FABLE

1855
BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY:
THE AGE OF FABLE OR STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES
by Thomas Bulfinch
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.
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!'"
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!"
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."
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?"
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."
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."
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."
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, tem