forth her grief in language full of tenderness and despair.
Milton in one of his sonnets, says:
"...The repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare."
This alludes to the story that when, on one occasion, the
city of Athens was at the mercy of her Spartan foes, and it was
proposed to destroy it, the thought was rejected upon the
accidental quotation, by some one, of a chorus of Euripides.
TROY.
After hearing so much about the city of Troy and its heroes,
the reader will perhaps be surprised to learn that the exact
site of that famous city is still a matter of dispute. There are
some vestiges of tombs on the plain which most nearly answers to
the description given by Homer and the ancient geographers, but
no other evidence of the former existence of a great city. Byron
thus describes the present appearance of the scene:
"The winds are high, and Helle's tide
Rolls darkly heaving to the main;
And night's descending shadows hide
That field with blood bedewed in vain,
The desert of old Priam's pride,
The tombs, sole relics of his reign.
All- save immortal dreams that could beguile
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle."
Bride of Abydos.
|
CHAPTER XXIX.
ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES- THE LOTUS-EATERS- CYCLOPSE- CIRCE
-SIRENS- SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS- CALYPSO.
RETURN OF ULYSSES.
THE romantic poem of the Odyssey is now to engage our attention.
It narrates the wanderings of Ulysses (Odysseus in the Greek
language) in his return from Troy to his own kingdom Ithaca.
From Troy the vessels first made land at Ismarus, city of the
Ciconians, where, in a skirmish with the inhabitants, Ulysses
lost six men from each ship. Sailing thence, they were overtaken
by a storm which drove them for nine days along the sea till
they reached the country of the Lotus-eaters. Here, after
watering, Ulysses sent three of his men to discover who the
inhabitants were. These men on coming among the Lotus-eaters
were kindly entertained by them, and were given some of their
own food, the lotus-plant, to eat. The effect of this food was
such that those who partook of it lost all thoughts of home and
wished to remain in that country. It was by main force that
Ulysses dragged these men away, and he was even obliged to tie
them under the benches of his ships.*
* Tennyson in the "Lotos-eaters," has charmingly expressed
the dreamy languid feeling which the lotus food is said to have
produced.
"How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whispered speech;
Eating the Lotos, day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray:
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heaped over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass."
They next arrived at the country of the Cyclopses. The
Cyclopses were giants, who inhabited an island of which they
were the only possessors. The name means "round eye," and these
giants were so called because they had but one eye, and that
placed in the middle of the forehead. They dwelt in caves and
fed on the wild productions of the island and on what their
flocks yielded, for they were shepherds. Ulysses left the main
body of his ships at anchor, and with one vessel went to the
Cyclopses' island to explore for supplies. He landed with his
companions, carrying with them a jar of wine for a present, and
coming to a large cave they entered it, and finding no one
within examined its contents. They found it stored with the
richest of the flock, quantities of cheese, pails and bowls of
milk, lambs and kids in their pens, all in nice order. Presently
arrived the master of the cave, Polyphemus, bearing an immense
bundle of firewood, which he threw down before the cavern's
mouth. He then drove into the cave the sheep and goats to be
milked, and, entering, rolled to the cave's mouth an enormous
rock, that twenty oxen could not draw. Next he sat down and
milked his ewes, preparing a part for cheese, and setting the
rest aside for his customary drink. Then, turning round his
great eye, he discerned the strangers, and growled out to them,
demanding who they were, and where from. Ulysses replied most
humbly, stating that they were Greeks, from the great expedition
that had lately won so much glory in the conquest of Troy; that
they were now on their way home, and finished by imploring his
hospitality in the name of the gods. Polyphemus deigned no
answer, but reaching out his hand seized two of the Greeks, whom
he hurled against the side of the cave, and dashed out their
brains. He proceeded to devour them with great relish, and
having made a hearty meal, stretched himself out on the floor to
sleep. Ulysses was tempted to seize the opportunity and plunge
his sword into him as be slept, but recollected that it would
only expose them all to certain destruction, as the rock with
which the giant had closed up the door was far beyond their
power to remove, and they would therefore be in hopeless
imprisonment. Next morning the giant seized two more of the
Greeks, and despatched them in the same manner as their
companions, feasting on their flesh till no fragment was left.
He then moved away the rock from the door, drove out his flocks,
and went out, carefully replacing the barrier after him. When he
was gone Ulysses planned how he might take vengeance for his
murdered friends, and effect his escape with his surviving
companions. He made his men prepare a massive bar of wood cut by
the Cyclops for a staff, which they found in the cave. They
sharpened the end of it, and seasoned it in the fire, and hid it
under the straw on the cavern floor. Then four of the boldest
were selected, with whom Ulysses joined himself as a fifth. The
Cyclops came home at evening, rolled away the stone and drove in
his flock as usual. After milking them and making his
arrangements as before, he seized two more of Ulysses'
companions and dashed their brains out, and made his evening
meal upon them as he had on the others. After he had supped,
Ulysses approaching him handed him a bowl of wine, saying,
"Cyclops, this is wine; taste and drink after thy meal of men's
flesh." He took and drank it, and was hugely delighted with it,
and called for more. Ulysses supplied him once again, which
pleased the giant so much that he promised him as a favour that
he should be the last of the party devoured. He asked his name,
to which Ulysses replied, "My name is Noman."
After his supper the giant lay down to repose, and was soon
found asleep. Then Ulysses with his four select friends thrust
the end of the stake into the fire till it was all one burning
coal, then poising it exactly above the giant's only eye, they
buried it deeply into the socket, twirling it round as a
carpenter does his auger. The howling monster with his outcry
filled the cavern, and Ulysses with his aids nimbly got out of
his way and concealed themselves in the cave. He, bellowing,
called aloud on all the Cyclopses dwelling in the caves around
him, far and near. They on his cry flocked round the den, and
inquired what grievous hurt had caused him to sound such an
alarm and break their slumbers. He replied, "O friends, I die,
and Noman gives the blow." They answered, "If no man hurts thee
it is the stroke of Jove, and thou must bear it." So saying,
they left him groaning.
Next morning the Cyclops rolled away the stone to let his
flock out to pasture, but planted himself in the door of the
cave to feel of all as they went out, that Ulysses and his men
should not escape with them. But Ulysses had made his men
harness the rams of the flock three abreast, with osiers which
they found on the floor of the cave. To the middle ram of the
three one of the Greeks suspended himself, so protected by the
exterior rams on either side. As they passed, the giant felt of
the animals' backs and sides, but never thought of their
bellies; so the men all passed safe, Ulysses himself being on
the last one that passed. When they had got a few paces from the
cavern, Ulysses and his friends released themselves from their
rams, and drove a good part of the flock down to the shore to
their boat. They put them aboard with all haste, then pushed off
from the shore, and when at a safe distance Ulysses shouted out,
"Cyclops, the gods have well requited thee for thy atrocious
deeds. Know it is Ulysses to whom thou owest thy shameful loss
of sight." The Cyclops, hearing this, seized a rock that
projected from the side of the mountain, and rending it from its
bed he lifted it high in the air, then exerting all his force,
hurled it in the direction of the voice. Down came the mass,
just clearing the vessel's stern. The ocean, at the plunge of
the huge rock, heaved the ship towards the land, so that it
barely escaped being swamped by the waves. When they had with
the utmost difficulty pulled off shore, Ulysses was about to
hail the giant again, but his friends besought him not to do so.
He could not forbear, however, letting the giant know that they
had escaped his missile, but waited till they had reached a
safer distance than before. The giant answered them with curses,
but Ulysses and his friends plied their oars vigorously, and
soon regained their companions.
Ulysses next arrived at the island of AEolus. To this monarch
Jupiter had intrusted the government of the winds, to send them
forth or retain them at his will. He treated Ulysses hospitably,
and at his departure gave him, tied up in a leathern bag with a
silver string, such winds as might be hurtful and dangerous,
commanding fair winds to blow the barks towards their country.
Nine days they sped before the wind, and all that time Ulysses
had stood at the helm, without sleep. At last quite exhausted he
lay down to sleep. While he slept, the crew conferred together
about the mysterious bag, and concluded it must contain
treasures given by the hospitable King AEolus to their
commander. Tempted to secure some portion for themselves, they
loosed the string, when immediately the winds rushed forth. The
ships were driven far from their course, and back again to the
island they had just left. AEolus was so indignant at their
folly that he refused to assist them further, and they were
obliged to labour over their course once more by means of their
oars.
THE LAESTRYGONIANS.
Their next adventure was with the barbarous tribe of
Laestrygonians. The vessels all pushed into the harbour, tempted
by the secure appearance of the cove, completely land-locked;
only Ulysses moored his vessel without. As soon as the
Laestrygonians found the ships completely in their power they
attacked them, heaving huge stones which broke and overturned
them, and with their spears despatched the seamen as they
struggled in the water. All the vessels with their crews were
destroyed, except Ulysses' own ship, which had remained outside,
and finding no safety but in flight, he exhorted his men to ply
their oars vigorously, and they escaped.
With grief for their slain companions mixed with joy at their
own escape, they pursued their way till they arrived at the
AEaean isle, where Circe dwelt, the daughter of the sun. Landing
here, Ulysses climbed a hill, and gazing round saw no signs of
habitation except in one spot at the centre of the island, where
he perceived a palace embowered with trees. He sent forward
one-half of his crew, under the command of Eurylochus, to see
what prospect of hospitality they might find. As they approached
the palace, they found themselves surrounded by lions, tigers,
and wolves, not fierce, but tamed by Circe's art, for she was a
powerful magician. All these animals had once been men, but had
been changed by Circe's enchantments into the forms of beasts.
The sounds of soft music were heard from within, and a sweet
female voice singing. Eurylochus called aloud and the goddess
came forth and invited them in; they all gladly entered except
Eurylochus, who suspected danger. The goddess conducted her
guests to a seat, and had them served with wine and other
delicacies. When they had feasted heartily, she touched them one
by one with her wand, and they became immediately changed into
swine, in "head, body, voice, and bristles," yet with their
intellects as before. She shut them in her sties and supplied
them with acorns and such other things as swine love.
Eurylochus hurried back to the ship and told the tale.
Ulysses thereupon determined to go himself, and try if by any
means he might deliver his companions. As he strode onward
alone, he met a youth who addressed him familiarly, appearing to
be acquainted with his adventures. He announced himself as
Mercury, and informed Ulysses of the arts of Circe, and of the
danger of approaching her. As Ulysses was not to be dissuaded
from his attempt, Mercury provided him with a sprig of the plant
Moly, of wonderful power to resist sorceries, and instructed him
how to act. Ulysses proceeded, and reaching the palace was
courteously received by Circe, who entertained him as she had
done his companions, and after he had eaten and drank, touched
him with her wand, saying, "Hence, seek the sty and wallow with
thy friends." But he, instead of obeying, drew his sword and
rushed upon her with fury in his countenance. She fell on her
knees and begged for mercy. He dictated a solemn oath that she
would release his companions and practise no further harm
against him or them; and she repeated it, at the same time
promising to dismiss them all in safety after hospitably
entertaining them. She was as good as her word. The men were
restored to their shapes, the rest of the crew summoned from the
shore, and the whole magnificently entertained day after day,
till Ulysses seemed to have forgotten his native land, and to
have reconciled himself to an inglorious life of ease and
pleasure.
At length his companions recalled him to nobler sentiments,
and he received their admonition gratefully. Circe aided their
departure, and instructed them how to pass safely by the coast
of the Sirens. The Sirens were sea-nymphs who had the power of
charming by their song all who heard them, so that the unhappy
mariners were irresistibly impelled to cast themselves into the
sea to their destruction. Circe directed Ulysses to fill the
ears of his seamen with wax, so that they should not hear the
strain; and to cause himself to be bound to the mast, and his
people to be strictly enjoined, whatever he might say or do, by
no means to release him till they should have passed the Sirens'
island. Ulysses obeyed these directions. He filled the ears of
his people with wax, and suffered them to bind him with cords
firmly to the mast. As they approached the Sirens' island, the
sea was calm, and over the waters came the notes of music so
ravishing and attractive that Ulysses struggled to get loose,
and by cries and signs to his people begged to be released; but
they, obedient to his previous orders, sprang forward and bound
him still faster. They held on their course, and the music grew
fainter till it ceased to be heard, when with joy Ulysses gave
his companions the signal to unseal their ears, and they
relieved him from his bonds.
The imagination of a modern poet, Keats, has discovered for
us the thoughts that passed through the brains of the victims of
Circe, after their transformation. In his "Endymion" he
represents one of them, a monarch in the guise of an elephant,
addressing the sorceress in human language, thus:
"I sue not for my happy crown again;
I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;
I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife;
I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,
My children fair, my lovely girls and boys;
I will forget them; I will pass these joys,
Ask nought so heavenward; so too- too high;
Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die;
To be delivered from this cumbrous flesh,
From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,
And merely given to the cold, bleak air.
Have mercy, goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!"
SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
Ulysses had been warned by Circe of the two monsters Scylla and
Charybdis. We have already met with Scylla in the story of
Glaucus, and remember that she was once a beautiful maiden and
was changed into a snaky monster by Circe. She dwelt in a cave
high up on the cliff, from whence she was accustomed to thrust
forth her long necks (for she had six heads), and in each of her
mouths seize one of the crew of every vessel passing within
reach. The other terror, Charybdis, was a gulf, nearly on a
level with the water. Thrice each day the water rushed into a
frightful chasm, and thrice was disgorged. Any vessel coming
near the whirlpool when the tide was rushing in must inevitably
be ingulfed; not Neptune himself could save it.
On approaching the haunt of the dread monsters, Ulysses kept
strict watch to discover them. The roar of the waters as
Charybdis ingulfed them, gave warning at a distance, but Scylla
could nowhere be discerned. While Ulysses and his men watched
with anxious eyes the dreadful whirlpool, they were not equally
on their guard from the attack of Scylla, and the monster,
darting forth her snaky heads, caught six of his men, and bore
them away, shrieking, to her den. It was the saddest sight
Ulysses had yet seen; to behold his friends thus sacrificed and
hear their cries, unable to afford them any assistance.
Circe had warned him of another danger. After passing Scylla
and Charybdis the next land he would make was Thrinakia, an
island whereon were pastured the cattle of Hyperion, the Sun,
tended by his daughters Lampetia and Phaethusa. These flocks
must not be violated, whatever the wants of the voyagers might
be. If this injunction were transgressed destruction was sure to
fall on the offenders.
Ulysses would willingly have passed the island of the Sun
without stopping, but his companions so urgently pleaded for the
rest and refreshment that would be derived from anchoring and
passing the night on shore, that Ulysses yielded. He bound them,
however, with an oath that they would not touch one of the
animals of the sacred flocks and herds, but content themselves
with what provision they yet had left of the supply which Circe
had put on board. So long as this supply lasted the people kept
their oath, but contrary winds detained them at the island for a
month, and after consuming all their stock of provisions, they
were forced to rely upon the birds and fishes they could catch.
Famine pressed them, and at length one day, in the absence of
Ulysses, they slew some of the cattle, vainly attempting to make
amends for the deed by offering from them a portion to the
offended powers. Ulysses, on his return to the shore, was
horror-struck at perceiving what they had done, and the more so
on account of the portentous signs which followed. The skins
crept on the ground, and the joints of meat lowed on the spits
while roasting.
The wind becoming fair they sailed from the island. They had
not gone far when the weather changed, and a storm of thunder
and lightning ensued. A stroke of lightning shattered their
mast, which in its fall killed the pilot. At last the vessel
itself came to pieces. The keel and mast floating side by side,
Ulysses formed of them a raft, to which he clung, and, the wind
changing, the waves bore him to Calypso's island. All the rest
of the crew perished.
The following allusion to the topics we have just been
considering is from Milton's "Comus," line 252:
"...I have often heard
My mother Circe and the Sirens three,
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,
Culling their potent herbs and baneful drugs,
Who as they sung would take the prisoned soul
And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept,
And chid her barking waves into attention,
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause."
Scylla and Charybdis have become proverbial, to denote
opposite dangers which beset one's course. See Proverbial
Expressions, no. 8.
CALYPSO.
Calypso was a sea-nymph, which name denotes a numerous class
of female divinities of lower rank, yet sharing many of the
attributes of the gods. Calypso received Ulysses hospitably,
entertained him magnificently, became enamoured of him, and
wished to retain him for ever, conferring on him immortality.
But be persisted in his resolution to return to his country and
his wife and son. Calypso at last received the command of Jove
to dismiss him. Mercury brought the message to her, and found
her in her grotto, which is thus described by Homer:
"A garden vine, luxuriant on all sides,
Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung
Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph,
Their sinuous course pursuing side by side,
Strayed all around, and everywhere appeared
Meadows of softest verdure, purpled o'er
With violets; it was a scene to fill
A god from heaven with wonder and delight."
Calypso with much reluctance proceeded to obey the commands
of Jupiter. She supplied Ulysses with the means of constructing
a raft, provisioned it well for him, and gave him a favouring
gale. He sped on his course prosperously for many days, till at
length, when in sight of land, a storm arose that broke his
mast, and threatened to rend the raft asunder. In this crisis he
was seen by a compassionate sea-nymph, who in the form of a
cormorant alighted on the raft, and presented him a girdle,
directing him to bind it beneath his breast, and if he should be
compelled to trust himself to the waves, it would buoy him up
and enable him by swimming to reach the land.
Fenelon, in his romance of "Telemachus," has given us the
adventures of the son of Ulysses in search of his father. Among
other places at which he arrived, following on his father's
footsteps, was Calypso's isle, and, as in the former case, the
goddess tried every art to keep him with her, and offered to
share her immortality with him. But Minerva, who in the shape of
Mentor accompanied him and governed all his movements, made him
repel her allurements, and when no other means of escape could
be found, the two friends leaped from a cliff into the sea, and
swam to a vessel which lay becalmed off shore. Byron alludes to
this leap of Telemachus and Mentor in the following stanza:
"But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,
The sister tenants of the middle deep;
There for the weary still a haven smiles,
Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride.
Here too his boy essayed the dreadful leap,
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
While thus of both bereft the nymph-queen doubly sighed."
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CHAPTER XXX.
THE PHAEACIANS- FATE OF THE SUITORS.
THE PHAEACIANS.
ULYSSES clung to the raft while any of its timbers kept
together, and when it no longer yielded him support, binding the
girdle around him, he swam. Minerva smoothed the billows before
him and sent him a wind that rolled the waves towards the shore.
The surf beat high on the rocks and seemed to forbid approach;
but at length finding calm water at the mouth of a gentle
stream, he landed, spent with toil, breathless and speechless
and almost dead. After some time, reviving, he kissed the soil,
rejoicing, yet at a loss what course to take. At a short
distance he perceived a wood to which he turned his steps.
There, finding a covert sheltered by intermingling branches
alike from the sun and the rain, he collected a pile of leaves
and formed a bed, on which he stretched himself, and heaping the
leaves over him, fell asleep.
The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the
Phaeacians. These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopses;
but being oppressed by that savage race, they migrated to the
isle of Scheria, under the conduct of Nausithous, their king.
They were, the poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who
appeared manifestly and feasted among them when they offered
sacrifices and did not conceal themselves from solitary
wayfarers when they met them. They had abundance of wealth and
lived in the enjoyment of it undisturbed by the alarms of war,
for as they dwelt remote from gain-seeking men, no enemy ever
approached their shores, and they did not even require to make
use of bows and quivers. Their chief employment was navigation.
Their ships, which went with the velocity of birds, were endued
with intelligence; they knew every port and needed no pilot.
Alcinous, the son of Nausithous, was now their king, a wise and
just sovereign, beloved by his people.
Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast
ashore on the Phaeacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his
bed of leaves, Nausicaa, the daughter of the king, had a dream
sent by Minerva, reminding her that her wedding-day was not far
distant, and that it would be but a prudent preparation for that
event to have a general washing of the clothes of the family.
This was no slight affair, for the fountains were at some
distance, and the garments must be carried thither. On awaking,
the princess hastened to her parents to tell them what was on
her mind; not alluding to her wedding-day, but finding other
reasons equally good. Her father readily assented and ordered
the grooms to furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The clothes
were put therein, and the queen mother placed in the wagon,
likewise, an abundant supply of food and wine. The princess took
her seat and plied the lash, her attendant virgins following her
on foot. Arrived at the river side, they turned out the mules to
graze, and unlading the carriage, bore the garments down to the
water, and working with cheerfulness and alacrity, soon
despatched their labour. Then having spread the garments on the
shore to dry, and having themselves bathed, they sat down to
enjoy their meal; after which they rose and amused themselves
with a game of ball, the princess singing to them while they
played. But when they had refolded the apparel and were about to
resume their way to the town, Minerva caused the ball thrown by
the princess to fall into the water, whereat they all screamed
and Ulysses awaked at the sound.
Now we must picture to ourselves Ulysses, a shipwrecked
mariner, but a few hours escaped from the waves, and utterly
destitute of clothing, awaking and discovering that only a few
bushes were interposed between him and a group of young maidens
whom, by their deportment and attire, he discovered to be not
mere peasant girls, but of a higher class. Sadly needing help,
how could he yet venture, naked as he was, to discover himself
and make his wants known? It certainly was a case worthy of the
interposition of his patron goddess Minerva, who never failed
him at a crisis. Breaking off a leafy branch from a tree, he
held it before him and stepped out from the thicket. The virgins
at sight of him fled in all directions, Nausicaa alone excepted,
for her Minerva aided and endowed with courage and discernment.
Ulysses, standing respectfully aloof, told his sad case, and
besought the fair object (whether queen or goddess he professed
he knew not) for food and clothing. The princess replied
courteously, promising present relief and her father's
hospitality when he should become acquainted with the facts. She
called back her scattered maidens, chiding their alarm, and
reminding them that the Phaeacians had no enemies to fear. This
man, she told them, was an unhappy wanderer, whom it was a duty
to cherish, for the poor and stranger are from Jove. She bade
them bring food and clothing, for some of her brothers' garments
were among the contents of the wagon. When this was done, and
Ulysses, retiring to a sheltered place, had washed his body free
from the sea-foam, clothed and refreshed himself with food,
Pallas dilated his form and diffused grace over his ample chest
and manly brows.
The princess, seeing him, was filled with admiration, and
scrupled not to say to her damsels that she wished the gods
would send her such a husband. To Ulysses she recommended that
he should repair to the city, following herself and train so far
as the way lay through the fields; but when they should approach
the city she desired that he would no longer be seen in her
company, for she feared the remarks which rude and vulgar people
might make on seeing her return accompanied by such a gallant
stranger. To avoid which she directed him to stop at a grove
adjoining the city, in which were a farm and garden belonging to
the king. After allowing time for the princess and her
companions to reach the city, he was then to pursue his way
thither, and would be easily guided by any he might meet to the
royal abode.
Ulysses obeyed the directions and in due time proceeded to
the city, on approaching which he met a young woman bearing a
pitcher forth for water. It was Minerva, who had assumed that
form. Ulysses accosted her and desired to be directed to the
palace of Alcinous the king. The maiden replied respectfully,
offering to be his guide; for the palace, she informed him,
stood near her father's dwelling. Under the guidance of the
goddess, and by her power enveloped in a cloud which shielded
him from observation, Ulysses passed among the busy crowd, and
with wonder observed their harbour, their ships, their forum
(the resort of heroes), and their battlements, till they came to
the palace, where the goddess, having first given him some
information of the country, king, and people he was about to
meet, left him. Ulysses, before entering the courtyard of the
palace, stood and surveyed the scene. Its splendour astonished
him. Brazen walls stretched from the entrance to the interior
house, of which the doors were gold, the doorposts silver, the
lintels silver ornamented with gold. On either side were figures
of mastiffs wrought in gold and silver, standing in rows as if
to guard the approach. Along the walls were seats spread through
all their length with mantles of finest texture, the work of
Phaeacian maidens. On these seats the princes sat and feasted,
while golden statues of graceful youths held in their hands
lighted torches which shed radiance over the scene. Full fifty
female menials served in household offices, some employed to
grind the corn, others to wind off the purple wool or ply the
loom. For the Phaeacian women as far exceeded all other women in
household arts as the mariners of that country did the rest of
mankind in the management of ships. Without the court a spacious
garden lay, four acres in extent. In it grew many a lofty tree,
pomegranate, pear, apple, fig, and olive. Neither winter's cold
nor summer's drought arrested their growth, but they flourished
in constant succession, some budding while others were maturing.
The vineyard was equally prolific. In one quarter you might see
the vines, some in blossom, some loaded with ripe grapes, and in
another observe the vintagers treading the wine press. On the
garden's borders flowers of all hues bloomed all the year round,
arranged with neatest art. In the midst two fountains poured
forth their waters, one flowing by artificial channels over all
the garden, the other conducted through the courtyard of the
palace, whence every citizen might draw his supplies.
Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for
the cloud which Minerva spread around him still shielded him. At
length, having sufficiently observed the scene, he advanced with
rapid step into the hall where the chiefs and senators were
assembled, pouring libation to Mercury, whose worship followed
the evening meal. Just then Minerva dissolved the cloud and
disclosed him to the assembled chiefs. Advancing to the place
where the queen sat, he knelt at her feet and implored her
favour and assistance to enable him to return to his native
country. Then withdrawing, he seated himself in the manner of
suppliants, at the hearth side.
For a time none spoke. At last an aged statesman, addressing
the king, said, "It is not fit that a stranger who asks our
hospitality should be kept waiting in suppliant guise, none
welcoming him. Let him therefore be led to a seat among us and
supplied with food and wine." At these words the king rising
gave his hand to Ulysses and led him to a seat, displacing
thence his own son to make room for the stranger. Food and wine
were set before him and he ate and refreshed himself.
The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the
next day he would call them to council to consider what had best
be done for the stranger.
When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with
the king and queen, the queen asked him who he was and whence he
came, and (recognizing the clothes which he wore as those which
her maidens and herself had made) from whom he received those
garments. He told them of his residence in Calypso's isle and
his departure thence; of the wreck of his raft, his escape by
swimming, and of the relief afforded by the princess. The
parents heard approvingly, and the king promised to furnish a
ship in which his guest might return to his own land.
The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of
the king. A bark was prepared and a crew of stout rowers
selected, and all betook themselves to the palace, where a
bounteous repast was provided. After the feast the king proposed
that the young men should show their guest their proficiency in
manly sports, and all went forth to the arena for games of
running, wrestling, and other exercises. After all had done
their best, Ulysses being challenged to show what he could do,
at first declined, but being taunted by one of the youths,
seized a quoit of weight far heavier than any of the Phaeacians
had thrown, and sent it farther than the utmost throw of theirs.
All were astonished, and viewed their guest with greatly
increased respect.
After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led
in Demodocus, the blind bard,
"...Dear to the Muse,
Who yet appointed him both good and ill,
Took from his sight, but gave him strains divine."
He took for his theme the "Wooden Horse," by means of which
the Greeks found entrance into Troy. Apollo inspired him, and he
sang so feelingly the terrors and the exploits of that eventful
time that all were delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears.
Observing which, Alcinous, when the song was done, demanded of
him why at the mention of Troy his sorrows awaked. Had he lost
there a father, or brother, or any dear friend? Ulysses replied
by announcing himself by his true name, and at their request,
recounted the adventures which had befallen him since his
departure from Troy. This narrative raised the sympathy and
admiration of the Phaeacians for their guest to the highest
pitch. The king proposed that all the chiefs should present him
with a gift, himself setting the example. They obeyed, and vied
with one another in loading the illustrious stranger with costly
gifts.
The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phaeacian vessel, and in
a short time arrived safe at Ithaca, his own island. When the
vessel touched the strand he was asleep. The mariners, without
waking him, carried him on shore, and landed with him the chest
containing his presents, and then sailed away.
Neptune was so displeased at the conduct of the Phaeacians in
thus rescuing Ulysses from his hands that on the return of the
vessel to port he transformed it into a rock, right opposite the
mouth of the harbour.
Homer's description of the ships of the Phaeacians has been
thought to look like an anticipation of the wonders of modern
steam navigation. Alcinous says to Ulysses,
"Say from what city, from what regions tossed,
And what inhabitants those regions boast?
So shalt thou quickly reach the realm assigned,
In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind;
No helm secures their course, no pilot guides;
Like man intelligently they plough the tides,
Conscious of every coast and every bay
That lies beneath the sun's all-seeing ray."
Odyssey, Book VIII.
Lord Carlisle, in his "Diary in the Turkish and Greek
Waters," thus speaks of Corfu, which he considers to be the
ancient Phaeacian island:
"The sites explain the 'Odyssey.' The temple of the sea-god
could not have been more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of
the most elastic turf, on the brow of a crag commanding the
harbour, and channel, and ocean. Just at the entrance of the
inner harbour there is a picturesque rock with a small convent
perched upon it, which by one legend is the transformed pinnace
of Ulysses.
"Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper
distance from the probable site of the city and palace of the
king, to justify the princess Nausicaa having had resort to her
chariot and to luncheon when she went with the maidens of the
court to wash their garments."
FATE OF THE SUITORS.
Ulysses had now been away from Ithaca for twenty years, and
when he awoke he did not recognize his native land. Minerva
appeared to him in the form of a young shepherd, informed him
where he was, and told him the state of things at his palace.
More than a hundred nobles of Ithaca and of the neighbouring
islands had been for years suing for the hand of Penelope, his
wife, imagining him dead, and lording it over his palace and
people, as if they were owners of both. That he might be able to
take vengeance upon them, it was important that he should not be
recognized. Minerva accordingly metamorphosed him into an
unsightly beggar, and as such he was kindly received by Eumaeus,
the swine-herd, a faithful servant of his house.
Telemachus, his son, was absent in quest of his father. He
had gone to the courts of the other kings, who had returned from
the Trojan expedition. While on the search, he received counsel
from Minerva to return home. He arrived and sought Eumaeus to
learn something of the state of affairs at the palace before
presenting himself among the suitors. Finding a stranger with
Eumaeus, he treated him courteously, though in the garb of a
beggar, and promised him assistance. Eumaeus was sent to the
palace to inform Penelope privately of her son's arrival, for
caution was necessary with regard to the suitors, who, as
Telemachus had learned, were plotting to intercept and kill him.
When Eumaeus was gone, Minerva presented herself to Ulysses, and
directed him to make himself known to his son. At the same time
she touched him, removed at once from him the appearance of age
and penury, and gave him the aspect of vigorous manhood that
belonged to him. Telemachus viewed him with astonishment, and at
first thought he must be more than mortal. But Ulysses announced
himself as his father, and accounted for the change of
appearance by explaining that it was Minerva's doing.
"...Then threw Telemachus
His arms around his father's neck and wept.
Desire intense of lamentation seized.
On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged
His grief."
The father and son took counsel together how they should get
the better of the suitors and punish them for their outrages. It
was arranged that Telemachus should proceed to the palace and
mingle with the suitors as formerly; that Ulysses should also go
as a beggar, a character which in the rude old times had
different privileges from what we concede to it now. As
traveller and storyteller, the beggar was admitted in the halls
of chieftains, and often treated like a guest; though sometimes,
also, no doubt, with contumely. Ulysses charged his son not to
betray, by any display of unusual interest in him, that he knew
him to be other than he seemed, and even if he saw him insulted,
or beaten, not to interpose otherwise than he might do for any
stranger. At the palace they found the usual scene of feasting
and riot going on. The suitors pretended to receive Telemachus
with joy at his return, though secretly mortified at the failure
of their plots to take his life. The old beggar was permitted to
enter, and provided with a portion from the table. A touching
incident occurred as Ulysses entered the courtyard of the
palace. An old dog lay in the yard almost dead with age, and
seeing a stranger enter, raised his head, with ears erect. It
was Argus, Ulysses' own dog, that he had in other days often led
to the chase.
"...Soon as he perceived
Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears
Clapped close, and with his tall glad sign he gave
Of gratulation, impotent to rise,
And to approach his master as of old.
Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear
Unmarked.
...Then his destiny released
Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see
Ulysses in the twentieth year restored."
As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors
began to exhibit their insolence to him. When he mildly
remonstrated, one of them raised a stool and with it gave him a
blow. Telemachus had hard work to restrain his indignation at
seeing his father so treated in his own hall, but remembering
his father's injunctions, said no more than what became him as
master of the house, though young, and protector of his guests.
Penelope had protracted her decision in favour of either of
her suitors so long that there seemed to be no further pretence
for delay. The continued absence of her husband seemed to prove
that his return was no longer to be expected. Meanwhile her son
had grown up, and was able to manage his own affairs. She
therefore consented to submit the question of her choice to a
trial of skill among the suitors. The test selected was shooting
with the bow. Twelve rings were arranged in a line, and he whose
arrow was sent through the whole twelve was to have the queen
for his prize. A bow that one of his brother heroes had given to
Ulysses in former times was brought from the armoury, and with
its quiver full of arrows was laid in the hall. Telemachus had
taken care that all other weapons should be removed, under
pretence that in the heat of competition there was danger, in
some rash moment, of putting them to an improper use.
All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to
be done was to bend the bow in order to attach the string.
Telemachus endeavoured to do it, but found all his efforts
fruitless; and modestly confessing that he had attempted a task
beyond his strength, he yielded the bow to another. He tried it
with no better success, and, amidst the laughter and jeers of
his companions, gave it up. Another tried it and another; they
rubbed the bow with tallow, but all to no purpose; it would not
bend. Then spoke Ulysses, humbly suggesting that he should be
permitted to try; for, said he, "beggar as I am, I was once a
soldier, and there is still some strength in these old limbs of
mine." The suitors hooted with derision, and commanded to turn
him out of the hall for his insolence. But Telemachus spoke up
for him, and, merely to gratify the old man, bade him try.
Ulysses took the bow, and handled it with the hand of a master.
With ease he adjusted the cord to its notch, then fitting an
arrow to the bow be drew the string and sped the arrow unerring
through the rings.
Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he
said, "Now for another mark!" and aimed direct at the most
insolent one of the suitors. The arrow pierced through his
throat and he fell dead. Telemachus, Eumaeus, and another
faithful follower, well armed, now sprang to the side of
Ulysses. The suitors, in amazement, looked round for arms, but
found none, neither was there any way of escape, for Eumaeus had
secured the door. Ulysses left them not long in uncertainty; he
announced himself as the long-lost chief, whose house they had
invaded, whose substance they had squandered, whose wife and son
they had persecuted for ten long years; and told them he meant
to have ample vengeance. All were slain, and Ulysses was left
master of his palace and possessor of his kingdom and his wife.
Tennyson's poem of "Ulysses" represents the old hero, after
his dangers past and nothing left but to stay at home and be
happy, growing tired of inaction and resolving to set forth
again in quest of new adventures:
"...Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles whom we knew;" etc.
|
CHAPTER XXXI.
ADVENTURES OF AENEAS- THE HARPIES- DIDO- PALINURIUS.
ADVENTURES OF AENEAS.
WE have followed one of the Grecian heroes, Ulysses, in his
wanderings on his return home from Troy, and now we propose to
share the fortunes of the remnant of the conquered people, under
their chief AEneas, in their search for a new home, after the
ruin of their native city. On that fatal night when the wooden
horse disgorged its contents of armed men, and the capture and
conflagration of the city were the result, AEneas made his
escape from the scene of destruction, with his father, and his
wife, and young son. The father, Anchises, was too old to walk
with the speed required, and AEneas took him upon his
shoulders.* Thus burdened, leading his son and followed by his
wife, he made the best of his way out of the burning city; but,
in the confusion, his wife was swept away and lost.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 9.
On arriving at the place of rendezvous, numerous fugitives,
of both sexes, were found, who put themselves under the guidance
of AEneas. Some months were spent in preparation, and at length
they embarked. They first landed on the neighboring shores of
Thrace, and were preparing to build a city, but AEneas was
deterred by a prodigy. Preparing to offer sacrifice, he tore
some twigs from one of the bushes. To his dismay the wounded
part dropped blood. When he repeated the act a voice from the
ground cried out to him, "Spare me, AEneas; I am your kinsman,
Polydore, here murdered with many arrows, from which a bush has
grown, nourished with my blood." These words recalled to the
recollection of AEneas that Polydore was a young prince of Troy,
whom his father had sent with ample treasures to the
neighbouring land of Thrace, to be there brought up, at a
distance from the horrors of war. The king to whom he was sent
had murdered him and seized his treasures. AEneas and his
companions, considering the land accursed by the stain of such a
crime, hastened away.
They next landed on the island of Delos, which was once a
floating island, till Jupiter fastened it by adamantine chains
to the bottom of the sea. Apollo and Diana were born there, and
the island was sacred to Apollo. Here AEneas consulted the
oracle of Apollo, and received an answer, ambiguous as usual,-
"Seek your ancient mother; there the race of AEneas shall dwell,
and reduce all other nations to their sway." The Trojans heard
with joy and immediately began to ask one another, "Where is the
spot intended by the oracle?" Anchises remembered that there was
a tradition that their forefathers came from Crete and thither
they resolved to steer. They arrived at Crete and began to build
their city, but sickness broke out among them, and the fields
that they had planted failed to yield a crop. In this gloomy
aspect of affairs AEneas was warned in a dream to leave the
country and seek a western land, called Hesperia, whence
Dardanus, the true founder of the Trojan race, had originally
migrated. To Hesperia, now called Italy, therefore, they
directed their future course, and not till after many adventures
and the lapse of time sufficient to carry a modern navigator
several times round the world, did they arrive there.
Their first landing was at the island of the Harpies. These
were disgusting birds with the heads of maidens, with long claws
and faces pale with hunger. They were sent by the gods to
torment a certain Phineus, whom Jupiter had deprived of his
sight, in punishment of his cruelty; and whenever a meal was
placed before him the Harpies darted down from the air and
carried it off. They were driven away from Phineus by the heroes
of the Argonautic expedition, and took refuge in the island
where AEneas now found them.
When they entered the port the Trojans saw herds of cattle
roaming over the plain. They slew as many as they wished and
prepared for a feast. But no sooner had they seated themselves
at the table than a horrible clamour was heard in the air, and a
flock of these odious harpies came rushing down upon them,
seizing in their talons the meat from the dishes and flying away
with it. AEneas and his companions drew their swords and dealt
vigorous blows among the monsters, but to no purpose, for they
were so nimble it was almost impossible to hit them, and their
feathers were like armour impenetrable to steel. One of them,
perched on a neighbouring cliff, screamed out, "Is it thus,
Trojans, you treat us innocent birds, first slaughter our cattle
and then make war on ourselves?" She then predicted dire
sufferings to them in their future course, and having vented her
wrath flew away. The Trojans made haste to leave the country,
and next found themselves coasting along the shore of Epirus.
Here they landed, and to their astonishment learned that certain
Trojan exiles, who had been carried there as prisoners, had
become rulers of the country. Andromache, the widow of Hector,
became the wife of one of the victorious Grecian chiefs, to whom
she bore a son. Her husband dying, she was left regent of the
country, as guardian of her son, and had married a
fellow-captive, Helenus, of the royal race of Troy. Helenus and
Andromache treated the exiles with the utmost hospitality, and
dismissed them loaded with gifts.
From hence AEneas coasted along the shore of Sicily and
passed the country of the Cyclopses. Here they were hailed from
the shore by a miserable object, whom by his garments, tattered
as they were, they perceived to be a Greek. He told them he was
one of Ulysses' companions, left behind by that chief in his
hurried departure. He related the story of Ulysses' adventure
with Polyphemus, and besought them to take him off with them as
he had no means of sustaining his existence where he was but
wild berries and roots, and lived in constant fear of the
Cyclopses, While he spoke Polyphemus made his appearance; "a
terrible monster, shapeless, vast, whose only eye had been put
out."* He walked with cautious steps, feeling his way with a
staff, down to the seaside, to wash his eye-socket in the waves.
When he reached the water, he waded out towards them, and his
immense height enabled him to advance far into the sea, so that
the Trojans, in terror, took to their oars to get out of his
way. Hearing the oars, Polyphemus shouted after them, so that
the shores resounded, and at the noise the other Cyclopses came
forth from their caves and woods and lined the shore, like a row
of lofty pine trees. The Trojans plied their oars and soon left
them out of sight.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 10.
AEneas had been cautioned by Helenus to avoid the strait
guarded by the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. There Ulysses, the
reader will remember, had lost six of his men, seized by Scylla
while the navigators were wholly intent upon avoiding Charybdis.
AEneas, following the advice of Helenus, shunned the dangerous
pass and coasted along the island of Sicily.
Juno, seeing the Trojans speeding their way prosperously
towards their destined shore, felt her old grudge against them
revive, for she could not forget the slight that Paris had put
upon her, in awarding the prize of beauty to another. "In
heavenly minds can such resentments dwell!"* Accordingly she
hastened to AEolus, the ruler of the winds,- the same who
supplied Ulysses with favouring gales, giving him the contrary
ones tied up in a bag AEolus obeyed the goddess and sent forth
his sons, Boreas, Typhon, and the other winds, to toss the
ocean. A terrible storm ensued and the Trojan ships were driven
out of their course towards the coast of Africa. They were in
imminent danger of being wrecked, and were separated, so that
AEneas thought that all were lost except his own.
* See Proverbial Expressions no. 11.
At this crisis, Neptune, hearing the storm raging, and
knowing that he had given no orders for one. raised his head
above the waves, and saw the fleet of AEneas driving before the
gale. Knowing the hostility of Juno, he was at no loss to
account for it, but his anger was not the less at this
interference in his province. He called the winds and dismissed
them with a severe reprimand. He then soothed the waves, and
brushed away the clouds from before the face of the sun. Some of
the ships which had got on the rocks he prised off with his own
trident, while Triton and a sea-nymph, putting their shoulders
under others, set them afloat again. The Trojans, when the sea
became calm, sought the nearest shore, which was the coast of
Carthage, where AEneas was so happy as to find that one by one
the ships all arrived safe, though badly shaken.
Waller, in his "Panegyric to the Lord Protector" (Cromwell),
alludes to this stilling of the storm by Neptune:
"Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face,
To chide the winds and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition tossing us repressed."
DIDO.
Carthage, where the exiles had now arrived, was a spot on the
coast of Africa opposite Sicily, where at that time a Tyrian
colony under Dido, their queen, were laying the foundations of a
state destined in later ages to be the rival of Rome itself.
Dido was the daughter of Belus, king of Tyre, and sister of
Pygmalion, who succeeded his father on the throne. Her husband
was Sichaeus, a man of immense wealth, but Pygmalion, who
coveted his treasures, caused him to be put to death. Dido, with
a numerous body of friends and followers, both men and women,
succeeded in effecting their escape from Tyre, in several
vessels, carrying with them the treasures of Sichaeus. On
arriving at the spot which they selected as the seat of their
future home, they asked of the natives only so much land as they
could enclose with a bull's hide. When this was readily granted,
she caused the hide to be cut into strips, and with them
enclosed a spot on which she built a citadel, and called it
Byrsa (a hide). Around this fort the city of Carthage rose, and
soon became a powerful and flourishing place.
Such was the state of affairs when AEneas with his Trojans
arrived there. Dido received the illustrious exiles with
friendliness and hospitality. "Not unacquainted with distress,"
she said, "I have learned to succour the unfortunate."* The
queen's hospitality displayed itself in festivities at which
games of strength and skill were exhibited. The strangers
contended for the palm with her own subjects, on equal terms,
the queen declaring that whether the victor were "Trojan or
Tyrian should make no difference to her."*(2) At the feast which
followed the games, AEneas gave at her request a recital of the
closing events of the Trojan history and his own adventures
after the fall of the city. Dido was charmed with his discourse
and filled with admiration of his exploits. She conceived an
ardent passion for him, and he for his part seemed well content
to accept the fortunate chance which appeared to offer him at
once a happy termination of his wanderings, a home, a kingdom,
and a bride. Months rolled away in the enjoyment of pleasant
intercourse, and it seemed as if Italy and the empire destined
to be founded on its shores were alike forgotten. Seeing which,
Jupiter despatched Mercury with a message to AEneas recalling
him to a sense of his high destiny, and commanding him to resume
his voyage.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 12.
*(2) See Proverbial Expressions, no. 13.
AEneas parted from Dido, though she tried every allurement
and persuasion to detain him. The blow to her affection and her
pride was too much for her to endure, and when she found that he
was gone, she mounted a funeral pile which she had caused to be
erected, and having stabbed herself was consumed with the pile.
The flames rising over the city were seen by the departing
Trojans, and, though the cause was unknown, gave to AEneas some
intimation of the fatal event.
The following epigram we find in "Elegant Extracts":
FROM THE LATIN.
"Unhappy, Dido, was thy fate
In first and second married state!
One husband caused thy flight by dying,
Thy death the other caused by flying."
PALINURUS.
After touching at the island of Sicily, where Acestes, a prince
of Trojan lineage, bore sway, who gave them a hospitable
reception, the Trojans re-embarked, and held on their course for
Italy. Venus now interceded with Neptune to allow her son at
last to attain the wished-for goal and find an end of his perils
on the deep. Neptune consented, stipulating only for one life as
a ransom for the rest. The victim was Palinurus, the pilot. As
he sat watching the stars, with his hand on the helm, Somnus
sent by Neptune approached in the guise of Phorbas and said: "Palinurus,
the breeze is fair, the water smooth, and the ship sails
steadily on her course. Lie down awhile and take needful rest. I
will stand at the helm in your place." Palinurus replied, "Tell
me not of smooth seas or favouring winds,- me who have seen so
much of their treachery. Shall I trust AEneas to the chances of
the weather and the winds?" And he continued to grasp the helm
and to keep his eyes fixed on the stars. But Somnus waved over
him a branch moistened with Lethaean dew, and his eyes closed in
spite of all his efforts. Then Somnus pushed him overboard and
he fell: but keeping his hold upon the helm, it came away with
him. Neptune was mindful of his promise and kept the ship on her
track without helm or pilot, till AEneas discovered his loss,
and, sorrowing deeply for his faithful steersman, took charge of
the ship himself.
There is a beautiful allusion to the story of Palinurus in
Scott's "Marmion," Introduction to Canto I., where the poet,
speaking of the recent death of William Pitt, says:
"O, think how, to his latest day,
When death just hovering claimed his prey,
With Palinure's unaltered mood,
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repelled,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way."
The ships at last reached the shores of Italy, and joyfully
did the adventurers leap to land. While his people were employed
in making their encampment AEneas sought the abode of the Sibyl.
It was a cave connected with a temple and grove, sacred to
Apollo and Diana. While AEneas contemplated the scene, the Sibyl
accosted him. She seemed to know his errand, and under the
influence of the deity of the place, burst forth in a prophetic
strain, giving dark intimations of labours and perils through
which he was destined to make his way to final success. She
closed with the encouraging words which have become proverbial:
"Yield not to disasters, but press onward the more bravely."*
AEneas replied that he had prepared himself for whatever might
await him. He had but one request to make. Having been directed
in a dream to seek the abode of the dead in order to confer with
his father, Anchises, to receive from him a revelation of his
future fortunes and those of his race, he asked her assistance
to enable him to accomplish the task. The Sibyl replied, "The
descent to Avernus is easy: the gate of Pluto stands open night
and day; but to retrace one's steps and return to the upper air,
that is the toil, that the difficulty."*(2) She instructed him
to seek in the forest a tree on which grew a golden branch. This
branch was to be plucked off and borne as a gift to Proserpine,
and if fate was propitious it would yield to the hand and quit
its parent trunk, but otherwise no force could rend it away. If
torn away, another would succeed.*(3)
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 14.
*(2) See Proverbial Expressions, no. 15.
*(3) See Proverbial Expressions, no. 16.
AEneas followed the directions of the Sibyl. His mother,
Venus, sent two of her doves to fly before him and show him the
way, and by their assistance he found the tree, plucked the
branch, and hastened back with it to the Sibyl.
|
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE INFERNAL REGIONS- THE SIBYL.
THE INFERNAL REGIONS.
AS at the commencement of our series we have given the pagan
account of the creation of the world, so as we approach its
conclusion we present a view of the regions of the dead,
depicted by one of their most enlightened poets, who drew his
doctrines from their most esteemed philosophers. The region
where Virgil locates the entrance to this abode is perhaps the
most strikingly adapted to excite ideas of the terrific and
preternatural of any on the face of the earth. It is the
volcanic region near Vesuvius, where the whole country is cleft
with chasms, from which sulphurous flames arise, while the
ground is shaken with pent-up vapours, and mysterious sounds
issue from the bowels of the earth. The lake Avernus is supposed
to fill the crater of an extinct volcano. It is circular, half a
mile wide, and very deep, surrounded by high banks, which in
Virgil's time were covered with a gloomy forest. Mephitic
vapours rise from its waters, so that no life is found on its
banks: and no birds fly over it. Here, according to the poet,
was the cave which afforded access to the infernal regions, and
here AEneas offered sacrifices to the infernal deities,
Proserpine, Hecate, and the Furies. Then a roaring was heard in
the earth, the woods on the hill-tops were shaken, and the
howling of dogs announced the approach of the deities. "Now,"
said the Sibyl, "summon up your courage, for you will need it."
She descended into the cave, and AEneas followed. Before the
threshold of hell they passed through a group of beings who are
enumerated as Griefs and avenging Cares, pale Diseases and
melancholy Age, Fear and Hunger that tempt to crime, Toil,
Poverty, and Death,- forms horrible to view. The Furies spread
the couches there, and Discord, whose hair was of vipers tied up
with a bloody fillet. Here also were the monsters, Briareus,
with his hundred arms, Hydras hissing, and Chimaeras breathing
fire. AEneas shuddered at the sight, drew his sword and would
have struck, but the Sibyl restrained him. They then came to the
black river Cocytus, where they found the ferryman, Charon, old
and squalid, but strong and vigorous, who was receiving
passengers of all kinds into his boat, magnanimous heroes, boys
and unmarried girls, as numerous as the leaves that fall at
autumn, or the flocks that fly southward at the approach of
winter. They stood pressing for a passage and longing to touch
the opposite shore, But the stern ferryman took in only such as
he chose, driving the rest back. AEneas, wondering at the sight,
asked the Sibyl, "Why this discrimination?" She answered, "Those
who are taken on board the bark are the souls of those who have
received due burial rites; the host of others who have remained
unburied are not permitted to pass the flood but wander a
hundred years, and flit to and fro about the shore, till at last
they are taken over." AEneas grieved at recollecting some of his
own companions who had perished in the storm. At that moment he
beheld Palinurus, his pilot, who fell overboard and was drowned.
He addressed him and asked him the cause of his misfortune.
Palinurus replied that the rudder was carried away, and he,
clinging to it, was swept away with it. He besought AEneas most
urgently to extend to him his hand and take him in company to
the opposite shore. But the Sibyl rebuked him for the wish thus
to transgress the laws of Pluto; but consoled him by informing
him that the people of the shore where his body had been wafted
by the waves should be stirred up by prodigies to give it due
burial, and that the promontory should bear the name of Cape
Palinurus, which it does to this day. Leaving Palinurus consoled
by these words, they approached the boat. Charon, fixing his
eyes sternly upon the advancing warrior, demanded by what right
he, living and armed, approached that shore. To which the Sibyl
replied that they would commit no violence, that AEneas's only
object was to see his father, and finally exhibited the golden
branch, at sight of which Charon's wrath relaxed, and he made
haste to turn his bark to the shore, and receive them on board.
The boat, adapted only to the light freight of bodiless spirits,
groaned under the weight of the hero. They were soon conveyed to
the opposite shore. There they were encountered by the
three-headed dog, Cerberus, with his necks bristling with
snakes. He barked with all his three throats till the Sibyl
threw him a medicated cake which he eagerly devoured, and then
stretched himself out in his den and fell asleep. AEneas and the
Sibyl sprang to land. The first sound that struck their ears was
the wailing of young children, who had died on the threshold of
life, and near to these were they who had perished under false
charges, Minos presides over them as judge, and examines the
deeds of each. The next class was of those who had died by their
own hand, hating life and seeking refuge in death. O how
willingly would they now endure poverty, labour, and any other
infliction, if they might but return to life! Next were situated
the regions of sadness, divided off into retired paths, leading
through groves of myrtle. Here roamed those who had fallen
victims to unrequited love, not freed from pain even by death
itself. Among these, AEneas thought he descried the form of
Dido, with a wound still recent. In the dim light he was for a
moment uncertain, but approaching, perceived it was indeed
herself. Tears fell from his eyes, and he addressed her in the
accents of love. "Unhappy Dido! was then the rumour true that
you had perished? and was I, alas! the cause? I call the gods to
witness that my departure from you was reluctant, and in
obedience to the commands of Jove; nor could I believe that my
absence would cost you so dear. Stop, I beseech you, and refuse
me not a last farewell." She stood for a moment with averted
countenance, and eyes fixed on the ground, and then silently
passed on, as insensible to his pleadings as a rock. AEneas
followed for some distance; then, with a heavy heart, rejoined
his companion and resumed his route.
They next entered the fields where roam the heroes who have
fallen in battle. Here they saw many shades of Grecian and
Trojan warriors. The Trojans thronged around him, and could not
be satisfied with the sight. They asked the cause of his coming,
and plied him with innumerable questions. But the Greeks, at the
sight of his armour glittering through the murky atmosphere,
recognized the hero, and filled with terror turned their backs
and fled, as they used to do on the plains of Troy.
AEneas would have lingered long with his Trojan friends, but
the Sibyl hurried him away. They next came to a place where the
road divided, the one leading to Elysium, the other to the
regions of the condemned. AEneas beheld on one side the walls of
a mighty city, around which Phlegethon rolled its fiery waters,
Before him was the gate of adamant that neither gods nor men can
break through. An iron tower stood by the gate, on which
Tisiphone, the avenging Fury, kept guard. From the city were
heard groans, and the sound of the scourge, the creaking of
iron, and the clanking of chains. AEneas, horror-struck,
inquired of his guide what crimes were those whose punishments
produced the sounds he heard? The Sibyl answered, "Here is the
judgment hall of Rhadamanthus, who brings to light crimes done
in life, which the perpetrator vainly thought impenetrably hid.
Tisiphone applies her whip of scorpions, and delivers the
offender over to her sister Furies." At this moment with horrid
clang the brazen gates unfolded, and AEneas saw within a Hydra
with fifty heads guarding the entrance. The Sibyl told him that
the gulf of Tartarus descended deep, so that its recesses were
as far beneath their feet as heaven was high above their heads.
In the bottom of this pit, the Titan race, who warred against
the gods, lie prostrate; Salmoneus, also, who presumed to vie
with Jupiter, and built a bridge of brass over which he drove
his chariot that the sound might resemble thunder, launching
flaming brands at his people in imitation of lightning, till
Jupiter struck him with a real thunderbolt, and taught him the
difference between mortal weapons and divine. Here, also, is
Tityus, the giant, whose form is so immense that as he lies he
stretches over nine acres, while a vulture preys upon his liver,
which as fast as it is devoured grows again, so that his
punishment will have no end.
AEneas saw groups seated at tables loaded with dainties,
while near by stood a Fury who snatched away the viands from
their lips as fast as they prepared to taste them. Others beheld
suspended over their heads huge rocks, threatening to fall,
keeping them in a state of constant alarm. These were they who
had hated their brothers, or struck their parents, or defrauded
the friends who trusted them, or who, having grown rich, kept
their money to themselves, and gave no share to others; the last
being the most numerous class. Here also were those who had
violated the marriage vow, or fought in a bad cause, or failed
in fidelity to their employers. Here was one who had sold his
country for gold, another who perverted the laws, making them
say one thing to-day and another to-morrow.
Ixion was there, fastened to the circumference of a wheel
ceaselessly revolving; and Sisyphus, whose task was to roll a
huge stone up to a hill-top, but when the steep was well-nigh
gained, the rock, repulsed by some sudden force, rushed
again-headlong down to the plain. Again he toiled at it, while
the sweat bathed all his weary limbs, but all to no effect.
There was Tantalus, who stood in a pool, his chin level with the
water, yet he was parched with thirst, and found nothing to
assuage it; for when he bowed his hoary head, eager to quaff,
the water fled away, leaving the ground at his feet all dry.
Tall trees laden with fruit stooped their heads to him, pears,
pomegranates, apples, and luscious figs; but when with a sudden
grasp he tried to seize them winds whirled them high above his
reach.
The Sibyl now warned AEneas it was time to turn from these
melancholy regions and seek the city of the blessed. They passed
through a middle tract of darkness, and came upon the Elysian
fields, the groves where the happy reside. They breathed a freer
air, and saw all objects clothed in a purple light. The region
has a sun and stars of its own. The inhabitants were enjoying
themselves in various ways, some in sports on the grassy turf,
in games of strength or skill, others dancing or singing.
Orpheus struck the chords of his lyre, and called forth
ravishing sounds. Here AEneas saw the founders of the Trojan
state, magnanimous heroes who lived in happier times. He gazed
with admiration on the war chariots and glittering arms now
reposing in disuse. Spears stood fixed in the ground, and the
horses, unharnessed, roamed over the plain. The same pride in
splendid armour and generous steeds which the old heroes felt in
life, accompanied them here. He saw another group feasting and
listening to the strains of music. They were in a laurel grove,
whence the great river Po has its origin, and flows out among
men. Here dwelt those who fell by wounds received in their
country's cause, holy priests also, and poets who have uttered
thoughts worthy of Apollo, and others who have contributed to
cheer and adorn life by their discoveries in the useful arts,
and have made their memory blessed by rendering service to
mankind. They wore snow-white fillets about their brows. The
Sibyl addressed a group of these, and inquired where Anchises
was to be found. They were directed where to seek him, and soon
found him in a verdant valley, where he was contemplating the
ranks of his posterity, their destinies and worthy deeds to be
achieved in coming times. When he recognized AEneas approaching,
he stretched out both hands to him, while tears flowed freely.
"Have you come at last," said he, "long expected, and do I
behold you after such perils past? O my son, how have I trembled
for you as I have watched your career!" To which AEneas replied,
"O father! your image was always before me to guide and guard
me." Then he endeavoured to enfold his father in his embrace,
but his arms enclosed only an unsubstantial image.
AEneas perceived before him a spacious valley, with trees
gently waving to the wind, a tranquil landscape, through which
the river Lethe flowed. Along the banks of the stream wandered a
countless multitude, numerous as insects in the summer air.
AEneas, with surprise, inquired who were these. Anchises
answered, "They are souls to which bodies are to be given in due
time. Meanwhile they dwell on Lethe's bank, and drink oblivion
of their former lives." "O father!" said AEneas, "is it possible
that any can be so in love with life as to wish to leave these
tranquil seats for the upper world?" Anchises replied by
explaining the plan of creation. The Creator, he told him,
originally made the material of which souls are composed of the
four elements, fire, air, earth, and water, all which when
united took the form of the most excellent part, fire, and
became flame. This material was scattered like seed among the
heavenly bodies, the sun, moon, and stars. Of this seed the
inferior gods created man and all other animals, mingling it
with various proportions of earth, by which its purity was
alloyed and reduced. Thus, the more earth predominates in the
composition the less pure is the individual; and we see men and
women with their full-grown bodies have not the purity of
childhood. So in proportion to the time which the union of body
and soul has lasted is the impurity contracted by the spiritual
part. This impurity must be purged away after death, which is
done by ventilating the souls in the current of winds, or
merging them in water, or burning out their impurities by fire.
Some few, of whom Anchises intimates that he is one, are
admitted at once to Elysium, there to remain. But the rest,
after the impurities of earth are purged away, are sent back to
life endowed with new bodies, having had the remembrance of
their former lives effectually washed away by the waters of
Lethe. Some, however, there still are, so thoroughly corrupted,
that they are not fit to be intrusted with human bodies, and
these are made into brute animals, lions, tigers, cats, dogs,
monkeys, etc. This is what the ancients called Metempsychosis,
or the transmigration of souls; a doctrine which is still held
by the natives of India, who scruple to destroy the life even of
the most insignificant animal, not knowing but it may be one of
their relations in an altered form.
Anchises, having explained so much, proceeded to point out to
AEneas individuals of his race, who were hereafter to be born,
and to relate to him the exploits they should perform in the
world. After this he reverted to the present, and told his son
of the events that remained to him to be accomplished before the
complete establishment of himself and his followers in Italy.
Wars were to be waged, battles fought, a bride to be won, and in
the result a Trojan state founded, from which should arise the
Roman power, to be in time the sovereign of the world.
AEneas and the Sibyl then took leave of Anchises, and
returned by some short cut, which the poet does not explain, to
the upper world.
ELYSIUM.
Virgil, we have seen, places his Elysium under the earth, and
assigns it for a residence to the spirits of the blessed. But in
Homer Elysium forms no part of the realms of the dead. He places
it on the west of the earth, near Ocean, and describes it as a
happy land, where there is neither snow, nor cold, nor rain, and
always fanned by the delightful breezes of Zephyrus. Hither
favoured heroes pass without dying and live happy under the rule
of Rhadamanthus. The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar is in the
Isles of the Blessed, or Fortunate Islands, in the Western
Ocean. From these sprang the legend of the happy island
Atlantis. This blissful region may have been wholly imaginary,
but possibly may have sprung from the reports of some
storm-driven mariners who had caught a glimpse of the coast of
America.
J. R. Lowell, in one of his shorter poems, claims for the
present age some of the privileges of that happy realm.
Addressing the Past, he says:
"Whatever of true life there was in thee,
Leaps in our age's veins.
. . . . . . . .
Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife and care,
Float the green 'Fortunate Isles,'
Where all thy hero-spirits dwell and share
Our martyrdoms and toils.
The present moves attended
With all of brave and excellent and fair
That made the old time splendid."
Milton also alludes to the same fable in "Paradise Lost,"
Book III. 1. 568:
"Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old,
Fortunate fields and groves and flowery vales,
Thrice happy isles."
And in Book II. he characterizes the rivers of Erebus
according to the meaning of their names in the Greek language:
"Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,
Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;
Cocytus named of lamentation loud
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.
Far off from these a slow and silent stream,
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain."
THE SIBYL.
As AEneas and the Sibyl pursued their way back to earth, he said
to her, "Whether thou be a goddess or a mortal beloved of the
gods, by me thou shalt always be held in reverence. When I reach
the upper air I will cause a temple to be built to thy honour,
and will myself bring offerings." "I am no goddess," said the
Sibyl; "I have no claim to sacrifice or offering. I am mortal;
yet if I could have accepted the love of Apollo I might have
been immortal. He promised me the fulfilment of my wish, if I
would consent to be his. I took a handful of sand, and holding
it forth, said, 'Grant me to see as many birthdays as there are
sand grains in my hand.' Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring
youth. This also he would have granted, could I have accepted
his love, but offended at my refusal, he allowed me to grow old.
My youth and youthful strength fled long ago. I have lived seven
hundred years, and to equal the number of the sand-grains I have
still to see three hundred springs and three hundred harvests.
My body shrinks up as years increase, and in time, I shall be
lost to sight, but my voice will remain, and future ages will
respect my sayings."
These concluding words of the Sibyl alluded to her prophetic
power. In her cave she was accustomed to inscribe on leaves
gathered from the trees the names and fates of individuals. The
leaves thus inscribed were arranged in order within the cave,
and might be consulted by her votaries. But if perchance at the
opening of the door the wind rushed in and dispersed the leaves
the Sibyl gave no aid in restoring them again, and the oracle
was irreparably lost.
The following legend of the Sibyl is fixed at a later date.
In the reign of one of the Tarquins there appeared before the
king a woman who offered him nine books for sale, The king
refused to purchase them, whereupon the woman went away and
burned three of the books, and returning offered the remaining
books for the same price she had asked for the nine. The king
again rejected them; but when the woman, after burning three
books more, returned and asked for the three remaining the same
price which she had before asked for the nine, his curiosity was
excited, and he purchased the books. They were found to contain
the destinies of the Roman state. They were kept in the temple
of Jupiter Capitolinus, preserved in a stone chest, and allowed
to be inspected only by special officers appointed for that
duty, who, on great occasions, consulted them and interpreted
their oracles to the people.
There were various Sibyls; but the Cumaean Sibyl, of whom
Ovid and Virgil write, is the most celebrated of them. Ovid's
story of her life protracted to one thousand years may be
intended to represent the various Sibyls as being only
reappearances of one and the same individual.
Young, in the "Night Thoughts," alludes to the Sibyl.
Speaking of Worldly Wisdom, he says:
"If future fate she plans 'tis all in leaves,
Like Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss;
At the first blast it vanishes in air.
As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl's leaves,
The good man's days to Sibyl's books compare,
The price still rising as in number less."
|
CHAPTER XXXIII.
AENEAS IN ITALY.
CAMILLA- EVANDER- NISUS AND EURYALUS-
MEZENTIUS- TURNUS.
AENEAS, having parted from the Sibyl and rejoined his fleet,
coasted along the shores of Italy and cast anchor in the mouth
of the Tiber. The poet, having brought his hero to this spot,
the destined termination of his wanderings, invokes his Muse to
tell him the situation of things at that eventful moment.
Latinus, third in descent from Saturn, ruled the country. He was
now old and had no male descendant, but had one charming
daughter, Lavinia, who was sought in marriage by many
neighbouring chiefs, one of whom, Turnus, king of the Rutulians,
was favoured by the wishes of her parents. But Latinus had been
warned in a dream by his father Faunus, that the destined
husband of Lavinia should come from a foreign land. From that
union should spring a race destined to subdue the world.
Our readers will remember that in the conflict with the
Harpies one of those half-human birds had threatened the Trojans
with dire sufferings. In particular she predicted that before
their wanderings ceased they should be pressed by hunger to
devour their tables. This portent now came true; for as they
took their scanty meal, seated on the grass, the men placed
their hard biscuit on their laps, and put thereon whatever their
gleanings in the woods supplied. Having despatched the latter
they finished by eating the crusts. Seeing which, the boy Iulus
said playfully, "See, we are eating our tables." AEneas caught
the words and accepted the omen. "All hail, promised land!" he
exclaimed, "this is our home, this our country." He then took
measures to find out who were the present inhabitants of the
land, and who their rulers. A hundred chosen men were sent to
the village of Latinus, bearing presents and a request for
friendship and alliance. They went and were favourably received.
Latinus immediately concluded that the Trojan hero was no other
than the promised son-in-law announced by the oracle. He
cheerfully granted his alliance and sent back the messengers
mounted on steeds from his stables, and loaded with gifts and
friendly messages.
Juno, seeing things go thus prosperously for the Trojans,
felt her old animosity revive, summoned Alecto from Erebus, and
sent her to stir up discord. The Fury first took possession of
the queen, Amata, and roused her to oppose in every way the new
alliance. Alecto then speeded to the city of Turnus, and
assuming the form of an old priestess, informed him of the
arrival of the foreigners and of the attempts of their prince to
rob him of his bride. Next she turned her attention to the camp
of the Trojans. There she saw the boy Iulus and his companions
amusing themselves with hunting. She sharpened the scent of the
dogs, and led them to rouse up from the thicket a tame stag, the
favourite of Silvia, the daughter of Tyrrheus, the king's
herdsman. A javelin from the hand of Iulus wounded the animal,
and he had only strength left to run homewards, and died at his
mistress's feet. Her cries and tears roused her brothers and the
herdsmen, and they, seizing whatever weapons came to hand,
furiously assaulted the hunting party. These were protected by
their friends, and the herdsmen were finally driven back with
the loss of two of their number.
These things were enough to rouse the storm of war, and the
queen, Turnus, and the peasants all urged the old king to drive
the strangers from the country. He resisted as long as he could,
but, finding his opposition unavailing, finally gave way and
retreated to his retirement.
OPENING THE GATES OF JANUS.
It was the custom of the country, when war was to be
undertaken, for the chief magistrate, clad in his robes of
office, with solemn pomp to open the gates of the temple of
Janus, which were kept shut as long as peace endured. His people
now urged the old king to perform that solemn office, but he
refused to do so. While they contested, Juno herself, descending
from the skies, smote the doors with irresistible force, and
burst them open. Immediately the whole country was in a flame.
The people rushed from every side breathing nothing but war.
Turnus was recognized by all as leader; others joined as
allies, chief of whom was Mezentius, a brave and able soldier,
but of detestable cruelty. He had been the chief of one of the
neighbouring cities, but his people drove him out. With him was
joined his son Lausus, a generous youth, worthy of a better
sire.
CAMILLA.
Camilla, the favourite of Diana, a huntress and warrior,
after the fashion of the Amazons, came with her band of mounted
followers, including a select number of her own sex, and ranged
herself on the side of Turnus. This maiden had never accustomed
her fingers to the distaff or the loom, but had learned to
endure the toils of war, and in speed to outstrip the wind. It
seemed as if she might run over the standing corn without
crushing it, or over the surface of the water without dipping
her feet. Camilla's history had been singular from the
beginning. Her father, Metabus, driven from his city by civil
discord, carried with him in his flight his infant daughter. As
he fled through the woods, his enemies in hot pursuit, he
reached the bank of the river Amazenus, which, swelled by rain,
seemed to debar a passage. He paused for a moment, then decided
what to do. He tied the infant to his lance with wrappers of
bark, and poising the weapon in his upraised hand, thus
addressed Diana: "Goddess of the woods! I consecrate this maid
to you"; then hurled the weapon with its burden to the opposite
bank. The spear flew across the roaring water. His pursuers were
already upon him, but he plunged into the river and swam across,
and found the spear, with the infant safe on the other side.
Thenceforth he lived among the shepherds, and brought up his
daughter in woodland arts. While a child she was taught to use
the bow and throw the javelin. With her sling she could bring
down the crane or the wild swan. Her dress was a tiger's skin.
Many mothers sought her for a daughter-in-law, but she continued
faithful to Diana and repelled the thought of marriage.
EVANDER.
Such were the formidable allies that ranged themselves
against AEneas. It was night and he lay stretched in sleep on
the bank of the river under the open heavens. The god of the
stream, Father Tiber. seemed to raise his head above the willows
and to say, "O goddess-born, destined possessor of the Latin
realms, this is the promised land, here is to be your home, here
shall terminate the hostility of the heavenly powers, if only
you faithfully persevere. There are friends not far distant.
Prepare your boats and row up my stream; I will lead you to
Evander, the Arcadian chief. He has long been at strife with
Turnus and the Rutulians, and is prepared to become an ally of
yours. Rise! offer your vows to Juno, and deprecate her anger.
When you have achieved your victory then think of me." AEneas
woke and paid immediate obedience to the friendly vision. He
sacrificed to Juno, and invoked the god of the river and all his
tributary fountains to lend their aid. Then for the first time a
vessel filled with armed warriors floated on the stream of the
Tiber. The river smoothed its waves, and bade its current flow
gently, while, impelled by the vigorous strokes of the rowers,
the vessels shot rapidly up the stream.
About the middle of the day they came in sight of the
scattered buildings of the infant town, where in after times the
proud city of Rome grew, whose glory reached the skies. By
chance the old king, Evander, was that day celebrating annual
solemnities in honour of Hercules and all the gods. Pallas, his
son, and all the chiefs of the little commonwealth stood by.
When they saw the tall ship gliding onward near the wood, they
were alarmed at the sight, and rose from the tables. But Pallas
forbade the solemnities to be interrupted, and seizing a weapon,
stepped forward to the river's bank. He called aloud, demanding
who they were, and what their object. AEneas, holding forth an
olive-branch, replied, "We are Trojans, friends to you, and
enemies to the Rutulians. We seek Evander, and offer to join our
arms with yours." Pallas, in amaze at the sound of so great a
name, invited them to land, and when AEneas touched the shore he
seized his hand, and held it long in friendly grasp. Proceeding
through the wood, they joined the king and his party and were
most favourably received. Seats were provided for them at the
tables, and the repast proceeded.
INFANT ROME.
When the solemnities were ended all moved towards the city.
The king, bending with age, walked between his son and AEneas,
taking the arm of one or the other of them, and with much
variety of pleasing talk shortening the way. AEneas with delight
looked and listened, observing all the beauties of the scene,
and learning much of heroes renowned in ancient times. Evander
said, "These extensive groves were once inhabited by fauns and
nymphs, and a rude race of men who sprang from the trees
themselves, and had neither laws not social culture. They knew
not how to yoke the cattle nor raise a harvest, nor provide from
present abundance for future want; but browsed like beasts upon
the leafy boughs, or fed voraciously or their hunted prey. Such
were they when Saturn, expelled from Olympus by his sons, came
among them and drew together the fierce savages, formed them
into society and gave them laws. Such peace and plenty ensued
that men ever since have called his reign the golden age; but by
degrees far other times succeeded, and the thirst of gold and
the thirst of blood prevailed. The land was a prey to successive
tyrants, till fortune and resistless destiny brought me hither,
an exile from my native land, Arcadia."
Having thus said, he showed him the Tarpeian rock, and the
rude spot then overgrown with bushes where in after times the
Capitol rose in all its magnificence. He next pointed to some
dismantled walls, and said, "Here stood Janiculum, built by
Janus, and there Saturnia, the town of Saturn." Such discourse
brought them to the cottage of poor Evander, whence they saw the
lowing herds roaming over the plain where now the proud and
stately Forum stands. They entered, and a couch was spread for
AEneas, well stuffed with leaves, and covered with the skin of a
Libyan bear.
Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the shrill song of
birds beneath the eaves of his low mansion, old Evander rose.
Clad in a tunic, and a panther's skin thrown over his shoulders,
with sandals on his feet and his good sword girded to his side,
he went forth to seek his guest. Two mastiffs followed him, his
whole retinue and body guard. He found the hero attended by his
faithful Achates, and, Pallas, soon joining them, the old king
spoke thus:
"Illustrious Trojan, it is but little we can do in so great a
cause. Our state is feeble, hemmed in on one side by the river,
on the other by the Rutulians. But I propose to ally you with a
people numerous and rich, to whom fate has brought you at the
propitious moment. The Etruscans hold the country beyond the
river. Mezentius was their king, a monster of cruelty, who
invented unheard-of torments to gratify his vengeance. He would
fasten the dead to the living, hand to hand and face to face,
and leave the wretched victims to die in that dreadful embrace.
At length the people cast him out, him and his house. They
burned his palace and slew his friends. He escaped and took
refuge with Turnus, who protects him with arms. The Etruscans
demand that he shall be given up to deserved punishment, and
would ere now have attempted to enforce their demand; but the
priests restrain them, telling them that it is the will of
heaven that no native of the land shall guide them to victory,
and that their destined leader must come from across the sea.
They have offered the crown to me, but I am too old to undertake
such great affairs, and my son is native-born, which precludes
him from the choice. You, equally by birth and time of life, and
fame in arms, pointed out by the gods, have but to appear to be
hailed at once as their leader. With you I will join Pallas, my
son, my only hope and comfort. Under you he shall learn the art
of war, and strive to emulate your great exploits."
Then the king ordered horses to be furnished for the Trojan
chiefs, and AEneas, with a chosen band of followers and Pallas
accompanying, mounted and took the way to the Etruscan city,*
having sent back the rest of his party in the ships. AEneas and
his band safely arrived at the Etruscan camp and were received
with open arms by Tarchon and his countrymen.
* The poet here inserts a famous line which is thought to
imitate in its sound the galloping of horses. It may be thus
translated: "Then struck the hoofs of the steeds on the ground
with a four-footed trampling."- See Proverbial Expressions, no.
17.
NISUS AND EURYALUS.
In the meanwhile Turnus had collected his bands and made all
necessary preparations for the war. Juno sent Iris to him with a
message inciting him to take advantage of the absence of AEneas
and surprise the Trojan camp. Accordingly the attempt was made,
but the Trojans were found on their guard, and having received
strict orders from AEneas not to fight in his absence, they lay
still in their intrenchments, and resisted all the efforts of
the Rutulians to draw them into the field. Night coming on, the
army of Turnus, in high spirits at their fancied superiority,
feasted and enjoyed themselves, and finally stretched themselves
on the field and slept secure.
In the camp of the Trojans things were far otherwise. There
all was watchfulness and anxiety and impatience for AEneas's
return. Nisus stood guard at the entrance of the camp, and
Euryalus, a youth distinguished above all in the army for graces
of person and fine qualities, was with him. These two were
friends and brothers in arms. Nisus said to his friend, "Do you
perceive what confidence and carelessness the enemy display?
Their lights are few and dim, and the men seem all oppressed
with wine or sleep. You know how anxiously our chiefs wish to
send to AEneas, and to get intelligence from him. Now, I am
strongly moved to make my way through the enemy's camp and to go
in search of our chief. If I succeed, the glory of the deed will
be reward enough for me, and if they judge the service deserves
anything more, let them pay it to you."
Euryalus, all on fire with the love of adventure, replied,
"Would you, then, Nisus, refuse to share your enterprise with
me? And shall I let you go into such danger alone? Not so my
brave father brought me up, nor so have I planned for myself
when I joined the standard of AEneas, and resolved to hold my
life cheap in comparison with honour." Nisus replied, "I doubt
it not, my friend; but you know the uncertain event of such an
undertaking, and whatever may happen to me, I wish you to be
safe. You are younger than I and have more of life in prospect.
Nor can I be the cause of such grief to your mother, who has
chosen to be here in the camp with you rather than stay and live
in peace with the other matrons in Acestes' city." Euryalus
replied, "Say no more. In vain you seek arguments to dissuade
me. I am fixed in the resolution to go with you. Let us lose no
time." They called the guard, and committing the watch to them,
sought the general's tent. They found the chief officers in
consultation, deliberating how they should send notice to AEneas
of their situation. The offer of the two friends was gladly
accepted, themselves loaded with praises and promised the most
liberal rewards in case of success. Iulus especially addressed
Euryalus, assuring him of his lasting friendship. Euryalus
replied, "I have but one boon to ask. My aged mother is with me
in the camp. For me she left the Trojan soil, and would not stay
behind with the other matrons at the city of Acestes. I go now
without taking leave of her. I could not bear her tears nor set
at nought her entreaties. But do thou, I beseech you, comfort
her in her distress. Promise me that and I shall go more boldly
into whatever dangers may present themselves." Iulus and the
other chiefs were moved to tears, and promised to do all his
request. "Your mother shall be mine," said Iulus, "and all that
I have promised to you shall be made good to her, if you do not
return to receive it."
The two friends left the camp and plunged at once into the
midst of the enemy. They found no watch, no sentinels posted,
but, all about, the sleeping soldiers strewn on the grass and
among the wagons. The laws of war at that early day did not
forbid a brave man to slay a sleeping foe, and the two Trojans
slew, as they passed, such of the enemy as they could without
exciting alarm. In one tent Euryalus made prize of a helmet
brilliant with gold and plumes. They had passed through the
enemy's ranks without being discovered, but now suddenly
appeared a troop directly in front of them, which, under
Volscens, their leader, were approaching the camp. The
glittering helmet of Euryalus caught their attention, and
Volscens hailed the two, and demanded who and whence they were.
They made no answer, but plunged into the wood. The horsemen
scattered in all directions to intercept their flight. Nisus had
eluded pursuit and was out of danger, but Euryalus being missing
he turned back to seek him. He again entered the wood and soon
came within sound of voices. Looking through the thicket he saw
the whole band surrounding Euryalus with noisy questions. What
should he do? how extricate the youth, or would it be better to
die with him?
Raising his eyes to the moon, which now shone clear, he said,
"Goddess! favour my effort!" and aiming his javelin at one of
the leaders of the troop, struck him in the back and stretched
him on the plain with a death-blow. In the midst of their
amazement another weapon flew and another of the party fell
dead. Volscens, the leader, ignorant whence the darts came,
rushed sword in hand upon Euryalus. "You shall pay the penalty
of both," he said, and would have plunged the sword into his
bosom, when Nisus, who from his concealment saw the peril of his
friend, rushed forward exclaiming, "'Twas I, 'twas I; turn your
swords against me, Rutulians, I did it; he only followed me as a
friend." While he spoke the sword fell, and pierced the comely
bosom of Euryalus. His head fell on his shoulder, like a flower
cut down by the plough. Nisus rushed upon Volscens and plunged
his sword into his body, and was himself slain on the instant by
numberless blows.
MEZENTIUS.
AEneas, with his Etrurian allies, arrived on the scene of
action in time to rescue his beleaguered camp; and now the two
armies being nearly equal in strength, the war began in good
earnest. We cannot find space for all the details, but must
simply record the fate of the principal characters whom we have
introduced to our readers. The tyrant Mezentius, finding himself
engaged against his revolting subjects, raged like a wild beast.
He slew all who dared to withstand him, and put the multitude to
flight wherever he appeared. At last he encountered AEneas, and
the armies stood still to see the issue. Mezentius threw his
spear, which striking AEneas's shield glanced off and hit
Anthor. He was a Grecian by birth, who had left Argos, his
native city, and followed Evander into Italy. The poet says of
him with simple pathos which has made the words proverbial, "He
fell, unhappy, by a wound intended for another, looked up to the
skies, and dying remembered sweet Argos."* AEneas now in turn
hurled his lance. It pierced the shield of Mezentius, and
wounded him in the thigh. Lausus, his son, could not bear the
sight, but rushed forward and interposed himself, while the
followers pressed round Mezentius and bore him away. AEneas held
his sword suspended over Lausus and delayed to strike, but the
furious youth pressed on and he was compelled to deal the fatal
blow. Lausus fell, and AEneas bent over him in pity. "Hapless
youth," he said, "what can I do for you worthy of your praise?
Keep those arms in which you glory, and fear not but that your
body shall be restored to your friends, and have due funeral
honours." So saying, he called the timid followers and delivered
the body into their hands.
* See Proverbial Expressions, no. 18.
Mezentius meanwhile had been borne to the river-side, and
washed his wound. Soon the news reached him of Lausus's death,
and rage and despair supplied the place of strength. He mounted
his horse and dashed into the place of the fight, seeking AEneas.
Having found him, he rode round him in a circle, throwing one
javelin after another, while AEneas stood fenced with his
shield, turning every way to meet them. At last, after Mezentius
had three times made the circuit, AEneas threw his lance
directly at the horse's head. It pierced his temples and he
fell, while a shout from both armies rent the skies. Mezentius
asked no mercy, but only that his body might be spared the
insults of his revolted subjects, and be buried in the same
grave with his son. He received the fatal stroke not unprepared,
and poured out his life and his blood together.
PALLAS, CAMILLA, TURNUS.
While these things were doing in one part of the field, in
another Turnus encountered the youthful Pallas. The contest
between champions so unequally matched could not be doubtful.
Pallas bore himself bravely, but fell by the lance of Turnus.
The victor almost relented when he saw the brave youth lying
dead at his feet, and spared to use the privilege of a Conqueror
in despoiling him of his arms. The belt only, adorned with studs
and carvings of gold, he took and clasped round his own body.
The rest he remitted to the friends of the slain.
After the battle there was a cessation of arms for some days
to allow both armies to bury their dead. In this interval AEneas
challenged Turnus to decide the contest by single combat, but
Turnus evaded the challenge. Another battle ensued, in which
Camilla, the virgin warrior, was chiefly conspicuous. Her deeds
of valor surpassed those of the bravest warriors, and many
Trojans and Etruscans fell pierced with her darts or struck down
by her battle-axe. At last an Etruscan named Aruns, who had
watched her long, seeking for some advantage, observed her
pursuing a flying enemy whose splendid armour offered a tempting
prize. Intent on the chase she observed not her danger, and the
javelin of Aruns struck her and inflicted a fatal wound. She
fell and breathed her last in the arms of her attendant maidens.
But Diana, who beheld her fate, suffered not her slaughter to be
unavenged. Aruns, as he stole away, glad but frightened, was
struck by a secret arrow, launched by one of the nymphs of
Diana's train, and died ignobly and unknown.
At length the final conflict took place between AEneas and
Turnus. Turnus had avoided the contest as long as he could, but
at last, impelled by the ill success of his arms and by the
murmurs of his followers, he braced himself to the conflict. It
could not be doubtful. On the side of AEneas were the expressed
decree of destiny, the aid of his goddess-mother at every
emergency, and impenetrable armour fabricated by Vulcan, at her
request, for her son. Turnus, on the other hand, was deserted by
his celestial allies, Juno having been expressly forbidden by
Jupiter to assist him any longer. Turnus threw his lance, but it
recoiled harmless from the shield of AEneas. The Trojan hero
then threw his, which penetrated the shield of Turnus, and
pierced his thigh. Then Turnus's fortitude forsook him and he
begged for mercy; and AEneas would have given him life, but at
the instant his eye fell on the belt of Pallas, which Turnus had
taken from the slaughtered youth. Instantly his rage revived,
and exclaiming, "Pallas immolates thee with this blow," he
thrust him through with his sword.
Here the poem of the "AEneid" closes, and we are left to
infer that AEneas, having triumphed over his foes, obtained
Lavinia for his bride. Tradition adds that he founded his city,
and called it after her name, Lavinium. His son Iulus founded
Alba Longa, which was the birthplace of Romulus and Remus and
the cradle of Rome itself.
There is an allusion to Camilla in those well-known lines of
Pope, in which, illustrating the rule that "the sound should be
an echo to the sense," he says:
"When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours and the words move slow.
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn or skims along the main."
Essay on Criticism.
|
CHAPTER XXXIV.
PYTHAGORAS- EGYPTIAN DEITIES- ORACLES.
PYTHAGORAS.
THE teachings of Anchises to AEneas, respecting the nature of
the human soul, were in conformity with the doctrines of the
Pythagoreans. Pythagoras (born five hundred and forty years
B.C.) was a native of the island of Samos, but passed the chief
portion of his life at Crotona in Italy. He is therefore
sometimes called "the Samian," and sometimes "the philosopher of
Crotona." When young he travelled extensively, and it is said
visited Egypt, where he was instructed by the priests in all
their learning, and afterwards journeyed to the East, and
visited the Persian and Chaldean Magi, and the Brahmins of
India.
At Crotona, where he finally established himself, his
extraordinary qualities collected round him a great number of
disciples. The inhabitants were notorious for luxury and
licentiousness, but the good effects of his influence were soon
visible. Sobriety and temperance succeeded. Six hundred of the
inhabitants became his disciples and enrolled themselves in a
society to aid each other in the pursuit of wisdom, uniting
their property in one common stock for the benefit of the whole.
They were required to practise the greatest purity and
simplicity of manners. The first lesson they learned was
silence; for a time they were required to be only hearers. "He
[Pythagoras] said so" (Ipse dixit), was to be held by them as
sufficient, without any proof. It was only the advanced pupils,
after years of patient submission, who were allowed to ask
questions and to state objections.
Pythagoras considered numbers as the essence and principle of
all things, and attributed to them a real and distinct
existence; so that, in his view, they were the elements out of
which the universe was constructed. How he conceived this
process has never been satisfactorily explained. He traced the
various forms and phenomena of the world to numbers as their
basis and essence. The "Monad" or unit he regarded as the source
of all numbers. The number Two was imperfect, and the cause of
increase and division. Three was called the number of the whole
because it had a beginning, middle, and end. Four, representing
the square, is in the highest degree perfect; and Ten, as it
contains the sum of the four prime numbers, comprehends all
musical and arithmetical proportions, and denotes the system of
the world.
As the numbers proceed from the monad, so he regarded the
pure and simple essence of the Deity as the source of all the
forms of nature. Gods, demons, and heroes are emanations of the
Supreme, and there is a fourth emanation, the human soul. This
is immortal, and when freed from the fetters of the body passes
to the habitation of the dead, where it remains till it returns
to the world, to dwell in some other human or animal body, and
at last, when sufficiently purified, it returns to the source
from which it proceeded. This doctrine of the transmigration of
souls (metempsychosis), which was originally Egyptian and
connected with the doctrine of reward and punishment of human
actions, was the chief cause why the Pythagoreans killed no
animals. Ovid represents Pythagoras addressing his disciples in
these words: "Souls never die, but always on quitting one abode
pass to another. I myself can remember that in the time of the
Trojan war I was Euphorbus, the son of Panthus, and fell by the
spear of Menelaus. Lately being in the temple of Juno, at Argos,
I recognized my shield hung up there among the trophies. All
things change, nothing perishes. The soul passes hither and
thither, occupying now this body, now that, passing from the
body of a beast into that of a man, and thence to a beast's
again. As wax is stamped with certain figures, then melted, then
stamped anew with others, yet is always the same wax, so the
soul, being always the same, yet wears, at different times,
different forms. Therefore, if the love of kindred is not
extinct in your bosoms, forbear, I entreat you, to violate the
life of those who may haply be your own relatives."
Shakespeare, in the "Merchant of Venice," makes Gratiano
allude to the metempsychosis, where he says to Shylock:
"Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men; thy currish spirit
Governed a wolf, who, hanged for human slaughter,
Infused his soul in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starved and ravenous."
The relation of the notes of the musical scale to numbers,
whereby harmony results from vibrations in equal times, and
discord from the reverse, led Pythagoras to apply the word
"harmony" to the visible creation, meaning by it the just
adaptation of parts to each other. This is the idea which Dryden
expresses in the beginning of his "Song for St. Cecilia's Day":
"From harmony, from heavenly harmony
This everlasting frame began;
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The Diapason closing full in Man."
In the centre of the universe (he taught) there was a central
fire, the principle of life. The central fire was surrounded by
the earth, the moon, the sun, and the five planets. The
distances of the various heavenly bodies from one another were
conceived to correspond to the proportions of the musical scale.
The heavenly bodies, with the gods who inhabited them, were
supposed to perform a choral dance round the central fire, "not
without song." It is this doctrine which Shakespeare alludes to
when he makes Lorenzo teach astronomy to Jessica in this
fashion:
"Look, Jessica, see how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!
There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim;
Such harmony is in immortal souls!
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in we cannot hear it."
Merchant of Venice.
The spheres were conceived to be crystalline or glassy
fabrics arranged over one another like a nest of bowls reversed.
In the substance of each sphere one or more of the heavenly
bodies was supposed to be fixed, so as to move with it. As the
spheres are transparent we look through them and see the
heavenly bodies which they contain and carry round with them.
But as these spheres cannot move on one another without
friction, a sound is thereby produced which is of exquisite
harmony, too fine for mortal ears to recognize. Milton, in his
"Hymn on the Nativity," thus alludes to the music of the
spheres:
"Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
Once bless our human ears
(If ye have power to charm our senses so);
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full concert to the angelic symphony."
Pythagoras is said to have invented the lyre. Our own poet
Longfellow, in "Verses to a Child," thus relates the story:
"As great Pythagoras of yore,
Standing beside the blacksmith's door,
And hearing the hammers as they smote
The anvils with a different note,
Stole from the varying tones that hung
Vibrant on every iron tongue,
The secret of the sounding wire,
And formed the seven-chorded lyre."
See also the same poet's "Occultation of Orion"-
"The Samian's great AEolian lyre."
SYBARIS AND CROTONA.
Sybaris, a neighbouring city to Crotona, was as celebrated for
luxury and effeminacy as Crotona for the reverse. The name has
become proverbial. J. R. Lowell uses it in this sense in his
charming little poem "To the Dandelion":
"Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment
In the white lily's breezy tent
(His conquered Sybaris) than I when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst."
A war arose between the two cities, and Sybaris was conquered
and destroyed. Milo, the celebrated athlete, led the army of
Crotona. Many stories are told of Milo's vast strength, such as
his carrying a heifer of four years old upon his shoulders and
afterwards eating the whole of it in a single day. The mode of
his death is thus related: As he was passing through a forest he
saw the trunk of a tree which had been partially split open by
wood-cutters, and attempted to rend it further; but the wood
closed upon his hands and held him fast, in which state he was
attacked and devoured by wolves.
Byron, in his "Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte," alludes to the
story of Milo:
"He who of old would rend the oak
Deemed not of the rebound;
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke,
Alone, how looked he round!"
EGYPTIAN DEITIES.
The Egyptians acknowledged as the highest deity Amun, afterwards
called Zeus, or Jupiter Ammon. Amun manifested himself in his
word or will, which created Kneph and Athor, of different sexes.
From Kneph and Athor proceeded Osiris and Isis. Osiris was
worshipped as the god of the sun, the source of warmth, life,
and fruitfulness, in addition to which he was also regarded as
the god of the Nile, who annually visited his wife, Isis (the
Earth), by means of an inundation. Serapis or Hermes is
sometimes represented as identical with Osiris, and sometimes as
a distinct divinity, the ruler of Tartarus and god of medicine.
Anubis is the guardian god, represented with a dog's head,
emblematic of his character of fidelity and watchfulness. Horus
or Harpocrates was the son of Osiris. He is represented seated
on a Lotus flower, with his finger on his lips, as the god of
Silence.
In one of Moore's "Irish Melodies" is an allusion to
Harpocrates:
"Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip;
Like him, the boy, who born among
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,- his only song
To Earth and Heaven, 'Hush all, hush!"
MYTH OF OSIRIS AND ISIS.
Osiris and Isis were at one time induced to descend to the earth
to bestow gifts and blessings on its inhabitants. Isis showed
them first the use of wheat and barley, and Osiris made the
instruments of agriculture and taught men the use of them, as
well as how to harness the ox to the plough. He then gave men
laws, the institution of marriage, a civil organization, and
taught them how to worship the gods. After he had thus made the
valley of the Nile a happy country, he assembled a host with
which he went to bestow his blessings upon the rest of the
world. He conquered the nations everywhere, but not with
weapons, only with music and eloquence. His brother, Typhon saw
this, and filled with envy and malice sought during his absence
to usurp his throne. But Isis, who held the reins of government,
frustrated his plans. Still more embittered, he now resolved to
kill his brother. This he did in the following manner: Having
organized a conspiracy of seventy-two members, he went with them
to the feast which was celebrated in honour of the king's
return. He then caused a box or chest to be brought in, which
had been made to fit exactly the size of Osiris, and declared
that he would give that chest of precious wood to whomsoever
could get into it. The rest tried in vain, but no sooner was
Osiris in it than Typhon and his companions closed the lid and
flung the chest into the Nile. When Isis heard of the cruel
murder she wept and mourned, and then with her hair shorn,
clothed in black and beating her breast, she sought diligently
for the body of her husband. In this search she was materially
assisted by Anubis, the son of Osiris and Nephthys. They sought
in vain for some time; for when the chest, carried by the waves
to the shores of Byblos, had become entangled in the reeds that
grew at the edge of the water, the divine power that dwelt in
the body of Osiris imparted such strength to the shrub that it
grew into a mighty tree, enclosing in its trunk the coffin of
the god. This tree with its sacred deposit was shortly after
felled, and erected as a column in the palace of the king of
Phoenicia. But at length by the aid of Anubis and the sacred
birds, Isis ascertained these facts, and then went to the royal
city. There she offered herself at the palace as a servant, and
being admitted, threw off her disguise and appeared as the
goddess, surrounded with thunder and lightning. Striking the
column with her wand she caused it to split open and give up the
sacred coffin. This she seized and returned with it, and
concealed it in the depth of a forest, but Typhon discovered it,
and cutting the body into fourteen pieces scattered them hither
and thither. After a tedious search, Isis found thirteen pieces,
the fishes of the Nile having eaten the other. This she replaced
by an imitation of sycamore wood, and buried the body at Philoe,
which became ever after the great burying place of the nation,
and the spot to which pilgrimages were made from all parts of
the country. A temple of surpassing magnificence was also
erected there in honour of the god, and at every place where one
of his limbs had been found minor temples and tombs were built
to commemorate the event. Osiris became after that the tutelar
deity of the Egyptians. His soul was supposed always to inhabit
the body of the bull Apis, and at his death to transfer itself
to his successor.
Apis, the Bull of Memphis, was worshipped with the greatest
reverence by the Egyptians. The individual animal who was held
to be Apis was recognized by certain signs. It was requisite
that he should be quite black, have a white square mark on the
forehead, another, in the form of an eagle, on his back, and
under his tongue a lump somewhat in the shape of a scarabaeus or
beetle. As soon as a bull thus marked was found by those sent in
search of him, he was placed in a building facing the east, and
was fed with milk for four months. At the expiration of this
term the priests repaired at new moon, with great pomp, to his
habitation and saluted him Apis. He was placed in a vessel
magnificently decorated and conveyed down the Nile to Memphis,
where a temple, with two chapels and a court for exercise, was
assigned to him. Sacrifices were made to him, and once every
year, about the time when the Nile began to rise, a golden cup
was thrown into the river, and a grand festival was held to
celebrate his birthday. The people believed that during this
festival the crocodiles forgot their natural ferocity and became
harmless. There was, however, one drawback to his happy lot: he
was not permitted to live beyond a certain period, and if, when
he had attained the age of twenty-five years, he still survived,
the priests drowned him in the sacred cistern and then buried
him in the temple of Serapis. On the death of this bull, whether
it occurred in the course of nature or by violence, the whole
land was filled with sorrow and lamentations, which lasted until
his successor was found.
We find the following item in one of the newspapers of the
day:
"The Tomb of Apis.- The excavations going on at Memphis bid
fair to make that buried city as interesting as Pompeii. The
monster tomb of Apis is now open, after having lain unknown for
centuries."
Milton, in his "Hymn on the Nativity," alludes to the
Egyptian deities, not as imaginary beings, but as real demons,
put to flight by the coming of Christ.
"The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis and Horus and the dog Anubis haste.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green
Trampling the unshowered* grass with lowings loud;
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest;
Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud.
In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark."
* There being no rain in Egypt, the grass is "unshowered,"
and the country depends for its fertility upon the overflowings
of the Nile. The ark alluded to in the last line is shown by
pictures still remaining on the walk of the Egyptian temple to
have been borne by the priests in their religious processions.
It probable represented the chest in which Osiris was placed.
Isis was represented in statuary with the head veiled, a
symbol of mystery. It is this which Tennyson alludes to in
"Maud," IV. 8:
"For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the
veil," etc.
ORACLES.
Oracle was the name used to denote the place where answers
were supposed to be given by any of the divinities to those who
consulted them respecting the future. The word was also used to
signify the response which was given.
The most ancient Grecian oracle was that of Jupiter at
Dodona. According to one account, it was established in the
following manner: Two black doves took their flight from Thebes
in Egypt. One flew to Dodona in Epirus, and alighting in a grove
of oaks, it proclaimed in human language to the inhabitants of
the district that they must establish there an oracle of
Jupiter. The other dove flew to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in
the Libyan Oasis, and delivered a similar command there. Another
account is, that they were not doves, but priestesses, who were
carried off from Thebes in Egypt by the Phoenicians, and set up
oracles at the Oasis and Dodona. The responses of the oracle
were given from the trees, by the branches rustling in the wind,
the sounds being interpreted by the priests.
But the most celebrated of the Grecian oracles was that of
Apollo at Delphi, a city built on the slopes of Parnassus in
Phocis.
It had been observed at a very early period that the goats
feeding on Parnassus were thrown into convulsions when they
approached a certain long deep cleft in the side of the
mountain. This was owing to a peculiar vapour arising out of the
cavern, and one of the goatherds was induced to try its effects
upon himself. Inhaling the intoxicating air, he was affected in
the same manner as the cattle had been, and the inhabitants of
the surrounding country, unable to explain the circumstance,
imputed the convulsive ravings to which he gave utterance while
under the power of the exhalations to a divine inspiration. The
fact was speedily circulated widely, and a temple was erected on
the spot. The prophetic influence was at first variously
attributed to the goddess Earth, to Neptune, Themis, and others,
but it was at length assigned to Apollo, and to him alone. A
priestess was appointed whose office it was to inhale the
hallowed air, and who was named the Pythia. She was prepared for
this duty by previous ablution at the fountain of Castalia, and
being crowned with laurel was seated upon a tripod similarly
adorned, which was placed over the chasm whence the divine
afflatus proceeded. Her inspired words while thus situated were
interpreted by the priests.
ORACLE OF TROPHONIUS.
Besides the oracles of Jupiter and Apollo, at Dodona and
Delphi, that of Trophonius in Boeotia was held in high
estimation. Trophonius and Agamedes were brothers. They were
distinguished architects, and built the temple of Apollo at
Delphi, and a treasury for King Hyrieus. In the wall of the
treasury they placed a stone, in such a manner that it could be
taken out; and by this means, from time to time, purloined the
treasure. This amazed Hyrieus, for his locks and seals were
untouched, and yet his wealth continually diminished. At length
he set a trap for the thief and Agamedes was caught.
Trophonius, unable to extricate him, and fearing that when
found he would be compelled by torture to discover his
accomplice, cut off his head. Trophonius himself is said to have
been shortly afterwards swallowed up by the earth.
The oracle of Trophonius was at Lebadea in Boeotia. During a
great drought the Boeotians, it is said, were directed by the
god at Delphi to seek aid of Trophonius at Lebadea. They came
thither, but could find no oracle. One of them, however,
happening to see a swarm of bees, followed them to a chasm in
the earth, which proved to be the place sought.
Peculiar ceremonies were to be performed by the person who
came to consult the oracle. After these preliminaries, he
descended into the cave by a narrow passage. This place could be
entered only in the night. The person returned from the cave by
the same narrow passage, but walking backwards. He appeared
melancholy and dejected; and hence the proverb which was applied
to a person low-spirited and gloomy, "He has been consulting the
oracle of Trophonius."
ORACLE OF AESCULAPIUS.
There were numerous oracles of AEsculapius, but the most
celebrated one was at Epidaurus. Here the sick sought responses
and the recovery of their health by sleeping in the temple. It
has been inferred from the accounts that have come down to us
that the treatment of the sick resembled what is now called
Animal Magnetism or Mesmerism.
Serpents were sacred to AEsculapius, probably because of a
superstition that those animals have a faculty of renewing their
youth by a change of skin.
The worship of AEsculapius was introduced into Rome in a time
of great sickness, and an embassy sent to the temple of
Epidaurus to entreat the aid of the god. AEsculapius was
propitious and on the return of the ship accompanied it in the
form of a serpent. Arriving in the river Tiber, the serpent
glided from the vessel and took possession of an island in the
river, and a temple was there erected to his honour.
ORACLE OF APIS.
At Memphis the sacred bull Apis gave answer to those who
consulted him by the manner in which he received or rejected
what was presented to him. If the bull refused food from the
hand of the inquirer it was considered an unfavourable sign, and
the contrary when he received it.
It has been a question whether oracular responses ought to be
ascribed to mere human contrivance or to the agency of evil
spirits. The latter opinion has been most general in past ages.
A third theory has been advanced since the phenomena of
Mesmerism have attracted attention, that something like the
mesmeric trance was induced in the Pythoness, and the faculty of
clairvoyance really called into action.
Another question is as to the time when the Pagan oracles
ceased to give responses. Ancient Christian writers assert that
they became silent at the birth of Christ, and were heard no
more after that date. Milton adopts this view in his "Hymn on
the Nativity," and in lines of solemn and elevated beauty
pictures the consternation of the heathen idols at the advent of
the Saviour:
"The oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Rings through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance or breathed spell
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell."
In Cowper's poem of "Yardley Oak" there are some beautiful
mythological allusions. The former of the two following is to
the fable of Castor and Pollux; the latter is more appropriate
to our present subject. Addressing the acorn he says,
"Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod,
Swelling with vegetative force instinct,
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins
Now stars; two lobes protruding, paired exact;
A leaf succeeded and another leaf,
And, all the elements thy puny growth
Fostering propitious, thou becam'st a twig.
Who lived when thou wast such? O, couldst thou speak,
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees
Oracular, I would not curious ask
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past."
Tennyson, in his "Talking Oak," alludes to the oaks of Dodona
in these lines:
"And I will work in prose and rhyme,
And praise thee more in both
Than bard has honored beech or lime,
Or that Thessalian growth
In which the swarthy ring-dove sat
And mystic sentence spoke;" etc.
Byron alludes to the oracle of Delphi where, speaking of
Rousseau, whose writings he conceives did much to bring on the
French revolution, he says,
"For then he was inspired, and from him came,
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
Those oracles which set the world in flame,
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more."
|
CHAPTER XXXV.
ORIGIN OF MYTHOLOGY- STATUES OF GODS AND GODDESSES- POETS
OF MYTHOLOGY.
ORIGIN OF MYTHOLOGY.
HAVING reached the close of our series of stories of Pagan
mythology, an inquiry suggests itself. "Whence came these
stories? Have they a foundation in truth, or are they simply
dreams of the imagination?" Philosophers have suggested various
theories of the subject; and 1. The Scriptural theory; according
to which all mythological legends are derived from the
narratives of Scriptures, though the real facts have been
disguised and altered. Thus Deucalion is only another name for
Noah, Hercules for Samson, Arion for Jonah, etc. Sir Walter
Raleigh, in his "History of the World," says, "Jubal, Tubal, and
Tubal-Cain were Mercury, Vulcan, and Apollo, inventors of
Pasturage, Smithing, and Music. The Dragon which kept the golden
apples was the serpent that beguiled Eve. Nimrod's tower was the
attempt of the Giants against Heaven." There are doubtless many
curious coincidences like these, but the theory cannot without
extravagance be pushed so far as to account for any great
proportion of the stories.
2. The Historical theory; according to which all the persons
mentioned in mythology were once real human beings, and the
legends and fabulous traditions relating to them are merely the
additions and embellishments of later times. Thus the story of
AEolus, the king and god of the winds, is supposed to have risen
from the fact that AEolus was the ruler of some islands in the
Tyrrhenian Sea, where be reigned as a just and pious king, and
taught the natives the use of sails for or ships, and how to
tell from the signs of the atmosphere the changes of the weather
and the winds. Cadmus, who, the legend says, sowed the earth
with dragon's teeth, from which sprang a crop of armed men, was
in fact an emigrant from Phoenicia, and brought with him into
Greece the knowledge of the letters of the alphabet, which be
taught to the natives. From these rudiments of learning sprung
civilization, which the poets have always been prone to describe
as a deterioration of man's first estate, the Golden Age of
innocence and simplicity.
3. The Allegorical theory supposes that all the myths of the
ancients were allegorical and symbolical, and contained some
moral, religious, or philosophical truth or historical fact,
under the form of an allegory, but came in process of time to be
understood literally. Thus Saturn, who devours his own children,
is the same power whom the Greeks called Cronos (Time), which
may truly be said to destroy whatever it has brought into
existence. The story of Io is interpreted in a similar manner.
Io is the moon, and Argus the starry sky, which, as it were,
keeps sleepless watch over her. The fabulous wanderings of lo
represent the continual revolutions of the moon, which also
suggested to Milton the same idea.
"To behold the wandering moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
In the heaven's wide, pathless way."
Il Penseroso.
4. The Physical theory; according to which the elements of
air, fire, and water were originally the objects of religious
adoration, and the principal deities were personifications of
the powers of nature. The transition was easy from a
personification of the elements to the notion of supernatural
beings presiding over and governing the different objects of
nature. The Greeks, whose imagination was lively, peopled all
nature with invisible beings, and supposed that every object,
from the sun and sea to the smallest fountain and rivulet, was
under the care of some particular divinity. Wordsworth, in his
"Excursion," has beautifully developed this view of Grecian
mythology:
"In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched
On the soft grass through half a summer's day,
With music lulled his indolent repose;
And, in some fit of weariness, if he,
When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
A distant strain far sweeter than the sounds
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched
Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun
A beardless youth who touched a golden lute,
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
The mighty hunter, lifting up his eyes
Toward the crescent Moon, with grateful heart
Called on the lovely Wanderer who bestowed
That timely light to share his joyous sport;
And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs
Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes
By echo multiplied from rock or cave)
Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven
When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
The Naiad. Sunbeams upon distant hills
Gliding apace with shadows in their train,
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed
Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.
The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings,
Lacked not for love fair objects whom they wooed
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;
And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard;
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,
That simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god."
All the theories which have been mentioned are true to a
certain extent. It would therefore be more correct to say that
the mythology of a nation has sprung from all these sources
combined than from any one in particular. We may add also that
there are many myths which have arisen from the desire of man to
account for those natural phenomena which he cannot understand;
and not a few have had their rise from a similar desire of
giving a reason for the names of places and persons.
STATUES OF THE GODS.
To adequately represent to the eye the ideas intended to be
conveyed to the mind under the several names of deities was a
task which called into exercise the highest powers of genius and
art. Of to many attempts four have been most celebrated the
first two known to us only by the descriptions of the ancients,
the others still extant and the acknowledged masterpieces of the
sculptor's art.
THE OLYMPIAN JUPITER.
The statue of the Olympian Jupiter by Phidias was considered
the highest achievement of this department of Grecian art. It
was of colossal dimensions, and was what the ancients called
"chryselephantine"; that is, composed of ivory and gold; the
parts representing flesh being of ivory laid on a core of wood
or stone, while the drapery and other ornaments were of gold.
The height of the figure was forty feet, on a pedestal twelve
feet high. The god was represented seated on his throne. His
brows were crowned with a wreath of olive, and he held in his
right hand a sceptre, and in his left a statue of Victory. The
throne was of cedar, adorned with gold and precious stones.
The idea which the artist essayed to embody was that of the
supreme deity of the Hellenic (Grecian) nation, enthroned as a
conqueror, in perfect majesty and repose, and ruling with a nod
the subject world. Phidias avowed that he took his idea from the
representation which Homer gives in the first book of the
"Iliad," in the passage thus translated by Pope:
"He spoke and awful bends his sable brows,
Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate and sanction of the god.
High heaven with reverence the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the centre shook."*
* Cowper's version is less elegant, but truer to the
original:
"He ceased, and under his dark brows the nod
Vouchsafed of confirmation. All around
The sovereign's everlasting head his curls
Ambrosial shook, and the huge mountain reeled."
It may interest our readers to see how this passage appears
in another famous version, that which was issued under the name
of Tickell, contemporaneously with Pope's, and which, being by
many attributed to Addison, led to the quarrel which ensued
between Addison and Pope:
"This said, his kingly brow the sire inclined;
The large black curls fell awful from behind,
Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god;
Olympus trembled at the almighty nod."
THE MINERVA OF THE PARTHENON.
This was also the work of Phidias. It stood in the Parthenon, or
temple of Minerva at Athens. The goddess was represented
standing. In one hand she held a spear, in the other a statue of
Victory. Her helmet, highly decorated, was surmounted by a
Sphinx. The statue was forty feet in height, and, like the
Jupiter, composed of ivory and gold. The eyes were of marble,
and probably painted to represent the iris and pupil. The
Parthenon, in which this statue stood, was also constructed
under the direction and superintendence of Phidias. Its exterior
was enriched with sculptures, many of them from the hand of
Phidias. The Elgin marbles, now in the British Museum, are a
part of them.
Both the Jupiter and Minerva of Phidias are lost, but there
is good ground to believe that we have, in several extant
statues and busts, the artist's conceptions of the countenances
of both. They are characterized by grave and dignified beauty,
and freedom from any transient expression, which in the language
of art is called repose.
THE VENUS DE' MEDICI.
The Venus of the Medici is so called from its having been in
the possession of the princes of that name in Rome when it first
attracted attention, about two hundred years ago. An inscription
on the base records it to be the work of Cleomenes, an Athenian
sculptor of 200 B.C., but the authenticity of the inscription is
doubtful. There is a story that the artist was employed by
public authority to make a statue exhibiting the perfection of
female beauty, and to aid him in his task the most perfect forms
the city could supply were furnished him for models. It is this
which Thomson alludes to in his "Summer":
"So stands the statue that enchants the world;
So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,
The mingled beauties of exulting Greece."
Byron also alludes to this statue. Speaking of the Florence
Museum, he says:
"There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills
The air around with beauty;" etc.
And in the next stanza,
"Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan shepherd's
prize."
See this last allusion explained in Chapter XXVII.
THE APOLLO BELVEDERE.
The most highly esteemed of all the remains of ancient
sculpture is the statue of Apollo, called the Belvedere, from
the name of the apartment of the Pope's palace at Rome in which
it was placed. The artist is unknown. It is supposed to be a
work of Roman art, of about the first century of our era. It is
a standing figure, in marble, more than seven feet high, naked
except for the cloak which is fastened around the neck and hangs
over the extended left arm. It is supposed to represent the god
in the moment when he has shot the arrow to destroy the monster
Python. (See Chapter III.) The victorious divinity is in the act
of stepping forward. The left arm, which seems to have held the
bow, is outstretched, and the head is turned in the same
direction. In attitude and proportion the graceful majesty of
the figure is unsurpassed. The effect is completed by the
countenance, where on the perfection of youthful godlike beauty
there dwells the consciousness of triumphant power.
THE DIANA A LA BICHE.
The Diana of the Hind, in the palace of the Louvre, may be
considered the counterpart to the Apollo Belvedere. The attitude
much resembles that of the Apollo, the sizes correspond and also
the style of execution. It is a work of the highest order,
though by no means equal to the Apollo. The attitude is that of
hurried and eager motion, the face that of a huntress in the
excitement of the chase. The left hand is extended over the
forehead of the Hind, which runs by her side, the right arm
reaches backward over the shoulder to draw an arrow from the
quiver.
THE POETS OF MYTHOLOGY.
Homer, from whose poems of the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" we have
taken the chief part of our chapters of the Trojan war and the
return of the Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the
heroes he celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a
wandering minstrel, blind and old, who travelled from place to
place singing his lays to the music of his harp, in the courts
of princes or the cottages of peasants, and dependent upon the
voluntary offerings of his hearers for support. Byron calls him
"The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," and a well-known
epigram, alluding to the uncertainty of the fact of his
birthplace, says:
"Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread."
These seven were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis,
Argos, and Athens.
Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are
the work of any single mind. This arises from the difficulty of
believing that poems of such length could have been committed to
writing at so early an age as that usually assigned to these, an
age earlier than the date of any remaining inscriptions or
coins, and when no materials capable of containing such long
productions were yet introduced into use. On the other hand it
is asked how poems of such length could have been handed down
from age to age by means of the memory alone. This is answered
by the statement that there was a professional body of men,
called Rhapsodists, who recited the poems of others, and whose
business it was to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the
national and patriotic legends.
The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to
be that the framework and much of the structure of the poems
belongs to Homer, but that there are numerous interpolations and
additions by other hands.
The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is
850 B.C.
VIRGIL.
Virgil, called also by his surname, Maro, from whose poem of
the "AEneid" we have taken the story of AEneas, was one of the
great poets who made the reign of the Roman emperor Augustus so
celebrated, under the name of the Augustan age. Virgil was born
in Mantua in the year 70 B.C. His great poem is ranked next to
those of Homer, in the highest class of poetical composition,
the Epic. Virgil is far inferior to Homer in originality and
invention, but superior to him in correctness and elegance. To
critics of English lineage Milton alone of modern poets seems
worthy to be classed with these illustrious ancients. His poem
of "Paradise Lost," from which we have borrowed so many
illustrations, is in many respects equal, in some superior, to
either of the great works of antiquity. The following epigram of
Dryden characterizes the three poets with as much truth as it is
usual to find in such pointed criticism.
"ON MILTON.
"Three poets in three different ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of soul surpassed,
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third she joined the other two."
From Cowper's "Table Talk":
"Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared,
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard.
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, asked ages more.
Thus genius rose and set at ordered times,
And shot a dayspring into distant climes,
Ennobling every region that he chose;
He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose,
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness past,
Emerged all splendour in our isle at last.
Thus lovely Halcyons dive into the main,
Then show far off their shining plumes again."
OVID,
often alluded to in poetry by his other name of Naso, was born
in the year 43 B.C. He was educated for public life and held
some offices of considerable dignity, but poetry was his
delight, and he early resolved to devote himself to it. He
accordingly sought the society of the contemporary poets, and
was acquainted with Horace and saw Virgil, though the latter
died when Ovid was yet too young and undistinguished to have
formed his acquaintance. Ovid spent an easy life at Rome in the
enjoyment of a competent income. He was intimate with the family
of Augustus, the emperor, and it is supposed that some serious
offence given to some member of that family was the cause of an
event which reversed the poet's happy circumstances and clouded
all the latter portion of his life. At the age of fifty he was
banished from Rome, and ordered to betake himself to Tomi, on
the borders of the Black Sea. Here, among the barbarous people
and in a severe climate, the poet, who had been accustomed to
all the pleasures of a luxurious capital and the society of his
most distinguished contemporaries, spent the last ten years of
his life, worn out with grief and anxiety. His only consolation
in exile was to address his wife and absent friends, and his
letters were all poetical. Though these poems (the "Tristia" and
"Letters from Pontus") have no other topic than the poet's
sorrow's, his exquisite taste and fruitful invention have
redeemed them from the charge of being tedious, and they are
read with pleasure and even with sympathy.
The two great works of Ovid are his "Metamorphoses" and his
"Fasti." They are both mythological poems, and from the former
we have taken most of our stories of Grecian and Roman
mythology. A late writer thus characterizes these poems:
"The rich mythology of Greece furnished Ovid, as it may still
furnish the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, with materials
for his art. With exquisite taste, simplicity, and pathos he has
narrated the fabulous traditions of early ages, and given to
them that appearance of reality which only a master-hand could
impart. His pictures of nature are striking and true; he selects
with care that which is appropriate; he rejects the superfluous;
and when he has completed his work, it is neither defective nor
redundant. The 'Metamorphoses' are read with pleasure by youth,
and are re-read in more advanced age with still greater delight.
The poet ventured to predict that his poem would survive him,
and be read wherever the Roman name was known."
The prediction above alluded to is contained in the closing
lines of the "Metamorphoses," of which we give a literal
translation below:
"And now I close my work, which not the ire
Of Jove, nor tooth of time, nor sword, nor fire
Shall bring to nought. Come when it will that day
Which o'er the body, not the mind, has sway,
And snatch the remnant of my life away,
My better part above the stars shall soar,
And my renown endure for evermore.
Where'er the Roman arms and arts shall spread,
There by the people shall my book be read;
And, if aught true in poet's visions be,
My name and fame have immortality."
|
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MODERN MONSTERS- THE PHOENIX- BASILISK- UNICORN-
-SALAMANDER.
MODERN MONSTERS.
THERE is a set of imaginary beings which seem to have been the
successors of the "Gorgons, Hydras, and Chimeras dire" of the
old superstitions, and, having no connection with the false gods
of Paganism, to have continued to enjoy an existence in the
popular belief after Paganism was superseded by Christianity.
They are mentioned perhaps by the classical writers, but their
chief popularity and currency seem to have been in more modern
times. We seek our accounts of them not so much in the poetry of
the ancients as in the old natural history books and narrations
of travellers. The accounts which we are about to give are taken
chiefly from the Penny Cyclopedia.
THE PHOENIX.
Ovid tells the story of the Phoenix as follows: "Most beings
spring from other individuals; but there is a certain kind which
reproduces itself. The Assyrians call it the Phoenix. It does
not live on fruit or flowers, but on frankincense and
odoriferous gums. When it has lived five hundred years, it
builds itself a nest in the branches of an oak, or on the top of
a palm tree. In this it collects cinnamon, and spikenard, and
myrrh, and of these 'materials builds a pile on which it
deposits itself, and dying, breathes out its last breath amidst
odours. From the body of the parent bird, a young Phoenix issues
forth, destined to live as long a life as its predecessor. When
this has grown up and gained sufficient strength, it lifts its
nest from the tree (its own cradle and its parent's sepulchre),
and carries it to the city of Heliopolis in Egypt, and deposits
it in the temple of the Sun."
Such is the account given by a poet. Now let us see that of a
philosophic historian. Tacitus says, "in the consulship of
Paulus Fabius (A.D. 34) the miraculous bird known to the world
by the name of the Phoenix, after disappearing for a series of
ages, revisited Egypt. It was attended in its flight by a group
of various birds, all attracted by the novelty, and gazing with
wonder at so beautiful an appearance." He then gives an account
of the bird, not varying materially from the preceding, but
adding some details. "The first care of the young bird as soon
as fledged, and able to trust to his wings, is to perform the
obsequies of his father. But this duty is not undertaken rashly.
He collects a quantity of myrrh, and to try his strength makes
frequent excursions with a load on his back. When he has gained
sufficient confidence in his own vigour, he takes up the body of
his father and flies with it to the altar of the Sun, where he
leaves it to be consumed in flames of fragrance." Other writers
add a few particulars. The myrrh is compacted in the form of an
egg, in which the dead Phoenix is enclosed. From the mouldering
flesh of the dead bird a worm springs, and this worm, when grown
large, is transformed into a bird. Herodotus describes the bird,
though he says, "I have not seen it myself, except in a picture.
Part of his plumage is gold-coloured, and part crimson; and he
is for the most part very much like an eagle in outline and
bulk."
The first writer who disclaimed a belief in the existence of
the Phoenix was Sir Thomas Browne, in his "Vulgar Errors,"
published in 1646. He was replied to a few years later by
Alexander Ross, who says, in answer to the objection of the
Phoenix so seldom making his appearance, "His instinct teaches
him to keep out of the way of the tyrant of the creation, man,
for if he were to be got at, some wealthy glutton would surely
devour him, though there were no more in the world."
Dryden in one of his early poems has this allusion to the
Phoenix:
"So when the new-born Phoenix first is seen
Her feathered subjects all adore their queen,
And while she makes her progress through the East,
From every grove her numerous train 's increased;
Each poet of the air her glory sings,
And round him the pleased audience clap their wings."
Milton, in "Paradise Lost," Book V., compares the angel
Raphael descending to earth to a Phoenix:
"...Down thither, prone in flight
He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing,
Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
Winnows the buxom air; till within soar
Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems
A Phoenix, gazed by all; as that sole bird
When, to enshrine his relics in the sun's
Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies."
THE COCKATRICE, OR BASILISK.
This animal was called the king of the serpents. In confirmation
of his royalty, he was said to be endowed with a crest, or comb
upon the head, constituting a crown. He was supposed to be
produced from the egg of a cock hatched under toads or serpents.
There were several species of this animal. One species burned up
whatever they approached; a second were a kind of wandering
Medusa's heads, and their look caused an instant horror which
was immediately followed by death. In Shakespeare's play of
"Richard the Third," Lady Anne, in answer to Richard's
compliment on her eyes, says "Would they were basilisk's, to
strike thee dead!"
The basilisks were called kings of serpents because all other
serpents and snakes, behaving like good subjects, and wisely not
wishing to be burned up or struck dead, fled the moment they
heard the distant hiss of their king, although they might be in
full feed upon the most delicious prey, leaving the sole
enjoyment of the banquet to the royal monster.
The Roman naturalist Pliny thus describes him. "He does not
impel his body, like other serpents, by a multiplied flexion,
but advances lofty and upright. He kills the shrubs, not only by
contact, but by breathing on them, and splits the rocks, such
power of evil is there in him." It was formerly believed that if
killed by a spear from on horseback the power of the poison
conducted through the weapon killed not only the rider, but the
horse also. To this Lucan alludes in these lines:
"What though the Moor the basilisk hath slain,
And pinned him lifeless to the sandy plain,
Up through the spear the subtle venom flies,
The hand imbibes it, and the victor dies."
Such a prodigy was not likely to be passed over in the
legends of the saints. Accordingly we find it recorded that a
certain holy man, going to a fountain in the desert, suddenly
beheld a basilisk. He immediately raised his eyes to heaven, and
with a pious appeal to the Deity laid the monster dead at his
feet.
These wonderful powers of the basilisk are attested by a host
of learned persons, such as Galen, Avicenna, Scaliger, and
others. Occasionally one would demur to some part of the tale
while he admitted the rest. Jonston, a learned physician, sagely
remarks, "I would scarcely believe that it kills with its look,
for who could have seen it and lived to tell the story?" The
worthy sage was not aware that those who went to hunt the
basilisk of this sort took with them a mirror, which reflected
back the deadly glare upon its author, and by a kind of poetical
justice slew the basilisk with his own weapon.
But what was to attack this terrible and unapproachable
monster? There is an old saying that "everything has its enemy"-
and the cockatrice quailed before the weasel. The basilisk might
look daggers, the weasel cared not, but advanced boldly to the
conflict. When bitten, the weasel retired for a moment to eat
some rue, which was the only plant the basilisks could not
wither, returned with renewed strength and soundness to the
charge, and never left the enemy till he was stretched dead on
the plain. The monster, too, as if conscious of the irregular
way in which he came into the world, was supposed to have a
great antipathy to a cock; and well he might, for as soon as he
heard the cock crow he expired.
The basilisk was of some use after death. Thus we read that
its carcass was suspended in the temple of Apollo, and in
private houses, as a sovereign remedy against spiders, and that
it was also hung up in the temple of Diana, for which reason no
swallow ever dared enter the sacred place.
The reader will, we apprehend, by this time have had enough
of absurdities, but still we can imagine his anxiety to know
what a cockatrice was like. The following is from Aldrovandus, a
celebrated naturalist of the sixteenth century, whose work on
natural history, in thirteen folio volumes, contains with much
that is valuable a large proportion of fables and inutilities.
In particular he is so ample on the subject of the cock and the
bull that from his practice, all rambling, gossiping tales of
doubtful credibility are called cock and bull stories.
Shelley, in his "Ode to Naples," full of the enthusiasm
excited by the intelligence of the proclamation of a
Constitutional Government at Naples, in 1820, thus uses an
allusion to the basilisk:
"What though Cimmerian anarchs dare blaspheme
Freedom and thee? a new Actaeon's error
Shall theirs have been,- devoured by their own hounds!
Be thou like the imperial basilisk,
Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds!
Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk,
Aghast she pass from the earth's disk.
Fear not, but gaze,- for freemen mightier grow,
And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe."
THE UNICORN.
Pliny, the Roman naturalist, out of whose account of the unicorn
most of the modern unicorns have been described and figured,
records it as "a very ferocious beast, similar in the rest of
its body to a horse, with the head of a deer, the feet of an
elephant, the tail of a boar, a deep, bellowing voice, and a
single black horn, two cubits in length, standing out in the
middle of its forehead." He adds that "it cannot be taken
alive"; and some such excuse may have been necessary in those
days for not producing the living animal upon the arena of the
amphitheatre.
The unicorn seems to have been a sad puzzle to the hunters,
who hardly knew how to come at so valuable a piece of game. Some
described the horn as movable at the will of the animal, a kind
of small sword, in short, with which no hunter who was not
exceedingly cunning in fence could have a chance. Others
maintained that all the animal's strength lay in its horn, and
that when hard pressed in pursuit, it would throw itself from
the pinnacle of the highest rocks horn foremost, so as to pitch
upon it, and then quietly march off not a whit the worse for its
fall.
But it seems they found out how to circumvent the poor
unicorn at last. They discovered that it was a great lover of
purity and innocence, so they took the field with a young
virgin, who was placed in the unsuspecting admirer's way. When
the unicorn spied her, he approached with all reverence,
crouched beside her, and laying his head in her lap, fell
asleep. The treacherous virgin then gave a signal, and the
hunters made in and captured the simple beast.
Modern zoologists, disgusted as they well may be with such
fables as these, disbelieved generally the existence of the
unicorn. Yet there are animals bearing on their heads a bony
protuberance more or less like a horn, which may have given rise
to the story. The rhinoceros horn, as it is called, is such a
protuberance, though it does not exceed a few inches in height,
and is far from agreeing with the descriptions of the horn of
the unicorn. The nearest approach to a horn in the middle of the
forehead is exhibited in the bony protuberance on the forehead
of the giraffe; but this also is short and blunt, and is not the
only horn of the animal, but a third horn, standing in front of
the two others. In fine, though it would be presumptuous to deny
the existence of a one-horned quadruped other than the
rhinoceros, it may be safely stated that the insertion of a long
and solid horn in the living forehead of a horse-like or
deer-like animal is as near an impossibility as anything can be.
THE SALAMANDER.
The following is from the "Life of Benvenuto Cellini," an
Italian artist of the sixteenth century, written by himself:
"When I was about five years of age, my father, happening to be
in a little room in which they had been washing, and where there
was a good fire of oak burning, looked into the flames and saw a
little animal resembling a lizard, which could live in the
hottest part of that element. Instantly perceiving what it was,
he called for my sister and me, and after he had shown us the
creature, he gave me a box on the ear. I fell a-crying, while
he, soothing me with caresses, spoke these words: 'My dear
child, I do not give you that blow for any fault you have
committed, but that you may recollect that the little creature
you see in the fire is a salamander; such a one as never was
beheld before to my knowledge.' So saying he embraced me, and
gave me some money."
It seems unreasonable to doubt a story of which Signor
Cellini was both an eye and ear witness. Add to which the
authority of numerous sage philosophers, at the head of whom are
Aristotle and Pliny, affirms this power of the salamander.
According to them, the animal not only resists fire, but
extinguishes it, and when he sees the flame charges it as an
enemy which he well knows how to vanquish.
That the skin of an animal which could resist the action of
fire should be considered proof against that element is not to
be wondered at. We accordingly find that a cloth made of the
skin of salamanders (for there really is such an animal, a kind
of lizard) was incombustible, and very valuable, for wrapping up
such articles as were too precious to be intrusted to any other
envelopes. These fire-proof cloths were actually produced, said
to be made of salamander's wool, though the knowing ones
detected that the substance of which they were composed was
asbestos, a mineral, which is in fine filaments capable of being
woven into a flexible cloth.
The foundation of the above fables is supposed to be the fact
that the salamander really does secrete from the pores of his
body a milky juice, which when he is irritated is produced in
considerable quantity, and would doubtless, for a few moments,
defend the body from fire. Then it is a hibernating animal, and
in winter retires to some hollow tree or other cavity, where it
coils itself up and remains in a torpid state till the spring
again calls it forth. It may therefore sometimes be carried with
the fuel to the fire, and wake up only time enough to put forth
all its faculties for its defence. Its viscous juice would do
good service, and all who profess to have seen it, acknowledge
that it got out of the fire as fast as its legs could carry it;
indeed, too fast for them ever to make prize of one, except in
one instance, and in that one the animal's feet and some parts
of its body were badly burned.
Dr. Young, in the "Night Thoughts," with more quaintness than
good taste, compares the sceptic who can remain unmoved in the
contemplation of the starry heavens to a salamander unwarmed in
the fire:
"An undevout astronomer is mad!
. . . . . . .
"O, what a genius must inform the skies!
And is Lorenzo's salamander-heart
Cold and untouched amid these sacred fires?"
|
CHAPTER XXXVII.
EASTERN MYTHOLOGY- ZOROASTER- HINDU MYTHOLOGY- CASTES-
BUDDHA- GRAND LAMA.
ZOROASTER.
OUR knowledge of the religion of the ancient Persians is
principally derived from the Zendavesta, or sacred books of that
people. Zoroaster was the founder of their religion, or rather
the reformer of the religion which preceded him. The time when
he lived is doubtful, but it is certain that his system became
the dominant religion of Western Asia from the time of Cyrus
(550 B.C.) to the conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great.
Under the Macedonian monarchy the doctrines of Zoroaster appear
to have been considerably corrupted by the introduction of
foreign opinions; but they afterwards recovered their
ascendency.
Zoroaster taught the existence of a supreme being, who
created two other mighty beings and imparted to them as much of
his own nature as seemed good to him. Of these, Ormuzd (called
by the Greeks Oromasdes) remained faithful to his creator, and
was regarded as the source of all good, while Ahriman (Arimanes)
rebelled, and became the author of all evil upon the earth.
Ormuzd created man and supplied him with all the materials of
happiness; but Ahriman marred this happiness by introducing evil
into the world, and creating savage beasts and poisonous
reptiles and plants. In consequence of this, evil and good are
now mingled together in every part of the world, and the
followers of good and evil- the adherents of Ormuzd and Ahriman-
carry on incessant war. But this state of things will not last
for ever. The time will come when the adherents of Ormuzd shall
everywhere be victorious, and Ahriman and his followers be
consigned to darkness for ever.
The religious rites of the ancient Persians were exceedingly
simple. They used neither temples, altars, nor statues, and
performed their sacrifices on the tops of mountains. They adored
fire, light, and the sun as emblems of Ormuzd, the source of all
light and purity, but did not regard them as independent
deities. The religious rites and ceremonies were regulated by
the priests, who were called Magi. The learning of the Magi was
connected with astrology and enchantment, in which they were so
celebrated that their name was applied to all orders of
magicians and enchanters.
Wordsworth thus alludes to the worship of the Persians:
"...the Persians,- zealous to reject
Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls
And roofs of temples built by human hands,-
The loftiest heights ascending, from their tops,
With myrtle-wreathed Tiara on his brows,
Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars,
And to the Winds and mother Elements,
And the whole circle of the Heavens, for him
A sensitive existence and a God."
Excursion, Book IV.
In "Childe Harold" Byron speaks thus of the Persian worship:
"Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'er-gazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
Upreared of human hands. Come and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer."
III. 91.
The religion of Zoroaster continued to flourish even after
the introduction of Christianity, and in the third century was
the dominant faith of the East, till the rise of the Mahometan
power and the conquest of Persia by the Arabs in the seventh
century, who compelled the greater number of the Persians to
renounce their ancient faith. Those who refused to abandon the
religion of their ancestors fled to the deserts of Kerman and to
Hindustan, where they still exist under the name of Parsees, a
name derived from Paris, the ancient name of Persia. The Arabs
call them Guebers, from an Arabic word signifying unbelievers.
At Bombay the Parsees are at this day a very active,
intelligent, and wealthy class. For purity of life, honesty, and
conciliatory manners, they are favourably distinguished. They
have numerous temples to Fire, which they adore as the symbol of
the divinity.
The Persian religion makes the subject of the finest tale in
Moore's "Lalla Rookh," the "Fire Worshippers." The Gueber chief
says:
"Yes! I am of that impious race,
Those slaves of Fire, that morn and even
Hail their creator's dwelling-place
Among the living lights of heaven;
Yes I am of that outcast crew
To Iran and to vengeance true,
Who curse the hour your Arabs came
To desecrate our shrines of flame,
And swear before God's burning eye
To break our country's chains or die."
HINDU MYTHOLOGY.
The religion of the Hindus is professedly founded on the Vedas.
To these books of their scripture they attach the greatest
sanctity, and state that Brahma himself composed them at the
creation. But the present arrangement of the Vedas is attributed
to the sage Vyasa, about five thousand years ago.
The Vedas undoubtedly teach the belief of one supreme God.
The name of this deity is Brahma. His attributes are represented
by the three personified powers of creation, preservation, and
destruction, which under the respective names of Brahma, Vishnu,
and Siva form the Trimurti or triad of principal Hindu gods. Of
the inferior gods the most important are: 1. Indra, the god of
heaven, of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain; 2. Agni, the god
of fire; 3. Yama, the god of the infernal regions; 4. Surya, the
god of the sun.
Brahma is the creator of the universe, and the source from
which all the individual deities have sprung, and into which all
will ultimately be absorbed. "As milk changes to curd, and water
to ice, so is Brahma variously transformed and diversified,
without aid of exterior means of any sort." The human soul,
according to the Vedas, is a portion of the supreme ruler, as a
spark is of the fire.
VISHNU.
Vishnu occupies the second place in the triad of the Hindus,
and is the personification of the preserving principle. To
protect the world in various epochs of danger, Vishnu descended
to the earth in different incarnations, or bodily forms, which
descents are called Avatars. They are very numerous, but ten are
more particularly specified. The first Avatar was as Matsya, the
Fish, under which form Vishnu preserved Manu, the ancestor of
the human race, during a universal deluge. The second Avatar was
in the form of a Tortoise, which form he assumed to support the
earth when the gods were churning the sea for the beverage of
immortality, Amrita.
We may omit the other Avatars, which were of the same general
character, that is, interpositions to protect the right or to
punish wrong-doers, and come to the ninth, which is the most
celebrated of the Avatars of Vishnu, in which he appeared in the
human form of Krishna, an invincible warrior, who by his
exploits relieved the earth from the tyrants who oppressed it.
Buddha is by the followers of the Brahminical religion
regarded as a delusive incarnation of Vishnu, assumed by him in
order to induce the Asuras, opponents of the gods, to abandon
the sacred ordinances of the Vedas, by which means they lost
their strength and supremacy.
Kalki is the name of the tenth Avatar, in which Vishnu will
appear at the end of the present age of the world to destroy all
vice and wickedness, and to restore mankind to virtue and
purity.
SIVA.
Siva is the third person of the Hindu triad. He is the
personification of the destroying principle. Though the third
name, he is, in respect to the number of his worshippers and the
extension of his worship, before either of the others. In the
Puranas (the scriptures of the modern Hindu religion) no
allusion is made to the original power of this god as a
destroyer; that power not being to be called into exercise till
after the expiration of twelve millions of years, or when the
universe will come to an end; and Mahadeva (another name for
Siva) is rather the representative of regeneration than of
destruction.
The worshippers of Vishnu and Siva form two sects, each of
which proclaims the superiority of its favourite deity, denying
the claims of the other, and Brahma, the creator, having
finished his work, seems to be regarded as no longer active, and
has now only one temple in India, while Mahadeva and Vishnu have
many. The worshippers of Vishnu are generally distinguished by a
greater tenderness for life, and consequent abstinence from
animal food, and a worship less cruel than that of the followers
of Siva.
JUGGERNAUT.
Whether the worshippers of juggernaut are to be reckoned
among the followers of Vishnu or Siva, our authorities differ.
The temple stands near the shore, about three hundred miles
southwest of Calcutta. The idol is a carved block of wood, with
a hideous face, painted black, and a distended blood-red mouth.
On festival days the throne of the image is placed on a tower
sixty feet high, moving on wheels. Six long ropes are attached
to the tower, by which the people draw it along. The priests and
their attendants stand round the throne on the tower, and
occasionally turn to the worshippers with songs and gestures.
While the tower moves along numbers of the devout worshippers
throw themselves on the ground, in order to be crushed by the
wheels, and the multitude shout in approbation of the act, as a
pleasing sacrifice to the idol. Every year, particularly at two
great festivals in March and July, pilgrims flock in crowds to
the temple. Not less than seventy or eighty thousand people are
said to visit the place on these occasions, when all castes eat
together.
CASTES.
The division of the Hindus into classes or castes, with fixed
occupations, existed from the earliest times. It is supposed by
some to have been founded upon conquest, the first three castes
being composed of a foreign race, who subdued the natives of the
country and reduced them to an inferior caste. Others trace it
to the fondness of perpetuating, by descent from father to son,
certain offices or occupations.
The Hindu tradition gives the following account of the origin
of the various castes: At the creation Brahma resolved to give
the earth inhabitants who should be direct emanations from his
own body. Accordingly from his mouth came forth the eldest born,
Brahma (the priest), to whom he confided the four Vedas; from
his right arm issued Shatriya (the warrior), and from his left,
the warrior's wife. His thighs produced Vaissyas, male and
female (agriculturists and traders), and lastly from his feet
sprang Sudras (mechanics and labourers).
The four sons of Brahma, so significantly brought into the
world, became the fathers of the human race, and heads of their
respective castes. They were commanded to regard the four Vedas
as containing all the rules of their faith, and all that was
necessary to guide them in their religious ceremonies. They were
also commanded to take rank in the order of their birth, the
Brahmans uppermost, as having sprung from the head of Brahma.
A strong line of demarcation is drawn between the first three
castes and the Sudras. The former are allowed to receive
instruction from the Vedas, which is not permitted to the
Sudras. The Brahmans possess the privilege of teaching the
Vedas, and were in former times in exclusive possession of all
knowledge. Though the sovereign of the country was chosen from
the Shatriya class, also called Rajputs, the Brahmans possessed
the real power, and were the royal counsellors, the judges and
magistrates of the country; their persons and property were
inviolable; and though they committed the greatest crimes, they
could only be banished from the kingdom. They were to be treated
by sovereigns with the greatest respect, for "a Brahman, whether
learned or ignorant, is a powerful divinity."
When the Brahman arrives at years of maturity it becomes his
duty to marry. He ought to be supported by the contributions of
the rich, and not to be obliged to gain his subsistence by any
laborious or productive occupation. But as all the Brahmans
could not be maintained by the working classes of the community,
it was found necessary to allow them to engage in productive
employments.
We need say little of the two intermediate classes, whose
rank and privileges may be readily inferred from their
occupations. The Sudras or fourth class are bound to servile
attendance on the higher classes, especially the Brahmans, but
they may follow mechanical occupations and practical arts, as
painting and writing, or become traders or husbandmen.
Consequently they sometimes grow rich, and it will also
sometimes happen that Brahmans become poor. That fact works its
usual consequence, and rich Sudras sometimes employ poor
Brahmans in menial occupations.
There is another class lower even than the Sudras, for it is
not one of the original pure classes, but springs from an
unauthorized union of individuals of different castes. These are
the Pariahs, who are employed in the lowest services and treated
with the utmost severity. They are compelled to do what no one
else can do without pollution. They are not only considered
unclean themselves, but they render unclean everything they
touch. They are deprived of all civil rights, and stigmatized by
particular laws regulating their mode of life, their houses, and
their furniture. They are not allowed to visit the pagodas or
temples of the other castes, but have their own pagodas and
religious exercises. They are not suffered to enter the houses
of the other castes; if it is done incautiously or from
necessity, the place must be purified by religious ceremonies.
They must not appear at public markets, and are confined to the
use of particular wells, which they are obliged to surround with
bones of animals, to warn others against using them. They dwell
in miserable hovels, distant from cities and villages, and are
under no restrictions in regard to food, which last is not a
privilege, but a mark of ignominy, as if they were so degraded
that nothing could pollute them. The three higher castes are
prohibited entirely the use of flesh. The fourth is allowed to
use all kinds except beef, but only the lowest caste is allowed
every kind of food without restriction.
BUDDHA.
Buddha, whom the Vedas represent as a delusive incarnation of
Vishnu, is said by his followers to have been a mortal sage,
whose name was Gautama, called also by the complimentary
epithets of Sakyasinha, the Lion, and Buddha, the Sage.
By a comparison of the various epochs assigned to his birth,
it is inferred that he lived about one thousand years before
Christ.
He was the son of a king; and when in conformity to the usage
of the country he was, a few days after his birth, presented
before the altar of a deity, the image is said to have inclined
its head as a presage of the future greatness of the new-born
prophet. The child soon developed faculties of the first order,
and became equally distinguished by the uncommon beauty of his
person. No sooner had he grown to years of maturity than he
began to reflect deeply on the depravity and misery of mankind,
and he conceived the idea of retiring from society and devoting
himself to meditation. His father in vain opposed this design.
Buddha escaped the vigilance of his guards, and having found a
secure retreat, lived for six years undisturbed in his devout
contemplations. At the expiration of that period he came forward
at Benares as a religious teacher. At first some who heard him
doubted of the soundness of his mind; but his doctrines soon
gained credit, and were propagated so rapidly that Buddha
himself lived to see them spread all over India. He died at the
age of eighty years.
The Buddhists reject entirely the authority of the Vedas, and
the religious observances prescribed in them and kept by the
Hindus. They also reject the distinction of castes, and prohibit
all bloody sacrifices, and allow animal food. Their priests are
chosen from all classes; they are expected to procure their
maintenance by perambulation and begging, and among other things
it is their duty to endeavour to turn to some use things thrown
aside as useless by others, and to discover the medicinal power
of plants. But in Ceylon three orders of priests are recognized;
those of the highest order are usually men of high birth and
learning, and are supported at the principal temples, most of
which have been richly endowed by the former monarchs of the
country.
For several centuries after the appearance of buddha, his
sect seems to have been tolerated by the Brahmans, and Buddhism
appears to have penetrated the peninsula of Hindustan in every
direction, and to have been carried to Ceylon, and to the
eastern peninsula. But afterwards it had to endure in India a
long-continued persecution, which ultimately had the effect of
entirely abolishing it in the country where it had originated,
but to scatter it widely over adjacent countries. Buddhism
appears to have been introduced into China about the year 65 of
our era. From China it was subsequently extended to Corea,
Japan, and Java.
THE GRAND LAMA.
It is a doctrine alike of the Brahminical Hindus and of the
Buddhist sect that the confinement of the human soul, an
emanation of the divine spirit, in a human body, is a state of
misery, and the consequence of frailties and sins committed
during former existences. But they hold that some few
individuals have appeared on this earth from time to time, not
under the necessity of terrestrial existence, but who
voluntarily descended to the earth to promote the welfare of
mankind. These individuals have gradually assumed the character
of reappearances of Buddha himself, in which capacity the line
is continued till the present day, in the several Lamas of
Thibet, China, and other countries where Buddhism prevails. In
consequence of the victories of Gengis Khan and his successors,
the Lama residing in Thibet was raised to the dignity of chief
pontiff of the sect. A separate province was assigned to him as
his own territory, and besides his spiritual dignity he became
to a limited extent a temporal monarch. He is styled the Dalai
Lama.
The first Christian missionaries who proceeded to Thibet were
surprised to find there in the heart of Asia a pontifical court
and several other ecclesiastical institutions resembling those
of the Roman Catholic church. They found convents for priests
and nuns, also processions and forms of religious worship,
attended with much pomp and splendour; and many were induced by
these similarities to consider Lamaism as a sort of degenerated
Christianity. It is not improbable that the Lamas derived some
of these practices from the Nestorian Christians, who were
settled in Tartary when Buddhism was introduced into Thibet.
PRESTER JOHN.
An early account, communicated probably by travelling
merchants, of a Lama or spiritual chief among the Tartars, seems
to have occasioned in Europe the report of a Presbyter or
Prester John, a Christian pontiff resident in Upper Asia. The
Pope sent a mission in search of him, as did also Louis IX of
France, some years later, but both missions were unsuccessful,
though the small communities of Nestorian Christians, which they
did find, served to keep up the belief in Europe that such a
personage did exist somewhere in the East. At last in the
fifteenth century, a Portuguese traveller, Pedro Covilham,
happening to hear that there was a Christian prince in the
country of the Abessines (Abyssinia), not far from the Red Sea,
concluded that this must be the true Prester John. He
accordingly went thither, and penetrated to the court of the
king, whom he calls Negus. Milton alludes to him in "Paradise
Lost," Book XI., where, describing Adam's vision of his
descendants in their various nations and cities, scattered over
the face of the earth, he says,-
"...Nor did his eyes not ken
Th' empire of Negus, to his utmost port,
Ercoco, and the less maritime kings,
Mombaza and Quiloa and Melind."
|
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
NORTHERN MYTHOLOGY- VALHALLA- THE VALKYRIOR.
NORTHERN MYTHOLOGY.
THE stories which have engaged our attention thus far relate to
the mythology of southern regions. But there is another branch
of ancient superstitions which ought not to be entirely
overlooked, especially as it belongs to the nations from which
we, through our English ancestors, derive our origin. It is that
of the northern nations, called Scandinavians, who inhabited the
countries now known as Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Iceland.
These mythological records are contained in two collections
called the Eddas, of which the oldest is in poetry and dates
back to the year 1O56, the more modern or prose Edda being of
the date of 1640.
According to the Eddas there was once no heaven above nor
earth beneath, but only a bottomless deep, and a world of mist
in which flowed a fountain. Twelve rivers issued from this
fountain, and when they had flowed far from their source, they
froze into ice, and one layer accumulating over another, the
great deep was filled up.
Southward from the world of mist was the world of light. From
this flowed a warm wind upon the ice and melted it. The vapours
rose in the air and formed clouds, from which sprang Ymir, the
Frost giant and his progeny, and the cow Audhumbla, whose milk
afforded nourishment and food to the giant. The cow got
nourishment by licking the hoar frost and salt from the ice.
While she was one day licking the salt stones there appeared at
first the hair of a man, on the second day the whole head, and
on the third the entire form endowed with beauty, agility, and
power. This new being was a god, from whom and his wife, a
daughter of the giant race, sprang the three brothers Odin,
Vili, and Ve. They slew the giant Ymir, and out of his body
formed the earth, of his blood the seas, of his bones the
mountains, of his hair the trees, of his skull the heavens, and
of his brain clouds, charged with hail and snow. Of Ymir's
eyebrows the gods formed Midgard (mid earth), destined to become
the abode of man.
Odin then regulated the periods of day and night and the
seasons by placing in the heavens the sun and moon, and
appointing to them their respective courses. As soon as the sun
began to shed its rays upon the earth, it caused the vegetable
world to bud and sprout. Shortly after the gods had created the
world they walked by the side of the sea, pleased with their new
work, but found that it was still incomplete, for it was without
human beings. They therefore took an ash tree and made a man out
of it, and they made a woman out of an alder, and called the man
Aske and the woman Embla. Odin then gave them life and soul,
Vili reason and motion, and Ve bestowed upon them the senses,
expressive features, and speech. Midgard was then given them as
their residence, and they became the progenitors of the human
race.
The mighty ash tree Ygdrasill was supposed to support the
whole universe. It sprang from the body of Ymir, and had three
immense roots; extending one into Asgard (the dwelling of the
gods), the other into Jotunheim (the abode of the giants), and
the third to Niffleheim (the regions of darkness and cold). By
the side of each of these roots is a spring, from which it is
watered. The root that extends into Asgard is carefully tended
by the three Norns, goddesses, who are regarded as the
dispensers of fate. They are Urdur (the past), Verdandi (the
present), Skuld (the future). The spring at the Jotunheim side
is Ymir's well, in which wisdom and wit lie hidden, but that of
Niffleheim feeds the adder Nidhogge (darkness), which
perpetually gnaws at the root. Four harts run across the
branches of the tree and bite the buds; they represent the four
winds. Under the tree lies Ymir, and when he tries to shake off
its weight the earth quakes.
Asgard is the name of the abode of the gods, access to which
is only gained by crossing the bridge Bifrost (the rainbow).
Asgard consists of golden and silver palaces, the dwellings of
the gods, but the most beautiful of these is Valhalla, the
residence of Odin. When seated on his throne he overlooks all
heaven and earth. Upon his shoulders are the ravens Hugin and
Munin, who fly every day over the whole world, and on their
return report to him all they have seen and heard. At his feet
lie his two wolves, Geri and Freki, to whom Odin gives all the
meat that is set before him, for he himself stands in no need of
food. Mead is for him both food and drink. He invented the Runic
characters, and it is the business of the Norns to engrave the
runes of fate upon a metal shield. From Odin's name, spelt
Woden, as it sometimes is, came Wednesday, the name of the
fourth day of the week.
Odin is frequently called Alfdaur (All-father), but this name
is sometimes used in a way that shows that the Scandinavians had
an idea of a deity superior to Odin, uncreated and eternal.
OF THE JOYS OF VALHALLA.
Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts with
his chosen heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle,
for all who die a peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the
boar Schrimnir is served up to them, and is abundant for all.
For although this boar is cooked every morning, be becomes whole
again every night. For drink the heroes are supplied abundantly
with mead from the she-goat Heidrum. When the heroes are not
feasting they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day they
ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each
other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when meal time comes
they recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla.
THE VALKYRIOR.
The Valkyrior are warlike virgins, mounted upon horses and
armed with helmets and spears. Odin, who is desirous to collect
a great many heroes in Valhalla, to be able to meet the giants
in a day when the final contest must come, sends down to every
battlefield to make choice of those who shall be slain. The
Valkyrior are his messengers, and their name means "Choosers of
the slain." When they ride forth on their errand, their armour
sheds a strange flickering light, which flashes up over the
northern skies, making what men call the "Aurora Borealis," or
"Northern Lights."*
* Gray's ode, "The Fatal Sisters," is founded on this
superstition.
OF THOR AND THE OTHER GODS.
Thor, the thunderer, Odin's eldest son, is the strongest of
gods and men, and possesses three very precious things. The
first is a hammer, which both the Frost and the Mountain giants
know to their cost, when they see it hurled against them in the
air, for it has split many a skull of their fathers and kindred.
When thrown, it returns to his hand of its own accord. The
second rare thing he possesses is called the belt of strength.
When he girds it about him his divine might is doubled. The
third, also very precious, is his iron gloves, which he puts on
whenever he would use his mallet efficiently. From Thor's name
is derived our word Thursday.
Frey is one of the most celebrated of the gods. He presides
over rain and sunshine and all the fruits of the earth. His
sister Freya is the most propitious of the goddesses. She loves
music, spring, and flowers, and is particularly fond of the
Elves (fairies). She is very fond of love ditties, and all
lovers would do well to invoke her.
Bragi is the god of poetry, and his song records the deeds of
warriors. His wife, Iduna, keeps in a box the apples which the
gods, when they feel old age approaching, have only to taste of
to become young again.
Heimdall is the watchman of the gods, and is therefore placed
on the borders of heaven to prevent the giants from forcing
their way over the bridge Bifrost (the rainbow). He requires
less sleep than a bird, and sees by night as well as by day a
hundred miles around him. So acute is his ear that no sound
escapes him, for he can even hear the grass grow and the wool on
a sheep's back.
OF LOKI AND HIS PROGENY.
There is another deity who is described as the calumniator of
the gods and the contriver of all fraud and mischief. His name
is Loki. He is handsome and well made, but of a very fickle mood
and most evil disposition. He is of the giant race, but forced
himself into the company of the gods, and seems to take pleasure
in bringing them into difficulties, and in extricating them out
of the danger by his cunning, wit and skill. Loki has three
children. The first is the wolf Fenris, the second the Midgard
serpent, the third Hela (Death). The gods were not ignorant that
these monsters were growing up, and that they would one day
bring much evil upon gods and men. So Odin deemed it advisable
to send one to bring them to him. When they came he threw the
serpent into that deep ocean by which the earth is surrounded.
But the monster had grown to such an enormous size that holding
his tail in his mouth he encircles the whole earth. Hela he cast
into Niffleheim, and gave her power over nine worlds or regions,
into which she distributes those who are sent to her; that is,
all who die of sickness or old age. Her hall is called Elvidner.
Hunger is her table, Starvation her knife, Delay her man,
Slowness her maid, Precipice her threshold, Care her bed, and
Burning Anguish forms the hangings of the apartments. She may
easily be recognized, for her body is half flesh colour and half
blue, and she has a dreadfully stern and forbidding countenance.
The wolf Fenris gave the gods a great deal of trouble before
they succeeded in chaining him. He broke the strongest fetters
as if they were made of cobwebs. Finally the gods sent a
messenger to the mountain spirits, who made for them the chain
called Gleipnir. It is fashioned of six things, viz., the noise
made by the footfall of a cat, the beards of women, the roots of
stones, the breath of fishes, the nerves (sensibilities) of
bears, and the spittle of birds. When finished it was as smooth
and soft as a silken string. But when the gods asked the wolf to
suffer himself to be bound with this apparently slight ribbon,
he suspected their design, fearing that it was made by
enchantment. He therefore only consented to be bound with it
upon condition that one of the gods put his hand in his
(Fenris's) mouth as a pledge that the band was to be removed
again. Tyr (the god of battles) alone had courage enough to do
this. But when the wolf found that he could not break his
fetters, and that the gods would not release him, he bit off
Tyr's hand, and he has ever since remained one-handed.
HOW THOR PAID THE MOUNTAIN GIANT HIS WAGES.
Once on a time, when the gods were constructing their abodes
and had already finished Midgard and Valhalla, a certain
artificer came and offered to build them a residence so well
fortified that they should be perfectly safe from the incursions
of the Frost giants and the giants of the mountains. But he
demanded for his reward the goddess Freya, together with the sun
and moon. The gods yielded to his terms, provided he would
finish the whole work himself without any one's assistance, and
all within the space of one winter. But if anything remained
unfinished on the first day of summer he should forfeit the
recompense agreed on. On being told these terms the artificer
stipulated that he should be allowed the use of his horse
Svadilfari, and this by the advice of Loki was granted to him.
He accordingly set to work on the first day of winter, and
during the night let his horse draw stone for the building. The
enormous size of the stones struck the gods with astonishment,
and they saw clearly that the horse did one-half more of the
toilsome work than his master. Their bargain, however, had been
concluded, and confirmed by solemn oaths, for without these
precautions a giant would not have thought himself safe among
the gods, especially when Thor should return from an expedition
he had then undertaken against the evil demons.
As the winter drew to a close, the building was far advanced,
and the bulwarks were sufficiently high and massive to render
the place impregnable. In short, when it wanted but three days
to summer, the only part that remained to be finished was the
gateway. Then sat the gods on their seats of justice and entered
into consultation, inquiring of one another who among them could
have advised to give Freya away, or to plunge the heavens in
darkness by permitting the giant to carry away the sun and the
moon.
They all agreed that no one but Loki, the author of so many
evil deeds, could have given such bad counsel, and that he
should be put to a cruel death if he did not contrive some way
to prevent the artificer from completing his task and obtaining
the stipulated recompense. They proceeded to lay hands on Loki,
who in his fright promised upon oath that, let it cost him what
it would, he would so manage matters that the man should lose
his reward. That very night when the man went with Svadilfari
for building stone, a mare suddenly ran out of a forest and
began to neigh. The horse thereat broke loose and ran after the
mare into the forest, which obliged the man also to run after
his horse, and thus between one and another the whole night was
lost, so that at dawn the work had not made the usual progress.
The man, seeing that he must fail of completing his task,
resumed his own gigantic stature, and the gods now clearly
perceived that it was in reality a mountain giant who had come
amongst them. Feeling no longer bound by their oaths, they
called on Thor, who immediately ran to their assistance, and
lifting up his mallet, paid the workman his wages, not with the
sun and moon, and not even by sending him back to Jotunheim, for
with the first blow he shattered the giant's skull to pieces and
hurled him headlong into Niffleheim.
THE RECOVERY OF THE HAMMER.
Once upon a time it happened that Thor's hammer fell into the
possession of the giant Thrym, who buried it eight fathoms deep
under the rocks of Jotunheim. Thor sent Loki to negotiate with
Thrym, but he could only prevail so far as to get the giant's
promise to restore the weapon if Freya would consent to be his
bride. Loki returned and reported the result of his mission, but
the goddess of love was quite horrified at the idea of bestowing
her charms on the king of the Frost giants. In this emergency
Loki persuaded Thor to dress himself in Freya's clothes and
accompany him to Jotunheim. Thrym received his veiled bride with
due courtesy, but was greatly surprised at seeing her eat for
her supper eight salmons and a full grown ox, besides other
delicacies, washing the whole down with three tuns of mead.
Loki, however, assured him that she had not tasted anything for
eight long nights, so great was her desire to see her lover, the
renowned ruler of Jotunheim. Thrym had at length the curiosity
to peep under his bride's veil, but started back in affright and
demanded why Freya's eyeballs glistened with fire. Loki repeated
the same excuse and the giant was satisfied. He ordered the
hammer to be brought in and laid on the maiden's lap. Thereupon
Thor threw off his disguise, grasped his redoubted weapon, and
slaughtered Thrym and all his followers.
Frey also possessed a wonderful weapon, a sword which would
of itself spread a field with carnage whenever the owner desired
it. Frey parted with this sword, but was less fortunate than
Thor and never recovered it. It happened in this way: Frey once
mounted Odin's throne, from whence one can see over the whole
universe, and looking round saw far off in the giant's kingdom a
beautiful maid, at the sight of whom he was struck with sudden
sadness, insomuch that from that moment he could neither sleep,
nor drink, nor speak. At last Skirnir, his messenger, drew his
secret from him, and undertook to get him the maiden for his
bride, if he would give him his sword as a reward. Frey
consented and gave him the sword, and Skirnir set off on his
journey and obtained the maiden's promise that within nine
nights she would come to a certain place and there wed Frey.
Skirnir having reported the success of his errand, Frey
exclaimed:
"Long is one night,
Long are two nights,
But how shall I hold out three?
Shorter hath seemed
A month to me oft
Than of this longing time the half."
So Frey obtained Gerda, the most beautiful of all women, for
his wife, but he lost his sword.
This story, entitled "Skirnir For," and the one immediately
preceding it, "Thrym's Quida," will be found poetically told in
Longfellow's "Poets and Poetry of Europe."
|
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THOR'S VISIT TO JOTUNHEIM.
THOR'S VISIT TO JOTUNHEIM, THE GIANT'S COUNTRY.
ONE day the god Thor, with his servant Thialfi, and
accompanied by Loki, set out on a journey to the giant's
country. Thialfi was of all men the swiftest of foot. He bore
Thor's wallet, containing their provisions. When night came on
they found themselves in an immense forest, and searched on all
sides for a place where they might pass the night, and at last
came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole
breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep,
but towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook
the whole edifice. Thor, rising up, called on his companions to
seek with him a place of safety. On the right they found an
adjoining chamber, into which the others entered, but Thor
remained at the doorway with his mallet in his hand, prepared to
defend himself, whatever might happen. A terrible groaning was
heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor went out and
found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in the
way that had alarmed them so. It is said that for once Thor was
afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor
contented himself with simply asking his name.
"My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy
name, for I know that thou art the god Thor. But what has become
of my glove?" Thor then perceived that what they had taken
overnight for a hall was the giant's glove, and the chamber
where his two companions had sought refuge was the thumb.
Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in company, and
Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast, and when
they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one
wallet, threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them,
taking such tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to
keep up with him. So they travelled the whole day, and at dusk
Skrymir chose a place for them to pass the night in under a
large oak tree. Skrymir then told them he would lie down to
sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, "and prepare your
supper."
Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly; but
when Thor tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied
it up so tight he could not untie a single knot. At last Thor
became wroth, and grasping his mallet with both hands he struck
a furious blow on the giant's head. Skrymir, awakening, merely
asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his head, and whether
they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor answered
that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid
himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night
to Thor, and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest
re-echoed with the noise, he arose, and grasping his mallet
launched it with such force at the giant's skull that it made a
deep dint in it. Skrymir, awakening, cried out, "What's the
matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree? I felt some
moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with thee,
Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then
awoke, and that as it was only midnight, there was still time
for sleep. He, however, resolved that if he had an opportunity
of striking a third blow, it should settle all matters between
them. A little before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was
again fast asleep, and again grasping his mallet, he dashed it
with such violence that it forced its way into the giant's skull
up to the handle. But Skrymir sat up, and stroking his cheek
said, "An acorn fell on my head. What! Art thou awake, Thor?
Methinks it is time for us to get up and dress ourselves; but
you have not now a long way before you to the city called
Utgard. I have heard you whispering to one another that I am not
a man of small dimensions; but if you come to Utgard you will
see there many men much taller than I. Wherefore I advise you,
when you come there, not to make too much of yourselves, for the
followers of Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such
little fellows as you are. You must take the road that leads
eastward, mine lies northward, so we must part here."
Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders and turned
away from them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him
or to ask for any more of his company.
Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards
noon descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was
so lofty that they were obliged to bend their necks quite back
on their shoulders in order to see to the top of it. On arriving
they entered the city, and seeing a large palace before them
with the door wide open, they went in, and found a number of men
of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in the hall. Going
further, they came before the king, Utgard-Loki, whom they
saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a
scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake me, that stripling
yonder must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor,
he said, "Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be.
What are the feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves
skilled in, for no one is permitted to remain here who does not,
in some feat or other, excel all other men?"
"The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than
any one else, and in this I am ready to give a proof against any
one here who may choose to compete with me."
"That will indeed be a feat," said Utgard-Loki, "if thou
performest what thou promisest, and it shall be tried
forthwith."
He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther
end of the bench, and whose name was Logi, to come forward and
try his skill with Loki. A trough filled with meat having been
set on the hall floor, Loki placed himself at one end, and Logi
at the other, and each of them began to eat as fast as he could,
until they met in the middle of the trough. But it was found
that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary had
devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the
company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished.
Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who
accompanied Thor could perform. Thialfi answered that he would
run a race with any one who might be matched against him. The
king observed that skill in running was something to boast of,
but if the youth would win the match he must display great
agility. He then arose and went with all who were present to a
plain where there was good ground for running on, and calling a
young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In the
first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he
turned back and met him not far from the starting place. Then
they ran a second and a third time, but Thialfi met with no
better success.
Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to
give proofs of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor
answered that he would try a drinking match with any one.
Utgard-Loki bade his cupbearer bring the large horn which his
followers were obliged to empty when they had trespassed in any
way against the law of the feast. The cupbearer having presented
it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, "Whoever is a good drinker will
empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make two of
it, but the most puny drinker can do it in three."
Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary
size though somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he
set it to his lips, and without drawing breath, pulled as long
and as deeply as he could, that he might not be obliged to make
a second draught of it; but when he set the horn down and looked
in, he could scarcely perceive that the liquor was diminished.
After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his
might, but when he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to
him that he had drunk rather less than before, although the horn
could now be carried without spilling.
"How now, Thor?" said Utgard-Loki; "thou must not spare
thyself; if thou meanest to drain the horn at the third draught
thou must pull deeply; and I must needs say that thou wilt not
be called so mighty a man here as thou art at home if thou
showest no greater prowess in other feats than methinks will be
shown in this."
Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips, and did
his best to empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was
only a little lower, so he resolved to make no further attempt,
but gave back the horn to the cupbearer.
"I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not
quite so stout as we thought thee: but wilt thou try any other
feat, though methinks thou art not likely to bear any prize away
with thee hence."
"What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor.
"We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki,
"in which we exercise none but children. It consists in merely
lifting my cat from the ground; nor should I have dared to
mention such a feat to the great Thor if I had not already
observed that thou art by no means what we took thee for."
As he finished speaking, a large grey cat sprang on the hall
floor. Thor put his hand under the cat's belly and did his
utmost to raise him from the floor, but the cat, bending his
back, had, notwithstanding all Thor's efforts, only one of his
feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made no further attempt.
"This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I
imagined it would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in
comparison to our men."
"Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among
you will come hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me."
"I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men
sitting on the benches, "who would not think it beneath him to
wrestle with thee; let somebody, however, call hither that old
crone, my nurse Elli, and let Thor wrestle with her if he will.
She has thrown to the ground many a man not less strong than
this Thor is."
A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by
Utgard-Loki to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The
more Thor tightened his hold on the crone the firmer she stood.
At length after a very violent struggle Thor began to lose his
footing, and was finally brought down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki
then told them to desist, adding that Thor had now no occasion
to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with him, and it was
also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions to their
seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer.
The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions
dressed themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki
ordered a table to be set for them, on which there was no lack
of victuals or drink. After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to
the gate of the city, and on parting asked Thor how he thought
his journey had turned out, and whether he had met with any men
stronger than himself. Thor told him that he could not deny but
that he had brought great shame on himself. "And what grieves me
most," he added, "is that ye will call me a person of little
worth."
"Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the
truth, now thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and
have my way thou shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had
I known beforehand that thou hadst so much strength in thee, and
wouldst have brought me so near to a great mishap, I would not
have suffered thee to enter this time. Know then that I have all
along deceived thee by my illusions; first in the forest, where
I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou couldst not
untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with thy mallet;
the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it
fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the
mountain, where thou wilt find three glens, one of them
remarkably deep. These are the dints made by thy mallet. I have
made use of similar illusions in the contests you have had with
my followers. In the first, Loki, like hunger itself, devoured
all that was set before him, but Logi was in reality nothing
else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the meat, but
the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in
running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep
pace with that. When thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the
horn, thou didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvellous that
had I not seen it myself I should never have believed it. For
one end of that horn reached the sea, which thou wast not aware
of, but when thou comest to the shore thou wilt perceive how
much the sea has sunk by thy draughts. Thou didst perform a feat
no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee the
truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we
were all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat
was in reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth,
and he was so stretched by thee that he was barely long enough
to enclose it between his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli
was also a most astonishing feat, for there was never yet a man,
nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for such in fact was Elli, will
not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we are going to part,
let me tell thee that it will be better for both of us if thou
never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall again
defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose
thy labour and get no fame from the contest with me."
On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet
and would have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had
disappeared, and when Thor would have returned to the city to
destroy it, he found nothing around him but a verdant plain.
|
CHAPTER XL.
THE DEATH OF BALDUR- THE ELVES- RUNIC LETTERS-
SKALDS- ICELAND.
THE DEATH OF BALDUR.
BALDUR the Good, having been tormented with terrible dreams
indicating that his life was in peril, told them to the
assembled gods, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from
him the threatened danger. Then Frigga, the wife of Odin,
exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other
metals, from stones, trees, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons,
and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to
Baldur. Odin, not satisfied with all this, and feeling alarmed
for the fate of his son, determined to consult the prophetess
Angerbode, a giantess, mother of Fenris, Hela, and the Midgard
serpent. She was dead, and Odin was forced to seek her in Hela's
dominions. This Descent of Odin forms the subject of Gray's fine
ode beginning:
"Uprose the king of men with speed
And saddled straight his coal-black steed."
But the other gods, feeling that what Frigga had done was
quite sufficient, amused themselves with using Baldur as a mark,
some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at
him with their swords and battle-axes; for do what they would,
none of them could harm him. And this became a favourite pastime
with them and was regarded as an honour shown to Baldur. But
when Loki beheld the scene he was sorely vexed that Baldur was
not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to
Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the
pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the gods were
doing at their meetings. She replied that they were throwing
darts and stones at Baldur, without being able to hurt him.
"Ay," said Frigga, "neither stones, nor sticks, nor anything
else can hurt Baldur, for I have exacted an oath from all of
them." "What," exclaimed the woman, "have all things sworn to
spare Baldur?" "All things," replied Frigga, "except one little
shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called
Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an
oath from."
As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and resuming his
natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place
where the gods were assembled. There he found Hodur standing
apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his
blindness, and going up to him, said, "Why dost thou not also
throw something at Baldur?"
"Because I am blind," answered Hodur, "and see not where
Baldur is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw."
"Come, then," said Loki, "do like the rest, and show honour
to Baldur by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy
arm towards the place where he stands."
Hodur then took the mistletoe, and under the guidance of
Loki, darted it at Baldur, who, pierced through and through,
fell down lifeless. Surely never was there witnessed, either
among gods or men, a more atrocious deed than this. When Baldur
fell, the gods were struck speechless with horror, and then they
looked at each other and all were of one mind to lay hands on
him who had done the deed, but they were obliged to delay their
vengeance out of respect for the sacred place where they were
assembled. They gave vent to their grief by loud lamentations.
When the gods came to themselves, Frigga asked who among them
wished to gain all her love and good will. "For this," said she,
"shall he have who will ride to Hel and offer Hela a ransom if
she will let Baldur return to Asgard." Whereupon Hermod,
surnamed the Nimble, the son of Odin, offered to undertake the
journey. Odin's horse, Sleipnir, which has eight legs and can
outrun the wind, was then led forth, on which Hermod mounted and
galloped away on his mission. For the space of nine days and as
many nights he rode through deep glens so dark that he could not
discern anything, until he arrived at the river Gyoll, which he
passed over on a bridge covered with glittering gold. The maiden
who kept the bridge asked him his name and lineage, telling him
that the day before five bands of dead persons had ridden over
the bridge, and did not shake it as much as he alone. "But," she
added, "thou hast not death's hue on thee; why then ridest thou
here on the way to Hel?"
"I ride to Hel," answered Hermod, "to seek Baldur. Hast thou
perchance seen him pass this way?"
She replied, "Baldur hath ridden over Gyoll's bridge, and
yonder lieth the way he took to the abodes of death."
Hermod pursued his journey until he came to the barred gates
of Hel. Here he alighted, girthed his saddle tighter, and
remounting clapped both spurs to his horse, who cleared the gate
by a tremendous leap without touching it. Hermod then rode on to
the palace, where he found his brother Baldur occupying the most
distinguished seat in the hall, and passed the night in his
company. The next morning he besought Hela to let Baldur ride
home with him, assuring her that nothing but lamentations were
to be heard among the gods. Hela answered that it should now be
tried whether Baldur was so beloved as he was said to be. "If,
therefore," she added, "all things in the world, both living and
lifeless, weep for him, then shall he return to life; but if any
one thing speak against him or refuse to weep, he shall be kept
in Hel."
Hermod then rode back to Asgard and gave an account of all he
had heard and witnessed.
The gods upon this despatched messengers throughout the world
to beg everything to weep in order that Baldur might be
delivered from Hel. All things very willingly complied with this
request, both men and every other living being, as well as
earths, and stones, and trees, and metals, just as we have all
seen these things weep when they are brought from a cold place
into a hot one. As the messengers were returning, they found an
old hag named Thaukt sitting in a cavern, and begged her to weep
Baldur out of Hel. But she answered:
"Thaukt will wail
With dry tears
Baldur's bale-fire.
Let Hela keep her own."
It was strongly suspected that this hag was no other than
Loki himself, who never ceased to work evil among gods and men.
So Baldur was prevented from coming back to Asgard.*
* In Longfellow's Poems will be found a poem entitled
"Tegner's Drapa," upon the subject of Baldur's death.
THE FUNERAL OF BALDUR.
The gods took up the dead body and bore it to the seashore
where stood Baldur's ship "Hringham," which passed for the
largest in the world. Baldur's dead body was put on the funeral
pile, on board the ship, and his wife Nanna was so struck with
grief at the sight that she broke her heart, and her body was
burned on the same pile with her husband's. There was a vast
concourse of various kinds of people at Baldur's obsequies.
First came Odin accompanied by Frigga, the Valkyrior, and his
ravens; then Frey in his car drawn by Gullinbursti, the boar;
Heimdall rode his horse Gulltopp, and Freya drove in her chariot
drawn by cats. There were also a great many Frost giants and
giants of the mountain present. Baldur's horse was led to the
pile fully caparisoned and consumed in the same flames with his
master.
But Loki did not escape his deserved punishment. When he saw
how angry the gods were, he fled to the mountain, and there
built himself a hut with four doors, so that he could see every
approaching danger. He invented a net to catch the fishes, such
as fishermen have used since his time. But Odin found out his
hiding-place and the gods assembled to take him. He, seeing
this, changed himself into a salmon, and lay hid among the
stones of the brook. But the gods took his net and dragged the
brook, and Loki, finding he must be caught, tried to leap over
the net; but Thor caught him by the tail and compressed it, so
that salmons ever since have had that part remarkably fine and
thin. They bound him with chains and suspended a serpent over
his head, whose venom falls upon his face drop by drop. His wife
Siguna sits by his side and catches the drops as they fall, in a
cup; but when she carries it away to empty it, the venom falls
upon Loki, which makes him howl with horror, and twist his body
about so violently that the whole earth shakes, and this
produces what men call earthquakes.
THE ELVES.
The Edda mentions another class of beings, inferior to the
gods, but still possessed of great power; these were called
Elves. The white spirits, or Elves of Light, were exceedingly
fair, more brilliant than the sun, and clad in garments of a
delicate and transparent texture. They loved the light, were
kindly disposed to mankind, and generally appeared as fair and
lovely children. Their country was called Alfheim, and was the
domain of Freyr, the god of the sun, in whose light they were
always sporting.
The black or Night Elves were a different kind of creatures.
Ugly, long-nosed dwarfs, of a dirty brown colour, they appeared
only at night, for they avoided the sun as their most deadly
enemy, because whenever his beams fell upon any of them they
changed them immediately into stones. Their language was the
echo of solitudes, and their dwelling-places subterranean caves
and clefts. They were supposed to have come into existence as
maggots produced by the decaying flesh of Ymir's body, and were
afterwards endowed by the gods with a human form and great
understanding. They were particularly distinguished for a
knowledge of the mysterious powers of nature, and for the runes
which they carved and explained. They were the most skilful
artificers of all created beings, and worked in metals and in
wood. Among their most noted works were Thor's hammer, and the
ship "Skidbladnir," which they gave to Freyr, and which was so
large that it could contain all the deities with their war and
household implements, but so skilfully was it wrought that when
folded together it could be put into a side pocket.
RAGNAROK, THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS.
It was a firm belief of the northern nations that a time
would come when all the visible creation, the gods of Valhalla
and Niffleheim, the inhabitants of Jotunheim, Alfheim, and
Midgard, together with their habitations, would be destroyed.
The fearful day of destruction will not, however, be without its
forerunners. First will come a triple winter, during which snow
will fall from the four corners of the heavens, the frost be
very severe, the wind piercing, the weather tempestuous, and the
sun impart no gladness. Three such winters will pass away
without being tempered by a single summer. Three other similar
winters will then follow, during which war and discord will
spread over the universe. The earth itself will be frightened
and begin to tremble, the sea leave its basin, the heavens tear
asunder, and men perish in great numbers, and the eagles of the
air feast upon their still quivering bodies. The wolf Fenris
will now break his bands, the Midgard serpent rise out of her
bed in the sea, and Loki, released from his bonds, will join the
enemies of the gods. Amidst the general devastation the sons of
Muspelheim will rush forth under their leader Surtur, before and
behind whom are flames and burning fire. Onward they ride over
Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, which breaks under the horses'
hoofs. But they, disregarding its fall, direct their course to
the battlefield called Vigrid. Thither also repair the wolf
Fenris, the Midgard serpent, Loki with all the followers of
Hela, and the Frost giants.
Heimdall now stands up and sounds the Giallar horn to
assemble the gods and heroes for the contest. The gods advance,
led on by Odin, who engages the wolf Fenris, but falls a victim
to the monster, who is, however, slain by Vidar, Odin's son.
Thor gains great renown by killing the Midgard serpent, but
recoils and falls dead, suffocated with the venom which the
dying monster vomits over him. Loki and Heimdall meet and fight
till they are both slain. The gods and their enemies having
fallen in battle, Surtur, who has killed Freyr, darts fire and
flames over the world, and the whole universe is burned up. The
sun becomes dim, the earth sinks into the ocean, the stars fall
from heaven, and time is no more.
After this Alfadur (the Almighty) will cause a new heaven and
a new earth to arise out of the sea. The new earth filled with
abundant supplies will spontaneously produce its fruits without
labour or care. Wickedness and misery will no more be known, but
the gods and men will live happily together.
RUNIC LETTERS.
One cannot travel far in Denmark, Norway, or Sweden without
meeting with great stones of different forms, engraven with
characters called Runic, which appear at first sight very
different from all we know. The letters consist almost
invariably of straight lines, in the shape of little sticks
either singly or put together. Such sticks were in early times
used by the northern nations for the purpose of ascertaining
future events. The sticks were shaken up, and from the figures
that they formed a kind of divination was derived.
The Runic characters were of various kinds. They were chiefly
used for magical purposes. The noxious, or, as they called them,
the bitter runes, were employed to bring various evils on their
enemies; the favourable averted misfortune. Some were medicinal,
others employed to win love, etc. In later times they were
frequently used for inscriptions, of which more than a thousand
have been found. The language is a dialect of the Gothic, called
Norse, still in use in Iceland. The inscriptions may therefore
be read with certainty, but hitherto very few have been found
which throw the least light on history. They are mostly epitaphs
on tombstones.
Gray's ode on the "Descent of Odin" contains an allusion to
the use of Runic letters for incantation:
"Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme;
Thrice pronounced, in accents dread
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead,
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breathed a sullen sound."
THE SKALDS.
The Skalds were the bards and poets of the nation, a very
important class of men in all communities in an early stage of
civilization. They are the depositaries of whatever historic
lore there is, and it is their office to mingle something of
intellectual gratification with the rude feasts of the warriors,
by rehearsing, with such accomplishments of poetry and music as
their skill can afford, the exploits of their heroes, living or
dead. The compositions of the Skalds were called Sagas, many of
which have come down to us, and contain valuable materials of
history, and a faithful picture of the state of society at the
time to which they relate.
ICELAND.
The Eddas and Sagas have come to us from Iceland. The
following extract from Carlyle's lectures on "Heroes and Hero
Worship" gives an animated account of the region where the
strange stories we have been reading had their origin. Let the
reader contrast it for a moment with Greece, the parent of
classical mythology:
"In that strange island, Iceland,- burst up, the geologists
say, by fire from the bottom of the sea, a wild land of
barrenness and lava, swallowed many months of every year in
black tempests, yet with a wild, gleaming beauty in summer time,
towering up there stern and grim in the North Ocean, with its
snow yokuls [mountains], roaring geysers [boiling springs],
sulphur pools, and horrid volcanic chasms, like the waste,
chaotic battlefield of Frost and Fire,- where, of all places, we
least looked for literature or written memorials,- the record of
these things was written down. On the seaboard of this wild land
is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can subsist, and men by
means of them and of what the sea yields; and it seems they were
poetic men these, men who had deep thoughts in them and uttered
musically their thoughts. Much would be lost had Iceland not
been burst up from the sea, not been discovered by the Northmen!"
|
CHAPTER XLI.
THE DRUIDS- IONA.
THE DRUIDS.
THE Druids were the priests or ministers of religion among
the ancient Celtic nations in Gaul, Britain, and Germany. Our
information respecting them is borrowed from notices in the
Greek and Roman writers; compared with the remains of Welsh and
Gaelic poetry still extant.
The Druids combined the functions of the priest, the
magistrate, the scholar, and the physician. They stood to the
people of the Celtic tribes in a relation closely analogous to
that in which the Brahmans of India, the Magi of Persia, and the
priests of the Egyptians stood to the people respectively by
whom they were revered.
The Druids taught the existence of one god, to whom they gave
a name "Be' al," which Celtic antiquaries tell us means "the
life of everything," or "the source of all beings," and which
seems to have affinity with the Phoenician Baal. What renders
this affinity more striking is that the Druids as well as the
Phoenicians identified this, their supreme deity, with the Sun.
Fire was regarded as a symbol of the divinity. The Latin writers
assert that the Druids also worshipped numerous inferior gods.
They used no images to represent the object of their worship,
nor did they meet in temples or buildings of any kind for the
performance of their sacred rites. A circle of stones (each
stone generally of vast size), enclosing an area of from twenty
feet to thirty yards in diameter, constituted their sacred
place. The most celebrated of these now remaining is Stonehenge,
on Salisbury Plain, England.
These sacred circles were generally situated near some
stream, or under the shadow of a grove or widespreading oak. In
the centre of the circle stood the Cromlech or altar, which was
a large stone, placed in the manner of a table upon other stones
set up on end. The Druids had also their high places, which were
large stones or piles of stones on the summits of hills. These
were called Cairns, and were used in the worship of the deity
under the symbol of the sun.
That the Druids offered sacrifices to their deity there can
be no doubt. But there is some uncertainty as to what they
offered, and of the ceremonies connected with their religious
services we know almost nothing. The classical (Roman) writers
affirm that they offered on great occasions human sacrifices; as
for success in war or for relief from dangerous diseases. Caesar
has given a detailed account of the manner in which this was
done. "They have images of immense size, the limbs of which are
framed with twisted twigs and filled with living persons. These
being set on fire, those within are encompassed by the flames."
Many attempts have been made by Celtic writers to shake the
testimony of the Roman historians to this fact, but without
success.
The Druids observed two festivals in each year. The former
took place in the beginning of May, and was called Beltane or
"fire of God." On this occasion a large fire was kindled on some
elevated spot, in honour of the sun, whose returning beneficence
they thus welcomed after the gloom and desolation of winter. Of
this custom a trace remains in the name given to Whitsunday in
parts of Scotland to this day. Sir Walter Scott uses the word in
the "Boat Song" in the "Lady of the Lake":
"Ours is no sapling, chance sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane in winter to fade;" etc.
The other great festival of the Druids was called "Samh' in,"
or "fire of peace," and was held on Hallow-eve (first of
November), which still retains this designation in the Highlands
of Scotland. On this occasion the Druids assembled in solemn
conclave, in the most central part of the district, to discharge
the judicial functions of their order. All questions, whether
public or private, all crimes against person or property, were
at this time brought before them for adjudication. With these
judicial acts were combined certain superstitious usages,
especially the kindling of the sacred fire, from which all the
fires in the district, which had been beforehand scrupulously
extinguished, might be relighted. This usage of kindling fires
on Hallow-eve lingered in the British islands long after the
establishment of Christianity.
Besides these two great annual festivals, the Druids were in
the habit of observing the full moon, and especially the sixth
day of the moon. On the latter they sought the Mistletoe, which
grew on their favourite oaks, and to which, as well as to the
oak itself, they ascribed a peculiar virtue and sacredness. The
discovery of it was an occasion of rejoicing and solemn worship.
"They call it," says Pliny, "by a word in their language, which
means 'heal-all,' and having made solemn preparation for
feasting and sacrifice under the tree, they drive thither two
milk-white bulls, whose horns are then for the first time bound.
The priest then, robed in white, ascends the tree, and cuts off
the mistletoe with a golden sickle. It is caught in a white
mantle, after which they proceed to slay the victims, at the
same time praying that God would render his gift prosperous to
those to whom he had given it." They drink the water in which it
has been infused, and think it a remedy for all diseases. The
mistletoe is a parasitic plant, and is not always nor often
found on the oak, so that when it is found it is the more
precious.
The Druids were the teachers of morality as well as of
religion. Of their ethical teaching a valuable specimen is
preserved in the Triads of the Welsh Bards, and from this we may
gather that their views of moral rectitude were on the whole
just, and that they held and inculcated many very noble and
valuable principles of conduct. They were also the men of
science and learning of their age and people. Whether they were
acquainted with letters or not has been disputed, though the
probability is strong that they were, to some extent. But it is
certain that they committed nothing of their doctrine, their
history, or their poetry to writing. Their teaching was oral,
and their literature (if such a word may be used in such a case)
was preserved solely by tradition. But the Roman writers admit
that "they paid much attention to the order and laws of nature,
and investigated and taught to the youth under their charge many
things concerning the stars and their motions, the size of the
world and the lands, and concerning the might and power of the
immortal gods."
Their history consisted in traditional tales, in which the
heroic deeds of their forefathers were celebrated. These were
apparently in verse, and thus constituted part of the poetry as
well as the history of the Druids. In the poems of Ossian we
have, if not the actual productions of Druidical times, what may
be considered faithful representations of the songs of the
Bards.
The Bards were an essential part of the Druidical hierarchy.
One author, Pennant, says, "The Bards were supposed to be
endowed with powers equal to inspiration. They were the oral
historians of all past transactions, public and private. They
were also accomplished genealogists," etc.
Pennant gives a minute account of the Eisteddfods or sessions
of the Bards and minstrels, which were held in Wales for many
centuries, long after the Druidical priesthood in its other
departments became extinct. At these meetings none but Bards of
merit were suffered to rehearse their pieces, and minstrels of
skill to perform. Judges were appointed to decide on their
respective abilities, and suitable degrees were conferred. In
the earlier period the judges were appointed by the Welsh
princes, and after the conquest of Wales, by commission from the
kings of England. Yet the tradition is that Edward I, in revenge
for the influence of the Bards in animating the resistance of
the people to his sway, persecuted them with great cruelty. This
tradition has furnished the poet Gray with the subject of his
celebrated ode, the "Bard."
There are still occasional meetings of the lovers of Welsh
poetry and music, held under the ancient name. Among Mrs.
Hemans' poems is one written for an Eisteddfod, or meeting of
Welsh Bards, held in London, May 22, 1822. It begins with a
description of the ancient meeting, of which the following lines
are a part:
"...midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman in his hour of pride;
And where the Druid's ancient cromlech frowned,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round,
There thronged the inspired of yore! on plain or height,
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
And baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread."
The Druidical system was at its height at the time of the
Roman invasion under Julius Caesar. Against the Druids, as their
chief enemies, these conquerors of the world directed their
unsparing fury. The Druids, harassed at all points on the
mainland, retreated to Anglesey and Iona, where for a season
they found shelter and continued their now dishonoured rites.
The Druids retained their predominance in Iona and over the
adjacent islands and mainland until they were supplanted and
their superstitions overturned by the arrival of St. Columba,
the apostle of the Highlands, by whom the inhabitants of that
district were first led to profess Christianity.
IONA.
One of the smallest of the British Isles, situated near a
rugged and barren coast, surrounded by dangerous seas, and
possessing no sources of internal wealth, Iona has obtained an
imperishable place in history as the seat of civilization and
religion at a time when the darkness of heathenism hung over
almost the whole of Northern Europe. Iona or Icolmkill is
situated at the extremity of the island of Mull, from which it
is separated by a strait of half a mile in breadth, its distance
from the mainland of Scotland being thirty-six miles.
Columba was a native of Ireland, and connected by birth with
the princes of the land. Ireland was at that time a land of
gospel light, while the western and northern parts of Scotland
were still immersed in the darkness of heathenism. Columba with
twelve friends landed on the island of Iona in the year of our
Lord 563, having made the passage in a wicker boat covered with
hides. The Druids who occupied the island endeavoured to prevent
his settling there, and the savage nations on the adjoining
shores incommoded him with their hostility, and on several
occasions endangered his rife by their attacks. Yet by his
perseverance and zeal he surmounted all opposition, procured
from the king a gift of the island, and established there a
monastery of which he was the abbot. He was unwearied in his
labours to disseminate a knowledge of the Scriptures throughout
the Highlands and islands of Scotland, and such was the
reverence paid him that though not a bishop, but merely a
presbyter and monk, the entire province with its bishops was
subject to him and his successors. The Pictish monarch was so
impressed with a sense of his wisdom and worth that he held him
in the highest honour, and the neighbouring chiefs and princes
sought his counsel and availed themselves of his judgment in
settling their disputes.
When Columba landed on Iona he was attended by twelve
followers whom he had formed into a religious body of which he
was the head. To these, as occasion required, others were from
time to time added, so that the original number was always kept
up. Their institution was called a monastery and the superior an
abbot, but the system had little in common with the monastic
institutions of later times. The name by which those who
submitted to the rule were known was that of Culdees, probably
from the Latin "cultores Dei"- worshippers of God. They were a
body of religious persons associated together for the purpose of
aiding each other in the common work of preaching the gospel and
teaching youth, as well as maintaining in themselves the fervour
of devotion by united exercises of worship. On entering the
order certain vows were taken by the members, but they were not
those which were usually imposed by monastic orders, for of
these, which are three- celibacy, poverty, and obedience,- the
Culdees were bound to none except the third. To poverty they did
not bind themselves; on the contrary they seem to have laboured
diligently to procure for themselves and those dependent on them
the comforts of life. Marriage also was allowed them, and most
of them seem to have entered into that state. True, their wives
were not permitted to reside with them at the institution, but
they had a residence assigned to them in an adjacent locality,
Near Iona there is an island which still bears the name of
"Eilen nam ban," women's island, where their husbands seem to
have resided with them, except when duty required their presence
in the school or the sanctuary.
Campbell, in his poem of "Reullura," alludes to the married
monks of Iona:
"...The pure Culdees
Were Albyn's earliest priests of God,
Ere yet an island of her seas
By foot of Saxon monk was trod,
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry
Were barred from holy wedlock's tie.
'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar,
In Iona preached the word with power,
And Reullura, beauty's star,
Was the partner of his bower."
In one of his "Irish Melodies," Moore gives the legend of St.
Senanus and the lady who sought shelter on the island, but was
repulsed:
"O, haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's foot be trod."
In these respects and in others the Culdees departed from the
established rules of the Romish church, and consequently were
deemed heretical. The consequence was that as the power of the
latter advanced that of the Culdees was enfeebled. It was not,
however, till the thirteenth century that the communities of the
Culdees were suppressed and the members dispersed. They still
continued to labour as individuals, and resisted the inroads of
Papal usurpation as they best might till the light of the
Reformation dawned on the world.
Iona, from its position in the western seas, was exposed to
the assaults of the Norwegian and Danish rovers by whom those
seas were infested, and by them it was repeatedly pillaged, its
dwellings burned, and its peaceful inhabitants put to the sword.
These unfavourable circumstances led to its gradual decline,
which was expedited by the subversion of the Culdees throughout
Scotland. Under the reign of Popery the island became the seat
of a nunnery, the ruins of which are still seen. At the
Reformation, the nuns were allowed to remain, living in
community, when the abbey was dismantled.
Iona is now chiefly resorted to by travellers on account of
the numerous ecclesiastical and sepulchral remains which are
found upon it. The principal of these are the Cathedral or Abbey
Church and the Chapel of the Nunnery. Besides these remains of
ecclesiastical antiquity, there are some of an earlier date, and
pointing to the existence on the island of forms of worship and
belief different from those of Christianity. These are the
circular Cairns which are found in various parts, and which seem
to have been of Druidical origin. It is in reference to all
these remains of ancient religion that Johnson exclaims, "That
man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force
upon the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow
warmer amid the ruins of Iona."
In the "Lord of the Isles," Scott beautifully contrasts the
church on Iona with the cave of Staffa, opposite:
"Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone, prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody;
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,
That Nature's voice might seem to say,
Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high and hard- but witness mine!"
|
BEOWULF.
ALTHOUGH the manuscript which contains the epic of Beowulf was
written about 1000 A.D., the poem itself was known and had been
elaborated upon for centuries by minstrels who recited the
heroic exploits of the son of Ecgtheow and nephew of Hygelac,
King of the Geats, whose kingdom was what is now Southern
Sweden.
In his boyhood Beowulf gave evidence of the great feats of
strength and courage which in manhood made him the deliverer of
Hrothgar, King of Denmark, from the monster, Grendel, and later
in his own kingdom from the fiery dragon which dealt Beowulf a
mortal blow.
Beowulf's first renown followed his conquest of many
sea-monsters while he swam for seven days and nights before he
came to the country of the Finns. Helping to defend the land of
the Hetware, he killed many of the enemy and again showed his
prowess as a swimmer by bringing to his ship the armor of thirty
of his slain pursuers. Offered the crown of his native land,
Beowulf, just entering manhood, refused it in favor of Heardred,
the young son of the queen. Instead, he acted as guardian and
counsellor until the boy-king grew old enough to rule alone.
For twelve years, Hrothgar, King of Denmark, suffered while
his kingdom was being ravaged by a devouring monster, named
Grendel. This Grendel bore a charmed life against all weapons
forged by man. He lived in the wastelands and nightly prowled
out to visit the hall of Hrothgar, carrying off and slaughtering
many of the guests.
Beowulf, hearing from mariners of Grendel's murderous visits,
sailed from Geatland with fourteen stalwart companions to render
Hrothgar the help of his great strength. Landing on the Danish
coast, Beowulf was challenged as a spy. He persuaded the
coastguards to let him pass, and he was received and feasted by
King Hrothgar. When the king and his court retired for the
night, Beowulf and his companions were left alone in the hall.
All but Beowulf fell asleep. Grendel entered. With a stroke he
killed one of Beowulf's sleeping men, but Beowulf, unarmed,
wrestled with the monster and by dint of his great strength
managed to tear Grendel's arm out at the shoulder. Grendel,
mortally wounded, retreated, leaving a bloody trail from the
hall to his lair.
All fear of another attack by Grendel allayed. the Danes
returned to the hall, and Beowulf and his companions were
sheltered elsewhere. Grendel's mother came to avenge the fatal
injury to her monster son and carried off a Danish nobleman and
Grendel's torn-off paw. Following the blood trail, Beowulf went
forth to despatch the mother. Armed with his sword, Hrunting, he
came to the water's edge. He plunged in and swam to a chamber
under the sea. There he fought with Grendel's mother, killing
her with an old sword he found in the sea cavern. Nearby was
Grendel's body. Beowulf cut off its head and brought it back as
a trophy to King Hrothgar. Great was the rejoicing in the hall
and greater was Beowulf's welcome when he returned to Geatland,
where he was given great estates and many high honors.
Shortly afterward, Heardred, the boy-king, was killed in the
war with the Swedes. Beowulf succeeded him to the throne.
For fifty years Beowulf ruled his people in peace and
serenity. Then suddenly a dragon, furious at having his treasure
stolen from his hoard in a burial mound, began to ravage
Beowulf's kingdom. Like Grendel, this monster left its den at
night on its errand of murder and pillage.
Beowulf, now an aged monarch, resolved to do battle, unaided,
with the dragon. He approached the entrance to its den, whence
boiling steam issued forth. Undaunted, Beowulf strode forward
shouting his defiance. The dragon came out, sputtering flames
from its mouth. The monster rushed upon Beowulf with all its
fury and almost crushed him in its first charge. So fearful grew
the struggle that all but one of Beowulf's men deserted and fled
for their lives. Wiglaf remained to help his aged monarch.
Another rush of the dragon shattered Beowulf's sword and the
monster's fangs sunk into Beowulf's neck. Wiglaf, rushing into
the struggle, helped the dying Beowulf to kill the dragon.
Before his death, Beowulf named Wiglaf his successor to the
throne of Geatland and ordered that his own ashes be placed in a
memorial shrine at the top of a high cliff commanding the sea.
Beowulf's body was burned on a vast funeral pyre, while twelve
Geats rode around the mound singing their sorrow and their
praise for the good and great man, Beowulf.
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PROVERBIAL EXPRESSIONS
No. 1
MATERIEM superabat opus.- Ovid.
The workmanship surpassed the material.
No. 2.
Facies non omnibus una,
Nec diversa tamen, qualem decet esse sororum.- Ovid.
Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as
those of sisters ought to be.
No. 3.
Medio tutissimus ibis.- Ovid.
You will go most safely in the middle.
No. 4.
Hic situs est Phaeton, currus auriga paterni,
Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis.- Ovid.
Here lies Phaeton, the driver of his father's chariot, which
if he failed to manage, yet he fell in a great undertaking.
No. 5.
Imponere Pelio Ossam.- Virgil.
To pile Ossa upon Pelion.
No. 6.
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.- Virgil.
I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts.
No. 7.
Non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis
Tempus eget.- Virgil.
Not such aid nor such defenders does the time require.
No. 8.
Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim.
He runs on Scylla, wishing to avoid Charybdis.
No. 9.
Sequitur patrem, non passibus aequis.- Virgil.
He follows his father with unequal steps.
No. 10.
Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.-
Virgil.
A horrible monster, misshapen, vast, whose only eye had been put
out. No.11.
Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?- Virgil.
In heavenly minds can such resentments dwell?
No. 12.
Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.- Virgil.
Not unacquainted with distress, I have learned to succour the
unfortunate.
No. 13.
Tros, Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur.- Virgil.
Whether Trojan or Tyrian shall make no difference to me.
No. 14.
Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito.- Virgil.
Yield thou not to adversity, but press on the more bravely.
No. 15.
Facilis descensus Averni;
Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis;
Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras,
Hoc opus, hic labor est.- Virgil.
The descent to Avernus is easy; the gate of Pluto stands open
night and day; but to retrace one's steps and return to the
upper air, that is the toil, that the difficulty.
No. 16.
Uno avulso non deficit alter.- Virgil.
When one is torn away another succeeds.
No. 17.
Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.- Virgil.
Then struck the hoofs of the steeds on the ground with a
four-footed trampling.
No. 18.
Sternitur infelix alieno vulnere, coelumque
Adspicit et moriens dulces reminiseitur Argos.- Virgil.
He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for another; looks up
to the skies, and dying remembers sweet Argos.
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