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