23749	----	The Mythological Zoo By Oliver Herford [Illustration] New York - Charles Scribner's Sons 1912 Copyright, 1912, by Oliver Herford Published September, 1912 To Elwyn Barron With Affectionate Regard Contents Page Medusa 2 The Siren 4 The Dolphin 6 The Cockatrice 8 Cerberus 10 The Sphinx 12 The Sea Serpent 14 The Salamander 16 The Jinn 18 The Mermaid 20 The Unicorn 22 The Satyr 24 The Gargoyle 26 The Chimera 28 The Ph[oe]nix 30 The Gryphon 32 The Harpy 34 The Centaur 36 Pegasus 38 The Hydra 40 The Hyppogriff 42 The Minotaur 44 The Mythological Zoo Medusa How did Medusa do her hair? The question fills me with despair. It must have caused her sore distress That head of curling snakes to dress. Whenever after endless toil She coaxed it finally to coil, The music of a Passing Band Would cause each separate hair to stand On end and sway and writhe and spit,-- She couldn't "do a thing with it." And, being woman and aware Of such disaster to her hair, What _could_ she do but petrify All whom she met, with freezing eye? [Illustration] The Siren The Siren may be said to be The Chorus-Lady of the Sea; Tho' Mermaids claim her as their kin, Instead of fishy tail and fin Two shapely feet rejoice the view (With all that appertains thereto). When to these other charms we add A voice that drives the hearer mad, Who will dispute her claim to be The Chorus-Lady of the Sea? [Illustration] The Dolphin The Dolphin was, if you should wish To call him so,--the King of Fish. Though having neither gills nor scales, His title _should be_ Prince of Whales. While too small waisted to provide A Jonah with a Berth Inside, The Dolphin has been known to pack A Drowning Sailor on his back And bear him safely into port,-- He was a Taxi-whale, in short. [Illustration] The Cockatrice If you will listen to advice You will avoid the Cockatrice-- A caution I need hardly say Wholly superfluous to-day. Yet had you lived when they were rife Such warning might have saved your life. To meet the Cockatrice's eye Means certain death--and that is why When I its features here portray I make it look the other way. O Cockatrice! were you so mean What must the _Hen_atrice have been! [Illustration] Cerberus Dear Reader, should you chance to go To Hades, do not fail to throw A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate, His anger to propitiate. Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby His three fierce Heads to pacify. What though he try to be polite And wag his Tail with all his might, How shall one amiable Tail Against three angry Heads prevail? The Heads _must_ win.--What puzzles me Is why in Hades there should be A Watch dog; 'tis, I should surmise, The _last_ place one would burglarize. [Illustration] The Sphinx She was half Lady and half cat-- What is so wonderful in that? Half of our lady friends (so say The other half) are _Cats_ to-day. In Egypt she made quite a stir, They carved huge Images of her. Riddles she asked of all she met And all who answered wrong, she ate. When Oedipus her riddle solved The minx--I mean the Sphinx--dissolved In tears. What is there, when one thinks, So wonderful about the Sphinx? [Illustration] The Sea Serpent O wondrous worm that won the Height Of Fame by keeping out of sight! Never was known on Land or Sea Such a Colossal Modesty; Never such arrogant pretence Of Ostentatious Diffidence. Celebrity whom none has seen, Save some Post Prandial Marine, No magazine can reproduce Your Photograph.--Oh, what's the use Of doing things when one may be So Famous a Nonentity! [Illustration] The Salamander The Salamander made his bed Among the glowing embers red. A Fiery Furnace, to his mind, Hygiene and Luxury combined. He was, if I may put it so, A Saurian Abednigo. He loved to climb with nimble ease The branches of the Gas-log Trees Where oft on chilly winter nights He rose to dizzy Fahrenheits. Believers in Soul Transmigration See in him the Re-incarnation Of those Sad Plagues of summer, who Ask, "Is it hot enough for you?" [Illustration] The Jinn To call a Jinn the only thing One needed was a magic ring. You rubbed the ring and forth there came A monster born of smoke and flame, A thing of Vapor, Fume and Glare Ready to waft you anywhere. The magic Jinns of yesterday The wand of Science now obey. You ring, and lo! with rush and roar The panting monster's at the door, A thing of Vapor, Fume and Glare Ready to take you anywhere. What's in a name? What choice between The Giants, Jinn and Gasolene? [Illustration] The Mermaid Although a Fishwife in a sense, She does not barter Fish for Pence. Fisher of Men, her Golden Nets For foolish Sailormen she sets. All day she combs her hair and longs For Dimpled Feet and Curling-tongs. All night she dreams in ocean caves Of Low tide Shoes and Marcel Waves. And while the Fishwife, making sales, May sell her wares upon her scales, The Mermaid, wonderful to tell, Must wear her scales upon hersel'. [Illustration] The Unicorn The Unicorn 's a first-rate sort. He helps the Lion to support The royal arms of England's King And keep the Throne from tottering. I wonder what the King would do If his supporters all withdrew? Perhaps he'd try the Stage; a Throne Should be an easy stepping-stone To histrionic Heights, and who Knows till he tries what he can do? The King, with diligence and care, _Might_ rise to be a Manager. [Illustration] The Satyr The Satyr lived in times remote, A shape half-human and half-goat, Who, having all Man's faults combined With a Goat's nature unrefined, Was not what you would call a bright Example or a shining light. Far be it from me to condone The Satyr's sins, yet I must own I like to think there were a few Young Satyrs who to Heaven flew, And when Saint Peter, thunder browed, Seeing them, cried, "No goats allowed!" Although the gate slammed quickly to, Somehow their human halves got through; Whereat the kindly saint relented, And that's how Cherubs were invented. [Illustration] The Gargoyle The Gargoyle often makes its perch On a cathedral or a church, Where, mid ecclesiastic style, It smiles an early-Gothic smile. And while the parson, dignified, Spouts at his weary flock inside, The Gargoyle, from its lofty seat, Spouts at the people in the street, And, like the parson, seems to say To those beneath him, "Let us spray." I like the Gargoyle best; it plays So cheerfully on rainy days, While parsons (no one can deny) Are awful dampers--when they're dry. [Illustration] The Chimera You'd think a lion or a snake Were quite enough one's nerves to shake; But in this classic beast we find A lion and a snake combined, And, just as if that weren't enough, A goat thrown in to make it tough. Let scientists the breed pooh! pooh! Come with me to some Social Zoo And hear the bearded Lion bleat Goat-like on patent-kidded feet, Whose "Civil leer and damning praise" The serpent's cloven tongue betrays. Lo! lion, goat, and snake combined! Thus Nature doth repeat her kind. [Illustration] The Ph[oe]nix The Ph[oe]nix was, as you might say, The burning question of his day: The more he burned, the more he grew Splendiferous in feathers new. And from his ashes rising bland, Did business at the same old stand. But though good people went about And talked, they could not put him out. A wond'rous bird--indeed, they say He is not quite extinct to-day. [Illustration] The Gryphon It chanced that Allah, looking round, When he had made his creatures, found Half of an Eagle and a pair Of extra Lion legs to spare. So, hating waste, he took some glue And made a Gryphon of the two. But when his handiwork he eyed, He frowned--and it was petrified, Doomed for all time to represent Impatience on a monument. Sometimes upon our path to-day Its living counterpart will stray-- Columbia's Eagle strutting in An awf'ly English Lion's skin, With glass in eye and swagg'ring gait: Behold the Gryphon up to date. [Illustration] The Harpy They certainly contrived to raise Queer ladies in the olden days. Either the type had not been fixed, Or else Zoology got mixed. I envy not primeval man This female on the feathered plan. We only have, I'm glad to say, Two kinds of human bird to-day-- Women and warriors, who still Wear feathers when dressed up to kill. [Illustration] The Centaur The Centaur led a double life: Two natures in perpetual strife He had, that never could agree On what the bill-of-fare should be; For when the man-half set his heart On taking dinner _à la carte_, The horse was sure to cast his vote Unswervingly for _table d'OAT_. A pretty sort of life to lead; The horse in time went off his feed, The hungry man was nigh demented, When one day--OATMEAL was invented! [Illustration] Pegasus The ancients made no end of fuss About a horse named Pegasus, A famous flyer of his time, Who often soared to heights sublime, When backed by some poetic chap For the Parnassus Handicap. Alas for fame! The other day I saw an ancient "one-hoss shay" Stop at the Mont de Piété, And, lo! alighting from the same, A bard, whom I forbear to name. Noting the poor beast's rusty hide (The horse, I mean), methought I spied What once were wings. Incredulous, I cried, "Can _this_ be Pegasus!" [Illustration] The Hydra The Hydra Hercules defied, Its nine diminished heads must hide Before the baneful modern beast Who has a thousand heads at least. See how in horrid tiers they rise, With straining ears and bulging eyes, While, blinded by fierce calcium rays, The trembling victim tribute pays Of song or measure, mime or jest, To soothe the savage Hydra's breast. If she please not the monster's whim, Wild scribes will tear her limb from limb; Even if charmed, he rend the air With hideous joy, let her beware; For she must surely, soon or late, Fall 'neath the hissing Hydra's hate. [Illustration] The Hyppogriff Biologists are prone to sniff At hybrids like the Hyppogriff. In evolution's plan, they say, There is no place for such as they. A horse with wings could not have more Than two legs, and this beast had four. Well, I for one am glad to waive Two of his legs, his wings to save. I'd even sell my auto--if I had one--for a Hyppogriff. [Illustration] The Minotaur No book of monsters is complete Without the Minotaur of Crete. Yet should I draw him you would quail, So in his place I draw a veil. O stars, that from Creation's birth Have winked at everything on earth, Who shine where poets fear to tread, Relate the story in my stead! * * * * * Although it's comforting to know That Theseus slew him long ago, _We_ need not boast, we too could do With--well, a Theseus or two. [Illustration] The End. * * * * * BOOKS BY OLIVER HERFORD _WITH PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR_ PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS THE BASHFUL EARTHQUAKE $1.25 A CHILD'S PRIMER OF NATURAL HISTORY $1.25 OVERHEARD IN A GARDEN $1.25 MORE ANIMALS _net_, $1.00 THE RUBAIYAT OF A PERSIAN KITTEN _net_, $1.00 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER-IN-LAW _net_, $1.00 A LITTLE BOOK OF BORES _net_, $1.00 THE PETER PAN ALPHABE _net_, $1.00 THE ASTONISHING TALE OF A PEN-AND-INK PUPPET _net_, $1.00 A KITTEN'S GARDEN OF VERSES _net_, $1.00 THE MYTHOLOGICAL ZOO _net_, .75 _WITH JOHN CECIL CLAY_ CUPID'S CYCLOPEDIA _net_, $1.00 CUPID'S FAIR-WEATHER BOOKE _net_, $1.00 * * * * * 
17964	----	Transcriber's Note: Text that was printed in italics in the original document is shown between _underscore characters_ and the oe ligature is shown as [oe]. [Illustration: BRANCH OFFICE OF MAMMON & CO.] OLYMPIAN NIGHTS by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS Author of "A House-Boat on the Styx" "The Pursuit of the House-Boat" "The Enchanted Type-writer" Etc. Etc. [Illustration] New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers 1902 HARPER & BROTHERS. Published June, 1902. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. I REACH MOUNT OLYMPUS 1 II. I SEEK SHELTER AND FIND IT 17 III. THE ELEVATOR BOY 33 IV. I SUMMON A VALET 53 V. THE OLYMPIAN LINKS 70 VI. IN THE DINING-ROOM 88 VII. ÆSCULAPIUS, M.D. 110 VIII. AT THE ZOO 131 IX. SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PALACE OF JUPITER 155 X. AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW 175 XI. A ROYAL OUTING 192 XII. I AM DISMISSED 212 ILLUSTRATIONS BRANCH OFFICE OF MAMMON & CO. _Frontispiece_ HIPPOPOPOLIS EXPLAINS _Facing p._ 8 A DREAM OF BRIGANDAGE " 22 IN THE ELEVATOR " 30 "'THE GODDESS OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW'" " 42 "ANYTHING COULD BE GOT FOR THE RINGING" " 60 "JUPITER HURLED A THUNDER-BOLT AT HIM" " 64 THE OLYMPIAN LINKS " 84 CARING FOR THE CALVES " 104 "'THEN YOU MUST DIE'" " 112 I VISIT ÆSCULAPIUS " 118 CALLISTO " 140 I MEET THE PH[OE]NIX " 150 "'THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE UNIVERSE'" " 166 "THE DOOR WAS LOCKED" " 180 "'WHAT?' I CRIED. 'I--THAT OLD MAN--WE'" " 190 OLYMPIAN NIGHTS I I Reach Mount Olympus While travelling through the classic realms of Greece some years ago, sincerely desirous of discovering the lurking-place of a certain war which the newspapers of my own country were describing with some vividness, I chanced upon the base of the far-famed Mount Olympus. Night was coming on apace and I was tired, having been led during the day upon a wild-goose chase by my guide, who had assured me that he had definitely located the scene of hostilities between the Greeks and the Turks. He had promised that for a consideration I should witness a conflict between the contending armies which in its sanguinary aspects should surpass anything the world had yet known. Whether or not it so happened that the armies had been booked for a public exhibition elsewhere, unknown to the talented bandit who was acting as my courier, I am not aware, but, as the event transpired, the search was futile, and another day was wasted. Most annoying, too, was the fact that I dared not manifest the impatience which I naturally felt. I am not remarkable as a specimen of the strong man; quite the reverse indeed, for, while I am by no means a weakling, I am no adept in the fistic art. Hence, when my guide, Hippopopolis by name, as the sun sank behind the western hills, informed me that I was again to be disappointed, the fact that he stands six feet two in his stockings, when he wears them, and has a pleasing way of bending crowbars as a pastime, led me to conceal the irritation which I felt. "It's all right, Hippopopolis," I said, swallowing my wrath. "It's all right. We've had a good bit of exercise, anyhow, and that, after all, is the chief desideratum to a man of a sedentary occupation. How many miles have we walked?" "Oh, about forty-three," he said, calmly. "A short distance, your Excellency." "Very--very short," said I, rubbing my aching calves. "In my own country I make a practice of walking at least a hundred every day. It's quite a pleasing stroll from my home in New York over to Philadelphia and back. I hope I shall be able to show it you some day." "It will be altogether charming, Excellency," said he. "Shall we--ah--walk back to Athens now, or would you prefer to rest here for the night?" "I--I guess I'll stay here, Hippopopolis," I replied. "This seems to be a very comfortable sort of a mountain in front of us, and the air is soft. Suppose we rest in the soothing shade for the night? It would be quite an adventure." "As your Excellency wishes," he replied, tossing a bowlder into the air and catching it with ease as it came down. "It is not often done, but it is for you to say." "What mountain is it, Hippopopolis?" I asked, turning and gazing at the eminence before us. "It is Mount Olympus," he answered. "What?" I cried. "Not the home of the gods?" "The very same, your Excellency," he acquiesced. "At least, that is the report. It is commonly stated hereabouts that the god-trust has its headquarters here. As for myself, I have explored its every nook and cranny, but I never saw any gods on it. It's my private opinion that they've moved away; though there be those who claim that it is still occupied by the former rulers of destiny living incog. like other well-born rogues who desire to avoid notoriety." Hippopopolis is a decided democrat in his views, and has less respect for the King than he has for the peasant. "I shouldn't call them rogues exactly," I ventured. "Some of 'em were a pretty respectable lot. There was Apollo and old Jupiter himself, and--" "Oh, you can't tell me anything about them," retorted Hippopopolis. "I haven't been born and bred in this country for nothing, your Excellency. They were a bad lot all through. Shall I prepare your supper?" "If you please, Hippopopolis," said I, throwing myself down beneath a huge tree and giving myself up to the reveries of the moment. I did not deem it well to interpose too strongly between Hippopopolis and his views of the immortals just then. He had always a glitter in his eye when any one ventured to controvert his assertions which made a debate with him a thing to be apprehended. Still, I did not exactly like to yield, for, to tell the truth, the Olympian folk have always interested me hugely, and, while I would not of course endorse any one of them for a high public trust in these days, I have admired them for their many remarkable qualities. "Of course," said I, reverting to the question a few moments later, as Hippopopolis opened a box of sardines and set the bread a-toasting on the fire he had made. "Of course, I should not venture to say that I, a stranger, know as much about the private habits of the gods as do you, who have been their neighbor; but that they are rogues is news to me." "That may be, too," said Hippopopolis. "People are often thought more of by strangers than by their own fellow-townsmen. Even you, sir, I might suspect, who are by these simple Greeks supposed to be a sort of reigning sovereign in your own country, are not at home, perhaps, so large a hill of potatoes. So with Jupiter and Apollo and Mercury, and the ladies of the court. I haven't a doubt that in the United States you think Jupiter a remarkably great man, and Apollo a musician, and Mercury a gentleman of some business capacity, but we Greeks know better. And as for the ladies--hum--well, your Excellency, they are not received. They are too bold and pushing. They lack the refinements, and as for their beauty and accomplishments--" Hippopopolis here indulged in a gesture which betokened excessive scorn of the beauty and accomplishments of the ladies of Olympus. "You have never seen these people, Hippopopolis?" I asked. "I have been spared that necessity," said he, "but I know all about them, and I assert to you upon my honor as a courier and the best guide in the Archipelago that Jupiter is the worst old _roué_ a country ever had saddled upon it; Apollo's music would drive you mad and make you welcome a xylophone duet; and as for Mercury's business capacity, that is merely a capacity for getting away from his creditors. Why shouldn't a man wax rich if, after floating a thousand bogus corporations, selling the stock at par and putting the money into his own pocket, he could unfold his wings and fly off into the empyrean, leaving his stock and bond holders to mourn their loss?" [Illustration: HIPPOPOPOLIS EXPLAINS] "Excuse me, Hippopopolis," I put in, interrupting him fearlessly for the moment, "pray don't try to deceive me by any such statement as that. I don't know very much, but I know something about Mercury, and when you say he puts other people's money into his pockets, I am in a position to prove otherwise. From five years of age up to the present time I have been brought up in a home where a bronze statue of Mercury, said to be the most perfect resemblance in all the statuary of the world, classic or otherwise, has been the most conspicuous ornament. At ten I could reproduce on paper with my pencil every line, every shade, every curve, every movement of the effigy in so far as my artistic talent would permit, and I know that Mercury not only had no pocket, but wore no garments in which even so little as a change pocket could have been concealed. Wherefore there must be some mistake about your charge." Hippopopolis laughed. "Humph!" he said. "It is very evident that you people over the sea have very superficial notions of things here. When Mercury posed for that statue, like most of you people who have your photographs taken, he posed in full evening dress. That is why there is so little of it in evidence. But in his business suit, Mercury is a very different sort of a person. Even in Olympus he'd have been ruled off the stock exchange if he'd ventured to appear there as scantily attired as he is in most of his statuary appearances. You certainly are not so green as to suppose that that suit he wears in his statues is the whole extent of his wardrobe?" "I had supposed so," I confessed. "It's a trifle unconventional; but, then, he's one of the gods, and, I presumed, could dress as he pleased. Your gods are independent, I should imagine, of the mere decrees of fashion." "The more exalted one's position, the greater the sartorial obligation," retorted Hippopopolis, who, for a Greek and a guide, had, as will be seen, a vocabulary of most remarkable range. "Just as it happens that our King here, like H. R. H. the Prince of Wales, has to be provided with seven hundred and sixty-eight suits of clothes so as to be properly clad at the variety of functions he is required to grace, so does a god have to be provided with a wardrobe of rare quality and extent. For drawing-room tables, mantel-pieces, and pedestals, otherwise for statuary, Mercury can go about clad in just about half as much stuff as it would require to cover a fairly sized sofa-cushion and not arouse drastic criticism; but when he goes to business he is as well provided with pockets as any other speculator." "Another idol shattered!" I cried, in mock grief. "But Apollo, Hippopopolis--Apollo! Do not tell me he is not a virtuoso of rare technique on the lyre!" "His technique is more than rare," sneered Hippopopolis. "It is excessively raw. It has been said by men who have heard both that Nero of Hades can do more to move an audience with his fiddle with two strings broken and his bow wrist sprained than Apollo can do with the aid of his lyre and a special dispensation of divine inspiration from Zeus himself." "There are various ways of moving audiences, Hippopopolis," I ventured. "Now Nero, I should say, could move an audience--out of the hall--in a very few moments. In fact, I have always believed that that is why he fiddled when Rome was burning: so that people would run out of the city limits before they perished." "It's a very droll view," laughed Hippopopolis, "and I dare say holds much of the truth; but Nero's faulty execution is not proof of Apollo's virtuosity. For a woodland musicale given by the Dryads, say, to their friends, the squirrels and moles and wild-cats, and other denizens of the forest, Apollo will suffice. The musical taste of a kangaroo might find the strumming of his lyre by Apollo to its liking, but for cultivated people who know a crescendo andante-arpeggio from the staccato tones of a penny whistle, he is inadequate." "You speak as if you had heard the god," said I. "I have not," retorted Hippopopolis, "but I have heard playing by people, generally beginners, of whom the rural press has said that he--or more often she--has the touch of an Apollo, and, if that is true, as are all things we read in the newspapers, particularly the rural papers, which are not so sophisticated as to lie, then Apollo would better not attempt to play at one of our Athenian Courier Association Smokers. I venture to assert that if he did he would have to be carried home with a bandage about his brow instead of a laurel, and his cherished lyre would become but a memory." I turned sadly to my supper. I had found the mundane things of Greece disappointing enough, but my sorrow over Hippopopolis's expert testimony as to the shortcoming of the gods was overwhelming. It was to be expected that the country would fall into a decadent state sooner or later, but that the Olympians themselves were not all that they were cracked up to be by the mythologies had never suggested itself to me. As a result of my courier's words, I lapsed into a moody silence, which by eight o'clock developed into an irresistible desire to sleep. "I'll take a nap, Hippopopolis," said I, rolling my coat into a bundle and placing it under my head. "You will, I trust, be good enough to stand guard lest some of these gods you have mentioned come and pick my pockets?" I added, satirically. "I will see that the gods do not rob you," he returned, dryly, with a slight emphasis on the word "gods," the significance of which I did not at the moment take in, but which later developments made all too clear. Three minutes later I slept soundly. At ten o'clock, about, I awoke with a start. The fire was out and I was alone. Hippopopolis had disappeared and with him had gone my watch, the contents of my pocket-book, my letter of credit, and everything of value I had with me, with the exception of my shirt-studs, which, I presume, would have gone also had they not been fastened to me in such a way that, in getting them, Hippopopolis would have had to wake me up. To add to my plight, the rain was pouring down in torrents. II I Seek Shelter and Find It "This is a fine piece of business," I said to myself, springing to my feet. And then I called as loudly as my lungs would permit for Hippopopolis. It was really exhilarating to do so. The name lends itself so readily to a sonorous effect. The hills fairly echoed and re-echoed with the name, but no answer came, and finally I gave up in disgust, seeking meanwhile the very inadequate shelter of a tree, to keep the rain off. A more woe-begone picture never presented itself, I am convinced. I was chilled through, shivering in the dampness of the night, a steady stream of water pouring upon and drenching my clothing, void of property of an available nature, and lost in a strange land. To make matters worse, I was familiar only with classic Greek, which language is utterly unknown in those parts to-day, being spoken only by the professors of the American school at Athens and the war correspondents of the New York Sunday newspapers--a fact, by the way, which probably accounts for the latter's unfamiliarity with classic English. It is too much in these times to expect a man to speak or write more than one language at a time. Even if I survived the exposure of the night, a horrid death by starvation stared me in the face, since I had no means of conveying to any one who might appear the idea that I was hungry. Still, if starvation was to be my lot, I preferred to starve dryly and warmly; so, deserting the tree which was now rather worse as a refuge than no refuge at all, since the limbs began to trickle forth steady streams of water, which, by some accursed miracle of choice, seemed to consider the back of my neck their inevitable destination, I started in to explore as best I could in the uncanny light of the night for some more sheltered nook. Feeling, too, that, having robbed me, Hippopopolis would become an extremely unpleasant person to encounter in my unarmed and exhausted state, I made my way up the mountainside, rather than down into the valley, where my inconsiderate guide was probably even then engaged in squandering my hard-earned wealth, in company with the peasants of that locality, who see real money so seldom that they ask no unpleasant questions as to whence it has come when they do see it. "Under the circumstances," thought I, "I sincerely hope that the paths of Hippopopolis and myself may lie as wide as the poles apart. If so be we do again tread the same path, I trust I shall see him in time to be able to ignore his presence." With this reflection I made my way with difficulty up the side of Olympus. Several times it seemed to me that I had found the spot wherein I might lie until the sun should rise, but quite as often an inconsiderate leak overhead through the leaves of the trees, or an undiscovered crack in the rocks above me, sent me travelling upon my way. Physical endurance has its limits, however, and at the end of a two hours' climb, wellnigh exhausted, I staggered into an opening between two walls of rock, and fell almost fainting to the ground. The falling rain revived me, and on my hands and knees I crawled farther in, and, to my great delight, shortly found myself in a high-ceiled cavern, safe from the storm, a place in which one might starve comfortably, if so be one had to pass through that trying ordeal. "He might have left me my flask," I groaned as I thought over the pint of warming liquid which Hippopopolis had taken from me. It was of a particular sort, and I liked it whether I was thirsty or not. "If he'd only left me that, he might have had my letter of credit, and no questions asked. These Greeks are apparently not aware that there is consideration even among thieves." Huddling myself together, I tried to get warm after the fashion of the small boy when he jumps into his cold-sheeted bed on a winter's night, a process which makes his legs warm the upper part of his body, and _vice versa_. It was moderately successful. If I could have wrung the water out of my clothes, it might have been wholly so. Still, matters began to look more cheerful, and I was about to drop off into a doze, when at the far end of the cavern, where all had hitherto been black as night, there suddenly burst forth a tremendous flood of light. "Humph!" thought I, as the rays pierced through the blackness of the cavern even to where I lay shivering. "I'm in for it now. In all probability I have stumbled upon a bandits' cave." Pleasing visions of the ways of bandits began to flit through my mind. "In all likelihood," thought I, "there are seventeen of them. As I have read my fiction, there are invariably seventeen bandits to a band. It's like sixteen ounces to the pound, or three feet to the yard, or fifty-three cents to the dollar. It never varies. What hope have I to escape unharmed from seventeen bandits, even though five of them are discontented--as is always the case in books--and are ready to betray their chief to the enemy? I am the enemy, of course, but I'll be hanged if I wish the chief betrayed into my hands. He could probably thrash me single-handed. My hands are full anyhow, whether I get the chief or not." [Illustration: A DREAM OF BRIGANDAGE] My heart sank into my boots; but as these were very wet, it promptly returned to my throat, where it had rested ever since Hippopopolis had deserted me. My heart is a very sane sort of an organ. I gazed towards the light intently, expecting to see dark figures of murderous mould loom up before me, but in this I was agreeably disappointed. Nothing of the sort happened, and I grew easier in my mind, although my curiosity was by no means appeased. "I know what I will do," I said to myself. "I'll make friends with the chief himself. That's the best plan. If he is responsive, my family will be spared the necessity of receiving one of my ears by mail with a delicate request for $20,000 ransom, accompanied by a P. S. enclosing the other ear to emphasize the importance of the complication." By way of diversion, let me say here that, while slicing off the victim's ear is a staple situation among novelists who write of bandits, in all my experience with bandits--and I have known a thousand, most of 'em in Wall Street--I have never known it done, and I challenge those who write of South European highway-robbers to produce any evidence to prove that the habit is prevalent. The idea is, on the face of it, invalid. The ears of mankind, despite certain differences which are acknowledged, are, after all, very much alike. The point that differentiates one ear from another is the angle at which it is set from the head. The angle, according to the most scientific students of the organ of hearing, is the basis of the estimate of the individual. Therefore, to convince the wealthy persons at home that large sums of money are expected of them to preserve the life of the father of the family, the truly expert bandit must send something besides the ear itself, which, when cut off, has no angle whatsoever. If I, who am no bandit, and who have not studied the art of the banditti, may make a suggestion which may prove valuable to the highwaymen of Italy and Greece, the only sure method of identifying the individual lies in the cutting off of the head of the victim, by which means alone the identity of the person to be ransomed may be settled beyond all question. As one who has suffered, I will say that I would not send a check for $20,000 to a bandit on the testimony of one ear any more than I would lend a man ten dollars on his own representation as to the meals he had not had, the drinks he wanted, or the date upon which he would pay it back. All these ideas flashed across my mind as I lay there worn in spirit and chilled to the bone. At last, however, after a considerable effort, I gathered myself together and resolved to investigate. I rose up, stood uncertainly on my feet, and was about to make my way towards the sources of the unexpected light, when a dark figure rushed past me. I tried to speak to it. "Hello, there!" said I, hoping to gain its attention and ask its advice, since it came into the cavern in that breezy fashion which betokens familiarity with surroundings. The being, whatever it really was, and I was soon to find this out, turned a scornful and really majestic face upon me, as much as to say, "Who are you that should thus address a god?" The rushing thing wore a crown and flowing robes. Likewise it had a gray beard and an air of power which made me, a mere mortal, seem weak even in my own estimation. Furthermore, there was a divine atmosphere following in his wake. It suggested the most brilliant of brilliantine. "Here," he cried as he passed. "I haven't time to listen to your story, but here is my card. I have no change about me. Call upon me to-morrow and I will attend to your needs." The card fluttered to my side, and, not being a mendicant, I paid little attention to it, preferring to watch this fast-disappearing figure until I should see whither it was going. Arriving at the far end of the cavern, the hurrying figure stopped and apparently pushed a button at the side of the wall. Immediately an iron door, which I had not before perceived, was pushed aside. The dark figure disappeared into what seemed to be a well-lighted elevator, and was promptly lifted out of sight. All became dark again, and I was frankly puzzled. This was a situation beyond my ken. What it could mean I could not surmise, and in the hope of finding a clew to the mystery I groped about in the darkness for the card which the hurried individual had cast at me with his words of encouragement. Ultimately I found it, but was unable to decipher its inscription, if perchance it had one. Nevertheless, I managed to keep my spirits up. This, I think, was a Herculean task, considering the darkness and my extreme lonesomeness. I can be happy under adverse circumstances, if only I have congenial company. But to lie alone, in a black cavern, prey only to the thoughts of my environment, thoughts suggesting all things apart from life, thoughts which send the mind over the past a thousand centuries removed--these are not comforting, and these were the only thoughts vouchsafed to me. A half-hour was thus passed in the darkness, and then the light appeared again, and I resolved, though little strength was left to me, to seek out its source. I stood up and staggered towards it, and as I drew nearer observed that the illumination came from nothing more nor less than an elevator at the bottom of a shaft, the magnitude of which I could not, of course, at the moment determine. The boy in charge was a pretty little chap, and, if I may so state it, was absolutely unclad, but about his shoulders was slung a strap which in turn held a leathern bag, which, to my eyes, suggested a golf-bag more than anything else, except that it was filled with arrows instead of golf-clubs. "How do you do?" said I, politely. "Whose caddy are you?" "Very well," said the little lad. "Not much to brag of, however. Merely bobbish, pretty bobbish. In answer to your second question, I take pleasure in informing you," he added, "that I am everybody's caddy." "You are--the elevator boy?" I queried, with some hesitation. "That is my present position," said he. "And, ah, whither do you elevate, my lad?" [Illustration: IN THE ELEVATOR] "Up!" said he, after the manner of one who does not wish to commit himself, like most elevator boys. "But whom do you wish to see?" he demanded, trying hard to frown and succeeding only in making a ludicrous exhibition of himself. Frankly, I did not know, but under the impulse of the moment I handed out the card which the stranger had thrown to me. "I forget the gentleman's name," said I, "but here is his card. He asked me to call." The elevator boy glanced at it, and his manner immediately changed. "Oh, indeed. Very well, sir," he said. "I'll take you up right away. Step lively, please." I stepped into the elevator, and the lad turned a wheel which set us upon our upward journey at once. "I am sorry to have been so rude to you, sir," said the boy. "I didn't really know you were a friend of his." "Of whom?" I demanded. "The old man himself," he replied, with which he handed me back the card I had given him, upon reading which I ascertained the name of the individual who had rushed past me so unceremoniously. The card was this: +--------------------------------+ | | | | | | | MR. JUPITER JOVE ZEUS | | | | MOUNT OLYMPUS | | GREECE | +--------------------------------+ "Top floor, sir," said the elevator boy, obsequiously. III The Elevator Boy "Known the old man long, sir?" queried the boy as we ascended. "By reputation," said I. "Humph!" said the lad. "Can't have a very good opinion of him, then. It's a good thing you are going to have a little personal experience with him. He's not a bad lot, after all. Rotten things said of him, but then--you know, eh?" "Oh, as for that," said I, "I don't think his reputation is so dreadful. To be sure, there have been one or two little indiscretions connected with his past, and at times he has seemed a bit vindictive in chucking thunder-bolts at his enemies, but, on the whole, I fancy he's behaved himself pretty well." "True," said the boy. "And then you've got to take his bringing-up into consideration. Things which would be altogether wrong in the son of a Presbyterian clergyman would not be unbecoming in a descendant of old Father Time. Jupiter is, after all, a self-made immortal, and the fact that his parents, old Mr. and Mrs. Cronos, let him grow up sort of wild, naturally left its impress on his character." "Of course," said I, somewhat amused to hear the Thunderer's character analyzed by a mere infant. "But how about yourself, my laddie? Are you anybody in particular? You look like a cherub." "Some folks call me Dan," said the boy, "and I _am_ somebody in particular. Fact is, sir, if it hadn't been for me there wouldn't have been anybody in particular anywhere. I'm Cupid, sir, God of Love, favorite son of Venus, at your service." "And husband of the delectable Psyche?" I cried, recalling certain facts I had learned. "You look awfully young to be married." "Hum--well, I was, and I am, but we've separated," the boy replied, with a note of sadness in his voice. "She was a very nice little person, that Psyche--one of the best ever, I assure you--but she was too much of a butterfly to be the perpetual confidante of a person charged with such important matters as I am. Besides, she didn't get on with mother." "Seems to me that I have heard that Madame Venus did not approve of the match," I vouchsafed. "No. She didn't from the start," said Cupid. "Psyche was too pretty, and ma rather wanted to corner all the feminine beauty in our family; but I had my way in the end. I generally do," the little chap added, with a chuckle. "But the separation, my dear boy?" I put in. "I am awfully sorry to hear of that. I, in common with most mortals, supposed that the marriage was idyllic." "It was," said Cupid, "and therefore not practical enough to be a good investment. You see, sir, there was a time when the love affairs of the universe were intrusted to my care. Lovers everywhere came to me to confide their woes, and I was doing a great business. Everybody was pleased with my way of conducting my department. I seemed to have a special genius for managing a love affair. Even persons who were opposed to the administration conceded that the Under Secretary of Home Affairs--myself--was assured of a cabinet office for life, whatever party was in power. If Pluto had been able to get elected, the force of public opinion would have kept me in office. Then I married, myself, and things changed. Like a dutiful husband, I had no secrets from my wife. I couldn't have had if I had wanted to. Psyche's curiosity was a close second to Pandora's, and, if she wanted to know anything, there was never any peace in the family until she found out all about it. Still, I didn't wish to have any secrets from her. As a scientific expert in Love, I knew that the surest basis of a lasting happiness lay in mutual confidence. Hence, I told Psyche all I knew, and it got her into trouble right away." "She--ah--couldn't keep a secret?" I asked. "At first she could," said Cupid. "That was the cause of the first row between her and Venus. Mother got mad as a hatter with her one morning after breakfast because Psyche _could_ keep a secret. There was a little affair on between Jupiter and a certain person whose name I shall not mention, and I had charge of it. Of course, I told Psyche all about it, and in some way known only to woman she managed to convey to Venus the notion that she knew all about it, but couldn't tell, and, still further, wouldn't tell. I'd gone down-town to business, leaving everything peaceful and happy, but when I got back to luncheon--Great Chaos, it was awful! The two ladies were not on speaking terms, and I had to put on a fur overcoat to keep from freezing to death in the atmosphere that had arisen between them. It was six inches below zero--and the way those two would sniff and sneer at each other was a caution." "I quite understand the situation," I said, sympathetically. "No doubt," said Cupid. "You can also possibly understand how a quarrel between the only two women you ever loved could incapacitate you for your duties. For ten days after that I was simply incapable of directing the love affairs of the universe properly. Persons I'd designed for each other were given to others, and a great deal of unhappiness resulted. There were nine thousand six hundred and seventy-six divorces as the result of that week's work. It's a terrible situation for a well-meaning chap to have to decide between his wife and his mother." "Never had it," said I; "but I can imagine it." "Don't think you can," sighed Cupid. "There are situations in real life, sir, which surpass the wildest flights of the imagination. That is why truth is stranger than fiction. However," he added, his face brightening, "it was a useful experience to me in my professional work. I learned for the first time that when a mother-in-law comes in at the door, intending to remain indefinitely, love flies out at the window. Or, as Solomon--I believe it was Solomon. He wrote Proverbs, did he not?" "Yes," said I. "He and Josh Billings." "Well," vouchsafed Cupid, "I can't swear as to the authorship of the proverb, but some proverbialist said 'Two is company and three is a crowd.' I'd never known that before, but I learned it then, and began to stay away from home a little myself, so that we should not be crowded." I commended the young man for his philosophy. "Nevertheless, my dear Dan," I added, "you ought to be more autocratic. Knowing that two is company and three otherwise, you have been guilty of allowing many a young couple who have trusted in you to begin house-keeping with an inevitable third person. We see it every day among the mortals." "What has been good enough for me, sir," the boy returned, with a comical assumption of sternness--he looked so like a fat baby of three just ready for his bath--"is good enough for mortals. When I married Psyche, I brought her home to my mother's house, and for some nineteen thousand years we lived together. If Love can stand it, mortals must." "Excuse me," said I, apologetically. "I have not suffered. However, in all my study of you mythologians, it has never occurred to me before this that Venus was the goddess of the mother-in-law." "You mustn't blame me for that," said Cupid, dryly. "I'm the god of Love; wisdom is out of my province. For what you don't know and haven't learned you must blame Pallas, who is our Superintendent of Public Instruction. She knows it all--and she got it darned easy, too. She sprang forth from the head of Jove with a Ph.D. already conferred upon her. She looks after the education of the world. I don't--but I'll wager you anything you please to put up that man gains more real experience under my management than he does from Athena's department, useful as her work is." I could not but admit the truth of all that the boy said, and of course I told him so. To change the subject, which, if pursued, might lead to an exposure of my own ignorance, I said: "But, Dan, what interests me most, and pains me most as well, is to hear that you are separated from Psyche. I do not wish to seem inquisitive on the subject of a--ah--of a man's family affairs"--I hesitated in my speech because he seemed such a baby and it was difficult to take him seriously, as is always the way with Love, unless we are directly involved--"but you have told me of the separation, and as a man, a newspaper-man, I am interested. Couldn't you reconcile your mother, Madame Venus, to Psyche--or, rather, Mrs. Dan?" [Illustration: "'THE GODDESS OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW'"] "Not for a moment," replied the boy. "Not for a millionth part of a tenth of a quarter of a second by a stop-watch. Their irreconcilability was copper-fastened, and I found myself compelled to choose between them. My mother developed a gray hair the day after the first trouble, and my wife began to go out to afternoon teas and sewing-circles and dances. The teas and dances were all right. You can't talk at either. But the sewing-circle was ruin. At this particular time the circle was engaged in making winter garments for the children of the mother of the Gracchi. I presume that as a student and as a father you realize all that this meant. You also know that a sewing-circle needs four things: first, an object; second, a needle and thread; third, a garment; fourth, a subject for conversation. These things are constitutionally required, and Psyche joined what she called 'The Immortal Dorcas.' The result was that all Olympus and half of Hades were shortly acquainted with the confidential workings of my department--all told under the inviolate bond of secrecy, however, which requires that each member confided in shall not communicate what she has heard to more--or to less--than ten people." "I know," said I. "The Dorcas habit has followers among my own people." "But see where it placed me!" cried the little creature. "There was me, or I--I don't know whether Greek or English is preferable to you--charged with the love affairs of the universe. Confiding all I knew, like a dutiful husband, to my wife, and having her letting it all out to the public through the society. Why, my dear fellow, it wasn't long before the immortals began to accuse me of being in the pay of the Sunday newspapers, and you must know as well as anybody else that Love has nothing to do with them. Even the affairs of my sovereign began to creep out, and innuendoes connecting Jupiter with people prominent in society were printed in the opposition organs." "Poor chap!" said I, sympathetically. "I did not realize that you had to contend against the Sunday-newspaper nuisance as we mortals have." "We have," he said, quickly, almost resignedly; "and they are ruining even Olympus itself. Still, I made a stand. Told Psyche she talked too much, and from that time on confided in her no more." "And how did she take it?" I asked. "She declined to take it at all," said Cupid, with a sigh. "She demanded that I should tell her everything on penalty of losing her--and I lost her. She left me a little over a thousand years ago, and my mother for the same reason sent me adrift fifteen hundred or more years ago. That is why I am eking out a living running an elevator," he added, sadly. "Still, I'm happy here. I go up when I feel sad, and go down when I feel glad. On the whole, I am as happy as any of the gods." "However, Dan," I cried, sympathetically, slapping him on the back, "you have your official position, and that will keep you in--ah--well, you don't seem to need 'em, but it would keep you in clothes if you could be persuaded to wear them." "No," said the little elevator boy, sadly. "I don't want 'em in this climate--nor are they necessary in any other. All over the world, my dear fellow, _true_ love is ever warm." There was a decided interval. I felt sorry for the little lad who had been a god and who had become an elevator boy, so I said to him: "Never mind, Danny, you are sure of your office always." "I wish it were so," said he, sadly. "But really, sir, it isn't. You may think that love rules all things nowadays, but that is a fallacy. Of late years a rival concern has sprung up. I have found my office subjected to a most annoying competition which has attracted away from me a large number of my closest followers. In the days when we acknowledged ourselves to be purely heathen, love was regarded with respect, but now all that is changed. Opposite my office in the government building there is a matrimonial corporation doing a very large business, by which the fees of my position are greatly reduced. Possibly after you have had your audience with Jove to-morrow you will take a turn about the city, in which event you will see this trust's big brazen sign. You can't miss it if you walk along Mercury Avenue. It reads: +----------------------------------+ | MAMMON & CO. | | Matchmakers | | | | FORTUNES GUARANTEED: | | HAPPINESS EXTRA | | | | GEO. W. MAMMON | | President | | | | HORACE GREED | | Gen'l Manager | | | | BRANCH OFFICE | | 67 Gehenna Ave., Hades | +----------------------------------+ "Dear me!" I cried. "Poor Love!" "I don't need your sympathy," said the boy, quickly, drawing himself up proudly. "It can't last, this competition. Man and god kind will soon see the difference in the permanence of our respective output. This is only a temporary success they are having, and it often happens that the spurious articles put forth by Mammon & Company are brought over to me to be repaired. My sun will dawn again. You can't put out the fires in my furnaces as long as men and women are made from the old receipt." Here the elevator stopped, and a rather attractive young woman appeared at the door. "Here is where you get out, sir," said the elevator boy. "You are Mr.----" began the girl. "I am," I replied. "I have orders to show you to number 609," she said. "The proprietor will see you to-morrow at eleven." "Thank you very much," I replied, somewhat overcome by the cordiality of my reception. It is not often that mere beggars are so hospitably received. "Good-night, Cupid," I added, turning to the little chap in the elevator. "I trust we shall meet again." "Oh, I guess we will," he replied, with a wink at the maid. "I generally do meet most men two or three times in their lives. So _au revoir_ to you. Treat the gentleman well, Hebe," he concluded, pulling the rope to send the elevator back. "He doesn't know much, but he is sympathetic." "I will, Danny, for your sake," said the little maid, archly. The boy laughed and the car faded from sight. Hebe, even more lovely than has been claimed, with a charmingly demure glance at my costume, which was wofully bedraggled and wet, said: "This way, sir. I will have your luggage sent to your room at once." "But I haven't any luggage, my dear," said I. "I have only what is on my back." "Ah, but you have," she replied, sweetly. "The proprietor has attended to that. There are five trunks, a hat-box, and a Gladstone bag already on their way up." And with this she showed me into a magnificent apartment, and, even as she had said, within five minutes my luggage arrived, a valet appeared, unpacked the trunks and bag, brushed off the hat that had lain in the hat-box, and vanished, leaving me to my own reflections. Surely Olympus was a great place, where one who appeared in the guise of a beggar was treated like a regiment of prodigal sons, furnished with a gorgeous apartment, and supplied with a wardrobe that would have aroused the envy of a reigning sovereign. IV I Summon a Valet The room to which I was assigned was regal in its magnificence, and yet comfortable. Few modern hotels afforded anything like it, and, tired as I was, I could not venture to rest until I had investigated it and its contents thoroughly. It was, I should say, about twenty by thirty feet in its dimensions, and lighted by a soft, mellow glow that sprang forth from all parts without any visible source of supply. At the far end was a huge window, before which were drawn portières of rich material in most graceful folds. Pulling these to one side, so that I might see what the outlook from the window might be, I staggered back appalled at the infinite grandeur of what lay before my eyes. It seemed as if all space were there, and yet within the compass of my vision. Planets which to my eye had hitherto been but twinkling specks of light in the blackness of the heavens became peopled worlds, which I could see in detail and recognize. Mars with its canals, Saturn with its rings--all were there before me, seemingly within reach of my outstretched hand. The world in which I lived appeared to have been removed from the middle distance, and those things which had rested beyond the ken of the mortal mind brought to my very feet, to be seen and touched and comprehended. Then I threw the window open, and all was changed. The distant objects faded, and a beautiful golden city greeted my eyes--the city of Olympus, in which I was to pass so many happy hours. For the instant I was puzzled. Why at one moment the treasures of the universe of space had greeted my vision, and how all that had faded and the immediate surroundings of a celestial city lay before me, were not easy to understand. I drew back and closed the window again, and at once all became clear; the window-glass held the magic properties of the magnifying-lens, developed to an intensity which annihilated all space, and I began to see that the development of mortals in scientific matters was puny beside that of the gods in whose hands lay all the secrets of the universe, although the principles involved were in our full possession. The situation overwhelmed me somewhat, and I drew the portières together again. The feelings that came over me were similar to those that come to one standing on the edge of a great precipice gazing downward into the vast, black depths yawning at his feet. The giddiness that once, many years before, came upon me as I stood on the brink of the Niagaran cataract, which seemed irresistibly impelling me to join the mad rush of the waters, surged over me again, and I forced myself backward into the room, shutting out the sight, lest I should cast myself forth into the infinite space beyond. I threw myself down upon a couch and covered my eyes with my hands and tried to realize the situation. I was drunk with awe at all that was about me, and should, I think, have gone mad trying to comprehend its grandeur, had not my spirit been soothed by soft strains of music that now fell upon my ears. I opened my eyes to discover whence the sounds had come, and even as the light streamed from unknown and unseen sources, so it was with the harmonies which followed, harmonies surpassing in beauty and swelling glory anything I had ever heard before. And to these magnificent but soft and soothing strains I yielded myself up and slept. How long my sleep continued I have no means of knowing. It seemed to last but an instant, but when I opened my eyes once more I felt absolutely renewed in body and in spirit. The damp garments which I had worn when I fell back upon the couch had in some wise been removed, and when I stood up to indulge in the usual stretching of my limbs I found myself clad in an immaculate flowing robe of white, soft of texture, fastened at the neck with a jewelled brooch, and at the waist its fulness restrained by a girdle of gold. Furthermore, I had apparently been put through a process of ablution which left me with the cockles of my heart as warm as toast, and my whole being permeated with a glow of health which I had not known for many years. The aches in my bones, which I had feared on waking to find intensified, were gone; and if I could have retained permanently the aspect of vigor and beauty which was returned to me by the mirror when I stood before it, I should be in imminent danger of becoming conceited. "I wonder," said I, as I gazed at myself in the mirror, "if this is the correct costume for breakfast. It's a slight drawback to know nothing of the customs of the locality in which you find yourself. Possibly an investigation of my new wardrobe will help me to decide." I looked over the rich garments which had been provided, and found nothing which, according to my simple bringing up, suggested the idea that it was a good thing to wear at the morning meal. "They ought to send me a valet," I murmured. "Perhaps they will if I ring for one. Where the deuce is the bell, I wonder?" A search of the room soon divulged the resting-place of this desirable adjunct to the tourist's comfort. The dial system which has proved so successful in American hotels was in vogue here, except that it manifested a willingness on the part of the proprietor to provide the guest with a range of articles utterly beyond anything to be found in the purely mundane caravansary. I found that anything under the canopy that the mind of man could conceive of could be had by the mere pushing of a button. The disk of the electrical apparatus was divided off into many sections, calling respectively for saddle-horses, symphony concerts, ocean steamships, bath-towels, stenographers; cocktails of all sorts, and some sorts of which I had never before heard, and all of which I resolved to try in discreet sequence; manicures, chiropodists, astrologers, prophets, clergymen of all denominations, plots for novelists--indeed, anything that any person in any station of life might chance to desire could be got for the ringing. My immediate need, however, was for a valet. Puzzled as to the manners and customs of the gods, I did not wish to make a bad appearance in the dining-room in a costume which should not be appropriate. I did think of ordering breakfast served in my room, but that seemed a very mortal and not a particularly godlike thing to do. Hence, I rang for a valet. [Illustration: "ANYTHING COULD BE GOT FOR THE RINGING"] "I will tell him to get out my morning-suit, and no doubt he will select the thing I ought to wear," I said as I pressed the button. The response was instant. My fingers had hardly left the button when a superb creature stood before me. Whence he sprang I do not know. There were no opening of doors, no traps or false panels, that I could see. The individual simply materialized. "At your service, sir," said he, with a graceful obeisance. "Pardon me," I replied, overcome once more by what was going on. "I--ah--think there must be some mistake. I--ah--I didn't ring for a god, I rang for a valet." "I am the valet of Olympus, sir," he replied, gracefully flicking a speck of dust from the calf of his leg, the contour of which was beautiful to look upon, clad in superbly fitting silken tights. "Adonis, at your service. What can I do for you?" "Well, I declare!" I cried, lost now in admiration of the way the gods were ordering things on Olympus. "So they've made you a valet, have they?" "Yes," replied Adonis. "I hold office for the six months that I am here. You know that I am a resident of Olympus only half the time. The balance I live in Hades." "It's a common custom," said I. "Even with us, our swellest people go south for the winter." "Hum--yes," said Adonis, somewhat confused. "It's very good of you to draw that parallel. Your construction of the situation does credit to your sense of what is polite, sir. Unfortunately for me, however, my position is more like that of the habitual criminal who is sent to the penitentiary periodically. I have to go, whether I want to or not." "Still, it must be a pleasant variation," I observed, forgetting that it is bad form to converse with a servant, and remembering only that I was addressing an old flame of Madame Venus. "Hades isn't a bad place for a little while, I should fancy." "True," sighed Adonis. "But the society there is very mixed. It's full of self-made immortals, whereas we are all immortals by birth." "And who, pray," I queried, "takes your place while you are below?" "Narcissus," he replied; "but there's generally a lot of complaint about him. He takes more pains dressing himself than he does in looking after guests, the result of which is that after my departure things get topsy-turvy, and by the time I get back, with the exception of Narcissus, there isn't a well-dressed god in all Olympus." "I wonder, where such perfection is possible," said I, "that they tolerate that." "They're not going to very much longer," said Adonis, and then he laughed. "Narcissus queered himself last season at the palace. Jove sent for him to trim his beard, and he nearly cut one of the old man's ears off. Investigation showed that instead of keeping his eye on what he was doing, he was looking at himself in the glass all the time. Jupiter in his anger hurled a thunderbolt at him, but, fortunately for Narcissus, he hurled it at the mirrored and not at the real Narcissus, and he escaped. The result is the rumor that he will be made head-waiter in the dining-room instead of valet next season, in which event I shall probably be allowed to remain here all through the year, or else they'll put Jason on." "And which would you prefer?" I asked. [Illustration: "JUPITER HURLED A THUNDER-BOLT AT HIM"] "I think I'd rather have Jason put on," said Adonis. "While I don't care much for the climate of Hades, I am received there with much consideration socially, whereas up here I am only the valet. One doesn't mind being a nabob once in a while, you know. Besides--ah--don't say anything about it to anybody up here, but I'm getting a trifle tired of Venus. She is still beautiful, but you can't get over the idea that she's over four thousand years old. Furthermore, I met a little Fury down below last season who is simply ravishing." Here Adonis gave me a wink which made me rather curious to see the little Fury. "Ah, Adonis, Adonis!" I cried, shaking my finger at him; "still up to your old tricks, are you?" "Why not?" he demanded. "My character is formed. _Noblesse oblige_ is a good motto for us all, only when one is born with _faiblesse_ instead of _noblesse_, it becomes _faiblesse oblige_. Furthermore, sir, if I am to have the reputation, I must insist upon the perquisites." What I replied to this bit of moralizing I shall not put down here, since I have no wish to commit myself thus publicly. I will say, however, that I did not blame the youthful-looking person unreservedly. "Moreover, I have very fine apartments in Hades," he added, "and I should hate to give them up. I live at the select home for gods and gentlemen, kept by Madame Persephone. When she takes an interest in one of her boarders she is a mighty fine landlady, and, like most ladies, if I may say it with all due modesty, she has taken an interest in me. The result is that I have the best suite in the house, overlooking the Styx, and as fine a table as any one could want. But I must ask your pardon, sir, for taking up so much of your time with my personal affairs. We both seem to have forgotten that I am here to wait upon you." "It has been very interesting, Adonis," I said. "And if it's anybody's fault, it is mine. What I wished of you was that you should get out my breakfast-suit, so that I might dress and go to the dining-room." "Certainly, sir," he replied, walking to the clothes-closet. "Pardon me, but--ah--what is your profession when at home?" "Why do you ask?" I queried. "Not that I am unwilling to tell you, but--" "I merely wished to guide my selection of your garments. If you are a naval officer, I will put out your admiral's uniform. If you are a professional golfer, I'll get out your red coat." "I am a literary man," I said. "Ah!" he observed, lifting his eyebrows. "Then, of course, you won't mind wearing these." And he hauled forth a pair of black-and-white trousers with checks as large as the squares of a chessboard, a blue cloth vest with white polka dots, and a long, gray Prince Albert coat, with mauve satin lapels. The shirt was pink and blue, stripes of each alternating, running cross-ways, a white collar, and a flaring red four-in-hand tie! "Great Scott, Adonis!" I cried. "Must I wear those?" "You're under no compulsion to do so," said he. "But I thought you said you were a literary man." "Well?" "Well--literary men never care what they wear so long as they attract attention, do they?" I laughed. "We are not all built that way, Adonis," said I. "Some of us are modest and have a little taste." "Well, it's news to me," said he. "I guess it must be among the minor lights." "It is--generally," said I. "And if you don't mind, I'd rather wear the golf clothes." And I did. V The Olympian Links "There," said Adonis, as he put the finishing touch to my costume. "You look like a champion. Do you play golf, sir?" "There's a difference of opinion about that, Adonis," I replied, my mind reverting to the number of handicap matches I hadn't won. "Some people who have observed my game say I don't. Have you links here?" "Have we links?" he cried. "Well, rather. They're said to be the best in the universe." "And are they handy?" "Very--in the season." "I don't quite catch the idea," I said. "Oh, sometimes the course is nearer than it is at others. Come here a minute," he said, "and I'll point it out to you." He drew me to the wonderful window of which I have already spoken, and through the powerful glass pointed in the direction of Mars. "See that?" he said. "Yes," I replied. "That is Mars." "Exactly," said Adonis. "Mars is the Olympian links. His distance from here varies, as you are probably aware. When Mars is near aphelion he is 61,800,000 miles away, but in his perihelion he gets it down to 33,800,000. That's why we have our golf season while Mars is in his perihelion. It saves us 28,000,000 miles in getting there." I laughed. "You call that handy, do you?" I said. "Why not?" he asked. "It's a matter of five minutes on a bike, ten minutes in the automobile, and twenty minutes if you walk." "Of course, Adonis," said I, "I'm not so green as to swallow all that. How the dickens can you walk through space?" "You're vastly greener than you think you are," he retorted, rather uncivilly, perhaps, for a valet, but I paid no attention to that, preferring to take him, despite his menial capacity, in his godlike personality. "I might even say, sir, that your greenness is spacious. You judge us from your own mean, limited, mundane point of view. But you needn't think because you earth people cannot walk on air we Olympians are equally incapacitated. You can walk there in two ways. One of these is to fasten a pair of ankle-wings on your legs; the other is to purchase a pair of sky-scrapers. These are simple, consisting merely of boots with gas soles. You inflate the soles with gas and walk along. It's simple and easy, doesn't require any practice, and as long as you keep up in the air and don't step on church steeples or weather-vanes it's perfectly safe. Of course, if you stepped on a sharp-pointed weather-vane, or a lightning-rod, and punctured your sole, there's no telling what would happen." "And how about the wings?" I asked. "They're much more exhilarating, but a little dangerous if you don't know how to use them," Adonis replied. "Flying isn't any easier than roller-skating, and if you upset and get your head below your feet it's extremely difficult to right yourself again. If you try to go out there with ankle-wings, take my advice and wear a pair of small balloons about your chest to hold you right-end upward." "I'll remember," said I, somewhat awed at the prospect of trying to walk through space with the aid of ankle-wings. "And how about the bicycle?" I added. "If you can ride a bicycle on an ordinary road you'll have no trouble," he replied. "Keep your tires well filled with gas and avoid headers. If I were you, though, at first I'd go out on the automobile. It makes six round trips a day and it's absolutely safe. Being so high up in the air might make you dizzy, and you might find the bicycling too much for your nerves. After a little while you'll get used to enormous heights, and then, of course, you can go any old way you choose. The fare for the round trip is only fifteen hundred dollars." "The automobile is in competent hands, eh?" "Yes," said Adonis. "Phaeton has charge of it." "Humph!" I sneered. "He's your idea of a competent driver, eh? He hasn't that reputation on earth. Was it an untruth that credits him with a fine smash-up when he tried to drive the chariot of the sun?" "Not a bit of it," said Adonis. "That's all of it simple truth. I happen to know, because I saw the finish of the whole thing myself, and was one of the fellows who turned a fire-extinguisher on him and saved him from being a total loss to the insurance companies. But he learned his lesson. There's nothing like experience to teach caution, and that little episode gave Phaeton caution to burn, if I may indulge in mundane slang. He was guyed so unmercifully by everybody for his carelessness that the first thing he did when he recovered was to learn how to drive, and it wasn't six cycles before he was the most expert whip in Olympus. He finally made a profession of it and established a livery-stable. Then, when the automobile came in and horses went out of fashion, he kept up with the times, and is to-day in charge of all our rapid transit--he owns the franchises for the Jupiter and Dipper Trolley Road, he is the largest stockholder in the Metropolitan Traction Company of Neptune, Saturn, and Venus, and is said to be the moving spirit back of the new underground electric in Hades." "I guess he'll do," said I, reflecting with admiration upon the wonderful self-rehabilitation of one I had previously regarded as a foolish incompetent. "You won't have to guess again in this case," said Adonis, dryly. "You've hit it right the very first time." "Well, tell me about the links, Adonis," said I. "Getting there seems to be an easy matter, but after you get there, how about the course? Is it eighteen holes?" "It is," said Adonis, "and of proper length, too, and splendidly arranged. You start at the club-house right near the landing-stage and play right around the planet, so that when you're through you're back at the club-house again. At the ninth hole there is a half-way house, where you can get nectar, and ambrosia, and sarsaparilla, and any other soft drink you want." "No hard drinks, eh?" I queried. "Not at the half-way house," said Adonis. "We gods have too much sense to indulge in hard drinks in the middle of a game. If you want hard drinks you have to wait till you get back to the club-house." "That is rather sensible," I said, as I thought of how a Martini cocktail taken at the ninth hole had ruined my chances in the Noodleport Annual Handicap last autumn. "But I say, Adonis," I added, "did I understand you to say that you played all around Mars?" "Yes--why not?" said he. "Pretty long holes, I should say," said I. "Mars is four thousand miles round, isn't it?" "You _are_ an earth-worm," he retorted, forgetting his place wholly in his scorn for my picayune ideas. "Calling a paltry four thousand miles long--why, you can play around that links in two hours and a half." "Indeed?" said I. "And how long may your hours be? Everything here is on such a magnificent scale, I suppose one of your hours is about equal to one of our decades." "Oh no," said Adonis. "It isn't that way at all. Fact is, we make our hours to suit ourselves. I am merely reckoning on a basis that you would comprehend. I meant two and a half of your hours. Any moderately expert player can play the Mars links in that time. Take the first hole, for instance--it's only two hundred and fifty miles long." "Really--is that all!" I ejaculated, growing sarcastic. "A drive, two brassies, an approach, and forty puts, I presume?" "For a duffer, perhaps," retorted Adonis. "Willie Ph[oe]bus does it in six. A seventy-five-mile drive, a seventy-mile brassie, a loft over the canal for twenty-five miles, a forty-five-mile cleak, a thirty-mile approach, and--" "A dead easy put of five miles!" I put in, making a pretence of being no longer astonished. "That's the idea," said Adonis. "Of course, everybody can't do it," he added. "And bogie for that hole is really seven. Willie Ph[oe]bus played too well for a gentleman, so we made him a professional. He'll give you lessons for a thousand dollars an hour, if you want him to." "Thanks," said I. "I'll think about it. Can he teach me how to drive a ball seventy-five miles?" "That depends on your capacity," said Adonis. "Some of the best players frequently drive seventy-five miles--the record is ninety-six miles, made by Jove himself. Willie taught him." "For Heaven's sake!" I cried, losing my self-poise for an instant. "What do you drive with? Olympian Gatling guns?" "Not at all," replied Adonis. "We use one of our regular drivers--the best is called the 'celestial catapult.' Ph[oe]bus sells 'em at the Caddie House for five hundred dollars apiece. If you strike a ball fair and square with the 'celestial catapult,' and neither pull nor slice, it can't help going forty miles, anyhow." "And how, may I ask, do the caddies find a ball that goes seventy-five miles?" "They don't have to. All our balls are self-finding," said Adonis. "The ball in use now is a recent invention of Vulcan's. They cost twelve hundred dollars a dozen. They are made of liquefied electricity. We take the electric current, liquefy it, then solidify it, then mould it into the form of a sphere. Inside we place a little gong, that begins to ring as soon as the ball lands. The electricity in it is what makes it fly so rapidly and so far, and even you mortals know the principle of the electric bell." "Oh, indeed we do," said I, pulling at my mustache nervously. I was beginning to get excited over this celestial golf. On earth I have all of the essentials of a first-class golf maniac, except the ability to play the game. But this so far surpassed anything I had ever seen or imagined before that I was growing too keen over it for comfort. I was in real need of having my spirits curbed, so I ventured to inquire after a phase of the game that has always dampened my ardor in the past--the caddie service. I did not expect that this could attain perfection even in Olympus, and I was not far wrong. "You must have pretty lively caddies," I threw out. Adonis sighed. "You'd think so, but that's where we are always in trouble. We've tried various schemes, but they haven't any of 'em worked well. At first we took our own Olympian boys. We got the mother of the Gracchi to lend us her offspring, but they weren't worth a rap. Then we hired forty little devils from Hades, and we had to send them back inside of a week. They were regular little imps. They were cutting up monkey shines all the time, and waggled their horrid little tails so constantly that Jove himself couldn't keep his eye on the ball--and the language they used was something frightful. You couldn't trust them to clean your clubs, because there wasn't any power anywhere that could keep them from running off with 'em; and in the matter of balls, they'd steal every blessed one they could lay their hands on. We finally had to employ cherubs. We've about sixty of 'em on hand now all the time, and they come as near being perfect as you could expect. Ever see a cherub?" "Only in pictures," said I. "They're just heads with wings, aren't they?" "Yes," said Adonis, "and, having no bodies, they're seldom in the way, and some of the best of 'em can fly almost as fast as the ball." "How do they carry the bags?" I asked, much interested. "They hang 'em about their necks, just above their wings," Adonis explained, "but even they are not perfect. They fly very carelessly, and often, in swooping about the sky, drop your clubs out of the bag and smash 'em; and they all look so infernally alike that you can never tell your own caddy from the other fellow's, which is sometimes very confusing." "Still," I put in, "a caddie with no pockets is a very safe person to intrust with golf balls." "That's very true," said Adonis, "and I suppose the cherubs make as good caddies as we can expect. Caddies will be caddies, and that's the end of it. You can't expect a caddie to do just right any more than you can expect water to flow uphill. There are certain immutable laws of the universe which are as unchangeable in Olympus as on earth or in Hades. Ice is cold, fire is hot, water is wet, and caddies are caddies." [Illustration: THE OLYMPIAN LINKS] "Very true," said I, reflecting upon the ways of "Some Caddies I have Met." "What do you pay them a round?" "One hundred and twenty-five dollars," said Adonis. "Cheap enough," said I. "But tell me, Adonis," I continued, "who is your amateur champion?" "Jupiter, of course," said Adonis, with an impatient shake of his head. "He's champion of everything. It's one of his prerogatives. We don't any of us dare win a cup from him for fear he'll use his power to destroy us. That is one of the features of this Olympian life that is not pleasant--though, for goodness' sake, don't say I told you! He'd send me into perpetual exile if he knew I'd spoken that way. He's threatened to make me Governor-General of the Dipper half a dozen times already for things I've said, and I have to be very careful, or he'll do it." "An unpleasant post, that?" "Well," he said, "I don't exactly know how to compare it so that you would understand precisely. I should say, however, it would be about as agreeable as being United States ambassador to Borneo." "I'll never tell, Adonis," said I, "and I'm very much obliged to you for our pleasant chat. Your description of the links has interested me hugely. If I could afford a game at your prices, I think I'd play." "Oh, as for that," said Adonis, laughing, "don't let that bother you. Whenever you want to pay a bill here all you have to do is to press the cash button on the teleseme over there, and they'll send the money up from the office." "But how shall I ever repay the office?" I cried. "Press the button to the left of it, and they'll send you up a receipt in full," he replied. "You mean to say that this hotel is run--" I began. "On the Olympian plan," interrupted the valet with a low bow. "All bills here are of that pleasing variety known as 'Self-paying.'" With which comforting assurance Adonis left me, and I started for the dining-room, my appetite considerably whetted by the idea of a game of golf over links four thousand miles in length with balls that could be driven fifty or sixty miles, and cherubs for caddies, at no cost to myself whatsoever. VI In the Dining-Room As I emerged from the door of my room into the hall, I found a small sedan-chair, of highly ornamental make, awaiting my convenience, carried upon the shoulders of two diminutive boys, who were as black, and shone as lustrously, as a bit of highly polished ebony. I had never seen their like before, save in an occasional bit of statuary in Italy, wherein marbles of differing hue and shade had been ingeniously used by the sculptor to give color to his work. The boys themselves, as I have said, were of polished ebony hue, while the breech-cloths which formed their sole garment were of purest alabaster white. Upon their heads were turbans of pink. They grinned broadly as I came out, and opened the door of the chair for me. "Dis way fo' de dinin'-room, sah," said one of them, showing a set of ivory teeth that dazzled my eyes. I thanked him and entered the chair. When I was seated, I turned to the little chap. "What particular god do you happen to be, Sambo?" I asked. It was probably not the most reverent way to put it, but in a community like Olympus gods are really at a discount, and the black particle was so like a small pickaninny I used to know in Savannah that I could not address him as if he were Jupiter himself. "Massy me, massa," he returned, his smile nearly cutting the top of his head off, reaching as it did around to the back of his ears. "I ain' no gord. I'se jess one o' dese low-down or'nary toters. Me an' him totes folks roun' de hotel." "A very useful function that, Sambo; and where were you born?" I asked. "North Carolina, or Georgia?" "Me?" he replied, looking at me quizzically. "I guess yo's on'y foolin', massa. Me? Why, I 'ain't never been borned at all, sah--" "Jess growed, eh--like Topsy?" I asked. "Who dat, Topsy?" he demanded. "Oh, she was a little nigger girl that became very famous," I explained. "Doan' know nuffin' 'bout no Topsy," he said, shaking his head. "We ain' niggers, eider, yo' know, me an' him ain't. We's statulary." "What?" I cried. The word seemed new. "Statulary," he continued. "We was carved, we was. There ain't nothin' borned 'bout us. Never knowed who pap was. Man jess took a lot o' mahble, he did, an' chiselled me an' him out." I eyed both boys closely and perceived that in all probability he spoke the truth. His flesh and dress had all of the texture of marble, but now the question came up as to the gift of speech and movement and the marvellous and graceful flexibility of their limbs. "You can't fool me, Sambo," said I. "You're nothing but a very good-looking little nigger. You can't make me believe that you are another Galatea." "Doan' no nuffin' 'bout no gal's tears," he returned instantly. "But I done tole yo' de truf. Me an' him was chiselled out o' brack marble by pap. Ef we'd been borned we'd been niggahs sho' nuff, but bein' carvin's, like I tole yuh, we's statulary." "But how does it come that if you are only statuary, you can move about, and talk, and breathe?" I demanded. "Yo'll have to ask mistah Joop'ter 'bout dat," the boy answered. "He done gave us dese gif's, an' we's a-usin' ob 'em. De way it happened was like o' dis. Me an' him was a standin' upon a petterstal down in one o' dem mahble yards what dey calls gall'ries in Paris. We'd been sent dah by de man what done chiselled us, an' Joop'ter he came 'long wid Miss' Juno an' when he seed us he said: 'Dare you is, Juno! Dem boys'll make mighty good buttonses foh de hotel.' Juno she laffed, an' said dat was so, on'y she couldn't see as we had many buttons. 'Would you like to have 'em?' Joop'ter ast, and she said 'suttinly.' So he tu'ned hisself into a 'Merican millionaire an' bought me an' him off 'n de manager, an' he had us sent here. All dat time we was nuffin' but mahble figgers, but soon's we arrived here, Joop'ter sent us up-stairs to de lab'ratory, an' fust ting me an' him knowed we was livin' bein's." I admired Jupiter's taste, not failing either to marvel at the wonderful power which only once before, as far as I knew, he had exerted to give to a bit of sculpture all the flush and glory of life, as in the case set forth in the pathetic tale of Pygmalion and Galatea. "And does he do this sort of thing often?" I inquired. "Yass indeedy," said Sambo. "He's doin' it all de time. Mos' ob de help in dis hotel is statulary, an' ef yo' wants to see a reel lively time 'foh yo' goes back home, go to de Zoo an' see 'em feed de Trojan Hoss, an' de Cardiff Giant. He brang bofe dem freaks to life, an' now he can't get rid ob 'em. Dat Trojan Hoss suttinly am a berry debbil. He stans up gentle as a lamb tell he gets about a hundred an' fifty people inside o' him, an' den he p'tends like he's gwine to run away, an' he cyanters, an' cyanters aroun', tell ebberybody's dat seasick dey can't res'." I resolved then and there to see the Trojan Horse, but not to get inside of him. I never before had suspected that the famous beast had a sense of humor in his makeup. I was about to make some further inquiry when a bell above us began to sound forth sonorously. "Massy me!" cried little Sambo, springing to his place in front of the chair. "Dat's de third an' lass call for breakfas'. We done spent too much time talkin'." With which observation, he and his companion, shouldering their burden, trotted along the richly furnished hall to the dining-room. I then observed a charming feature of life in the Olympian Hotel, and I presume it obtains elsewhere in that favored spot. There are no such things as stairs within its walls. From the magnificent office on the ground floor to the glorious dining-room on the forty-eighth, the broad corridor runs round and round and round again with an upward incline that is barely perceptible--indeed, not perceptible at all either to the eye or to the muscles of the leg. And while there are the most speedy elevators connecting all the various floors, one can, if one chooses, walk from cellar to roof of this marvellous place without realizing that he is mounting to an unusual elevation. And in the evening these corridors form a magnificent parade, brilliantly lighted, upon which are to be met all the wealth, beauty, and fashion of Olympus--alas! that I have no means of returning there with certain of my friends with whom I would share the good things that have come into my life! But to return to the story. Sambo and his brother soon "toted" me to the entrance of the dining-room--graceful little beggars they were, too. "Your breakfast is ready, sir," said the head waiter, bowing low. What impelled me to do so I shall never know, but it was an inspiration. I seemed to recognize the man at once, and, as I had frequently done on earth to my own advantage, I addressed him by name. "Having a good season, Memnon?" I said, slipping a silver dollar into his hand. It worked. Whether I should have found the same excellent service had I not spoken pleasantly to him I, of course, cannot say, but I have never been so well cared for elsewhere. The captious reader may ask how anything so essentially worldly as a silver dollar ever crept into Olympus. I can only say that one of the magic properties of the garment I wore was that whatever I put my hand into my pocket for, I got. As a travelled American, realizing the potency under similar conditions of that heavy and ugly coin, I instinctively sought for it in my pocket and it was there. I do not attempt to explain the process of its getting there. It suffices to say that, as the guest of the gods, my every wish was met with speedy attainment. I could not help but marvel, too, at the appropriateness of everything. What better than that the King of the Ethiopians should be head waiter to the gods! "Things are never dull here, sir," said Memnon, pocketing my dollar and escorting me to my table. "We do not often have visitors like yourself, however, and we are very glad to see you." I sat down before a magnificent window which seemed to open out upon a universe hitherto undreamed of. "Do you wish the news, sir?" Memnon asked, respectfully. "Yes," said I. "Ah--news from home, Memnon," I added. "Political or merely family?" said he. "Family," said I. Memnon busied himself about the window and in a moment, gazing through it, I had the pleasure of seeing my two boys eating their supper and challenging each other to mortal combat over a delinquent strawberry resting upon the tablecloth. "Give me a little politics, Memnon," said I, as the elder boy thrashed the younger, not getting the strawberry, however, which in a quick moment, between blows, the younger managed to swallow. "They seem to be about as usual at home." And I was immediately made aware of the intentions of the administration at Washington merely by looking through a window. There were the President and his cabinet and--some others who assist in making up the mind of the statesman. "Now a dash of crime," said I. "High or low?" asked Memnon, fingering the push-button alongside of the window. "The highest you've got," said I. I shall not describe what I saw. It was not very horrible. It was rather discouraging. It dealt wholly with the errors of what is known as Society. It showed the mistakes of persons for whom I had acquired a feeling of awe. It showed so much that I summoned Memnon to shut the glass off. I was really afraid somebody else might see. And I did not wish to lose my respect for people who were leaders in the highest walks of social life. Still, a great many things that have happened since in high life have not been wholly surprising to me. I have furthermore so ordered my own goings and comings since that time that I have no fear of what the Peeping Toms of Olympus may see. If mankind could only be made to understand that this window of Olympus opens out upon every act of their lives, there might be radical reforms in some quarters where it would do a deal of good, although to the general public there seems to be no need for it. At this point a waiter put a small wafer about as large as a penny upon the table. "H'm--what's that, Memnon?" I asked. "Essence of melon," said he. "Good, is it?" I queried. "You might taste it and see, sir," he said, with a smile. "It is one of a lot especially prepared for Jupiter." I put the thing in my mouth, and oh, the sensation that followed! I have eaten melons, and I have dreamed melons, but never in either experience was there to be found such an ecstasy of taste as I now got. "Another, Memnon--another!" I cried. "If you wish, sir," said he. "But very imprudent, sir. That wafer was constructed from six hundred of the choicest--" "Quite right," said I, realizing the situation; "quite right. Six hundred melons _are_ enough for any man. What do you propose to give me now?" "_Oeufs Midas_," said Memnon. "Sounds rather rich," I observed. "It would cost you 4,650,000 francs for a half portion at a Paris café, if you could get it there--which you can't." "And what, Memnon," said I, "is the peculiarity of eggs _Midas_?" "It's nothing but an omelet, sir," he replied; "but it is made of eggs laid by the goose of whom you have probably read in the _Personal Recollections of Jack the Giant-Killer_. They are solid gold." "Heavens!" I cried. "Solid gold! Great Scott, Memnon, I can't digest a solid gold omelet. What do you think I am--an assay office?" Memnon grinned until every tooth in his head showed, making his mouth look like the keyboard of a grand piano. "It is perfectly harmless the way it is prepared in the kitchen, sir," he explained. "It isn't an eighteen-karat omelet, as you seem to think. The eggs are solid, but the omelet is not. It is, indeed, only six karats fine. The alloy consists largely of lactopeptine, hydrochloric acid, and various other efficient digestives which render it innocuous to the most delicate digestion." "Very well, Memnon," I replied, making a wry face, "bring it on. I'll try a little of it, anyhow." I must confess it did not sound inviting, but a guest should never criticise the food that is placed before him. My politeness was well repaid, for nothing more delicate in the way of an omelet has ever titillated my palate. There was a slight metallic taste about it at first, but I soon got over that, just as I have got used to English oysters, which, when I eat them, make me feel for a moment as if I had bitten off the end of a brass door-knob; and had I not calculated the cost, I should have asked for a second helping. Memnon then brought me a platter containing a small object that looked like a Hamburg steak, and a most delicious cup of _café au lait_. "Filet Olympus," he observed, "and coffee direct from the dairy of the gods." Both were a joy. "Never tasted such a steak!" I said, as the delicate morsel actually melted like butter in my mouth. "No, sir, you never did," Memnon agreed. "It is cut from the steer bred for the sole purpose of supplying Jupiter and his family with tenderloin. We take the calf when it is very young, sir, and surround it with all the luxuries of a bovine existence. It is fed on the most delicate fodder, especially prepared by chemists under the direction of Æsculapius. The cattle, instead of toughening their muscles by walking to pasture, are waited upon by cow-boys in livery. A gentle amount of exercise, just enough to keep them in condition, is taken at regular hours every day, and at night they are put to sleep in feather beds and covered with eiderdown quilts at seven o'clock." "Don't they rebel?" I asked. "I should think a moderately active calf would be hard to manage that way." [Illustration: CARING FOR THE CALVES] "Oh, at first a little, but after a while they come to like it, and by the time they are ready for killing they are as tender as humming birds' tongues," said Memnon. "If you take him young enough, you can do almost anything you like with a calf." It seemed like a marvellous scheme, and far more humane than that of fattening geese for the sale of their livers. "And this coffee, Memnon? You said it was fresh from the dairy of the gods. You get your coffee from the dairy?" I asked. "The breakfast coffee--yes, sir," replied Memnon. "Fresh every morning. You must ask the steward to let you see the _café-au-lait_ herd--" "The what?" I demanded. "The _café-au-lait herd_," repeated Memnon. "A special permit is required to go through the coffee pasture where these cows are fed. Some one, who had a grudge against Pales, who is in charge of the dairymaids, got into the field one night and sowed a lot of chicory in with the coffee, and the result was that the next season we got the worst coffee from those cows you ever tasted. So they made a rule that no one is allowed to go there any more without a card from the steward." "You don't mean to say--" I began. "Yes, I do," said Memnon. "It is true. We pasture our cows on a coffee farm, and, instead of milk, we get this that you are drinking." "Wonderful idea!" said I. "It is, indeed," said Memnon; "that is, from your point of view. From ours, it does not seem so strange. We are used to marvels here, sir," he continued. "Would you care for anything more, sir?" "No, Memnon," said I. "I have fared sumptuously--my--ah--my appetite is somewhat taken away by all these tremendous things." "I will have an appetite up for you, if you wish," he replied, simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "No, thank you," said I. "I think I'll wait until I am acclimated. I never eat heavily for the first twenty-four hours when I am in a strange place." And with this I went to the door, feeling, I must confess, a trifle ill. The steak and coffee were all right, but there was a suggestion of pain in my right side. I could not make up my mind if it were the six hundred melons or whether a nugget from the omelet had got caught in my vermiform appendix. At any rate, I didn't wish to eat again just then. At the door the sedan-chair and the two little blackamoors were awaiting me. "We have orders to take you to the Zoo, sah," said Sambo. "All right, Sambo," said I. "I'm all ready. A little air will do me good." And we moved along. I forgot to mention that, as he closed the chair door upon me, Memnon handed me back the silver dollar I had given him. "What is this, Memnon?" said I. "The dollar you wished me to keep for you, sir," he replied. "But I intended it for you," said I. His face flushed. "I am just as much obliged, sir, but, really, I couldn't, you know. We don't take tips in Olympus, sir." "Indeed?" said I. "Well--I'm sorry to have offended you, Memnon. I meant it all right. Why didn't you tell me when I gave it you?" "I should have given you a check for it, sir. I supposed you didn't wish to carry anything so heavy about with you." "Ah!" said I, replacing the dollar in my pocket. "Thank you for your care of it, Memnon. No offence, I hope?" "None at all, sir," he replied, again showing his wonderful ivory teeth. "I don't take offence at anything so trifling. Had you handed me a billion dollars, I should have declined to wait on you." And he bowed me away in a fashion which made me feel keenly the narrowness of my escape. VII Æsculapius, M.D. We had not gone very far along when the pain in my side became poignant and I called out of the window to Sambo: "Sammy, is there a doctor anywhere on the way out to the Zoo?" I asked. "Yassir," he replied, slowing down a trifle. "We gotter go right by de doh ob Dr. Skilapius." "Doctor who?" I asked--the name was new to me. "'Tain't _Skill_-apius," growled the boy behind, who seemed rather jealous that I had taken no notice of him. "It's Eee-skill-apius." "Oh," said I, beginning to catch their drift. "Dr. Æsculapius. Is that what you are trying to say?" "Yassir," said both boys. "Dass de man." "Well, stop at his office a moment," said I. "I'm feeling a trifle ill." In a few minutes we drew up before a large door to the right of the corridor before which there hung a shingle marked in large gilt letters: +-----------------------------------+ | | | ÆSCULAPIUS, M.D. | | | | Office Hours: 10 to 12. | | | | Tuesdays. | | | +-----------------------------------+ I knocked at the door and was promptly admitted. "I wish to see the doctor," said I. "This is Monday, sir," the maid replied--I couldn't quite place her, but she seemed rather above her station and was stunningly beautiful. "What of that?" I demanded, as fiercely as I could, considering how pretty the maid was. "The doctor can only be seen on Tuesdays," said she. "It's on the door." "But I'm sick," I cried. "Very sick, indeed." "No doubt," she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders that I found very fetching. "Else you would not have come. But you are not so sick that you can't wait until to-morrow, or if you are, you might as well die, because the doctor won't take a case he can't think over a week." "Nice arrangement, that," said I, scornfully. "It may do very well for immortals, but for a mortal it's pretty poor business." The maid's manner underwent an immediate change. [Illustration: "'THEN YOU MUST DIE'"] "Excuse me, sir," she said, making me a courtesy. "I did not know you were a mortal. I presumed you were a minor god. The doctor will see you at once." I was ushered into the consulting-room immediately--in fact, too quickly. I wanted to thank the pretty maid for taking me for an immortal. There was no time for this, however, for in a moment Æsculapius himself appeared. "You must pardon Alcestis," he said, after the first greetings were over. "She is new to the business and doesn't know a god from a hole in the ground. She presumed you were immortal and did not realize the emergency." "That's all right, doctor," said I, glad to learn who the entrancing person at the door was. "I've called to see you because--" "Pray be silent," the doctor interrupted, holding his hand up in admonition. "Let me discover your symptoms for myself. It is the surer method. Physicians in your world are frequently led astray by placing too much reliance upon what their patients tell them. I have devised a new system. _Believe nothing the patient says._ See? If a man tells me he has a headache, I send him to a chiropodist. If his ankle pains him, I send him to an oculist. If he says his chest is oppressed, I have him treated for spinal meningitis; and an alleged pain in the back my assistants cure by placing a mustard plaster on the throat." "Then your medical principles are based on what, doctor?" I asked, somewhat amused. "A simple motto which prevails among you mortals: 'All men are liars'--'Omnes homines mendaces sunt.' It is safer than your accepted methods below. A sick man is the last man in the universe to describe his symptoms accurately. The mere fact that he is ill distorts his judgment. Therefore, I never allow it. If I can't find out for myself what is the matter with a patient, I give up the case." "And the patient dies?" I suggested. "Not if he is an immortal," he replied, quietly. "Come over here," he added, indicating a spot near the window where there was a strong light. I went, and Æsculapius, taking a pair of eye-glasses from a cabinet in one corner of his apartment, placed them on the bridge of his nose. "Now look out of the window," said he. "To the left." I obeyed at once. What I saw may not be described. I shrank back in horror, for I saw so much real suffering that my own trouble grew less in intensity. "Now look me straight in the eye," said Æsculapius, an amused smile playing about his lips. I turned my vision straight upon his glasses and was abashed. I averted my glance. "Nonsense," said he, taking me by the shoulders. "Look at my pupils--straight--don't be afraid--there! That's it. These glasses won't hurt you, and, after all, I'm not very terrible," he added, genially. It required an effort, but I made it, although, in so doing, I seemed to be turning my soul inside out for his inspection. "H'm," breathed Æsculapius. "Rather serious. You think you have appendicitis." "Have I?" I cried. Æsculapius laughed. "_Have_ you?" he asked. "What do you think you think?" "I think I have," said I, my heart growing faint at the very thought I thought I was thinking. "You are at least sure of your convictions," said Æsculapius. "Now, as a matter of fact, the thoughts your thoughtful nature has induced you to think are utterly valueless. You have a pain in your side?" "Yes," said I. "And a very painful pain in my side--and I am not putting on any side in my pain either," I added. "No doubt," said Æsculapius. "But are you sure it is in your side, or isn't it your chest that aches a trifle, eh?" "Not much," said I, growing doubtful on the subject. "Still it aches," said he. "Yes," I answered, the pain in my side weakening in favor of one in my chest. "It does." And it really did, like the deuce. "Now about that pain in your chest," said Æsculapius. "Isn't it rather higher up--in your throat, instead of your chest?" My throat began to hurt, and abominably. Every particle of it throbbed with pain, and my chest was immediately relieved. "I think," said I, weakly, "that the pain _is_ rather in my throat than in my chest." "But your side doesn't ache at all?" suggested Æsculapius. I had forgotten my side altogether. "Not a bit," said I; and it didn't. "So far, so good," said the doctor. "Now, my friend, about this throat trouble of yours. Do you think you have diphtheria, or merely toothache?" I hadn't thought of toothache before, but as soon as the doctor mentioned it, a pang went through my lower jaw, and my larynx seemed all right again. "Well, doctor," said I, "as a matter of fact, the pain does seem to be in my wisdom teeth." "So-called," said he, quietly. "More tooth than wisdom, generally. And not in your throat?" continued the doctor. [Illustration: I VISIT ÆSCULAPIUS] "Not a bit of it," said I. My throat seemed strong enough for a political campaign in which I was principal speaker. "It's _all_ in my teeth." "Upper or lower?" he asked, with a laugh, and then he gazed fixedly at me. I had not realized that I had upper teeth until he spoke, and a shudder went through me as a semicircle of pain shot through my upper jaw. "Upper," I retorted, with some surliness. "Verging a trifle on your cheekbones, and thence to the optic nerve," he said, calmly, still gazing into my soul. "I'll try your sight. Look at that card over there, and tell me--" "What nonsense is this, doctor?" I cried, angry at his airy manner and manifest control over my symptoms. "There is nothing the matter with my eyes. They're as good as any one of the million eyes of your friend the Argus." "Then what, in the name of Jupiter, is the matter with you?" he ejaculated, elevating his eyebrows. "Nothing at all," said I, sulkily. Æsculapius threw himself on the sofa and roared with laughter. "Perfectly splendid!" he said, when he had recovered from his mirth. "Perfectly splendid! You are the best example of the value of my system I've had in a long time. Now let me show you something," he added. "Put these glasses on." He took the glasses from his nose and put them astride of mine, and lead me before a mirror--a cheval-glass arrangement that stood in one corner of the room. "Now look yourself straight in the eye," said he. I did so, and truly it was as if I looked upon the page of a book printed in the largest and clearest type. I hesitate to say what I saw written there, since the glass was strong enough to reach not only the mind itself, but further into the very depths of my subself-consciousness. On the surface, man thinks well of himself; this continues in modified intensity to his self-consciousness, but the fool does not live who, in his subself-consciousness, the Holy of Holies of Realization, does not know that he is a fool. "Take 'em off," I cried, for they seemed to burn into the very depths of my soul. "That isn't necessary," said Æsculapius, kindly. "Just turn your eyes away from the glass a moment and they won't bother you. I want to cure this trouble of yours." I stopped looking at myself in the mirror and the tense condition of my nerves was immediately relieved. "Feel better right away, eh?" he asked. "Yes," I admitted. "So I thought," he said. "You've momentarily given up self-contemplation. Now lower your gaze. Look at your chest a moment." Just what were the properties of the glass I do not know, nor do I know how one's chest should look, but, as I looked down, I found that just as I could penetrate to the depths of my mind through my eyes, so was it possible for me to inspect myself physically. "Nothing the matter there, eh?" said Æsculapius. "Not that I can see," said I. "Nor I," said he. "Now, if you think there is anything the matter with you anywhere else," he added, "you are welcome to use the glasses as long as you see fit." I took a sneaking glance at my right side and was immediately made aware of the fact that all was well with me there, and that all my trouble had come from my ill-advised "wondering" whether that Midas omelet would bother me or not. "These glasses are wonderful," said I. "They are a great help," said Æsculapius. "And do you always permit your patients to put them on?" I asked. "Not always," said he. "Sometimes people really have something the matter with them. More often, of course, they haven't. It would never do to let a really sick man see his condition. If they are ill, I can see at once what is the matter by means of these spectacles, and can, of course, prescribe. If they are not, there is no surer means of effecting a cure than putting these on the patient's nose and letting him see for himself that he is all right." "They have all the quality of the X-ray light," I suggested, turning my gaze upon an iron safe in the corner of the room, which immediately disclosed its contents. "They are X-ray glasses," said Æsculapius. "In a good light you can see through anything with 'em on. I have lenses of the same kind in my window, and when you came up I looked at you through the window-pane and saw at once that there was nothing the matter with you." "I wish our earthly doctors had glasses like these," I ventured, taking them off, for truly I was beginning to fancy a strain. "They have--or at least they have something quite as good," said Æsculapius. "They are all my disciples, and in the best instances they can see through the average patient without them. They have insight. You don't believe you deceive your physician, do you?" "I have sometimes thought so," said I, not realizing the trap the doctor was setting. "How foolish!" he cried. "Why should you wish to?" I was covered with confusion. "Never mind," said Æsculapius, smiling pleasantly. "You are only human and cannot help yourself. It is your imagination leads you astray. Half the time when you send for your physician there is nothing the matter with you." "He always prescribes," I retorted. "That is for your comfort, not his," said Æsculapius, firmly. "And sometimes they operate when it isn't necessary," I put in, persistently. "True," said Æsculapius. "Very true. Because if they didn't, the patient would die of worry." "Humph!" said I, incredulous. "I never knew that the operation for appendicitis was a mind cure." "It is--frequently," observed the doctor. "There are more people, my friend, who have appendicitis on their minds than there are those who have it in their vermiforms. Don't forget that." It was a revelation, and, to tell the truth, it has been a revelation of comfort ever since. "I fancy, doctor," said I, after a pause, "that you are a Christian Scientist. All troubles are fanciful and indicative of a perverse soul." Æsculapius flushed. "If one of the gods had said that," he replied, "I should have operated upon him. As a mortal, you are privileged to say unpleasant things, just as a child may say things to his elders with impunity which merit extreme punishment. Christian Science is all right when you are truly well--in good physical condition. It is a sure cure for imaginary troubles, but when you are really sick, it is not of Olympus, but of Hades." Æsculapius spoke with all the passion of a mortal, and I was embarrassed. "I did not mean to say anything unpleasant, doctor," said I. "That's all right, my lad," said Æsculapius, patting me on the back. "I knew that. If I hadn't known it, you'd have been on the table by this time. And now, good-bye. Curb your imagination. Think about others. Don't worry about yourself without cause, and never send for a doctor unless you know there's something wrong. If I had my way you mortals would be deprived of imagination. That is your worst disease, and if at any time you wish yours amputated, come to me and I'll fix you out." "Thanks, doctor," I replied; "but I don't think I'll accept your offer, because I need my imagination in my business." And then, realizing that I had received my _congé_, I prepared to depart. "How much do I owe you, doctor?" I asked, putting my hand into the pocket of my gown, confident of finding whatever I should need. "Nothing," said he. "The real physician can never be paid. He either restores your health or he does not. If he restores your health, he saves your life, and he is entitled to what your life is worth. If he does not restore your health--he has failed, and is entitled to nothing. All you have will never pay your doctor for what he does for you. Therefore, go in peace." I stood abashed in the presence of this wise man, and, as I went forth from his office, I realized the truth of what he had said. In our own world we place a value upon the service of the man who carries us over the hard and the dark places. Yet who can really repay him for all that he does for us when by his skill alone we are rescued from peril? I re-entered my sedan-chair and set the blackies off again, with something potent in my mind--how much I truly owed to the good man who has taken at times the health of my children, of my wife, of myself, in his hands and has seen us safely through to port. I have not yet been able to estimate it, but if ever he reads these lines, he will know that I pay him in gratitude that which the world with all its wealth cannot give. "Now for the Zoo, boys," I cried. "Æsculapius has fixed me up." And we scampered on. VIII At the Zoo We had not travelled far from the office of Æsculapius when my little carriers turned from the broad and beautiful corridor into a narrow passage, through which they proceeded with some difficulty until we reached the other side of this strangely constructed home of the gods. As we emerged into the light of day, the view that presented itself was indescribably beautiful. I have looked from our own hills at home upon many a scene of grandeur. From the mountain peaks of New Hampshire, with the sun streaming down upon me, I have looked upon the valleys beneath through rifts in clouds that had not ventured so high, and were drenching the glorious green below with refreshing rains, and have stood awed in the presence of one of the simplest moods of nature. But the sight that greeted my eyes as I passed along that exterior road of Olympus, under the genial auspices of those wonderful gods, appealed to something in my soul which had never before been awakened, and which I shall never be able adequately to describe. The mere act of seeing seemed to be uplifting, and, from the moment I looked downward upon the beloved earth, I ceased to wonder that gods were godlike--indeed, my real wonder was that they were not more so. It seemed difficult to believe that there was anything earthly about earth. The world was idealized even to myself, who had never held it to be a bad sort of place. There were rich pastures, green to the most soul-satisfying degree, upon which cattle fed and lived their lives of content; here and there were the great cities of earth seen through a haze that softened all their roughness; nothing sordid appeared; only the fair side of life was visible. And I began to see how it came about that these Olympian gods had lost control over man. If the world, with all its joys and all its miseries, presents to the controlling power merely its joyous side, what sympathy can one look for in one's deity? There was Paris and Notre Dame in the sunlight. But the Morgue at the back of Notre Dame--in the shadow of its sunlit towers--that was not visible to the eye of the casual god who drove his blackamoors along that entrancing roadway. There was London and the inspiring pile of Westminster showing up its majestic top, lit by the wondrous light of the sun--but still undiscovered of the gods there rolled on its farther side the Thames, dark as the Styx, a very grave of ambition, yet the last solace of many a despairing soul. London Bridge may tell the gods of much that may not be seen from that glorious driveway along the exterior of Olympus. I found myself growing maudlin, and I pulled myself together. "Magnificent view, Sammy," said I. "Yassir," he replied, trotting along faithfully. "Dass what dey all says. _I_ 'ain't nebber seen it. 'Ain't got time to look at it." "Well, stop a moment and look," said I. "Isn't it magnificent?" The blackies stopped and looked. "Putty good," said Sammy, "but I doan' care fo' views," he added. "Dey makes me dizzy." I gave Sammy up from that moment. He was well carved, a work of art, in fact, but he was essentially modern, and I was living in the antique. "Hustle along to the Zoo," I cried, with some impatience, and I was truly "hustled." "Here we is," said Sammy, settling down on his haunches at the end of a five-mile trot. "Dis is it." We had stopped before a gate not entirely unlike those the Japanese erect before popular places of amusement they frequent. I descended from the chair and was greeted by an attendant who demanded to know what I wished to see. "The animals," said I. He laughed. "Well," he said, "I'll show you what I've got, but truly most of them have gone off on vacation." "Is the Trojan Horse here?" I demanded. "No," said he. "He's in the repair shop. One of his girders is loose, and the hinges on his door rusted and broke last week. His interior needs painting, and his left hind-leg has been wobbly for a long time. It was really dangerous to keep him longer without repairs." I was much disappointed. In visiting the Olympian Zoo I was largely impelled by a desire to see the Trojan Horse and compare him with the Coney Island Elephant, which, with the summer hotels of New Jersey and the Statue of Liberty, at that time dominated the minor natural glories of the American coast in the eyes of passengers on in-coming steamships. I think I should even have ventured a ride in his capacious interior despite what Sammy had said of his friskiness and the peril of his action to persons susceptible to sea-sickness. "Too bad," said I, swallowing my disappointment as best I could. "Still, you have other attractions. How about the Promethean vulture? Is he still living?" "Unfortunately, no," said the attendant. "He was taken out last year and killed. Got too proud to live. He put in a complaint about his food. Said Prometheus was a very interesting man, but as a diet he was monotonous and demanded a more diversified _menu_. Said he'd like to try Apollo and a Muse or two, for a little while, and preferred Cupids on toast for Sunday-night tea." "What a vulturian vulture!" said I. "Wasn't he?" laughed the attendant. "We replied by wringing his neck, and served him up in a chicken salad to a party of tourists from Hades." This struck me as reasonable, and I said so. "Well, whatever you happen to have on hand will satisfy me," I added. "Just let me see what animals you have and I'll be content." "Very well," replied the attendant. "Step this way." He took me along a charming pathway bordered with many a beautiful tree and adorned with numerous flowers of wondrous fragrance. "This path is not without interest," he said; "all the trees and shrubs have a history. That laurel over there, for instance, used to be a Daphne. She and Jupiter had a row and he planted her over there. Makes a very pretty tree, eh?" "Extremely," said I. "Have you many similar ventures?" "Oh yes. Our botanical gardens are full of them," he replied. "Those trees to the right are Baucis and Philemon. That lotos plant on the left used to be Dryope, and when Adonis isn't busy valeting at the hotel, he comes down here and blooms as an anemone, into which, as you are probably aware, he was changed by Venus. That pink thing by the fountain is Hyacinthus, and over there by the pond is where Narcissus blooms. He's a barber in his off hours." I had already learned that, so expressed no surprise. "That's a stunning sunflower you have," I ventured, pointing to a perfect specimen thereof directly ahead of us. "Yes," said the attendant. "That's Clytie. She's only potted. We don't set her out permanently, because the royal family like to have her on the table at state dinners. And she, poor girl, rather enjoys it. Apollo is generally to be found at these dinners either as a guest or playing a zither or a banjo behind a screen. Wherever he is, the sunflower turns and it affords considerable amusement among Jupiter's guests to watch it. Jupiter has christened Clytie the Sherlock Holmes of Olympus, because wherever Apollo is she spots him. Sometimes when he isn't present, he has to be very careful in his statements about where he has been, for long habit has made Clytie unerring in her instinct." This seemed to me to be a rather good revenge on Apollo for his very ungodlike treatment of Clytie, and if half the attendant told me that day at the Zoo is true, this excessively fickle Olympian is probably sorry by this time that he treated her originally with such uncalled for disdain. "Come over here and see the bear-pit," said the guide. I obeyed with alacrity, and, leaning over the rail, had the pleasure of seeing the most beautiful bruin my eyes had ever rested upon. She was as glossy as a new silk hat; her eyes were as soft and timid as those of a frightened deer, and, when she moved, she was the perfection of grace. [Illustration: CALLISTO] "Good-morning, Callisto," said my guide. "Same to you, my dear Cephalus," the bear returned, in a sweet feminine voice that entranced me. "How are things with you to-day?" asked Cephalus, with a kindly smile. "Oh, I can't growl," laughed Callisto--it was evident that the unfortunate woman was not taking her misfortune too seriously. "Only I wish you'd tell people who come here that while I undoubtedly am a bear, I have not yet lost my womanly taste, and I don't want to be fed all the time on buns. If anybody asks you what you think I'd like, tell them that an occasional _omelette soufflée_, or an oyster pâté, or a platter of _petits fours_ would please me greatly." "I shall do it, Callisto," said the keeper, as he started to move away. "Meanwhile, here's a stick of chewing-gum for you." Callisto received it with a manifestation of delight which moved me greatly, and I bethought myself of the magic properties of my coat, and plunging my hand into its capacious pockets, I found there an oyster pâté that made my mouth water, and an _omelette soufflée_ that looked as if it had been made by a Parisian milliner, it was so dainty. "If madam will permit me," said I, with a bow to Callisto. "Thank you kindly," the bear replied, in that same thrillingly sweet voice, and dancing with joy. "You are a dear, good man, and if you ever have an enemy, let me know and I'll hug him to death." As we again turned to go, Cephalus laughed. "Queer case that!" he said. "You'd have thought Juno would let up on that poor woman, but she doesn't for a little bit." "Well--a jealous woman, my dear Cephalus--" "True," said he. "That's all true enough, but, great Heavens, man, Juno ought to be used to it by this time with a husband like Jupiter. She's overstocked this Zoo a dozen times already with her jealous freaks, and Jupiter hasn't reformed once. What good does it do?" "Doesn't she ever let 'em off?" I asked. "Doesn't Callisto ever have a Sunday out, for instance?" "Yes, but always as a bear, and the poor creature doesn't dare take her chance with the other wild beasts--the real ones. She's just as afraid of bears as she ever was, and if she sees a plain, every-day cow coming towards her, she runs shrieking back to her pit again." "Poor Callisto," said I. "And Actæon? How about him?" "He's here--but he's a holy terror," replied Cephalus, shaking his head. "He gets loose once in a while, and then everybody has to look out for himself, and frankly," Cephalus added, his voice sinking to a whisper, "I don't blame him. Diana treated him horribly." "I always thought so," said I. "He really wasn't to blame." "Certainly not," observed Cephalus. "If people will go in swimming out-of-doors, it's their own fault if chance wayfarers stumble upon them. To turn a man into a stag and then set his own dogs on him for a thing he couldn't help strikes me as rank injustice." "Wonder to me that Jupiter doesn't interfere in this business," said I. "He could help Callisto out without much trouble." "The point about that is that he's afraid," Cephalus explained. "Juno has threatened to sue him for divorce if he does, and he doesn't dare brave the scandal." We had by this time reached a long, low building that looked like a stable, and, as we entered, Cephalus observed: "This is our fire-proof building where we keep our inflammable beasts. That big, sleeping creature that looks like a mastodon lizard is the dragon that your friend St. George, of London, got the best of, and sent here with his compliments. I'll give the beast a prod and let you see how he works." Cephalus was as good as his word, and for a moment I wished he wasn't. Such a din as that which followed the dragon's awakening I never heard before, and every time the horrible beast opened his jaws it was as if a fire-works factory had exploded. "Very dangerous creature that," said Cephalus. "But he is splendid for fêtes. Shows off beautifully in the dark. I'll prod him again and just you note the prismatic coloring of his flames. Get up there, Fido," he added, poking the dragon with his stick a second time. "Wake up, and give the gentleman an illumination." The scene of the moment before was repeated, only with greater intensity, and even in the sunlight I could see that the various hues his fiery breathings took on were gorgeous beyond description. A bonfire built of red, pink, green, and yellow lights, backed up by driftwood in a fearful state of combustion, about describes it. "Superb," said I, nearly overcome by the grandeur of the scene. "Well, just imagine it on a dark night!" cried Cephalus, enthusiastically. "Fido is very popular as a living firework, but he's a costly luxury." I laughed. "Costly?" said I. "I don't see why. Fireworks as grand as that must cost a deal more than he does." "You don't know," said Cephalus, pressing his lips together. "Why, that dragon eats ten tons of cannel coal a day, and it takes the combined efforts of six stokers, under the supervision of an expert engineer, to keep his appetite within bounds. You never saw such an eater, and as for drinking--well, he's awful. He drinks sixteen gallons of kerosene at luncheon." I eyed Cephalus narrowly, but beyond a wink at the dragon, I saw no reason to believe that he was deceiving me. "Then he sets fire to things, and altogether he's an expensive beast Aren't you, Fido?" "Yep," barked the dragon. "Now, over there," continued the guide, patting the dragon on the head, whereat the fearful beast wagged his tail and breathed a thousand pounds of steam from his nostrils to express his pleasure. "Over there are the fire-breathing bulls--all the animals here are fire-breathing. The bulls give us a lot of trouble. You can't feed 'em on coal, because their teeth are not strong enough to chew it; and you can't feed 'em on hay, because they'd set fire to it the minute they breathed on it; and you can't put 'em out to pasture because they'd wither up a sixty-acre lot in ten minutes. It's an actual fact that we have to send for Jason three times a day to come here and feed them. He's the only person about who can do it, and how he does it no one knows. He pats them on the neck, and they stop breathing fire. That's all we know." "But they must eat something. What does Jason give them?" I demanded. "We've had to invent a food for them," said Cephalus. "Dr. Æsculapius did it. It's a solution of hay, clover, grass, and paraffine mixed with asbestos." "Paraffine?" I cried. "Why, that's extremely inflammable." "So are the bulls," was Cephalus's rejoinder. "They counteract each other." I gazed at the animals with admiration. They were undoubtedly magnificent beasts, and they truly breathed fire. Their nostrils suggested the flames that are emitted from the huge naphtha jets that are used to light modern circuses in country towns, and as for their mouths, any one who can imagine a bull with a pair of gas-logs illuminating his reflective smile, instead of teeth, may gain a comprehensive idea of the picture that confronted me. I had hardly finished looking at these, when Cephalus, impatient to be through with me, as guides often are with tourists, observed: "There is the ph[oe]nix." I turned instantly. I have always wished to see the ph[oe]nix. A bird having apparently the attractive physique of a broiler deliberately sitting on a bonfire had appealed strongly to my interest as well as to my appetite. "Dear me!" said I. "He's not handsome, is he?" He was not; resembling an ordinary buzzard with wings outstretched sitting upon that kind of emberesque fire that induces a man in a library to think mournfully about the past, and convinces him--alas!--that if he had the time he could write immortal poetry. "Not very!" Cephalus acquiesced. "Still, he's all right in a Zoo. He's queer. Look at his nest, if you don't believe it." [Illustration: I MEET THE PH[OE]NIX] "I never believed otherwise, my dear Cephalus," said I. "He seems to me to be a unique thing in poultry. If he were a chicken he would be hailed with delight in my country. A self-broiling broiler--!" The idea was too ecstatic for expression. "Well, he isn't a chicken, so your rhapsody doesn't go," said Cephalus. "He's little short of a buzzard. Useful, but not appetizing. If I were a profane mortal, I should call him a condemned nuisance. Most birds build their own nests, and a well-built nest lasts them a whole season. This infernal bird has to have a furnace-man to make his bed for him night and morning, and if, by some mischance, the fire goes out, as fires will do in the best-regulated families, he begins to squawk, and he squawks, and he squawks, and he squawks until the keeper comes and sets his nest a-blazing again. He has a voice like a sick fog-horn that drives everybody crazy." "Why don't you fool him sometimes?" I suggested. "Make a nest out of a mustard-plaster and see what he would do." "He's too old a bird to be caught that way," said Cephalus. "He's a confounded old ass, but he's a brainy one." At this moment a blare of the most heavenly trumpets sounded, and Cephalus and I left the building and emerged into the garden to see what had caused it. There a dazzling spectacle met my gaze. A regiment of Amazons was drawn up on the green of the parade and a superb gilded coach, drawn by six milk-white horses, stood before them, while two gorgeously apparelled heralds sounded a fanfare. Cephalus immediately became deeply agitated. "It is his Majesty's own carriage and guard," he cried. "Whose?" said I. "Jupiter's," said he. "I fancy they have come for you." And it so transpired. One of the heralds advanced to where I was standing, saluted me as though I were an emperor, and, through his golden trumpet, informed me that eleven o'clock was approaching; that his Majesty deigned to grant me the desired audience, and had sent a carriage and guard of honor. I returned the salute, thanked Cephalus for his attentions, and entered the carriage. A brass band of a hundred and twenty pieces struck up an inspiring march, and, preceded and followed by the Amazons, I was conveyed in state to the palatial quarters of Zeus himself. It suggested comic opera with a large number of pretty chorus girls, but I could not help being impressed in spite of this thought with the fact that Jupiter knew how to do a thing up in style. I was indeed so awed with it all that I did not dare wink at a single Amazon while _en route_, although strongly tempted to do so several times. IX Some Account of the Palace of Jupiter So dazzled was I by all that went on about me, by the gorgeousness of my equipage and by the extraordinary richness of the costumes worn by my escort, that for the moment I forgot that I was not myself clad in suitable garments for so ultra-royal a function. The streets, the houses, even the throngs that peopled the way, seemed to be of the most lustrous gold, and it became necessary for me from time to time as we progressed to close my eyes and shut out the too brilliant vision. Fancy a bake-shop built of solid gold nuggets, its large plate windows composed each of one huge, flashing diamond; imagine an exquisitely wrought golden drug-store, whose colored jars in the windows are made of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires; conjure up in your mind's eye a sequence of city blocks whose sides are lined by massive and exquisitely proportioned buildings, every inch of whose façade was fashioned, not by stone-cutters and sculptors, but by goldsmiths, whose genius a Cellini might envy; picture to yourself a street paved with golden asphalt, and a sidewalk built from huge slabs of rolled silver, the curb and gutters being of burnished copper, and you'll gain some idea of the thoroughfare along which I passed. And oh, the music that the band gave forth to which the populace timed their huzzas--I nearly went mad with the seductiveness of it all. If it hadn't been for the ache the brilliance of it gave to my eyes, I really think I should have swooned. And then we came to the palace grounds. These, I must confess, I found far from pleasing, for even as the avenue along which I had passed was all gold and silver and gems, so too was the park, in the heart of which stood Jupiter's own apartments made of similar stuff. The trees were golden, and the leaves rustling in the breeze, catching and reflecting the light of the sun, were blinding. The soft greenness of the earthly grass was superseded by the glistening yellow of golden spears, and here and there, where a drop of dew would have fallen, were diamonds of purest ray. The paths were of silken rugs of richest texture, and the palace, as it burst upon my vision, fashioned out of undreamed-of blocks of onyx, resembled more a massive opal filled with flashing, living, fire, than the mere home of a splendid royalty. I was glad when the procession stopped before the gorgeous entrance to the palace. Another minute of such splendor would have blinded me. A fanfare of trumpets sounded, and I descended, so dizzy with what I had seen that, as my feet touched the ground, I staggered like a drunken man, and then I heard my name sounded and passed from one flunky to another up the magnificent staircase into the blue haze of the hallway, and gradually sounding fainter and fainter until it was lost in the distance of the mysterious corridor. I still staggered as I mounted the steps, and the Major Domo approached me. "I trust you are not ill," he whispered in my ear. "No--not ill," I replied. "Only somewhat flabbergasted by all this magnificence, and my eyes hurt like the very deuce." "It is perhaps too much for mortal eyes," he said; and then, turning to a gilded Ethiopian who stood close at hand, he observed, quietly, "Rhadamus, run over to the Argus and ask him if he can spare this gentleman a pair of blue goggles for an hour or two." "Better get me a dozen pairs," I put in. "I don't think one pair will be enough. It may strain my nose to hold them, but I'd rather sacrifice my nose than my eyes any day." But the boy was off, and ere I reached the presence of Jupiter I was very kindly provided with the very essential article, and I must confess that I found great relief in them. They were so densely blue that an ordinary bit of splendor could not have been discerned through their opaque depths, any more than Thisbe could have been seen by her doting lover, Pyramus, through the wall that separated them, but nothing known to man could have shut out the supreme gloriousness of the interior of Jupiter's palace. Even with the goggles of the Argus regulated to protect one thousand eyes upon my nose, it made my dazzled optics blink. I do not know what the proportions of the palace were. I regret to say that I forgot to ask, but I am quite confident that I walked at least eight miles along that corridor, and never was a mansion designed that was better equipped in the matter of luxuries. I suspect I shall be charged with exaggerating, but it is none the less true that within that spacious building were appliances of every sort known to man. One door opened upon an in-door golf-links, upon which the royal family played whenever they lacked the energy or the disposition to seek out that on Mars. There were high bunkers, the copse of which was covered with richest silk plush, stuffed, I was told, with spun silk, while, in place of sand, tons of powdered sugar and grated nutmegs filled the bunkers themselves. The eighteen holes were laid out so that no two of them crossed, and, inasmuch as the turf was constructed of rubber instead of grass and soil, neither a bad lie nor a dead ball was possible through the vast extent of the fair green. The water hazards, four in number, were nothing more nor less than huge tanks of Burgundy, champagne, iced tea, and Scotch--which I subsequently learned often resulted in a bad caddie service--and an open brook along whose dashing descent a constant stream of shandygaff went merrily bubbling onward to an in-door sea upon which Jupiter exercised his yacht when sailing was the thing to suit his immediate whim. This sea was a marvel. Since all the water hazards above described emptied into it, it was little more than a huge expanse of punch, one swallow of which, thanks to these ingredients and the sugar and nutmeg from the bunkers, would make a man forget an eternity of troubles until he woke up again, if he ever did. Here Jupiter sported every variety of pleasure craft, and, by an ingenious system of funnels arranged about its sixty-square-mile area, could at a moment's notice produce any variety of breeze he chanced to wish; and its submarine bottom was so designed that if a heavy sea were wanted to make the yacht pitch and toss, a simple mechanical device would cause it to hump itself into such corrugations, large or small, as were needed to bring about the desired conditions. "Do they allow bathing in that?" I asked, as the Major Domo explained the peculiar feature of this in-door sea to me. My companion laughed. "Only one person ever tried it with any degree of success, and it nearly cost him his reputation. Old Bacchus undertook to swim on a wager from Chambertin Inlet to Glenlivet Bay, but he had to give up before he got as far as Pommery Point. It took him a year to get rid of his headache, and it actually required three-quarters of the Treasury Reserve to provide gold enough to cure him." "It must be a terrible place to fall overboard in," I suggested. "It is, if you fall head first," said the Major Domo, "and my observation is that most people do." "I should admire to sail upon it," I said, gazing back through the door that opened upon Jupiter's yachting parlors, and realizing on a sudden a powerful sense of thirst. "I have no doubt you can do so," said the Major Domo. "Indeed, I understand that his Majesty contemplates taking you for a sail to the lost island of Atlantis before you return to earth." "What?" I cried. "The lost island of Atlantis here?" "Of course," said my guide. "Why not? It was too beautiful for earth, so Jupiter had it transported to his own private yachting pond, and it has been here ever since. It is marvellously beautiful." Hardly had I recovered from my amazement over the Major Domo's announcement when he pointed to another open door. "The Royal Arena," he said, simply. "That is where we have our Olympian Games. There was a football game there yesterday. Too bad you were not there. It was the liveliest game of the season. All Hades played the Olympian eleven for the championship of the universe. We licked 'em four hundred to nothing; but of course we had an exceptional team. When Hercules is in shape there isn't a man-jack in all Hades that can withstand him. He's rush-line, centre, full-back, half-back, and flying wedge, all rolled into one. Then the Hades chaps made the bad mistake of sending a star team. When you have an eleven made up of Hannibal and Julius Cæsar and Alexander the Great and Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington and Achilles and other fellows like that you can't expect any team-play. Each man is thinking about himself all the time. Hercules could walk right through 'em, and, when they begin to pose, it's mere child's play for him. The only chap that put up any game against us at all was Samson, and I tell you, now that his hair's grown again, he's a demon on the gridiron. But we divided up our force to meet that difficulty. Hercules put the rest of our eleven on to Samson, while he took care, personally, of all the other Hadesians. And you should have seen how he handled them! It was beautiful, all through. He nearly got himself ruled off in the second half. He became so excited at one time towards the end that he mistook Pompey for the ball and kicked him through the goal-posts from the forty-yard line. Of course, it didn't count, and Hercules apologized so gracefully to the rest of the visitors that they withdrew their protest and let him play on." "I should think he would have apologized to Pompey," said I. [Illustration: "'THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE UNIVERSE'"] "He will when Pompey recovers consciousness," said my guide, simply. So interested was I in the Royal Arena and its recent game that I forgot all about Jupiter. "I never thought of Hercules as a football player before," I said, "but it is easy to see how he might become the champion of Olympus." "Oh, is it!" laughed the Major Domo. "Well, you'd better not tell Jupiter that. Jupiter'd be pleased, he would. Why, my dear friend, he'd pack you back to earth quicker than a wink. He brooks only one champion of anything here, and that's himself. Hercules threw him in a wrestling-match once, and the next day Jupiter turned him into a weeping-willow, and didn't let up on him for five hundred years afterwards." By this time we had reached one of the most superbly vaulted chambers it has ever been my pleasure to look upon. Above me the ceiling seemed to reach into infinity, and on either side were huge recesses and alcoves of almost unfathomable depth, lit by great balls of fire that diffused their light softly and yet brilliantly through all parts and corners of the apartment. "The library," said the Major Domo, pointing to tier upon tier of teeming shelves, upon which stood a wonderful array of exquisitely bound volumes to a number past all counting. I was speechless with the grandeur of it all. "It is sublime," said I. "How many volumes?" "Unnumbered, and unnumberable by mortals, but in round, immortal figures just one jovillion." "One jovillion, eh?" said I. "How many is that in mortal figures?" "A jovillion is the supreme number," explained the guide. "It is the infinity of millions, and therefore cannot be expressed in mortal terms." "Then," said I, "you can have no more books." "No," said he. "But what of that? We have all there are and all that are to be. You see, the library is divided into three parts. On the right-hand side are all the books that ever have been written; here to the left you see all the books that are being written; and farther along, beginning where that staircase rises, are all the books that ever will be written." I gasped. If this were true, this wonderful collection must contain my own complete works, some of which I have doubtless not even thought of as yet. How easy it would be for me, I thought, to write my future books if Jupiter would only let me loose here with a competent stenographer to copy off the pages of manuscript as yet undreamed of! I suggested this to the Major Domo. "He wouldn't let you," he said. "It would throw the whole scheme out of gear." "I don't see why," I ventured. "It is simple," rejoined the Major Domo. "If you were permitted to read the books that some day will be identified with your name, as a sensible man, observing beforehand how futile and trivial they are to be, some of them, you wouldn't write them, and so you would be able to avoid a part, at least, of your destiny. If mortals were able to do that--well, they'd become immortals, a good many of them." I realized the justice of this precaution, and we passed on in silence. "Now," said the Major Domo, after we had traversed the length of the library, "we are almost there. That gorgeous door directly ahead of you is the entrance to Jupiter's reception-room. Before we enter, however, we must step into the office of Midas, on the left." "Midas?" I said. "And what, pray, is his function? Is he the registrar?" "No, indeed," laughed the Major Domo. "I presume down where you live he would be called the Court Tailor. The sartorial requirements of Jupiter are so regal that none of his guests, invited or otherwise, could afford, even with the riches of Cr[oe]sus, to purchase the apparel which he demands. Hence he keeps Midas here to supply, at his expense, the garments in which his visitors may appear before him. You didn't think you were going into Jupiter's presence in those golf duds, did you?" "I never thought anything about it," said I. "But how long will it take Midas to fit me out?" "He touches your garments, that's all," said my guide, "and in that instant they are changed to robes of richest gold. We then place a necklace of gems about your neck, composed of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires, alternating with pearls, none smaller than a hen's egg; next we place a jewelled staff of ebony in your hand; a golden helmet, having at either side the burnished wings of the imperial eagles of Jove, and bearing upon its crest an opal that glistens like the sun through the slight haze of a translucent cloud, will be placed upon your head; richly decorated sandals of cloth of gold will adorn your feet, and about your waist a girdle of linked diamonds--beside which the far-famed Orloff diamond of the Russian treasury is an insignificant bit of glass--will be clasped." "And--wha--wha--what becomes of all this when I get back home?" I gasped, a vision of future ease rising before my tired eyes. "You take it with you, if you can," laughed the Major Domo, with a sly wink at one of the Amazons who accompanied him as a sort of aide. It was all as he said. In two minutes I had entered the room of Midas; in three minutes, my golf-coat having been removed, a flowing gown of silk, touched by his magic hand and turned to glittering gold, rested upon my shoulders. It was pretty heavy, but I bore up under it; the helmet and the necklace, the shoes and the girdle were adjusted; the staff was placed in my hand, and with beating heart I emerged once more into the corridor and stood before the door leading into the audience-chamber. "Remove the goggles," whispered the Major Domo. "Never!" I cried. "I shall be blinded." "Nonsense!" said he, quickly. "Off with them," and he flicked them from my nose himself. A great blare of trumpets sounded, the door was thrown wide, and with a cry of amazement I stepped backward, awed and afraid; but one glance was reassuring, for truly a wonderful sight confronted me, and one that will prove as surprising to him who reads as it was to me upon that marvellous day. X An Extraordinary Interview I had expected to witness a scene of grandeur, and my fancy had conjured up, as the central figure thereof, the majestic form of Jove himself, clad in imperial splendor. But it was the unexpected that happened, for, as the door closed behind me, I found myself in a plain sort of workshop, such as an ordinary man would have in his own house, at one end of which stood a rolling-top desk, and, instead of the dazzling throne I had expected to see, there stood in front of it an ordinary office-chair that twirled on a pivot. Books and papers were strewn about the floor and upon the tables; the pictures on the walls were made up largely of colored sporting prints of some rarity, and in a corner stood a commonplace globe such as is to be found in use in public schools to teach children geography. As I glanced about me my first impression was that by some odd mischance I had got into the wrong room, which idea was fortified by the fact that, instead of an imperial figure clad in splendid robes, a quiet-looking old gentleman, who, except for his dress, might have posed for a cartoon of the accepted American Populist, stood before me. He was dressed in a plain frock-coat, four-in-hand tie, high collar, dark-gray trousers, and patent-leather boots, and was brushing up a silk hat as I entered. "Excuse me, sir," I said, "but I--I fear I have stumbled into the wrong room. I--ah--I have had the wholly unexpected honor to be granted an audience with Jupiter, and I was told that this was the audience-chamber." "Don't apologize. Sit down," he replied, taking me by the hand and shaking it cordially. "You are all right; I'm glad to see you. How goes the world with you?" "Very well indeed, sir," I replied, rather embarrassed by the old fellow's cordiality. "But I really can't sit down, because, you know, I--I don't want to keep his Majesty waiting, and if you'll excuse me, I'll--" "Oh, nonsense!" he retorted. "Let the old man wait. Sit down and talk to me. I don't get a chance to talk with mortals very often. This is your first visit to Olympus?" "Yes, sir," I said, still standing. "And it is wholly unexpected. I stumbled upon the place by the merest chance last night--but you _must_ let me go, sir. I'll come back later very gladly and talk with you if I get a chance. It will never do for me to keep his Majesty waiting, you know." "Oh, the deuce with his Majesty," said the old gentleman, testily. "What do you want to see him for? He's an old fossil." "Granted," said I. "Still, I'm interested in old fossils." The old gentleman roared with laughter at this apparently simple remark. I didn't see the fun of it myself, and his mirth irritated me. "Excuse me, my dear sir," I said, trying to control my impatience. "But you don't seem to understand my position. I can't stay here and talk to you while the ruler of Olympus waits. Can't you see that?" "No, I can't," he replied. "Can't see it at all, and I'm a pretty good seer as a general thing, too. If you didn't wish to see me, you had no business to come into my room. Now that you are here, I'm going to keep you for a little while. Take off that absurd-looking tile and sit down." At this I grew angry. I wasn't responsible for the helmet I wore, and I had felt all along that I looked like an ass in it. "I'll do nothing of the sort, you confounded old meddler," I cried. "I've come here on invitation, and, if I've got into the wrong room, it isn't my fault. That jackass of a Major Domo told me this was the place. Let me out." I strode to the doorway, and the old gentleman turned to his desk and opened a drawer. "Cigar or cigarette?" he said, calmly. "Neither, you old fool," I retorted, turning the knob and tugging upon it. "I have no time for a smoke." The door was locked. The old gentleman settled back in his twirling chair and regarded me with a twinkle in his eye as I vainly tried to pull the door open, and I realized that I was helpless. "Better sit down and enjoy a quiet smoke with me," he said, calmly. "Take off that absurd-looking tile and talk to me." "I haven't anything to say to you," I replied. "Not a word. Do you intend to let me out of this or not?" "All in good time--all in good time," he said. "Let's talk it over. Why do you wish to go? Don't you find me good company?" "You're a stupid old idiot!" I shouted, almost weeping with rage. "Locking me up in your rotten old den here when you must realize what you are depriving me of. What earthly good it does you I can't see." [Illustration: "THE DOOR WAS LOCKED"] "It does me lots of good," he said, with a chuckle. "Really, sir, it gives me a new sensation--first new sensation I have had in a long, long time. Let me see now, just how many names have you called me in the three minutes I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance?" "Give me time, and I'll call you a lot more," I retorted, sullenly. "Good--I'll give you the time," he said. "Go ahead. I'll listen to you for a whole hour. What am I besides a meddler, and a stupid old idiot, and an old fool?" "You're a gray-headed maniac, and a--a zinc-fastened Zany. A doddering dotard and a chimerical chump," I said. "Splendid!" roared he, with a spasm of laughter that seemed nearly to rend him. "Go on. Keep it up. I am enjoying myself hugely." "You're a sneak-livered poltroon to treat me this way," I added, indignantly. "That's the best yet," he interrupted, slapping his knee with delight. "Sneak-livered poltroon, eh? Well, well, well. Go on. Go on." "If you'll give me a copy of Roget's _Thesaurus_, I'll tell you what else you are," I retorted, with a note of sarcasm in my voice. "It will require a reference to that book to do you justice. I can't begin to carry all that you are in my mind." "With pleasure," said he, and reaching over to his bookcase he took thence the desired volume and handed it to me. "Proceed," he added. "I am all ears." "Most jackasses are," I returned, savagely. "Magnificent," he cried, ecstatically. "You are a genius at epithet. But there's the book. Let me light a cigar for you and then you can begin. Only _do_ take off that absurd tile. You don't know how supremely unbecoming it is." There was nothing for it, so I resolved to make the best of it by meeting the disagreeable old pantaloon on his own ground. I lit one of his cigars and sat down to tell the curious old freak what I thought of him. Ordinarily I would have avoided doing this, but his tyrannical exercise of his temporary advantage made me angry to the very core of my being. "Ready?" said I. "Quite," said he. "Don't stint yourself. Just behave as if you'd known me all your life. I sha'n't mind." And I began: "Well, after referring to the word 'idiot' in the index, just to get a lead," I said, "I shall begin by saying that you are evidently a hebetudinous imbecile, an indiscriminate stult--" "Hold on!" he cried. "What's that last? I never heard the term before." "Stult--an indiscriminate stult," I said, scornfully. "I invented the word myself. Real words won't describe you. Stult is a new term, meaning all kinds of a fool, plus two. And I've got a few more if you want them." "Want them?" he cried. "By Vulcan, I dote upon them! They are nectar to my thirsty ears. Go on." "You are a senseless frivoler, a fugacious gid, an infamous hoddydoddy; you are a man with the hoe with the emptiness of ages in your face; you are a brother to the ox, with all the dundering niziness of a plain, ordinary buzzard added to your shallow-brained asininity. Now will you let me go?" "Not I," said he, shaking his head as if he relished a situation which was gradually making a madman of me. "I'd like to oblige you, but I really can't. You are giving me too much pleasure. Is there nothing more you can call me?" "You're a dizzard!" I retorted. "And a noodle and a jolt-head; you're a jobbernowl and a doodle, a maundering mooncalf and a blockheaded numps, a gaby and a loon; you're a _Hatter_!" I shrieked the last epithet. "Heavens!" he cried, "A Hatter! Am I as bad as that?" "Oh, come now," I said, closing the _Thesaurus_ with a bang. "Have some regard for my position, won't you?" I had resolved to appeal to his better nature. "I don't know who the dickens you are. You may be the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl rolled into one, for all I know. You may be any old thing. I don't give a tinker's cuss what you are. Under ordinary circumstances I've no doubt I should find you a very pleasant old gentleman, but under present conditions you are a blundering old bore." "That's not bad--indeed, a blundering old bore is pretty good. Let me see," he continued, looking up the word "bore" in the index of the _Thesaurus_, "What else am I? Maybe I'm an unmitigated nuisance, an exasperating and egregious glum, a carking care, and a pestiferous pill, eh?" "You are all of that," I said, wearily. "Your meanness surpasseth all things. I've met a good many tough characters in my day, but you are the first I have ever encountered without a redeeming feature. You take advantage of a mistake for which I am not at all responsible, and what do you do?" "Tell me," he replied. "What do I do? I shall be delighted to hear. I've been asking myself that question for years. What do I do? Go on, I implore you." "You rub it in, that's what," I retorted. "You take advantage of me. You bait me; you incommode me. You--you--" "Here, take the _Thesaurus_," he said, as I hesitated for the word. "It will help you. I provoke you, I irritate you, I make you mad, I sour your temper, I sicken, disgust, revolt, nauseate, repel you. I rankle your soul. I jar you--is that it?" "Give me the book," I cried, desperately. "Yes!" I added, referring to the page. "You tease, irk, harry, badger, infest, persecute. You gall, sting, and convulse me. You are a plain old beast, that's what you are. You're a conscienceless sneak and a wherret--you mean-souled blot on the face of nature!" Here I broke down and wept, and the old gentleman's sides shook with laughter. He was, without exception, the most extraordinary old person I had ever encountered, and in my tears I cursed the English language because it was inadequate properly to describe him. For a time there was silence. I was exhausted and my tormentor was given over to his own enjoyment of my discomfiture. Finally, however, he spoke. "I'm a pretty old man, my dear fellow," he said. "I shouldn't like to tell you how old, because if I did you'd begin on the _Thesaurus_ again with the word 'liar' for your lead. Nevertheless, I'm pretty old; but I want to say to you that in all my experience I have never had so diverting a half-hour as you have given me. You have been so outspoken, so frank--" "Oh, indeed--I've been frank, have I?" I interrupted. "Well, what I have said isn't a marker to what I'd like to have said and would have said if language hadn't its limitations. You are the infinity of the unmitigated, the supreme of the superfluous. In unqualified, inexcusable, unsurpassable meanness you are the very IT!" "Sir," said the old gentleman, rising and bowing, "you are a man of unusual penetration, and I like you. I should like to see more of you, but your hour has expired. I thank you for your pleasant words, and I bid you an affectionate good-morning." A deep-toned bell struck the hour of twelve. A fanfare of trumpets sounded outside, and the huge door flew open, and without a word in reply, glad of my deliverance, I turned and fled precipitately through it. The sumptuous guard stood outside to receive me, and as the door closed behind me the band struck up a swelling measure that I shall not soon forget. "Well," said the Major Domo, as we proceeded back to my quarters, "did he receive you nicely?" "Who?" said I. "Jupiter, of course," he said. "I didn't see him," I replied, sadly. "I fell in with a beastly old bore who wouldn't let go of me. You showed me into the wrong room. Who was that old beggar, anyhow?" "Beggar?" he cried. "Wrong room? Beggar?" "Certainly," said I. "Beggar is mild, I admit. But he's all that and much more. Who is he?" "I don't know what you mean," replied the Major Domo. "But you have been for the last hour with his Majesty himself." "What?" I cried. "I--that old man--we--" "The old gentleman was Jupiter. Didn't he tell you? He made a special effort to make you feel at home--put himself on a purely mortal basis--" I fell back, limp and nerveless. "What will he think of me?" I moaned, as I realized what had happened. [Illustration: "'WHAT?' I CRIED. 'I--THAT OLD MAN--WE'"] "He thinks you are the best yet," said the Major Domo. "He has sent word by his messenger, Mercury, that the honors of Olympus are to be showered upon you to their fullest extent. He says you are the only frank mortal he ever met." And with this I was escorted back to my rooms at the hotel, impressed with the idea that all is not lead that doesn't glitter, and when I thought of my invention of the word "stult," I began to wish I had never been born. XI A Royal Outing As may be imagined after my untoward interview with Jupiter, the state of my mind was far from easy. It is not pleasant to realize that you have applied every known epithet of contempt to a god who has an off-hand way of disposing of his enemies by turning them into apple-trees, or dumb beasts of one kind or another, and upon retiring to my room I sat down and waited in great dread of what should happen next. I couldn't really believe that the Major Domo's statement as to my having been forgiven was possible. It predicated too great a magnanimity to be credible. "I hope to gracious he won't make a pine-tree of me," I groaned, visions of a future in which woodmen armed with axes, and sawmills, played a conspicuous part, rising up before me. "I'd hate like time to be sawed up into planks and turned into a Georgia pine floor somewhere." It was a painful line of thought and I strove to get away from it, but without success, although the variations were interesting when I thought of all the things I might be made into, such as kitchen tables, imitation oak bookcases, or perhaps--horror of horrors--a bundle of toothpicks! I was growing frantic with fear, when on a sudden my reveries of dread were interrupted by a knock on the door. "It has come at last!" I said, and I opened the door, nerving myself up to sustain the blow which I believed was impending. Mercury stood without, flapping the wings that sprouted from his ankles impatiently. "The skitomobile is ready, sir," he said. I gazed at him earnestly. "The what?" "The skitomobile, to take you to the links. Jupiter has already gone on ahead, and he has commanded me to follow, bringing you along with me." "Oh--I'm to go to the links, eh? What's he going to do with me when he gets me there? Turn me into a golf-ball and drive me off into space?" I inquired. My heart sank at the very idea, but I was immediately reassured by Mercury's hearty laugh. "Of course not--why should he? He's going to play you an eighteen-hole match. You've made a great impression on the old gentleman." "Thank Heaven!" I said. "I'll hurry along and join him before he changes his mind." In a brief while I was ready, and, escorted by Mercury, I was taken to the skitomobile which stood at the exit from the hall to the outer roadway nearest my room. Seated in front of this, and acting as chauffeur, was a young man whom I recognized at once as Phaeton. Alongside of him sat Jason, polishing up the most beautiful set of golf-clubs I ever saw. The irons were of wrought gold, and the shafts of the most highly polished and exquisite woods. "To the links," said Mercury, and with a sudden chug-chug, and a jerk which nearly threw me out of the conveyance, we were off. And what a ride it was! At first the sensation was that of falling, and I clutched nervously at the sides of the skitomobile, but by slow degrees I got used to it, and enjoyed one of the most exhilarating hours that has ever entered into my experience. Planet after planet was passed as we sped on and on upward, and as my delight grew I gave utterance to it. "Jove! But this is fine!" I said. "I never knew anything like it, except looping the loop." Phaeton grinned broadly and winked at Jason. "How would you like to loop the loop out here?" the latter asked. "What? In a machine like this?" I cried. "Certainly," said Jason. "It's great sport. Give him the twist, Phaeton." I began to grow anxious again, for I recalled the past careless methods of Phaeton, and I had no wish to go looping the loop through the empyrean with one of his known adventurous disposition, to be hurled unceremoniously sooner or later perhaps into the sun itself. "Perhaps we'd better leave it until some other day," I ventured, timidly. "No time like the present," Jason retorted. "Only hang on to yourself. All ready, Phaety!" The chauffeur grasped the lever, and, turning it swiftly to one side, there in the blue vault of heaven, a thousand miles from anywhere, that machine began executing the most remarkable flip-flaps the mind of man ever conceived. Not once or twice, but a hundred times did we go whirling round and round through the skies, until finally I got so that I could not tell if I were right side up or upside down. It was great sport, however, and but for the fact that on the third trial I lost my grip and would have fallen head over heels through space had not Mercury, who was flying alongside of the machine, swooped down and caught me by the leg as I fell out, I found it as exhilarating as it was novel. I could have kept it up forever, had we not shortly hove in sight of the links, which, as I have already told you, were located on the planet Mars; and such gorgeousness as I there encountered was unparalleled on earth. Much that we earth-folk have wondered at became clear at once. The great canals, as we call them, for instance, turned out to be vast sand-bunkers that glistened like broad rivers of silver in the wondrous sheen of the planet, while the dark greenish spots, concerning which our astronomers have speculated so variously, were nothing more nor less than putting-greens. It is extraordinary that until my visit to the planet as the guest of Jupiter, this perfectly simple solution of the various Martian problems was not even guessed. As we drew up at the pretty little club-house, Jupiter emerged from the door and greeted me cordially. My eyes fell before his smiling gaze, for I must confess I was mighty shamefaced over my experience of the morning, but his manner restored my self-possession. It was very genial and forgiving. "Glad to see you again," he said. "If you play golf as well as you do synonyms you're a scratch man. You didn't foozle a syllable." "I should have, had I known as much as I do now," said I. "Well, I'm glad you didn't know," Jupiter returned majestically, "for I can use that word stult in my business. Now suppose we have a bit of luncheon and then start out." After eating sparingly we began our game. I was provided with a caddie that looked like one of Raphael's angels, and Jupiter himself handed me a driver from his own bag. "You'll have to be careful how you use it," he said; "it has properties which may astonish you." I teed up my ball, swung back, and then with all the vigor at my command whacked the ball square and true. It sprang from the tee like a bird let loose and flew beyond my vision, and while I was trying with my eye to keep up with it in its flight, I received a stinging blow on the back of my head which felled me to the ground. "Thunderation!" I roared. "What was that?" Jupiter laughed. "It was your own ball," he said. "You put too much muscle into that stroke, and, as a consequence, the ball flew all the way round the planet and clipped you from behind." "You don't mean to say--" I began. "Yes, I do," said Jupiter. "That is a special long-distance driver made for me. Only had it two days. It is not easy to use, because it has such wonderful force. Hercules drove a ball three times around the planet at one stroke with it yesterday. To use it properly requires judgment. Up here you have to play golf with your head, as well as with your clubs." "Well, I played it with mine all right," I put in, rubbing the lump on the back of my head ruefully. "Shall I play two?" "Certainly," said Jupiter. "You've a good brassey lie behind the tee there. Play gently now, for this hole isn't more than three hundred miles long." My brassey stroke is one of my best, and I did myself proud. The ball flew about one hundred and seventy-nine miles in a straight line, but landed in a sand-bunker. Jupiter followed with a good clean drive for two hundred miles, breaking all the records previously stated to me by Adonis, whereupon we entered the skitomobile and were promptly transported to the edge of the bunker, where my ball reposed upon the glistening sand. It took three to get out, owing to the height of the cop, which rose a trifle higher in the air than Mount Blanc, but the niblick Jason had brought along for my use, as soon as I got used to the titanic quality of the game I was playing, was finally equal to the loft. My ball landed just short of the green, one hundred and sixteen miles away. Jupiter foozled his approach, and we both reached the edge of the green in four. "Bully distance for a putt," said Jupiter, taking the line from his ball to the hole. "About how far is it?" I asked, for I couldn't see anything resembling a hole within a mile of me. "Oh, five miles, I imagine," was the answer. "Put on these glasses and you'll see the disk." My courteous host handed me a pair of spectacles which I put upon my nose, and there, seemingly two inches away, but in reality five and a quarter miles, was the hole. The glasses were a revelation, but I had seen too much that was wonderful to express surprise. "Dead easy," I said, referring to the putt, now that I had the glasses on. "Looks so," said Jupiter, "but be careful. You can't hope to putt until you know your ball." At the moment I did not understand, but a minute after I had a shock. Putting perfectly straight, the ball rolled easily along and then made a slight hitch backward, as if I had put a cut on it, and struck off ahead, straight as an arrow but to the left of the disk. This it continued to do in its course, zigzagging more and more out of the straight line until it finally stopped, quite two and a half miles from the cup. "Now watch me," said Jupiter. "You'll get an idea of how the ball works." I obeyed, and was surprised to see him aim at a point at least a mile aside of the mark, but the results were perfect, for the gutty, acting precisely as mine did, zigzagged along until it reached the rim of the cup and then dropped gently in. "One up," said Jupiter, with a broad smile as he watched my ill-repressed wonderment. As we were transported to the next tee by Phaeton and his machine, I looked at my ball, and the peculiarity of its make became clear at once. It was called "The Vulcan," and in action had precisely the same movement as that of a thunder-bolt--thus: [Illustration] "Great ball, eh?" said Jupiter. "Adds a lot to the science of the game. A straight putt is easy, but the zigzag is no child's play." "I think I shall like it," I said, "if I ever get used to it." The second hole reached, I was astonished to see a huge apparatus like a cannon on the tee, and in fact that is what it turned out to be. "We call this the Cannon Hole," said Jupiter. "It lends variety to the game. It's a splendid test of your accuracy, and if you don't make it in one you lose it. If you will put on those glasses you will see the hole, which is in the middle of a target. You've got to go through it at one stroke." "That isn't golf, is it?" I asked. "It's marksmanship." "I call it so," said Jupiter, calmly. "And what I say goes. Moreover, it requires much skill to offset the effect of the wind." "But there is none," said I. "There will be," said Jupiter, putting his ball in the cannon's breach and making ready to drive. "You see those huge steel affairs on either side of the course, that look like the ventilators on an ocean steamer?" "Yes," said I, for as I looked I perceived that this part of the course was studded with them. "Well, they supply the wind," said Jupiter. "I just ring a bell and Æolus sets his bellows going, and I tell you the winds you get are cyclonic, and, best of all, they blow in all directions. From the first ventilator the wind is northeast by south; from the second it is southwest by north-northeast; from the third it is straight north, and so on. Winds are blowing at the moment of play from all possible points of the compass. Fore!" A bell rang, and never in a wide experience in noises had I ever before heard such a fearful din as followed. A hurricane sprang from one point, a gale from another, a cyclone from a third--such an æolian purgatory was never let loose in my sight before, but Jupiter, gauging each and all, fired his ball from the cannon, and it sped on, buffeted here and there, now up, now down, like a bit of fluff in the chance zephyrs of the spring-tide, but ultimately passing through the hole in the target, and landing gently in a basket immediately behind the bull's-eye. The winds immediately died down, and all was quiet again. "Perfectly great!" I said, with enthusiasm, for it did seem marvellous. "But I don't think I can do it. You win, of course." "Not at all," said Jupiter. "If you hit the bull's-eye, as I did, you win." "And you lose in spite of that splendid--er--stroke?" I asked. "Oh no--not at all," said Jupiter. "We both win." Again the bell rang, and the winds blew, and the cannon shot, but my ball, under the excitement of the moment of aiming, was directed not towards the bull's-eye--or the hole--but at the skitomobile. It hit it fairly and hard, and it smashed the engine by which the machine was propelled, much to the consternation of Jason and Phaeton. "Unfortunate," said Jupiter. "Very. But never mind. We don't have to walk home." "I'm awfully sorry," said I. "I--er--" "Never mind," said Jupiter. "It is easily repaired, but we cannot go on with the game. The next hole is eight thousand miles long. Twice around the planet, and we couldn't possibly walk it, so we'll have to quit. We've got all we can manage trudging back to the club-house. Here, caddies, take our clubs back to the club-house, and tell 'em to have two nectar high-balls ready at six-thirty. Phaeton, you and Jason will have to get back the best way you can. I've told you a half-dozen times to bring two machines with you, but you never seem to understand. Come along, Higgins, we'll go back. Shut your eyes." I closed my optics, as ordered, although my name is not Higgins, and I didn't like to have even Jupiter so dub me. "Now open them again," was the sharp order. I did so, and lo and behold! by some supernatural power we had been transported back to the club-house. "I am sorry, Jupiter," said I "to have spoiled your game," as we sat, later, sipping that delicious concoction, the nectar high-ball, which we supplemented with a "Pegasus's neck." "Nonsense," said he, grandly. "You haven't spoiled my _game_. You have merely, without meaning to do so, spoiled your own afternoon. My game is all right and will remain so. It would have been a great pleasure to me to show you the other sixteen holes, but circumstances were against us. Take your nectar and let us trot along. You dine with Juno and myself to-night. Let's see, I was two up, wasn't I?" "Two up, and sixteen to play." "Then I win," said he. It was an extraordinary score, but then it was an extraordinary occasion. And we entered his chariot, and were whirled back to Olympus. The ride home was not as exciting as the ride out, but it was interesting. It lasted about a half of a millionth of a second, and for the first time in my life I knew how a telegram feels when it travels from New York to San Francisco, and gets there apparently three hours before it is sent by the clock. XII I am Dismissed It was a very interesting programme for my further entertainment that Jupiter mapped out on our way back from the links, and I deeply regret that an untoward incident that followed later, for which I was unintentionally responsible, prevented its being carried out. I was to have been taken off on a cruise on the inland sea, to where the lost island of Atlantis was to be found; a special tournament at ping-pong was to be held in my honor, in which minor planets were to be used instead of balls, and the players were to be drawn from among the Titans, who were retained to perform feats of valor, skill, and strength for Jupiter. The forge of Vulcan was to be visited, and many of the mysteries of the centre of the earth were to be revealed, and, best of all, Jupiter himself had promised to give me an exhibition of his own skill as a marksman in the hurling of thunder-bolts, and _I was to select the objects to be hit!_ Think of it! What a chance lay here for a man to be rid of certain things on earth that he did not like! What a vast amount of ugly American architecture one could be rid of in the twinkling of an eye! What a lot of enemies and eyesores it was now in my power to have removed by an electrical process availed of in the guise of sport! I spent an hour on that list of targets, and if only I had been allowed to prolong my stay in the home of the gods, the world itself would have benefited, for I was not altogether personal in my selection of things for Jupiter to aim at. There was Tammany Hall, for instance, and the Boxers of China--these led my list. There were four or five sunlight-destroying, sky-scraping office buildings in New York and elsewhere; nuisances of every kind that I could think of were put down--the headquarters of the Beef Trust and a few of its sponsors; the editorial offices of the peevish and bilious newspapers, which deny principles and right motives to all save themselves; a regiment of alleged humorists who make jokes about the mother-in-law and other sacred relations of life; an opera-box full of the people who hum every number of Wagner and Verdi through, and keep other people from hearing the singers; row after row of theatre-goers who come in late and trample over the virtuous folk who have arrived punctually; any number of theatrical managers who mistake gloom for amusement; three or four smirking matinée idols, whose talents are measured by the fit of their clothes, the length of their hair, and their ability to spit supernumeraries with a tin sword; cab-drivers who had overcharged me; insolent railway officials; the New York Central Tunnel--indeed, the completed list stretches on to such proportions that it would require more pages than this book contains to present them in detail. I even thought of including Hippopopolis in the list, but when I realized that it was entirely owing to his villany that I had enjoyed the delightful privilege of visiting the gods in their own abode, I spared him. And to think that because of an unintentional error this great opportunity to rid the world, and incidentally myself, of much that is vexatious was wholly lost is a matter of sincere grief to myself. It happened in this way: Hardly had I returned to my delightful apartment at the hotel, when a messenger arrived bearing a superbly engraved command from Jupiter to dine with himself and Juno _en famille_. It was a kind, courteous, and friendly note, utterly devoid of formality, and we were to spend the evening at cards. Jupiter had indicated in the afternoon that he would like to learn bridge, and, inasmuch as I never travel anywhere without a text-book upon that fascinating subject, I had volunteered to teach him. The dinner was given largely to enable me to do this, and, moreover, Jupiter was quite anxious to have me meet his family, and promised me that before the evening was over I should hear some music from the lyre of Apollo, meet all the muses, and enjoy a chafing-dish snack prepared by the fair hand of Juno herself. "I'll have Polyphemus up to give us a few coon songs if you like them," he added, "and altogether I can promise you a delightful evening. We drop all our state at these affairs, and I know you'll enjoy yourself." "I shall feel a trifle embarrassed in the presence of so many gods and goddesses, I am afraid," I put in. "I'll fix you out as to that," Jupiter replied. "I'll change you for the time being into a god yourself, if you wish." I laughed at the idea. "A high old god I'd make," said I. "You'd pass," he observed, quietly. "I'll call you Pencillius, god of Chirography--or would you rather come as Nonsensius, the newly discovered deity of Jocosity?" "I think I'd rather be Zero, god of Nit," said I, and it was so ordained. Of course, I accepted the invitation and was on hand at the palace, as I thought, promptly. As a matter of fact, my watch having in some mysterious fashion been affected by the excitement of the adventure, got galloping away just as my own heart had done more than once. The result was that, instead of arriving at the palace at eight o'clock, as I was expected to do, I got there at seven. Of course, my exalted hosts were not ready to receive me, and there were no other guests to bear me company and keep me out of mischief in the drawing-room, where for an hour I was compelled to wait. At first all went well. I found much entertainment in the room, and on the centre-table, a beautiful bit of furniture, carved out of one huge amethyst, I discovered a number of books and magazines, which kept me tolerably busy for a half-hour. There was a finely bound copy of _Don'ts for the Gods, or Celestial Etiquette_, in which I found many valuable hints on the procedure of Olympian society--notably one injunction as to the use of finger-bowls, from which I learned that the gods in their lavishness have a bowl for each finger; and a little volume by Bacchus on _Intemperance_, which I wish I might publish for the benefit of my fellow-mortals. All I remember about it at the moment of writing is that the author seriously enjoins upon his readers the wickedness of drinking more than sixty cocktails a day, and utterly deprecates the habit of certain Englishmen of drinking seven bottles of port at a sitting. Bacchus seemed to think that, with the other wines incidental to a dinner, no one, not even an Englishman, should attempt to absorb more than five bottles of port over his coffee. It struck me as being rather good advice. Wearying of the reading at the end of a half-hour, I began a closer inspection of the room and its contents. It was full of novelties, and, naturally, gorgeous past all description; but what most excited my curiosity was a small cabinet, not unlike a stereoscope in shape, which stood in one corner of the room. It had a button at one side, over which was a gilt tablet marked "Push." On its front was the legend, "Drop a Nickel in the Slot, Push the Button, and See the Future." I followed the instructions eagerly. The nickel was dropped, the button pushed, and, putting my eyes before the lenses, I gazed into the remotest days to come. I had come across the Futuroscope, otherwise a kinetoscope with the gift of prophecy. The coming year passed rapidly, and I saw what fate had in store for the world for the twelve months immediately ahead of me; then followed a decade, then a century, and then others, until, just as I was approaching the dread cataclysm which is to mark the end of all mortal things, I heard a quick, startled voice back of me. It was that of Jupiter, and his tone was a strange mixture of wrath and regret. "What on earth have you done?" he cried. "Nothing, your Majesty," said I, shaking all over as with the ague at the revelations I had just witnessed, "except getting a bird's-eye view of what is to come." "I am sorry," said he, gravely. "It is not well that mortals should know the future, and your imprudent act is destructive of all the plans I have had for you. You must leave us instantly, for that instrument is for the gods alone. Moreover, the knowledge of that which you have seen--" Here his voice positively thundered, and the frown that came upon his brow filled me with awe and terror. "All knowledge of what you have seen must be removed from your brain," he added, grimly. I was speechless with fear as the ruler of Olympus touched an electric button at the side of the room, and the two huge slaves, Gog and Magog, appeared. "Seize him!" Jupiter commanded, sternly. In an instant I was bound hand and foot. "To the office of Dr. Æsculapius!" he commanded, and I was unceremoniously removed to the room wherein I had had my interview with the great doctor, where I was immediately etherized and my brain operated upon. Precisely what was done to me I shall probably never know, but what I do know is that from that time to this all that I saw in that marvellous Futuroscope is a blank, although on all other subjects pertaining to my visit to the gods my recollection is perfectly clear. It suffices to say that I lay for a long time in a stupor, and when finally I came to my senses again I found myself comfortably ensconced in my own bed, in my own home; not in Greece, but in America; suffering from a dull headache from which I did not escape for at least three hours. Again and again and again have I tried to recall that wonderful picture of a marvellous future seen by my mortal eyes that night upon Olympus, that I might set it upon paper for others to read, but with each effort the dreadful pain in the top of my head returns and I find myself compelled to abandon the project. So was my brief visit to Olympus begun and ended. In its results it has perhaps been neither elevating nor remarkably instructive, but it has given me a better understanding of, and a better liking for, that great company of mythological beings who used to preside over the destinies of the Greeks. They appeared more human than godlike to my eyes. They were companionable to a degree, and for a time, at least, would prove congenial associates for a summer outing, but as a steady diet--well, I am not at all surprised that, as men waxed more mature in years and in experience, these titanic members of the Olympian four hundred lost their power and became no greater factor in the life of the large society of mankind than any other group of people, equal in number and of seeming importance, whose days and nights are given over solely to pleasure and the morbid pursuit of notoriety. THE END Transcriber's Note: The author refers to a type of golf club as a "brassey" and also as a "brassie". Both spellings have been maintained in this document. 
30800	----	NATURE MYTHS AND STORIES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN by FLORA J. COOKE Chicago. _A. Flanagan, Publisher._ NATURE MYTHS AND STORIES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN BY FLORA J. COOKE of the Cook County Normal School Chicago REVISED EDITION CHICAGO A. FLANAGAN, PUBLISHER. COPYRIGHT 1895 BY FLORA J. COOKE. PREFACE. Feeling the great need of stories founded upon good literature, which are within the comprehension of little children, I have written the following stories, hoping that they may suggest to primary teachers the great wealth of material within our reach. Many teachers, who firmly believe that reading should be something more than mere _word-getting_ while the child's _reading habit_ is forming, are practically helpless without the use of a printing press. We will all agree that myths and fables are usually beautiful truths clothed in fancy, and the dress is almost always simple and transparent. Who can study these myths and not feel that nature has a new language for him, and that though the tales may be thousands of years old, they are quite as true as they were in the days of Homer. If the trees and the flowers, the clouds and the wind, all tell wonderful stories to the child he has sources of happiness of which no power can deprive him. And when we consider that here, too, is the key which unlocks so much of the best in art and literature, we feel that we cannot rank too highly the importance of the myth in the primary schoolroom. For instance the child has been observing, reading, and writing about the sun, the moon, the direction of the wind, the trees, the flowers, or the forces that are acting around him. He has had the songs, poems, and pictures connected with these lessons to further enhance his thought, interest, and observation. He is now given a beautiful myth. He is not expected to interpret it. It is presented for the same purpose that a good picture is placed before him. He feels its beauty, but does not analyze it. If, through his observation or something in his experience, he _does see a meaning_ in the story he has entered a new world of life and beauty. Then comes the question to every thoughtful teacher, "Can the repetition of words necessary to the growth of the child's vocabulary be obtained in this way?" This may be accomplished if the teacher in planning her year's work, sees a close relation between the science, literature, and number work, so that the same words are always recurring, and the interest in each line of work is constant and ever increasing. The following stories are suggested in the standard books of mythology and poetry, and have been tested and found to be very helpful in the first and third grades. A full list of myths, history stories and fairy tales for the children in the different grades can be found in Emily J. Rice's Course of Study in History and Literature, which can be obtained of A. Flanagan, No. 262 Wabash avenue, Chicago. [Illustration] CONTENTS. ANIMAL STORIES:-- Donkey and the Salt } 59 Fox and the Stork } _Adapted from Æesop_ 91 Grateful Foxes 43 _Adapted from Edwin Arnold's Poem. Permission of Chas. Scribners' Sons._ How the Spark of Fire Was Saved 79 _Adapted from John Vance Cheney's Poem._ How the Chipmunk Got the Stripes on Its Back 89 _Adapted from Edwin Arnold's Poem._ An Indian Story of the Mole 77 BIRD STORIES:-- An Indian Story of the Robin 26 _Adapted from Whittier's Poem, "How the Robin Came."_ How the Robin's Breast Became Red 24 The Red-headed Woodpecker 29 _Adapted from Phoebe Cary's Poem._ CLOUD STORIES:-- Palace of Alkinoös 36 _Adapted from the Odyssey._ Swan Maidens 54 FLOWER STORIES:-- Clytie 9 Golden-rod and Aster 13 INSECT STORIES:-- Arachne 19 Aurora and Tithonus 22 King Solomon and the Ants 18 _Adapted from Whittier's Poem._ King Solomon and the Bee 16 _Adapted from Saxe's Poem._ MINERALOGY STORIES:-- Sisyphus 33 The Story of the Pudding Stone 31 SUN MYTHS:-- Balder 83 Persephone 48 _Adapted from "Story of Persephone," told by Helen Ericson, class of 1895, Cook County, (Ill.), Normal School._ Phaethon 39 TREE STORIES:-- Daphne 74 Fairy Story 66 Philemon and Baucis 71 Poplar Tree 56 The Secret of Fire 61 MISCELLANEOUS STORIES:-- Hermes 97 Iris' Bridge 101 Prometheus 92 CLYTIE. Clytie was a beautiful little water nymph who lived in a cave at the bottom of the sea. The walls of the cave were covered with pearls and shells. The floor was made of sand as white as snow. There were many chairs of amber with soft mossy cushions. On each side of the cave-opening was a great forest of coral. Back of the cave were Clytie's gardens. Here were the sea anemones, starfish and all kinds of seaweed. In the garden grotto were her horses. These were the gentlest goldfish and turtles. The ocean fairies loved Clytie and wove her dresses of softest green sea lace. With all these treasures Clytie should have been happy, but she was not. She had once heard a mermaid sing of a glorious light which shone on the top of the water. She could think of nothing else, but longed day and night to know more of the wonderful light. No ocean fairy dared take her to it, and she was afraid to go alone. One day she was taking her usual ride in her shell carriage. The water was warm and the turtles went so slowly that Clytie soon fell asleep. On and on they went, straight towards the light, until they came to an island. [Illustration] As the waves dashed the carriage against the shore Clytie awoke. She climbed out of the shell and sat down upon a large rock. She had never seen the trees and flowers. She had never heard the birds chirping or the forest winds sighing. She had never known the perfume of the flowers or seen the dew on the grass. In wonder, she saw a little boy and girl near her and heard them say, "Here it comes! Here it comes!" As she looked away in the east she saw the glorious light that she had so longed for. In its midst, in a golden chariot, sat a wonderful king. The king smiled and instantly the birds began to sing, the plants unfolded their buds, and even the old sea looked happy. Clytie sat on the rock all day long and wished that she might be like the great kind king. She wept when he entered the land of the sunset and she could see him no longer. She went home, but she could scarcely wait until the morning. Very early the next day her swiftest goldfish carried her to the rock. After this, she came every day, wishing more and more to be like the great kind king. One evening as she was ready to go home, she found that she could not move her feet. She leaned out over the sea and knew that she had her wish. Instead of a water nymph a beautiful sunflower looked back at her from the water. Her yellow hair had become golden petals, her green lace dress had turned into leaves and stems, and her little feet had become roots which fastened her to the ground. The good king the next day sent her into many countries, into dry and sandy places, that the people might be made happy by looking at her bright face, so like his own. [Illustration] GOLDEN-ROD AND ASTER. Golden Hair and Blue Eyes lived at the foot of a great hill. On the top of this hill in a little hut lived a strange, wise woman. It was said that she could change people into anything she wished. She looked so grim and severe that people were afraid to go near her. One summer day the two little girls at the foot of the hill thought they would like to do something to make everybody happy. [Illustration] "I know," said Golden Hair, "Let us go and ask the woman on the hill about it. She is very wise and can surely tell us just what to do." "Oh, yes," said Blue Eyes, and away they started at once. It was a warm day and a long walk to the top of the hill. The little girls stopped many times to rest under the oak trees which shaded their pathway. They could find no flowers, but they made a basket of oak leaves and filled it with berries for the wise woman. They fed the fish in the brook and talked to the squirrels and the birds. They walked on and on in the rocky path. After a while the sun went down. The birds stopped singing. The squirrels went to bed. The trees fell asleep. Even the wind was resting. Oh, how still and cool it was on the hillside! The moon and stars came out. The frogs and toads awoke. The night music began. The beetles and fireflies flew away to a party. But the tired little children climbed on towards the hilltop. At last they reached it. There at the gate was the strange, old woman, looking even more stern than usual. The little girls were frightened. They clung close together while brave Golden Hair said, "we know you are wise and we came to see if you would tell us how to make everyone happy." "Please let us stay together," said timid Blue Eyes. As she opened the gate for the children, the wise woman was seen to smile in the moonlight. The two little girls were never seen again at the foot of the hill. The next morning all over the hillside people saw beautiful, waving golden-rod and purple asters growing. It has been said that these two bright flowers, which grow side by side, could tell the secret, if they would, of what became of the two little girls on that moonlight summer night. [Illustration] THE WISE KING AND THE BEE. Long ago there lived in the East the greatest king in the world. It was believed that no one could ask him a question which he could not answer. Wise men came from far and near, but they were never able to puzzle King Solomon. He knew all the trees and plants. He understood the beasts, fowls and creeping things almost as well as he did people. The fame of his knowledge spread into all lands. In the south, the great Queen of Sheba heard of the wonderful wisdom of Solomon and said, "I shall test his power for myself." She picked some clover blossoms from the field and bade a great artist make for her, in wax, flowers, buds and leaves exactly like them. She was much pleased when they were finished, for she herself could see no difference in the two bunches. She carried them to the king and said, "Choose, Oh wise king, which are the real flowers?" At first King Solomon was puzzled, but soon he saw a bee buzzing at the window. "Ah," said he, "here is one come to help me in my choice. Throw open the window for my friend." Then the Queen of Sheba bowed her head and said: "You are indeed a wise king, but I begin to understand your wisdom. I thank you for this lesson." [Illustration] KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS. One morning the Queen of Sheba started back to her home in the south. King Solomon and all his court went with her to the gates of the city. It was a glorious sight. The king and queen rode upon white horses. The purple and scarlet coverings of their followers glittered with silver and gold. The king looked down and saw an ant hill in the path before them. "See yonder little people," he said, "do you hear what they are saying as they run about so wildly? "They say, 'Here comes the king, men call wise, and good and great. 'He will trample us under his cruel feet.'" "They should be proud to die under the feet of such a king," said the queen. "How dare they complain?" "Not so, Great Queen," replied the king. He turned his horse aside and all his followers did the same. When the great company had passed there was the ant hill unharmed in the path. The Queen said, "Happy indeed, must be your people, wise king. I shall remember the lesson. "He only is noble and great who cares for the helpless and weak." ARACHNE. Arachne was a beautiful maiden and the most wonderful weaver that ever lived. Her father was famed throughout the land for his great skill in coloring. He dyed Arachne's wools in all the colors of the rainbow. People came from miles around to see and admire her work. They all agreed that Queen Athena must have been her teacher. Arachne proudly said that she had never been taught to weave. She said that she would be glad to weave with Athena to see which had the greater skill. In vain her father told her that perhaps Athena, unseen, guided her hand. Arachne would not listen and would thank no one for her gift, believing only in herself. One day as she was boasting of her skill an old woman came to her. She kindly advised her to accept her rare gift humbly. "Be thankful that you are so fortunate, Arachne," said she. "You may give great happiness to others by your beautiful work. "Queen Athena longs to help you. "But I warn you. She can do no more for you until you grow unselfish and kind." Arachne scorned this advice and said again that nothing would please her so much as to weave with Athena. "If I fail," she said, "I will gladly take the punishment, but Athena is afraid to weave with me." Then the old woman threw aside her cloak and said, "Athena is here. "Come, foolish girl, you shall try your skill with hers." Both went quickly to work and for hours their shuttles flew swiftly in and out. Athena, as usual, used the sky for her loom and in it she wove a picture too beautiful to describe. If you wish to know more about it look at the western sky when the sun is setting. Arachne's work, though her colors were in harmony and her weaving wonderfully fine, was full of spite and selfishness. When the work was finished Arachne lifted her eyes to Athena's work. Instantly she knew that she had failed. Ashamed and miserable she tried to hang herself in her web. Athena saw her and said in pity, "No, you shall not die; live and do the work for which you are best fitted. "You shall be the mother of a great race which shall be called spiders. "You and your children shall be among the greatest spinners and weavers on earth." As she spoke, Arachne became smaller and smaller until she was scarcely larger than a fly. [Illustration] From that day to this Arachne and her family have been faithful spinners, but they do their work so quietly and in such dark places, that very few people know what marvelous weavers they are. AURORA AND TITHONUS. The beautiful youth, Tithonus, loved Aurora, the queen of the dawn. He was the first one to greet her each day as she drew back the purple curtains of the east. He made his bed on the green grass in the meadow that he might not miss her coming. Aurora grew to expect his welcome and to love the youth dearly. One morning when she came Tithonus was not in his usual place. As she looked anxiously around she saw him with pale face and closed eyes lying upon the ground. She darted down to earth and carried his almost lifeless body to Zeus. She begged the great king to promise that Tithonus should never die. But alas, in her haste, she forgot to ask that he might forever remain young. Therefore he grew old and bent, and could no longer walk. In misery, he begged to go back to the cool grass in the meadow where he had been so happy. Aurora in pity said, "you shall go, my Tithonus. To make you happy is my dearest wish. "You shall be free from all care. "You shall not be a man, lest you be compelled to work for your food in your old age. "You shall be a grasshopper, free to dance in the meadow grass all the long summer days. "I have prepared a dress for you, which shall protect you well." Then she gave Tithonus the wonderful grasshopper coat of mail which had been unknown on earth until this time. She tinted it a soft green so that he might not be noticed in the grass. Tithonus went that day to live in the meadow and there, any summer day, you may find him and his family hopping merrily about in the sunshine. [Illustration] HOW THE ROBIN'S BREAST BECAME RED. Long ago in the far North, where it is very cold, there was only one fire. A hunter and his little son took care of this fire and kept it burning day and night. They knew that if the fire went out the people would freeze and the white bear would have the Northland all to himself. One day the hunter became ill and his son had the work to do. For many days and nights he bravely took care of his father and kept the fire burning. The white bear was always hiding near, watching the fire. He longed to put it out, but he did not dare, for he feared the hunter's arrows. When he saw how tired and sleepy the little boy was, he came closer to the fire and laughed to himself. One night the poor boy could endure the fatigue no longer and fell fast asleep. The white bear ran as fast as he could and jumped upon the fire with his wet feet, and rolled upon it. At last, he thought it was all out and went happily away to his cave. A gray robin was flying near and saw what the white bear was doing. She waited until the bear went away. Then she flew down and searched with her sharp little eyes until she found a tiny live coal. This she fanned patiently with her wings for a long time. Her little breast was scorched red, but she did not stop until a fine red flame blazed up from the ashes. Then she flew away to every hut in the Northland. Wherever she touched the ground a fire began to burn. Soon instead of one little fire the whole north country was lighted up. The white bear went further back into his cave in the iceberg and growled terribly. He knew that there was now no hope that he would ever have the Northland all to himself. This is the reason that the people in the north country love the robin, and are never tired of telling their children how its breast became red. [Illustration] AN INDIAN STORY OF THE ROBIN. When an Indian boy was eleven years old, he was sent into a forest far away from his home. He had to stay there all alone and fast for seven days and nights. The Indians thought that at this time a spirit came into the youth which helped him to become a great chief and warrior. The spirit also told the boy what his name should be in the tribe. Once there was a fierce Indian war chief who had only one son. The little boy was not strong, but his father loved him more than anything else on earth. When this boy was eleven years old, the chief went out into the forest and built a small lodge for him to stay in. In it he placed a mat of reeds which his good squaw had woven with great care. By the side of the mat he laid a bow, some arrows and his own great tomahawk. Next he painted pictures upon the trees along the path leading from the wigwam to the lodge. He did this that the little boy might easily find his way home. When everything was ready he sadly sent his son away into the forest. He missed him so much that he went every morning to look at him. Each day he asked him if the spirit had not come to him. Each day the little boy shook his head without opening his eyes. On the fifth day his son said to him, "Father, take me home or I shall die. No spirit will come to me." The old chiefs pride was greater than his pity and he said, "No, my son, you must not be a coward. You shall be as wise as a fox and as strong as a bear. "Better that you should die than that boy and squaw should cry 'Shame' upon your father's son. "Be patient, I will come in two days and bring you food." The sixth day came and the little boy lay upon the mat white and still. On the seventh, when the chief came with the sun's first rays, his son was not in the lodge nor about it. Above the door sat a bird with brown coat and red breast, which until this time had been unknown to man. Sadly the chief listened to the bird and understood its message. "Mourn me not, great chief," it sang. "I was once your son. "I am happy now and free. "I am the friend of man and shall always live near him and be his companion. "I shall bring the tidings of spring. "When the maple buds shoot and the wild flowers come, every child in the land shall know my voice. "I shall teach how much better it is to sing than to slay. "Chief, listen, chief, Be more gentle; be more loving. Chief, teach it, chief, Be not fierce, oh, be not cruel; Love each other! Love each other!" THE RED-HEADED WOODPECKER. There was an old woman who lived on a hill. You never heard of any one smaller or neater than she was. She always wore a black dress and a large white apron with big bows behind. On her head was the queerest little red bonnet that you ever saw. It is a sad thing to tell, but this woman had grown very selfish as the years went by. People said this was because she lived alone and thought of nobody but herself. One morning as she was baking cakes, a tired, hungry man came to her door. "My good woman," said he, "will you give me one of your cakes? I am very hungry. I have no money to pay for it, but whatever you first wish for you shall have." The old woman looked at her cakes and thought that they were too large to give away. She broke off a small bit of dough and put it into the oven to bake. When it was done she thought this one was too nice and brown for a beggar. She baked a smaller one and then a smaller one, but each one was as nice and brown as the first. At last she took a piece of dough only as big as the head of a pin; yet even this, when it was baked, looked as fine and large as the others. So the old woman put all the cakes on the shelf and offered the stranger a dry crust of bread. The poor man only looked at her and before she could wink her eye he was gone. She had done wrong and of course she was unhappy. "Oh, I wish I were a bird!" said she, "I would fly to him with the largest cake on the shelf." As she spoke she felt herself growing smaller and smaller until the wind whisked her up the chimney. She was no longer an old woman but a bird as she had wished to be. She still wore her black dress and red bonnet. She still seemed to have the large white apron with the big bows behind. Because from that day she pecked her food from the hard wood of a tree, people named this bird the red-headed wood-pecker. THE STORY OF THE PUDDING STONE. Once upon a time a family of giants lived upon the high mountains in the West. One day the mother giant was called away from home. She arose early in the morning and made ready the bread and butter for the little giants to eat while she was gone. When she had finished her work it was not yet time to start upon her journey. She said to herself, "My children are the best children in the world and they shall have a treat. I have many plums left from the Christmas feast. I will make them a plum pudding for a surprise. The good woman brought together the plums which it had taken her many days to prepare with the help of all her children. Indeed she had emptied several mountain lakes to get water enough to wash them all. She now mixed these wonderful plums into a pudding and put it into an oven to bake. The mixing took so long that she had to hurry, and she quite forgot to say anything about the pudding to the little giants. She had intended to tell them about it just before she left them. It was afternoon when the giant children found the pudding. It was badly burned upon the top by that time. They had already eaten the bread and butter and were not hungry. One little giant said to the others, "Let us make balls of the pudding and see who can throw the farthest." You know that giants are very strong, and away went the pudding up into the air. The little giants made little balls and the older giants threw pieces as big as a house. Many pieces went over the mountains and fell down into the valley beyond. Indeed this wonderful pudding was scattered for miles over the whole land, for the giants did not stop throwing as long as there was any pudding left in the pan. When the sun had shone upon it many days and dried and hardened it, people called it pudding stone. You may find it to-day thrown all over the land, full of the plums which the good woman washed with the waters of many lakes. STORY OF SISYPHUS. Little White Cloud was the Ocean's daughter. The Ocean loved her, and wished always to keep her near him. One day, when her father was asleep, White Cloud went out to walk alone. The Sun saw her and said, "Come, White Cloud, I am your king, I will give you a ride upon my bright rays." White Cloud had often longed for this very thing, so she went gladly, and soon found herself among the fleecy clouds in the sky. When the Ocean awoke he called his little daughter. She did not answer. He called again and again, louder and still louder, until the people said, "Listen, it is thundering!" But the Ocean only heard the echo of his own voice from the shore. He rushed high up on the beach and moaned aloud. He ran into all the caves but White Cloud could not be found. Every one had loved White Cloud, so by this time all the water was white with the crests of the weeping sea nymphs. A great giant was sitting upon the shore near the sea. His name was Sisyphus. He felt sorry for the Ocean and said, "Listen, friend Ocean, I often watch you carrying the great ships and wish that I, too, had a great work to do. "You see how dry it is on this side of the mountain. Few people come this way. You are not even now as lonely as I, yet I want to help you. Promise me that you will put a spring upon this mountain side, where all the tired and thirsty people may drink, and I'll tell you where White Cloud is." [Illustration] The Ocean said, "I cannot put a spring upon the mountain, but if you will follow my son, River, he will take you to a spring where he was born." The giant told the Ocean how the Sun ran away with White Cloud. The Sun heard him and was angry. He placed Sisyphus in the sea saying, "You are far too strong to sit idly here upon the shore. You say you want a great work to do; you shall have it. You shall forever use your strength to push these stones upon the shore, and they shall forever roll back upon you." The giant began his work at once, and has worked faithfully every day since that time. Many people do not yet know what his work is. Do you? Do you know what Sisyphus is making? [Illustration] THE PALACE OF ALKINOÖS. On a high plain covered with flowers once lived good King Alkinoös and his gentle people, the Phaiakians. They were great sailors and went about in silver ships without rudders or sails. These wonderful ships went slowly or very fast just as the sailors wished. For many years the Phaiakians were peaceful and happy. Though they were as brave as they were gentle, they hated war. Far below the Phaiakians, in a valley, lived a people larger, darker, fiercer than themselves. These dark people cared for nothing so much as war and conquest. When they saw the silver ships with the golden prows, they wanted them for their own. They armed themselves and made ready for a great battle. To be sure of victory, they borrowed the thunder and lightning from Zeus. The day came and all was ready for the dark people to advance. They reached the land of the Phaiakians in the morning and King Alkinoös came forward to meet them. They soon saw that he alone was more powerful than their entire army. He was dressed in armor so bright that it dazzled their eyes to look at it. It was covered with millions of golden arrows tipped with diamonds. The king showed the frightened people how he could shoot the arrows in all directions at the same time. The dark people trembled with fear, but King Alkinoös smiled at them, and then he and his people sailed slowly away toward the West. On and on they went, until they came to a great silver sea. Here they stopped and built a palace for their king. This palace was made of silver and gold and precious stones. Its towers were rose color and shone with a wonderful light. Its steps were of pure gold. On each side of the silver gates were huge dogs which guarded the palace. There were boys in the halls dressed in white, holding burning torches. There were girls weaving wonderful curtains and painting pictures upon the walls. There were mountains and fountains, and rivers and lakes. There were singing birds and flower gardens, and little children everywhere. Even to this day, the great king often sits in his palace in the West when his day's work is done. He loves to see the people glide about upon the silver sea, in their ships without rudders or sails. The fierce, dark people still go to war. They seldom let the gentle king see them fighting. Yet often after a brave battle, Alkinoös comes out of his palace and smiles brightly upon them. The dark people blush and seem to smile at the king. You must find out how much good these dark people do and how the King of the Phaiakians helps them in their work, if you wish to understand their friendship. [Illustration] PHAETHON. Phaethon was the son of Helios, who drove the chariot of the sun. He lived with his mother, the gentle Clymene, in a beautiful valley in the east. One day when Phaethon was telling his companions about his father, the sky king, they laughed and said, "How do you know that Helios is your father? You have never seen him. If, as you say, he cannot safely come nearer to the earth, why do you not sometimes go to his land." Phaethon answered, "My father's throne is far away from this valley. My mother has promised that when I am stronger, I shall go to my father's palace. I often watch his golden chariot roll by in its path and think perhaps some day I shall drive the glorious horses of the sun. "I shall go now to my mother, and ask her how much longer I must wait." When Phaethon told his mother what his companions had said she answered, "Go, my child, ask Great Helios if you are his son. If you are worthy to be the son of Helios you will be given strength and courage for the journey." Phaethon gladly and bravely climbed the unused path which led to the palace of the sun. At last he came in sight of the throne. He had never seen anything so beautiful. On one side were standing the days, months and the old years. On the other side were the seasons; Spring, covered with flowers; Summer, with her baskets of fruit and grain; Autumn, in a many-colored dress; and Young Winter, with a crown of icicles. As Phaethon came nearer to the throne, the light was greater than his eyes could bear. Its wonderful colors dazzled him. Helios saw the brave youth and knew that it was Phaethon, his son. He took his glittering crown from his head and went forward to meet him. Phaethon cried, "Great Helios, if you are my father give me and others proof that it is so." Helios took him in his arms and kissed him. "You are indeed my son," he said. "I will put an end to your doubts. Ask any gift you will, and it shall be yours." Phaethon had always had one wish in his heart and said, "O, my father, let me drive the wonderful golden chariot of the sun for just one day." Helios shook his head sadly and said, "That is the one thing which you must not ask to do. "You are my son, and I love you. For your own sake, I cannot let you do this. You have neither the strength nor the wisdom for the great work. "The first part of the way is very steep and rugged. In the middle part, even I dare not look below at the far stretching earth, and the last part is full of terrible dangers." Phaethon would not listen, but threw his arms around his father's neck and begged to go. Helios said at last, "If you persist, foolish boy, you shall have your wish, for I cannot break my promise. I beg of you choose more wisely. Ask the most precious thing on earth or in the sky, and you shall have it." Already Dawn had drawn back the purple curtains of the morning and the Hours were harnessing the horses to the chariot. The stars and moon were retiring for the day. The chariot glittered with jewels which sent the light in all directions. Phaethon looked upon it with delight and longed impatiently for the great joy of driving it. Helios said, "O, my dear son, go not too high or you will scorch the dwelling of heaven, nor too low, lest you set the world on fire. "Keep the middle path; that is best, and do not use the whip; rather, hold the horses in." Phaethon was too happy to hear what his father was saying. He leapt into the golden chariot and stood erect as the fiery horses sprang forth from the eastern gates of Day. They soon missed the strong steady hand of their master. Up, up they went, far into the sky, above the stars, and then plunged downward toward the earth. The clouds smoked, the mountain tops caught fire, many rivers dried up and whole countries became deserts. Great cities were burning, and even Poseidon cried out in terror from the sea. Then the people on earth learned with what great wisdom the path of the sun was planned. Helios saw that the whole world would soon be on fire, and cried to father Zeus to save the earth from the flames. Zeus searched all the heavens for clouds and hurled his thunderbolts from the sky. Phaethon fell from the chariot, down, down into a clear river. The naiads cooled his burning brow, and gently sang him to sleep. His sisters came to the banks of the river and wept. That they might be always near Phaethon, Zeus, in pity changed them into poplar trees, and their tears became clear amber as they fell into the water. At last the tired horses became quiet, and the great car rolled slowly back into its old path. But the deserts and barren mountain tops still tell the story of the day Phaethon tried to drive the chariot of the sun. THE GRATEFUL FOXES. It was springtime in Japan, and the blossoms hung thick on the cherry trees. Butterflies and dragon flies fluttered over the golden colza flowers in the fields. The rice birds chirped merrily. Everything seemed to say, "How good it is to live in days like these." A beautiful princess, O Haru San, sat on the bank of a stream gaily pulling the lilies. All the maidens of her court were with her. Along the river bank came a troop of noisy, laughing boys, carrying a young cub fox. They were trying to decide who should have its skin and who its liver. At a safe distance from them, in a bamboo thicket, father fox and mother fox sat looking sadly after their little cub. The princess' heart was filled with pity, and she said: "Boys, pray loose the little fox. See his parents weeping in the rocks." The boys shook their heads. "We shall sell the fox's skin," they said. "The liver, too, if well powdered, will be used to cure fevers in the fall." "Listen," cried O Haru San, "It is springtime, and everything rejoices. How can you kill such a small soft beast? "See, here is twice your price; take it all," and she drew copper money and silver money from her girdle. The boys placed the little frightened animal in her lap and ran away, pleased to be so rich. The cub felt the touch of her soft hand, and trembled no longer. She loosened carefully the knot and noose and string. She stroked the red fur smooth again, and bound up the little bleeding leg. She offered it rice and fish to eat, but the black eyes plainly said, "This is very nice, but I hear my parents grieving near yonder beanstraw stack. I long to go and comfort them." She set the little fox gently on the ground, and, forgetting its wounded leg, it leaped through the bushes at one happy bound. The two old foxes gravely looked it over neck and breast. They licked it from its bushy tail to its smooth, brown crown. Then, sitting up on their haunches, they gave two sharp barks of gratitude. That was their way of saying, "We send you thanks, sweet maid." As she walked home by the river side, all the world seemed more beautiful to O Haru San. * * * * * The summer time came and the blossoms upon the cherry trees became rich, ripe fruit. But there was no joy in the emperor's house. His daughter, the gentle O Haru San, was ill. She grew paler and weaker each day. Physicians came from far and near, and shook their wise heads gravely. When the emperor's magician saw her, he said, "No one can heal such sickness. A charm falls upon her every night which steals away her strength. He alone can break the spell, who, with sleepless eyes, can watch beside her bedside until sunrise." Gray haired nurses sat by her until morning, but a deep sleep fell upon them at midnight. Next fourscore maidens of the court, who loved her well, kept bright lights burning all the night, yet they, too, fell asleep. Five counselors of state watched with her father at the bedside. Though they propped their eyes open with their fingers, yet in the middle of the night slumber overcame them. All believed that the gentle maid must die. The emperor was in despair, but Ito, a brave soldier, said, "I shall not sleep; let me one night guard the sweet O Haru San." Her father led him to the chamber. Just at midnight Ito felt his eyes grow heavy. He rose and held his sword above his head. "Rather will I die than sleep," he said. Then came a great struggle. Often his head nodded, but by his love and strength Ito conquered sleep. Suddenly he heard a voice which said, "Grate foxes' livers in the princess' rice broth and all her ills will disappear." The next morning the hunters searched far and near for foxes. They knew that to the emperor a fox was worth its weight in gold. All day and night they were in the woods without food or rest. At last they came sadly back to their homes. They brought no fox. "All the foxes know," they said, "and have hidden themselves away." The emperor in grief and anger cried, "Must my child perish? Shall a princess die for the lack of one poor fox? "She was never willing that one should be slain and this is her reward." Ito said, "I will get the fox." He started out with knife and net to seek it. At the entrance of the town he met a woman dressed in strange garments. Very small and stooped she seemed to Ito. She carried a jar in her arms. She bowed low before Ito, and said, "What you seek is in the jar. I have brought it from afar." "Here is gold," said Ito. "What is the price?" The woman pulled the blue hood farther over her face and said, "Another time will do, I can wait. Hasten now to the princess." Gladly Ito obeyed. They made the broth in a bowl of beaten gold and fed it to O Haru San. Immediately she was well and all was joy in the emperor's house. The emperor said, "Ito, is she, who brought this blessing, paid?" Ito answered, "Yonder she waits at the entrance of the town." The emperor himself in his great joy went with Ito to meet her. But they found only a dog-fox dead. Around his neck they read this message, "This is my husband here. "For his child he gives his liver to the princess, dear. I, his very lowly wife, have brought it." [Illustration] PERSEPHONE. Demeter had the care of all the plants, fruits and grains in the world. She taught the people how to plow the fields and plant the seeds. She helped them gather in their harvests. They loved the kind earth-mother and gladly obeyed her. They also loved her daughter, the beautiful Persephone. Persephone wandered all day in the meadows among the flowers. Wherever she went the birds, singing merrily, flocked after her. The people said, "Where Persephone is, there is the warm sunshine. "Flowers bloom when she smiles. "Listen to her voice; it is like a bird's song." Demeter wished always to have her child near her. One day Persephone went alone into a meadow near the sea. She had made a wreath for her hair, and gathered all the flowers that her apron could hold. Far away across the meadow she saw a white flower gleaming. She ran to it and found that it was a narcissus, but far more beautiful than any she had ever seen. On a single stem were a hundred blossoms. She tried to pick it, but the stem would not break. With all her strength she grasped it, and slowly it came up by the roots. It left a great opening in the earth which grew larger and larger. Persephone heard a rumbling like thunder under her feet. Then she saw four black horses coming toward her from the opening. Behind them was a chariot made of gold and precious stones. In it sat a dark, stern man. It was Hades. He had come up from his land of darkness, and was shading his eyes with his hands. He saw Persephone, beautiful with flowers, and instantly caught her in his arms and placed her in the chariot beside him. The flowers fell from her apron. "Oh! my pretty flowers," she cried, "I have lost them all." Then she saw the stern face of Hades. Frightened, she stretched out her hands to kind Apollo who was driving his chariot overhead. She called to her mother for help. Hades drove straight toward his dark underground home. The horses seemed to fly. As they left the light, Hades tried to comfort Persephone. He told her of the wonders of his kingdom. He had gold and silver and all kinds of precious stones. Persephone saw gems glittering on every side as they went along, but she did not care for them. Hades told her how lonely he was, and that he wished her to be his queen and share all his riches. Persephone did not want to be a queen. She longed only for her mother and the bright sunshine. Soon they came to the land of Hades. It seemed very dark and dismal to Persephone, and very cold, too. A feast was ready for her, but she would not eat. She knew that any one who ate in Hades' home could never return to earth again. She was very unhappy, though Hades tried in many ways to please her. Everything on the earth was unhappy, too. One by one the flowers hung their heads and said, "We cannot bloom, for Persephone has gone." The trees dropped their leaves and moaned, "Persephone has gone, gone." The birds flew away and said, "We cannot sing for Persephone has gone." Demeter was more miserable than any one else. She had heard Persephone call her, and had gone straight home. She searched all the earth for her child. She asked every one she met these questions, "Have you seen Persephone? Where is Persephone?" The only answer she ever received was, "Gone, gone, Persephone is gone!" Demeter became a wrinkled old woman. No one would have known that she was the kind mother who had always smiled on the people. Nothing grew on the earth and all was dreary and barren. Demeter said that she would do nothing until Persephone returned to her. It was useless for the people to plow the soil. It was useless to plant the seeds. Nothing could grow without the help of Demeter. All the people were idle and sad. When Demeter found no one on earth who could tell her about Persephone, she looked up toward the sky. There she saw Apollo in his bright chariot. He was not driving as high in the sky as he was wont to do. Often he gathered dark mists about him so that none saw him for many days. Demeter knew that he must know about Persephone, for he could see all things on earth and in the sky. Apollo told Demeter that Hades had carried Persephone away and that she was with him in his underground home. Demeter hastened to the great father Zeus, who could do all things. She asked him to send to Hades for her daughter. Zeus called Hermes. He bade him go as swiftly as the wind to the home of Hades. Hermes whispered to everything on the way that he was going for Persephone so that all might be ready to welcome her back. He soon arrived in the kingdom and gave Hades the message from Zeus. He told about the barren earth and of how Demeter was mourning for her child. He said she would not let anything grow until Persephone came back. The people must starve if she did not soon return. Then Persephone wept bitterly, for that very day she had eaten a pomegranate and swallowed six of its seeds. Hades pitied her and said that she need only stay with him one month for each seed she had eaten. Joy gave her wings, and as swiftly as Hermes himself, Persephone flew up into the sunshine. Apollo saw her and rose higher and higher into the sky. A gentle breeze came rustling from the southeast, and whispered something to everything he met. Suddenly the flowers sprang up; the birds flocked together and sang; the trees put on bright green leaves. Everything, great and small, began to say in his own language, "Be happy for Persephone has come! Persephone has come!" Demeter saw these changes and was puzzled. "Can the earth be ungrateful? Does she so soon forget Persephone?" she cried. It was not long however before her own face became beautiful and happy, for she held again her beloved child in her arms. When Demeter found that Persephone could stay with her only half the year, she brought out the choicest treasures from her storehouse and while Persephone stayed, the world was filled with beauty and joy. When she had gone, Demeter covered the rivers and lakes, and spread a soft white blanket over the sleeping earth. Then she, too, fell asleep and dreamed such pleasant dreams that she did not awake until she felt Persephone's warm kiss on her forehead. [Illustration] THE SWAN MAIDENS. A long, long time ago there was born in the east a wonderful king. He was called "The King of the Golden Sword." Every day he came in his golden chariot scattering heat, light and happiness among his people. Every day he passed from his palace in the east far over to his throne in the west. He never missed a day for he wanted to see that everyone had a full share of his gifts. Throughout the kingdom the birds sang and the flowers bloomed. The sky was full of beautiful pictures which were constantly changing. The king had many daughters who were called swan maidens. They were as graceful as swans and usually wore white featherlike dresses. The swan maidens loved their good father and each one longed to help him in his work. Sometimes the king saw that the grass was brown or the buds were not coming out. Then he called the swan maidens to him and said, "My children, this must not be. There is nothing more beautiful in the kingdom than the green grass and the trees. They need your care." Gladly each maiden changed her dress and set out at once on her journey. Often they could not all work upon the grass and the buds. Some of them ran off to play with the stones in the brook. The best ones went down to feed the roots and worms, and worked out of sight. When their tasks were finished they always hurried back to their father, the king. They went so noiselessly and swiftly that for a long time their way of travelling was a mystery. In the fall, the king called the bravest swan maidens to him. He told them they must go away for a long time. The swan maidens wrapped themselves in white, feathery blankets and came softly down to the shivering flowers. Gently they placed a white spread on the earth and left no small seed uncovered. At last, when the king smiled and their work was done, they stole away so softly and happily that no one missed them. [Illustration] THE POPLAR TREE. One night, just at sunset, an old man found the pot of gold which lies under the end of the rainbow. His home was far beyond the dark forest, through which he was passing. The pot of gold was heavy, and he soon began to look for a safe place in which to hide it until morning. A poplar tree stood near the path stretching its branches straight out from the trunk. That was the way the poplar trees grew in those days. "Ah," said the man, "This tree is the very place in which to conceal my treasure. "The trees are all asleep, I see, and these leaves are large and thick." He carefully placed the pot of gold in the tree, and hurried home to tell of his good fortune. Very early the next morning, Iris, the rainbow messenger, missed the precious pot of gold. She hastened to Zeus and told him of the loss. Zeus immediately sent Hermes in search of it. Hermes soon came to the forest where it was hidden. [Illustration] He awakened the trees, and asked them if they had seen the pot of gold. They shook their heads sleepily, and murmured something which Hermes could not understand. Then Zeus himself spoke to them. "Hold your arms high above your heads," he said, "that I may see that all are awake." Up went the arms, but alas, down to the ground came the pot of gold. The poplar tree was more surprised than any one else. He was a very honest tree and for a moment hung his head in grief and shame. Then again he stretched his arms high above his head, and said, "Forgive me, great father; hereafter I shall stand in this way that you may know that I hide nothing from the sun, my king." At first the poplar tree was much laughed at. He was often told that he looked like a great umbrella which a storm had turned inside out. But as years went by every small poplar was taught to grow as fearless, straight and open hearted as himself, and the whole poplar family became respected and loved for its uprightness and strength. [Illustration] THE DONKEY AND THE SALT. One time a merchant went to the seashore for a load of salt. There were many hills and streams to cross on the journey. As the path was narrow and rocky, the man made his donkey carry the salt in large bags upon his back. It was a warm day, and the donkey did not like his heavy load. He hung down his head and went as slowly as he could. After a while they came to a stream which had only a foot bridge over it. The donkey went through the water, splash! splash! splash! In the middle of the stream was a large stone which he did not see. He stumbled and fell, and the water ran over the bags of salt. Soon the donkey was glad that he had fallen, for he found his load much lighter. They came to another stream, but the donkey did not stumble this time. He lay down in the middle of the brook. He was a wise donkey. This time he lost so much salt that his master was angry, for he was obliged to go back to the seashore for another load. As they were walking along, the merchant laughed to himself. He thought he knew a way to cure the donkey of this trick. When they came to the seashore, he filled the bags with sponges, and started for home. The donkey thought, "What a light load I have," and trotted gaily along over the rough road. Again they came to the brook. "Ah!" thought the donkey, "I will make my load still lighter." He lay down in the middle of the brook. This time he found his load so heavy that he could scarcely rise. His master kindly helped him, but the donkey was not happy. The water ran down his sides and made him more miserable. "Oh," thought he, "I will never lie down in the water again." Once more his master led him back to the seashore. He filled the bags with salt. The donkey was wiser now and carried the salt safely home. THE SECRET OF FIRE. A TREE STORY. One summer night a great army of pine trees settled down in a quiet valley to rest. They were a tall, dark, grave-looking company. They held their heads high in the air, for they were the only trees in the world who knew the wonderful secret of fire. High above this valley, on the hillside, lived a little company of oaks. They were young, brave, and strong-hearted. When they saw the great band of pines marching into the valley, the tallest one said: "Let us make them divide the gift of fire with us." "No," said the oldest, wisest oak, "we must not risk, foolishly, the lives of our acorns. We could do nothing against so many." All the acorns had been listening to what the tree said. Each one longed to help in finding out the great secret. One of them became so excited that he fell from the limb, down upon the hard ground. He did not stop at the foot of the tree, but rolled over and over, far down into the valley. Here a brook picked him up and hurried him away; but as he stopped to rest by a stone, he heard his good friend, the wind, talking to a pine tree. "What is the secret of fire which the pine trees know?" asked the wind. "Don't you think it is selfish to keep it all to yourselves?" The pine tree loved the wind and answered: "Great wind, it is, indeed, a wonderful secret; you must never tell it." Then she whispered it to the wind. The little acorn went on and on down the stream. He came to an old log, which was the home of a large family of squirrels. The mother squirrel was very sad. The last flood had brought her and her children far away from her old forest home. Her family had all been saved, but food was scarce and winter was near. The acorn felt very sorry for her and said: "I am too small to do you much good alone. If you will carry me back to my home, I will show you a forest with plenty of nuts. You can take your family there in the fall." This the squirrel was very glad to do. As they went along the acorn called to all the elms, maples, willows and hickories to meet that night on the hilltop. "Come to the hill across from the great blue mountains," he said. "There you will learn the secret of fire." By evening they were all there, in great companies, ready for war on the pines. When the squirrel came to the forest and saw all the nuts she was much pleased. She offered to carry the acorn to the very top of the tallest tree. The trees were all glad of this, for every one wanted to hear what he said. When the acorn began to speak, even the wind stopped whispering and listened. "Friends," he said, "there must be no battle. The pine trees have only the same gift of fire that you have. To every tree that stretches out its arms the glorious sun gives this gift. But it was in this way that the pine trees learned the secret of getting the fire from the wood: They saw an old Indian chief with two curious pieces of wood. One was round and smooth, the other was sharp-pointed. With all his strength he was rubbing them together. Soon he had worn a groove in the round stick. He rubbed faster and faster, and there in the groove was a tiny spark of fire. Then the Indian blew his breath upon the spark and a little yellow flame leaped up. All the pine trees saw it. 'See, it is fire!' they said." When the great company of trees had heard the acorn's story they shook their heads in doubt. Then the acorn said: "This is the true secret of fire. If you do not believe it why do you not try it for yourselves." They took this advice and all the trees learned that what he had said was true. They were so happy that they spent the whole night in singing and dancing. In the morning, when they saw the great blue mountains and the beautiful valley, many of them settled down upon the hillside for life. The pines looked up and saw hundreds of trees with their shining arms. They were so frightened that they climbed high up on the mountain side. There they stayed a long, long time. [Illustration] They grew sad and lonely, and often sighed and wished for their old home and comforts. But they were brave and strong-hearted, and helped each other. At last, some of them came down into the valley again. Through suffering they had grown strong and unselfish. They gave their best trees to the people and their fairest to the children at Christmas time. Indeed, there is not a tree in the world to-day more loved than the pine tree, who first had the secret of fire. [Illustration] A FAIRY STORY. Some fairies once lived in a dark glen in a pine forest. They were real fairies, many of them not higher than a pin. Their greatest treasure was a magic cap which had been in the fairy family for many generations. The most wonderful thing about the cap was that it fitted exactly any one who wore it. When one fairy put it on, he and all the others became invisible. A stupid race of giants lived among the mountains near them. They wanted the fairy cap more than anything else in the world. One warm day when the elves were away from home, a giant came into the glen. He was seeking just such a cool place for his afternoon nap. He was so large and the glen so small that when he lay down he almost filled the valley. The music of a fairy brook soon lulled him to sleep. Perhaps you have heard how a giant snores, and how his breath comes in great puffs. The giant was snoring and puffing when the fairies came towards home. They heard the strange sound and thought a great storm was brewing. "There has never been such a wind in the glen," said the fairy queen. "We will not go down into it. We must seek shelter for to-night on this hillside." Just then they came to the giant's ear. "Here is a fine cavern," the queen said, and she stopped and waved her wand. A fairy hastened forward to carry the cap to a safe place in the cave, for that was always their first care. Just then the giant awoke. He raised his great head. Oh, how miserable the fairies were! They wept and moaned until even the dull ear of the giant heard them. It was a sound like the tolling of tiny silver bells. He listened and understood what the wee voice of the prisoner in his ear was saying. He was the wisest and most kind-hearted of all the giants. He helped the little creature gently out into his hand, and looked at him in wonder. He had never before seen a fairy. In vain the brave little fellow tried to conceal the precious cap. The giant saw the wonderful star and knew at once that he had the treasure cap of the elves. He set the fairy carefully upon the ground, and shouted for joy as he found that the cap exactly fitted his own great head. The poor fairies could no longer see him, but they heard a sound like thunder, as he hurried over the stones towards his home. They were now afraid to move about while the sun shone. They crept under leaves and into shells and cried bitterly. By sundown every plant in the glen was wet with their tears. The sharp eyes of the eagle on the mountain top saw them and a great pity filled his heart. "I must help the fairies," he said, "otherwise I should not be worthy to be called the 'king of birds'." He went directly to the home of the giants and demanded the cap, but they refused to give it up. [Illustration] All that an eagle could do, he did, but as the giants wore the invisible cap he could not see them. He could only hear their great voices. He knew however that the giants were proud of their great size and strength, and liked, above all things, to be seen. He was sure that they would not wear the cap in battle, and he did not lose hope. One day they carefully placed it under a large stone on the mountain side below them. The keen eye of the eagle was watching. He flew fearlessly to the spot as soon as the giants had left it. He lifted the stone in his great talons, and was soon flying away with the cap to the fairy glen. The giants saw him, and knew at once what he was doing. They began a fierce attack upon him. The air was filled with flying arrows and sharp rocks. Drops of blood fell on the mountain side, and many feathers fluttered down, but the brave eagle was soon out of their reach. He did not stop until the cap was safe in the fairy queen's lap. There was great rejoicing among the fairies that day. They had a feast in the eagle's honor, and healed his wounds with fairy magic. On the mountain side, wherever the blood and feathers fell, there sprang up trees with featherlike leaves and blood-red berries. All the giants, fairies, plants and animals knew why they grew. The unselfish love in the eagle's blood could not die, but lived again in the beautiful trees. But people who did not know how they came there, called them mountain ash trees. [Illustration] PHILEMON AND BAUCIS. On a high hill in Greece, long ago, lived Philemon and Baucis. They had always been poor but never unhappy. At the time of this story the people in the valley below them were very busy. Zeus, their king, had sent word that he was about to visit them. Hermes, his messenger, was to come with him. The people were getting ready great feasts, and making everything beautiful for their coming. For miles out of the city, men were watching for the golden chariot and white horses of the king. One night, just at dark, two beggars came into the valley. They stopped at every house and asked for food and a place to sleep. But the people were too busy or too tired to attend to their needs. Footsore and weary, at last they climbed the hill to the hut of Philemon and Baucis. These good people had eaten scarcely anything for several days that they might have food to offer the king. When they saw the strangers, Philemon said, "Surely these men need food more than the king." Baucis spread her one white table cloth upon the table. She brought out bacon and herbs, wild honey and milk. She set these before the strangers with all the good dishes that she had. Then a wonderful thing happened. The dishes which the strangers touched turned to gold. The milk in the pitcher became rich nectar. Philemon and Baucis dropped upon their knees. They knew that their guests could be no other than Zeus and Hermes. Zeus raised his hand and said, "Arise, good people, ask what you will and it shall be yours." Philemon and Baucis cried in one voice: "Grant, oh Zeus, that one of us may not outlive the other, but that both may die in the same instant." This had long been the wish in each heart, and the fear of being left alone in the world was the one trouble of their old age. Zeus smiled and changed their rude hut into a beautiful castle, and granted them many years of happy life. One morning the people in the valley noticed that the castle had disappeared. They hurried to the spot and found growing in its place two beautiful trees, an oak and a linden. No trace of the good couple could be found. Many years after, however, a traveller lying under the trees heard them whispering to each other. He lay very still and soon learned that in them Philemon and Baucis still lived, happy and contented, and protected by Zeus from all harm. [Illustration] DAPHNE. Daphne was the daughter of the River Peneus. She was a beautiful child and her father loved her more than anything else in the world. Her home was in a cave which he had cut for her in a great white cliff. The walls of the cave were of marble. From the roof hung crystal chandeliers which Peneus' servants had made. On the floor was a soft green carpet woven by the water fairies. Peneus brought his most beautiful pebbles to Daphne's cave every night. He sang songs to her in the evenings and told her stories of his travels. She visited with him the great island which he was building in the sea. When the morning star shone in the sky it was Daphne who awakened the birds and flowers. With her golden hair flying behind her, she sped into the forest. Everything awoke when they felt the touch of her rosy fingers, and smiled as they saw her happy face. The trees and the forest animals were her playfellows, and she had no wish for other friends. She learned their ways, and the deer could not run more swiftly than she, nor the birds sing more sweetly. One day as she was running over the stones near the cave, King Apollo saw her. "Ah, little maid," said he, "You are very beautiful. Your feet are too tender for the hard rocky earth. "Come, you shall live with me in my palace in the sky." But Daphne fled from him. She did not want to leave her beautiful earth home. Fear gave her wings, and faster and faster she flew. Her hair streamed behind her like a cloud of golden light. Apollo followed more swiftly than the wind. "Stop and listen," he cried; "I am not a foe, foolish girl. It is Apollo who follows you. I shall carry you to a home more beautiful than anything you have ever seen." She felt his breath upon her hair, and saw his hand as he stretched it forth to seize her. "Father, save me from Apollo," she cried. "Let the earth enclose me." Peneus heard her voice and instantly her feet became fastened in the soil like roots. A soft bark covered her body and her beautiful hair became the leaves of the laurel tree. Apollo sadly gathered some of the leaves and wove them into a wreath. He laid his hand upon the tree and said, "I would have made you happy, but you would not listen to me. "At least you shall be my tree. Your leaves shall be ever green, and heroes shall be crowned with them in sign of victory." [Illustration] AN INDIAN STORY OF THE MOLE. An Indian once saw a squirrel sunning himself in a tree top. The squirrel saw the hunter and leaped upon a passing cloud. He had escaped into Cloudland before an arrow could reach him. The Indian set a trap for him hoping that he would soon return to the tree for food. The sun happened to be coming that way and was caught in the trap. Suddenly, in the middle of the day, it became dark. The Indian was frightened and said, "Ah me, what have I done, I have surely caught the sun in my trap." He sent many animals up to set it free, but all were instantly burned to ashes. At last the mole said, "Let me try, I shall bore through the ground of the sky and gnaw off the cords which hold the trap." He did this, but just as he loosened the last cord the sun sprang forth and the bright light shone full in his eyes. The poor mole dropped to the earth and though his friends were able to save his life, he was blind. "You need not pity me," he said, "I prefer to live underground, where really there is no use for eyes." All the moles were so proud of this hero mole that they tried to be like him in every way. They, too, went to live in a dark hole in the earth. Their eyes, which they did not need to use, became so small that they were entirely hidden by their fur. Indeed it is now so hard to find them that many people think the entire mole family is blind. [Illustration] HOW THE SPARK OF FIRE WAS SAVED. Long ago when fire was first brought to earth, it was given into the care of two beldams at the end of the world. The Cahroc Indians knew where it was hidden. They needed fire and were always planning ways to get it. They went at last to the wise coyote. "That is simple enough," said he, "I will show you a way to get it. Fire is a great blessing and should be free to all people." The coyote knew every inch of the road to the beldams' hut. Along the path leading to it, he stationed beasts, the strongest and best runners nearer the hut and the weaker ones farther off. Nearest the guarded den, he placed one of the sinewy Cahroc men. Then he walked boldly up to the door of the hut and knocked. The beldams, not fearing a coyote in the least, invited him in. They were often lonely, living so near the end of the world. When the coyote had rested before the fire for some time, he said, "The Cahroc nation need fire. Could you not give them one small spark? You would never miss it. Here it is of no use." The beldams answered, "We do not love it, but we dare not give it away. We must guard it while we live." The coyote had expected them to say this. He sprang to the window, and instantly outside were heard such sounds, that the beldams rushed out to see what the frightful noise could be. Each animal in the line was sounding the watch-word of fire in his own way. The wild horse neighed, the mountain lion roared, the gray wolf howled, the serpent hissed, the buffalo bellowed, and every small animal did its part equally well. Indeed, it is no wonder that the beldams were frightened nearly to death. The Cahroc man brought water and told them not to fear for themselves. The coyote seized a half-burned brand and was off in an instant. The beldams sprang after him and followed him closely over hill and valley. Faster than the wind they flew. They were stronger than he, and though he put all his wild-wood nerve to the strain, they steadily gained. Soon the race must end! But Puma, the monstrous cat, was watching, and leaped up just in time to save the brand. Each animal was in its place and the good fire passed on. It came at last to the Cahroc nation, and was afterwards free to all people under the sun. There were only two mishaps in all the race. As the squirrel turned a corner of stumps and bowlders, his beautiful tail caught fire, and a brown track was burned up over his back to his shoulders, and the curl has remained in his tail to this day. The frog had a harder fate. He was the last one in the line of beasts. When the brand reached him it was smaller than the smallest coal in the grate. He seized it carefully and jumped forward as fast as he could, but the hand of the foremost beldam caught him and held him fast. How his heart beat! His eyeballs bulged out of his head, and he has looked ever since much in the same scared way. He did not lose his courage, however. He swallowed the coal and sprang into the water. Sad to tell, the beldam still held in her hand his special pride and care, his tail. Henceforth only the tadpoles could wear tails. The frog sought a log and sat down upon it to think. "I did my duty, even if I lost my beauty," he thought; "that is enough for a frog. This spark must be saved." After much choking he spat the swallowed spark well into the bark. The gift came, in this way, to all men; for, in even the wettest weather, if you rub two sticks together, fire is sure to come. Because we know how the frog hurt his throat that day, we like to listen to his hoarse voice when we hear him singing to his children in the spring. BALDER. The people in the North once believed that high above the clouds was the beautiful plain of Asgard. Odin, ruler of Asgard, mighty Thor, and many other heroes lived on the plain. Their homes were great castles, splendid with silver and gold. In the middle of the plain, and apart from the other dwellings, stood a pure white palace. Nothing that was not fair and good had ever dared to enter it. It was the home of Balder. Because of his great beauty and wisdom, he was called "Balder the beautiful," and "Balder the good." Everything loved him. The dull rocks and the gray old mountains met him with a smile. The flowers opened, the birds sang and the water sparkled when they saw his face. One night he dreamed that he must soon leave Asgard and all the things that he loved. The next night he dreamed that he was living in the gloomy underground world. The third night, when the same terrible dream came to him, he was greatly troubled. He told Odin, his father, and Frigga, his mother, about it. Odin, in great fear, called together his wisest heroes. They shook their heads but could do nothing to help him. Frigga cried, "It shall not be! I, his mother, will save him." She went straight way to Heimdal, who guarded the rainbow bridge. Bifrost, which was the name of the bridge, was the only path which led from Asgard to the earth. Heimdal allowed only those who lived in the plain to pass over it. All feared Heimdal, yet they loved him. He could see to the ends of the world. He could hear the wool growing on the sheep's back, and knew when each grass blade broke into the sunshine. Heimdal loved Balder and when he heard what troubled Frigga, pitied her. He gave her his swift black horse and showed her the way to the ends of the earth. For nine days and nights she traveled without food or rest. She asked everything she met to promise not to harm Balder. Animals, flowers, trees, water, air, fire, everything she asked gladly gave the promise. They smiled in wonder at the question. Who could wish to hurt the gentle Balder? Alas, the mistletoe did not promise. Frigga saw it growing high up on an oak tree. It seemed too small and weak to do any harm. She did not ask it to promise. On the tenth day of her journey, she came back again to Asgard. She told the sorrowing Odin and his friends what she had done. In their joy they found a new way to do Balder honor. He stood in their midst while the most skillful heroes hurled their arrows at him. At first, they threw only small twigs and pebbles. Everything, however, had soon proved itself true to its promise. Then the heroes lost all fear of harming him and threw their warlike weapons. Balder stood unharmed and smiling among them. Each day they met on the plain and in this sport proved the love of all things for him. The blind Höder was the only one in Asgard who could not join in the game. He was Balder's brother and loved him very dearly. Höder was not unhappy, but always cheered and shouted as gaily as the others. One day as he stood alone, Loki saw him. Loki was a mischief maker. His jokes were often cruel; indeed, most of the unhappiness in Asgard was caused by Loki's unkindness. "Höder, why do you not do Balder honor?" asked Loki. "I am blind," Höder answered, "and besides I have nothing to throw." "Here is my arrow," said Loki. "Take it; I will guide your hands." Alas, the cruel Loki had made the arrow of mistletoe. He knew that this was the only way in which Balder could be harmed. He longed to see the surprise of the heroes when Balder should at last be wounded. Away flew the arrow. Balder, the beautiful, fell lifeless to the ground. Then all Asgard was dark with sorrow. Strong heroes wept and would not be comforted. The earth grew cold, white and still. The water would not flow, and the seeds refused to grow. The birds were silent. No flowers breathed their perfumes into the air. There was not a smile in all the world. Odin said, "This cannot be. "Balder shall return. I, myself, will go and bring him from Hela's dark regions." But Frigga had already sent a messenger to the spirit world to beg Queen Hela to release Balder. While waiting for the messenger to return, the heroes were not idle. For twelve days and nights they worked as only love can make men work. They did not pause for food nor rest. They built a great funeral pyre, and no one was too small to help in the work of love. They found Balder's ship upon the seashore. They brought great logs from the forest and bound them upon the deck. Upon these they placed his beautiful white horse, his dogs, his shining armor, and many things which he had loved on earth. When it was finished, they raised the sails, set the ship on fire and pushed it out upon the sea. They sang and wept all night until at sunrise the sails fell. They watched the flames die down and the waves wash over the sinking ship. As they turned sadly from the shore, they met the messenger from Hela's regions. "Rejoice," he said, "Hela says, 'If everything living and lifeless weep for Balder, he may return to us.'" There was great happiness in Asgard that day. "Surely," they thought, "everything in the world will weep for Balder." They had forgotten the cruel Loki. He sat with dry eyes though rocks and trees, birds and flowers, wind and clouds were shedding tears. When Odin found that Balder could not return to life, his anger and grief were terrible to see. In fear, Loki hid himself deep in the earth under a mountain. Frigga knew that he was conquered, and she patiently waited for the time when Balder should again be allowed to bring gladness to the earth, and fill all the heavens with the glory of his smile. [Illustration] HOW THE CHIPMUNK GOT THE STRIPES ON ITS BACK. Do you all know the little striped chipmunk which lives in our woods? He has a cousin in far off India called the geloori. It is said the stripes came on the back of the geloori in a wonderful way. One day the great Shiva saw a little gray chipmunk on the seashore. He was dipping his bushy tail into the sea, and shaking out the water on the shore. Twenty times a minute he dipped it into the ocean. In wonder, Shiva said, "What are you doing, little foolish, gray, geloori? Why do you tire yourself with such hard labor?" The geloori answered, "I cannot stop, great Shiva. "The storm blew down the palm tree, where I built my nest. "See! the tree has fallen seaward, and the nest lies in the water; my wife and pretty children are in it; I fear that it will float away. Therefore all day and all night I must dip the water from the sea. "I hope soon to bale it dry. "I must save my darlings even if I spoil my tail." Shiva stooped and with his great hand stroked the little squirrel. On the geloori's soft fur from his nose to the end of his tail, there came four green stripes! They were the marks of Shiva's fingers, placed there as signs of love. Shiva raised his hand, and the water rolled back from the shore. Safe among the rocks and seaweeds, the palm tree lay on dry land. The little squirrel hastened to it; his tail was now high in the air. He found his wife and children dry and well in their house of woven grass-blades. As they sang their welcomes to him, the geloori noticed with delight that each smooth little back was striped with marks of Shiva's fingers. This sign of love is still to be seen upon the back of chipmunks. That is the reason why in India, good men never kill them. A man who loves both children and chipmunks says, when he tells this story, "Perhaps our squirrels, though Shiva never stroked them, would be grateful if we left them, unharmed, to play in the maples in our woods." THE FOX AND THE STORK. A fox met a stork and invited him to dinner. "With all my heart, friend," said the stork. When they arrived at the home of the fox and dinner was served, he was not so happy. The fox had fine hot soup, but he served it in shallow plates. The poor stork could only stand by and watch the fox eat. The fox seemed to think that it was a very good joke. The next day the stork met the fox and invited him to dinner. The stork brought out fine hot soup in a high narrow necked bottle, but the fox could not see the joke at all. The stork said, "Friend fox, enjoy your dinner. I hope that the soup is as well flavored as yours was yesterday." As he said this he poured out half of the soup into a bowl and set it before the fox. The cunning old fox felt so ashamed that he has never looked anyone straight in the face since that day. PROMETHEUS. Greece is far away to the east over a great ocean. It is a very small country with high mountains in every part of it. The people who lived there long ago could not easily go from one place to another. Some of the mountains reached above the clouds and made great walls around their homes. Men sometimes lived all their lives near the sea and never saw it. These people who were shut up in the little valley of Greece did many wonderful things. As they could not go far from their homes they had time to see how beautiful the things around them were. Perhaps they looked at the sky so much that they wished to have everything on earth just as beautiful. They gave their children work to do which made them strong and graceful. Some of the Greeks carved statues from the marble in the mountains. Some built great temples of it. Some painted pictures, while others made gardens more beautiful than pictures. Others wrote books. Many of the stories you like were written by the poets who lived in Greece long ago. In all these ways the Greeks showed their love for their country and made it a better place in which to live. Though they were so wise they had many thoughts which seem strange to us. They believed that long before they were born a race of giants had lived among the mountains. At one time the giants grew angry with Zeus, their king, and wished to take his throne away from him. There was a wise giant, named Prometheus, who begged them not to attempt to do this. He tried to show them how foolish they were. They would not listen to him. Zeus lived upon Mount Olympus, the highest mountain in Greece. The giants brought great rocks to this mountain and piled them up, higher and higher, until they reached the sky. Zeus waited until the giants had finished their work and were ready for battle. Then he put out his hand and touched the great mound. Instantly it fell over into the sea. Prometheus and his brother were now the only people on earth. They were so lonely that Zeus told them to model some people from clay. Prometheus made animals and men and Epimetheus, his brother, gave them gifts of courage, swiftness and strength. To some he gave feathers and wings, to others fur and claws, and to others a hard shelly covering. When he came to man he had no covering left. Zeus said, "I will clothe man," and that is the reason his covering is so delicate and beautiful. Prometheus' people could not breathe. Zeus sent him to Æolus, the god of the winds, for help. Æolus sent his strong son, North Wind, back with Prometheus. When North Wind saw the people of clay he whistled with surprise. He blew his breath upon them. They turned as white as snow and began to breathe. They were a cold people, however, and Prometheus did not love them. He went to Æolus again and this time South Wind and the zephyrs came with him. South Wind brought the people green grass and flowers and birds. The zephyrs showed them how to laugh and cry and sing and dance. But the people were stupid. They lived like ants in dark caves. Prometheus saw that there was only one thing which would help them. That was _fire_. Fire was the most precious thing Zeus had, and he kept it ever burning around his throne. When Prometheus asked for fire Zeus was angry. "I have already given too much to your people," he said. "Let them now help themselves." Prometheus was sad, indeed. He loved his people more than he did himself. At last he said: "They shall have the fire. I will pay for it with my life." He went straight to Zeus' throne and filled a ferule with it, and carried it to his people. Then the people began to be wise. He taught them to cook, and to build houses, and to sail their ships upon the ocean. He showed them how to get rich ores from the mountains and prepare them for use. They learned how to plow and to reap and to store up their food for the winter. Zeus was angry with Prometheus. He chained him to a rock on the top of a high mountain. He sent a great bird each day to torment him. Zeus said that he must stay there until he repented and returned the fire to heaven. There Prometheus stayed and suffered for many burning summers and long, cold winters. Sometimes he grew faint-hearted and wished to be free. Then he looked down and saw how the fire was helping the people and how happy they were, and he grew strong again. After many, many years, a Greek hero who was sailing over the mountain in a golden cup, saw Prometheus. It was Hercules. He shot the bird with a golden arrow, unbound the chains and set the wise Prometheus free. [Illustration] HERMES. Æolus was the father of all the winds, great and small. Long ago, they all lived happily together in a dark cave near the sea. On holidays, North Wind, South Wind, East Wind and West Wind and their faithful sisters, came home and told of their travels. The whirlwinds performed their most wonderful feats, and the zephyrs sang their sweetest songs. These holidays, however, did not come often. There were no idle children in the family of Æolus. They swept and dusted the whole world. They carried water over all the earth. They helped push the great ships across the ocean. The smaller winds scattered the seeds and sprinkled the flowers, and did many other things which you may find out for yourselves. Indeed, they were so busy that Æolus was often left alone in his dark home for several days at a time. He was glad when one summer morning a baby came to the cave. The baby's name was Hermes, but Æolus called him "Little Mischief," because he was so little and so full of tricks. Zeus was Hermes' father and his mother was the beautiful Queen Maia. She was often called "Star of Spring," because people thought that wherever she stepped flowers sprang from under the snow. Æolus loved Hermes dearly. He taught him many secrets which only the winds know. Hermes was a wise baby and understood all that Æolus told him. When he was only two days old he could run and whistle as well as North Wind. One day while he was very young he climbed out of his cradle and ran down to the seashore. There he found an old tortoise shell. He picked it up and put a row of holes along each edge of the shell. Through these holes he wove some reeds which he found upon the seashore. Then he blew softly upon the reeds. The birds heard such wonderful music that they stopped to listen. The leaves on the trees began to dance, and nodded to the flowers to keep still. The waves on the shore caught the tune and have been singing it ever since. Hermes had invented the lyre and brought a new kind of music into the world. He soon tired of his lyre and went back to his cradle in the cave. As he lay there he could see a beautiful blue meadow with many white cows upon it. Hermes knew that the cows belonged to his brother, King Apollo. "What fun," thought he, "I will go and make the cows run." Off he ran after them until he was tired and out of breath. Then he drove them all backward into a cave, and fastened them in. King Apollo soon missed the cows and searched all the meadow for them. He traced them to the cave, but when he came closer to it, he found that all the tracks led from the opening, not into it. Near the cave he saw an old man who told him that he had seen the cows. He said that with them he had seen a baby with wings on his cap and heels. Apollo knew at once that the baby was his brother, Hermes. He went straight to the cave of Æolus. There was Hermes in his cradle playing with the shell just like any other baby. Apollo was angry and commanded him to stop laughing and crowing and tell him where the white cows were. Hermes only picked up the shell and breathed softly upon it. Apollo forgot his anger and everything but the beautiful music. He took Hermes in his arms and kissed him and begged him to teach him his secret. Hermes was glad to be so easily forgiven. He gave Apollo the lyre and taught him many ways to play upon it. Apollo was soon able to make even sweeter music than Hermes, and he afterwards became the god of music. He was so thankful to Hermes for his gift that he gave him a wonderful rod called the caduceus. Whatever Hermes touched with the rod became wise, loving and unselfish. One time he saw two hissing serpents about to spring at each other in fury. He touched them with the caduceus. Instantly they twined themselves lovingly around the rod and never again left it. Apollo also gave Hermes charge over all the cows in the blue meadow. Hermes loved the cows and often took them with him on his journeys. He was a wild youth and a great traveler, and so it happens that in nearly all the countries of the world Hermes and his white cows have been seen. IRIS' BRIDGE. In the sky where the amber tints are seen on the clouds, Iris was born. She loved her home and all the beautiful things around her. Perhaps she sailed in the moon's silver boat and knew why the stars kept twinkling. Perhaps she feasted on sunshine and dew, and slept on the soft white clouds. More than anything in her sky-home, Iris loved her grandfather, the stern old ocean. When he was merry, and drove his white horses over the water, she was happy. When he was troubled, and the sky grew dark and sad, she quietly slipped her hand into his. Instantly he smiled, and became gentle again. He longed always to keep her with him, but the Sun said: "No, Iris belongs to both ocean and sky. "Let her be the messenger between heaven and earth." They placed golden wings upon her shoulders and made her a bridge of beautiful colors. One end of the bridge they rested in the sky, but the other Iris could fasten to the earth with a pot of gold. This was the way Iris' path was made: The earth gave the tints of her fairest flowers, the sea brought great ribbons of silvery mist, the wind was the shuttle, the sky was the loom and the Sun himself was the weaver. It is no wonder that the most beautiful thing in all the world is Iris' bridge, the rainbow. [Illustration] 
6447	----	PROSERPINE & MIDAS Two unpublished Mythological Dramas by MARY SHELLEY Edited with Introduction by A. KOSZUL PREFATORY NOTE. The editor came across the unpublished texts included in this volume as early as 1905. Perhaps he ought to apologize for delaying their appearance in print. The fact is he has long been afraid of overrating their intrinsic value. But as the great Shelley centenary year has come, perhaps this little monument of his wife's collaboration may take its modest place among the tributes which will be paid to his memory. For Mary Shelley's mythological dramas can at least claim to be the proper setting for some of the most beautiful lyrics of the poet, which so far have been read in undue isolation. And even as a literary sign of those times, as an example of that classical renaissance which the romantic period fostered, they may not be altogether negligible. These biographical and literary points have been dealt with in an introduction for which the kindest help was long ago received from the late Dr. Garnett and the late Lord Abinger. Sir Walter Raleigh was also among the first to give both encouragement and guidance. My friends M. Emile Pons and Mr. Roger Ingpen have read the book in manuscript. The authorities of the Bodleian Library and of the Clarendon Press have been as generously helpful as is their well-known wont. To all the editor wishes to record his acknowledgements and thanks. STRASBOURG. INTRODUCTION. I. 'The compositions published in Mrs. Shelley's lifetime afford but an inadequate conception of the intense sensibility and mental vigour of this extraordinary woman.' Thus wrote Dr. Garnett, in 1862 (Preface to his _Relics of Shelley_). The words of praise may have sounded unexpectedly warm at that date. Perhaps the present volume will make the reader more willing to subscribe, or less inclined to demur. Mary Godwin in her younger days certainly possessed a fair share of that nimbleness of invention which generally characterizes women of letters. Her favourite pastime as a child, she herself testifies, [Footnote: Preface to the 1831 edition of _Frankenstein_.] had been to write stories. And a dearer pleasure had been--to use her own characteristic abstract and elongated way of putting it--'the following up trains of thought which had for their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents'. All readers of Shelley's life remember how later on, as a girl of nineteen--and a two years' wife--she was present, 'a devout but nearly silent listener', at the long symposia held by her husband and Byron in Switzerland (June 1816), and how the pondering over 'German horrors', and a common resolve to perpetrate ghost stories of their own, led her to imagine that most unwomanly of all feminine romances, _Frankenstein._ The paradoxical effort was paradoxically successful, and, as publishers' lists aver to this day, Frankenstein's monster has turned out to be the hardest-lived specimen of the 'raw-head-and-bloody-bones' school of romantic tales. So much, no doubt, to the credit of Mary Shelley. But more creditable, surely, is the fact that she was not tempted, as 'Monk' Lewis had been, to persevere in those lugubrious themes. Although her publishers--_et pour cause_--insisted on styling her 'the author of Frankenstein', an entirely different vein appears in her later productions. Indeed, a quiet reserve of tone, a slow, sober, and sedate bearing, are henceforth characteristic of all her literary attitudes. It is almost a case of running from one to the other extreme. The force of style which even adverse critics acknowledged in _Frankenstein_ was sometimes perilously akin to the most disputable kinds of romantic rant. But in the historical or society novels which followed, in the contributions which graced the 'Keepsakes' of the thirties, and even--alas--in the various prefaces and commentaries which accompanied the publication of so many poems of Shelley, his wife succumbed to an increasing habit of almost Victorian reticence and dignity. And those later novels and tales, though they sold well in their days and were kindly reviewed, can hardly boast of any reputation now. Most of them are pervaded by a brooding spirit of melancholy of the 'moping' rather than the 'musical' sort, and consequently rather ineffective as an artistic motive. Students of Shelley occasionally scan those pages with a view to pick some obscure 'hints and indirections', some veiled reminiscences, in the stories of the adventures and misfortunes of _The Last Man_ or _Lodore_. And the books may be good biography at times--they are never life. Altogether there is a curious contrast between the two aspects, hitherto revealed, of Mary Shelley's literary activities. It is as if the pulse which had been beating so wildly, so frantically, in _Frankenstein_ (1818), had lapsed, with _Valperga_ (1823) and the rest, into an increasingly sluggish flow. The following pages may be held to bridge the gap between those two extremes in a felicitous way. A more purely artistic mood, instinct with the serene joy and clear warmth of Italian skies, combining a good deal of youthful buoyancy with a sort of quiet and unpretending philosophy, is here represented. And it is submitted that the little classical fancies which Mrs. Shelley never ventured to publish are quite as worthy of consideration as her more ambitious prose works. For one thing they give us the longest poetical effort of the writer. The moon of _Epipsychidion_ never seems to have been thrilled with the music of the highest spheres. Yet there were times when Shelley's inspiration and example fired her into something more than her usual calm and cold brilliancy. One of those periods--perhaps the happiest period in Mary's life--was during the early months in Italy of the English 'exiles'. 'She never was more strongly impelled to write than at this time; she felt her powers fresh and strong within her; all she wanted was some motive, some suggestion to guide her in the choice of a subject.' [Footnote: Mrs. Marshall, _The Life and Letters of Mary W. Shelley_, i. 216.] Shelley then expected her to try her hand at a drama, perhaps on the terrible story of the Cenci, or again on the catastrophes of Charles the First. Her _Frankenstein_ was attracting more attention than had ever been granted to his own works. And Shelley, with that touching simplicity which characterized his loving moments, showed the greatest confidence in the literary career of his wife. He helped her and encouraged her in every way. He then translated for her Plato's _Symposium_. He led her on in her Latin and Italian studies. He wanted her--probably as a sort of preliminary exercise before her flight into tragedy--to translate Alfieri's _Myrrha_. 'Remember _Charles the First_, and do you be prepared to bring at least some of _Myrrha_ translated,' he wrote; 'remember, remember _Charles the First_ and _Myrrha_,' he insisted; and he quoted, for her benefit, the presumptuous aphorism of Godwin, in _St. Leon_, 'There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not execute'. [Footnote: Letter from Padua, 22 September 1818.] But in the year that followed these auspicious days, the strain and stress of her life proved more powerful on Mary Shelley than the inspiration of literature. The loss of her little girl Clara, at Venice, on the 24th of September 1818, was cruel enough. However, she tried hard not to show the 'pusillanimous disposition' which, Godwin assured his daughter, characterizes the persons 'that sink long under a calamity of this nature'. [Footnote: 27 October 1818] But the death of her boy, William, at Rome, on the 4th of June 1819, reduced her to a 'kind of despair'. Whatever it could be to her husband, Italy no longer was for her a 'paradise of exiles'. The flush and excitement of the early months, the 'first fine careless rapture', were for ever gone. 'I shall never recover that blow,' Mary wrote on the 27th of June 1819; 'the thought never leaves me for a single moment; everything on earth has lost its interest for me,' This time her imperturbable father 'philosophized' in vain. With a more sympathetic and acuter intelligence of her case, Leigh Hunt insisted (July 1819) that she should try and give her paralysing sorrow some literary expression, 'strike her pen into some... genial subject... and bring up a fountain of gentle tears for us'. But the poor childless mother could only rehearse her complaint--'to have won, and thus cruelly to have lost' (4 August 1819). In fact she had, on William's death, discontinued her diary. Yet on the date just mentioned, as Shelley reached his twenty-seven years, she plucked up courage and resumed the task. Shelley, however absorbed by the creative ardour of his _Annus mirabilis_, could not but observe that his wife's 'spirits continued wretchedly depressed' (5 August 1819); and though masculine enough to resent the fact at times more than pity it, he was human enough to persevere in that habit of co-operative reading and writing which is one of the finest traits of his married life. 'I write in the morning,' his wife testifies, 'read Latin till 2, when we dine; then I read some English book, and two cantos of Dante with Shelley [Footnote: Letter to Mrs. Hunt, 28 August 1819.]--a fair average, no doubt, of the homely aspect of the great days which produced _The Cenci_ and _Prometheus_. On the 12th November, in Florence, the birth of a second son, Percy Florence Shelley, helped Mary out of her sense of bereavement. Subsequent letters still occasionally admit 'low spirits'. But the entries in the Journal make it clear that the year 1819-20 was one of the most pleasantly industrious of her life. Not Dante only, but a motley series of books, great and small, ancient and modern, English and foreign, bespoke her attention. Not content with Latin, and the extemporized translations which Shelley could give her of Plato's _Republic_, she started Greek in 1820, and soon came to delight in it. And again she thought of original composition. 'Write', 'work,'--the words now occur daily in her Journal. These must mainly refer to the long historical novel, which she had planned, as early as 1819, [Footnote: She had 'thought of it' at Marlow, as appears from her letter to Mrs. Gisborne, 30 June 1821 (in Mrs. Marshall, i. p. 291); but the materials for it were not found before the stay at Naples, and it was not actually begun 'till a year afterwards, at Pisa' (ibid.).] under the title of _Castruccio_, _Prince of Lucca_, and which was not published until 1823, as _Valperga_. It was indeed a laborious task. The novel 'illustrative of the manners of the Middle Ages in Italy' had to be 'raked out of fifty old books', as Shelley said. [Footnote: Letter to T. L. Peacock, November 1820.] But heavy as the undertaking must have been, it certainly did not engross all the activities of Shelley's wife in this period. And it seems highly probable that the two little mythological dramas which we here publish belong to this same year 1820. The evidence for this date is as follows. Shelley's lyrics, which these dramas include, were published by his wife (_Posthumous Poems_, 1824) among the 'poems written in 1820'. Another composition, in blank verse, curiously similar to Mary's own work, entitled _Orpheus_, has been allotted by Dr. Garnett (_Relics of Shelley_, 1862) to the same category. [Footnote: Dr. Garnett, in his prefatory note, states that Orpheus 'exists only in a transcript by Mrs. Shelley, who has written in playful allusion to her toils as amanuensis _Aspetto fin che il diluvio cala, ed allora cerco di posare argine alle sue parole_'. The poem is thus supposed to have been Shelley's attempt at improvisation, if not indeed a translation from the Italian of the 'improvvisatore' Sgricci. The Shelleys do not seem to have come to know and hear Sgricci before the end of December 1820. The Italian note after all has no very clear import. And Dr. Garnett in 1905 inclined to the view that _Orpheus_ was the work not of Shelley, but of his wife. A comparison of that fragment and the dramas here published seems to me to suggest the same conclusion, though in both cases Mary Shelley must have been helped by her husband.] Again, it may well be more than a coincidence, that the Proserpine motive occurs in that passage from Dante's _Purgatorio_, canto 28, on 'Matilda gathering flowers', which Shelley is known to have translated shortly before Medwin's visit in the late autumn of 1820. O come, that I may hear Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna's glen, Thou seemest to my fancy,--singing here, And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden, when She lost the spring and Ceres her more dear. [Footnote: As published by Medwin, 1834 and 1847.] But we have a far more important, because a direct, testimony in a manuscript addition made by Thomas Medwin in the margin of a copy of his _Life of Shelley_ (1847). [Footnote: The copy, 2 vols., was sold at Sotheby's on the 6th December 1906: Mr. H. Buxton Forman (who was, I think, the buyer) published the contents in _The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, By Thomas Medwin, A New Edition printed from a copy copiously amended and extended by the Author_ . . . Milford, 1913. The passage here quoted appears on p. 27 of the 2nd vol. of the 1847 edition (Forman ed., p. 252)] The passage is clearly intended--though chronology is no more than any other exact science the 'forte' of that most tantalizing of biographers--to refer to the year 1820. 'Mrs. Shelley had at this time been writing some little Dramas on classical subjects, one of which was the Rape of Proserpine, a very graceful composition which she has never published. Shelley contributed to this the exquisite fable of Arethusa and the Invocation to Ceres.--Among the Nymphs gathering flowers on Enna were two whom she called Ino and Uno, names which I remember in the Dialogue were irresistibly ludicrous. She also wrote one on Midas, into which were introduced by Shelley, in the Contest between Pan and Apollo, the Sublime Effusion of the latter, and Pan's characterised Ode.' This statement of Medwin finally settles the question. The 'friend' at whose request, Mrs. Shelley says, [Footnote: The Hymns of Pan and Apollo were first published by Mrs. Shelley in _the Posthumous Poems_, 1824, with a note saying that they had been 'written at the request of a friend to be inserted in a drama on the subject of Midas'. _Arethusa_ appeared in the same volume, dated 'Pisa, 1820'. Proserpine's song was not published before the first collected edition of 1839.] the lyrics were written by her husband, was herself. And she was the author of the dramas. [Footnote: Not E. E. Williams (Buxton Forman, ed. 1882, vol. iv, p. 34). The manuscript of the poetical play composed about 1822 by the latter, 'The Promise', with Shelley's autograph poem ('Night! with all thine eyes look down'), was given to the Bodleian Library in 1914.] The manuscript (Bodleian Library, MS. Shelley, d. 2) looks like a cheap exercise-book, originally of 40, now of 36 leaves, 8 1/4 x 6 inches, in boards. The contents are the dramas here presented, written in a clear legible hand--the equable hand of Mrs. Shelley. [Footnote: Shelley's lyrics are also in his wife's writing--Mr. Locock is surely mistaken in assuming two different hands to this manuscript (_The Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley_, Methuen, 1909, vol. iii, p. xix).] There are very few words corrected or cancelled. It is obviously a fair copy. Mr. C. D. Locock, in his _Examination of the Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library_ (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1903, pp. 24-25), has already pointed out the valuable emendations of the 'received' text of Shelley's lyrics which are found here. In fact the only mystery is why neither Shelley, nor Mary in the course of her long widowed years, should have published these curious, and surely not contemptible, by-products of their co-operation in the fruitful year 1820. II. For indeed there is more than a personal interest attached to these writings of Mrs. Shelley's. The fact that the same mind which had revelled, a few years earlier, in the fantastical horrors of Frankenstein's abortive creation, could now dwell on the melancholy fate of Proserpine or the humorous disappointment of Midas, and delight in their subtle poetical or moral symbolism--this fact has its significance. It is one of the earliest indications of the revival, in the heart of Romanticism, of the old love of classical myths and classical beauty. The subject is a wide one, and cannot be adequately dealt with in this place. But a few words may not be superfluous for a correct historical appreciation of Mrs. Shelley's attempt. How deficient had been the sense of classical beauty in the so-called classical age of English literature, is a trite consideration of criticism. The treatment of mythology is particularly conclusive on this point. Throughout the 'Augustan' era, mythology was approached as a mere treasure-house of pleasant fancies, artificial decorations, 'motives', whether sumptuous or meretricious. Allusions to Jove and Venus, Mercury, Apollo, or Bacchus, are of course found in every other page of Dryden, Pope, Prior, Swift, Gay, and Parnell. But no fresh presentation, no loving interpretation, of the old myths occur anywhere. The immortal stories were then part and parcel of a sort of poetical curriculum through which the whole school must be taken by the stern masters Tradition and Propriety. There is little to be wondered at, if this matter of curriculum was treated by the more passive scholars as a matter of course, and by the sharper and less reverent disciples as a matter of fun. Indeed, if any personality is then evinced in the adaptation of these old world themes, it is generally connected with a more or less emphatic disparagement or grotesque distortion of their real meaning. When Dryden, for example, makes use of the legend of Midas, in his _Wife of Bath's Tale_, he makes, not Midas's minister, but his queen, tell the mighty secret--and thus secures another hit at woman's loquacity. Prior's _Female Phaeton_ is a younger sister, who, jealous of her elder's success, thus pleads with her 'mamma': I'll have my earl as well as she Or know the reason why. And she wants to flaunt it accordingly. Finally, Fondness prevailed; mamma gave way; Kitty, at heart's desire, Obtained the chariot for a day, And set the world on fire. Pandora, in Parnell's _Hesiod or the Rise of Woman_, is only a 'shining vengeance... A pleasing bosom-cheat, a specious ill' sent by the gods upon earth to punish the race of Prometheus. The most poetical fables of Greece are desecrated by Gay into mere miniatures for the decoration of his _Fan_. Similar instances abound later on. When Armstrong brings in an apostrophe to the Naiads, it is in the course of a _Poetical Essay on the Art of Preserving Health_. And again, when Cowper stirs himself to intone an _Ode to Apollo_, it is in the same mock-heroic vein: Patron of all those luckless brains, That to the wrong side leaning Indite much metre with much pains And little or no meaning... Even in Gray's--'Pindaric Gray's'--treatment of classical themes, there is a sort of pervading _ennui_, or the forced appreciativeness of a gouty, disappointed man. The daughter of Jove to whom he dedicates his hymns too often is 'Adversity'. And classical reminiscences have, even with him, a dull musty tinge which recalls the antiquarian in his Cambridge college-rooms rather than the visitor to Florence and Rome. For one thing, his allusions are too many, and too transitory, to appear anything but artistic tricks and verse-making tools. The 'Aegean deep', and 'Delphi's steep', and 'Meander's amber waves', and the 'rosy-crowned Loves', are too cursorily summoned, and dismissed, to suggest that they have been brought in for their own sweet sakes. It was thus with all the fine quintessences of ancient lore, with all the pearl-like accretions of the faiths and fancies of the old world: they were handled about freely as a kind of curious but not so very rare coins, which found no currency in the deeper thoughts of our modern humanity, and could therefore be used as a mere badge of the learning and taste of a literary 'coterie'. The very names of the ancient gods and heroes were in fact assuming that abstract anaemic look which common nouns have in everyday language. Thus, when Garrick, in his verses _Upon a Lady's Embroidery_, mentions 'Arachne', it is obvious that he does not expect the reader to think of the daring challenger of Minerva's art, or the Princess of Lydia, but just of a plain spider. And again, when Falconer, in his early _Monody on the death of the Prince of Wales_, expresses a rhetorical wish 'to aid hoarse howling Boreas with his sighs,' that particular son of Astraeus, whose love for the nymph Orithyia was long unsuccessful, because he could not 'sigh', is surely far from the poet's mind; and 'to swell the wind', or 'the gale', would have served his turn quite as well, though less 'elegantly'. Even Gibbon, with all his partiality for whatever was pre- or post- Christian, had indeed no better word than 'elegant' for the ancient mythologies of Greece and Rome, and he surely reflected no particularly advanced opinion when he praised and damned, in one breath, 'the pleasant and absurd system of Paganism.' [Footnote: Essay on the Study of Literature, Section 56.] No wonder if in his days, and for a long time after, the passionate giants of the Ages of Fable had dwindled down to the pretty puppets with which the daughters of the gentry had to while away many a school hour. But the days of this rhetorical--or satirical, didactic--or perfunctory, treatment of classical themes were doomed. It is the glory of Romanticism to have opened 'magic casements' not only on 'the foam of perilous seas' in the West, but also on the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody had ceased. [Footnote: Blake, _Poetical Sketches_, 1783.] Romanticism, as a freshening up of all the sources of life, a general rejuvenescence of the soul, a ubiquitous visiting of the spirit of delight and wonder, could not confine itself to the fields of mediaeval romance. Even the records of the Greek and Roman thought assumed a new beauty; the classical sense was let free from its antiquarian trammels, and the perennial fanes resounded to the songs of a more impassioned worship. The change, however, took some time. And it must be admitted that in England, especially, the Romantic movement was slow to go back to classical themes. Winckelmann and Goethe, and Chenier--the last, indeed, practically all unknown to his contemporaries--had long rediscovered Antiquity, and felt its pulse anew, and praised its enduring power, when English poetry had little, if anything, to show in answer to the plaintive invocation of Blake to the Ancient Muses. The first generation of English Romantics either shunned the subject altogether, or simply echoed Blake's isolated lines in isolated passages as regretful and almost as despondent. From Persia to Paraguay Southey could wander and seek after exotic themes; his days could be 'passed among the dead'--but neither the classic lands nor the classic heroes ever seem to have detained him. Walter Scott's 'sphere of sensation may be almost exactly limited by the growth of heather', as Ruskin says; [Footnote: _Modern Painters_, iii. 317] and when he came to Rome, his last illness prevented him from any attempt he might have wished to make to enlarge his field of vision. Wordsworth was even less far-travelled, and his home-made poetry never thought of the 'Pagan' and his 'creed outworn', but as a distinct _pis-aller_ in the way of inspiration. [Footnote: _Sonnet_ 'The world is too much with us'; cf. _The Excursion_, iv. 851-57.] And again, though Coleridge has a few magnificent lines about them, he seems to have even less willingly than Wordsworth hearkened after The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion. [Footnote: _The Piccolomini_, II, iv.] It was to be otherwise with the later English Romantic poets. They lived and worked at a time when the whole atmosphere and even the paraphernalia of literary composition had just undergone a considerable change. After a period of comparative seclusion and self-concentration, England at the Peace of Amiens once more found its way to Europe--and vice versa. And from our point of view this widening of prospects is especially noticeable. For the classical revival in Romanticism appears to be closely connected with it. It is an alluring subject to investigate. How the progress of scholarship, the recent 'finds' of archaeology, the extension of travelling along Mediterranean shores, the political enthusiasms evoked by the stirrings of young Italy and young Greece, all combined to reawaken in the poetical imagination of the times the dormant memories of antiquity has not yet been told by the historians of literature. [Footnote: At least as far as England is concerned. For France, cf. Canat, _La renaissance de la Grece antique_, Hachette, Paris, 1911.] But--and this is sufficient for our purpose--every one knows what the Elgin Marbles have done for Keats and Shelley; and what inspirations were derived from their pilgrimages in classic lands by all the poets of this and the following generation, from Byron to Landor. Such experiences could not but react on the common conception of mythology. A knowledge of the great classical sculpture of Greece could not but invest with a new dignity and chastity the notions which so far had been nurtured on the Venus de' Medici and the Belvedere Apollo--even Shelley lived and possibly died under their spell. And 'returning to the nature which had inspired the ancient myths', the Romantic poets must have felt with a keener sense 'their exquisite vitality'. [Footnote: J. A, Symonds, _Studies of the Greek Poets_, ii, p. 258.] The whole tenor of English Romanticism may be said to have been affected thereby. For English Romanticism--and this is one of its most distinctive merits--had no exclusiveness about it. It was too spontaneous, one would almost say, too unconscious, ever to be clannish. It grew, untrammelled by codes, uncrystallized into formulas, a living thing always, not a subject-matter for grandiloquent manifestoes and more or less dignified squabbles. It could therefore absorb and turn to account elements which seemed antagonistic to it in the more sophisticated forms it assumed in other literatures. Thus, whilst French Romanticism--in spite of what it may or may not have owed to Chenier--became often distinctly, deliberately, wilfully anti-classical, whilst for example [Footnote: As pointed out by Brunetiere, _Evolution de la Poesie lyrique_, ii, p. 147.] Victor Hugo in that all-comprehending _Legende des Siecles_ could find room for the Hegira and for Zim-Zizimi, but did not consecrate a single line to the departed glories of mythical Greece, the Romantic poets of England may claim to have restored in freshness and purity the religion of antiquity. Indeed their voice was so convincing that even the great Christian chorus that broke out afresh in the Victorian era could not entirely drown it, and Elizabeth Barrett had an apologetic way of dismissing 'the dead Pan', and all the 'vain false gods of Hellas', with an acknowledgement of your beauty which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you. This may be taken to have been the average attitude, in the forties, towards classical mythology. That twenty years before, at least in the Shelley circle, it was far less grudging, we now have definite proof. Not only was Shelley prepared to admit, with the liberal opinion of the time, that ancient mythology 'was a system of nature concealed under the veil of allegory', a system in which 'a thousand fanciful fables contained a secret and mystic meaning': [Footnote: _Edinb. Rev._, July 1808.] he was prepared to go a considerable step farther, and claim that there was no essential difference between ancient mythology and the theology of the Christians, that both were interpretations, in more or less figurative language, of the great mysteries of being, and indeed that the earlier interpretation, precisely because it was more frankly figurative and poetical than the later one, was better fitted to stimulate and to allay the sense of wonder which ought to accompany a reverent and high-souled man throughout his life-career. In the earlier phase of Shelley's thought, this identification of the ancient and the modern faiths was derogatory to both. The letter which he had written in 1812 for the edification of Lord Ellenborough revelled in the contemplation of a time 'when the Christian religion shall have faded from the earth, when its memory like that of Polytheism now shall remain, but remain only as the subject of ridicule and wonder'. But as time went on, Shelley's views became less purely negative. Instead of ruling the adversaries back to back out of court, he bethought himself of venturing a plea in favour of the older and weaker one. It may have been in 1817 that he contemplated an 'Essay in favour of polytheism'.[Footnote: Cf. our _Shelley's Prose in the Bodleian MSS_., 1910, p. 124.] He was then living on the fringe of a charmed circle of amateur and adventurous Hellenists who could have furthered the scheme. His great friend, Thomas Love Peacock, 'Greeky Peaky', was a personal acquaintance of Thomas Taylor 'the Platonist', alias 'Pagan Taylor'. And Taylor's translations and commentaries of Plato had been favourites of Shelley in his college days. Something at least of Taylor's queer mixture of flaming enthusiasm and tortuous ingenuity may be said to appear in the unexpected document we have now to examine. It is a little draft of an Essay, which occurs, in Mrs. Shelley's handwriting, as an insertion in her Journal for the Italian period. The fragment--for it is no more--must be quoted in full. [Footnote: From the 'Boscombe' MSS. Unpublished.] The necessity of a Belief in the Heathen Mythology to a Christian If two facts are related not contradictory of equal probability & with equal evidence, if we believe one we must believe the other. 1st. There is as good proof of the Heathen Mythology as of the Christian Religion. 2ly. that they [do] not contradict one another. Con[clusion]. If a man believes in one he must believe in both. Examination of the proofs of the Xtian religion--the Bible & its authors. The twelve stones that existed in the time of the writer prove the miraculous passage of the river Jordan. [Footnote: Josh. iv. 8.--These notes are _not_ Shelley's.] The immoveability of the Island of Delos proves the accouchement of Latona [Footnote: _Theogn_. 5 foll.; Homer's _Hymn to Apollo_, i. 25.]--the Bible of the Greek religion consists in Homer, Hesiod & the Fragments of Orpheus &c.--All that came afterwards to be considered apocryphal--Ovid = Josephus--of each of these writers we may believe just what we cho[o]se. To seek in these Poets for the creed & proofs of mythology which are as follows--Examination of these--1st with regard to proof--2 in contradiction or conformity to the Bible--various apparitions of God in that Book [--] Jupiter considered by himself--his attributes--disposition [--] acts--whether as God revealed himself as the Almighty to the Patriarchs & as Jehovah to the Jews he did not reveal himself as Jupiter to the Greeks--the possibility of various revelations--that he revealed himself to Cyrus. [Footnote: Probably Xenophon, _Cyrop_. VIII. vii. 2.] The inferior deities--the sons of God & the Angels--the difficulty of Jupiter's children explained away--the imagination of the poets--of the prophets--whether the circumstance of the sons of God living with women [Footnote: Gen. vi.] being related in one sentence makes it more probable than the details of Greek--Various messages of the Angels--of the deities--Abraham, Lot or Tobit. Raphael [--]Mercury to Priam [Footnote: _Iliad_, xxiv.]--Calypso & Ulysses--the angel wd then play the better part of the two whereas he now plays the worse. The ass of Balaam--Oracles--Prophets. The revelation of God as Jupiter to the Greeks---a more successful revelation than that as Jehovah to the Jews--Power, wisdom, beauty, & obedience of the Greeks--greater & of longer continuance--than those of the Jews. Jehovah's promises worse kept than Jupiter's--the Jews or Prophets had not a more consistent or decided notion concerning after life & the Judgements of God than the Greeks [--] Angels disappear at one time in the Bible & afterwards appear again. The revelation to the Greeks more complete than to the Jews--prophesies of Christ by the heathens more incontrovertible than those of the Jews. The coming of X. a confirmation of both religions. The cessation of oracles a proof of this. The Xtians better off than any but the Jews as blind as the Heathens--Much more conformable to an idea of [the] goodness of God that he should have revealed himself to the Greeks than that he left them in ignorance. Vergil & Ovid not truth of the heathen Mythology, but the interpretation of a heathen--as Milton's Paradise Lost is the interpretation of a Christian religion of the Bible. The interpretation of the mythology of Vergil & the interpretation of the Bible by Milton compared--whether one is more inconsistent than the other--In what they are contradictory. Prometheus desmotes quoted by Paul [Footnote: Shelley may refer to the proverbial phrase 'to kick against the pricks' (Acts xxvi. 14), which, however, is found in Pindar and Euripides as well as in Aeschylus (_Prom._ 323).] [--] all religion false except that which is revealed--revelation depends upon a certain degree of civilization--writing necessary--no oral tradition to be a part of faith--the worship of the Sun no revelation--Having lost the books [of] the Egyptians we have no knowledge of their peculiar revelations. If the revelation of God to the Jews on Mt Sinai had been more peculiar & impressive than some of those to the Greeks they wd not immediately after have worshiped a calf--A latitude in revelation--How to judge of prophets--the proof [of] the Jewish Prophets being prophets. The only public revelation that Jehovah ever made of himself was on Mt Sinai--Every other depended upon the testimony of a very few & usually of a single individual--We will first therefore consider the revelation of Mount Sinai. Taking the fact plainly it happened thus. The Jews were told by a man whom they believed to have supernatural powers that they were to prepare for that God wd reveal himself in three days on the mountain at the sound of a trumpet. On the 3rd day there was a cloud & lightning on the mountain & the voice of a trumpet extremely loud. The people were ordered to stand round the foot of the mountain & not on pain of death to infringe upon the bounds--The man in whom they confided went up the mountain & came down again bringing them word The draft unfortunately leaves off here, and we are unable to know for certain whether this Shelleyan paradox, greatly daring, meant to minimize the importance of the 'only public revelation' granted to the chosen people. But we have enough to understand the general trend of the argument. It did not actually intend to sap the foundations of Scriptural authority. But it was bold enough to risk a little shaking in order to prove that the Sacred Books of the Greeks and Romans did not, after all, present us with a much more rickety structure. This was a task of conciliation rather than destruction. And yet even this conservative view of the Shelleys' exegesis cannot--and will not--detract from the value of the above document. Surely, this curious theory of the equal 'inspiration' of Polytheism and the Jewish or Christian religions, whether it was invented or simply espoused by Mrs. Shelley, evinces in her--for the time being at least--a very considerable share of that adventurous if somewhat uncritical alacrity of mind which carried the poet through so many religious and political problems. It certainly vindicates her, more completely perhaps than anything hitherto published, against the strictures of those who knew her chiefly or exclusively in later years, and could speak of her as a 'most conventional slave', who 'even affected the pious dodge', and 'was not a suitable companion for the poet'. [Footnote: Trelawny's letter, 3 April 1870; in Mr. H. Buxton Forman's edition, 1910, p. 229.] Mrs. Shelley--at twenty-three years of age--had not yet run the full 'career of her humour'; and her enthusiasm for classical mythology may well have, later on, gone the way of her admiration for Spinoza, whom she read with Shelley that winter (1820-1), as Medwin notes, [Footnote: I. e. ed. H. Buxton Forman, p. 253.] and 'whose arguments she then thought irrefutable--_tempora mutantur!_' However that may be, the two little mythological dramas on _Proserpine_ and _Midas_ assume, in the light of that enthusiasm, a special interest. They stand--or fall--both as a literary, and to a certain extent as an intellectual effort. They are more than an attitude, and not much less than an avowal. Not only do they claim our attention as the single poetical work of any length which seems to have been undertaken by Mrs. Shelley; they are a unique and touching monument of that intimate co-operation which at times, especially in the early years in Italy, could make the union of 'the May' and 'the Elf' almost unreservedly delightful. It would undoubtedly be fatuous exaggeration to ascribe a very high place in literature to these little Ovidian fancies of Mrs. Shelley. The scenes, after all, are little better than adaptations--fairly close adaptations--of the Latin poet's well-known tales. Even _Proserpine_, though clearly the more successful of the two, both more strongly knit as drama, and less uneven in style and versification, cannot for a moment compare with the far more original interpretations of Tennyson, Swinburne, or Meredith. [Footnote: _Demeter and Persephone_, 1889; _The Garden of Proserpine_, 1866; _The Appeasement of Demeter_, 1888.] But it is hardly fair to draw in the great names of the latter part of the century. The parallel would be more illuminating--and the final award passed on Mrs. Shelley's attempt more favourable--if we were to think of a contemporary production like 'Barry Cornwall's' _Rape of Proserpine_, which, being published in 1820, it is just possible that the Shelleys should have known. B. W. Procter's poem is also a dramatic 'scene', written 'in imitation of the mode originated by the Greek Tragic Writers'. In fact those hallowed models seem to have left far fewer traces in Barry Cornwall's verse than the Alexandrian--or pseudo-Alexandrian--tradition of meretricious graces and coquettish fancies, which the eighteenth century had already run to death. [Footnote: To adduce an example--in what is probably not an easily accessible book to-day: Proserpine, distributing her flowers, thus addresses one of her nymphs: For this lily, Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast! And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed, If flowers have sense for envy.] And, more damnable still, the poetical essence of the legend, the identification of Proserpine's twofold existence with the grand alternation of nature's seasons, has been entirely neglected by the author. Surely his work, though published, is quite as deservedly obscure as Mrs. Shelley's derelict manuscript. _Midas_ has the privilege, if it be one, of not challenging any obvious comparison. The subject, since Lyly's and Dryden's days, has hardly attracted the attention of the poets. It was so eminently fit for the lighter kinds of presentation that the agile bibliographer who aimed at completeness would have to go through a fairly long list of masques, [Footnote: There is one by poor Christopher Smart.] comic operas, or 'burlettas', all dealing with the ludicrous misfortunes of the Phrygian king. But an examination of these would be sheer pedantry in this place. Here again Mrs. Shelley has stuck to her Latin source as closely as she could. [Footnote: Perhaps her somewhat wearying second act, on the effects of the gold-transmuting gift, would have been shorter, if Ovid (_Metam._ xi. 108-30) had not himself gone into such details on the subject.] She has made a gallant attempt to connect the two stories with which Midas has ever since Ovid's days been associated, and a distinct--indeed a too perceptible--effort to press out a moral meaning in this, as she had easily extricated a cosmological meaning in the other tale. Perhaps we have said too much to introduce these two little unpretending poetical dramas. They might indeed have been allowed to speak for themselves. A new frame often makes a new face; and some of the best known and most exquisite of Shelley's lyrics, when restored to the surroundings for which the poet intended them, needed no other set-off to appeal to the reader with a fresh charm of quiet classical grace and beauty. But the charm will operate all the more unfailingly, if we remember that this clear classical mood was by no means such a common element in the literary atmosphere of the times--not even a permanent element in the authors' lives. We have here none of the feverish ecstasy that lifts _Prometheus_ and _Hellas_ far above the ordinary range of philosophical or political poetry. But Shelley's encouragement, probably his guidance and supervision, have raised his wife's inspiration to a place considerably higher than that of _Frankenstein_ or _Valperga_. With all their faults these pages reflect some of that irradiation which Shelley cast around his own life--the irradiation of a dream beauteous and generous, beauteous in its theology (or its substitute for theology) and generous even in its satire of human weaknesses. MYTHOLOGICAL DRAMAS. Unless otherwise pointed out--by brackets, or in the notes--the text, spelling, and punctuation of the MS. have been strictly adhered to. PROSERPINE. A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONAE CERES. PROSERPINE. INO, EUNOE. Nymphs attendant upon Proserpine. IRIS. ARETHUSA, Naiad of a Spring. Shades from Hell, among which Ascalaphus. Scene; the plain of Enna, in Sicily. PROSERPINE. ACT I. _Scene; a beautiful plain, shadowed on one side by an overhanging rock, on the other a chesnut wood. Etna at a distance._ _Enter Ceres, Proserpine, Ino and Eunoe._ _Pros._ Dear Mother, leave me not! I love to rest Under the shadow of that hanging cave And listen to your tales. Your Proserpine Entreats you stay; sit on this shady bank, And as I twine a wreathe tell once again The combat of the Titans and the Gods; Or how the Python fell beneath the dart Of dread Apollo; or of Daphne's change,-- That coyest Grecian maid, whose pointed leaves Now shade her lover's brow. And I the while Gathering the starry flowers of this fair plain Will weave a chaplet, Mother, for thy hair. But without thee, the plain I think is vacant, Its [Footnote: There is an apostrophe _on_ the s.] blossoms fade,--its tall fresh grasses droop, Nodding their heads like dull things half asleep;-- Go not, dear Mother, from your Proserpine. _Cer._ My lovely child, it is high Jove's command:-- [2] The golden self-moved seats surround his throne, The nectar is poured out by Ganymede, And the ambrosia fills the golden baskets; They drink, for Bacchus is already there, But none will eat till I dispense the food. I must away--dear Proserpine, farewel!-- Eunoe can tell thee how the giants fell; Or dark-eyed Ino sing the saddest change Of Syrinx or of Daphne, or the doom Of impious Prometheus, and the boy Of fair Pandora, Mother of mankind. This only charge I leave thee and thy nymphs,-- Depart not from each other; be thou circled By that fair guard, and then no earth-born Power Would tempt my wrath, and steal thee from their sight[.] But wandering alone, by feint or force, You might be lost, and I might never know Thy hapless fate. Farewel, sweet daughter mine, Remember my commands. _Pros._ --Mother, farewel! Climb the bright sky with rapid wings; and swift As a beam shot from great Apollo's bow Rebounds from the calm mirror of the sea Back to his quiver in the Sun, do thou Return again to thy loved Proserpine. (_Exit Ceres._) And now, dear Nymphs, while the hot sun is high [3] Darting his influence right upon the plain, Let us all sit beneath the narrow shade That noontide Etna casts.--And, Ino, sweet, Come hither; and while idling thus we rest, Repeat in verses sweet the tale which says How great Prometheus from Apollo's car Stole heaven's fire--a God-like gift for Man! Or the more pleasing tale of Aphrodite; How she arose from the salt Ocean's foam, And sailing in her pearly shell, arrived On Cyprus sunny shore, where myrtles [Footnote: MS. _mytles._] bloomed And sweetest flowers, to welcome Beauty's Queen; And ready harnessed on the golden sands Stood milk-white doves linked to a sea-shell car, With which she scaled the heavens, and took her seat Among the admiring Gods. _Eun._ Proserpine's tale Is sweeter far than Ino's sweetest aong. _Pros._ Ino, you knew erewhile a River-God, Who loved you well and did you oft entice To his transparent waves and flower-strewn banks. He loved high poesy and wove sweet sounds, And would sing to you as you sat reclined On the fresh grass beside his shady cave, From which clear waters bubbled, dancing forth, And spreading freshness in the noontide air. [4] When you returned you would enchant our ears With tales and songs which did entice the fauns, [Footnote: MS. _fawns_] With Pan their King from their green haunts, to hear. Tell me one now, for like the God himself, Tender they were and fanciful, and wrapt The hearer in sweet dreams of shady groves, Blue skies, and clearest, pebble-paved streams. _Ino._ I will repeat the tale which most I loved; Which tells how lily-crowned Arethusa, Your favourite Nymph, quitted her native Greece, Flying the liquid God Alpheus, who followed, Cleaving the desarts of the pathless deep, And rose in Sicily, where now she flows The clearest spring of Enna's gifted plain. [Sidenote: By Shelley [Footnote: Inserted in a later hand, here as p. 18.] ] Arethusa arose From her couch of snows, In the Acroceraunian mountains,-- From cloud, and from crag, With many a jag, Shepherding her bright fountains. She leapt down the rocks With her rainbow locks, Streaming among the streams,-- Her steps paved with green [5] The downward ravine, Which slopes to the Western gleams:-- And gliding and springing, She went, ever singing In murmurs as soft as sleep; The Earth seemed to love her And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep. Then Alpheus bold On his glacier cold, With his trident the mountains strook; And opened a chasm In the rocks;--with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south wind It unsealed behind The urns of the silent snow, And earthquake and thunder Did rend in sunder The bars of the springs below:-- And the beard and the hair Of the river God were Seen through the torrent's sweep As he followed the light [6] Of the fleet nymph's flight To the brink of the Dorian deep. Oh, save me! oh, guide me! And bid the deep hide me, For he grasps me now by the hair! The loud ocean heard, To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer[,] And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam, Behind her descended Her billows unblended With the brackish Dorian stream:-- Like a gloomy stain On the Emerald main Alpheus rushed behind, As an eagle pursueing A dove to its ruin, Down the streams of the cloudy wind. Under the bowers [7] Where the Ocean Powers Sit on their pearled thrones, Through the coral woods Of the weltering floods, Over heaps of unvalued stones; Through the dim beams, Which amid the streams Weave a network of coloured light, And under the caves, Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's [Footnote: The intended place of the apostrophe is not clear.] night:-- Outspeeding the shark, And the sword fish dark, Under the Ocean foam, [Footnote: MS. _Ocean' foam_ as if a genitive was meant; but cf. _Ocean foam_ in the Song of Apollo (_Midas_).] And up through the rifts Of the mountain clifts, They passed to their Dorian Home. And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks, Like friends once parted, Grown single hearted They ply their watery tasks. At sunrise they leap [8] From their cradles steep In the cave of the shelving hill[,--] At noontide they flow Through the woods below And the meadows of asphodel,-- And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore;-- Like spirits that lie In the azure sky, When they love, but live no more. _Pros._ Thanks, Ino dear, you have beguiled an hour With poesy that might make pause to list The nightingale in her sweet evening song. But now no more of ease and idleness, The sun stoops to the west, and Enna's plain Is overshadowed by the growing form Of giant Etna:--Nymphs, let us arise, And cull the sweetest flowers of the field, And with swift fingers twine a blooming wreathe For my dear Mother's rich and waving hair. _Eunoe._ Violets blue and white anemonies Bloom on the plain,--but I will climb the brow [9] Of that o'erhanging hill, to gather thence That loveliest rose, it will adorn thy crown; Ino, guard Proserpine till my return. (_Exit._) _Ino._ How lovely is this plain!--Nor Grecian vale, Nor bright Ausonia's ilex bearing shores, The myrtle bowers of Aphrodite's sweet isle, Or Naxos burthened with the luscious vine, Can boast such fertile or such verdant fields As these, which young Spring sprinkles with her stars;-- Nor Crete which boasts fair Amalthea's horn Can be compared with the bright golden [Footnote: MS. _the bright gold fields._] fields Of Ceres, Queen of plenteous Sicily. _Pros._ Sweet Ino, well I know the love you bear My dearest Mother prompts your partial voice, And that love makes you doubly dear to me. But you are idling,--look[,] my lap is full Of sweetest flowers;--haste to gather more, That before sunset we may make our crown. Last night as we strayed through that glade, methought The wind that swept my cheek bore on its wings The scent of fragrant violets, hid Beneath the straggling underwood; Haste, sweet, To gather them; fear not--I will not stray. _Ino._ Nor fear that I shall loiter in my task. (_Exit._) [Sidenote: (By Shelley.)] _Pros._ (_sings as she gathers her flowers._) [10] Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth, Thou from whose immortal bosom Gods, and men, and beasts have birth, Leaf, and blade, and bud, and blossom, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child Proserpine. If with mists of evening dew Thou dost nourish these young flowers Till they grow in scent and hue Fairest children of the hours[,] Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child Proserpine. (_she looks around._) My nymphs have left me, neglecting the commands Of my dear Mother. Where can they have strayed? Her caution makes me fear to be alone;-- I'll pass that yawning cave and seek the spring Of Arethuse, where water-lilies bloom Perhaps the nymph now wakes tending her waves, She loves me well and oft desires my stay,-- The lilies shall adorn my mother's crown. [11] (_Exit._) (_After a pause enter Eunoe._) _Eun._ I've won my prize! look at this fragrant rose! But where is Proserpine? Ino has strayed Too far I fear, and she will be fatigued, As I am now, by my long toilsome search. _Enter Ino._ Oh! you here, Wanderer! Where is Proserpine? _Ino._ My lap's heaped up with sweets; dear Proserpine, You will not chide me now for idleness;-- Look here are all the treasures of the field,-- First these fresh violets, which crouched beneath A mossy rock, playing at hide and seek With both the sight and sense through the high fern; Star-eyed narcissi & the drooping bells Of hyacinths; and purple polianthus, Delightful flowers are these; but where is she, The loveliest of them all, our Mistress dear? _Eun._ I know not, even now I left her here, Guarded by you, oh Ino, while I climbed Up yonder steep for this most worthless rose:-- Know you not where she is? Did you forget Ceres' behest, and thus forsake her child? _Ino._ Chide not, unkind Eunoe, I but went Down that dark glade, where underneath the shade [12] [Footnote: MS. pages numbered 11, 12, &c., to the end instead of 12, 13, &c.] Of those high trees the sweetest violets grow,-- I went at her command. Alas! Alas! My heart sinks down; I dread she may be lost;-- Eunoe, climb the hill, search that ravine, Whose close, dark sides may hide her from our view:-- Oh, dearest, haste! Is that her snow-white robe? _Eun._ No;--'tis a faun [Footnote: MS. _fawn._] beside its sleeping Mother, Browsing the grass;--what will thy Mother say, Dear Proserpine, what will bright Ceres feel, If her return be welcomed not by thee? _Ino._ These are wild thoughts,--& we are wrong to fear That any ill can touch the child of heaven; She is not lost,--trust me, she has but strayed Up some steep mountain path, or in yon dell, Or to the rock where yellow wall-flowers grow, Scaling with venturous step the narrow path Which the goats fear to tread;--she will return And mock our fears. _Eun._ The sun now dips his beams In the bright sea; Ceres descends at eve From Jove's high conclave; if her much-loved child Should meet her not in yonder golden field, Where to the evening wind the ripe grain waves Its yellow head, how will her heart misgive. [13] Let us adjure the Naiad of yon brook[,] She may perchance have seen our Proserpine, And tell us to what distant field she's strayed:-- Wait thou, dear Ino, here, while I repair To the tree-shaded source of her swift stream. (_Exit Eunoe._) _Ino._ Why does my heart misgive? & scalding tears, That should but mourn, now prophecy her loss? Oh, Proserpine! Where'er your luckless fate Has hurried you,--to wastes of desart sand, Or black Cymmerian cave, or dread Hell, Yet Ino still will follow! Look where Eunoe Comes, with down cast eyes and faltering steps, I fear the worst;-- _Re-enter Eunoe._ Has she not then been seen? _Eun._ Alas, all hope is vanished! Hymera says She slept the livelong day while the hot beams Of Phoebus drank her waves;--nor did she wake Until her reed-crowned head was wet with dew;-- If she had passed her grot she slept the while. _Ino._ Alas! Alas! I see the golden car, And hear the flapping of the dragons wings, Ceres descends to Earth. I dare not stay, I dare not meet the sorrow of her look[,] The angry glance of her severest eyes. [14] _Eun._ Quick up the mountain! I will search the dell, She must return, or I will never more. (_Exit._) _Ino._ And yet I will not fly, though I fear much Her angry frown and just reproach, yet shame Shall quell this childish fear, all hope of safety For her lost child rests but in her high power, And yet I tremble as I see her come. _Enter Ceres._ _Cer._ Where is my daughter? have I aught to dread? Where does she stray? Ino, you answer not;-- She was aye wont to meet me in yon field,-- Your looks bode ill;--I fear my child is lost. _Ino._ Eunoe now seeks her track among the woods; Fear not, great Ceres, she has only strayed. _Cer._ Alas! My boding heart,--I dread the worst. Oh, careless nymphs! oh, heedless Proserpine! And did you leave her wandering by herself? She is immortal,--yet unusual fear Runs through my veins. Let all the woods be sought, Let every dryad, every gamesome faun [Footnote: MS. _fawn._] Tell where they last beheld her snowy feet Tread the soft, mossy paths of the wild wood. But that I see the base of Etna firm I well might fear that she had fallen a prey To Earth-born Typheus, who might have arisen [15] And seized her as the fairest child of heaven, That in his dreary caverns she lies bound; It is not so: all is as safe and calm As when I left my child. Oh, fatal day! Eunoe does not return: in vain she seeks Through the black woods and down the darksome glades, And night is hiding all things from our view. I will away, and on the highest top Of snowy Etna, kindle two clear flames. Night shall not hide her from my anxious search, No moment will I rest, or sleep, or pause Till she returns, until I clasp again My only loved one, my lost Proserpine. END OF ACT FIRST. ACT II _Scene. The Plain of Enna as before. Enter Ino & Eunoe._ _Eun._ How weary am I! and the hot sun flushes My cheeks that else were white with fear and grief[.] E'er since that fatal day, dear sister nymph, On which we lost our lovely Proserpine, I have but wept and watched the livelong night And all the day have wandered through the woods[.] _Ino._ How all is changed since that unhappy eve! Ceres forever weeps, seeking her child, And in her rage has struck the land with blight; Trinacria mourns with her;--its fertile fields Are dry and barren, and all little brooks Struggling scarce creep within their altered banks; The flowers that erst were wont with bended heads, To gaze within the clear and glassy wave, Have died, unwatered by the failing stream.-- And yet their hue but mocks the deeper grief Which is the fountain of these bitter tears. But who is this, that with such eager looks Hastens this way?-- [17] _Eun._ 'Tis fairest Arethuse, A stranger naiad, yet you know her well. _Ino._ My eyes were blind with tears. _Enter Arethusa._ Dear Arethuse, Methinks I read glad tidings in your eyes, Your smiles are the swift messengers that bear A tale of coming joy, which we, alas! Can answer but with tears, unless you bring To our grief solace, Hope to our Despair. Have you found Proserpine? or know you where The loved nymph wanders, hidden from our search? _Areth._ Where is corn-crowned Ceres? I have hastened To ease her anxious heart. _Eun._ Oh! dearest Naiad, Herald of joy! Now will great Ceres bless Thy welcome coming & more welcome tale. _Ino._ Since that unhappy day when Ceres lost Her much-loved child, she wanders through the isle; Dark blight is showered from her looks of sorrow;-- And where tall corn and all seed-bearing grass Rose from beneath her step, they wither now Fading under the frown of her bent brows: [18] The springs decrease;--the fields whose delicate green Was late her chief delight, now please alone, Because they, withered, seem to share her grief. _Areth._ Unhappy Goddess! how I pity thee! _Ino._ At night upon high Etna's topmost peak She lights two flames, that shining through the isle Leave dark no wood, or cave, or mountain path, Their sunlike splendour makes the moon-beams dim, And the bright stars are lost within their day. She's in yon field,--she comes towards this plain, Her loosened hair has fallen on her neck, Uncircled by the coronal of grain:-- Her cheeks are wan,--her step is faint & slow. _Enter Ceres._ _Cer._ I faint with weariness: a dreadful thirst Possesses me! Must I give up the search? Oh! never, dearest Proserpine, until I once more clasp thee in my vacant arms! Help me, dear Arethuse! fill some deep shell With the clear waters of thine ice-cold spring, And bring it me;--I faint with heat and thirst. _Areth._ My words are better than my freshest waves[:] I saw your Proserpine-- [19] _Cer._ Arethusa, where? Tell me! my heart beats quick, & hope and fear Cause my weak limbs to fail me.-- _Areth._ Sit, Goddess, Upon this mossy bank, beneath the shade Of this tall rock, and I will tell my tale. The day you lost your child, I left my source. With my Alpheus I had wandered down The sloping shore into the sunbright sea; And at the coast we paused, watching the waves Of our mixed waters dance into the main:-- When suddenly I heard the thundering tread Of iron hoofed steeds trampling the ground, And a faint shriek that made my blood run cold. I saw the King of Hell in his black car, And in his arms he bore your fairest child, Fair as the moon encircled by the night,-- But that she strove, and cast her arms aloft, And cried, "My Mother!"--When she saw me near She would have sprung from his detested arms, And with a tone of deepest grief, she cried, "Oh, Arethuse!" I hastened at her call-- But Pluto when he saw that aid was nigh, Struck furiously the green earth with his spear, Which yawned,--and down the deep Tartarian gulph [20] His black car rolled--the green earth closed above. _Cer._ (_starting up_) Is this thy doom, great Jove? & shall Hell's king Quitting dark Tartarus, spread grief and tears Among the dwellers of your bright abodes? Then let him seize the earth itself, the stars,-- And all your wide dominion be his prey!-- Your sister calls upon your love, great King! As you are God I do demand your help!-- Restore my child, or let all heaven sink, And the fair world be chaos once again! _Ino._ Look[!] in the East that loveliest bow is formed[;] Heaven's single-arched bridge, it touches now The Earth, and 'mid the pathless wastes of heaven It paves a way for Jove's fair Messenger;-- Iris descends, and towards this field she comes. _Areth._ Sovereign of Harvests, 'tis the Messenger That will bring joy to thee. Thine eyes light up With sparkling hope, thy cheeks are pale with dread. _Enter Iris._ _Cer._ Speak, heavenly Iris! let thy words be poured Into my drooping soul, like dews of eve On a too long parched field.--Where is my Proserpine? _Iris._ Sister of Heaven, as by Joves throne I stood [21] The voice of thy deep prayer arose,--it filled The heavenly courts with sorrow and dismay: The Thunderer frowned, & heaven shook with dread I bear his will to thee, 'tis fixed by fate, Nor prayer nor murmur e'er can alter it. If Proserpine while she has lived in hell Has not polluted by Tartarian food Her heavenly essence, then she may return, And wander without fear on Enna's plain, Or take her seat among the Gods above. If she has touched the fruits of Erebus, She never may return to upper air, But doomed to dwell amidst the shades of death, The wife of Pluto and the Queen of Hell. _Cer._ Joy treads upon the sluggish heels of care! The child of heaven disdains Tartarian food. Pluto[,] give up thy prey! restore my child! _Iris._ Soon she will see again the sun of Heaven, By gloomy shapes, inhabitants of Hell, Attended, and again behold the field Of Enna, the fair flowers & the streams, Her late delight,--& more than all, her Mother. _Ino._ Our much-loved, long-lost Mistress, do you come? And shall once more your nymphs attend your steps? [22] Will you again irradiate this isle-- That drooped when you were lost? [Footnote: MS. _this isle?--That drooped when you were lost_] & once again Trinacria smile beneath your Mother's eye? (_Ceres and her companions are ranged on one side in eager expectation; from, the cave on the other, enter Proserpine, attended by various dark & gloomy shapes bearing torches; among which Ascalaphus. Ceres & Proserpine embrace;--her nymphs surround her._) _Cer._ Welcome, dear Proserpine! Welcome to light, To this green earth and to your Mother's arms. You are too beautiful for Pluto's Queen; In the dark Stygian air your blooming cheeks Have lost their roseate tint, and your bright form Has faded in that night unfit for thee. _Pros._ Then I again behold thee, Mother dear:-- Again I tread the flowery plain of Enna, And clasp thee, Arethuse, & you, my nymphs; I have escaped from hateful Tartarus, The abode of furies and all loathed shapes That thronged around me, making hell more black. Oh! I could worship thee, light giving Sun, Who spreadest warmth and radiance o'er the world. Look at [Footnote: MS. Look at--the branches.] the branches of those chesnut trees, That wave to the soft breezes, while their stems Are tinged with red by the sun's slanting rays. [23] And the soft clouds that float 'twixt earth and sky. How sweet are all these sights! There all is night! No God like that (_pointing to the sun_) smiles on the Elysian plains, The air [is] windless, and all shapes are still. _Iris._ And must I interpose in this deep joy, And sternly cloud your hopes? Oh! answer me, Art thou still, Proserpine, a child of light? Or hast thou dimmed thy attributes of Heaven By such Tartarian food as must for ever Condemn thee to be Queen of Hell & Night? _Pros._ No, Iris, no,--I still am pure as thee: Offspring of light and air, I have no stain Of Hell. I am for ever thine, oh, Mother! _Cer._ (_to the shades from Hell_) Begone, foul visitants to upper air! Back to your dens! nor stain the sunny earth By shadows thrown from forms so foul--Crouch in! Proserpine, child of light, is not your Queen! (_to the nymphs_) Quick bring my car,--we will ascend to heaven, Deserting Earth, till by decree of Jove, Eternal laws shall bind the King of Hell To leave in peace the offspring of the sky. _Ascal._ Stay, Ceres! By the dread decree of Jove Your child is doomed to be eternal Queen [24] Of Tartarus,--nor may she dare ascend The sunbright regions of Olympian Jove, Or tread the green Earth 'mid attendant nymphs. Proserpine, call to mind your walk last eve, When as you wandered in Elysian groves, Through bowers for ever green, and mossy walks, Where flowers never die, nor wind disturbs The sacred calm, whose silence soothes the dead, Nor interposing clouds, with dun wings, dim Its mild and silver light, you plucked its fruit, You ate of a pomegranate's seeds-- _Cer._ Be silent, Prophet of evil, hateful to the Gods! Sweet Proserpine, my child, look upon me. You shrink; your trembling form & pallid cheeks Would make his words seem true which are most false[.] Thou didst not taste the food of Erebus;-- Offspring of Gods art thou,--nor Hell, nor Jove Shall tear thee from thy Mother's clasping arms. _Pros._ If fate decrees, can we resist? farewel! Oh! Mother, dearer to your child than light, Than all the forms of this sweet earth & sky, [25] Though dear are these, and dear are my poor nymphs, Whom I must leave;--oh! can immortals weep? And can a Goddess die as mortals do, Or live & reign where it is death to be? Ino, dear Arethuse, again you lose Your hapless Proserpine, lost to herself When she quits you for gloomy Tartarus. _Cer._ Is there no help, great Jove? If she depart I will descend with her--the Earth shall lose Its proud fertility, and Erebus Shall bear my gifts throughout th' unchanging year. Valued till now by thee, tyrant of Gods! My harvests ripening by Tartarian fires Shall feed the dead with Heaven's ambrosial food. Wilt thou not then repent, brother unkind, Viewing the barren earth with vain regret, Thou didst not shew more mercy to my child? _Ino._ We will all leave the light and go with thee, In Hell thou shalt be girt by Heaven-born nymphs, Elysium shall be Enna,--thou'lt not mourn Thy natal plain, which will have lost its worth Having lost thee, its nursling and its Queen. _Areth._ I will sink down with thee;--my lily crown Shall bloom in Erebus, portentous loss [26] To Earth, which by degrees will fade & fall In envy of our happier lot in Hell;-- And the bright sun and the fresh winds of heaven Shall light its depths and fan its stagnant air. (_They cling round Proserpine; the Shades of Hell seperate and stand between them._) _Ascal._ Depart! She is our Queen! Ye may not come! Hark to Jove's thunder! shrink away in fear From unknown forms, whose tyranny ye'll feel In groans and tears if ye insult their power. _Iris._ Behold Jove's balance hung in upper sky; There are ye weighed,--to that ye must submit. _Cer._ Oh! Jove, have mercy on a Mother's prayer! Shall it be nought to be akin to thee? And shall thy sister, Queen of fertile Earth, Derided be by these foul shapes of Hell? Look at the scales, they're poized with equal weights! What can this mean? Leave me not[,] Proserpine[,] Cling to thy Mother's side! He shall not dare Divide the sucker from the parent stem. (_embraces her_) _Ascal._ He is almighty! who shall set the bounds [27] To his high will? let him decide our plea! Fate is with us, & Proserpine is ours! (_He endeavours to part Ceres & Proserpine, the nymphs prevent him._) _Cer._ Peace, ominous bird of Hell & Night! Depart! Nor with thy skriech disturb a Mother's grief, Avaunt! It is to Jove we pray, not thee. _Iris._ Thy fate, sweet Proserpine, is sealed by Jove, When Enna is starred by flowers, and the sun Shoots his hot rays strait on the gladsome land, When Summer reigns, then thou shalt live on Earth, And tread these plains, or sporting with your nymphs, Or at your Mother's side, in peaceful joy. But when hard frost congeals the bare, black ground, The trees have lost their leaves, & painted birds Wailing for food sail through the piercing air; Then you descend to deepest night and reign Great Queen of Tartarus, 'mid [Footnote: MS. _mid_] shadows dire, Offspring of Hell,--or in the silent groves Of, fair Elysium through which Lethe runs, The sleepy river; where the windless air Is never struck by flight or song of bird,-- But all is calm and clear, bestowing rest, [28] After the toil of life, to wretched men, Whom thus the Gods reward for sufferings Gods cannot know; a throng of empty shades! The endless circle of the year will bring Joy in its turn, and seperation sad; Six months to light and Earth,--six months to Hell. _Pros._ Dear Mother, let me kiss that tear which steals Down your pale cheek altered by care and grief. This is not misery; 'tis but a slight change Prom our late happy lot. Six months with thee, Each moment freighted with an age of love: And the six short months in saddest Tartarus Shall pass in dreams of swift returning joy. Six months together we shall dwell on earth, Six months in dreams we shall companions be, Jove's doom is void; we are forever joined. _Cer._ Oh, fairest child! sweet summer visitor! Thy looks cheer me, so shall they cheer this land Which I will fly, thou gone. Nor seed of grass, Or corn shall grow, thou absent from the earth; But all shall lie beneath in hateful night Until at thy return, the fresh green springs, [29] The fields are covered o'er with summer plants. And when thou goest the heavy grain will droop And die under my frown, scattering the seeds, That will not reappear till your return. Farewel, sweet child, Queen of the nether world, There shine as chaste Diana's silver car Islanded in the deep circumfluous night. Giver of fruits! for such thou shalt be styled, Sweet Prophetess of Summer, coming forth From the slant shadow of the wintry earth, In thy car drawn by snowy-breasted swallows! Another kiss, & then again farewel! Winter in losing thee has lost its all, And will be doubly bare, & hoar, & drear, Its bleak winds whistling o'er the cold pinched ground Which neither flower or grass will decorate. And as my tears fall first, so shall the trees Shed their changed leaves upon your six months tomb: The clouded air will hide from Phoebus' eye The dreadful change your absence operates. Thus has black Pluto changed the reign of Jove, He seizes half the Earth when he takes thee. THE END MIDAS. MIDAS. A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _Immortals._ APOLLO. BACCHUS. PAN. SILENUS. TMOLUS, God of a Hill. FAUNS, &c. _Mortals._ MIDAS, King of Phrygia. ZOPYRION, his Prime-Minister. ASPHALION, LACON, Courtiers. COURTIERS, Attendants, Priests, &c. _Scene, Phrygia._ MIDAS. ACT I. _Scene; a rural spot; on one side, a bare Hill, on the other an Ilex wood; a stream with reeds on its banks._ _The Curtain rises and discovers Tmolus seated on a throne of turf, on his right hand Apollo with his lyre, attended by the Muses; on the left, Pan, fauns, &c._ _Enter Midas and Zopyrion._ _Midas._ The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds, Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep. She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair, Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze[,] Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin; The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold, The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe cock Halloos most loudly to his distant mates. But who are these we see? these are not men, Divine of form & sple[n]didly arrayed, They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan, [36] Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns? And who is he whose crown of gold & harp Are attributes of high Apollo? _Zopyr._ Best Your majesty retire; we may offend. _Midas._ Aye, and at the base thought the coward blood Deserts your trembling lips; but follow me. Oh Gods! for such your bearing is, & sure No mortal ever yet possessed the gold That glitters on your silken robes; may one, Who, though a king, can boast of no descent More noble than Deucalion's stone-formed men[,] May I demand the cause for which you deign To print upon this worthless Phrygian earth The vestige of your gold-inwoven sandals, Or why that old white-headed man sits there Upon that grassy throne, & looks as he Were stationed umpire to some weighty cause[?] _Tmolus._ God Pan with his blithe pipe which the Fauns love Has challenged Phoebus of the golden lyre[,] Saying his Syrinx can give sweeter notes Than the stringed instrument Apollo boasts. I judge between the parties. Welcome, King, I am old Tmolus, God of that bare Hill, [37] You may remain and hear th' Immortals sing. _Mid._ [_aside_] My judgement is made up before I hear; Pan is my guardian God, old-horned Pan, The Phrygian's God who watches o'er our flocks; No harmony can equal his blithe pipe. [Sidenote: (Shelley.)] _Apollo (sings)._ The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-enwoven tapestries, From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn, Tells them that dreams & that the moon is gone. Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, I walk over the mountains & the waves, Leaving my robe upon the Ocean foam,-- My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence & the air Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare. The sunbeams are my shafts with which I kill Deceit, that loves the night & fears the day; All men who do, or even imagine ill Fly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might Until diminished by the reign of night. I feed the clouds, the rainbows & the flowers [38] With their etherial colours; the moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine Are portions of one power, which is mine. I stand at noon upon the peak of heaven, Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even-- For grief that I depart they weep & frown [;] What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle [?] I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself & knows it is divine. All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medecine is mine; All light of art or nature;--to my song Victory and praise, in its own right, belong. [Sidenote: (Shelley.)] _Pan (sings)._ From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands W[h]ere loud waves are dumb, Listening my sweet pipings; The wind in the reeds & the rushes, [39] The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes[,] The cicale above in the lime[,] And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was Listening my sweet pipings. Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, & Sylvans, & Fauns And the nymphs of the woods & the waves To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves[,] And all that did then attend & follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo! With envy of my sweet pipings. I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal Earth--- And of heaven--& the giant wars-- And Love, & death, [&] birth, And then I changed my pipings, [40] Singing how down the vale of Menalus, I pursued a maiden & clasped a reed, Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom & then we bleed! All wept, as I think both ye now would If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. _Tmol._ Phoebus, the palm is thine. The Fauns may dance To the blithe tune of ever merry Pan; But wisdom, beauty, & the power divine Of highest poesy lives within thy strain. Named by the Gods the King of melody, Receive from my weak hands a second crown. _Pan._ Old Grey-beard, you say false! you think by this To win Apollo with his sultry beams To thaw your snowy head, & to renew The worn out soil of your bare, ugly hill. I do appeal to Phrygian Midas here; Let him decide, he is no partial judge. _Mid._ Immortal Pan, to my poor, mortal ears Your sprightly song in melody outweighs His drowsy tune; he put me fast asleep, As my prime minister, Zopyrion, knows; But your gay notes awoke me, & to you, [41] If I were Tmolus, would I give the prize. _Apol._ And who art thou who dar'st among the Gods Mingle thy mortal voice? Insensate fool! Does not the doom of Marsyas fill with dread Thy impious soul? or would'st thou also be Another victim to my justest wrath? But fear no more;--thy punishment shall be But as a symbol of thy blunted sense. Have asses' ears! and thus to the whole world Wear thou the marks of what thou art, Let Pan himself blush at such a judge. [Footnote: A syllable here, a whole foot in the previous line, appear to be missing.] (_Exeunt all except Midas & Zopyrion._) _Mid._ What said he? is it true, Zopyrion? Yet if it be; you must not look on me, But shut your eyes, nor dare behold my shame. Ah! here they are! two long, smooth asses['] ears! They stick upright! Ah, I am sick with shame! _Zopyr._ I cannot tell your Majesty my grief, Or how my soul's oppressed with the sad change That has, alas! befallen your royal ears. _Mid._ A truce to your fine speeches now, Zopyrion; To you it appertains to find some mode Of hiding my sad chance, if not you die. _Zopyr._ Great King, alas! my thoughts are dull & slow[;] Pardon my folly, might they not be cut, [42] Rounded off handsomely, like human ears [?] _Mid._ (_feeling his ears_) They're long & thick; I fear 'twould give me pain; And then if vengeful Phoebus should command Another pair to grow--that will not do. _Zopyr._ You wear a little crown of carved gold, Which just appears to tell you are a king; If that were large and had a cowl of silk, Studded with gems, which none would dare gainsay, Then might you-- _Mid._ Now you have it! friend, I will reward you with some princely gift. But, hark! Zopyrion, not a word of this; If to a single soul you tell my shame You die. I'll to the palace the back way And manufacture my new diadem, The which all other kings shall imitate As if they also had my asses['] ears. (_Exit._) _Zopyr._ (_watching Midas off_) He cannot hear me now, and I may laugh! I should have burst had he staid longer here. Two long, smooth asses' ears that stick upright; Oh, that Apollo had but made him bray! I'll to the palace; there I'll laugh my fill With--hold! What were the last words that Midas said? [43] I may not speak--not to my friends disclose The strangest tale? ha! ha! and when I laugh I must not tell the cause? none know the truth? None know King Midas has--but who comes here? It is Asphalion: he knows not this change; I must look grave & sad; for now a smile If Midas knows it may prove capital. Yet when I think of those--oh! I shall die, In either way, by silence or by speech. _Enter Asphalion._ _Asphal._ Know you, Zopyrion?-- _Zopyr._ What[!] you know it too? Then I may laugh;--oh, what relief is this! How does he look, the courtiers gathering round? Does he hang down his head, & his ears too? Oh, I shall die! (_laughs._) _Asph._ He is a queer old dog, Yet not so laughable. 'Tis true, he's drunk, And sings and reels under the broad, green leaves, And hanging clusters of his crown of grapes.-- _Zopyr._ A crown of grapes! but can that hide his ears[?] _Asph._ His ears!--Oh, no! they stick upright between. When Midas saw him-- _Zopyr._ Whom then do you mean? Did you not say-- [44] _Asph._ I spoke of old Silenus; Who having missed his way in these wild woods, And lost his tipsey company--was found Sucking the juicy clusters of the vines That sprung where'er he trod:--and reeling on Some shepherds found him in yon ilex wood. They brought him to the king, who honouring him For Bacchus' sake, has gladly welcomed him, And will conduct him with solemnity To the disconsolate Fauns from whom he's strayed. But have you seen the new-fashioned diadem [Footnote: Another halting line. Cf. again, p. [47], 1. 3; p. [55], 1. 11; p. [59], 1.1; p. [61], 1. 1; p. [64], 1. 14.] That Midas wears?-- _Zopyr._ Ha! he has got it on!-- Know you the secret cause why with such care He hides his royal head? you have not seen-- _Asph._ Seen what? _Zopyr._ Ah! then, no matter:-- (_turns away agitated._) I dare not sneak or stay[;] If I remain I shall discover all. _Asp._ I see the king has trusted to your care Some great state secret which you fain would hide. I am your friend, trust my fidelity, If you're in doubt I'll be your counsellor. [45] _Zopyr._ (_with great importance._) Secret, Asphalion! How came you to know? If my great master (which I do not say) Should think me a fit friend in whom to pour The weighty secrets of his royal heart, Shall I betray his trust? It is not so;-- I am a poor despised slave.--No more! Join we the festal band which will conduct Silenus to his woods again? _Asph._ My friend, Wherefore mistrust a faithful heart? Confide The whole to me;--I will be still as death. _Zopyr._ As death! you know not what you say; farewell[!] A little will I commune with my soul, And then I'll join you at the palace-gate. _Asph._ Will you then tell me?-- _Zopyr._ Cease to vex, my friend, Your soul and mine with false suspicion, (_aside_) Oh! I am choked! I'd give full ten years of my life To tell, to laugh--& yet I dare not speak. _Asph._ Zopyrion, remember that you hurt [46] The trusting bosom of a faithful friend By your unjust concealment. (_Exit._) _Zopyr._ Oh, he's gone! To him I dare not speak, nor yet to Lacon; No human ears may hear what must be told. I cannot keep it in, assuredly; I shall some night discuss it in my sleep. It will not keep! Oh! greenest reeds that sway And nod your feathered heads beneath the sun, Be you depositaries of my soul, Be you my friends in this extremity[:] I shall not risk my head when I tell you The fatal truth, the heart oppressing fact, (_stooping down & whispering_) (_Enter Midas, Silenus & others, who fall back during the scene; Midas is always anxious about his crown, & Zopyrion gets behind him & tries to smother his laughter._) _Silen._ (_very drunk_) Again I find you, Bacchus, runaway! Welcome, my glorious boy! Another time Stray not; or leave your poor old foster-father In the wild mazes of a wood, in which I might have wandered many hundred years, Had not some merry fellows helped me out, And had not this king kindly welcomed me, I might have fared more ill than you erewhile In Pentheus' prisons, that death fated rogue. _Bac._ (_to Midas._) To you I owe great thanks & will reward Your hospitality. Tell me your name And what this country is. _Midas._ My name is Midas-- _The Reeds_ (_nodding their heads_). Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass. [49] _Midas._ (_turning round & seizing Zopyrion_). Villain, you lie! he dies who shall repeat Those traitrous words. Seize on Zopyrion! _The Reeds._ Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass. _Mid._ Search through the crowd; it is a woman's voice That dares belie her king, & makes her life A forfeit to his fury. _Asph._ There is no woman here. _Bac._ Calm yourself, Midas; none believe the tale, Some impious man or gamesome faun dares feign In vile contempt of your most royal ears. Off with your crown, & shew the world the lie! _Mid._ (_holding his crown tight_) Never! What[!] shall a vile calumnious slave Dictate the actions of a crowned king? Zopyrion, this lie springs from you--you perish! _Zopy._ I, say that Midas has got asses' ears? May great Apollo strike me with his shaft If to a single soul I ever told So false, so foul a calumny! _Bac._ Midas! [50] _The Reeds._ Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass. _Bac._ Silence! or by my Godhead I strike dead Who shall again insult the noble king. Midas, you are my friend, for you have saved And hospitably welcomed my old faun; Choose your reward, for here I swear your wish, Whatever it may be, shall be fulfilled. _Zopyr. (aside)_ Sure he will wish his asses' ears in Styx. _Midas._ What[!] may I choose from out the deep, rich mine Of human fancy, & the wildest thoughts That passed till now unheeded through my brain, A wish, a hope, to be fulfilled by you? Nature shall bend her laws at my command, And I possess as my reward one thing That I have longed for with unceasing care. _Bac._ Pause, noble king, ere you express this wish[.] Let not an error or rash folly spoil My benefaction; pause and then declare, For what you ask shall be, as I have sworn. _Mid._ Let all I touch be gold, most glorious gold! Let me be rich! and where I stretch my hands, [51] (That like Orion I could touch the stars!) Be radiant gold! God Bacchus, you have sworn, I claim your word,--my ears are quite forgot! _The Reeds._ Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass. _Mid._ You lie, & yet I care not-- _Zopyr._ (_aside to Midas_) Yet might I But have advised your Majesty, I would Have made one God undo the other's work-- _Midas._ (_aside to Zopyr_). Advise yourself, my friend, or you may grow Shorter by a head ere night.--I am blessed, Happier than ever earthly man could boast. Do you fulfil your words? _Bac._ Yes, thoughtless man! And much I fear if you have not the ears You have the judgement of an ass. Farewel! I found you rich & happy; & I leave you, Though you know it not, miserably poor. Your boon is granted,--touch! make gold! Some here Help carry old Silenus off, who sleeps The divine sleep of heavy wine. Farewel! _Mid._ Bacchus, divine, how shall I pay my thanks[?] (_Exeunt._) END OF FIRST ACT. ACT II. _Scene; a splendid apartment in the Palace of Midas._ _Enter Midas (with a golden rose in his hand)._ _Mid._ Gold! glorious gold! I am made up of gold! I pluck a rose, a silly, fading rose, Its soft, pink petals change to yellow gold; Its stem, its leaves are gold--and what before Was fit for a poor peasant's festal dress May now adorn a Queen. I lift a stone, A heavy, useless mass, a slave would spurn, What is more valueless? 'Tis solid gold! A king might war on me to win the same. And as I pass my hand thus through the air, A little shower of sightless dust falls down A shower of gold. O, now I am a king! I've spread my hands against my palace walls, I've set high ladders up, that I may touch Each crevice and each cornice with my hands, And it will all be gold:--a golden palace, Surrounded by a wood of golden trees, Which will bear golden fruits.--The very ground My naked foot treads on is yellow gold, Invaluable gold! my dress is gold! [53] Now I am great! Innumerable armies Wait till my gold collects them round my throne; I see my standard made of woven gold. Waving o'er Asia's utmost Citadels, Guarded by myriads invincible. Or if the toil of war grows wearisome, I can buy Empires:--India shall be mine, Its blooming beauties, gold-encrusted baths, Its aromatic groves and palaces, All will be mine! Oh, Midas, ass-eared king! I love thee more than any words can tell, That thus thy touch, thou man akin to Gods, Can change all earth to heaven,--Olympian gold! For what makes heaven different from earth! Look how my courtiers come! Magnificent! None shall dare wait on me but those who bear An empire on their backs in sheets of gold. Oh, what a slave I was! my flocks & kine, My vineyards & my corn were all my wealth And men esteemed me rich; but now Great Jove Transcends me but by lightning, and who knows If my gold win not the Cyclopean Powers, And Vulcan, who must hate his father's rule, To forge me bolts?--and then--but hush! they come. [54] _Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion, & Lacon._ _Lac._ Pardon us, mighty king-- _Mid._ What would ye, slaves? Oh! I could buy you all with one slight touch Of my gold-making hand! _Asph._ Royal Midas, We humbly would petition for relief. _Mid._ Relief I Bring me your copper coin, your brass, Or what ye will--ye'll speedily be rich. _Zopyr._ 'Tis not for gold, but to be rid of gold, That we intrude upon your Majesty. I fear that you will suffer by this gift, As we do now. Look at our backs bent down With the huge weight of the great cloaks of gold. Permit us to put on our shabby dress, Our poor despised garments of light wool:-- We walk as porters underneath a load. Pity, great king, our human weaknesses, Nor force us to expire-- _Mid._ Begone, ye slaves! Go clothe your wretched limbs in ragged skins! Take an old carpet to wrap round your legs, A broad leaf for your feet--ye shall not wear [55] That dress--those golden sandals--monarch like. _Asph._ If you would have us walk a mile a day We cannot thus--already we are tired With the huge weight of soles of solid gold. _Mid._ Pitiful wretches! Earth-born, groveling dolts! Begone! nor dare reply to my just wrath! Never behold me more! or if you stay Let not a sigh, a shrug, a stoop betray What poor, weak, miserable men you are. Not as I--I am a God! Look, dunce! I tread or leap beneath this load of gold! (_Jumps & stops suddenly._) I've hurt my back:--this cloak is wondrous hard! No more of this! my appetite would say The hour is come for my noon-day repast. _Lac._ It comes borne in by twenty lusty slaves, Who scarce can lift the mass of solid gold, That lately was a table of light wood. Here is the heavy golden ewer & bowl, In which, before you eat, you wash your hands. _Mid._ (_lifting up the ewer_) This is to be a king! to touch pure gold! Would that by touching thee, Zopyrion, [56] I could transmute thee to a golden man; A crowd of golden slaves to wait on me! (_Pours the water on his hands._) But how is this? the water that I touch Falls down a stream of yellow liquid gold, And hardens as it falls. I cannot wash-- Pray Bacchus, I may drink! and the soft towel With which I'd wipe my hands transmutes itself Into a sheet of heavy gold.--No more! I'll sit and eat:--I have not tasted food For many hours, I have been so wrapt In golden dreams of all that I possess, I had not time to eat; now hunger calls And makes me feel, though not remote in power From the immortal Gods, that I need food, The only remnant of mortality! (_In vain attempts to eat of several dishes._) Alas! my fate! 'tis gold! this peach is gold! This bread, these grapes & all I touch! this meat Which by its scent quickened my appetite Has lost its scent, its taste,--'tis useless gold. _Zopyr._ (_aside_) He'd better now have followed my advice. He starves by gold yet keeps his asses' ears. [57] _Mid._ Asphalion, put that apple to my mouth; If my hands touch it not perhaps I eat. Alas! I cannot bite! as it approached I felt its fragrance, thought it would be mine, But by the touch of my life-killing lips 'Tis changed from a sweet fruit to tasteless gold, Bacchus will not refresh me by his gifts, The liquid wine congeals and flies my taste. Go, miserable slaves! Oh, wretched king! Away with food! Its sight now makes me sick. Bring in my couch! I will sleep off my care, And when I wake I'll coin some remedy. I dare not bathe this sultry day, for fear I be enclosed in gold. Begone! I will to rest:--oh, miserable king! (_Exeunt all but Midas. He lies down, turns restlessly for some time & then rises._) Oh! fool! to wish to change all things to gold! Blind Ideot that I was! This bed is gold; And this hard, weighty pillow, late so soft, That of itself invited me to rest, Is a hard lump, that if I sleep and turn I may beat out my brains against its sides. [58] Oh! what a wretched thing I am! how blind! I cannot eat, for all my food is gold; Drink flies my parched lips, and my hard couch Is worse than rock to my poor bruised sides. I cannot walk; the weight of my gold soles Pulls me to earth:--my back is broke beneath These gorgeous garments--(_throws off his cloak_) Lie there, golden cloak! There on thy kindred earth, lie there and rot! I dare not touch my forehead with my palm For fear my very flesh should turn to gold. Oh! let me curse thee, vilest, yellow dirt! Here, on my knees, thy martyr lifts his voice, A poor, starved wretch who can touch nought but thee[,] Wilt thou refresh me in the heat of noon? Canst thou be kindled for me when I'm cold? May all men, & the immortal Gods, Hate & spurn thee as wretched I do now. (_Kicks the couch, & tries to throw down the pillow but cannot lift it._) I'd dash, thee to the earth, but that thy weight Preserves thee, abhorred, Tartarian Gold! [59] Bacchus, O pity, pardon, and restore me! Who waits? _Enter Lacon._ Go bid the priests that they prepare Most solemn song and richest sacrifise;-- Which I may not dare touch, lest it should turn To most unholy gold. _Lacon._ Pardon me, oh King, But perhaps the God may give that you may eat, And yet your touch be magic. _Mid._ No more, thou slave! Gold is my fear, my bane, my death! I hate Its yellow glare, its aspect hard and cold. I would be rid of all.--Go bid them haste. (_Exit Lacon._) Oh, Bacchus I be propitious to their prayer! Make me a hind, clothe me in ragged skins-- And let my food be bread, unsavoury roots, But take from me the frightful curse of gold. Am I not poor? Alas! how I am changed! Poorer than meanest slaves, my piles of wealth Cannot buy for me one poor, wretched dish:-- In summer heat I cannot bathe, nor wear A linen dress; the heavy, dull, hard metal Clings to me till I pray for poverty. _Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion & Lacon._ [60] _Zopyr._ The sacrifice is made, & the great God, Pitying your ills, oh King, accepted it, Whilst his great oracle gave forth these words. "Let poor king Midas bathe in the clear stream "Of swift Pactolus, & to those waves tran[s]fer "The gold-transmuting power, which he repents." _Mid._ Oh joy! Oh Bacchus, thanks for this to thee Will I each year offer three sucking lambs-- Games will I institute--nor Pan himself Shall have more honour than thy deity. Haste to the stream,--I long to feel the cool And liquid touch of its divinest waves. (_Exeunt all except Zopyrion and Asphalion._) _Asph._ Off with our golden sandals and our cloaks! Oh, I shall ever hate the sight of gold! Poor, wealthy Midas runs as if from death To rid him quick of this meta[l]lic curse. _Zopyr._ (_aside_) I wonder if his asses['] ears are gold; What would I give to let the secret out? Gold! that is trash, we have too much of it,-- But I would give ten new born lambs to tell This most portentous truth--but I must choke. _Asph._ Now we shall tend our flocks and reap our corn As we were wont, and not be killed by gold. Golden fleeces threatened our poor sheep, [61] The very showers as they fell from heaven Could not refresh the earth; the wind blew gold, And as we walked [Footnote: MS. _as he walked._] the thick sharp-pointed atoms Wounded our faces--the navies would have sunk-- _Zopyr._ All strangers would have fled our gold-cursed shore, Till we had bound our wealthy king, that he Might leave the green and fertile earth unchanged;-- Then in deep misery he would have shook His golden chains & starved. _Enter Lacon._ _Lacon._ Sluggards, how now I Have you not been to gaze upon the sight? To see the noble king cast off the gift Which he erewhile so earnestly did crave[?] _Asph._ I am so tired with the weight of gold I bore to-day I could not budge a foot To see the finest sight Jove could display. But tell us, Lacon, what he did and said. _Lac._ Although he'd fain have run[,] his golden dress And heavy sandals made the poor king limp As leaning upon mine and the high priest's arm, He hastened to Pactolus. When he saw The stream--"Thanks to the Gods!" he cried aloud In joy; then having cast aside his robes He leaped into the waves, and with his palm Throwing the waters high--"This is not gold," [62] He cried, "I'm free, I have got rid of gold." And then he drank, and seizing with delight A little leaf that floated down the stream, "Thou art not gold," he said-- _Zopyr._ But all this time-- Did you behold?--Did he take off his crown?-- _Lacon._ No:--It was strange to see him as he plunged Hold tight his crown with his left hand the while. _Zopyr._ (_aside_) Alas, my fate! I thought they had been seen. _Lac._ He ordered garments to the river side Of coarsest texture;--those that erst he wore He would not touch, for they were trimmed with gold. _Zopyr._ And yet he did not throw away his crown? _Lac._ He ever held it tight as if he thought Some charm attached to its remaining there. Perhaps he is right;--know you, Zopyrion, If that strange voice this morning spoke the truth? _Zopyr._ Nay guess;--think of what passed & you can judge. I dare not--I know nothing of his ears. _Lac._ I am resolved some night when he sleeps sound To get a peep.--No more,'tis he that comes. He has now lost the boon that Bacchus gave, Having bestowed it on the limpid waves. Now over golden sands Pactolus runs, [63] And as it flows creates a mine of wealth. _Enter Midas, (with grapes in his hand)._ _Mid._ I see again the trees and smell the flowers With colours lovelier than the rainbow's self; I see the gifts of rich-haired Ceres piled And eat. (_holding up the grapes_) This is not yellow, dirty gold, But blooms with precious tints, purple and green. I hate this palace and its golden floor, Its cornices and rafters all of gold:-- I'll build a little bower of freshest green, Canopied o'er with leaves & floored with moss:-- I'll dress in skins;--I'll drink from wooden cups And eat on wooden platters--sleep on flock; None but poor men shall dare attend on me. All that is gold I'll banish from my court, Gilding shall be high treason to my state, The very name of gold shall be crime capital[.] _Zopyr._ May we not keep our coin? _Mid._ No, Zopyrion, None but the meanest peasants shall have gold. It is a sordid, base and dirty thing:-- Look at the grass, the sky, the trees, the flowers, These are Joves treasures & they are not gold:-- [64] Now they are mine, I am no longer cursed.-- The hapless river hates its golden sands, As it rolls over them, having my gift;-- Poor harmless shores! they now are dirty gold. How I detest it! Do not the Gods hate gold? Nature displays the treasures that she loves, She hides gold deep in the earth & piles above Mountains & rocks to keep the monster down. _Asph._ They say Apollo's sunny car is gold. _Mid._ Aye, so it is for Gold belongs to him:-- But Phoebus is my bitterest enemy, And what pertains to him he makes my bane. _Zopyr._ What [!] will your Majesty tell the world?-- _Mid._ Peace, vile gossip! Asphalion, come you here. Look at those golden columns; those inlaid walls; The ground, the trees, the flowers & precious food That in my madness I did turn to gold:-- Pull it all down, I hate its sight and touch; Heap up my cars & waggons with the load And yoke my kine to drag it to the sea: Then crowned with flowers, ivy & Bacchic vine, And singing hymns to the immortal Gods, We will ascend ships freighted with the gold, [65] And where no plummet's line can sound the depth Of greedy Ocean, we will throw it in, All, all this frightful heap of yellow dirt. Down through the dark, blue waters it will sink, Frightening the green-haired Nereids from their sport And the strange Tritons--the waves will close above And I, thank Bacchus, ne'er shall see it more! And we will make all echoing heaven ring With our loud hymns of thanks, & joyous pour Libations in the deep, and reach the land, Rich, happy, free & great, that we have lost Man's curse, heart-bartering, soul-enchaining gold. FINIS. 
7841	----	A PRIMARY READER Old-time Stories, Fairy Tales and Myths Retold by Children By E. LOUISE SMYTHE PREFACE. This book originated in a series of little reading lessons prepared for the first grade pupils in the Santa Rosa public schools. The object of the lessons was three-fold: to provide reading matter for the little ones who had only a small vocabulary of sight-words; to acquaint them early with the heroes who have come down to us in song and story; and to create a desire for literature. It has been my endeavor to follow Dr. G. Stanley Hall's suggestions in his monograph, "How to Teach Reading," where he asks for "true child-editions, made by testing many children with the work piece-meal and cutting and adapting the material till it really and closely fitted the minds and hearts of the children." Various stories were given to the pupils; discussions followed. After a time the story was produced orally by the children. Notes were made on expressions used and points of interest dwelt upon. Later the story was either written on the blackboard or mimeographed and put into the pupils' hands to read. It gave great delight to the children to recognize an old friend in a new dress, and as interest was aroused, but little difficulty was encountered in recognizing words that were indeed "new" in their sight vocabulary, but old servants in their oral vocabulary. The spirit of the book may be illustrated by referring to the roast turkey in the story of The Little Match Girl. The story was told as dear old Hans Christian Andersen gave it to the little German children of fifty years ago. But American children have a different idea of the fowl which graces the table at Christmas time. The story as it came from the lips of the children referred to the "turkey," and "goose" was used in only one instance. As the story was to appeal to our children, the word was changed to suit their ideas. Again, in the story of Red Riding-Hood we preferred to use the German ending, as it leaves a far happier impression on the minds of the children than the accepted English version. The incongruity of the wolf's swallowing whole the grandmother and child does not destroy the child's enjoyment of the story, while the happy release of both grandmother and little girl forms a suitable close. Also, as this old story handed down in so many languages is an interpretation of one of the Sun myths, it seems better to cling to the original, especially when it meets so entirely with the child's approval. Before presenting the Norse myths for reading, they had been the subject of many conversations, queries and illustrations. Some were even dramatized--in a childlike way, of course. Detailed descriptions of Mt. Ida, Asgard, and some of the principal heroes, were given. But, though the little audience seemed interested in the introductory remarks, these never came back when the children were called upon to reproduce the story. The narrator at once plunged into the story part. It is for this reason descriptions of heroes and places have been omitted in these stories. It is thus left for each teacher who uses this book to employ her own method of introducing the gods of the hardy Norseman to her pupils. The following works will be found useful and quite available to most teachers: Andersen's Norse Mythology, Mabie's Norse Stories, Mara Pratt's Stories from Norseland, Fiske's Myths and Myth Makers, Taylor's Primitive Culture, Vol. I.; and Longfellow's Poems. Hoping these stories will interest other children as they have interested those who helped build them, I send them forth. E. LOUISE SMYTHE. _Santa Rosa, California._ CONTENTS. THE UGLY DUCKLING THE LITTLE PINE TREE THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD THE APPLES OF IDUN HOW THOR GOT THE HAMMER THE HAMMER LOST AND FOUND THE STORY OF THE SHEEP THE GOOD SHIP ARGO JASON AND THE HARPIES THE BRASS BULLS JASON AND THE DRAGON [Illustration: THEY DRESSED THOR LIKE FREYJA.] THE UGLY DUCKLING. under broke does keep only turkey warm ugly water A duck made her nest under some leaves. [Illustration: THE DUCK'S NEST.] She sat on the eggs to keep them warm. At last the eggs broke, one after the other. Little ducks came out. Only one egg was left. It was a very large one. At last it broke, and out came a big, ugly duckling. "What a big duckling!" said the old duck. "He does not look like us. Can he be a turkey?--We will see. If he does not like the water, he is not a duck." * * * * * * * mother jumped duckling splash swim bigger called began little The next day the mother duck took her ducklings to the pond. [Illustration: THE DUCK TAKES HER DUCKLINGS TO SWIM.] Splash! Splash! The mother duck was in the water. Then she called the ducklings to come in. They all jumped in and began to swim. The big, ugly duckling swam, too. The mother duck said, "He is not a turkey. He is my own little duck. He will not be so ugly when he is bigger." * * * * * * * yard alone while noise hurt that eating know want Then she said to the ducklings, "Come with me. I want you to see the other ducks. Stay by me and look out for the cat." They all went into the duck yard. What a noise the ducks made! While the mother duck was eating a big bug, an old duck bit the ugly duckling. "Let him alone," said the mother duck. "He did not hurt you." [Illustration: "HE DID NOT HURT YOU," SAID THE MOTHER DUCK.] "I know that," said the duck, "but he is so ugly, I bit him." * * * * * * * lovely help there walked bushes afraid The next duck they met, said, "You have lovely ducklings. They are all pretty but one. He is very ugly." [Illustration: "YOUR CHILDREN ARE ALL PRETTY EXCEPT ONE."] The mother duck said, "I know he is not pretty. But he is very good." Then she said to the ducklings, "Now, my dears, have a good time." But the poor, big, ugly duckling did not have a good time. The hens all bit him. The big ducks walked on him. The poor duckling was very sad. He did not want to be so ugly. But he could not help it. He ran to hide under some bushes. The little birds in the bushes were afraid and flew away. * * * * * * * because house would away hard lived "It is all because I am so ugly," said the duckling. So he ran away. At night he came to an old house. The house looked as if it would fall down. It was so old. But the wind blew so hard that the duckling went into the house. [Illustration: THE UGLY DUCKLING FINDS THE OLD HOUSE.] An old woman lived there with her cat and her hen. The old woman said, "I will keep the duck. I will have some eggs." * * * * * * * growl walk corner animals The next day, the cat saw the duckling and began to growl. The hen said, "Can you lay eggs?" The duckling said, "No." "Then keep still," said the hen. The cat said, "Can you growl?" [Illustration: THE CAT SAID, "CAN YOU GROWL?"] "No," said the duckling. "Then keep still," said the cat. And the duckling hid in a corner. The next day he went for a walk. He saw a big pond. He said, "I will have a good swim." But all of the animals made fun of him. He was so ugly. * * * * * summer away cake winter swans spring flew bread leaves The summer went by. Then the leaves fell and it was very cold. The poor duckling had a hard time. It is too sad to tell what he did all winter. At last it was spring. The birds sang. The ugly duckling was big now. One day he flew far away. [Illustration: "OH, SEE THE LOVELY SWAN!"] Soon he saw three white swans on the lake. He said, "I am going to see those birds. I am afraid they will kill me, for I am so ugly." He put his head down to the water. What did he see? He saw himself in the water. But he was not an ugly duck. He was a white swan. The other swans came to see him. The children said, "Oh, see the lovely swans. The one that came last is the best." And they gave him bread and cake. It was a happy time for the ugly duckling. THE LITTLE PINE TREE pine leaves other woods needles better fairy gold sleep A little pine tree was in the woods. It had no leaves. It had needles. The little tree said, "I do not like needles. All the other trees in the woods have pretty leaves. I want leaves, too. But I will have better leaves. I want gold leaves." Night came and the little tree went to sleep. A fairy came by and gave it gold leaves. [Illustration: THE FAIRY GIVES THE PINK TREE GOLD LEAVES.] woke cried glass little again pretty When the little tree woke it had leaves of gold. It said, "Oh, I am so pretty! No other tree has gold leaves." Night came. A man came by with a bag. He saw the gold leaves. He took them all and put them into his bag. The poor little tree cried, "I do not want gold leaves again. I will have glass leaves." * * * * * * * night sunshine bright looked wind blew So the little tree went to sleep. The fairy came by and put the glass leaves on it. The little tree woke and saw its glass leaves. How pretty they looked in the sunshine! 'No other tree was so bright. Then a wind came up. It blew and blew. The glass leaves all fell from the tree and were broken. * * * * * again green goat hungry Again the little tree had no leaves. It was very sad, and said, "I will not have gold leaves and I will not have glass leaves. I want green leaves. I want to be like the other trees." And the little tree went to sleep. When it woke, it was like other trees. It had green leaves. A goat came by. He saw the green leaves on the little tree. The goat was hungry and he ate all the leaves. [Illustration: THE GOAT EATS THE GREEN LEAVES.] happy best Then the little tree said, "I do not want any leaves. I will not have green leaves, nor glass leaves, nor gold leaves. I like my needles best." [Illustration: THE PINE TREE WITH NEEDLES.] And the little tree went to sleep. The fairy gave it what it wanted. When it woke, it had its needles again. Then the little pine tree was happy. THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL. almost match across dark running bare year slippers fell It was very cold. The snow fell and it was almost dark. It was the last day of the year. A little match girl was running in the street. Her name was Gretchen. She had no hat on. Her feet were bare. When she left home, she had on some big slippers of her mama's. But they were so large that she lost them when she ran across the street. * * * * * * * apron curly lights bunch about smelled could matches cooking Gretchen had a lot of matches in her old apron. She had a little bunch in her hand. But she could not sell her matches. No one would buy them. Poor little Gretchen! She was cold and hungry. The snow fell on her curly hair. But she did not think about that. She saw lights in the houses. She smelled good things cooking. She said to herself, "This is the last night of the year." * * * * * * * knew window fire money even pile Gretchen got colder and colder. She was afraid to go home. She knew her papa would whip her, if she did not take some money to him. It was as cold at home as in the street. They were too poor to have a fire. They had to put rags in the windows to keep out the wind. Gretchen did not even have a bed. She had to sleep on a pile of rags. * * * * * * * frozen candle sitting lighted thought stove near think step She sat down on a door step. [Illustration: GRETCHEN ON THE DOOR STEP.] Her little hands were almost frozen. She took a match and lighted it to warm her hands. The match looked like a little candle. Gretchen thought she was sitting by a big stove. It was so bright. She put the match near her feet, to warm them. Then the light went out. She did not think that she was by the stove any more. * * * * * * * another dishes roast table cloth ready fork knife turkey Gretchen lighted another match. Now she thought she could look into a room. In this room was a table. A white cloth and pretty dishes were on the table. There was a roast turkey, too. It was cooked and ready to eat. The knife and fork were in his back. The turkey jumped from the dish and ran to the little girl. The light went out and she was in the cold and dark again. Christmas candles many until Gretchen lighted another match. Then she thought she was sitting by a Christmas tree. Very many candles were on the tree. It was full of pretty things. Gretchen put up her little hands. The light went out. The lights on the Christmas tree went up, up--until she saw they were the stars. * * * * * * * grandma never before dying going been Then she saw a star fall. "Some one is dying," said little Gretchen. Her grandma had been very good to the little girl. But she was dead. The grandma had said, "When a star falls some one is going to God." The little girl lighted another match. It made a big light. Gretchen thought she saw her grandma. She never looked so pretty before. She looked so sweet and happy. * * * * * * * take goes "O grandma," said the little girl, "take me. When the light goes out you will go away. The stove and the turkey and the Christmas tree all went away." Then Gretchen lighted a bunch of matches. She wanted to keep her grandma with her. The matches made it very light. The grandma took the little girl in her arms. They went up, up--where they would never be cold or hungry. They were with God. * * * * * * * found next burned dead froze death The next day came. Some men found a little girl in the street. She was dead. In her hand were the burned matches. They said, "Poor little thing, she froze to death." They did not know how happy she was in heaven. LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD. six take cake coat butter basket hood always off When May was six years old, her grandma made her a red coat with a hood. She looked so pretty in it that the children all called her "Red Riding-Hood." One day her mama said, "I want you to take this cake and some butter to grandma." Red Riding-Hood was very glad to go. She always had a good time at grandma's. [Illustration: LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD AND HER MOTHER] She put the things into her little basket and ran off. * * * * * * * wolf mill shall going first wood When Red Riding-Hood came to the wood, she met a big wolf. [Illustration: SHE MEETS THE WOLF.] "Where are you going?" said the wolf. Red Riding-Hood said, "I am going to see my grandma. Mama has made her a cake and some butter." "Does she live far?" said the wolf. "Yes," said Red Riding-Hood, "in the white house by the mill." "I will go too, and we shall see who will get there first," said the wolf. * * * * * * * short flowers soft stopped tapped pull pick voice string The wolf ran off and took a short way, but Red Riding-Hood stopped to pick some flowers. When the wolf got to the house, he tapped on the door. The grandma said, "Who is there?" The wolf made his voice as soft as he could. He said, "It is little Red Riding-Hood, grandma." Then the old lady said, "Pull the string and the door will open." The wolf pulled the string and the door opened. He ran in and ate the poor old lady. Then he jumped into her bed and put on her cap. * * * * * * * tapped thank dear arms hug called When Red Riding-Hood tapped on the door, the wolf called out, "Who is there?" Red Riding-Hood said, "It is your little Red Riding-Hood, grandma." Then the wolf said, "Pull the string and the door will open." When she went in, she said, "Look, grandma, see the cake and butter mama has sent you." "Thank you, dear, put them on the table and come here." * * * * * * * better hear eyes ears how teeth ate cruel poor When Red Riding-Hood went near the bed, she said, "Oh, grandma, how big your arms are!" "The better to hug you, my dear." "How big your ears are, grandma." "The better to hear you, my dear." "How big your eyes are, grandma." "The better to see you, my dear." "How big your teeth are, grandma!" "The better to eat you." Then the cruel wolf jumped up and ate poor little Red Riding-Hood. * * * * * * * just hunter scream killed heard open Just then a hunter came by. He heard Red Riding-Hood scream. The hunter ran into the house and killed the old wolf. [Illustration: THE GRANDMOTHER, THE HUNTER AND LITTLE RED RIDING- HOOD.] When he cut the wolf open, out jumped Little Red Riding-Hood and her grandma. THE APPLES OF IDUN. once hills field journey rocks cattle walked pieces three Once upon a time three of the gods went on a journey. One was Thor and one was Loki. Loki was ugly and mean. The gods liked to walk over the hills and rocks. They could go very fast for they were so big. The gods walked on and on. At last they got very hungry. Then they came to a field with cattle. [Illustration: LOKI AND ANOTHER GOD TAKE A WALK.] Thor killed a big ox and put the pieces into a pot. * * * * * meat share talking cross eagle right They made a big fire but the meat would not cook. They made the fire bigger and bigger, but the meat would not cook. Then the gods were very cross. Some one said, "Give me my share, and I will make the meat cook." The gods looked to see who was talking. There in an oak tree was a big eagle. [Illustration: THE THREE GODS TRY TO COOK THE OX.] The gods were so hungry that they said, "Well, we will." * * * * * supper stuck enough minute claws stones pole against flew The supper was ready in a minute. Then the eagle flew down to get his share. He took the four legs and there was not much left but the ribs. This made Loki cross for he was very hungry. He took a long pole to hit the eagle. But the pole stuck to the eagle's claws. The other end stuck to Loki. Then the eagle flew away. He did not fly high. He flew just high enough for Loki to hit against the stones. * * * * * please giant flying tried feathers suit Loki said, "Please let me go! Oh, please let me go!" But the eagle said, "No, you tried to kill me. I will not let you go." And the eagle hit him against the stones. Loki said again, "Please let me go!" But the eagle said, "No, I have you now." Then Loki knew the eagle was a giant and not a bird. This giant had a suit of eagle's feathers. He was flying in his eagle suit when he saw Loki. * * * * * city beautiful apples felt growing young Now the gods lived in a city named Asgard. In this city Idun kept the beautiful golden apples. When the gods felt they were growing old, they ate the apples and were young again. The giant wanted to be like the gods. So he said to Loki, "I will let you go, if you will get me the apples of Idun." [Illustration: IDUN WITH HER APPLES.] But Loki said, "I can't do that." * * * * * bumped gate putting stayed golden morning So the eagle bumped him on the stones again. Then Loki said, "I can't stand this. I will get the apples for you." Loki and the eagle went to the city. The eagle stayed by the gate, but Loki went into the city. He went up to Idun. She was putting the apples into a beautiful golden box. [Illustration: LOKI AND IDUN] Loki said, "Good morning, Idun Those are beautiful apples." And Idun said, "Yes, they are beautiful." "I saw some just like them, the other day," said Loki. [Illustration: IDUN WITH HER APPLES.] strange show bring picked Idun knew there were no other apples like these, and she said, "That is strange. I would like to see them." Loki said, "Come with me and I will show them to you. It is only a little way. Bring your apples with you." As soon as Idun was out of the gates the eagle flew down. He picked her up in his claws. Then he flew away with her to his home. * * * * * after pale falcon passed story began Day after day passed and Idun did not come back. The gods did not have the golden apples to eat, so they began to get old. At last they said, "Who let the apples go?" Then Loki looked pale and the gods said, "Loki, you did it." And Loki said, "Yes, I did." [Illustration: THE GODS ASK WHERE IDUN IS.] He did not tell a story that time. Then Loki said, "I will get Idun and the apples back, if I may have the falcon suit." * * * * * changed faster The gods said, "You may have it, if you will bring the apples back." Loki put on the falcon suit and flew away. He looked like a big bird flying. When Loki came to the giant's home, he was glad the giant was not there. He changed Idun into a nut and then flew away with the nut. [Illustration: THE GIANT SEES THE BIRD FLY AWAY] When the giant came home, Idun was gone. The golden apples were gone, too. Then the giant put on his eagle suit and flew after Loki. Loki heard the eagle coming. Loki flew faster. * * * * * breath over changed walls blazed burned Poor Loki was all out of breath. The eagle flew faster and faster. Then the gods got on the walls to look for Loki. They saw him coming and the eagle after him. So they made fires on the walls. At last Loki flew over the walls. Then the gods lighted the fires. The fires blazed up. The eagle flew into the fire and was burned. As soon as Loki put the nut down, it changed to Idun. The gods ate the beautiful golden apples and were young again. [Illustration] HOW THOR GOT THE HAMMER. proud porch lying journeys tricks wife always alone asleep Sif was Thor's wife. Sif had long golden hair. Thor was very proud of Sif's golden hair. Thor was always going on long journeys. One day he went off and left Sif alone. She went out on the porch and fell asleep. Loki came along. He was always playing tricks. He saw Sif lying asleep. He said, "I am going to cut off her hair." [Illustration] So Loki went up on the porch and cut off Sif's golden hair. * * * * * where around crying answer found somebody When Sif woke up and saw that her hair was gone, she cried and cried. Then she ran to hide. She did not want Thor to see her. When Thor came home, he could not find Sif. "Sif! Sif!" he called, "Where are you?" But Sif did not answer. Thor looked all around the house. At last he found her crying. [Illustration: "OH THOR, ALL MY HAIR, IS GONE!"] "Oh, Thor, look, all my hair is gone! Somebody has cut it off. It was a man. He ran away with it." * * * * * angry mischief right getting cutting something Then Thor was very angry. He said, "I know it was Loki. He is always getting into mischief. Just wait until I get him!" And Thor went out to find Loki. Pretty soon he found him. Thor said, "Did you cut off Sif's hair?" Loki said, "Yes, I did." "Then you must pay for cutting off my wife's hair," said Thor. [Illustration: "DID YOU CUT OFF SIF'S HAIR?"] "All right," said Loki, "I will get you something better than the hair." * * * * * ground thumb beads dwarfs crooked crown worked Loki went down, down into the ground to the home of the dwarfs. It was very dark down there. The only light came from the dwarfs' fires. The dwarfs were ugly little black men. They were not any bigger than your thumb. They had crooked backs and crooked legs. Their eyes looked like black beads. [Illustration: LOKI AND THE DWARFS.] Loki said, "Can you make me a gold crown that will grow like real hair?" The dwarfs said, "Yes, we can." So the busy little dwarfs worked all night. * * * * * morning showed laughed spear wonderful three ship standing brother nobody stepped else When morning came the dwarfs gave Loki his crown of golden hair. They gave him a spear and a ship, too. [Illustration: THE DWARFS BRING TO LOKI THE SHIP, THE SPEAR AND THE CROWN OF HAIR.] Loki took the things up to Asgard, where the gods all lived. Then the gods all came up to him. He showed them the things. The gods said, "They are very wonderful." And Loki said, "Oh, nobody else can make such things as my little dwarfs." A little dwarf, named Brok, was standing near by. He heard Loki say that. Then he stepped up and said, "My brother can make just as good things as these." Loki laughed and said, "If you can get three things as wonderful as these, I will give you my head." [Illustration: BROK TELLS LOKI THAT HIS BROTHER CAN MAKE BETTER GIFTS] * * * * * anywhere misses spear mark Brok went down into the ground where his little dwarfs were working. Brok's brother was named Sindre. He said to his brother, "Loki says that you can't make such nice things as his dwarfs can. He said that he would give me his head if I could get him such wonderful things as his." This made the dwarfs angry. Their eyes grew big. They said, "He will see what we can do." Sindre wanted to know what the wonderful things were. Brok said, "Loki has a golden crown that will grow like real hair. A ship that can go anywhere. A spear that never misses the mark." "We will show him," said the dwarfs. * * * * * * burning blow pigskin bellows blew blowing The dwarfs soon had the fires burning. Then Sindre put a pigskin into the fire. He gave the bellows to Brok and said, "Now blow as hard as you can." Then Sindre went out. Brok blew and blew. A little fly came in and bit him on the hand. The fly bit him so hard that Brok thought he would have to stop blowing, but he did not. Then Sindre came back. He took out a golden pig from the fire. * * * * * stand lump ring He next put a lump of gold into the fire. He said to Brok, "Blow and blow and blow, and do not stop." Then Sindre went out again. So Brok blew as hard as he could. Then the same fly came in and bit him again. Brok thought that he could not stand it, but he kept on. When Sindre came back, he took a gold ring from the fire. * * * * * hard forehead brush iron blood hammer handle spoiled mean Then Sindre put a lump of iron into the fire. He said to Brok, "Now blow as hard as you can." And Sindre went out. Brok blew and blew. The same mean fly came again, and bit him on the forehead. It bit so hard that the blood ran into his eyes. Brok put up his hand to brush away the fly. Just then Sindre came back. He took the hammer out of the fire. [Illustration: THE DWARFS WITH THE GOLDEN PIG, THE RING AND THE HAMMER.] "There!" he said, "You have almost spoiled it. The handle is too short, but it cannot be helped now." * * * * * hurried proud came pocket Brok hurried up to Asgard with his things. All the gods came around to see. Then Loki came up to show his things. He put the crown of gold on Sif's head and it began to grow like real hair. He gave the spear to Odin and said, "This spear will never miss its mark." [Illustration: SIF WITH THE GOLDEN CROWN] Then he took out the ship. He said, "This is a wonderful ship. It will sail on any sea, and yet you can fold it up and put it into your pocket." Loki felt very proud, for he thought his things were the best. * * * * * fold sail afraid sorry each ring shining faster gave All the gods felt very sorry for little Brok. They thought Loki's things were fine. They were afraid Brok's would not be so nice. [Illustration: BROK SHOWS HIS THINGS TO THE GODS.] They said, "Now, Brok, show your things." Brok took out the gold ring. He said, "Each night this ring will throw off a ring just like it. He gave the ring to Odin." Then Brok took out the golden pig. He said, "This pig can go anywhere, on the ground or in the air. It can go faster than any horse. If the night is dark, the shining pig will make it light." * * * * * frost giants turned blowing [Illustration: THOR WITH HIS HAMMER] Then Brok showed the hammer. He said, "This is not a very pretty hammer. When I was making it, Loki turned himself into a fly and made me spoil it. The fly bit me so hard that I had to stop blowing. So the handle is a little short. But it is a wonderful hammer. If you throw it at anything, it will hit the mark and come back to you." The gods picked up the hammer and passed it around. They said, "It will be just the things with which to keep the Frost Giants out of Asgard." * * * * * touch neck without way The gods said, "Brok's things are the best." Brok gave the hammer to Thor. That is the way Thor got his wonderful hammer. Then Brok said to Loki, "You said I could have your head if my things were the best." And Loki was angry and said, "Yes, I told you that you could have my head. But you can't touch my neck." Of course, Brok could not get his head without touching his neck. So Brok did not get Loki's head. [Illustration: THE FROST GIANT] THE HAMMER LOST AND FOUND. everything planned The Frost Giants did not like the sunshine. They did not like to see the flowers. They did not like to hear the birds sing. They wanted to spoil everything. The Frost Giants wanted to get into Asgard. But they did not know how. They were afraid of Thor and his hammer. They said, "If we can only get the hammer, we can get into Asgard." They talked and planned all night. At last one Frost Giant said, "I know how we can get the hammer. I will dress in a bird suit. Then I will fly up to Thor's house and get the hammer." [Illustration: THE FROST GIANTS TALKED AND PLANNED ALL NIGHT.] * * * * * Freyja The next night the Frost Giant flew into the house while Thor was asleep. He took the hammer and flew away with it. When Thor woke, he put out his hand to get the hammer. It was gone. He said, "Loki, the hammer is gone. The Frost Giants have taken it. We must get it back." [Illustration: THE FROST GIANT FLEW INTO THE HOUSE WHILE THOR WAS ASLEEP.] Loki said, "I can get it back, if Freyja will let me have her falcon suit." So he went to Freyja and said, "Will you let me have your falcon suit? I can get the hammer back if you will." Freyja said, "Yes, of course I will. If I had a gold suit you could have it. Any thing to get the hammer back." * * * * * people city Thrym strange buried eight miles deep falcon Loki took the falcon suit and put it on. He flew over the city. All the people saw him flying. They said, "What a strange bird!" They did not know that it was Loki going for the hammer. [Illustration: LOKI BORROWS THE FALCON SUIT.] When Loki came to the city of the Frost Giants, he took off the falcon suit. He walked and walked until he came to Thrym's house. Thrym was the giant who took the hammer. Thrym was sitting on the porch, making gold collars for his dogs. When he saw Loki, he said, "What do you want?" Loki said, "I have come for the hammer." The old giant laughed and said, "You will never get that hammer. It is buried eight miles deep in the ground. "But there is one way you can get it. I will give you the hammer if you get Freyja for my wife." * * * * * clothes shook necklace So Loki went back to Asgard. Thor said, "Well, did you get the hammer?" "No, but we can get it if Freyja will be Thrym's wife." Then they went to Freyja's house. They said, "Put on your very best clothes and come with us. You must be Thrym's wife." Freyja said, "Do you think I will be the Frost Giant's wife? I won't be his wife." Thor said, "We can get the hammer back if you will." But Freyja said, "No, I will not be his wife." Loki said, "You will have to, if we get the hammer back." Still Freyja said, "I will not go." And she was very angry. She shook so hard that she broke her necklace and it fell to the floor. * * * * * bride braided wagon vail servant goat Then the gods said, "Thor, you must dress like Freyja. You will have to play you are the bride." Thor said, "I won't do it. You will all laugh at me. I won't dress up like a girl." They said, "Well, that is the only way we can get the hammer back." Thor said, "I do not like to dress like a girl, but I will do it." Then they dressed Thor up like Freyja. They put on Freyja's dress, necklace and vail, and braided his hair. Loki said, "I will dress up too, and be your servant." They got into Thor's goat wagon and went to the Giants' home. [Illustration: THOR AND LOKI APPROACH THE HOUSE OF THE GIANTS] * * * * * dinner salmon mead whole thirsty barrels When the Frost Giants saw them coming, they said, "Get ready, here comes the bride! We will sit down to the table as soon as they come." The dinner was ready on time. The table was full of good things. All sat down. The bride ate a whole ox and eight salmon before the others had a bite. "She must be very hungry," the Frost Giants said. "Yes," Loki said, "she was so glad to come. She hasn't eaten anything for eight days." Then they brought in the mead. [Illustration: THOR AND LOKI MET BY THRYM] The bride drank three barrels of mead. "How thirsty she is!" said the Frost Giants. Loki said, "Yes, she is very thirsty. She was so glad to come. She did not drink anything for eight days." * * * * * kiss stepped whirled lifted shone lap Old Thrym said, "I had every thing I wanted but Freyja. Now I have Freyja." And Thrym went to kiss the bride. He lifted her vail, but her eyes shone like fire. [Illustration: THRYM PUTS THE HAMMER IN THOR'S LAP.] [Illustration: THOR AND HIS HAMMER.] Thrym stepped back. He said, "What makes Freyja's eyes shine so?" Loki said, "Oh, she was so glad to come. She did not sleep for eight nights." Then Loki said, "It is time for the hammer. Go and get it and put it in the bride's lap." As soon as the hammer was in his lap, Thor tore off the vail. He took the hammer and whirled it around. Fire flew from it. The fire burned the house and the Frost Giants ran away. So Thor got his hammer back. The following stories by Miss Smythe were originally published under the title of "The Golden Fleece." They have been carefully revised and illustrated for this book. THE STORY OF THE SHEEP. ago horns fleece king Greece loved playing Helle grass garden catch clouds Long, long ago there lived a king in Greece. He had two little children, a boy and a girl. They were good children and loved each other very much. One day they were playing in the garden. "Oh, Helle, look!" said the boy. There on the grass was a fine large sheep. This sheep had a fleece of gold and his horns were gold, too. [Illustration: THE KING AND HIS TWO CHILDREN.] The children wanted to pat the sheep, but they could not catch him. When they went near, he ran away on the clouds. * * * * * grew golden hold tame ride tight Every day they played in the garden and every day the sheep came, too. By and by he grew tame and let the children pat his golden fleece. One day the boy said, "Helle, let us take a ride." First he helped his sister on the sheep's back. Then he got on and held to the horns. "Hold tight to me, Helle," he said. * * * * * sky dizzy sea sister land dragon lose nailed Colchis The sheep went up, up into the sky, and ran a long way on the clouds. But Helle got dizzy and fell down into the sea. The boy felt very bad to lose his sister, but went right on. Then he came to the land Colchis. He killed the sheep and gave the golden fleece to the king. [Illustration: THE BOY GIVES THE GOLDEN FLEECE TO THE KING.] The king was glad to have it and nailed it to an oak tree. [Illustration: THE SHEEP WENT UP INTO THE SKY AND RAN A LONG WAY ON THE CLOUDS] By the tree was a dragon. The dragon never went to sleep. He would not let any one but the king come to the tree. So no one could get the golden fleece. THE GOOD SHIP ARGO. across untied wade Jason brave party rained creek bridge shoe-strings invited Jason was a brave young man. He lived a little way from the king's city. One day the king gave a big party and invited Jason. It was a very dark night and it rained hard. Jason had to go across a creek, but there was no bridge. [Illustration: JASON COMES TO THE KING'S HOUSE.] The creek was full of water and Jason had to wade. One of his shoe-strings came untied and he lost his shoe in the water. When he came to the king's house, he had but one shoe. * * * * * knew bring fight wild Argo asked animals shoe Argonauts The king did not like this, for a fairy had said, "The man who shall come to your house with one shoe, will be king." So he knew Jason was to be king. Then he said to Jason, "You may be king when you bring me the golden fleece." Jason was glad to go, and asked many brave men to go with him. To get the golden fleece they would have to fight wild men and animals. They made a big ship which they named "Argo." The men who went on the Argo were called Argonauts. JASON AND THE HARPIES. wings blind nobody strong iron hard skin drive claws scratched brass Harpies The ship Argo sailed a long way. There were two strong men on the ship. They had wings and could fly. One day the Argo came to a land where the blind king lived. This poor king had a hard time. When he sat down to the table to eat, some ugly birds called Harpies, came too. The Harpies had skin like brass and nobody could hurt them. They had claws of iron, and scratched people when they tried to drive them away. When the king's dinner was ready, the Harpies came and took it away. When Jason and his men came, the king told them all about it. Jason said they would help him. * * * * * food drowned tired swords hurt flying They all sat down to the table. When the food was put on the table, the Harpies came flying in. Jason and his men took their swords. [Illustration: JASON TRIES TO KILL THE HARPIES.] They cut at the Harpies but could not hurt them. Then the two men with wings flew up in the air. The Harpies were afraid and flew away. The men flew after them. At last the Harpies grew very tired and fell into the sea and were drowned. Then the men with wings came back. Now the blind king could eat all he wanted. * * * * * thanked rocks moved friends helping good-bye over apart icebergs It was now time for Jason and his friends to go away. The king thanked them over and over again for helping him. When they said good-bye, he told them how to get to the land where they would find the golden fleece. On the sea where Jason and his men had to sail, were two big rocks. These rocks moved on the waterlike icebergs. They were as high as a big hill. They would come close to each other, then they would go far apart. * * * * * fishes pieces dove past break together row almost rocks When fishes swam in the water the rocks would come together and kill the fishes. If birds flew in the air, the rocks would come together and kill birds. If a boat sailed on the water, the rocks would come together and break the boat into little pieces. These rocks had been put in the sea, so no one could go to the land where the golden fleece was. When the ship Argo came to the rocks, Jason sent a dove out. The rocks came together when the dove was almost past. Then they went far apart. Jason made his men row as hard as they could. The rocks began to come together. "Row hard, my men," said Jason. Just as they got past, the rocks hit, but Jason and his men were all right. So they came to Colchis. THE BRASS BULLS. something plow bulls stronger chains noses mouths smoke plant stone flew stall When Jason came to Colchis, he went to the king and said, "Will you give me the golden fleece?" The king wanted to keep the fleece. So he said to Jason, "You may have it, but you must do something for me first." "You must plow with the brass bulls, and plant the dragon's teeth." The brass bulls looked like real bulls, but they were larger and stronger. They blew out fire and smoke from their noses and mouths. The bulls had a stall made of iron and stone. They had to be tied with strong iron chains. * * * * * daughter Medea carriage snakes through pulled When the dragon's teeth were planted, iron men grew up. They always killed the one who had planted them. The king wanted the bulls to kill Jason. [Illustration: MEDEA GATHERS FLOWERS.] He said, "If the bulls do not kill him the iron men will." The king had a daughter named Medea. She saw Jason was a brave young man and did not want him killed. She knew how to help him. She stepped into her carriage, which was pulled by flying snakes. Then Medea flew through the air. She went to hills and creeks and picked all kinds of flowers. She took the flowers home and cooked them. * * * * * nothing face rub juice legs cut Then Medea went to Jason when the king did not know it. She said to Jason, "Rub your face and hands and legs with this juice." [Illustration: MEDEA GIVES JASON THE JUICE.] When he did this, he was as strong as a giant. Nothing could hurt him then. Fire could not burn him, and swords could not cut him. The next day Jason had to plow with the brass bulls and plant the dragon's teeth. * * * * * climbed early tied princess seats hold untied opened place Early in the morning, the king and princess went out to the place. They had good seats where they could see well. All the people in the city came out to see Jason plow. The little boys climbed the trees so they could see better. Then Jason came to the place. The stall where the brass bulls were tied was not far off. The door was opened and Jason went in. He untied the bulls and took hold of their horns. Then he made the bulls come out of their stall. * * * * * pushed kicked until The bulls were very angry and blew fire and smoke from their mouths. This made the cruel king glad. But the people who saw it were afraid. They did not want Jason killed. They did not know that the princess had helped him. Jason pushed the bulls' heads down to the ground. Then they kicked at him with their feet, but could not hurt him. He held their heads down on the ground until the plow was ready. * * * * * handle slowly noon wheat lie just Jason took the chains in one hand. He took the handle of the plow in the other. The bulls jumped and wanted to run away. But Jason held so hard they had to go very slowly. When it was noon the ground was all plowed. Then Jason let the bulls go. They were so angry that they ran away to the woods. Now Jason went to the king and said, "Give me the dragon's teeth." The king gave him his hat full. Then Jason planted the dragon's teeth, just as a man plants wheat. By this time he was very tired, so he went to lie down. [Illustration: JASON SOWS THE DRAGON'S TEETH.] evening knees marble threw growing fight In the evening he came back. The iron men were growing up. Some of the men had only their feet in the ground. Some of them were in the ground up to their knees. Some had only their heads out. They all tried to get out so they could kill Jason. Then Jason did what Medea told him he should do. He took a giant's marble and threw it near the men. All the iron men wanted to get the marble. So they began to fight each other. As soon as one had his feet out of the ground, he cut at the man next to him. So they killed each other. Then Jason took his sword and cut off all the heads that were out of the ground. So all the iron men were killed and the king was very angry. But Medea and the people were glad. JASON AND THE DRAGON. yourself fond father The next day Jason went to the king and said, "Now, give me the golden fleece." The king did not give it to him, but said, "Come again." Then Medea said, "If you want the golden fleece, you must help yourself. My father will not give it to you. A dragon is by the tree where the golden fleece is, and he never sleeps. He is always hungry and eats people if they go near him. I can not kill him but I can make him sleep. He is very fond of cake. I will make some cake and put in something to make the dragon sleep." * * * * * became climbed angry So Medea made the cakes and Jason took them and threw them to the dragon. The dragon ate them all and went to sleep. Then Jason climbed over the dragon and took the nail out of the tree. He put the golden fleece under his coat and ran to the ship Argo. Medea went with him and became his wife. [Illustration: THE DRAGON FINDS THE FLEECE IS GONE.] Oh, how angry the king was! He had lost the golden fleece and the brass bulls and the dragon's teeth. And now his daughter was gone. * * * * * through nine stones He sent his men in ships to take Jason, but they could not get him. At last Medea and Jason and the other Argonauts came to Greece. Jason's father was there. He was a very old man. Jason wanted his father to be king, so he asked Medea to make the old man young. Then Medea took her carriage and flew through the air. She did not come back for nine days. She picked flowers from the hills. She found all kinds of stones, too. * * * * * stick died woke When she went home she put all these things into a pot and cooked them. [Illustration: MEDEA MAKES THE OLD KING YOUNG.] Then she put a stick into the pot and leaves grew on it. Some of the juice fell on the ground and grass grew up. So Medea knew the juice would make things grow. Jason's father went to sleep and Medea put some of the juice into his mouth. His white hair turned black and teeth grew in his mouth. When he woke up, he looked and felt like a young man. He lived many years and when he died Jason was king. 
9855	----	Distributed Proofreaders CLASSIC MYTHS Retold By MARY CATHERINE JUDD Principal of the Lincoln School Minneapolis Minn. ILLUSTRATED BY ANGUS MAC DONALL with drawings entirely from classic sources PREFACE The very cordial reception given this little book by teachers and children, both in school and out of school, has tempted me carefully to revise the stories, omitting some and adding others, in the hope of making the book still more welcome and more helpful. The illustrations in the present edition are all from classic sources, and reproduce for the reader something of the classic idea and the classic art. The book was originally prepared as an aid in Nature Study, and this thought has been retained in the present edition. By reading these myths the child will gain in interest and sympathy for the life of beast, bird, and tree; he will learn to recognize those constellations which have been as friends to the wise men of many ages. Such an acquaintance will broaden the child's life and make him see more quickly the true, the good, and the beautiful in the world about him. MARY CATHERINE JUDD. _Minneapolis, October, 1901_. TABLE OF CONTENTS How the Horses of the Sun Ran Away _Greek_ Woden, God of the Northern Sky _Norse_ Jupiter, God of the Southern Sky _Roman_ Diana, Queen of the Moon _Greek_ Jack and Jill on the Moon Mountains _Norse_ The Man in the Moon _German_ A Story of an Evening Star _Greek_ The Giant with a Belt of Stars _Greek_ The Great Bear in the Sky _Greek_ Castor and Pollux, the Starry Twins _Greek_ The Milky Way _Russian_ How Fire Came to Earth _Greek_ Beyond the Fire Island _Russian_ A Legend of the North Wind _Norse_ Orpheus, the South Wind _Greek_ The Little Wind-god _Greek_ The Voices of Nature _Finnish_ A Bag of Winds _Greek_ Echo, the Air Maiden _Greek_ Iris, the Rainbow Princess _Greek_ The Thunder-god and His Brother _Norse_ Neptune, King of the Seas _Greek_ Why Rivers Have Golden Sands _Greek_ Old Grasshopper Gray _Greek_ Where the Frogs Came from _Roman_ The Birds with Arrow Feathers _Greek_ Why the Partridge Stays Near the Ground _Greek_ Juno's Bird, the Peacock, _Roman_ The Gift of the Olive Tree, _Greek_ The Linden and the Oak, _Greek_ The Little Maiden Who Became a Laurel Tree _Greek_ The Lesson of the Leaves _Roman_ The Legend of the Seed _Greek_ The Girl Who Was Changed into a Sunflower _Greek_ Why the Narcissus Grows by the Water _Greek_ The Legend of the Anemone _Greek_ The Mistletoe _Norse_ The Forget-me-not _German_ Pegasus, The Horse With Wings _Greek_ Suggestions to Teachers A Bibliography A Pronouncing Index ILLUSTRATIONS Thor, with His Red-hot Hammer, frontispiece Phaeton Falling from the Chariot Woden Frigga, the Mother of the Gods Jupiter and His Eagle The Head of Jupiter Diana The Man in the Moon The Man in the Moon Venus Orion with His Club The Great Bear in the Sky The Great Bear and the Little Bear Castor and Pollux Minerva Boreas, the God of the North Wind Tower of the Winds at Athens Orpheus Mercury Ulysses Cover of a Drinking Cup Iris The Head of Iris Neptune A Greek Coin Silenus Holding Bacchus Aurora, the Goddess of the Dawn Latona Jason Castor, the Horse-Tamer Pollux, the Master of the Art of Boxing Daedalus and Icarus Making Their Wings Juno and Her Peacock Athena Minerva Daphne A Sibyl Ceres Apollo Narcissus Adonis and Aphrodite Woden on the Throne Bellerophon and Pegasus [Illustration: THOR, WITH HIS RED-HOT HAMMER] HOW THE HORSES OF THE SUN RAN AWAY _Greek_ Phaeton was the child of the Sun-god, Apollo. "Mother Clymene," said the boy one day, "I am going to visit my father's palace." "It is well," she answered. "The land where the Sun rises is not far from this. Go and ask a gift from him." That night Phaeton bound his sandals more tightly, and, wrapping a thicker silken robe about him, started for the land of Sunrise, sometimes called India by mankind. Many nights and many days he traveled, but his sandals never wore out nor did his robe make him too hot or too cold. At last, as he climbed the highest mountain peak of all the earth, he saw the glittering columns of his father's palace. As he came nearer he found that they were covered with millions of precious stones and inlaid with gold. When he started to climb the numberless stairs, the silver doors of the palace flew open, and he saw the wonderful ivory ceiling and the walls of the long hall. He was glad that the steps were many and he looked long at the pictures carved on the walls by an immortal artist. There were pictures of both land and sea. On the right was earth with its towns, forests, and rivers, and the beings that live in each. On the left was the ocean with its mermaids sporting among the waves, riding on the backs of fishes, or sitting on the rocks drying their sea-green hair. Their faces were alike, yet not alike, as sisters ought to be. Up, up the hundreds of steps he climbed, never wearied. On the ceiling of this marvelous hall he could see carved the stars of heaven. On the silver doors were the twelve strange beings of the sky, formed of stars; six on each door. The last step was reached. Outside the sky was dark, but at the doorway Phaeton stopped, for the light from his father was more than he could bear. There sat Apollo, dressed in crimson, on a throne which glittered with diamonds. On his right hand and on his left stood the Days, bright with hope; and the Months, hand in hand with the Days, seemed listening to what the Years were whispering to them. Phaeton saw there the four seasons. Spring, young and lovely, came first, her head crowned with flowers. Next came Summer, with her robe of roses thrown loosely about her and a garland of ripe wheat upon her head. Then came merry Autumn, his feet stained with grape juice; and last, icy Winter, with frosty beard and hair, and Phaeton shivered as he looked at him. Dazzled by the light, and startled to find himself in such a presence, he stood still. The Sun, seeing him with the eye that sees everything, asked: "Why are you here?" "Apollo, my father, grant me one request, that I may prove to mortals that you are my father." Apollo laid aside his dazzling crown of rays, clasped Phaeton in his arms and said: "Brave son, ask what you will, the gift is yours." Quicker than a flash from his father's crown came the question from Phaeton: "Will you let me for one day drive your chariot?" Foolish father, foolish son! Apollo shook his head three times in warning. "I have spoken rashly. This one thing no mortal can achieve. Nor can any immortal save myself hold in the horses that draw the fiery car of day. It is not honor, but death you ask. Change your wish." Phaeton answered: "My mother taught me that my father always kept his promises." "It is even so, rash boy. If you do not change, neither can I. Bring the chariot of the Sun." The daring child stood beside the glorious car that was higher than his head. His eyes flashed bright as the diamonds that studded the back of the golden chariot. The golden axle gleamed through the silver spokes, for the chariot was made of naught but gold and silver and precious stones. Then Early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the eastern sky. The stars, answering the signal of the Day Star, slowly passed from sight, followed by their marshal. The Hours obeyed Apollo's orders, and, harnessing the horses, led out the wondrous creatures and fastened them to the chariot. Apollo bathed Phaeton's face with ointment, and taking up the crown of shining rays, fastened it on the rash boy's head. With a sigh, he said: "My son, you will at least take my advice in one thing: spare the whip and hold tight the lines. You will see the marks of the wheels where I have gone before, and they will guide. Go not too high or you will burn the heavens, nor too low or you will set your mother's home, the earth, on fire. The middle course is best. Take the reins, or, if even now you will change your wish, abide here, and yield the car to me." Phaeton leaped into the golden chariot, and with a proud smile thanked his father. Then he gave the word to the horses. They darted forward through the morning clouds with the fury of a tempest. Men on the earth thought it was noonday and tried to do double their daily work. The fiery horses soon found their load was light, and that the hands on the reins were frail. They dashed aside from their path, until the fierce heat made the Great and the Little Bear long to plunge into the sea. Poor Phaeton, looking down on the earth, grew pale and shook with terror. He wished that he had never seen these shining steeds, had never sought the palace of the Sun, and that he had never held his father to that rash promise. Diana, who drives the chariot of the Moon, heard the mad racket in the sky, and shooting her arrows at the frightened horses, turned them aside in time to prevent them from dashing her own silver car to pieces. Earth cried for clouds and rain. The people of Africa became black because of the terrible heat. Streams dried up, mountains burned, and the River Nile hid his head forever in a desert. At last Earth cried in a husky voice to Jupiter, the ruler of the gods: "What have I done that this punishment should come? Slay me, or save my people from this burning!" [Illustration: PHAETON FALLING FROM THE CHARIOT] Jupiter, from his seat in the thunderclouds, saw the danger the heavens and the earth were in, and hurled his lightnings at the rash driver. Phaeton fell dead from the chariot. From morning till night, and from that night till morning, he fell like a shooting star, and sank at last into an Italian river. His sisters trembled so at his fall and wept so bitterly that they changed into poplar trees upon the river banks. Even to this day they mourn for him and tremble at the least breeze from heaven. Apollo's horses, calmed by Jupiter's voice, finally found the track. When evening came they entered the western gates of the sky and were taken back, by way of the north, to their stalls near Apollo's palace. WODEN, GOD OF THE NORTHERN SKY _Norse_ Little Hilda Peterson sat by a table in her mother's room studying her spelling lesson. Suddenly she startled her mother by giving the table a sharp rap with her pencil and saying: "What a queer name for a day! Why didn't the people who named the days give them numbers instead of names? I can never remember how to spell Wednesday. What is the use of the third letter in it?" "My little girl, when you have finished your lesson I will tell you a story; then I think you will always remember where the fourth day got its name." It did not take Hilda many minutes to finish her studying, with the promise of a story before her. This is the old Norse tale her mother told: "Long years ago, before our fatherland, Norway, became a Christian country, our people were taught that they must worship many gods. Nearly all of these they feared; a very few they loved. The greatest was Woden. When little children looked at the moon and stars, they were told that Woden made them. When they asked about the clouds, everyone said, 'Woden made them.' [Illustration: WODEN] "In the spring they were told that Woden made the leaves come and the flowers open. No one knew the true God then. Everyone said that Woden lived in a beautiful city in the sky, north of our own Northland. All the houses there were gold and silver, and the most splendid one was Woden's royal palace. This was called Valhalla. To reach it one had to ride or walk the whole length of the rainbow, as it arched from land to land. But there was a sharp-eyed watchman at the gate who stopped anyone who had no right to cross that seven-hued bridge. "In Valhalla, Woden's people were always happy. They were never sick; they never died. There were no little girls and no little boys in this golden palace, only soldiers; and some of these were women! Woden often sent his shield-maidens, as they were called, to battlefields to carry to Valhalla the souls of brave men. When the choosers of the slain rode through the air, their glittering, shining robes and spears, and their swift horses made a strange, bright light in the North. People called it Northern Lights, but Woden knew it was his Valkyrias. Did you ever see them? "In another palace of gold in this beautiful city of the northern sky were Woden's wife and family. This palace was called Fensalir. Woden's wife was Frigga and his eldest son was Thor. I must tell you about this son. Thor owned three precious things. Can you guess what they were? "One was a red-hot iron hammer. When he threw it at a mountain the rocks split open wide and all the Frost Giants who lived within the rocks and upon the mountain were killed. "The second thing was a wonderful belt. When he put it on he was twice as strong as before. "The third was a pair of iron gloves. When he put these on he could throw his hammer twice as far. "There is a story told of how Thor once threw his hammer so far that it could not return as it had always done. It fell near an immense giant who seized it and hid it half a mile deep under the rocks. Thor sent the God of Fire to win it back, but the cruel giant would not give it up unless Thor would bring Freya, the loveliest of the goddesses, to marry him. But Freya refused to go and live with a fierce giant. "Thor wanted his hammer. At last the God of Fire, who had seen this giant, told Thor to dress himself like Freya and to put on a heavy veil. He did this and the two gods rode far away, on the rays of the setting sun, to recover the lost hammer. "When the giant saw them he took them to his house. At supper time he wondered how a goddess could eat so much, for Thor devoured eight great salmon and a whole roasted ox. Then he wondered how she could drink so much, for Thor drank three hogsheads of honey wine. Then the giant pulled the heavy veil aside and wondered what made her eyes like fireballs. The God of Fire explained everything, for Thor would not speak. Then the hammer was asked for. It was laid in the mock bride's lap. As soon as Thor had it in his hand he stood up, slew all the giants and utterly destroyed the wicked town. Then he went back to Fensalir and told Frigga, his mother, how he had recovered his hammer. "Frigga was as powerful as Woden or Thor. All things which Woden had made obeyed her, nor dared harm anything when she forbade them. It may be she did not know of the lost hammer or she would have saved Thor his long journey. "Frigga was one of the most beautiful creatures the world has ever known. No picture was ever so perfect and beautiful as she. Her robes were lovelier than those of any other goddess. Sometimes they were of gold and scarlet, sometimes of purest white, and many times of modest green. She loved to spin, and no spider ever spun so fine a thread as she on her spinning wheel. She worked so faithfully that Woden changed the wheel into shining stars, and when you look up at Orion again remember that the Norse people called that constellation Frigga's distaff. "And now, Hilda, these three, Woden, Thor, and Frigga, still live upon our earth and are bound by loving ties. Strange to say, however, they can never meet again, for only one comes to earth at a time. At midnight, Woden, the father, leaves, and Thor, his son, stays with us till another midnight. Then Frigga, the mother, comes for a single day, but she never can see again her son nor her husband. [Illustration: FRIGGA, THE MOTHER OF THE GODS] "Does Hilda guess what my story means?" "I am not quite sure, mother; help me a little bit." "In my story, Hilda, I told for whom three days of our week are named. Can you tell which days?" "Why, mother, is that it? I know one, that is Woden's day, or Wednesday. Yes, there is Thor's day, or Thursday, but what is the other?" "Didn't I tell you the mother never could see again her son or her husband? Do you see the meaning now?" "Oh, I know! Friday is beautiful Frigga's day." "Yes, you have guessed the three, Hilda. Now, do you see that Thor's day comes when Woden's day goes? And as soon as Thor's day is over, then comes Frigga's day. They come to earth, but never meet." "Why, how queer it all is! When I say the names of the days of the week, it will seem as if you were telling me the story again." "And now a little more, Hilda. Do you remember the colors of the robes that Frigga wore?" "You said she wore green or white robes, or sometimes scarlet and gold. Her dresses must have been very beautiful." "Look out of the window Hilda. What color is the lawn?" "Why, the grass makes it green." "What color will it be in winter?" "Why, white with snow, of course." "And in the fall, Hilda?" "Oh, I know now what you mean by Frigga is the ground, isn't she?" "Not the ground, but the earth. Woden, with his one all-seeing eye and his mantle of blue and gray, is the sky, and Thor, with his streaming red beard and his crashing hammer, is the thunder." "Oh, mother, how strange it is that such a story should come just from the word Wednesday! I am glad that I am a Norwegian." JUPITER, GOD OF THE SOUTHERN SKY _Roman_ "Why do they call the eagle Jupiter's bird, Miss Folsom?" "Where did you ever hear it called that, Mary?" "It was in a book from which our teacher was reading a story to-day. She let me take the book and there was a fine picture of an eagle on the first page and it was marked 'Jupiter's bird.' I never knew exactly who Jupiter was. Was he a real person, Miss Folsom?" "He was one of the three great gods whom the Romans used to believe in, Mary. They thought he ruled the sky and everything in it, and all living things on earth, both the gods and the men. His bird was the eagle, which carried the lightning in its claws. At Jupiter's command thunderbolts dashed against the hardest rocks and broke them into powder. No one dared to disobey him but his wife, Juno, and sometimes even she had to suffer for doing so. "Jupiter's father was Saturn, who was kind and good in every way but one. He did not love his children, and, at the end of each year, one went away never to return. Jupiter, in some way, was stronger than the rest and refused to go when the order came. He even fought with the messenger and made him beg for mercy. [Illustration: JUPITER AND HIS EAGLE] [Illustration: THE HEAD OF JUPITER. From a Greek Coin of about 280 B.C.] Then Jupiter sent this messenger to Saturn, who agreed to bring back to life Jupiter's brothers and sisters. They all rose up and sent Saturn away forever, and gave the kingdom to the three bravest sons. Neptune took the ocean, Pluto the center of the earth, and Jupiter the skies. They reigned until men had learned wisdom and had become too wise to be ruled by so many gods. "Now Jupiter is the name of the largest planet, and when you see a great beautiful star in the sky, shining almost like the moon, you may be sure it is Jupiter. You can fancy he is looking down to see if Neptune is holding his unruly winds and waves in check, or if Pluto is still keeping guard over the watch-fires in the center of the earth. "So Jupiter still reigns, but no one now is afraid of his power." "How wicked of Saturn to put away his children! How could he?" "Saturn is the same as old Father Time, Mary. Doesn't he put away one of his children every twelve months?" "Oh, is that what it means?" "Year after year goes away, never to return." "How could Saturn bring them back, then?" "I don't know what that part of the story means. Maybe we will find out sometime. But can you think of any day of the week that might be named after Saturn?" "Why, Saturday! surely that is the one, isn't it?" "Yes, and the weeks never return either, do they, Mary?" DIANA, QUEEN OF THE MOON _Greek_ "When we were at grandpa's last summer, we used to stay out so long, playing under the trees in the dooryard, that nearly every night we saw the moon. "Sometimes it was big and round, and sometimes it looked like grandpa's sickle, only it had no handle. "And you ought to have heard the queer stories aunt Hattie told about the moon. Some of the stories were very funny, and some were very beautiful. "Let's find a window where we can see the moon and then tell stories about it. Come, boys," and little Jack led the way. "Here is a grand place to sit, Charlie. Right here, all of us together on this sofa, and you must tell us a story." So Charlie began: "This is one of the stories I like best; maybe you won't, though. "Apollo, the god of the sun, had a twin sister named Diana. Apollo liked to hunt with his golden bow and arrow, and his sister loved him so much that she was always with him. He taught her how to use the bow and arrow as well as he could himself. Sometimes their mother would set up a target for them, and she was just as proud of Diana's quick eyes as of Apollo's strong hand, for no matter what they aimed at, Diana could shoot as well as Apollo. By and by, when Apollo had grown too old for idle sport, he was given the sun to rule over, and Diana begged for something just as grand to do. 'Such work is too hard for my brave girl,' her mother would say, but at last Apollo said he would help her, and so she was given the moon to rule over." [Illustration: DIANA. From a statue in the Louvre, Paris] "Why, Charlie, how queer that sounds, for you know the sun does help the moon to shine," said Jack. "Keep still, Jack; it is almost nine o'clock, and I can't stop to talk about the queer part; you must just watch for that," and Charlie went on with the story. "Diana was as grand and proud, driving the silver chariot of the moon, as Apollo in his gold chariot of the sun. Sometimes, when her work was over, she left the moon and came to earth again to hunt. She would call her friends, the maidens she used to play with, and away they would go, each with a silver bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows fastened at their backs. "One day, while they were hunting, they heard strange dogs in the woods. Each one of the girl hunters hid behind a tree and waited. Diana ran from her tree to a cave so that she could not be found. At last a foolish hunter came in sight. He seemed to act as if he knew he ought not to be there, and he wandered from left to right, as if he had never hunted before. Then he started for the very cave where Diana was hiding, for he knew by the willows a spring was there." "Oh, my!" said Jack. "Yes, he started for Diana's cave, but the minute he was near enough he felt a splash of water that seemed to cover him from head to foot and he heard Diana say: "'Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana.' "Poor fellow! He could not move. As he stood there he found his arms were changing to the straight fore legs of a deer. Horns came out of his head, his brown eyes grew bigger, and so did his ears, and in a few minutes even his own dogs did not know him. He bounded away, but his pet hounds sprang at him and caught him. "Diana and her friends were miles away, and no one could save the poor fellow from the fate of a hunted deer." "Oh, I think Diana was cruel," said Jack. "I thought it served him right, when I heard it," Charlie said. "He knew he had no right in Diana's forest, and she can't hunt in the moon, for they say there are neither trees nor animals there." JACK AND JILL ON THE MOON MOUNTAINS _Norse_ "Jack and Jill Went up the hill To get a pail of water; Jack fell down And broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after." That is what your father and mother used to say when they were children. So did your grandfather and grandmother when they were little, and for hundreds of years children have laughed at poor Jack and Jill's mishaps. Now, I will tell you how the story first began. In Norway, people used to believe that the chariot of the moon was driven by a glorious youth, Mani. He was lonely in heaven. One night a little boy on earth was sent by his parents to a well to get a pail of water. This boy's name was Hjuki. He asked his sister Bil to go with him. They had to carry with them the big bucket fastened to a long pole, for there was no well-sweep. They thrust the pole, with the bucket at the end of it, into the water, and, as they were both busy straining every muscle to raise the bucket, Mani stood beside them and helped them. To the children he looked like a friendly lad and they were glad of his help. Bil balanced the pail on the pole and together they started to carry the water home. The weight was so great on Hjuki's shoulder, for he tried to take the heavier end, that he stumbled and down they both went. Mani wanted the children's company and so picked them up and carried them through the sky to the mountains of the moon. There you can see them when the moon is full, wandering about, seeking to return, falling and going out of sight, just as they did on earth. They still carry the bucket and the pole, hoping yet dreading to meet their parents. They fear that their parents think they ran away from their task. But try as hard as they can, Mani keeps them from finding the way back to earth. THE MAN IN THE MOON _German_ More than a thousand years ago, on a Sunday morning in the early fall, an old German woodman told his wife, Gretchen, that he was going after fagots. She begged him not to go, for it was Sunday and they did not need the wood. The old man only laughed at her, and trudged away into the forest where no one could see him. [Illustration: THE MAN IN THE MOON. From an old painting.] He cut his bundle of fagots, piled them together, tied them with a stout band, and throwing them over his shoulder, started homeward. Then he noticed that the wild creatures, that had never stirred as he entered the woods before, were now afraid of him. The birds fluttered away with a whirring noise, and an old mother hare, which he knew very well, made wonderful leaps to get herself and family out of his sight. Even a bear ran from him, instead of attacking him. Soon he met a stranger with a sad, stern face, who stopped him. "Don't you know that this is Sunday on earth, when all must rest from work?" "Whether it is Sunday on earth or Monday in heaven, it is all the same to me," laughed the old man. "Then carry your bundle forever, and as you do not care for Sunday on earth, you shall have a long Monday in heaven, where you shall be a warning to all Sabbath-breakers evermore." Then the old man found himself swiftly rising in the air. Quick as a thought he was landed in the moon, where his wife saw him as she stood outside her door that night to watch for his coming. There he still stands bearing his fagots, and as all days are Mondays in the moon, he can never Break Sunday Again. [Illustration: THE MAN IN THE MOON. From a seal dated 1335. The legend says "I will teach thee, Walter, why I carry thorns in the moon"] A STORY OF AN EVENING STAR _Greek_ "Every night, mother, I see a beautiful star in the sky so different from the others. It comes first and shines so bright that it seems as if it were the loveliest star in the whole sky. Won't you watch for it to-night with me?" The mother smiled, for she thought she knew which one of the stars Mamie would point out. Sure enough, that night as they both sat in the hammock watching the sunset, out came the very star she expected. In a moment Mamie saw it and nearly fell out of the hammock as she screamed and clapped her hands. "There it is, mamma! There it is! I know it because it looks straight at me. It knows me, I believe, for it never trembles a bit, like the other stars! Did you ever see such a lovely one?" Her mother smiled an odd little smile. "What makes you laugh at me, mother? I know you are laughing, by the corners of your mouth; they go up so queerly. Tell me." "Why, Mamie, that is Venus you are watching. I have watched her every year since I first found her long ago." "Venus? Who is Venus, mother? And what makes you call a star _her_? I didn't know a star could have a name. Who named her? Did you, mother? What made you call her Venus?" "Seems to me you ask a great many questions, little girl. Which one shall I answer first?" "Did you name my star yourself?" "No, Mamie, it was named hundreds of years ago when many stars had names given them. You know people have watched and studied the stars almost since the world began." "And was Venus a little girl or a woman? I know she must have been lovely or they would never have given her name to my star." "Your star, as you call it, Mamie, is at present the evening star. By and by it will be the morning star. I will tell you where it got its name. "Venus was a lovely woman, but she never was a little girl. The old, old story books say that one day as some people were walking by the sea they saw a rose-tinted shell rise on the crest of the wave. This great shell opened, and beautiful Venus, clothed in raiment like sea-foam when the sun shines on it, stepped out upon the waters. The people watching were not surprised when they saw a sunset cloud sail down and take her to the edge of the western sky, where the ruby gates opened and she passed through to the world of the gods. That was her home. Whenever she wished to return to earth she came in a silver chariot drawn by snow-white swans. Her head was always wreathed with roses and myrtles. White doves carried her messages. Her dress is of the finest silk, the color of the pink sea-shell." "Why, mamma, you say _is_! Do you mean Venus is still alive?" [Illustration: VENUS. From the statue in the Louvre, Paris] "No, dear, she never was alive. It is only one of the many beautiful myths that people used to believe two thousand years ago. But artists love to paint pictures as beautiful as Venus was thought to be, and there are many lovely statues of her. Sometimes it almost seems as if she must have been alive. When we go to the art gallery, see if you can find a Venus. "But say good-night to your star, for it is late. Some time you will miss her and find another in her place. Tell me, dear, when the new star comes." "Oh, I am going to watch every night, mamma. Will the new one have a name?" "Yes, but I'm not going to tell you its name or its story till it comes." THE GIANT WITH A BELT OF STARS _Greek_ It is an easy matter for any one to find the three great stars in the sky that are arranged in a row, like three great diamonds sparkling on the front of a mammoth crown. They shine out, clear and bright, whenever Diana takes her silver bow, which we call the moon, and goes to hunt in her secret fields or forests. These three stars have been called Orion's Belt for thousands of years, and for ages children and grown people have watched for their coming after the sun has gone below the horizon. The story told of Orion by the ancient Greeks has been repeated by some of our poets, and Henry W. Longfellow has written in his own beautiful way of this same famous Greek hunter who never knew fear. Perhaps you will be more interested in his poem after you have read this short account of the mighty giant whose belt of stars is longer than other giants were tall. Orion was the son of Neptune, the god of the sea. His father gave him power to walk upon the water or to wade in the deepest ocean without drowning. You know that if he had the power of walking in such places, he did not need to swim, and his steps were so long that he could walk much faster than his swiftest enemy could run. [Illustration: ORION WITH HIS CLUB] Orion was very fond of hunting, and wore, as his mantle or robe, the tawny skin of a huge lion he had slain. His club and his sword were his only weapons, and he needed no others, for his long arms helped him to strike before he himself could be hurt. Once he was made blind, but as he wandered by the seashore the music of the singing waves which were his father's home gave him comfort and led him to a friend who guided him to Apollo. One bright sunbeam from Apollo's crown touched Orion's eyes and they saw more clearly than ever before. Nearly everything was Orion's friend, for with his great strength he was always ready to help those who could not help themselves. But he was so huge that many who did not know him were afraid, and one day the Pleiads, daughters of Atlas, saw him coming and they fled away so fast that they were changed into doves. You can find the place where they alighted in the sky, just ahead of Orion. He still follows them, and his dog Sirius, who carries the famous dog star, is close at his side; but the Pleiads never allow Orion to overtake them in their long journey through the regions of the sky. The Pleiads are so beautiful that you must learn to find them, and this cluster of six twinkling stars, "a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid," will guide you in finding the belt of the mighty hunter Orion, the giant of the heavens. Four other very brilliant stars mark his shoulders and his knees. THE GREAT BEAR IN THE SKY _Greek_ "Oh mother, what do you think? Last night that English boy, Charlie Thornton, asked me if I knew where Charles' Wain was, and when I said I didn't know, what do you suppose he showed me? Why, nothing but the Big Dipper up there among the stars. I told him he was mistaken and that nobody ever called it the odd name he had for it. But he said his mother called it that, and he wouldn't give it up. Wasn't that queer?" "Why, no, Ralph, I don't think it was strange that he called it as his mother had taught him. That is exactly what you do. Many English people call it Charles' Wain. Wain means wagon, and it does look a little like a cart or wagon." "I don't think it does, not the least bit. It looks just like a big dipper, and like nothing else." "Why, you silly boy! What would you think if I should tell you that ever so many people call it the Great Bear?" "Why, that is queerer yet. Can you see a bear up there in the sky? Maybe when it thunders it is the Great Bear growling!" and Ralph jumped off the porch and rolled on the grass, laughing at his discovery. [Illustration: THE GREAT BEAR IN THE SKY] In a moment a thought seemed to come to him, and springing up, he ran to his mother's chair on the porch and said: "Mother, is there any story about the Great Bear? How did it get up there among the stars? Is the North Star the Bear's eye? Does his nose always point to the North Star, the same as the two pointers in the Big Dipper?" "Now, my boy, you will be surprised again when I tell you that there are two bears in the sky, the Great Bear and the Little Bear. The wonderful North Star is in the tip of the tail of the Little Bear." "Now, I know there is a story about them, just as there was about those three beautiful ones you showed me in Orion's belt. You told me about Orion, now you will tell me about the two bears, won't you?" "It is a sad story, Ralph, and you know you don't like sad stories. But I will tell it to you, and sometime, in the years to come, you may read it in a language that is as old as the story. "Near a beautiful city on the other side of the world was a large forest. The trees in this forest were very tall, and their branches so thick that they made a roof over the ground below. One could wander for miles and miles in the shade of this forest and never find a house, or any living creatures but the birds and wild animals. "Once on a time some hunters came back, after having been gone many days, and said that away in the heart of the forest they had had a glimpse of a beautiful snow-white bear. Not one of them had been able to get a shot at it with his arrows, and some thought it was only a dream. The story spread throughout the city, and all the boys and young hunters were anxious for a chance to win so fine a prize as the snow-white skin. Not for himself, oh, no, for whoever brought it home must hang it in the temple. "One brave young hunter said, 'I am going into the heart of the forest. I will take only the bravest with me, and I will never return without the prize.' "This young man was dearly loved by everyone. His mother had left him when he was only a few years old, and gone, no one knew where. He was cared for by his uncle, and grew up, hoping each year his mother would return. He took long journeys trying to learn if she were still alive, but no one could ever tell him a word about her. These journeys had made him very bold and brave, and there was no cave so dark, nor mountain so high, but that he would search it in the hope of finding his mother. "He found six young hunters ready to go with him into the heart of the forest. They looked very fine in their bright, shining hunting-suits, with their bows and arrows, and every one wished them success. "They wasted no time in the pleasant fields outside, but started for the dark, sunless forest. It was slow work picking their way through the tangled bushes growing under the trees, and it took many days to reach the place described by the hunters who had told them the story of the strange white bear. "'Whoever sees it first must call to the others. It may be that this is enchanted ground, and something dreadful will happen to the one who is alone,' said the leader of the hunting party. "'It is well said,' they all agreed. In the heart of this wild forest they wandered, shooting the strange birds they saw there, and saving the long feathers and wings, to bring home after the hunt was over. "One day the leader of the hunt chased a wonderful bird for hours from tree to tree, riding beneath the branches, trying to get a shot. "At last, just as he had his arrow in his bow, ready to aim, his horse reared and nearly threw him backward to the ground. There, beside him, stood the snow-white bear. "Its two fore paws were stretched out to meet him, and its eyes seemed full of the love he used to see in his mother's eyes. It was a beautiful sight, and the arrow meant for the bird shot upward into the sky, harming no one, but bearing the next words of the hunter as a message to the great Jupiter. "'O, my mother, let me live forever with you!' exclaimed the hunter, as his strong arms were clasped about the white bear's neck. "'My mother is found!' he shouted, and Echo repeated over and over, 'Found! Found!' until the six fellow hunters came to where the mother and her son were standing, gazing with loving eyes toward Mount Olympus, the home of their gods. "The winged arrow had taken its flight to Jupiter and the son's prayer was answered. [Illustration: THE GREAT BEAR AND THE LITTLE BEAR. From an old wood cut.] "Jupiter's lightnings flashed and the six hunters saw their strong leader change into the Great Bear, and gently guide his mother, the Little Bear, to her home in the sky. He took his place near her, at Jupiter's command, and now follows wherever she leads. He points forever to her and to the North Star which she keeps. Those who watch this unchanging beacon among the stars sometimes remember that the people of long ago thought that it was placed there to tell them of the unchanging love of mothers." "Oh, I knew there was a story. It came out all right at last, and that takes the sad part away." Then Ralph whispered, "We know it was only a myth, don't we?" CASTOR AND POLLUX, THE STARRY TWINS _Greek_ Among the star pictures in the sky may be found one called Gemini, or the Twins. The ancient Greeks used to believe that twin brothers named Castor and Pollux had been really placed in the sky. They once lived in Sparta; their mother was the lovely Leda, and one of their sisters was the beautiful Helen, whose capture caused the famous Trojan war. These brothers were as devoted to each other as twins are said to be, and one was never seen without the other being near. Their love for their sisters was very great, and once when Helen was captured by two noted warriors, these twin brothers of hers found her and brought her safely back to their mother's house. [Illustration: CASTOR AND POLLUX] Castor was very fond of horses. He could tame the wildest one that was ever caught, and lead it about like a pet dog as soon as his magic touch had taught its fiery spirit that he was its master. He could ride better than any one in the kingdom, for no horse had ever thrown him. Pollux was just as famous in boxing and wrestling. He taught young men many tricks with the hand and foot, and was the leader in all games. The two brothers were proud to be allowed to go with the other heroes in quest of the golden fleece. When the sweet music of Orpheus stilled the wild storm that arose on the sea and threatened to wreck the Argo, stars appeared upon the heads of Castor and Pollux, for their great love for each other was known to the Olympian gods who had sent the storm. When the curious flames, that sometimes during storms play about the masts and sails of a ship, were seen on other ships after this voyage of the Argo, the sailors would always cry out, "See the stars of Castor and Pollux!" Their love for each other made them more famous than anything else. When at last Castor was slain in a great battle, Pollux prayed Jupiter to let them be again united. The prayer was granted. Not long after this, the poets tell us, the star picture of the Twins was discovered in the sky, and there the two loving brothers stay forever watching the earth to see if they may help others to be faithful to the end. THE MILKY WAY _Russian_ Soon after the world was made, God created a beautiful maiden and gave her charge of all the birds beneath the heavens. Her name was Lindu. Her father's name was Uko. She knew all the birds of passage, and where they should go in autumn, and she sent each flock on its way. Lindu cared for the birds tenderly, like a mother for her children, and gave them help whenever it was possible. She sent the stormy wind to blow dust into the eyes of the fierce hunters when they were seeking to slay her pets. It was not surprising that all the world loved her, and those who dwelt in the sky most of all. The North Star wished to make her his wife. He drove up to Uko's palace with a dusky coach drawn by six black horses, and in the coach were ten fine presents. But Lindu did not love him. "You always stay in one place, and cannot stir from it," said she. "Go back to your watch-tower." Then came the Moon drawn in a silver coach by ten gray horses, and the Moon brought twenty presents. But Lindu did not love the Moon. "You change your face too often and not your path, and that will never suit me," she said. So the Moon drove away wearing his saddest face. Scarcely had the Moon gone before the Sun drove up. He rode in a golden coach drawn by twenty gold-red horses, and he brought thirty presents with him. But all his grandeur went for nothing with Lindu, for she said: "I do not love you. You follow the same track day by day, just like the Moon. I love the changing seasons, the changing winds, anything that changes." At that the gold-red horses leaped away and Lindu was alone with her birds. At length the Northern Light came from his home in the midnight land in a diamond coach drawn by a thousand white horses. He was so grand that Lindu went to the door to meet him. His servants carried a whole coach-load of gold and silver, pearls and jewels into her house. She loved this bright suitor at once. "You do not travel the same path all the time like the others. You set out when you wish and rest when it pleases you. Each time you wear a new robe, and each time you ride in a new coach with new horses. You shall be my bridegroom." And Lindu's choice was made. The news was sent throughout the world, and guests came from the four sides of the sky and of the earth to greet Lindu and the Northern Light. It was agreed that the wedding should be when the birds flew south. Back to his home in the midnight land went the Northern Light, knowing that Lindu loved him best. The torrent which fell half a thousand feet over the mountain side sent Lindu her bridal veil. The Frost King sent her laces so fine that a breath of summer air would have destroyed them, and they were stored away in a block of ice for safe keeping. The birds brought her robes of butterfly wings softer than silk and more beautiful than velvet. Her sandals were from the wings of the honey bee, stronger than reindeer skin, and fleeter than a chamois' foot. Spring passed away. Summer came and went. The birds flew south, and Lindu waited for the Northern Light's return. Snow sparkled on the earth, but no hoof-beat of his thousand white horses broke the stillness of the midnight air. Spring came, but never the Northern Light. Then Lindu began to weep, and from her tears sprang the little brooks in the valleys of Earth. The birds flew about her head and rested on her shoulders. They tried to caress her in a hundred ways, but Lindu did not heed them. Then they flew away and wandered in strange places, building nests where no nests were ever seen before. Many an egg was lost and many a nestling stolen because Lindu was not near to help her birds. At last Uko heard their sad songs and then saw his daughter's grief. Uko's heart was always merry and his hands so full of work that he had not noticed Lindu's trouble. He ordered the Four Winds to lift her gently and bring her to him in his sky palace. She dressed herself in her bridal veil, her frosted laces, and robes of butterfly wings, and the four strong Winds lifted her from the ground. The song-birds of Earth gathered about her and sang their sweetest songs. With her white bridal veil streaming far out on the air and a happy smile on her lips, Lindu sailed across the sky to Uko's palace. There she lives now, happy as her father Uko. Her white veil spreads from one end of the heavens to the other, and whoever lifts his eyes to the Milky Way beholds the maiden in her bridal robes. From there she directs her birds. From there she waves her white hand in greeting to the Northern Light as his thousand horses leap through the sky. She has forgotten his unkindness and her sorrow. The Northern Light still loves her, but is so changeful that he can never keep a promise. Uko has given Lindu her station in the heavens and her work. Forever beautiful and forever young, never changing, she forever smiles at the changeful Northern Light. HOW FIRE CAME TO EARTH _Greek_ Once the earth was but a ball of dead, cold rock and barren sand. Once the waters were nothing but a mass of icy waves. Two great giants, Titans the Greeks called them, were given the task of making the earth what it had been planned to be. Epimetheus and Prometheus were the names of these giants. Epimetheus took upon himself the task of making the lower animals and man. Prometheus overlooked the work and gave hints if he saw that anything was lacking. Epimetheus made the fishes. He set them afloat in the water, and taught them to swim. He made the lion and gave it courage. He gave wings to the bird and showed it how to fly swiftly through the air. He covered the crab with its shell and taught it how to creep. Man came last. Epimetheus had nothing to give him. Claws, wings, shelly covering, fur, everything had been bestowed on the creatures which he had made first. Epimetheus saw how weak man was with all the fierce animals around him. He went to Prometheus for help, and said: "I have clothed this last creature which I have made with robes from the garments the immortals have cast aside. The thorns cannot tear him, but the wild beast can take his life in a moment. Help me to make him conqueror of everything in earth and sea and sky." [Illustration: MINERVA] Prometheus sought Minerva for wisdom. She gave him a golden torch, whose wood was cut from the pines that grew nearest heaven on the earth's highest peak, and said: "Follow what this branch of pine is seeking. It will take and hold the gift reserved for man." When Prometheus grasped the torch, it leaped upward through the sky past the pale, cold moon; past flashing stars; upward, till the torch and its bearer stood in the high heavens by the burning chariot of the sun. The pine kissed the leaping flames and a fire was kindled in its own heart. Prometheus sprang backward from the sun chariot, and, bearing the flaming torch in his hands, brought down to man, from the sun, the gift of fire. No creature but man can possess or use this gift. Man would not part with it for all the treasures below the earth's surface, nor for all the gifts that birds, beasts, and fishes can boast. With fire, weapons are made that can subdue the strongest beast that ever fought for its life. Tools with which man tills the earth and blasts the rock are made with the aid of fire. With fire man warms his dwelling. While the wild creatures shiver in the ice and snow man makes summer within the four walls of his home. Man walks the earth a conqueror, but should the gift of fire be taken from him, how would he then teach the lower animals that he is their master? Having this gift he excels all other creatures. Without it he would be poor indeed. Go where you will, the gift Prometheus brought is known to the race to whom it was given. There is no savage so ignorant but that he has the art of making fire. Fire gleams from the eyeballs of the beasts when they are in anger, but this fire is cold compared with the burning blaze of wood and coal. No beast will attack mankind when protected by a blazing torch. The gift of Prometheus shows the wisdom of Minerva. BEYOND THE FIRE ISLAND _Russian_ Once there was a man who decided to take a journey to the uttermost end of the world where it touches the sky. He thought he could reach that point only by sea, but being tired of the water decided to travel on the wings of an eagle. A raven told him better, however, for the nights are months long in the far Northland and the eagle loves the sunlight. Then this man, who was a king, gave orders to fell the greatest oak tree in his three kingdoms. Olaf the Brave undertook this task. The oak tree was very large and neither sun, moon, nor stars could shine between its leaves, they were so close together. The king commanded that deep-sea sailing ships should be made from its trunk, warships from its crown, merchant ships from its branches, children's boats from the splinters, and maidens' rowing boats from the chips. But the wise men of Norway and Finland assembled and gave the king advice. They told him that it was no use building a wooden ship, for the spirits of the Northern Lights would set it on fire. Then the king made a ship of silver. The whole of the ship--planking, deck, masts, and chains--was of silver, and he named his vessel "The Flyer." Then--for this was ages ago--he provided golden armor for himself, silver armor for his nobles, iron for the crew, copper for the old men, and steel for the wise men. When everything was ready, he and his sailors set out for Finland. But they soon turned and headed "The Flyer" to the far north. The Great Bear in the sky guided them. At the helm of the ship was a wise pilot who knew all languages and the speech of birds and beasts. The winds of Finland were angry because he slighted their country, and a great storm arose and blew the ship out of her course. The birds sang to the helmsman and told him by their song that his ship was being driven on the bleak and desolate coast of Lapland. The king and his bold comrades succeeded in landing in Lapland, but could find no people. At last a sailor discovered a house. In it dwelt a wise man and his daughter. The king asked the wise man the way to the end of the world. The wise man answered that he had asked a vain question. "The sea has no end, and those who go westward have found their death in the Fire Island. Turn homeward and live," said the wise man. The king only answered by asking the wise Lapp if he would be their guide to the Fire Island. He consented and went aboard the ship. His name was Varrak. He steered the boat due north for thirty days and thirty nights. The first danger they met was a great whirlpool, whose center was a vast hole into which had been drawn many a brave ship. Varrak threw overboard a small barrel wrapped in red cloth and trimmed with many red streamers, but with a rope attached to it. A whale swallowed this bait and then tried to escape as he felt the rope pulling him. In his flight he towed the ship to a safe place in the open sea. This brought them far westward and at last they came within sight of the Island of Fire. Iceland, men call it now, but surely it has as much fire as ice. From the middle of this Iceland they could see great pillars of flame and vast clouds of smoke ascending into the air. Varrak warned the king of his danger, but was commanded to run the boat ashore. Those who explored the land found a vast mountain casting up flames and another mountain pouring out smoke. Soon the party came across great spouting fountains of boiling water, and they found the ground beneath their feet to be burning lava. The son of Sulev, who was leading this exploring party, wandered through snow-fields covered with ashes. A shower of red-hot stones warned him that he was near the volcano. Going too close to this burning mountain, his hair and eyebrows were singed and his clothing took fire. He rolled in the snow and saved himself. Then the son of Sulev thought it best to go back to the ship. Calling his party together, he found that the youngest, the yellow-haired boy who was cupbearer to the king, was gone. The birds told the helmsman, the wise Lapp, that the lad had made friends with the water-sprites beyond the snow mountains and would never return. The winds drove the ship about for many days till she grounded again on a strange shore. Another party of nobles and sailors went to search this country. Being tired, they lay down under an ash tree and fell asleep. The people in this land were giants, and a giant's daughter found them. They were so very small to the giant child that she picked them up and put them in her apron, and carried them home to her father. "Look at these strange creatures, father," she said. "I found them asleep under a head of cabbage in our garden. What are they?" The giant knew them to be men from the east. Now the east has always been noted for its wisdom, so he questioned these men with riddles. "What walks along the grass, steps on the edge of the fence, and walks along the sides of the reeds?" he asked. "The bee," answered the wise man of the party. "What drinks from the brooks and wells, and from the stones on the bank?" "The rainbow," replied the wise man. Then the giant told his little daughter to put the strangers back exactly where she had found them. But the wise man asked her to carry them to the ship just for fun. She leaned over the vessel like a vast cloud and shook them out of her white apron upon the deck. Then with one long breath she blew the ship four miles out to sea. The king shouted back his thanks. But that wind blew northwest instead of north. The cold was intense and they watched from midnight to midnight the combats in the air between the spirits of the Northern Lights. The sailors were frightened, but the king was pleased. He was farther north than ever before. The helmsman warned them that they were approaching another shore. No birds welcomed them or sang them the name of the country. Men dressed in the skins of dogs and bears met them as they landed, and took them to their homes on sledges of ice drawn by dogs. Their houses were of blocks of ice and snow, and their talk sounded like dogs barking. The king did not like these people, for their land was cold. The wise man told him again that his search was an idle one. The end of the world was not for mortal eyes to see. At last the king believed him and sailed homeward. No man to this day has been able to find the far north, the end of the world. A LEGEND OF THE NORTH WIND _Norse_ North Wind likes a bit of fun as dearly as a boy does, and it is with boys he likes best to romp and play. One day North Wind saw a brave little fellow eating his lunch under a tree. Just as he went to bite his bread, North Wind blew it out of his hand and swept away everything else that he had brought for his lunch. "You hateful North Wind!" cried the little fellow. "Give me back my supper. I'm so hungry." [Illustration: BOREAS, THE GOD OF THE NORTH WIND] Now North Wind, like all brave beings, is noble, and so he tried to make up for the mischief he had done. "Here, take this tablecloth," said North Wind, "and, in whatever house you stay, spread it on the table; then wish, and you shall have everything you wish for to eat." "All right!" said the boy, and he took the tablecloth and ran as fast as he could to the first house, which proved to be an inn. "I have enough to pay for lodging, so I'll stay all night," he said to himself. "Bring me a table," he ordered the innkeeper, as he went to his room. "Ha! ha!" laughed the innkeeper. "You mean bring me a supper." "No, I don't. I want only a table and that right quick. I'm hungry." The innkeeper brought the table, but, after the door was shut, he watched through the keyhole to see what would happen. "Beans, bread, and bacon," ordered the boy, as he spread out his tablecloth. On came beans, bread, and bacon through the open window, whirled in by North Wind. Smoking hot they all were, too, for the dishes were tightly covered. After supper was over, the boy went sound asleep. North Wind did not waken him as the innkeeper took the table and the table-cloth and carried them down-stairs. Next morning the boy was hungry again, but there was no tablecloth and so no breakfast. "You are a cheat, North Wind; you have taken back your tablecloth." [Illustration: TOWER OF THE WINDS AT ATHENS] "No," said North Wind, "that is not the way I do." But the boy did not get his tablecloth. After a time North Wind met him again out under the trees. "This time I will give you a sheep," he said. "Each time that you rub his wool, out will drop a gold piece. Take care of him." The boy ran back and found the sheep at the door of the stable, behind the inn. He caught the sheep by a strap which was around its neck, and led it slowly up the stairs of the inn, to the room from which the tablecloth had disappeared the night before. As the boy was hungry for his breakfast, he obeyed North Wind's command and patted the sheep upon its back. A gold piece fell out of its fleece upon the floor. "Good old North Wind!" said the boy. "Here's my breakfast and some hay for my sheep. Come breakfast, come hay," and through the open window came first a bundle of hay, and then a fine breakfast for the hungry boy. After breakfast the boy paid for a week's lodging with the gold piece. He slept soundly that night with his sheep for his pillow, and the next night also, but the third morning when the boy awoke, his head lay upon the floor and the sheep was gone. Perhaps too many gold pieces had been seen in the boy's hand, for he had patted his sheep very often. He accused North Wind again. "You have taken back your sheep. I don't like you. You are as cold-hearted as you can be." But North Wind said nothing. He put a queer stick into a bag and gave it to the boy and told him to go back and lock his door as tightly as before. "Talk to the bag," he said, "and guard it as carefully as if there was a jewel in it." That night the boy was wakened out of his soundest sleep by screams for help in his room. There was the innkeeper running about, and that queer stick was pounding him, first on the head, then on the feet, then on his back, then in his face. "Help! help!" he cried. "Give me back my sheep," said the boy. "Get it; it is hidden in the barn," said the innkeeper. The boy went out and found his sheep in the barn and drove it away as fast as he could, but he forgot about the innkeeper, and, maybe, that stick is pounding him to this day. ORPHEUS, THE SOUTH WIND _Greek_ In the land of Thrace there lived, years ago, one who was called Orpheus. He was the sweetest singer ever known. His voice was low and soft. When men heard this voice all anger ceased, and their thoughts were thoughts of peace. Even wild animals were tamed. Orpheus went into the woods one day and took nothing but his harp with him. No quiver of arrows was on his back, nor hunting spear at his side. He sang and sang till the birds flew down on the ground about him, and seemed to think that a creature with such a voice must be merely another kind of bird. [Illustration: ORPHEUS. Showing his broken harp] A wild cat came creeping slyly between the trees, trying to catch the little feathered listeners. Orpheus took his lute and played upon it, and the wild cat became as tame as the birds. They all followed Orpheus farther into the forest. Soon, from behind a rock, a tiger sprang to attack the wild cat. The birds and the wild cat called to Orpheus. When he saw the trouble he took his harp again, and while he sang the tiger came trembling and purring to his feet and the birds, the wild cat, and the tiger followed Orpheus still farther into the forest. He sat down by a tree to rest and the bees came and showed him where their honey was hidden in the tree. He fed his friends, and then he and the tiger led the way to a river where there was the purest water. Tall trees bent low before him, and young trees tore themselves from the ground and followed in his train. Foul waters parted so that Orpheus and his band might pass through unharmed; they knew no longer any evil thing. Before they reached the river of pure water, to which the tiger was leading them, a lion, fierce with anger, sprang madly at his old enemy. Orpheus took his harp and played so wonderfully that the pine trees sighed with sorrow, and the lion, loosing his hold on the tiger, followed the sweet singer of Thrace. At the river the birds, the wild cat, the tiger, and the lion drank together with Orpheus, with not one thought of hurting one another. "We are tired," said the birds. "Let us stay here by this river," and Orpheus agreed. The birds flew to the trees, while the others tried to rest on the huge rocks by the shore, but these were jagged and rough. They would give no rest to any one. Then Orpheus began to play, and the hardest rocks were stirred. They rolled over and over into the river, and in their places the softest beds of white sand were ready for all. Orpheus rested, with the lion and the tiger for his night-watchers, and the wild cat asleep in the tree with the birds. In the morning the harp sounded again, and the strange company wandered away, happy to be near the music. The three wild beasts fed together on the river grasses and forgot that they had been life-long enemies. Orpheus had said, before he came into the wood, that he was tired of men and their quarrels; that wild beasts were easier to tame than angry men; and so he found it during these two days in the forest. He took his harp and played and sang a sweet, wild song of love and peace, and overhead the leaves and branches of the oaks danced for joy of living. Not one growl, not one quarrel was heard where even the echoes of the music went. The very rocks answered the voice of Orpheus, and everything was at peace. Then came the sound of the hunting dogs. The lion raised his shaggy head, but put it down again. Savage light came again into the eyes of the tiger and of the wild cat. The dogs came nearer. Orpheus played on his lute and the dogs came and lay down at his feet, and the hunters went home without their prey. That night Orpheus led the birds and beasts all back to the places where he had found them, and went home to live once more in his cave in Thrace. For years hunters told, over their camp-fires, strange stories of a tiger and a lion who lived together in the deep forest; of a wild cat with eyes like a pet fawn; and of birds whose songs were so sweet that wild beasts grew tame as they listened. Sometimes, even in these days, it seems as if Orpheus were singing again. When the wind stirs, there comes sweet music. The pine trees sigh, the leaves and branches of the forest trees dance as in the days when Orpheus first went into the woods of Thrace. When the south wind blows, earth's voices become low and sweet, and the birds sing soft melodies to greet its coming. Old books tell us that Orpheus was really the south wind itself. THE LITTLE WIND-GOD _Greek_ "What is it in the thermometer that shines so, mother?" "Oh, that is quicksilver, Ethel. See the line of silver run up the tube while I hold it in my hand." "Quicksilver? I should think it was quick! See it run back, now the tube is cool. But father called it something else the other night. What was it?" "Oh, yes; he called it mercury, my dear. It is named after one of the gods the Greeks used to worship, their swift wind-god, Mercury. We read of him in many old stories. He was so quick that he became a messenger boy for the other gods." "Oh, I like those old myths. Tell me about Mercury. I am going to name my dove after him, for it takes messages for me. Tell me a long one, please." "Well, my dear, Mercury is also the name of the planet that will soon be our evening star. And, Ethel, if I tell you this story now, you must tell it to me sometime when we watch his beautiful namesake in the sky. Will you try to remember it?" "Oh, yes, indeed, I'll remember. I love the stories about the stars. It makes them seem so real. I know Venus and Jupiter, and Mars with his red eye, and now I am going to have another friend among them. Oh, I am glad I asked about that quicksilver," and Ethel settled down on a footstool at her mother's feet. This is the story Mrs. Brown told Ethel: "In the days when the earth was young, a little baby lay alone in its cradle in a beautiful cave in a mountain side. This baby was Mercury. His mother had left him because someone had called her away for a moment, but for some reason she stayed an hour. "As soon as she had gone, this wee baby turned over, lifted his head, and, seeing the door of the cave ajar, put out his hand. Touching the sides of the cradle, he sprang out like a boy ten years old. Slipping through the doorway, Mercury ran quickly down to the river bank near his home. A river tortoise was in his way. His tiny toes tripped over it and he fell. Vexed to be stopped by such a slow, clumsy creature, Mercury dashed it on a rock and killed it. Then he threw it into the river and watched the fish feed on its flesh. It seemed but a minute before the empty shell drifted to his feet. Mercury picked it up and felt sorry for what he had done. "'I will make this shell live forever,' he said. 'I do not mean to be cruel to earth's creatures.' "Quick as a thought he bored nine holes in each side, and taking the lacings from his tiny sandals, he split them and strung them into the holes in the shell. "Drawing his little hand across the strings, there came the sweetest sounds, and the first harp on earth was made. He was so pleased that he hid it under his white dress until he came to some thick reeds by the river, and there he laid it safely away. "Running swiftly homeward, he came softly through the narrow opening, back into his own room, and, creeping into his cradle, he cuddled down and went to sleep." "Why, mother, he was so little! Only a baby; how could he?" "The old myth says he was only three days old when he did this, but remember, this is like a fairy story, and Mercury was the son of the great Jupiter. But let me tell the rest. When his mother came back, she was frightened to think he had been alone an hour, but he was sleeping so sweetly when she looked at him that she felt he had not been harmed. The mother never dreamed when she saw the open sandals that he had been away." "But the harp, mother; didn't she ever find that?" "No, you know the little rogue had hidden the harp in the reeds by the river. Another day he ran away and got into worse trouble than he expected, for he dared to steal some of Apollo's cattle. They were beautiful snow-white creatures, feeding in the violet meadows of the sky. As he saw them drifting slowly toward him, the mischief in him made him drive these gentle creatures into the sea, and, being tired and hungry, he tore the last one to pieces and fed on it. "Though this mischief-maker walked backward to his home, trying to deceive any who would hunt for him, Apollo found him out. When the sun-god saw him lying there, a helpless baby in a cradle, Mercury almost made him think that he had not done the wrong. But at last even Mercury's mother believed him guilty, for the proofs brought were many, and Apollo came to take him away. Then the little wind-god took from under his cradle-clothes the harp which he had hidden there, and breathed upon it. Apollo was charmed by the melody and could only say: "'Give me that, and I will not ask for my stolen cattle.' [Illustration: MERCURY. From a statue in Florence, Italy.] "That was just what Mercury wished. He quickly handed him the tortoise shell. In Apollo's hands it made still sweeter music, for everything Apollo did was best. "So nimble Mercury was free. When the child was a few months older, Apollo chose him for his messenger. He gave him a cap with wings at either side, and winged sandals. In his hands he always carried a winged wand with two serpents crossed and recrossed upon it. You have surely seen his picture, Ethel?" "Oh, yes. Down at the art store there is a little statue of him. I can remember, this story always." THE VOICES OF NATURE _Finnish_ Vanemuine, the god of song, dwelt on the Hill of Taara. But he grew tired of living in Finland and of his beautiful hill, so he sent word for all things to come to him to receive the language they were to speak before he went away to his palace in the sky. As they gathered around him, he opened his lips and sang so sweetly, so softly, that the murmur of his harp strings seemed almost harsh as compared with the music of his rich voice. The wandering winds who listened afar off caught and remembered only the loudest tones. The sacred stream that flows so softly around the Hill of Taara chose for its language the rustling of the silken garments which moved upon his shoulders as he played. The listening trees of the forest heard the rushing of his flowing mantle as he descended from his throne on the crest of the hill; and ever since, this has been the language of the tree-tops. If one will sit on the mossy bank of a little brook near by a full-leaved forest, he may even now fancy that Vanemuine is come again to earth. Some of the larger creatures took up the deeper tones of the heavy harp strings, and their language is now full of these sounds. Others loved the melody of the lighter strings, and this softer music is ever in their voices. In his great joy Vanemuine sang songs never before heard on the earth, and the listening nightingale caught their meaning, never to forget. When you hear the nightingale pour out its song in the dusk of evening hours, you hear an echo of the song the nightingale heard upon the Hill of Taara. Vanemuine sang of love and of the beautiful springtime. The happy lark heard and understood, and the sweetest tones of the song she sings over and over with each returning morning. As she soars higher and higher into the clear air, she sings her song, trying to tell the whole world of the love and beauty of which she heard so long ago. While everything else was being made so happy, the poor fishes were having a sad time. They could not leave the water to go to the Hill of Taara, but they stretched their heads out of the brooks and rivers to their very eyes, yet kept their ears under. So they saw Vanemuine, the song-god, move his lips, but heard nothing, and they did as he did and made no sound. To this day the poor, dumb fishes move their lips, but speak no language. Only the men and women who stood close around the Hill of Taara understood everything that was sung. That is why human voices more than any others can thrill us and make us see the beautiful and true. Vanemuine sang of the glory of heaven and of the beauty of earth. He sang of the flowing waters and of the rustling leaves. He sang of the joys and the sorrows that come to all people, to children and parents, to the rich and to the poor. If we listen to the songs sung to-day, with open ears and expectant hearts, we may hear all that Vanemuine sang so long ago upon the Hill of Taara. When Vanemuine's songs had been heard by all the world, he rose on the wings of the winds and went far into cloudland to his golden palace in the sky. There he still sings his wonderful songs for those who are greater than mankind. To this very day the people of Finland think they can sometimes hear Vanemuine's voice when the forest trees sigh in the wind, or the water in the river softly laps against its rocky shore. Perhaps--who knows?--we may hear him, too, if we listen well! A BAG OF WINDS _Greek_ "Oh, Grace, do see that man with all those little balloons! Don't they look like a bunch of big cherries?" "Yes, they do, Carrie, but cherries are all of one color, and some of his balloons are red and some are blue. Oh, here is one that has burst. See, it is only a little rubber sack that was once full of air." "That makes me think, Carrie, of a story I read the other day about a bag of winds. It was about the King of the Winds and his kindness. It was this way: "Once a man named Ulysses was sailing over a great sea, and he came to an island. He and his sailors were so tired and hungry that they stopped for food and rest. The King of the Winds--his name was Aeolus--was very kind to them, and they feasted for fifteen days; then they had to go forward on their journey again. King Aeolus thought so much of Ulysses that he told him that he would see that he had good sailing weather all the way home, if Ulysses would promise to take charge of what he would give him. [Illustration: ULYSSES. Making an offering of wine.] "King Aeolus went alone to the great cave in the mountains where he kept the four strong winds and some of the weaker ones. He pounded on the door with his heavy key to let them know he was there, and that they must wait his call. Then he unlocked the door and let out the strong East Wind, but caught the others in a great bag made of a whole ox-hide. This he tied with a stout cord, and the East Wind took it on his shoulders and carried it to the boat that was about to sail. "Then King Aeolus told Ulysses how to fasten it to the mast, and the East Wind had great frolics with the queer bag in which were his brothers. "King Aeolus told Ulysses never to sleep unless his faithful watchman was guarding this treasure. Ulysses thanked him and promised faithfully. Such beautiful weather had never been known before for so long a time. The East Wind had no one to quarrel with, and the boat flew like a bird for nine long days. "The captain grew weary the tenth night and went to sleep while his watchman was off duty. That was just the chance the sailors wanted. Slyly up to the mast crept a strong sailor, thinking he would cut down this treasure which he thought was gold. As soon as the string snapped, he found out his mistake, and so did everyone in the boat. "The mighty North Wind felt the loosening strings and rising from the corner of the ox-hide bag, into which he had been thrust, rushed past his brothers and escaped first into the open air. The West Wind came after, screaming hoarsely, while the South Wind, roused to anger by such rough treatment, whistled fiercely as his brother, North Wind, grappled with him. The clouds were twisted into curious shapes as the winds wrestled above the sea. The strong East Wind strove to drive back the West Wind, but found that nine days of rest had given his brother great strength, and the waves rose like mountains under their feet. For seven hours the winds fought, while the waters were black, for not one star dared to watch the battle. The boat of Ulysses was tossed like a seaweed, and the sailors longed for the sunlight that they might see if the storm had taken anyone from the ship. When the light came and the fury of the winds grew less, it was found that not one sailor had been lost; not even the traitor who had cut down the bag. His punishment was to live. "The boat drifted back to the land of King Aeolus, and Ulysses begged for help. 'I cannot help you,' he said. 'You have done this by your carelessness, and you must now toil at the oars, as before, while I seek my lost winds.' "When the winds were tired with their roaming, they came back and were willing to be led to their cave, but the stout ox-hide bag was lost, and King Aeolus never made another." ECHO, THE AIR MAIDEN _Greek_ "Grace, you should not try to have the last word. It is a bad habit to get into. Shut your lips and run into another room if you can't stop yourself by any other means." "Why, auntie, what a funny way to cure me! But I don't see that I need any such thing. Johnny was in the wrong and he knows it." "You see, you are having the last word now. Do you remember what you heard out by the great rocks the day of the picnic?" "Oh, that echo! Wasn't it perfect! I said, 'come here,' and it answered, 'here,' just as plainly as one of the girls, and we talked with it ever so long." "Can you call it answering, Grace? Think what it really did." "Oh, I know now, but I don't like to tell, because--because it seems a little as you say I do." "Yes, Grace, and I am going to tell you a story about the very first echo. Please try to remember it and shut your lips and run away whenever you feel like having the last word. Will you, dear?" "I'll remember the story, anyway," said Grace, as she cuddled down on a footstool at the feet of her aunt. "This is a sad little story," said her Aunt Kate to her, "and I'm glad it is only a story. "The first echo was a pretty girl who had only one fault--she would talk too much. She not only talked too much and sometimes, I fear, too loud, but when others tried to say a word, she would begin again and try to outdo them. She loved to tease and to vex people. Still, she was so beautiful that no one could bear to punish her. "One day Queen Juno came down to earth (you see, Grace, this is one of the old myths) and saucy Echo dared to torment even her. Juno had left her throne in the sky to search for someone Echo knew. "'Where is he, Echo?' Juno asked. "'Is he Echo? Oh, no, I am Echo. Did you want me?' the saucy girl answered. "'How dare you do it?' Juno said. "'Dare you do it? Oh, yes, I dare do anything. Tell me what to do.' "'You have dared too much already, silly child, and for punishment you shall lose the use of that tongue of yours, except for the one purpose of answering back. You shall still have the last word, but never again shall you speak first.' "Just then Iris, Juno's maid of honor, came with a shining car drawn by two peacocks, and away they both went over the rainbow bridge back to Juno's throne. "Echo in her sorrow ran and hid herself in a cavern. [Illustration: From the cover of a drinking cup. Echo is seen in the branches. Pan is sitting on the rock.] "She wandered from cave to cave and rock to rock, always answering back when those who tried to find her called, but never able to tell where she was. She grew thinner and thinner, till at last nothing was left of her but her voice. "That she will always keep, and try as hard as you may, you can never have the last word with Echo." IRIS, THE RAINBOW PRINCESS _Greek_ Queen Juno was the wife of Jupiter, the great king. She lived with her husband in one of the cloud palaces of the sky, lighted by the moon and stars at night and the sun by day. Juno had many followers who were ready to do her bidding, but she loved best of all her beautiful maid of honor, the princess Iris. No one dared to use the rainbow but Iris, to whom it had been given by Jupiter. Whenever Iris was in haste to obey Queen Juno's orders, down from the palace she would sail in a chariot drawn by two peacocks, and if she wished she might ride all the way over the rainbow. [Illustration: IRIS. From an ancient fresco.] Think of the beautiful Iris, wrapped in a fleecy cloud, gliding over this wonderful path in the heavens! Wouldn't it have been a lovely sight to see? Once Juno sent her all the way to Dreamland to bring to Halcyone, the daughter of Aeolus, a dream of her husband, who was far away on the ocean. Iris loved to help poor mortals, and tears filled her eyes when she heard how this lonely woman longed to see the one she loved so well. The clouds caught the tears from the eyes of Iris, and quickly made ready for her the glorious rainbow bridge, reaching from Dreamland to the wonderful Garden of the Gods. She wrapped herself in a cloud chosen from the sunset and, stepping into her chariot, gave the signal to her birds and drove swiftly down, down to the dim country of the King of Sleep. Before she could reach the entrance to his palace, she had to drive through field after field of poppies, red as the sunset she had just left in the sky, for poppies give sleep to the people of Dreamland. Somnus, the King of Sleep, lived in a deep, still cave, so dark that he had never seen the rainbow or the sun. There was no gate; soft black plumes and curtains served as doors. Here in the heart of Dreamland Iris saw all about her strange, beautiful dreams. There were dreams for children of toys and candies and plays; dreams for men and women of all that they had ever wished for; dreams, dreams, everywhere. But Iris did not like darkness any better than you and I do, and she quickly gave an order for the King of Sleep to send the best dream possible to the anxious Halcyone. Then back she drove over the rainbow bridge, up, up to the bright palace in the clouds. [Illustration: THE HEAD OF IRIS. From a frieze on the Parthenon.] As soon as she had left the rainbow's track it faded away, but, even before it was out of sight, a dream of her husband had come to Halcyone, and Iris was happy. Iris loved the water best of all things on earth. She always wore a chain of raindrops for pearls, and a cloud for a robe. She had an army of soldiers by each river bank. Men called the soldiers plants, but their swords were always drawn for Iris, and their stately heads were adorned with her favorite colors. When you see a group of plants clustered at the water's edge, with their sword-like leaves pointing to the sky, and their great blue flowers looking like a crown, remember that is the flower Iris loved. THE THUNDER-GOD AND HIS BROTHER _Norse_ Tiu, Ziu, or Tyr, were three names for one of Woden's sons. Tiu was the brother of Thor, and his mother, Frigga, was always proud of his courage in war and of his skill and strength in battle. The soldiers of the Northland cried to him for help as often as they did to his father, Woden. Tiu's sign was a sword, and the brave old kings of Norway and their followers used to engrave his name upon their bright steel blades that they might please the great warrior who lived in Asgard. It was thought that if Tiu saw his name written in the strange Runic letters he would give his help to the man who honored that name and keep his good sword sharp. Thor and Tiu went, in the olden time, to the house of a giant to secure a large kettle which was in the giant's house. Thor's goats drew with magic swiftness the chariot in which the two rode, and Thor and Tiu arrived at the house in a few moments. The giant's wife hid the two huge visitors under one of the many caldrons she had in her kitchen. When her husband came he broke all the kettles but one by just glancing at them. He welcomed his visitors in a very grim way and ordered them to be seated at the table with him. Thor ate so much that the giant grew angry, but Thor told him he would repay all by bringing him fish from the sea the next day. Thor caught two whales and carried them to the giant's house, as he had promised. The giant laughingly said that he would give him one of the kettles if he could carry it. Tin tried twice and failed, but Thor, putting on his magic belt, lifted the kettle and set it on his head like a cap. Then the goats took the two sons of Woden back to their home in Asgard. If anyone should tell you that the giant was winter, and his kettles the strangely shaped icebergs of the arctic North, would you believe it? Thor was the god of thunder riding in the clouds with his brother, the god of bravery and of the strong winds. Tiu's name has been given to the day before Woden's day, and when Tuesday comes, try to be as true, brave, and swift as Tiu, the son of Woden. NEPTUNE, KING OF THE SEAS _Greek_ "Mother, when papa came back from South America, he told us a queer story about the sailors dressing up in masks. What holiday was it? And what did they do it for?" "That must have been, Charlie, when the ship crossed the line, or the equator, as you call it in the geography class. I remember his telling about King Neptune and his trident." [Illustration: NEPTUNE] "What did the sailors do, mother?" "Why, one dressed to represent Neptune, a famous ocean god, and the rest masked as his followers. They were given presents by the passengers on the ship, and it was a grand holiday." "But who is King Neptune, and where does this ocean god live, mother?" "People used to believe that Neptune was really king of all the waters on the earth, Charlie. Doesn't that seem strange? I'll tell you a story that I heard about Neptune and some of the other gods whom the Greeks used to worship. Perhaps you will find more stories about him sometime." "Wait a minute, mother, till I get that easy chair for you. Now we are ready to begin." "Once on a time, Juno, the wife of Jupiter, while watching from the sky, saw some ships on the sea beneath her. "After looking closely, she found they were the seven ships of Aeneas, who was trying to reach the land of Italy and was now only a few miles from its shore. "Juno, for reasons of her own, did not want Aeneas to reach the land. Knowing something must be done in the shortest possible time she went to King Aeolus and asked his help. She promised him all manner of beautiful gifts if he would only send his winds against the ships of Aeneas. "King Aeolus knew he was doing wrong, but he would not refuse Juno. He went to the mountain cave where he kept the storm winds, and, taking his heavy war spear, burst open the massive door of the cavern and let all the mad crew out at once. "The storm they made was terrible. Great waves like mountains came sweeping over the land, carrying trees and everything away. "The ships of Aeneas were only playthings in such a hurricane, and the winds seemed to know for what they had been let loose. "The great cables that fastened heavy anchors to the ships were snapped like stalks of corn. The winds roared like wild animals. The sky was as black as night, and great waterspouts went whirling by like huge tops set spinning by the blasts. "One fierce wind blew against the ship of Aeneas and overturned it. "A whirlwind caught three other ships and tossed them lightly on the great rocks, on the shore. Another whirlwind sent three more ships into the terrible quicksands and they were swallowed up. "Aeneas, swimming in the water, saw around him his trusty sailors clinging, like himself, to broken planks and pieces of timber. All about them floated concave shields, outspread mantles, and overturned helmets. Treasures, too, in the shape of precious home gifts, and robes covered with jewels, drifted past them. "But the only thing anyone wanted then was life, and it seemed as if the winds and waters were ready and able to destroy every man of them. "Aeneas called to Neptune, king of the seas, and Neptune heard him and came riding up out of the bottom of the ocean. "He held his golden-maned horses firmly in check, while his voice roared over the waters, asking: "'What is this, you winds, that you dare to trouble earth and sky without leave from me? Who let you free from your rock prison?' "The waves were afraid and quieted down. The clouds scattered like naughty children caught in mischief. The winds flew home and, hurrying back into their cave, blew the door tight-shut with a bang. Then everybody waited to see what King Neptune would do. "He ordered some of his ocean train to pry the three ships off the rocks, but they could not, and he had to help them with his trident, or three-pointed spear. Then King Neptune opened the quicksands and the other three ships sailed out on the water again. "Neptune knew Aeneas was a brave man and always quick to answer a call for help, so the boat of Aeneas had been taken care of first, and he and his men were put back safely into it. [Illustration: A GREEK COIN. Made about 510 B.C. representing Neptune, or Poseidon, as the Greeks called him] "King Neptune, seeing everything was quiet again, showed Aeneas a beautiful harbor where he and his sailors could rest. The brazen-hoofed steeds that drew Neptune's chariot were tossing their heads and growing restive. So Neptune called his followers, and in a flash they all disappeared into the depths of the sea. "Jupiter, ruler of the sky, praised Neptune for his skill in checking the furious winds and maddened waves, and Pluto, ruler of the center of the earth, said he was proud to call him brother." "Well, that must have made King Aeolus ashamed of himself. Don't you think so, mother?" WHY RIVERS HAVE GOLDEN SANDS _Greek_ Once a poor peasant named Gordius thought he would give himself and his family a holiday in the city. He had no horses, but his yoke of oxen could draw the heavy wagon very well. He fastened them to his cart and, putting in his wife and boy, climbed in himself. When near the city, the capital of Phrygia, he thought it would look better for him to walk and drive his oxen. This he did. As he approached the city he heard a great noise in the marketplace. He hurried his oxen to find out what it was all about. He had to jump into his wagon to avoid the crowd that was following him, and so drove to a great oak in the public square. Such a welcome as this poor countryman had! "Here comes our king!" was the cry from everyone. "We were told he should come this day in a wagon drawn by oxen, and here he is!" Gordius could not believe what he heard. But the chief men brought the crown and put it on his head and declared him king, and he agreed to do his best to deserve the honor. The oak near which he had stopped was in front of a temple. Gordius gave away his oxen and, taking a heavy rope, tied his wagon with a tremendous knot to the oak. The priest came out and declared that whoever in times to come should be able to untie that knot would be king of all Asia. No one ever did untie it. But Alexander the Great came to Phrygia many years after and, failing to untie it, he took his sword and dealt the rope such a blow that one stroke cut through the magic knot. A short time after he left Phrygia all Asia owned Alexander the Great as king, and maybe that was the way the knot was to be undone. Anyway, he did not give it up, and that is a good thing for us to remember. Cut the Gordian knots if they will not be untied. The little boy who rode in the wagon with Gordius was Midas. After his father Gordius died, Midas was chosen King of Phrygia. He was kind and just to the people, as Gordius must have been, or they would not have chosen his son Midas to be their king. [Illustration: Silenus Holding Bacchus. From a statue in Rome] One day while Midas was king some peasants found an old man wandering about in the woods. The forest was strange to him and he had lost his way. Midas knew him as soon as the peasants had brought him to the king's palace. It was Silenus, a teacher whose fame had gone through all the world. Midas treated Silenus with the greatest respect. For ten days there was feasting and games in the palace in honor of Silenus. On the eleventh day Midas took him back to the house of his greatest pupil. This pupil was more than mortal, so the story goes. His name was Bacchus. Midas told him all about the finding of Silenus, and Silenus told all about the pleasant time he had at the king's palace. Then the wonderful Bacchus told Midas he might have anything he should wish for as a reward. Now Gordius, his father, had always wished for more money, though he had been made king and there was more gold for him and his good queen to spend than you would think he could manage. Midas, too, had wished for money. Yet all his life, since that lucky wagon ride, Midas had seen riches and jewels enough to make him grow tired of such things. But, no; when Bacchus asked him what he would have, Midas said, "Let everything I touch turn into gold." If you had been there and could have had your choice, what would you have wished for? Can you tell? Never wish for anything quite so foolish as King Midas did, for see what trouble it made him. After making the wish, King Midas leaped into his chariot to return home. As soon as his feet touched the chariot floor, it turned into solid gold. The reins in his hands became gold. He returned to his palace and the people thought it must be Apollo come to earth, everything was so glorious. His wife met him in the palace halls. One touch and she was turned into a golden statue. No help, no rescue! Midas went out into his garden and reached for the fruit that hung on the trees. Nothing but gold after he had touched it. Gold, gold, gold! How he hated the sight of it! His food and drink were gold. His friends, his home, even his pillow was cold hard gold. In a few hours he raised his arms, glittering with cloth of gold, in prayer, beseeching Bacchus to take his gift away. Bacchus was kind and said: "Go to the river Pactolus, find its fountain head, plunge in, and when your body is covered your fault will be washed away." Poor King Midas did just as he was told. When he touched the water the strange power went into the river. The river sands changed into gold, and to this day grains of gold are found by the river Pactolus. After that, Midas lived in the country and dressed as plainly as the poorest peasant. He was so thankful to be free from his terrible gift that he never wanted anyone to remind him of the time when everything he touched turned to gold. But even in the country, the yellow plums, pears, and apples reminded Midas of the fruit he had touched in his own garden. In autumn, when golden leaves are falling everywhere and the grain is waving in the field, one may fancy King Midas is in our own land. OLD GRASSHOPPER GRAY _Greek_ "O, grasshopper, grasshopper gray, Give me molasses and then hop away." That is what Bessie Allen said to the little creature she held between her thumb and fingers. Did you ever say that rhyme? I should not wonder if you had said it an hundred times. The grasshopper in Bessie's fingers seemed very ready to give her brown molasses from his little mouth and then she let him hop away while she went to catch another. She did not want that molasses; all she wanted was the fun of catching the little "hoppity-hops," as she sometimes called them. "Come, catch me! I'm a hopper," called her five-year-old brother Willie. And she saw the little fellow hopping through the grass. Bessie had so much fun trying to catch this new "grasshopper gray," that she forgot all about the little creatures she had been pinching. At last she had her arms around her brother Willie. "Now you are caught," she said. "Give me some molasses." And then they both laughed so hard that their mother heard as she came to the door to look for them. That night their mother said to their father: "I have a new name for Willie." "What is it?" asked their father. "Tithonus," said their mother. [Illustration: AURORA, THE GODDESS OF THE DAWN. From a painting on an old vase.] "When I was in school one of my lessons was about the beautiful goddess Aurora. She was said to open the rosy gates of dawn with her own fingers, so that the wonderful horses of Apollo might pass through to follow their shining track through the sky. She was so beautiful that Tithonus, who lived on the earth, always watched for the sunrise, that he might see Aurora. After a while she began to watch for him, too. She looked down every morning on the wakening world and found that he was almost the only one among mortals who enjoyed the glorious colors Apollo painted in the sky with his arrows of light. One morning she dared to sing to him, and then he answered that it was Aurora, and not Apollo, for whom he was watching each morning at sunrise. She loved him for this and became his wife. "Being a goddess, she could live for ever, and she wanted Tithonus to live forever, too. The gods and goddesses never drink wine or water, but ambrosia from golden goblets. She brought a golden goblet of ambrosia to Tithonus on the earth, and, after he had taken a drink, told him the happy news that now he should live forever. But she had forgotten to ask of the gods for him the gift of eternal youth. "For many years they loved each other dearly. Then Aurora saw that Tithonus was growing into a little old man. "When he was one hundred years old he was shrunken to the size of a boy of ten. "When he was two hundred years old he was no larger than a baby, only he was very lively, and could run as fast as a man. "When he was three hundred years old Aurora could scarcely find him, save as his song told her where he was. With his head bent down to the ground he did not look like a man, and he made his home by the dusty roadside. But every sunrise he sat upon the tallest spear of grass he could find and chirped to Aurora as she opened the gates of dawn for Apollo. After years and years Aurora forgot all about the little gray grasshopper, but I don't think Tithonus has forgotten her, for he and all his grasshopper friends chirp the same song as when he first came to live among them." "Poor old Tithonus!" said Bessie. "Why, no," said her father; "mother said he could never die. Maybe it was Tithonus who gave you molasses to-day. Yes, perhaps that was ambrosia instead of molasses that the gray grasshopper dropped from his lips." "Oh, don't tell any more!" laughed both Willie and Bessie. "We won't catch another grasshopper." WHERE THE FROGS CAME FROM _Roman_ You see the sun every bright day, don't you? And you see the moon every moonshiny night. Now, listen, and I'll tell you a story about their mother. No, not about their mother, but about the mother of the god of the sun, and of the goddess of the moon, whose names were Apollo and Diana. It is about Apollo's and Diana's mother this story is to be. Once when they were little twin babies their mother was in great trouble. She had to wander around and around, and get food and drink wherever she could find them. One day she went to a pond for water, for the people in the houses were cross and would not give her any. And just think of it! These people, careless about soiling their green coats and white vests, ran down to the pond ahead of her, jumped in and stirred the water so that it was black with mud. And they called out, "Come and drink, Latona! Come and drink water, pure and sweet, Latona!" [Illustration: LATONA. Fleeing with her children] This the cruel people did until Latona and her babies were so tired and thirsty they could wait no longer. "Why do you abuse us?" she said; "you have plenty of water in your wells. Can you not see how these poor babies reach out their hands to you?" But the rude people were jealous of the beautiful woman and her lovely twins, and only stirred the water till it was blacker, and cried the more, until they were fairly hoarse: "Come and drink! Come and drink!" Latona put her two babies down on the warm grass. Then she looked straight into the blue sky, and raising her hands said: "May you never quit that pond in all your lives, neither you nor your children!" The story is that Jupiter heard her, and that these cruel people never came out of the water again. They grew very small; their green coats and white vests turned into skin, and their children wear to-day the same kind of suits their parents wore that day they waded into the pool. Though they have the whole pond to themselves, they croak away until their mouths have grown wide and ugly, as mockingly as did their forefathers at Latona. "Come and drink!" But who wants to drink out of a frog pond? Little heathen boys, who believed this story, used to pelt frogs with stones, and there are some boys now who act just like those foolish little heathen. THE BIRDS WITH ARROW FEATHERS _Greek_ There is an old story that tells how a man named Jason went on a long journey in search of a golden fleece. He fitted up a great boat, and the bravest and strongest men of his country offered to go with him. [Illustration: JASON. Putting on his sandals. From a Greek statue.] They had no ships like ours, in those days, and when the sails were not filled with wind, every man took an oar, and, with twenty oars or more on each side, the boat was made to move through the waves very swiftly. The heroes in Jason's boat had all won fame before they started out on this voyage, and many were already warm friends. There was the great Hercules, and Orpheus, the sweet singer; Castor, who could tame the wildest horses, and his twin brother Pollux, who was the greatest boxer the world has ever seen, or perhaps ever will see. [Illustration: CASTOR, THE HORSE-TAMER; POLLUX, THE MASTER OF THE ART OF BOXING. From a Greek coin.] These and many others sat side by side in this boat, which Jason called the Argo. Many strange things happened to them on their voyage after the golden fleece. One was when they were attacked by birds. They saw many new countries also, and one day the Argo sailed by a very strange island where nearly all the people lived underground. These people never plowed their land with the strong oxen, nor planted seed, nor reaped harvests. They had no flocks of woolly sheep, nor herds of cattle. All day long they worked away under the surface of the earth, digging and digging at great black stones they found there. Then they sold these stones or rocks to people in other countries, and so bought bread for themselves. These people, with their black faces and grimy hands, left their work for a little while when someone told them of the beautiful boat that was in sight. They looked very strange to those in the ship, for no one in the land from which the Argo came worked under the ground. In that happy realm everyone lived in the sunshine and worked in the open fields. But after a while the Argo sailed away from this home of the underground people and on beyond. Suddenly the sky was darkened and great flocks of giant birds flew thick and fast above them. Then the wind changed and the frightened rowers had to take the oars. The sky grew black as night. Down shot a feather from one of the birds. It struck one of the rowers on the left shoulder and he dropped his oar, for the pain was like a spear-thrust. Down sped another arrow feather, so pointed and sharp that another rower who was hit had to drop his oar. Thicker and faster came these arrow feathers upon the bare heads and naked shoulders of the men at the oars. The best archers shot back at the birds with their sharpest-pointed arrows, but not a bird was harmed. "What shall we do?" shouted the men still at the oars. "You will never kill those birds," said one who had seen their feather arrows before. "All that you can do is to cover your heads and let us, who are too badly hurt for rowing, help cover your shoulders with our shields." Then those at the oars put on their shining helmets; those who did not row held up the great war shields over them. The boat looked as if it had a roof. Down on the helmets came the feathers, so sharp that many of them made holes in the shining metal. Down on the shields they pelted, till it seemed as if the sky was raining drops of lead. The birds themselves came no nearer. But oh, their feather arrows were enough to frighten even these bravest of men. The rowers worked as hard and as steadily as they could, and after a while they were out of reach of the terrible feathers. The strange part of it all was that they never could find one of those sharp-pointed arrows with which the birds had shot them. When the sun came out they were in a safe harbor. They looked and looked, but not a feather was to be found. One man declared that he knew the feathers were white. "But the birds were black," said all the rest. "How could the arrows be white when even the sun was darkened by the black-winged creatures?" How the dispute was settled I do not know, for the sharp-pointed feathers had melted all away, like hailstones from dark storm-clouds. It is certain, however, that the men never found any of the arrows with which they had been shot. WHY THE PARTRIDGE STAYS NEAR THE GROUND _Greek_ Daedalus was a skillful workman in many ways. One of the first things he did to make himself famous was to build a maze. It had so many winding walks and crooked paths that anyone who walked in ten steps without a guide never could get out unaided. He built this maze for his king, but before many years he offended the king in some way and was locked up in a high tower. In the roof of the tower were hundreds of doves, and as they flew back and forth, Daedalus said: "My king rules the land and the sea, but not the air. I will try that way of escape." So he set to work to make wings for himself. He shaped two great frames and covered them with feathers. The largest plumes he sewed on with thread, and the smaller ones he fastened with wax. Icarus, his son, stood and looked on, catching any of the feathers the wind tried to blow away. He troubled his father much, however, by taking the wax and making little balls, which he tossed about the room. The keeper of the tower thought the wise man very silly to spend his time making blankets of feathers, Daedalus never let the keeper of the tower see how he curved and pointed the corners of his frames. The keeper told how foolish the wise man had grown from being shut up so long; how he spent his time gathering feathers to make great blankets. The people pitied him, not knowing that this very punishment was giving Daedalus another chance to make himself famous. One dark night Daedalus fastened the broad wings to his shoulders, and jumping from the window found he could sail like a dove, but he could not carry his boy. Back he flew and, folding his wings, slipped into the window. Now he must make a pair for Icarus. [Illustration: DAEDALUS AND ICARUS MAKING THEIR WINGS. From a bas-relief in Rome.] Soon this second pair was done, but the little fellow had to be taught like a young bird how to use them. Many a time if Daedalus had not caught him on his own great wings, Icarus would have gone tumbling heels over head, down, down to the foot of the tower. Finally, Icarus, too, could sail like a pigeon, and if the night had not been so dark it would have been great fun to see these two new birds fly out of that tower window. Keeping their wings so close to each other that they almost touched, they flew away over houses and fields. Before the sun came out, Daedalus told his boy to be careful to keep near him. "Don't fly too near the sun, for the heat will melt the wax, nor too low, for the damp will wet the feathers. Keep close to me." When the morning dawned they saw the men plowing in the fields stop work to look at them. Shepherds left their flocks and ran miles to see where those strange birds were going. No one could tell who they were. It was grand to be so free and to fly so swiftly. An eagle saw them and flew near. They felt the breeze from his powerful wings, and swifter went their own. The eagle, frightened, turned and mounted toward the sun. Icarus forgot his father's warning and followed. Daedalus flew on and on, thinking his boy was beside him. Up, up went Icarus swifter than the eagle and swept proudly past him toward the sun. The next instant he felt his wings loosen and droop. Just then, Daedalus, who was miles away, turned his head, for he heard the boy call him. "Icarus, Icarus, where are you?" his father shouted. There was no answer, but the mass of feathers in the blue sea below told the story. Flying down, Daedalus searched till he found the body, and, tenderly laying it in the earth he wept that he had ever thought of wings. The land where this happened was wild, and only savage beasts lived in it, so Daedalus flew away to Sicily. There he built a temple and on its walls hung up his wings forever. He became so proud of his own success that he believed no one else could invent anything. He was willing, though, to teach others all he knew, and sister, living near, sent her son, Perdix, to him to learn what he could. This boy was quick to see, to hear, and to learn, and he could invent things himself. One day when Daedalus was slowly cutting through a log with an ax, the boy showed him how much quicker he could do it with a saw he had made. No one had ever heard of a saw before, and Daedalus was angry. "Who told you how to make this?" he asked. "I brought home yesterday the backbone of a great fish cast up by the sea, and I made this like it, but of iron; that is all," said Perdix. Another time Daedalus was trying to draw a perfect circle. Thirteen times he tried and failed. "Take my irons, if you will not be angry with me," said Perdix, and he handed him a pair of compasses. Here again was something no man had ever seen. But Daedalus, instead of being proud of his nephew, was angrier than before. "You will be claiming that you are greater than Daedalus, who first sailed through the air, ungrateful boy," said his uncle. "I have only tried to help you," answered Perdix. Not long after this, when the two were in a tall building, Daedalus gave Perdix a push that sent him headlong toward the ground. The goddess Minerva, who loves learning, saw him falling and changed him into a partridge before he touched the earth. Unlike Daedalus, he has always kept his wings. Perdix, the partridge, builds his nest low on the ground and stays in low branches. Perhaps he is afraid he may not be saved from another fall if he goes again into high places. JUNO'S BIRD, THE PEACOCK _Roman_ "Oh, isn't it a pity the peacock doesn't know that he can't sing? Why doesn't he stop that fearful screeching?" Little Katie put her hands over her ears to keep out the sound. [Illustration: JUNO AND HER PEACOCK. From an ancient fresco] "You know the peacock was once an animal that hasn't a very sweet voice," said Jack. "No, I don't know, but Charlie Green's pet donkey makes a better noise than this bird. There, I am glad he has stopped." "Shall I tell you a story?" asked Jack. "Once upon a time a donkey felt that he was much abused just because his coat was rough and his face and shape were so homely; so he begged of Jupiter to make him into something beautiful. In a short time he was changed into a peacock and, looking down upon his fine feathers, began to sing. But, oh, the trouble he was in then! He had forgotten to have his voice changed, too, and it was the same old donkey voice that he had always had." "That's a funny story, Jack. It seems to me that mother told us that a long time ago." "Then I know another story of how the eyes came into the peacock's feathers." "You are a queer boy, Jack. Those eyes were always there." "Oh, no, they were not, Kate. You watch the young peacock chickens, and I'll prove my story, or part of it, anyway. Don't you remember that at first they are a dull brown, and then, when they are about a year old, they begin to show a little green? They are three years old before the eyes begin to show in the feathers. You are a queer girl to forget that." "Well, tell your story, and I will see if it is a good one." So Jack began: "Argus was a watchman. His great eyes were like green balls, but with fifty little eyes in each. Yes, he had a hundred eyes, and never more than two went to sleep at once. He could see even better in the night than in the daytime, so he was a fine watchman. "Once Argus was told to watch a certain prisoner who could not be shut in a room, but had to be left in a field. Not once was he to lose sight of this prisoner. If he did, every one of his hundred eyes would be taken from him. "Day and night Argus watched, never sleeping except with two eyes at a time. He was as faithful as fifty soldiers. "But he loved music, and the friends of the prisoner knew it. So they sent some one to him who could play upon the harp and sing, thinking that perhaps Argus might be charmed to sleep. "This player's name was Mercury, and he was so quick that some thought he wore wings on his feet. If he did wear them, he could take them off when he liked, for he was just a plain shepherd in a sheepskin coat and sheepskin sandals when Argus saw him. "If he had come with a spear, or with bow and arrow, Argus would have been ready to keep him out, but Mercury was too bright for that. "No, he was just a plain shepherd, and he sat down in a field near the one Argus was in, to watch his sheep. While he sat there, he played such sweet music that Argus said, 'Bring your sheep into my field and we will watch together.' "That was just what Mercury had planned. So he was not very long in getting his sheep into the field with Argus. There the two lay in the shade of the trees and told stories, and Mercury played and watched the green eyes of Argus, while Argus watched the prisoner. "One night Mercury played so softly, so sweetly, that for one minute every one of the hundred green eyes of Argus closed, the watchman nodded, and in that minute Mercury struck him on the neck and cut off his head. Then the prisoner was free. Juno took the green eyes of Argus and put them on her pet bird, the peacock." "Oh, Jack, I don't believe a word of it." "I don't, either," said Jack, "but these stories are both more than two thousand years old, and I shouldn't wonder if some one did believe them a long time ago." THE GIFT OF THE OLIVE TREE _Greek_ "Has everything a name, father?" asked a wide-awake boy one day. "Everything I know of has a name," answered the father. "What is the name of this stone, then?" "The name of the stone you have just picked up happens to be granite." "I believe you made that up, father, just because I asked you so quickly. Really is it granite? Has a rock a name?" "Why, certainly, my boy. It seems strange that a boy of ten does not know granite when he sees it." "But you lived in the country, father, when you were a boy, and I have been here hardly a month. Oh, here is another kind of stone; what is this?" The father cracked the bit of rock so as to get a fresh surface and then answered: "Common white quartz, Harold. You are giving me easy specimens, which is lucky for both of us." "Why, father, where did you learn all their names?" "I don't know all their names. I know only the most common ones. To find the names of some kinds of rock or stone I should need quite an outfit, such as you may have seen in the high-school laboratory." "Do all the flowers have names, too, father?" "Harold, if you could find a flower that has not been named you would become quite famous. The flower probably would be named after you. Think of that! There is something to work for; and you were wishing only last night that you could be a famous man." "Where did all the flowers get their names? Did the teachers name them?" "Oh, I suspect the teachers named some, and many people helped them. I don't believe I ever stopped to think that it is curious that everything on the earth and in the sea and in the sky is named. You are a very thoughtful boy, Harold. Ask all the questions you please." This praise from his quiet father made Harold happier than anything in the world. He was silent a moment, but then asked: "Have the stars names, too, father? I mean all of them. I know those large ones have, for you told me." "Yes, Harold, every star has a name of some kind. Some of them have only a letter or a number. But that answers for a name, you know." "And all the animals, and all the birds, and all the beetles, and all the--everything! I'll have to go to school just all my life!" And then Mr. Hadley laughed aloud. "To-day, father, in the geography class, I learned about many cities, and there are more in the large geography. Do you know how any of the cities got their names?" "What country were you studying about to-day, Harold?" "It was about Greece, and some of the cities had such long hard names that I can't remember them. Oh, yes, now I remember Athens. Why, father, you were there once, for I have heard you tell about Greece; and one of the pictures in the parlor is named 'In Athens.' Do tell me something about the place, for I can't make it seem like a real city like New York or Chicago." "Do you like olives, Harold?" "Yes, indeed, I do, and you like olive oil. Oh, of course, olives grow in Greece. I couldn't think what made you ask such a queer question. Now tell me about Greece, won't you, please? Is it a beautiful country?" "Yes, and I'll tell you a tale of the sea, of olives, and of Athens, all in one. You remember that beautiful head of Minerva, which is near my book-shelf, do you not? Minerva has another name. She is often called Athena. She was known to the ancient people of Greece as the goddess of wisdom and learning. Can you remember the name of the king of the sea?" [Illustration: ATHENA. From a Greek statue.] "Neptune, father. You have his picture, too, haven't you?" "Yes, Harold, but now you must learn the name by which the Greeks called him. It was Poseidon. The story goes that Athena and Poseidon were each very anxious to name a certain city in Greece. "Jupiter said that he would let the one who brought the greatest gift to the people have the honor of naming the place. And then such strife began as you can hardly imagine. Poseidon put his wits at work and called together all his friends for counsel. At last his gift was ready for the day on which they were to appear before Jupiter. "Minerva, as she was the goddess of wisdom, needed no such help as Poseidon had asked and received. Her plans were ready in a moment and she was waiting for the great day. "When that day came all the people of the nameless city gathered together to see what was to be brought them. As they were seated on the side of mountain, on the top of which stood Jupiter, King Poseidon appeared on the plain before them, leading a wonderful black horse. It was covered with gold armor. It pawed the ground and stamped with its hoofs, and looked like the leader of a grand army. The people shouted and would have declared for Poseidon without waiting for his rival, but Jupiter quieted them. [Illustration: MINERVA. From a Roman statue.] "Then the goddess came forward on the plain. She was beautiful, tall, stately. She seemed to be holding something very small in her hand. She opened her hand before the people and commanded a gardener to dig a hole in the earth at her feet. Into this hole she dropped the small something which was in her hand. As soon as the earth was over it, tiny leaves came out. Then it grew instantly into a tree covered with silver-gray leaves. Its trunk grew larger and larger. It seemed to touch the skies It was filled with fruit. She showed them how to extract the oil. She showed them how to use the fruit. "The horse neighed and pawed, and Poseidon laughed at the woman's gift. 'Here is war, glory, and power!' he cried. "'Here is life, peace, and plenty!' said the goddess. "'The city shall be named Athena' came from Jupiter on the mountain top. "And so the city of Athens was named and the people loved Athena for her gift of the olive tree." THE LINDEN AND THE OAK _Greek_ Two grand trees stood on a hill near a lake. One was an oak with wide branches. The other was a linden. "Man and wife," the people called them, and when asked why, said, "Because it is true. Once they could walk around and talk. Now they stand there side by side forever. But you can hear them whisper to each other sometimes." And if asked, "Who were they?" even the little children would say, "Why, Philemon and Baucis." Many children had these names in those days, and knew the story of the two trees well, for there were none like them anywhere else in the land. It was said that these two people who lived in such strange form were once a poor old couple, and their home was a wretched house in the valley. Simple, honest, and quiet, they had little to do with their bustling neighbors. One evening two strangers walked into the village, and stopping at the first house to ask for food, were sent away in a hurry. "We work for a living and have nothing for those who don't. Go away." They were told the same at the next house, and at the next, all down the street. Tired and hungry, they neared the cottage where Philemon and Baucis lived. "I will try here," said the shorter of the two strangers. The other was silent. But before they reached the door, Philemon came to meet them. And Baucis placed the best chairs for them as they entered, first spreading over the chairs pieces of cloth she had woven. "You are hungry," she said, and she went to the fire-place and uncovered the few coals she had saved in the ashes for her morning fire. On these she put sticks and dry bark, and with all her little strength, blew hard on them, and the fire began to burn. On a hook over the fire she hung a small iron kettle, and getting ready the beans her husband had brought in from their little garden, she put them in to stew. All this she did eagerly, as if the strangers were invited friends. While his wife set the table, Philemon brought a bowl of water for the guests to bathe their hands. As one leg of the table was too short, Baucis put a flat shell under to make it level with the rest. Tired and trembling, she set out a few rude dishes. They were her best. She added the pitcher of milk Philemon had bought for their own meal, and when the beans were cooked, everything was ready. For dessert, she had apples and wild honey. Drawing a bench to the table, she laid on it a thin cushion made soft with dried seaweed, and then called the strangers. The smiles and gentle welcome of the two old people made the meal seem like a feast. The strangers were very thirsty, but each time Baucis poured out a cup of milk the pitcher filled again. "You are people from the skies, and not men!" the old couple cried, and fell on their knees and begged the strangers to forgive them for their poor meal. "Why did you come to us? Others could have done so much better." "You have done the best you could; who could do better than that?" said the tall one. "Come with us," and he led them to the top of the hill. Then he stretched out his hand toward the village, and they saw it sink down, down out of sight, and the river came rushing in, and the place was a lake. Nothing could be seen but the house they had just left. It stood on the shore of the lake. Its timbers were growing higher and higher, and the yellow straw that thatched the roof changed to shining gold. It was now a beautiful temple. "Ask of me anything you wish and I will give it to you," said the tall one. "I know now you are Jupiter," said Philemon. "Let us take care of your temple while we live, and when it is time for us to leave it let us go together. Let not one be taken and the other left." Philemon and Baucis cared for the beautiful temple for years. Feeling old and weary, they went to the top of the hill one day to say good-by to all things. As they stood there they saw each other change, one into this oak and the other into this linden. "Good-by," they said together, as the bark grew up over their lips. No tree has so strong and true a heart as the oak, and in the leafy linden hundreds of birds sing and are happy. THE LITTLE MAIDEN WHO BECAME A LAUREL TREE _Greek_ Cupid was a beautiful little boy. Between the wings on his shoulders he always carried a quiver full of tiny arrows. Bow in hand, he started out every morning ready, like any boy, for mischief. One day he came to drink from a fountain with some thirsty doves who were his friends. Apollo saw the little fellow and, to tease him, asked: "What do you carry arrows for, saucy boy? It is for great gods like myself to do that. My arrow shot the terrible python, the serpent of darkness. What can _you_ do?" "Apollo may hit serpents, but I will hit Apollo," said Cupid, and taking out two tiny arrows, one of gold and one of lead, he touched their points together and then shot the golden one straight into Apollo. Quick as a flash of Apollo's sun-crown, Cupid shot the other, the leaden one, into a river cloud he saw floating by. In it he knew Daphne, the daughter of the river, was hidden. The leaden arrow hit her true, but she drifted away on the swift breeze. Apollo, the sun-god, can see through everything except fog and mist, but as Daphne fled he caught one glimpse of her face, and Cupid laughed to see how his arrow did its work. His arrows never kill; sometimes, indeed, they make life happier. Apollo now loved Daphne more than anything else on earth. Daphne was more afraid of him than of anything else in the sky. On flew Daphne, hoping her misty cloud would hide her till she could reach her river home. On flew Apollo, begging her to stop for fear his arrows might hurt her. His great arrows of sunlight must do their work even if his friends should perish by them. As they neared the river he saw her face again. She sank on the river bank. She was faint and he would comfort her but she cried to her father, the river, "O father, help!" The earth opened, and before Apollo could reach her he saw her waving hair change into glistening leaves. Her arms became branches. Her skin changed to dainty bark, and her face to a tree-top whose pink flowers show, even yet, the beauty of Daphne's cheek. Apollo reached out and gathered the leaves and made them into a crown. [Illustration: DAPHNE. Changing into a laurel tree. From an old painting] "This tree shall be called laurel, and it shall be mine," he said. "I cannot grow old and the leaves of this tree shall be always green. Daphne has won the race against Apollo, the wreath of these leaves shall be her gift and mine to the bravest in every race. Kings and captains shall be proud to wear it." Apollo hid his face for days behind dark clouds. Heavy rains fell. The immortal gods cannot weep, but these great drops seemed like tears for lost Daphne. Even saucy Cupid mourned, and he did not dare go out till the storms were over, for fear Apollo's grief would spoil his wings. In cold northern lands you can find Daphne's tree in greenhouses among the roses and lilies. And if you ask for Daphne, the gardener will point her out, for he calls the tree by her name. THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES _Roman_ In a cave by the seashore lived an old, old woman. This very old woman was also very wise. She remembered everything that had ever happened and she knew almost everything that was going to happen in her country. She lived in Italy and was called the Sibyl. One day a man named Aeneas came to her cave to question her. She was very kind to him. She even took him far down into the center of the earth, Pluto's kingdom, to see those whom Pluto had carried away. When they came back, Aeneas said he would build a temple to her and have gifts brought to her. She had so much power and was so wise he felt sure she must be more than mortal. But she would not let Aeneas build the temple. Instead she told him her story. It was this: "Apollo saw me when I was young, and told me to ask him for any gift I would have. We were standing on the seashore. I stooped down and filled my hand with the white sand at our feet. "'Give me as many birthdays as there are grains of sand in my hand, O Apollo!' I said. "'It is granted,' said Apollo. But, in my foolishness, I forgot to ask for everlasting youth. "When one hundred grains of sand had slipped away from the glass in which I placed them all, I was old. My youth was gone. "Seven hundred grains have slipped through now. I have counted the rest. I shall yet see three hundred springs and three hundred harvests; then the Sibyl will be no more. My body has shriveled. Soon I shall be only a warning voice to the children of men, but I shall live till the grains are gone from that glade. While my voice lasts men will respect my sayings. As long as I live, I will strive to help the human race." Aeneas went with her into the cave. The leaves were thick on the floor. The Sibyl picked them up and wrote with an eagle's quill on each. She let him read as many as he wished. He found some of them were warnings to his friends. Some were for people he had never seen. The Sibyl placed them in rows on the ledges of rock inside the cavern. A fierce wind blew into the cave and carried the written leaves away. "Save them, O Sibyl!" cried Aeneas. [Illustration: A SIBYL. From a Roman statue.] "My work is to write, Aeneas. I am no man's slave. If he wishes his leaf, he must come for it before the wind takes it away. There are thousands of leaves not written upon yet. But no man may have a second leaf. He must be here on time." "One leaf, one life!" said Aeneas. "I see your meaning, O Sibyl, and go about my work. My ship shall sail to-day. Each day shall bring me nearer my journey's end, and when I reach my home the leaves on my forest trees shall teach me your lesson over again. I will rise early each day and be the first in all things. Even the winds shall not be quicker than I am in the work it is my duty to do. Farewell." Here is another story which is told of the Sibyl. It shows that she could write on something beside leaves. She appeared one day at the king's palace gate with a heavy burden on her back. The keeper let her in. With a guard on either side the Sibyl was shown into the presence of the king. The burden proved to be nine large books closely written. She offered them for sale at an enormous price. The king refused to pay it. The Sibyl only smiled and threw three of the books into the open fire. The king had wished to own those three, for he knew that future events were written in them. "I have now six books and the price is the same as for the nine. Does the king want them?" The king hesitated. While he was thinking what to do, the little old woman threw three more into the fire. "I have now three books and the price is the same as for the nine. Does the king want them?" And the king said, "Yes," without a minute's waiting, and took the books. The little old woman vanished. Her thousand years were nearly gone, but her voice was still heard when people visited her cave. The king searched the three books and found that all things concerning his city, Rome, were foretold in them for hundreds of years. Perhaps many wars and troubles would have been saved if he had bought all the books instead of only three. It is usually best to decide a matter quickly when one knows that nothing can be gained by waiting. THE LEGEND OF THE SEED _Greek_ Once upon a time the earth was so very young and the people upon it so pure and good that they could hear the morning stars as they sang together. It was during the Golden Age, as it is now called, that one morning in the early springtime a little group of girls were playing together and gathering wild flowers. One of these girls was named Proserpina. She was the merriest of them all, though her dress was of the plainest brown. Her little feet danced everywhere and her little fingers seemed to touch the flowers as lightly as the butterfly that flitted by her. Carelessly she danced close to a great opening in the ground. Looking down she saw a yellow daffodil growing on the edge. Leaning over to pick it, she felt herself caught by her dress, and the next minute found herself sailing far down into the earth through the great crevice. She was in a chariot drawn by black horses, which were driven by a driver who seemed to be both deaf and dumb. He neither answered when she pleaded with him to take her back, nor even seemed to hear her. The girls who were left gathering wild flowers had missed Proserpina almost the moment she was out of sight, but no one knew what had happened. "Come back! come back!" the girls called, but no answer came up from the great opening or from the forest near them. Only Echo marked their cry of "Proserpina, oh, Proserpina, come back!" "She has vanished," the girls whispered. "I always felt as though she had wings beneath that plain brown dress she wore," said one. "But who can tell Queen Ceres, her mother?" they asked one another. No one could go alone, so they all went together to Queen Ceres and told her what had happened. [Illustration: CERES. From a painting in Pompeii.] The good queen wept bitterly. That day she laid aside her regal robes and began her search for Proserpina. Up and down the world went this royal mother seeking for her lost daughter. At last she came to the land of King Celeus. When Ceres reached his land she was so ragged and poor that she was glad to earn money by taking care of the king's baby son. As nurse to the little prince, Queen Ceres was almost comforted. Because she was the goddess of the wheat and the fruits, the crops upon the land of King Celeus, while she was there, were very wonderful. In the land near Mount Aetna, where Proserpina had been lost, no rain fell and no corn nor apples grew. Juno sent Iris down to earth to beg of Ceres to give rain to the suffering people of her own home. Ceres said no rain should fall till Proserpina came back to her mother. One day as Ceres was weeping by a fountain her tears fell into the springing water, and, as they did so, she heard a silvery voice: "Why do you grieve, Queen Ceres?" said the water sprite or nymph. "Proserpina, my beautiful daughter, is gone from me," said Ceres. "I have sought everywhere on the earth for her. I cannot find my daughter." "Listen to me," said the voice from the fountain. "I have seen her. She is not on the earth; she is in the earth. She is in the palace of King Pluto, who rules below. I saw her as I ran with a river through Pluto's kingdom. She longs to come back to you." Queen Ceres was like a stone for a time after she heard the story told by the murmuring waters of the fountain. Proserpina alive and longing for her! It did not seem true, but she would know soon. Taking back the little prince to his mother, she hid herself in a forest, called for her chariot, and, when it came, drove straight to the top of Mount Olympus, where Jupiter sat on his shining throne. She begged of him to command his brother Pluto to return her daughter to her. "It is granted on one condition; that is, that Proserpina has never tasted food nor drink since she has been beneath the earth." Mercury, the wing-footed messenger, and Flora, the goddess of Spring, sought the center of the earth to bring back Proserpina to Ceres. Pluto loved his stolen prize as much as Queen Ceres did; and, being unhappy because she refused to eat, succeeded at last in making her taste one of the beautiful pomegranates that are both food and drink. Even while she was tasting it Mercury and Flora stood at Pluto's gate with the command to return her to Ceres. What was to be done? Mercury, quick-witted as well as quick-footed, decided that if she dwelt with Ceres for half the year and with Pluto the other half, Jupiter's commands would be satisfied. This proved to be as Jupiter wished. So, arrayed in shining green, Proserpina swiftly set out with Flora and Mercury to find Queen Ceres. Ceres saw her the minute her bright head appeared above the brown earth and knew her through her disguise. You remember when Proserpina was taken she wore a plain brown suit. They lived together, the mother and daughter, through the bright spring days and the warm summer weather. When autumn came Proserpina donned her brown suit again and Pluto claimed her. There, in his underground realm, she reigns all the cold winter months. She is happy now because Queen Ceres is happy. The mother knows that when spring breathes over the earth again Proserpina will come back to her. Can you guess who Proserpina is? You have seen her a thousand times. Yes, and when you see her next you will say how strange that the Greeks could tell such a story of only a little brown seed. THE GIRL WHO WAS CHANGED INTO A SUNFLOWER _Greek_ Years ago there was a beautiful girl who lived near a large garden. This girl's name was Clytie. She had wonderful golden hair and big brown eyes, and she was tall and slender. Clytie stood in this large garden one day, watching her pet doves as they flew about in the sky, when she caught a glimpse of the sun chariot of Apollo. She even had a glimpse of Apollo himself, as he guided his wonderful horses along their course, which was the circle of the heavens. There were many fleecy clouds in the sky, and one had veiled the burning sunlight from the eyes of Clytie, or she would never have been able to see the sight, which only the eyes of Jupiter's eagle may endure and not become blind. After this the foolish girl went every day into the garden and, staring up into the sky, tried to see Apollo once more. Every day for more than thirty days she went into the garden. Her mother often told her that she would make Apollo angry, for he shines brightly so as to hide himself from people on the earth. "Clytie! Clytie!" her mother would call, "come in and take your sewing." [Illustration: APOLLO. From a statue in Rome.] But Clytie never would obey. Sometimes she would answer: "Oh, mother, let me stay. He was so beautiful. I have no heart for work." Apollo saw the foolish girl day after day and he became out of patience with her. "Mortal maidens must obey their mothers," he said, and a burning sun-arrow fell on Clytie's bright head. Such a strange change came upon Clytie from that moment. Her brown eyes grew larger. Her golden hair stood straight out around them, and her pretty clothing changed into great heart-shaped leaves which clung to a stiff stalk. Her feet grew firmly into the ground, and the ten little toes changed into ten strong roots that went creeping everywhere for water. When Clytie's mother called again no answer came and she found, in going into the garden, a flower in place of her child. And now Clytie always stares at the sun all day long. In the morning her face is toward the east, and at night it is toward the west. Did you ever think that the sunflower was once a lovely girl? WHY THE NARCISSUS GROWS BY THE WATER _Greek_ Down in the heart of the woods there was a clear spring with water like silver. No shepherds ever brought their flocks there to drink, no lions nor other wild beasts came in the night time. No leaves nor branches fell into it, but the green grass grew around it all the year, and the rocks kept it from the sun. One day a boy hunter found it, and, being thirsty, he stooped down to drink. As he bent he saw, for the first time in his life, his own fair face, and did not know who it was. He thought it must be a water fairy, and he put his lips to the water, but as soon as their touch disturbed the surface, away went the shadow-face from out of his sight. "Nothing has escaped me yet, and here I shall stay till this curly-haired creature comes out of the water," he said. "See its shining eyes and smiling mouth!" He forgot his hunt, he forgot everything but to watch for this water sprite. When the moon and stars came out, there it was just the same as in the sunshine, and so he lingered from day to night and from night to day. He saw the face in the water grow thinner day by day, but never thought of himself. At last he was too weak to watch any longer. His face was as white as the whitest lily, and his yellow hair fell over his hollow cheeks. With a sigh his breath floated away, his head dropped on the green grass, and there was no longer any face in the water. [Illustration: NARCISSUS. From a painting from Pompeii.] The fairies came out of the woods and would have covered him with earth, but, looking for him, they found nothing but a lovely flower, gazing with bended head into the silver spring, just as the boy hunter had done. The fairies told the story to a little child, and she told it to her father and mother. When they found this spring in the heart of the woods they called the flower growing beside it Narcissus, after the boy hunter who had perished watching his own face in the silver water. THE LEGEND OF THE ANEMONE _Greek_ Just see the basketful of anemones we got down in the glen! They were as thick there as they could be. We picked and picked and it didn't seem to make a bit of difference, there were so many left. Aren't they lovely?" "They are dainty little flowers, boys. Where did you say you found them?" "On the low land in the glen by the brook. There were great trees on both sides of the glen, and it was so still the little brook and the waterfall sounded as loud as a big river. How we wished you were there!" "What else did you find besides the windflowers, or anemones, boys?" "Here's a little moss and a few blood-root flowers, and Will Johnson carried home a big bouquet of wild bleeding-hearts." "That makes me think, Charlie, of a myth there is about the first anemones." "A myth? What is that, mother? Oh, I know, John," said Charlie; "it is one of those stories that people used to believe just as we used to believe in Santa Claus. He's a myth, you know, and now you please keep still and maybe mother has time to tell us about the first anemones. I like myths." "This is a hunting story, so I know you will like it, boys. "But just think of hunting with bow and arrows and spears! Would you like that?" "Yes, yes!" shouted both the boys. "Well, years ago in the Golden Age when the world was young there lived a Greek hunter whose name was Adonis. He was tall and straight and handsome. His friends thought it a great pity that he should spend his time in the woods, with only his dogs for company. Away he would go day after day with his arrows at his back and his spear at his side. His dogs were fierce and would attack any creature. His horse was as brave as he. His friends begged him to wait till he was older and stronger before he went into the deep forests, but he never waited. He had killed bears, wolves, and lions. Why should he wait? [Illustration: ADONIS AND APHRODITE (Aphrodite is the Greek name of Venus.)] "But the wild hog is fiercer than the tiger. One spring morning while hunting in the forest, Adonis wounded two. Leaving his dogs to worry one while he killed the other, he got off his horse, and, running, threw his spear at the hog. Its thick hide was tough and the spear fell to the ground. He drew out an arrow, but before he could place it in the bow, the ugly beast had caught him with its horrid tusks. "He tore away and, bleeding at every step, bounded down a hillside toward a brook to bathe his wounds. But the savage beast reached it as soon as he. A flock of white swans that had been drinking from the brook, rose on their strong wings and, flying straight to their mistress, Venus, told the story. "Back they brought her in her silver chariot, sailing so steadily that, from the silver cup of nectar she brought with her, not a drop was spilled. "'Adonis! Adonis!' cried Venus. "There was nothing but drops of blood on the grass to tell her where he had been. It was all that was left of the handsome hunter. "Venus sprinkled some of the nectar on these drops and, in an hour, tiny flower buds showed their heads. Then she drove sadly home. Soft winds blew the tiny buds open, and at night blew them away. So people called them wind-flowers, or anemones. And they believe that the pink and purple which colored them came from the heart of Adonis." "But why didn't tiger-lilies or some other big and showy flowers come, not these pretty little things?" "I don't know, John; go and ask Venus." THE MISTLETOE _Norse_ Baldur, the youngest brother of Thor, was called The Beautiful. His thoughts were so kind and his ways so pleasant that all who lived in Asgard, the home of the Norse gods, loved him. Baldur's days were the happiest of all in Asgard, but when he slept his dreams were so strange that his nights were often unhappy. He feared danger. So Frigga, his mother, who was the wife of Woden, went to the sea and made it promise that no water should drown Baldur. She went to the stones and made them promise not to harm her son. Everything promised to let no evil come upon Baldur the Beautiful. Iron and all the other metals, rocks, and trees all promised. Birds, beasts, and creeping things all agreed to help and never to hurt Frigga's youngest son. Woden, his father, went to ask a wise old woman what his son's dreams meant. She was dead, and Woden had to go to the center of the universe to find her. She gave him what help she could, and Woden and Frigga felt that now nothing could hurt their child. The other gods that lived in Asgard knew that Baldur was safe from all harm. But to prove this and to have a little fun among themselves, they would sometimes use him as a mark at which to throw their spears or darts. Setting Baldur in the middle of the ring, these gods of Asgard would each throw something at him. If a stone struck him it would only glance off and never hurt. No arrow could pierce his skin. Nothing harmed him, and Baldur would smile as they played their rough play, for he knew that no one of them would work him any ill. But Loki was different from all the others in Asgard. He could not endure to have Baldur so loved, and wished that some one could harm him. At last Loki dressed himself up as an old woman and went to Frigga's palace. Kind Frigga took the old woman by the hand and brought her into Fensalir. Loki, in the shape of the old woman, pretended to be very friendly. "Do you know what the gods are doing to Baldur when you are not by?" Loki asked. "Yes, they are proving that all things have kept their promise not to hurt my boy." "What!" said the old woman, "have all things promised not to hurt Baldur?" "All things," said Frigga. "All but one little plant that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla. It is called the mistletoe. It is so weak and small that I did not ask it to join with the others. I thought it could harm no one." The old woman left Fensalir. In a few moments Loki appeared on the eastern side of Valhalla and plucked a bit of mistletoe from an old oak that shaded Woden's palace. No one saw him, for he was as sly as a fox and as tricky. Hiding the mistletoe in his hand, he hurried back to the circle of gods who were seated around Baldur. One god who was blind sat outside the ring. "Why don't you join in the sport?" asked the wicked Loki. "I cannot see where Baldur is; and nothing could or would harm anyone so good," said the blind god. "I will show you where to sit and you shall have this little sprig that is in my hand to throw. You must not be left out of the sport because you are blind," and Loki handed the mistletoe to him. The others welcomed the blind god to the ring and made him happy by telling him that Baldur smiled at all of their strokes. "Let me throw next," said Hodur, the blind god. Loki stood by him and directed his hand as Hodur threw the mistletoe. Poor Baldur! The mistletoe pierced his heart through and through. He fell backward dead. Hodur was wild with grief. The other gods knew that the treacherous Loki had done it, and did not blame Hodur. Frigga asked which of the gods would dare to ride to Loki's home to bring Baldur back. Hermod, called the nimble, an older brother of Baldur, said he would go. Woden, his father, told him to take the horse Sleipnir. Sleipnir had never carried any one but Woden himself. He had twice as many legs as any other horse. He made eight tracks instead of four. Hermod mounted Sleipnir and rode fast for nine days and nine nights until he came to the land of Death, where Loki loved to stay. Hela, who ruled there, said Baldur might return if all things above mourned for him. [Illustration: WODEN ON THE THRONE. Thor on the left, Freya on the right, holding mistletoe. Loki at the bottom, suffering for the murder of Baldur. From an ancient bas-relief.] Hermod rode back and asked all things if Baldur should return. All begged for Baldur but one old hag, who sat on the side of a mountain. Everything else wept for Baldur. Tears stood on the rocks about her as we have seen drops of water on the hardest rock in early morning; the leaves of the trees shed tears of grief. This old hag refused to weep. Baldur could not return. After the test was over, the gods believed that the old creature on the mountain side was Loki disguised in this way. It must have been the evil Loki, for nothing else could have been so cruel. Loki met his punishment at last, but that did not save Baldur the Beautiful, the golden-haired god, whom his blind brother, dwelling in darkness, slays again at every even fall. THE FORGET-ME-NOT _German_ There is a legend connected with the name of the little blue forget-me-not which everyone loves so much. It is said that a boy and a girl were walking by a river that flows into the Rhine. The girl saw a lovely flower growing just by the water's edge. The bank of the river was steep and the water swift. "Oh, the beautiful flower!" she cried. "I will get it for you," said the boy. He sprang over the side of the steep bank and, catching hold of the shrubs and bushes, made his way to the place where the flower grew. He tried to tear the plant from the earth with both hands, hoping to get it all for her who was watching him from the bank above. The stem broke and, still clasping the flower, he fell backward into the rushing stream. "Forget me not!" he cried to her as the waters bore him down to the falls below. She never did forget her blue-eyed friend who had lost his life trying to get her a flower. "Forget me not!" she would say over and over until her friends called the little blue flower by this name. Now these blossoms are called forget-me-nots all over the world. And whether this story is true or only a legend, the dear little flower could not have a prettier name. PEGASUS, THE HORSE WITH WINGS _Greek_ There is an old myth of a winged horse. Would you like to hear it? Listen. This wonderful horse was under the care of the nine Muses. These nine fair daughters of Jupiter taught men all that is known of music, poetry, history, and the stars. It was said and believed that they helped people to remember what they taught. And now even their names are forgotten except by the few who love to remember the things others forget. One beautiful summer morning this winged horse appeared at the fountain of the Muses on Mount Helicon. The laughing Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, saw him as she dropped from the sky. Dancing Terpsichore tried to take him by the mane, but the white wings flashed in her face and the wonderful steed was gone before she had touched him. Urania, the Muse who loved the heavens, believed that he was from some star world. Clio, the Muse of History, knew that no such creature had ever lived on earth before. They all watched for his return. The next morning he was seen again at the fountain; after that he came every day. The Muses named him Pegasus. "We know that there is a work for all created things. What can his be?" the sisters asked one another. Sure enough his work came at last. In a distant land was a brave young soldier named Bellerophon. He was so bold, so fearless, and so handsome that those who ought to have been his friends became jealous of him. That means trouble, you know. Bellerophon wished to travel. His king gave him letters on parchment to take to King Iobates of Lycia. The king did not read the letters for ten days after Bellerophon came to Lycia. During those ten days there was feasting and dancing in honor of the new guest. After the feasts of welcome were over, King Iobates read the letters and found that the one who sent them wanted Bellerophon punished for certain misdeeds which people said he had done. It was a sharp trick to send such letters by the very person who was to be punished. King Iobates was puzzled as to what to do. Then some of his wise men told him of the terrible chimera that was in the west of his kingdom. This strange creature had the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and the tail of a crocodile. Its breath was flames of fire, so the peasants said. Nobody dared to attack it. "Just the thing," said Iobates to himself, and sent for Bellerophon. "You are the one to rid my country of this terrible monster. Do you dare to try such a task?" Brave Bellerophon answered, "I have no fear; my heart is pure; my strength is as the strength of ten. I will go." [Illustration: BELLEROPHON AND PEGASUS. At the Fountain of the Muses on Mount Helicon.] That night he slept in the temple of Minerva, the wise goddess. He dreamed that Minerva brought him a golden bridle and told him to go to the fountain of Pirene and find Pegasus. When he awoke the golden bridle was in his hand. He went to the fountain and there he saw Pegasus drinking. Bellerophon held up the bridle and for the first time Pegasus was caught. The brave soldier leapt on the winged horse's back and Pegasus struck his hoofs once against the earth, and then sprang lightly towards the sky. He spread his wings and the nine Muses saw him sailing in the air with a rider on his back. "He has found his work," said Clio. Bellerophon could see over all the land. He found the terrible chimera and slew it. For all its strange shape and fearful looks, it was not such a fierce animal as he had feared. Pegasus took his rider quickly back to King Iobates' palace and then vanished. He was found the next morning by the nine Muses drinking at their fountain. Bellerophon was given another hard task to do when the king found that he had lived through his first. Pegasus came at his call, and with his help everything was easy. But as soon as one work was done King Iobates found another. Bellerophon suspected nothing, and went bravely out to help his friend the king. At last King Iobates said he had nothing more for him to do. After a time Bellerophon married the king's daughter and lived quietly at home in Lycia. Pegasus, the pet of the nine Muses, became so gentle that he would let them soar to the skies on his back, but no mortal save Bellerophon dared to touch him. Bellerophon, having no more great earthly tasks to do, called his winged steed one morning and dared to attempt to guide him to Mount Olympus, 011 whose lofty top sat the great Jupiter on his throne in the clouds. Jupiter, seeing him coming, sent a single gadfly to sting the tender skin of Pegasus. The gadfly dealt a cruel blow and proud Pegasus thought Bellerophon had dared to strike him. He reared upon his haunches and sent Bellerophon reeling downward to earth, the victim of a selfish wish to outdo others. Bellerophon fell upon a rocky field far from any city. His fall made him both lame and blind. Separated from his friends he wandered alone, living as best he could, and it is not known what became of him. His winged steed fled to the fountain on Mount Helicon, but never again came at his call. He could not forget the sharp sting of the gadfly. Some have fancied that those who love the Muses see him even in these days, and that the flash of his golden bridle is caught by a gifted few once in each century. SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS In the earlier ages everything in nature had its myth. We have been too practical and too full of haste in these latter days to listen to nature or to myths, but let us inspire the children to do so. Who among us has not regretted his lack of knowledge of some mythical person, in song, picture, or story? The greater number of ways in which a truth is presented to the child, the stronger the impression that truth makes upon him. Music, painting, sculpture, architecture, and language, written or spoken, have each told the story of the sun and its glorious power over earthly creatures. Each nation has its myth concerning the sun's personality. Some may have adapted or adopted those of other nations; some may have originated their own theory to explain the origin of the heat and light which come from the apparent ruler of the skies. The myth is preserved through the ages, and the child in the school perceives its beauty, while he understands as well as his teacher its impossibility. Let the plain scientific truths of the latest researches be given first. Then the fable, or folklore, or former explanation which once vouched for the origin of the sun, moon, or stars, or other natural objects, seems to the children like their own childish fancies about things unknown. The story should follow, if possible, a tale or lesson on the subject of the myth. If the children have already had the scientific truths given them, then the myth serves as a reminder of facts already learned. The special directions are merely suggestive. Teachers will supplement them or substitute others at their pleasure. SUGGESTIONS FOR THE LESSON ON PHAETON. Secure, if possible, before the reading of the story of Phaeton, a good plaster cast or marble bust of Apollo, or some reproduction of the Aurora of Guido Reni. Show a picture of the temple of Apollo, if one can be obtained; let the children understand how much a part of the life of the Greek was this belief in Apollo's power and Apollo's beauty. The child will then begin to understand how much the ancients strove after beauty in all things. The Indian, African, and Chinese all have their stories of the origin of light and heat, and history and geography may assist in this lesson on Phaeton. Sprinkle water on the window sill, and notice its disappearance, caused by the heat of sunshine or of the room. Ask for the reason of a similar loss of water in the street, road, or river. What is the sun's color? What is the color of fire? What is the sun's effect on ice and snow, on vegetable and animal life? Does it work quietly? Is great power usually quiet? Lower the shades in the schoolroom. Why is it dark? Close the eyes. Why is it dark? What is darkness? What causes dark or dull days? What shapes do clouds take? Are they ever like horses, cattle, sheep, or swans? Is the sun somewhere always shining? Are clouds like curtains? Paint or draw a sunrise or sunset. Notice a rainbow, when possible, and form one with a prism in the schoolroom. What colors of the prism are shown most in sunset or sunrise? Are all shown each time? How many have seen the same colors on a soap bubble or elsewhere? Mention some other name of the sun, as Sol; the derivation of Sunday; the effect of the sun on the seasons. Describe spring, summer, autumn, and winter as persons. Is the sun king of the hours, the days, the months, and the years? Did the ancients know the real truth concerning the distance, size, and nightly disappearance of the sun? Where is the Great Bear? The Little Bear? Do you think the ancient Greeks really believed the story of Phaeton? Reproduce it orally after reading. _Each myth may be developed in a similar way_. A BIBLIOGRAPHY. The following list is given as containing many books which will be helpful for reference or study, as indicating the sources of myths and the customs of the ancients, and as supplying an extended account of any mythical person or object referred to in this volume. While each book is considered valuable, those marked with a star are especially compact, concise, and helpful to readers who can have access to but few books, and that by purchase. GREEK AND ROMAN MYTHS. "Age of Fable," compiled by Thomas Bulfinch. _McKay, Philadelphia_ $1 25 "Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography, Mythology, and Geography." _D. Appleton & Co., New York_. Half morocco 6 00 "The Mythology of Greece and Rome," with special reference to its use in art, Oscar Seeman. _American Book Company, New York_ 60 "Harper's Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities," edited by Harry Thurston Peck. _Harper Bros., New York_, 1 vol. 6 00 2 vols. 7 00 "Seiffert's Dictionary of Classical Antiquities," from the German of Oskar Seiffert. _The Macmillan Co., New York_ 3 00 "Makers," by John Fiske. _Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston_ 2 00 "The Classic Myths in English Literature," by C.M. Gayley. _Ginn & Co., Boston_ 1 50 "Myths of Greece and Rome," narrated with special reference to literature and art, by H.A. Guerber. _American Book Company, New York_ 1 50 "The Heroes," by Charles Kingsley. Several publishers; various prices. "The Queen of the Air," by John Ruskin. Several publishers; various prices. NORSE MYTHS. "Myths of Northern Lands," by H.A. Guerber. _American Book Company, New York_ 1 50 "Norse Mythology, or the Religion of Our Forefathers," by R.B. Anderson. _Scott, Foresman & Co., Chicago_ 2 50 "Dr. Wilhelm Wagner's Asgard and the Gods, a Manual of Norse Mythology," edited by W.W. Macdowall. _Sonnenshein & Co., London, England_ 2 00 RUSSIAN MYTHS. "The Hero of Esthonia," and other studies in the romantic literature of that country, compiled by W.F. Kirby. _John C. Nimmo, London, England._ 2 vols. 6 00 "Selections from the Kalevala, the Epic Poem of Finland." _Henry Holt, New York_ 1 50 This epic is in the same measure as Longfellow's "Hiawatha," and is interesting to all those who enjoy that poem. OLDEST EGYPTIAN TALES. "Egyptian Tales, Translated from the Papyri." _Frederick A. Stokes & Co., New York._ 2 vols., each 1 50 These tales are interesting from their evident antiquity and from the insight they give as to ancient Egyptian customs. A PRONOUNCING INDEX The following key explains the symbols which are used in the pronouncing index to indicate the pronunciation of the words. It is based upon the 1900 edition of Webster's International Dictionary: a- _as in_ fate. a- _as in_ pref' ace. a- _as in_ add. a- _as in_ air. a- _as in_ far. a- _as in_ grass. a- _as in_ all. e- _as in_ eve. e- _as in_ e-vent'. e- _as in_ end. e- _as in_ her. i- _as in_ ice. i- _as in_ i-de' a. i- _as in_ pin. o- _as in_ row. o- _as in_ o-bey'. o- _as in_ not. o- _as in_ lord. u- _as in_ use. u- _as in_ u-nite'. u- _as in_ up. u- _as in_ furl. u- _as in_ rude. u- _as in_ full. y- _as in_ fly. y- _as in_ pit' y. oo- _as in_ moon. oo- _as in_ good. ou- _as in_ out. oi- _as in_ oil. n=ng _as in_ ink. Silent letters are italicized. Certain vowels, as _a_ and _e_, when obscured, are also italicized. A _Adonis_ (a do' nis). A youth famed for his beauty and beloved by Venus. _Aeneas_ (e ne' as). A valiant Trojan warrior. _Aeolus_ (e' o lus). The king of the winds. _Aetna_ (et'na). The chief mountain in Sicily and highest volcano in Europe. It figures in Greek mythology as the burning mountain. _ambrosia_ (am bro' zha). The fabled food of the gods, which conferred immortality upon those who partook of it. _Ammon_ (am' mun). The Egyptian Jupiter, or supreme god. _ancient_ (an' shent). Old; antique. _anemone_ (a nem' o ne) The windflower. _Antaeus _(an te' us). The son of the sea and earth, or of Neptune and Terra. _Apollo_ (a pol' lo). The god of the sun. _Ares_ (a' rez). The Greek name for Mars. _Argo_ (ar' go). The ship in which Jason sailed. _Argus_ (ar' gus). A mythical person with a hundred eyes, set by Juno to watch Io. _Asgard_ (as' gard). The home of the Northern gods. _Athena_ (a the' na). The Greek name for Minerva. _Athens_ (ath' enz). A city in Greece. _Atlas_ (at' las). The giant who bears up the sky on his shoulders. _Aurora_ (a ro' ra). The goddess of the dawn. B _Bacchus_ (bak' kus). The god of wine. _Baldur_ (bal'der). Son of Woden and brother of Thor. The god of summer. _Baucis_ (ba' sis). The wife of Philemon. _Bellerophon_ (bel ler' o fon). The son of Glaucus. The youth who slew the chimera. _Briareus_ (bri a' re us). A famous giant, fabled to have a hundred arms. _Byrgir_ (byr' gir). The well to which Hjuki went for water. C _Cadmus_ (kad' mus). Son of a king of Phoenicia, said to be the inventor of letters. _caldron_ (kal' drun). A large metal kettle. _Castor_ (kas' tor). Twin brother of Pollux, noted for his skill in managing horses. _Celeus_ (se' le us). A king of Eleusis, father of Triptolemus. He gave a kind reception to Ceres, who taught his son the cultivation of the earth. _Ceres_ (se' rez). The goddess of grains and fruits. _chamois_ (sham' my). A small species of antelope of remarkable agility. _chimera_ (ki me' ra). A fabulous monster in Lycia, which was slain by Bellerophon. _Clio_ (kli' o). The muse of history. _Clymene_ (kli me' ne). Mother of Phaeton. _Clytie_ (kli' ti e). The maiden who was changed into a sunflower. _Cupid_ (ku' pid). The god of love, possessing eternal youth, son of Mars and Venus. D _Daedalus_ (ded' a lus). The builder of the Cretan labyrinth. _Daphne_ (daf' ne). A nymph beloved by Apollo. _Diana_ (di a' na). Goddess of the moon, twin sister of Apollo. _dolphin_ (dol' fin). Large sea fish. E _Echo_ (ek' o). A nymph who pined away until nothing was left but her voice. _Epimetheus_ (ep' i me' the us). The Titan who made man and the lower animals. F _fagots_ (fag' utz). Twigs. _Fensalir_ (fen sa ler'). The home of Frigga. _forget-me-not_ (for get'-me-not). A small herb bearing a blue flower, and considered the emblem of fidelity. _Frigga_ (frig' ga). The supreme goddess of the Northland, wife of Woden. G _Gemini_ (jem' i ni). A constellation containing the two bright stars, Castor and Pollux. _Gordius_ (gor' di us). A peasant who, by direction of an oracle, was proclaimed King of Phrygia. _Great Bear_ (great bear). The name often given to the stars forming the Big Dipper, or Charles' Wain. H _Halcyone_ (hal si' o ne). A daughter of Aeolus, who, for love of her drowned husband, threw herself into the sea and was changed into the kingfisher. _Hela_ (hel' a). The ruler of the land of death. _Helicon_ (hel' i kon). Famous mountain of Greece. _Hercules_ (her' ku lez). The most famous hero of Greek mythology, son of Zeus or Jupiter. _Hermod_ (her' mod). A hero of Norse mythology, and a brother of Baldur. _Hjuki_ (ju' ki). Jack, the boy who went with Bil, or Jill, for water. _Hodur_ (ho' der). The blind god who threw the fatal branch of mistletoe at Baldur. The god of winter. _I_ _Icarus_ (ik' a rus). A son of Daedalus. _Iobates_ (i ob' a tez). The King of Lycia. _Iris_ (i' ris). Juno's maid, a personification of the rainbow. J _Jason_ (ja' sun). A prince of Thessaly, who brought away from Colchis the golden fleece. _Juno_ (ju' no). The wife of Jupiter. _Jupiter_ (ju' pi ter). In Roman mythology, the supreme god of heaven. L _laboratory_ (lab' o ra to ry). The workroom of a chemist. _Latin_ (lat' in). The language of the ancient Romans. _Latona_ (la to' na). The wife of Jupiter and the mother of Apollo and Diana. _Leda_ (le' da). The mother of Castor and Pollux, and of Helen of Troy. _Lindu_ (lin' du). A maiden who had charge of the birds, identified with the Milky Way. _Loki_ (lo' ki). The god who caused Hodur to throw the fatal branch of mistletoe at Baldur. The god of fire. M _Mani_ (ma' ni). The Norse god of the moon. _Mars_ (marz). The Roman god of war. _Mercury_ (mer' ku ry). The Roman god of commerce and gain. Personification of the wind, which fills the sails of merchant-vessels. _Midas_ (mi' das). Son of Gordius and King of Phrygia. _Minerva_ (mi ner' va). The goddess of wisdom. _Mount Olympus_ (o lim' pus). The home of Jupiter and the Greek gods. N _Narcissus_ (nar sis' sus). A beautiful youth, who was changed into the flower narcissus. _nectar_ (nek' ter). The drink of the gods. _Neptune_ (nep' tune). The ruler of the sea. _Norwegian_ (nor we' ji an). A native of Norway. O _Odin_ (o' din). The same as Woden. _Olympian_ (o lim' pi an). Pertaining to Olympus, the seat of the gods. _Orion_ (o ri' on). A giant hunter, whose name was given to a constellation. _Orpheus_ (or' fe us). A poet and musician, who with his sweet lyre charmed the very rocks and trees to follow him. P _Pactolus_ (pak to' lus). A river of Lydia. _Pegasus_ (peg' a sus). A winged horse belonging to Apollo and the Muses. _Perdix_ (per' diks). The nephew of Daedalus; changed by Athena into a partridge. _Phaeton_ (fa' e ton). A son ot Apollo. _Phenice_ (fe ni' se). Phoenicia; Tyre and Sidon; a land west of Palestine. _Philemon_ (fi le' mun). An aged Phrygian, the husband of Baucis. _Phrygia_ (frij' i a). A country of Asia Minor. _Pirene_ (pi re' ne). The fountain at which Pegasus could be found. _Pleiades_ (ple' ya dez). The seven daughters of Atlas. Made by Jupiter a constellation in the sky. _Pluto_ (plu' to). The god of the lower world, or Hades. _Pollux_ (pol' luks). A famous pugilist, and twin brother of Castor. _Poseidon_ (po sei' don). The Greek name of Neptune. _Prometheus_ (pro me' the us). The Titan who gave fire to man. _Proserpina_ (pro ser' pi na). The daughter of Ceres. _python_ (py' thon). A mythical serpent killed near Delphi by Apollo. R _realm_ (realm). Kingdom. _reigned_ (rand). Ruled; governed. _Runic_ (ru' nik). Pertaining to the letters called "runes," belonging to the language of the ancient Norsemen. S _sandal_ (san' dal). A kind of shoe consisting of a sole strapped to the foot. _Saturn_ (sat' urn). The father of Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto. _Scandinavian_ (skan di na' vi an). Of or pertaining to Scandinavia; that is, Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. _Sibyl_ (sib' il). A woman supposed to be endowed with a spirit of prophecy. _Sicily_ (sis' i ly). The largest island in the Mediterranean Sea. _Silenus_ (si le' nus). The foster-father of Bacchus. _Sleipnir_ (slap' ner). The swift eight-legged horse of Odin. _Sonmus_ (som' nus). The king of sleep. _Sparta_ (spar' ta). Ancient city of Greece. T _Taara_ (taa' ra.). The mythical home of Vanemuine. _Terpsichore_ (terp sik' o re). The muse who presided over dancing. _Terra_ (ter' ra). The personification of earth. _Thalia_ (tha li' a). The muse of joy. _Thebes_ (thebz). Greek city now called Thion; birth-place of Hercules. Also name of Egyptian city. _Thor_ (thor). The Norse god of thunder. _Thrace_ (tras). A region in Southeastern Europe, with varying boundaries. In early times it was regarded as the entire region north of Greece. _Titans_ (ti' tanz). Primeval giants, children of heaven and earth. _Tithonus_ (ti tho' nus). The husband of Aurora; changed into a grasshopper. _tortoise_ (tor' tis). A kind of turtle. _trident_ (tri' dent). A spear with three prongs--the common attribute of Neptune. _Trojan_ (tro' jan). Of or pertaining to ancient Troy. U _Uko_ (u' ko). The father of Lindu; also spelled Ukko. _Ulysses_ (u lis' sez). The King of Ithaca. _Urania_ (u ra' ni a). The muse of astronomy. V _Valkyrias_ (val kir' i as). Woden's shield-maidens who presided over battlefields and marked those who were to be slain. _Valhalla_ (val hal' la). The Norse heaven. _Vanemuine_ (va nem' u en). A god of Finland. _Varrak_ (var' rak). A Laplander. _Venus_ (ve' nus). A Roman goddess of love and beauty. W _Woden_ (wo' den). In Norse myths the supreme god of heaven; also spelled Odin. Z _Zeus_ (zus). Greek name for Jupiter. 
35704	----	WONDER STORIES THE BEST MYTHS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS [Illustration: Iris crossing the Rainbow Bridge. _Page 222_] WONDER STORIES THE BEST MYTHS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS BY CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY Author: "For the Children's Hour," "For the Story Teller," "Stories Children Need," "Tell Me Another Story," "Stories of Great Adventures," etc. WITH SIX PICTURES IN COLORS By CLARA M. BURD 1920 MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY SPRINGFIELD MASSACHUSETTS COPYRIGHTED, 1920 BY MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY SPRINGFIELD, MASS. _All Rights Reserved_ Bradley Quality Books _for_ Children TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE How the Myths Began 7 What Prometheus Did with a Bit of Clay 13 The Paradise of Children.--Nathaniel Hawthorne 22 What Became of the Giants 33 How Vulcan Made the Best of Things 40 How Orion Found His Sight 48 The Wonders Venus Wrought 56 Where the Labyrinth Led 65 How Perseus Conquered the Sea 74 Pegasus, the Horse Who Could Fly 84 How Mars Lost a Battle 92 How Minerva Built a City 102 Cadmus, the Alphabet King 113 The Picture Minerva Wove 120 The Hero with a Fairy Godmother 126 The Pygmies.--Nathaniel Hawthorne 136 The Horn of Plenty 148 The Wonder the Frogs Missed 154 When Phaeton's Chariot Ran Away 163 When Apollo was Herdsman 174 How Jupiter Granted a Wish 181 How Hyacinthus Became a Flower 189 How King Midas Lost His Ears 196 How Mercury Gave up his Tricks 205 A Little Errand Girl's New Dress 215 When Proserpine was Lost 224 The Ploughman who Brought Famine 234 The Bee Man of Arcadia 242 When Pomona Shared Her Apples 252 How Psyche Reached Mount Olympus 261 How Melampos Fed the Serpent 272 How a Huntress Became a Bear 281 The Adventure of Glaucus 287 The Winning of the Golden Fleece 297 Medea's Cauldron 304 How a Golden Apple Caused a War 311 How a Wooden Horse Won a War 322 The Cyclops.--Alfred Church 329 HOW THE MYTHS BEGAN Long ago, when our earth was more than two thousand years younger, there was a wonderful place called Mount Olympus at the top of the world that the ancients could see quite clearly with the eyes of hope and faith. It did not matter that the Greek and Roman people had never set foot on this mountain in the clouds. They knew it in story and reverenced the gods and goddesses who inhabited it. In the days when the myths were told, Greece was a more beautiful country than any that is the result of civilization to-day, because the national ideal of the Greeks was beauty and they expressed it in whatever they thought, or wrote, or made with their hands. No matter how far away from home the Greeks journeyed they remembered with pride and love their blue bays and seacoast, the fertile valleys and sheep pastures of Arcadia, the sacred grove of Delphi, those great days when their athletes met for games and races at Athens, and the wide plains of Olympia covered and rich with the most perfect temples and statues that the world has ever known. When the Greeks returned the most beloved sight that met their eyes was the flag of their nation flying at Corinth, or the towers of the old citadel that Cadmus had founded at Thebes. It was the youth time of men, and there were no geographies or histories or books of science to explain to the ancients those things about life that everyone wants to know sooner or later. There was this same longing for truth among the Roman people as well as among the Greeks. The Romans, also, loved their country, and built temples as the Greeks did, every stone of which they carved and fitted as a stepping stone on the way to the abode of the gods. But who were these gods, and what did a belief in their existence mean to the Greek and Roman people? There have been certain changes in two thousand years on our earth. We have automobiles instead of chariots, our ships are propelled by steam instead of by a favorable wind, and we have books that attempt to tell us why spring always follows winter and that courage is a better part than cowardice. But we still have hard winters and times when it is most difficult to be brave. We still experience war and famine and crime, and peace and plenty and love in just about the same measure that they were to be found in Greece and Rome. The only difference is that we are a little closer to understanding life than the ancients were. They tried to find a means of knowing life facts and of explaining the miracles of outdoors and of ruling their conduct by their daily intercourse with this higher race of beings, the gods, on Mount Olympus. There was a gate of clouds on the top of Mount Olympus that the goddesses, who were known as the Seasons, opened to allow the inhabitants of the Mount to descend to the earth and return. Jupiter, the ruler of the gods, sat on the Olympian throne holding thunderbolts and darts of lightning in his mighty hands. The same arts and labors as those of men were practised by these celestial beings. Minerva and her handmaidens, the Graces, wove garments for the goddesses of more exquisite colors and textures than any that could be made by human hands. Vulcan built the houses of the gods of glittering brass. He shaped golden shoes that made it possible for them to travel with great speed, and he shod their steeds so that their chariots could ride upon the water. Hebe fed the gods with nectar and ambrosia, prepared and served by her own fair hands. Mars loosed the dogs of war, and the music of Apollo's lute was the song of victory and peace when war was ended. Ceres tended and blessed the fields of grain, and Venus, clad in beautiful garments by the Seasons, expressed the desire of the nations, of dumb beasts and of all nature for love. There were many more than these, making the great immortal family of the gods, like men, but different in their higher understanding of life and its meaning. They lived apart on their Mount, but they descended often to mingle with the people. They stood beside the forge and helped with the harvest, their voices were heard in the rustling leaves in the forest and above the tumult and crash of war. They guarded the flocks and crowned the victors in games and carried brave warriors to Elysian fields after their last battles. They loved adventure and outdoors; they felt joy and knew pain. These gods were the daily companions of the ancients who have given them to us in our priceless inheritance of the classics and art. When you read the poems of the blind Roman, Homer, and those of Ovid and Virgil; when you see a picture of a columned Greek temple or the statue of the Apollo Belvedere or the Guido Reni painting of Aurora lighting the sky with the torches of day, you, too, are following the age-old stepping stones that led to Mount Olympus. The myths were the inspiration for the greatest writing and architecture and sculpture and painting that the world has ever known. They were more than this. Among the ruins of the ancient cities there was found one temple with a strange inscription on the altar: "To the unknown God." The temple was placed on Mars Hill as if, out of the horrors of war, this new hope had come to the people. The word mythology means an account of tales. The myths were just that, tales, but most beautiful and worth while stories. So that people who made them and retold them and lived as the gods would have had them live came, finally, to feel that there was need for them to build this other, last altar. WHAT PROMETHEUS DID WITH A BIT OF CLAY Every boy and girl has the same wonder at one time or another. "How was the world made?" they ask. So did the boys and girls of that long ago time when the myths were new, and the Greek teachers told them that the earth and sky were all a huge Chaos at first until the gods from their thrones, with the help of Nature, straightened out all things and gave order to the world. They separated the earth from the sea, first, and then the sky from both of these. The universe was all a flaming mass in the beginning but the fiery part was light and ascended, forming the skies. The air hung just below the skies. The waters were very heavy and took the lowest place where the earth held them safely in its hollows. Just as one takes a ball of clay and moulds it into shape, some one of the gods, it was said, moulded the Earth. He gave places to the rivers and the bays, raised mountains, planted the forests and laid out fertile fields. And, next, the fishes swam in the waters, birds flew through the woods and built nests, and four-footed beasts began to be seen everywhere. But the earth was not finished then by any means. There were two giants of the race of the Titans who inhabited the earth at that time, and both of these brothers, Prometheus and Epimetheus, could do marvellous things with their hands. Prometheus took a little of the new earth in his hands and as he looked it over he saw, hidden in it, some heavenly seeds, very tiny of course but they gave him an idea about something wonderful that he might be able to do. So Prometheus mixed some water with this handful of earth and seed; he kneaded it well, and then he skilfully moulded it into a form as nearly like the gods as he could make it. This figure of clay stood upright. Instead of turning its eyes down to the ground as the four-footed creatures did, this form that Prometheus had made looked up toward the sky where the sun and the stars shone now that the air had cleared. Prometheus had made man. While the giant was accomplishing this, his brother, Epimetheus, had been busy with the task of equipping the other creatures of the earth so that they could take care of themselves. To some he gave the gift of courage, to others wisdom, great strength, or swiftness. Each creature was given that which he most needed. It was then that the slow moving tortoise found his shell and the eagle his talons. The deer was given his slender limbs and the dove his wings. The sheep put on his woolly covering that was to be renewed as often as man sheared it, and the horse, the camel and the elephant were provided with such great strength in their backs that they were able to draw and carry heavy loads. Epimetheus was greatly interested in the man that his brother had made and he felt that he might be in danger from the wild beasts that were now so numerous and haunted the forests. So he suggested something to the giant and Prometheus took a torch, cut in the first forest, up to heaven and lighted it at the chariot of the sun. In this way he brought down fire to the earth. That was the most useful gift he could possibly have given man. This first man had begun to dig caves and make leafy covers in the woods and huts woven of twigs to be his shelters. Now that fire had come to the earth he was able to light a forge and shape metals into weapons and tools. He could defend himself from wild beasts with the spear he made, and cut down trees with his axe for building a stronger home. He made a ploughshare and harnessed Epimetheus' oxen to it as he planted his fields with food grains. It seemed as if the earth was going to be a very good place indeed for man and his children, but after awhile all kinds of unexpected things began to happen. The strange part about it was that man, Prometheus' mixture of clay and heavenly seed, seemed to be at the bottom of most of the trouble. Men used the axe to rob the forests of timber for building war ships and fortifications around the towns, and they forged swords and helmets and shields. Seamen spread their sails to the wind to vex the face of the ocean. Men were not satisfied with what the surface of the earth could give them, but dug deep down underneath it and brought up gold and precious stones about which they fought among themselves, each wanting to possess more than his neighbor. The land was divided into shares and this was another cause of war, for each landowner wanted to take away his brother's grant and add it to his own. Even the gods began to augment the troubles of the earth. In the beginning, before the forge fires were lighted, there had been a Golden Age. Then the fields had given all the food that man needed. Flowers came up without the planting of seeds, the rivers flowed with milk, and thick, yellow honey was distilled by the honey bees. But the gods sent the Silver Age, not so pleasant as the one of gold. Jupiter, the king of the gods, shortened the spring and divided the year into seasons. Man learned then what it was to be too cold in the winter and too warm in the summer. Then came the Bronze and the Iron ages. That was when war and greed broke out. Jupiter decided that the people of the earth should be further punished. He imprisoned the north wind which scatters the clouds and sent out the south wind to cover the face of the sky with pitchy darkness. The clouds were driven together with a crash and torrents of rain fell. The crops were laid low so that all the year's labor of the husbandman was destroyed. Jupiter even called upon his brother, Neptune, who was the god of the sea, to let loose the rivers and pour them over the land. He tore the land with an earthquake so that even the sea overflowed its shores. Such a flood as followed; the earth was nearly all sea without shore! The hills were the only land, and people were obliged to ride from one to another of them in boats while the fish swam among the tree tops. If an anchor was dropped, it found a place in a garden. Awkward sea-calves gamboled about where there had once been lambs playing in green pastures; wolves struggled in the water among sheep, and yellow lions and tigers were submerged by the rush of the sea. It really seemed as if the earth was about to be lost in a second chaos, but at last a green mountain peak appeared above the waste that the waters had made and on it a man and woman of the race the giant Prometheus had made took refuge. Remembering the heavenly seed that was part of their birthright, they looked up toward the sky and asked Jupiter to take pity on them. Jupiter ordered the north wind to drive away the clouds, and Neptune sounded his horn to order the waters to retreat. The waters obeyed, and the sea returned to its basins. It was a very bare and desolate earth upon which the people looked down from the Mount of Parnassus. They had not forgotten how to build and mine and plant and harvest and keep a home. They would have to begin things all over again, they knew, and there were two ways of going about it. One way would be to leave the earth the desert place which it now was and try to wreak vengeance on the gods for the destruction they had brought upon the earth. Prometheus, the Titan, still lived and he was possessed of a secret by means of which he could take Jupiter's throne away from him. He would probably never have used this secret, but the fact that he had it came to the ears of the mighty Jupiter and caused much consternation among the gods. Jupiter ordered Vulcan, the smith of the gods, to forge some great links for a heavy chain. With these he chained Prometheus to a rock and sent a vulture to eat his flesh which grew again continually so that Prometheus suffered most terrible pain as the vulture returned each day. His torture would come to an end the moment he told his secret, Jupiter assured Prometheus, but the giant would not speak because of the harm his words might cause the men and women of earth. He suffered there without any rest, and the earth began to take on its former guise of fertility and prosperity as man tried to bring again the Golden Age through his own efforts. And whenever a man felt like giving up the task, which was indeed a mighty one, he would think of Prometheus chained to the rock. His flesh that came from the earth was the prey of the vulture, but the seed of the gods which was hidden in every mortal, gave him strength to resist what he believed to be wrong and bear suffering. A strange old story, is it not? But it is also a story of to-day. Ours is the same earth with its fertile fields and wide forests, its rich mines and its wealth of flocks and herds. They are all given to us, just as the gods gave them to the first men, for the development of peace and plenty. And man, himself, is still a mixture of earth stuff and something else, too, that Prometheus called heavenly seed and we call soul. When selfishness and greed guide our uses of land and food and the metals there is apt to be pretty nearly as bad a time on the earth as when Jupiter and Neptune flooded it. But there is always a chance to be a Prometheus who can forget about everything except the right, and so help in bringing again the Golden Age of the gods to the world. [1]THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child named Epimetheus who never had either father or mother; and that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent by the gods to be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora. The first thing that Pandora saw when she entered the cottage where Epimetheus lived was a great box. And almost the first question that she put to him was this, "Epimetheus, what have you in that box?" "My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains." It is thousands of years since the myths tell us that Epimetheus and Pandora lived; and the world now-a-days is a very different sort of place from what it was then. There were no fathers or mothers to take care of the children, because there was no danger or trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing on a tree. It was a very pleasant life indeed. No labor had to be done, no tasks studied, all was sport and dancing and the sweet voices of children talking, or caroling like birds, or laughing merrily all day long. But Pandora was not altogether happy on account of Epimetheus' explanation about the box. "Where can it have come from?" she continually asked herself, "and what on earth can be inside it?" At last she spoke to Epimetheus. "You might open the box," Pandora said, "and then we could see its contents for ourselves." "Pandora, what are you thinking of?" Epimetheus exclaimed. And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box, which had been given him on condition that he never open it, that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still she could not help thinking and talking about it. "At least," she said, "you can tell me how it came here." "It was left at the door," Epimetheus replied, "just before you came and by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly keep from smiling as he set it down. He was dressed in an odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers so that it looked as if it had wings." "What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora. "Oh, the most curious staff that you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive." "I know him," said Pandora thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a staff. It was Mercury, and he brought me here as well as the box. No doubt he intended it for me, and most probably it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for us both, or something nice for us to eat." "Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away, "but until Mercury comes back and gives his permission, we have neither of us any right to lift the lid." One day not long after that Epimetheus went to gather figs and grapes by himself without asking Pandora. Ever since she had come he had heard about that box, nothing but the box, and he was tired of it. And as soon as he was gone, Pandora kneeled down on the floor and looked intently at it. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, and was so highly polished that Pandora could see her face in it. The edges and corners were carved with most wonderful skill. Around the edge there were figures of graceful men and women and the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or playing in gardens and forests. The most beautiful face of all was done in high relief in the centre of the box. There was nothing else save the dark, rich smoothness of the wood and this one face with a garland of flowers about its brow. The features had a kind of mischievous expression with all their loveliness and if the mouth had spoken it would probably have said, "Do not be afraid Pandora! What harm can there be in opening a box. Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus. You are wiser than he and have ten times as much courage. Open the box and see if you do not find something very pretty." And on this particular day, when Pandora was alone, her curiosity grew so great that at last she touched the box. She was more than half determined to open it if she could. First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy, much too heavy for the slender strength of a child like Pandora. She raised one end of the box a few inches from the floor, and then let it fall with a pretty loud thump. A moment afterward she almost thought that she heard something stir inside the box. She was not quite sure whether she heard it or not, but her curiosity grew stronger than ever. Suddenly her eyes fell on a curious knot of gold that tied it. She took it in her fingers and, almost without intending it, she was soon busily engaged in trying to undo it. It was a very intricate knot indeed, but at last, by the merest accident, Pandora gave the cord a kind of twist and it unwound itself, as if by magic. The box was without a fastening. [Illustration: Pandora saw a crowd of ugly little shapes.] "This is the strangest thing I ever knew," Pandora said. "What will Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it again?" And then the thought came into her naughty little heart that, since she would be suspected of looking into the box, she might as well do so at once. As Pandora raised the lid of the box the cottage was suddenly darkened, for a black cloud had swept quite over the sun and seemed to have buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling and grumbling which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But Pandora heeded nothing of all this. She lifted the lid nearly upright and looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box while, at the same time, she heard the voice of Epimetheus in the doorway exclaiming as if he was in pain, "Oh, I am stung! I am stung! Naughty Pandora, why have you opened this wicked box?" Pandora let fall the lid and looked up to see what had befallen Epimetheus. The thundercloud had so darkened the room that she could not clearly see what was in it. But she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies or giant bees were darting about. And as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, looking very spiteful, and having bats' wings and terribly long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had strung Epimetheus. Nor was it a great while after before Pandora herself began to cry. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her very deeply if Epimetheus had not run and brushed it away. Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things were that made their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions. There were a great many species of Cares. There were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows. There were Diseases in a vast number of strange and painful shapes. There were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any kind of use to talk about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box given to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been faithful to their trust all would have gone well with them. No grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment. But it was impossible that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in their own little cottage. Pandora flung open the windows and doors to try and get rid of them and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles and so pestered and tormented the people everywhere about that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterward. And the children of the earth, who before had seemed ageless, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women, and then old folks, before they dreamed of such a thing. Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora and Epimetheus remained in their cottage. Both of them had been painfully stung. Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back to Pandora. As for poor little Pandora, she flung herself upon the floor and rested her head on the fatal box. She was crying as if her heart would break. Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid. "What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head. But Epimetheus was too much out of humor to answer her. Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand. "Who are you?" asked Pandora, "who are you inside of this dreadful box?" A sweet little voice came from within saying, "Only lift the lid and you shall see." "No, no," answered Pandora, "I have had enough of lifting the lid. You need never think that I shall be so foolish as to let you out." "Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails. They have no relation to me as you would soon find out if you would only lift the lid." Indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone that made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked. Pandora's heart had grown lighter at every word that came from the box. Epimetheus, too, had left his corner and seemed to be in better spirits. "Epimetheus!" exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to lift the lid." "And as the lid seems very heavy," said Epimetheus, running across the room, "I will help you." So, with one consent, the two children lifted the lid. Out flew a sunny and smiling little personage and hovered about the room, throwing light wherever she went. Have you ever made the sunshine dance into dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking glass? Well, so appeared the winged cheerfulness of this fairylike stranger amid the gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus and laid the least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him and immediately the pain of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the forehead and her hurt was cured likewise. "Who are you, beautiful creature?" asked Pandora. "I am to be called Hope," explained the sunshiny figure, "and because I am such a cheerful person, I was packed by the gods into the box to make amends for the swarm of ugly Troubles. Never fear! We shall do pretty well in spite of them." "Your wings are colored like the rainbow," exclaimed Pandora, "How beautiful!" "And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?" "As long as you need me," said Hope, "and that will be as long as you live in the world. I promise never to desert you." So Pandora and Epimetheus found Hope, and so has everybody else who has trusted her since that day. The Troubles are still flying around the world, but we have that lovely and lightsome fairy, Hope, to cure their stings and make the world new for us. FOOTNOTE: [1] By permission of and special arrangement with the Houghton Mifflin Co. WHAT BECAME OF THE GIANTS The giants had decided to invade Mount Olympus. They thought they could easily do this, for there were none of the gods who could hurt them; the giants were proof against all their weapons. They believed that this wonderful place among the clouds was theirs by right just because they were larger and stronger than the heroes. If the gods refused to give up their abode with its palaces, the gilded car of day, its stores of food such as had never been tasted by mortals and its weapons, the thunder and lightning, the giants were going to destroy the Mount. That would have been a pity, for with Mount Olympus would go some of the most beautiful foundations the world has ever known. There was one of the gods, Apollo, who held the light of the whole universe in his right hand. It was not only that of the sun, but the light that shone in the hearts of the Greeks and made life brighter when they had wisdom, and knew truth, and could appreciate beauty. There was no question at all about this light being Apollo's and coming as a gift to men from Mount Olympus, because of his great deeds. There was a deep cavern on the green hillside of Parnassus in Greece where a goat herd, passing by its mouth in ancient times, had inhaled a strange fragrance that had made him able to speak with the knowledge of a seer. Apollo decided to preserve this cave. The city of Delphi grew around it and Apollo sent a priestess crowned with laurel to be its oracle and welcome those mortals who wanted to breathe its magic air. But a monster of darkness, the Python, placed itself in front of the oracle and allowed no man to approach Delphi. Apollo, with his shaft of light, drove away the Python and made it possible for any one who wanted better eyesight or keener hearing or more truthful speech to come to the oracle. That was not all, either, that Apollo had accomplished for the good of men. He protected the Muses, who were the daughters of Jupiter and Memory and could do all sorts of things to make happiness. They could sing, and draw music from the strings of the lire, write stories and poems, and paint pictures. It was said, also, that the laurel tree belonged to Apollo for making wreaths with which to crown those who had done great deeds or made dark paths bright. But the giants could see little value in Apollo's light. They thought mainly of how to wrest riches and nectar and ambrosia from the gods, and they decided to try and kill Apollo and the Muses first of all. Thessaly had the wildest forests and the most rocky coasts of any part of Greece. It was a fitting place for the giants to meet, and it must have been a terrible sight when they landed and formed their ranks for battle. They say that Tityus, one of their leaders, covered nine acres when he lay down for a nap on a plain. Certain others had a hundred arms, limbs made of huge serpents and could breathe fire. The worst part about this race of giants was the fact that their hearts were different from those of the celestials and the mortals. They had hearts made of solid stone which could never beat and feel warm. That was why the giants made preparations to climb up the steep sides of Mount Olympus. No one in all Greece dared to try and stop this war of the giants. They pulled up the mountain Ossa and balanced it on top of Pelion to bridge the way from the earth to the sky. They armed themselves by tearing up great oak and cypress trees for clubs and carrying rocks as large as small hills with them. Then the giants climbed up and attacked the habitation of the gods. It seemed as if the giants were going to win, for even the gods were frightened and made haste to change their forms. The mighty Jupiter took upon himself the figure of a ram. Apollo became a crow, Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish and Mercury a bird. But Mars, the god of war, got out his chariot and went to meet the giants, and the others returned at last, for there was really no courage like theirs. The battle was still with the giants, though, for no weapons could kill them. Mars threw his spears and they rebounded from the stone hearts of the giants. No one knew what would happen, for certain of the giants went down to the earth again and brought up hills with which to crush the habitations of the gods, but just then a great idea came to Apollo. He believed that there were unseen forces which were quite as powerful as the giants' trees and rocks and hills in deciding this battle. So Apollo sent Mercury, the messenger with winged shoes, post haste with a secret message to Helios who lived in the palace of the sun commanding him to close and lock the doors. There was no light for the giants to fight by and they were well known to be hulking, awkward creatures, very clumsy about using their hands and feet. They needed the light. They had even made attempts to steal the summer from mortals that they might have more sunshine themselves and they had succeeded in a way, for winter came upon the earth every year with its cold and shorter days. But the giants had neglected to bring any sunshine with them and it was suddenly as dark as night on Mount Olympus. The giants fumbled about and stumbled and fell upon their own weapons. Taking advantage of this temporary rout, Jupiter sent a sky full of thunderbolts into their midst and they tumbled back to earth again. It was odd, but Apollo, whom the giants had thought so unessential because he protected knowledge and the oracle of Delphi and the tender Muses, had conquered with his own special weapon, light. The giants were not particularly hurt by their fall; they were only driven out of the habitation of the gods and they began taking counsel together at once as to how they might begin their war all over again. But they suddenly discovered that they had nothing to eat. In their absence, Ceres had cut down and uprooted from the earth the herbs that they needed to keep them alive and preserve their strength. Then, to make sure that their destruction would be complete, Jupiter covered each giant with a volcano. Each was imprisoned fast underneath a mountain, and all he could do was to breathe through the top once in a while in a fiery way. That was the end of the giants. For a while they did some damage, particularly the giant Enceladus whom it took the whole of the volcano Aetna to cover and keep down. But gradually even the volcanoes became quiet and there was more peace upon the earth. Mortals, for all time, though, have followed the example of the giants and have tried to use their strength in battle for pillage. They have destroyed beautiful buildings and put out home fires and interfered with teaching and music and painting and writing, because they could not see the light shining in these. But what usually happens to them in the end is just what happened to the giants who started out to destroy Mount Olympus. They find that they have pulled a volcano down over their shoulders. HOW VULCAN MADE THE BEST OF THINGS No one wanted Vulcan at Olympus because he was a cripple. His mother, Juno, was ashamed of him, and his father, the great Jupiter, had the same kind of feeling, that it was a disgrace to have a son who was misshapen and must always limp as he took his way among the other straight limbed gods. But Vulcan had a desire to be of service to his fellows. There was once an assemblage of the gods at which they were to discuss important matters of heaven and earth, and Vulcan offered his help as cup bearer for the company. He made a droll figure hobbling from seat to seat with the great golden cup, and some of the gods laughed at him. At last they threw Vulcan out of the skies and he fell for an entire day, so far was it from Olympus to the earth. Near sunset he found himself lying on the ground beside a smoking mountain, bruised and more handicapped than he had ever been before. He had fallen to the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea. It was a bare, unbeautiful place, for the coast was set thick with volcanoes that poured forth burning metal at intervals from one year's end to another. The Sintians, who were the only inhabitants of the island of Lemnos, had scant means of subsistence because the land was unfertile and few ships dared anchor at their shores under the rain of fire from the volcano that might destroy them. These people of Lemnos were a kind, simple folk, though, and they had a great pity for Vulcan. They gathered about him and bound up his wounds with healing herbs. They shared their scanty store of fruit with him, and they hastened to prepare him a tent. But when the Sintians returned to the foot of the mountain Mosychlos where they had left Vulcan he was gone. "We dreamed of this visitor from the gods," they decided. "It was only a falling star that we watched, dropped from the zenith." Seasons passed and at last it was noticed that the fiery Mosychlos was only smoking. It no longer threatened the lives of the inhabitants of Lemnos with its red hot torrents. The same fact was to be noted about the other volcanoes; they seemed more like the smoking, sooty chimneys of our factories of to-day than the towers of death they had been before. And above the sound of the surf and the wailing of the wind there could be heard a new sound, the steady beating of a hammer on metal as a smith strikes his ringing blows from morning until night. The bolder of the people of Lemnos went to the foot of the mountain and discovered, to their amazement, that the rock opened like a door. They went inside, following the sound of the hammer. In the very depths of the mountain they saw a sight that had never been seen on earth before. There was a dark smithy in the heart of the burning mountain with a forge fire in which the power of the volcano burned, a great forge upon which Vulcan was shaping metal into things of dazzling beauty, and all about the smithy were the materials for making more; white steel, glowing copper, shining silver, and burnished brass and gold. A strange company of apprentices, the Cyclopes, served Vulcan here. They had once been shepherds, but their peaceful occupation had been taken away from them because they had neglected to pay tribute to Apollo. Each had but a single eye, placed in the middle of the forehead, but they were using their great strength in the smithy of Vulcan to forge thunderbolts for Jupiter, to make a trident for Neptune and a quiver of arrows for Apollo. Beside Vulcan stood two wonderful hand-maidens of gold, who, like living creatures, moved about and helped the lame smith as he worked. Vulcan, the despised of the gods, had chained fire and conquered the metals of the earth that he might make gifts for the gods and for the heroes. Wonderful objects appeared at the doorway of Vulcan's shop and were carried to Mount Olympus. He shaped golden shoes, wearing which, the celestials were able to walk upon land or sea, and travel faster than thought flies. He made gold chairs and tables which could move without hands in and out of the halls of the gods. The celestial steeds were brought to Vulcan at Lemnos and he shod them so cleverly with brass that they were able to whirl the chariots of the gods through the air or on the waters with all the speed of the wind. He was even shaping brass columns for the houses of the gods. Vulcan had become the architect, smith, armorer, chariot-builder and the artist of all the work in Mount Olympus. He was accomplishing more than this. Because he had captured fire and made the metals of the earth serve the ends of peace, the island of Lemnos became a safe, fertile land. Vineyards were planted and yielded rich harvests, flocks fed in green meadows, and Vulcan forged tools with which agriculture could be carried on. Ships from the other islands of Greece sailed to Lemnos and commerce, the strength of a nation, began. In those days there was a great war being waged between the Trojans and the Greeks, and many hearts beat with hope at the prowess of a young Greek hero, Achilles. Hector, at the head of the Trojans, had stormed the Greek camp and set fire to many of their ships. A captain of the Greeks begged Achilles to lend him his armor that he might lead the soldiers against the forces of Troy. "They may think me, in your mail, the brave Achilles," he said, "and pause from fighting, and the warlike sons of Greece, tired as they are, may breathe once more and gain a respite from the conflict." So Achilles loaned this captain, Patroclus, his radiant armor and his chariot, and marshalled his men to follow into the field. At first the assault was successful, but there came a change of fortune. Patroclus' chariot driver was killed; then he met Hector in single combat, at the same time receiving a spear thrust at the back. So Patroclus fell, mortally wounded, and it was a great sorrow as well as a tragedy for Greece, for Patroclus had been Achilles' beloved friend, and Hector stole the armor of Achilles from his body. News of the defeat went even to Mount Olympus and Jupiter covered all the heavens with a black cloud. But Thetis, the mother of Achilles, hastened to the smithy of Vulcan and told him that her son was in sore straits, having no suit of mail. She found the lame artisan of the gods at his forge, sweating and toiling, and with busy hands plying the bellows. But Vulcan laid by his work at once to weld a splendid suit of armor for Achilles. There was, first of all, a shield decorated with the insignia of war; then a helmet crested with gold and a corselet and greaves of metal so tempered that no dart could penetrate them. The task was done in a night and Thetis carried the armor to her son and laid it at his feet at dawn of the next day. No man before had ever worn such sumptuous armor. Arrayed in Vulcan's mail Achilles went forth to battle, and the bravest of the Trojan warriors fled before him or fell under his spear. Achilles, his armor flashing lightning, and he, himself, as terrible as Mars, pursued the entire army as far as the gates of Troy. His triumph would have been complete, but he had an enemy among the company of the gods on Mount Olympus. No arrow shot by the hand of man could have hurt Achilles, but Apollo's shaft wounded him mortally. Apollo and Mars were then, and will be for all time, enemies; light and music and song have no sympathy with war. And Achilles, having been taken from the battle-fields of earth by a dart which Apollo directed, was carried to Olympus along a bright pathway through the skies. On his way he stopped at the palace of the sun. It was reared on stately columns that glittered with gold and precious stones. The ceilings were of ivory, polished and carved, and all the doors were of silver. There were pictures on the walls that surpassed in their lines and colors the work of artists upon the earth. The whole world, the sea and the skies with their inhabitants were pictured. Nymphs played in the sea, rode on the backs of fishes or sat on the rocks and dried their long hair. The earth was lovely with its forests and rivers and valleys. There was a picture of Spring crowned with flowers. Summer wore a garland made of the heads of ripe, golden grain. Autumn carried his arms full of grapes, and Winter wore a mantle of bright ice and snow. Seeing this beauty, the hero forgot his wound. Achilles had been obliged to leave his armor on the earth, an inheritance for other brave heroes who were to take his place in the siege of Troy, but Apollo had shown him the greatest work of Vulcan. It was the crippled one of the gods who had built this palace of the sun. HOW ORION FOUND HIS SIGHT Neptune, the burly old god of the sea, had a son named Orion who was almost as fond of the woods as he was of the ocean. From the time when Orion was old enough to catch a sea horse and ride on its back to shore he was gone from his home in the depths of the sea for days at a time. When Neptune blew his conch-shell to call the runaway home, Orion would return regretfully with the tales of the bear he had seen in the forest or the comb of wild honey he had found in an old oak tree. Neptune wanted Orion to be happy, so he bestowed upon him at last the power of wading as far and in as deep water as he liked. No one had ever been able to wade right through the fathomless ocean before, but Orion could be seen any day, his dark head showing above the surface of the waters, and his feet paddling beneath without touching the bottom. He was not obliged to depend any more upon his father's chariot or the dolphins or the sea horses to carry him to shore. So Orion began to spend a good deal of his time on land, and as he grew up to be a youth he became a mighty hunter. His arrows seemed to have been charmed by Diana, so swift and sure they were. And every day Orion bagged great spoils of game and deer. He was making his way through the forest one day with a mighty bear that he had just slain over his shoulder when he came suddenly upon a clearing and in its midst there stood a fair white castle, its towers reaching above the pine trees toward the sky. It was surrounded by a great wall, and when Orion approached and asked the gatekeeper why it was so fortified, he was told that the king of that country who lived in it was in constant terror, day and night, of wild beasts. "He would give half of his kingdom to whoever could rid the forest of its ravening beasts," the gatekeeper told Orion. As Orion listened, he glanced up at a window of one of the castle towers and there he saw the face of the king's daughter, Merope, looking down at him. Hers was a bright face, the blue eyes and smiling lips framed in her hair which fell in a golden shower and wrapped her about like a cloak. Orion delighted in the thought that Merope was smiling at him, although her eyes were really looking beyond this uncouth son of the sea and as far as the shores of Corinth where the heroes set sail for their adventures. "Would the king, by any chance, do you think, give his daughter, Merope, to that hunter who rids the forest of wild beasts?" Orion asked. The gatekeeper looked at Orion's shaggy hair, his bare feet and his mantle, made of a lion's skin. He turned away to conceal a smile as he answered. "One could ask the king," he said. Orion returned to the deep places where the night was made terrible by the crying of those beasts of prey that hunted for men, and Neptune did not see his son for many moons. Orion shot lions and wrestled single-handed with bears. He strangled great snakes with his own brawny hands and he hunted the wolf and the tiger with his spear. When the forest was rid of the pest of these man-eating creatures, Orion returned to the castle in the clearing, not waiting even to wash the gore of his mighty hunting from his hands and garments, and he presented himself to the king. "The forest is free of wild beasts that kill, O King," Orion said. "You may tear down your ramparts and walk in safety among the trees. As my reward for the great deed I have done, I ask the hand of your daughter, Merope. I would take her home with me to my palace of coral and shell in Neptune's kingdom. And if you refuse her to me, I will take her by force." The king was speechless at first. Then, when he realized the boon that this son of the sea was asking, he seemed to have no words with which to express his scorn. He raised his sceptre in anger and struck Orion's eyes. "Begone from my court, boaster," he commanded. Orion rose from his place where he had been kneeling at the foot of the king's throne and he put his hands to his eyes, for the room seemed suddenly as dark as night. He tried to find the door but he stumbled, groping for it, until the attendants of the court had to take his hands and lead him outside. They mocked at him as they pushed him through the palace gate and watched this mighty hunter, who had the strength of the sea in his limbs, stagger down the road like a blind beggar. Orion was now sightless. The king, for his presumption in asking for Merope, had struck him blind. Without sun by day or moon by night, Orion wandered up and down the earth, asking of whoever he met the way he must take to find the light again. Once he came to a spot in the woods where he heard the sound of many soft footsteps dancing on the moss to the sound of merry piping. Orion stretched out his arms as he felt his way nearer to the Hamadryads, those gay creatures of the forest who played all day long with Pan and his tunes for company. "Can you, by any chance, direct me to Apollo who drives the chariot of the sun?" Orion asked. "Oh, no," the Hamadryads answered, scattering at the sight of the blind wayfarer. "We seldom see Apollo, for he doesn't like the music Pan plays on his pipes." So Orion stumbled on, and he heard in the course of his wanderings the clash and din of battle as two armies met in mortal combat on the edge of a city. War chariots crashed by him, and he heard the din of shield striking shield, and the groans of those heroes who fell wounded to death. "These fighters must know the way to take to the light," Orion thought and, sheltering himself from the combat beside a column that still stood, he cried out to one of the warriors, "Have you seen Apollo, driving the chariot of the sun, pass this way lately?" "No," the man replied. "Apollo avoids the battle field. We cannot direct you to the god of light." So Orion wandered on in his darkness until he came at last to the island of Lemnos and as he stumbled along a rocky road the sharp ringing of hammers beating on metal came to his ears. "There must be a smithy close by," Orion thought, "a place as black and ugly as the world my blindness makes for me. I have heard tales of the Cyclopes, with only one eye apiece, who spend all their lives under the mountains shaping thunderbolts at their forges. Their master is the ill-shaped Vulcan, the despised of the gods. There is little use in my following the sound of a hammer." But, against his will, Orion kept on. There was a call in the ringing of the hammer that drew him on faster than the merrymaking of Pan had, or the sound of battle. Before long the heat of the forge fire touching his face told Orion that he had reached the doorway of Vulcan's smithy at the foot of the mountain, and he asked again, "Can you tell me the way to Apollo, who drives the chariot of the sun?" How surprised he was to hear Vulcan reply, "Apollo is here. We are sending some forgings of gold to his palace and he will take you with him to the sun, blind Orion." That was a thrilling ride for Orion, away from the darkness he had walked in so long on the earth, and up along the road of stars that led to the sun. Apollo drove the chariot himself, and when they came to the stately gold columns that guarded the entrance to his palace, he told Orion to look straight at the blazing light of the sun. As he looked, Orion's blindness passed. He opened his eyes and could see again. The myths say that Orion never left the sky after that. The gods changed him into a giant, with a wide hunting belt, a sword, a lion's-skin mantle and a club made all of stars. And they even brought Sirius, his faithful hunting dog, to follow his master forever through the heavens. THE WONDERS VENUS WROUGHT Of all the many strange things that happened in the days of the old gods and goddesses, the most wonderful of all came to pass one spring morning near the island of Cyprus. One expects all kinds of surprises in spring, new leaves and flowers on bare branches, the nesting and singing of the wild birds and brighter sunshine than in months before, but this wonder of Greece was quite unexplainable. To this day no one seems to have been able to account for it or understand it. There was hardly a breeze to stir the blue sea and the waters lay like a turquoise mirror, smooth and still. Suddenly the fishermen who were casting their nets on the shore saw a bright, rose colored cloud that trembled and then began to drop lower toward the sea until it floated lightly on the surface of the water. It was so soft and ethereal that it seemed as if a breath would blow it away, but it rose and fell like mist and seemed to almost breathe. No one spoke, watching the wonder, and suddenly the cloud began to take form and shape. It really breathed, and it blossomed into the most beautiful woman who had ever been seen on earth or on Mount Olympus either. Her hair was as bright as sunlight and her face glowed with warm color like that of the rosy cloud from which she had come. Her flowing garments were as soft and lovely as the tinted sky at sunrise, and she stretched out her slender white arms toward the shore. At once the four Zephyrs of the west who had not been anywhere about before came and surrounded this beauteous being, and with their help she glided toward the island of Cyprus. The four Seasons descended from Mount Olympus to meet her there, as the people of Cyprus watched and wondered at the marvel. "Can it be possible that this heavenly being has come to remain with us?" they asked each other. And even as they wondered the second strange thing happened. Vulcan, the smith of Mount Olympus, had a shop on Cyprus. Here his anvil could be heard ringing every day from sunrise until sunset, for Vulcan was shaping and fitting together the parts of a gold throne for Jupiter. He was making other things with his skilful hands, weapons and armor for the gods and the heroes, and thunderbolts for Jupiter. He was a lonely smith, very much handicapped by his lameness, and seldom went about much unless it was to take his finished work home to Mount Olympus. But this is what happened that long ago morning in spring. With amazing grace this lovely person who had been born in the foam of the sea made her way to the abode of Vulcan. She was the goddess of love, Venus, who is sometimes called Aphrodite. She had come to be the wife of Vulcan who was, in spite of his lameness, the god of fire. Things were very different on the earth after the coming of Venus. The whole world had been looking for her and hoping for her coming although they had not really known this desire of their hearts. And one of the first matters that the goddess of love attended to was that of the wilful Atalanta who had caused so much sorrow among the heroes of Greece. Atalanta was a princess, too boyish for a girl and too girlish for a boy. Many of the heroes had claimed her hand in marriage but she liked her own free, wild ways too much to give them up for spinning and the household arts. To any prince or hero who asked for her hand Atalanta made the same reply, "I will be the prize of him who shall conquer me in a race; but death shall be the penalty of all who try and fail!" It was a cruel decree. How Atalanta could run! There had never been a boy even who was able to beat her in a race. The breezes seemed to give her wings, her bright hair blew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her dress fluttered behind her. But as Atalanta raced, the ruddy hue of her skin seemed to fade and she became as white as marble, for her heart grew cold. All her suitors were outdistanced and they were put to death without mercy. Then Hippomenes came and decided to risk his life in a race with Atalanta. He was a brave, bold youth and although he had been obliged to act as judge and condemn many of his friends whom Atalanta had defeated to death, he wanted to run. And he asked Venus to help him in the race. In Venus' garden in her own island of Cyprus there was a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. Aphrodite gathered three golden apples from the tree and gave them, unseen, to Hippomenes, telling him how to use them. The signal was given and Atalanta darted forward along the sand of the shore near Venus' temple with Hippomenes at her side. Hippomenes was a swift runner, with a tread so light that it seemed as if he might skim the water or a field of waving grain without leaving a foot print. At first he gained. Then he felt the beat of Atalanta's breath on his shoulder, and the goal was not yet in sight. At that moment Hippomenes threw down one of the golden apples. Atalanta was so surprised that she stopped a second. She stooped and picked up the apple and as she did so Hippomenes shot on ahead. But Atalanta redoubled her speed and soon overtook him. Again he threw down a golden apple. Atalanta could not bear to leave it, and she again stopped and picked it up. Then she ran on again. Hippomenes was almost to the goal but Atalanta reached and passed him. In a minute she would have won, but Hippomenes dropped the third golden apple. It glittered and shone so that Atalanta could not resist it. A third time she hesitated and as she did so Hippomenes won the race. The two were very happy, Hippomenes in his success and Atalanta in her precious fruit. She at once wanted a house in which to keep it, and when Hippomenes built her one Atalanta began to spin and weave and take great pride in making her home beautiful and comfortable. Venus had been quite sure that this would happen. She had known that it would be better for Atalanta to forget her cruel races, so she gave her these golden apples to show her the prizes love brings. The goddess of love had other work to do on earth. She was particularly fond of her garden in Cyprus and she busied herself for a long time tending and coaxing a new bush to live and blossom. It was different from any shoot that had been seen there before, tough, and dry, and covered with sharp thorns that pricked whoever touched them and drew blood like spear points. But Venus handled and trimmed the stalks without fear until the bush spread and sent out branches that stretched up and covered the wall of her temple like a vine. It was noticed that the new shoots and leaves pushed their way up from underneath some of the thorns, which dried up at once and dropped off. Then flower buds appeared where there had been sharp thorns which opened, when summer decked Cyprus, into the loveliest blossoms the earth had ever seen. Their fragrance filled the island and their color was like that of the cloud from which Aphrodite had come. It was the rose, Venus' own flower, and destined to be always the most loved flower of earth. Venus watched over everything that was beautiful on earth. That is why she was sorry that Pygmalion, the King of Greece, was so hardhearted. Pygmalion was a sculptor as well as a king, and so skilled with clay and marble that he was able to mould likenesses of the beings of Mount Olympus, even. But he closed his heart to men and he felt that there was no woman living who was worthy to share his kingdom. One spring Pygmalion decided to make a statue of ivory, and when it was finished it was so exquisite that there had never before been seen such beauty save that of Venus. Pygmalion was proud of his work and as he admired it Venus put a better feeling into his heart. Pygmalion laid his hand upon his statue to see if it were living or not. He began to wish that it was not ivory, and he named it Galatea. Pygmalion gave Galatea the presents that a young girl of Greece loved, bright shells and polished stones, birds in golden cages, flowers of many colors, beads, and amber. He dressed her in silk and put jewels on her fingers and a necklace about her neck. She wore ear rings and many strings of pearls. When he had done all this Venus rewarded him. Pygmalion, returning to his home one day, touched his statue and the ivory felt soft and yielded to his fingers as if it had been wax. Its pallor changed to the color of life, and Galatea opened her eyes and smiled at Pygmalion. After that all Cyprus was changed for this king who had been selfish and hardhearted. He was able to hear the silvery song of his fountain that he had never noticed before. He began to love the forests, and flowers, and people, for Venus had given him Galatea to share his kingdom. Venus and Vulcan began to spend about as much time with the gods as they did on the earth, for Mount Olympus was their real home. Venus carried her roses there to deck her hand-maidens, the Graces, who presided over the banquets, the dances, and the arts of the gods. She was watchful of mortals, though, for she knew that they would always have need of her. WHERE THE LABYRINTH LED Daedalous stood in the shadows at the entrance of the Labyrinth and watched one of the heroes enter the dark passageway. It was a strange, secret edifice that Daedalous, an artist of the gods, had built with his mighty skill. Numberless winding passageways and turnings opened one into the other in a confusing maze that seemed to have no beginning or end. There was a river in Greece, the Maeander, that had never been traced to its source, for it flowed forward and backward, always returning and Daedalous had planned the Labyrinth like the course of the river Maeander. There was hardly anything that Daedalous was not able to do with his hands, for he had been given great gifts by the gods. But he liked trickery more than honesty and had spent years and used his clever brain in inventing this maze. As he peered into the dark alleys of the Labyrinth he saw the hero disappear. He would never return, Daedalous knew, for no one yet had ever been able to retrace his steps through its turnings. Like many secret things, the Labyrinth caught and destroyed even the brave. It was a pity that anything so dreadful should have happened on such a day as that. The olive trees of Crete were in full leaf, and Daedalous could hear a nightingale singing in the forest nearby. He was deaf to the music of birds, though, for he was listening for another sound. It was May of the year, and the day when Athens sent a tribute of seven of the strongest lads and seven of the fairest daughters of Greece to be driven into the the Labyrinth, a tribute to King Minos of Crete. The Minotaur, a raging beast half man and half bull, waited in its secret passageways to devour them. Daedalous had built the Labyrinth and confined the Minotaur in it to commend himself to King Minos. The sound he listened for was the crying of these youths and maidens on their way to the sacrifice. The road was strangely quiet, although Daedalous could see the white garments of the children as they made their way toward him through the aisles of flowering trees. Their eyes were bright with courage, and a youth who was taller and older than the others led them. Daedalous trembled and hid behind a bank of moss as he saw him. All Greece was beginning to talk of this youth, Theseus, the son of the King of Athens. He had but lately come to Athens, having lived with his grandfather at Troezen, and had astounded the populace with his prowess. The boys in the streets had ridiculed him a bit at first because of the long Ionian garment that he wore and his long hair. They called him a girl and told him that he should not be out alone in public. Hearing this ridicule, Theseus had unyoked a loaded wagon that stood near by and had thrown it lightly up into the air to the marvel of all who saw him. Next, Theseus had overpowered some fifty giants who hoped to overthrow the government of Athens and set up their own rule of pillage and terror in the city. Then Theseus had, by his extraordinary strength, captured a furious bull that was destroying the fields of grain outside the city, and had brought it captive into Athens. Daedalous did not know, however, of this last adventure which Theseus had taken upon himself. The Athenians were in deep affliction when he had come to the court of Athens, for it was the time of the year when its sons and daughters must be sent for the annual offering to King Minos. Theseus resolved to try and save his countrymen from this too great sacrifice and had offered himself as one of the victims to leave for Crete. His father, King Aegeus, was loath to have him go. He was growing old, and Theseus was his hope for the throne of Athens. But the day of the tribute came, seven girls and six boys were drawn by lot, and they set sail with Theseus in a ship that departed under black sails. When they arrived at Crete, the victims were exhibited before King Minos, and Theseus saw Ariadne, his daughter, seated at the foot of his throne. Ariadne was so beautiful that we may still see her crown of gems in the sky, a starry circle above the constellation of Hercules who kneels at her feet. She was also as good as she was beautiful, and a great pity filled her heart when she saw Theseus and these young people of Athens so soon to perish in the Labyrinth. She wanted to save them all to be the glory of Athens when they grew up, so she gave Theseus a sword for his encounter with the Minotaur and a coil of slender white thread. Daedalous, from his hiding place, saw these and wondered as Theseus approached the Labyrinth and fearlessly entered. As he followed the crooked, twisting passages, Theseus unwound his white skein and left the thread behind him. He went on boldly until he reached the devouring beast in the center of the Labyrinth and slew it easily with Ariadne's keen blade. Then Theseus retraced his steps, following the thread, as he found his way out of the Labyrinth and into the light again. Daedalous was seized with an overpowering fear, for the artifice of his work had been discovered. There would be no more sacrifices of the heroes and the children of Greece to the Minotaur. The crooked ways of the Labyrinth had been made plain by Theseus' white thread of truth. King Minos was most angry of all with Daedalous at this failure of the maze. He imprisoned Daedalous and his son, Icarus, whom Daedalous loved more than anything else in the world, in a high tower in Crete. When they escaped, he set guards along the entire shores of the island and had all ships searched so that the two might not leave by sea. Icarus had great faith in his father and entreated him to find some way by which they might elude the guards and begin their life anew on some other island. So Daedalous forgot his lesson of the Labyrinth and set about making wings for himself and Icarus. The wings were as false as the maze had been crooked. Daedalous set the boy to gathering all the feathers he could find that the sea birds and the birds of the forest had dropped. Icarus brought his hands full of these; he was very proud of his father and had always longed to be old enough to help him in his work. He sat beside his father in the shelter of a cedar grove, sorting the larger from the smaller feathers, and bringing wax that the bees had left in the hollow trees. Daedalous wrought the feathers together with his skilful fingers, beginning with the smallest ones and adding the longer to imitate the sweep of a bird's wings. He sewed the large feathers with thread and fastened the others with wax until he had completed two pairs of wings. He fastened them to his own shoulders and to those of Icarus, and they ran to the shore, buoyed upwards and feeling the power of birds as they made ready for their flight. Icarus was as joyous as the nightingale that spreads his wings to carry his song as far as the sky. But Daedalous was again terrified at the work of his hands. He warned the boy: "Fly along the middle track, my Icarus," he said, "not high or low. If you fly low, the ocean spray will weight your wings, and the sun may hurt you with his fiery dart if you fly too far. Keep near me." Then Daedalous kissed his boy, rose on his wings and flew off beckoning for Icarus to follow. As they soared away from Crete, the ploughmen stopped their work and the shepherds forgot their flocks as they watched the strange sight. Daedalous and his son seemed like two gods chasing the air above the blue sea. Together they flew by Samos and Delos, on the way to Sicily, a long distance. Then Icarus, exulting in his wings, began to rise and leave the lower course along which his father had been guiding him. He had wanted, all his life, to see the city of the gods on Mount Olympus and now his chance had come to reach it. Icarus was sure that his wings were strong enough to carry him as far as he had a desire to fly, because his father whom he had trusted had made them for him. Up, up toward the heavens Icarus mounted, but the coolness of the waters changed to blazing heat, for Icarus was near the sun. The heat softened the wax that held the feathers together and Icarus' wings came off. He stretched his arms wide, but there was nothing to hold him in mid air. "Icarus, my Icarus, where are you?" Daedalous cried, but all he could see was a ripple in the ocean where his son had fallen and the bright, scattered plumage floating on the surface. That was the real end of the Labyrinth, where the daughters of the sea, the Nereids, took Icarus in their arms and carried him tenderly down among their gardens of pearly sea flowers. For Daedalous had to fly on alone to Sicily, and although he built a temple to Apollo there and hung his wings in it as an offering to the god he never saw his son again. HOW PERSEUS CONQUERED THE SEA A heavy storm raged at sea. The billows, as tall and stronger than ships, rolled from the cave on the coast of Greece where Medusa, the Gorgon, ruled and directed them. She drove them out in an endless line of destruction to crush any frail craft that braved the waters, send the sailors to the bottom and leave only broken oars and spars to be washed up on the rocks outside her stony dwelling place. As the sea arose and the winds shrieked, a ship far out from the land could be seen, riding on the crest of the waves and coming closer to the shore. Then its form changed and the fishermen who had dared the weather saw that it was a chest made of carved cedar wood and having hinges of chased gold. It would be almost submerged one minute and then it would appear again, floating bravely on the surf. At last it was tossed upon the rocks, and the fishermen ran to salvage the treasure that some ruthless destroyer had cast out for Medusa to capture if she could. When they reached the chest the fishermen saw a young mother inside it clasping her baby son closely in her arms. It had held a human treasure abandoned to the Gorgon's cruel powers of the sea. They conducted her to their King, Polydectes, of Seriphus, and she told him her story. "I am Danae, the princess of Argos," she said, "but my father, King Acrisius, is afraid of the powers that this little son of mine may develop in manhood. He caused us to be shut up in a frail chest and set adrift among the waves. I pray your protection, O King, for my son, who is strong and of noble birth, until he is able to dare great deeds and reward you for your kindness." No one could have resisted the pleading of Danae, so lovely and holding her baby in her arms. She remained in Seriphus and her son, Perseus, grew to a boy and then to a fearless, daring young hero. All this time Medusa was working sorrow on land and sea. She had once been a beautiful maiden of the coast of Greece, but she had quarreled with Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, and for this act the gods had changed her into a Gorgon. Her long, curling hair was now a mass of clustering, venomous serpents that twined about her white shoulders and crawled down to her feet where they twisted themselves around her ankles. No one could describe the terrible features of Medusa, but whoever looked in her face was turned from a living thing to a creature of stone. All around the cave where she lived could be seen the stony figures of animals and men who had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified in an instant. Above all, Medusa held the ruthlessness of the sea in her power. Those captains who had cruel hearts abandoned their enemies to the waters and she crushed them with her billows. So it seemed to Perseus that his first adventure on coming to manhood must be the conquest of Medusa, the snaky haired Gorgon, and the gods approved of his decision and met in counsel on Mount Olympus to decide how they should help the young hero. "I will lend Perseus my shield for his adventure," Minerva, the wisest goddess of them all, said. "And I will lend Perseus my winged shoes," Mercury, the god of speed, decided, "to help him hasten on his brave errand." Even Pluto, the king of the dark regions beneath the earth, heard of Perseus' determination and sent him his magic helmet by means of which any one was able to become invisible. Perseus was well equipped when he started out. He wore Pluto's helmet and Mercury's shoes, and travelled to the lonely cave of the Gorgon without being seen and as fast as a dart of fire sent by Jupiter. Medusa paced the halls of her cave endlessly, moaning and crying in her despair, for she was never able to escape those crawling, slimy snakes which covered her head and body. Perseus waited until she was so weary that she sank down on the stones of the cave and slept. Then, taking care not to look at her hideous face but only following her image that was reflected in his shield, Perseus cut off Medusa's head and carried it away in triumph. Then the people who travelled the sea in ships were saved from her cruelty, and her power for evil was changed in Perseus' hands to a power for good. Carrying the head of Medusa high, the hero flew in the winged shoes far and wide over land and sea until he came at last to the western limit of the earth where the sun goes down. That was the realm of Atlas, one of the giants who was rich in herds and flocks and allowed no one to share his wealth or even enter his estates. Atlas' chief pride was his orchard whose fruits were all of gold, hung on golden branches and folded from sight by golden leaves. Perseus had no ambition to take this golden harvest. "I stop in your domain only as a guest," he explained to the giant, "I am of noble birth, having sprung from the gods, and I have just accomplished the brave deed of destroying the terror Medusa wrought on the sea. I ask only rest and food of you." But Atlas could think of nothing but his greed for his gold apples. "Be gone, boaster!" he cried, "or I will crush you like a worm beneath my heel. Neither your parentage or your valor shall avail you anything." Perseus did not attempt to meet the force of the giant's greater strength, but he held up the head of the Gorgon full in his face. Then the massive bulk of Atlas was slowly but surely turned to stone. His iron muscles, his brawny limbs, his huge body and head increased in size and petrified until he towered above Perseus, a mighty mountain. His beard and hair became forests, his arm and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones rocks. For all the rest of the centuries Atlas was to stand there holding the sky with its weight of stars on his shoulders. Perseus continued his flight and he came to the country of the Ethiopians. The sea was as ruthless here as it had been when Medusa ruled the billows in her cave on the coast of Greece. As Perseus approached the coast he saw a terrible sight. A sea monster was lashing the waves to fury and coming closer and closer to the shore. And a beautiful girl was chained to the rocks, waiting to be devoured by this dragon. She hung there, so pale and motionless that if it had not been for her tears that flowed in a long stream down the rocks, and her bright hair that the breezes from the sea blew about her like a cloud, Perseus would have thought her a marble statue carved and placed there on the rocks. Perseus alighted beside her, startled at her horrible plight, and entranced with her beauty. "Why are you fastened here in such danger?" he asked. The girl did not speak at first, trying to cover her face, but her hands were also chained. At last she explained to Perseus. "I am Andromeda, the princess of Ethiopia," she said, "and I must be a sacrifice to the sea because my mother, Queen Cassiopeia, has enraged the sea by comparing her beauty to that of the nymphs. I am offered here to appease the deities. Look, the monster comes!" she ended in a shriek. Almost before she had finished speaking, a hissing sound could be heard on the surface of the water and the sea monster appeared with his head above the surf and cleaving the waves with his broad breast. The shore filled with people who loved Andromeda and shrieked their lamentations at the tragedy which was about to take place. The sea monster was in range of a cliff at last and Perseus, with a sudden bound of his winged feet, rose in the air. He soared above the waters like an eagle and darted down upon this dragon of the sea. He plunged his sword into its shoulder, but the creature was only pricked by the thrust and lashed the sea into such a fury that Perseus could scarcely see to attack him. But as he caught sight of the dragon through the mist of spray, Perseus pierced it between its scales, now in the side, then in the flank, and then in the head. At last the monster spurted blood from its nostrils. Perseus alighted on a rock beside Andromeda and gave it a death stroke. And the people who had gathered on the shore shouted with joy until the hills re-echoed their glad cries. Like the prince of a fairy tale, Perseus asked for the fair Andromeda as his bride to reward him for this last victory over the sea, and his wish was granted. It seemed as if his tempestuous adventures were going to reach a peaceful ending as he took his bride. There was a banquet spread for the wedding feast in the palace of Andromeda's father and all was joy and festivity when there came a sound of warlike clamor from outside the gates. Phineas, a warrior of Ethiopia, who had loved Andromeda, but had not had the courage to rescue her from the terror of the sea, had arrived with his train to take her away from Perseus. "You should have claimed her when she was chained to the rock," Perseus said. "You are a coward to attack us here with so overpowering an army." Phineas made no reply but raised his javelin to hurl it at Perseus. The hero had a sudden thought to save him from destruction. "Let my friends all depart, or turn away their eyes," he said, and he held aloft the hideous snaky head of the Gorgon. His enemy's arm that held the javelin stiffened so that he could neither thrust it forward nor pull it back. His limbs became rigid, his mouth opened but no sound came from it. He and all his followers were turned to stone. So Perseus was able to claim Andromeda as his bride after all, and they both had a great desire after a while to go to Argos and visit Perseus' old grandfather, the king of that country who had been so afraid of a baby that he had sent his grandson drifting across the sea in a chest. "I want to show him that he has nothing to fear from me," Perseus said. It happened that they found the old king in a sad plight. He had been driven from the throne and was a prisoner of state. But Perseus slew the usurper and restored his grandfather to his rightful place. In time, Perseus took the throne and his reign in Argos was so wise and kind that the gods at last made a place for him and beautiful Andromeda among the stars. You may see them on any clear night in the constellation of Cassiopeia. PEGASUS, THE HORSE WHO COULD FLY A very strange thing happened when Perseus so heroically cut off the head of Medusa, the Gorgon. On the spot where the blood dripped into the earth from Perseus' sword there arose a slender limbed, wonderful horse with wings on his shoulders. This horse was known as Pegasus, and there was never, before or since, so marvellous a creature. At that time, a young hero, Bellerophon by name, made a journey from his own country to the court of King Iobates of Lycia. He brought two sealed messages in a kind of letter of introduction from the husband of this king's daughter, one of Bellerophon's own countrymen. The first message read, "The bearer, Bellerophon, is an unconquerable hero. I pray you welcome him with all hospitality." The second was this, "I would advise you to put Bellerophon to death." The truth of the matter was that the son-in-law of King Iobates was jealous of Bellerophon and really desired to have him put out of the way in order to satisfy his own ambitions. The King of Lycia was at heart a friendly person and he was very much puzzled to know how to act upon the advice in the letter introducing Bellerophon. He was still puzzling over the matter when a dreadful monster, known as the Chimaera, descended upon the kingdom. It was a beast far beyond any of mortal kind in terror. It had a goat's rough body and the tail of a dragon. The head was that of a lion with wide spreading nostrils which breathed flames and a gaping throat that emitted poisonous breath whose touch was death. As the subjects of King Iobates appealed to him for protection from the Chimaera a sudden thought came to him. He decided to send the heroic stranger, Bellerophon, to meet and conquer the beast. The hero had expected a period of rest at the court of Lycia. He had looked forward to a feast that might possibly be given in his honor and a chance to show his skill in throwing the discus and driving a chariot at the court games. But the day after Bellerophon arrived at the palace of King Iobates, he was sent out to hunt down and kill the Chimaera. He had not the slightest idea where he was to go, and neither had he any plan for destroying the creature, but he decided that it would be a good plan to spend the night in the temple of Minerva before he met the danger face to face. Minerva was the goddess of wisdom and might give him help in his hopeless adventure. So Bellerophon journeyed to Athens, the chosen city of Minerva, and tarried for a night in her temple there, so weary that he fell asleep in the midst of his supplications to the goddess. But when he awoke in the morning, he found a golden bridle in his hands, and he heard a voice directing him to hasten with it to a well outside of the city. [Illustration: "Bellerophon took the golden reins firmly in his hand."] Pegasus, the winged horse, had been pasturing meanwhile in the meadows of the Muses. There were nine of these Muses, all sisters and all presiding over the arts of song and of memory. One took care of poets and another of those who wrote history. There was a Muse of the dance, of comedy, of astronomy, and in fact of whatever made life more worth while in the sight of the gods. They needed a kind of dream horse like Pegasus with wings to carry them on his back to Mount Olympus whenever they wanted to return from the earth. Bellerophon had never known of the existence even of Pegasus, but when he reached the well to which the oracle had directed him, there stood Pegasus, or, rather, this horse of the Muses poised there, for his wings buoyed him so that his hoofs could scarcely remain upon the earth. When Pegasus saw the golden bridle that the goddess of Wisdom had given Bellerophon, he came directly up to the hero and stood quietly to be harnessed. A dark shadow crossed the sky just then; the dreaded Chimaera hovered over Bellerophon's head, its fiery jaws raining sparks down upon him. Bellerophon mounted upon Pegasus and took the golden reins firmly in one hand as he brandished his sword in the other. He rose swiftly in the air and met the ravening creature in a fierce battle in the clouds. Not for an instant did the winged horse falter, and Bellerophon killed the Chimaera easily. It was a great relief to the people of Lycia, and indeed to people of all time. You may have heard of a Chimaera. It means nowadays any kind of terror that is not nearly so hard to conquer as it seemed in the beginning when people were afraid of it. This story ought to end with the hero returning his winged steed to the Muses and entering the kingdom of Lycia in great triumph, but something very different happened. Bellerophon decided to keep Pegasus, and he rode him so long and so hard that he grew very full of pride and presumption in his success. One day Bellerophon made up his mind to drive Pegasus to the gates of the gods in the sky which was too great an ambition for a mortal who had received no invitation as yet from the dwellers on Mount Olympus. Jupiter saw this rider of the skies mounting higher and higher and he became very angry with him. He sent a gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw Bellerophon to the earth. He was always lame and blind after that. It really had not been the fault of Pegasus at all. He was only the steed of those who followed dreams, even if he did have wings. When his rider fell, Pegasus fell too, and he landed unhurt but a long distance from his old pastures. He did not know in which direction they lay or how to find the road that led back to his friends, the Muses. Pegasus' wings seemed to be of no use to him. He roamed from one end of the country to the other, driven from one field to the next by the rustics who mistook him for some sort of a dragon because of his wings. He grew old and lost his fleetness. It even seemed to him that his wings were nothing but a dragging weight and that he would never be able to use them again. Finally the same thing happened to Pegasus that happens to old horses to-day that have enjoyed a wonderful youth as racers. He was sold to a farmer and fastened to a plough. Pegasus was not used to this heavy work of the soil; his strength was better suited to climbing through the air than plodding along the surface of the earth. He used all the strength he could put forth in pulling the plough, but his wings dragged and were in the way and his master beat his aching back with an ox whip. That might have been the end of this winged horse, but one day good fortune came to him. There was a youth passing by who was beloved of the Muses. He was so poor that he had often no other shelter than the woods and hedges afforded, or any food save wild fruits and the herbs of the field. But this youth could put the beauties of the earth, its hills and valleys, its temples, flowers, and the desires and loves of its people into words that sang together as the notes of a lute sang. He was a young poet. The poet felt a great compassion for the horse he saw in the field, bent low under the blows of his clownish master, and with wings dragging and tattered. "Let me try to drive your horse," he begged, crossing the field and mounting upon Pegasus' back. It was suddenly as if one of the gods were riding Pegasus. He lifted his head high, and his heavy feet left the clods of earth. His wings straightened and spread wide. Carrying the youth, Pegasus arose through the air as the country people gathered from all the neighboring farms to watch the wonder, a winged horse with a flowing golden mane rising and then hidden within the clouds that opened upon Mount Olympus. HOW MARS LOST A BATTLE Terminus was the god of boundaries, and a kind of picnic was being held in his honor one day in the long-ago myth time on the edge of a little Roman town. No one had ever really seen Terminus but every farmer who owned a few acres of land, and the men who governed the cities were quite sure as to how he looked. It was likely that he wore such garb as did Pan, they had decided, and carried instruments for measuring similar to those that a surveyor uses to-day. His chariot was loaded with large stones and finely chiselled posts for marking the limits of a man's farm, or that of a town. There were no fences in those days, but the gods had appointed Terminus to protect land holders and to safeguard citizens by keeping all boundaries sacred from invasion by an enemy. No wonder the Terminalia, as they called this holiday, was a joyous time. All through the neighboring vineyards and fields and on the edge of the village stones had been placed to mark the boundaries, and there were stone pillars, also, having carved heads to make them beautiful. Everyone who came to the picnic brought an offering for the god Terminus, a wreath of bright roses, a garland of green laurel, or a basket of grapes and pomegranates which they placed on one of these boundary stones or posts. The law of the gods that prevented invasion was the greatest blessing these people had, for it made them free to till the earth and build homes and keep their hearth fires burning. Suddenly the merrymaking was interrupted. The children who had been gathering wild flowers ran, crying, to their fathers and mothers, for the sky was darkened in an instant as if a hurricane was approaching. The young men who had been playing games and the maidens who had been dancing huddled together in frightened groups, for they saw between rifts in the clouds the tracks of dark chariot wheels making their swift way down to earth from the sky. And the older folk, who knew the meaning of the rumblings and dull roar and occasional darts of fire that parted the clouds, shuddered. "See who stands in our midst in his black cloak, scattering hoar frost that blights the fields and freezes us!" they exclaimed. "It is Dread, the courier of Mars, the god of war, who is approaching in his chariot." There came dreadful sounds soon that almost drowned the voices of the people, the crashing of swords and shields, and the cries of women and little children as a chariot plunged through their midst, its wheels dripping with blood. It was driven by two other attendants of war, Alarm and Terror, the face of one as dark as a thunder cloud, and the other with a countenance as pale as death. "What shall we do; we are unarmed and will perish?" one man cried. And another answered him. "Look to yourself and your own safety. Why did you leave your sword at home, and what care is it of mine that you have no means of protecting yourself?" Strange words for a noble people to speak to one another in a time of such need, were they not? But it was not the heart or the soul speech of these Romans. The two other attendants of war, Fear and Discord in tarnished armor, had appeared in their midst and had put these thoughts into the minds of the men. "Mars comes!" they said then, and the air grew dense and suffocating with smoke, only pierced at intervals by fiery arrows. Thunderbolts forged by the black, one-eyed Cyclopes in their workshops under the volcanoes fell all about, tearing up the earth and bursting in thousands of burning pieces. Through this slaughter and carnage rode the mailed Mars, one of the gods of war. His steeds were hot and bleeding, and his own eyes shone like fire in his dark, cruel face, for Mars had no pity and took pleasure in war for the sake of itself. It was never the purpose but always the battle that gave him pleasure. With his attendants he sat on a throne that was stained with blood, and the worship that delighted his ears like music was the crash of strife and the cries of those who were sorely wounded. Mars' palace on Mount Olympus was a most terrible place. Fancy a grim old stronghold built for strength only, without a chink or a crack for letting in Apollo's cheerful sunlight, and never visited by the happy Muses or by Orpheus with his sweet toned lute, or by jolly old Momus, the god of laughter. The palace was guarded, night and day, by a huge hound and a vulture, both of them the constant visitants of battle fields. Mars sat on his throne, waited upon by a company of sad prisoners of war, and holding forever the insignia of his office, a spear and a flaming torch. Why had he left his abode and descended upon the peaceful merrymaking of the Terminalia? Mars was a very ruthless kind of god. In fact he was so cruel and thoughtless that the family of the gods was rather sorry that Jupiter had appointed him to so important a position, and they decided at last to have two war-gods. But who the other one was and what happened when this second chariot of war crashed down through the clouds is another story that you shall hear presently. The reason for Mars riding out with those frightful friends of his, Dread, Alarm, Fear, and Discord, was that he had not the slightest respect for Terminus, the god of boundaries. He had decided to knock down his stones and shatter his pillars. Everyone, from the days of the myths down to the present time, has believed in a fair fight. It is about the greatest adventure a man can have, that of using all his strength and giving up his life perhaps in a battle to right a wrong or protect a defenseless people. But fancy this old fight of Mars when he rode down in the chariot that the gods had given him upon a people who were without arms and with the purpose of violating their boundaries. With a rumble like that of all the thunder storms in the world rolled into one and a crashing like the sound of a thousand spears, Mars touched the earth and rode across Terminus' carefully laid out boundary lines and destroyed them. The wheels of his chariot ground the stones Terminus had so honestly placed to powder, and the beautifully carved pillars were shattered, and the pieces buried in the dust. The shouts of Mars and his followers drowned all the peaceful melody of earth, the singing of birds, the laughter of the children, and the pleasant sounds of spinning and mowing and grinding. It was indeed a most dreadful invasion and for a while it seemed as if it was going to end in nothing but destruction of the people and the industry on the earth which the gods loved and had helped. But in an instant something happened. There was a roar as if wild beasts of the forests for miles around had been captured, and the earth trembled as it did when the giants were thrown out of the home of the gods, for Mars had fallen and was crying about it. He had thought himself invulnerable, but whether an arrow from some unseen hero had hit him or whether his steeds had stumbled over one of Terminus' boundary posts, the invincible Mars lay prostrate on the field he had himself invaded, and before he could pick himself up, something else happened. It was really rather amusing, for Mars was not hurt. He was only taught a much needed lesson. Just beyond the lines of Terminus which Mars had violated there lived two giant planters, Otus and Ephialtes, whose father had been a planter also and his father before him. They had been much too busy to attend the Terminalia picnic. In fact they almost never took a holiday, but toiled from sunrise to sunset on their farm which supplied the nearby market with fruits and bread stuffs. Otus and Ephialtes were very much surprised to hear the thundering crash that Mars made when he tumbled down; and they dropped their tools and ran to see what was the matter. It is said that the fallen Mars covered seven acres of ground, but the two giants started at once picking him up and he began to shrink then like a rubber balloon when the air leaks out of it. "What shall we do with this troublemaker?" Otus asked his brother. "We must put him where he will not interfere with our work or the other work of the earth for a while at least," Ephialtes said as they tugged Mars, still roaring, home. "That's a good idea," Otus agreed. "We will shut him up." And so they crammed the troublesome Mars into a great bronze vase and took turns sitting on the cover so that he was not able, by any chance, to get out for thirteen months. That gave everyone an opportunity to plant and gather another harvest, and to place Terminus' boundary stones again. These giant planters would have liked to keep this god of war bottled up in the vase for all the rest of time, but he was one of the family of the Olympians and so this was not possible. In time he was allowed to drive home and both the Greek and the Roman people tried to make the best of him, not as a protecting deity, but as the god of strength and brawn. The Greeks named a hill for him near Athens, and here was held a court of justice for the right decision of cases involving life and death. That put Mars to work in a very different way. And the Romans gave him a great field for military manoeuvres and martial games. We would call it a training camp to-day. There, in Mars Field, chariot races were held twice a year and there were competitions in riding, in discus and spear throwing, and in shooting arrows at a mark. Once in five years the able-bodied young men of Rome came to Mars Field to enlist for the army, and no Roman general started out to war without first swinging a sacred shield and spear which hung there and saying, "Watch over me, O Mars." For Mars could put muscle into a man's arm, and the heroes themselves were learning to choose the good fight. HOW MINERVA BUILT A CITY The sea that broke in surf on the shore of Attica became suddenly as smooth as a floor of crystal. Over it, as if he had leaped from the caverns of rock in its depths, dashed Neptune, the god of the sea, his trident held high, his horses' golden manes flowing in the wind, and their bronze hoofs scarcely touching the water as they galloped toward the shore. At the same moment a war-like goddess appeared on the edge of the land. She was as tall and straight and strong as Mars, but her armor shone like gold while his was often tarnished. She held the storm shield of her father, Jupiter and carried a dart of lightning for her spear. Minerva, the other god of war, she was, as fearful and powerful as a storm, but also as gentle and peaceful as the warmth of the sky when it shines down on the fields when the storm is over. "Why have Neptune and Minerva met?" the fishermen and sailors who crowded the beach asked. "They have come together for a contest to see which shall have the honor of building a City," some of the wise men told them, and then these Greeks drew aside and waited to see what would happen, for with them was to rest the judgment in the matter. Neptune drove his chariot up onto the land, dismounted, and blew a mighty blast on his trumpet to call the nymphs of the waters and the spirits of the winds to his aid. Then he ascended to a barren rock that lifted its head above the surrounding hills, bleak and without a single blade of grass to soften it. The Greeks watched Neptune breathlessly as he stood on its top, a mighty figure in his cloak of dripping seaweed and the white of sea salt in his flowing, dark green hair. He raised his trident, struck the rocks with it, and the age-old stone cracked in a deep fissure. Out of the crack in the rock burst a spring of water where there had been not a drop through all the centuries before. "Neptune wins! None of the gods can excel this feat of bringing water out of bare rock," the cry went up from the people. But Minerva ascended now to this rock of the Acropolis and took her place beside Neptune. She, also, touched the barren stone with her spear that was forged and tempered by the gods. And as she did so, a marvel resulted to her honor as well. The green shoot of a tree suddenly appeared, pushing its way up through the hard stone. The shoot grew tall and broadened to form a trunk and branches, and then covered itself with gray-green leaves that made a pleasant shade from the brilliancy of the sun. Last, this wonder tree was hung on every branch with a strange new fruit, green balls of delicious flavor and full of oil that was healthful and healing and needed by the whole world. The Greeks broke their ranks and gathered about the tree to taste and enjoy the fruit. "Minerva wins!" they shouted. "Neptune's spring here in the Acropolis is like the sea, brackish in flavor, but Minerva has given Greece the olive tree." That is just what had happened. Minerva had given the people something that they really needed, and the fair city of Athens was raised and awarded to this goddess of war as the prize of her kindness to the people. But Neptune proved himself a very poor loser. He was a blustering, boastful old god, used from the days of his father Oceanus, when the waters were first separated from the land, to having his own way. He had wanted to own Athens himself, to be able to go and come in it whenever he liked, and it was particularly humiliating that he must give it up to a goddess. Neptune stormed down to the shore, blew another blast on his trumpet, and called all the deities of the sea and of tempests to come to his aid and destroy the city. What an army they made as they obeyed his summons! Triton, a son of Neptune, led the hosts and sounded the horn of battle as they approached the land, and all around him flew the Harpies, those birds as large as men with crooked claws and a hunger for human flesh. There were sea serpents that could crush a man with a single coil, and Boreas, the North Wind, drove the regiment of the high tides up on the coast. With these powers of the sea came a mighty rushing of water, and it seemed as if neither Athens or its people would be able to survive this arising of the sea. But Minerva, the goddess of righteous, defensive war was there and on the side of the Greeks. She presided over battles, but only to lead on to victory and through victory to peace and prosperity. Few could withstand the straight glance of Minerva's eyes, valiant, conquering and terrifying, or the sight of her gloriously emblazoned shield. As the powers of Neptune advanced, Minerva raised her shield, and the tides rested and the waters receded. Then she drove the forces of Neptune back at the point of her spear, and Athens was saved. You will remember that the gods were very much like men in wanting particular kinds of gifts which would be their very own, and which they could treasure. Jupiter had a special fondness for thunderbolts and kept piles of them behind his throne. Apollo treasured his lyre, and Mercury his shoes and his cap. Venus never travelled without a jewelled girdle which she thought added to her beauty, but Minerva had always wanted a city. Now her wish had come true, for she had a very large and beautiful one, the fair Athens. People began coming to Athens from all parts of Greece and from neighboring countries as well, because Minerva spent so much time there tending and spreading the olive orchards, and keeping the city free from invasion. Neptune had left a horse near the hill of the Acropolis when he had to retreat, and Minerva invented a harness for it and broke it to the bit and bridle with her own hands in the market square of Athens. Having horses for ploughing and carrying loads of lumber and stone and grain helped the prosperity of Athens and brought it wealth. And when the people were at peace, Minerva laid aside her armor and crossed the thresholds of the houses, teaching the women to spin, and weave, and extract the precious oil from her olives. Everyone was growing very prosperous and very rich. It seemed that the olive tree had brought all this wealth, for it had spread throughout Attica and plenty followed wherever it bore fruit. Not far from Athens lay the kingdom of the Persians who were invincible in battle, having devoted themselves for many years to the arts of warfare. Through their interest in their own affairs the Athenians forgot about their warlike neighbors, until one fateful day when a runner breathlessly told them that the hosts of the Persian army waited at the boundaries of their cities. Such confusion and terror as ensued! The Athenians were not ready for war. They consulted an oracle as to how to meet the Persian host and the oracle replied, "Trust to your citadel of wood!" The wise men of Athens quite misunderstood this advice and went busily to work erecting wooden fortifications around the hill of the Acropolis where Minerva's first olive tree stood as if it were guarding their prosperity. The oracle had meant for the Athenians to trust to their fleet and try to prevent the Persian army from entering along the coast, and by the time the wooden wall was built, the Persians had begun to fire Athens. Minerva, with her flaming spear raised and her eyes filled with tears, went to her father, Jupiter, to beg for the safety of her city. She kneeled at the foot of his throne to make her plea, and it must have been hard indeed for Jupiter to refuse his favorite daughter as he looked down at Minerva, prostrate before him in her shining suit of mail. But the king of the gods told Minerva something about her city which even he was powerless to change. "Athens, in her prosperity, has forgotten the gods," Jupiter said. "She lives and works for herself and not for others. She must perish in order that a better and nobler city may rise from her ruins." So Minerva was obliged to watch from the clouds as fire and sword consumed Athens and the smoke of the flaming city rose like incense to the seats of the gods. When there seemed to be nothing left except the stones which had been the foundation of Athens' beauty, and those of her heroes who had not perished had been obliged to take to the sea, Minerva descended to her hill, the Acropolis. She wanted to see if the roots, at least, of her olive tree had been spared, and she found a wonder. As a sign that she had not forsaken Athens, even in ruins, Jupiter had allowed the roots of her tree to remain, and from them there sprang a new green shoot. With wonderful quickness it grew to a height of three yards in the barren waste that was all the Persians had left, a sign that Athens was not dead, but would live and arise a new, fairer city. Minerva held her bright shield above her golden helmet and hastened to the sea coast, calling together the heroes to man the ships and set sail against the fleet of the enemy. The Persian fleet greatly outnumbered that of the Greeks, but at last it was driven off with terrible rout and those of the Persians who were left on land were destroyed. The war was won for the Greeks through Minerva's help, but Jupiter's prophecy had been fulfilled. The old Athens was gone, and it was necessary to build a new city. That was just the kind of undertaking that Minerva liked, to win a defensive war and then build so as to destroy all traces of it. She and the Greeks, with the help of all the other gods, went to work to make Athens such a city as had not been dreamed of before. Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, restored the waste fields and orchards so that the olive grew again and plenty came once more. Minerva busied herself encouraging the women to do more beautiful handwork than before the war, and she taught them how to feed and tend little children so that they might grow up strong and well and be the glory of Greece. Large numbers of horses were trained and harnessed to war chariots. Apollo sent sunshine and music to the city, and the builders erected beautiful marble temples and statues and pillars and fountains. The Athenians began doing things together, which always helps to make a city great and strong. There were parades of the soldiers and the athletes on the holidays, and public games and banquets and drills were held. The best holiday of all was Minerva's own. First, there was a procession in which a new robe for the goddess, woven and embroidered by the most skilful women and girls of Athens, was carried through the city on a wagon built in the form of a ship, the robe spread like a sail on the front. It was like a great float in a parade. All Athens followed the wagon, the young of the nobility on horseback or in chariots, the soldiers fully armed, and the trades people and farmers with their wives and daughters in their best clothes. The new robe was intended for the statue of Minerva that stood in the Parthenon in Athens. They named her Pallas Athene at last, the guardian of their beloved city. Then came games in which the athletes took part, and the most sought for prize was a large earthenware vase on one side of which there was painted a figure of Minerva striding forward as if she was hurling her spear, and having a column on each side of her to indicate a race-course. On the other side of the vase was a picture of the game in which it was won, and it was filled to brimming with pure olive oil from Minerva's tree. For the Greeks had learned that war is sometimes necessary, but Minerva would heal their wounds with the oil of her sacred tree and the new Athens was to be known always as one of the most perfect cities of the ages. CADMUS, THE ALPHABET KING There are many ways of building a city, and this is how Cadmus, in the days of the myths, built Thebes, the beautiful. Cadmus was but a youth when he began his wanderings which took him from shore to shore of the earth, for he was descended from Neptune, the god of the sea, and had been born with the spirit of the restless tides in his heart. But Cadmus had a longing to search out and make for himself a home on land where he could gather the heroes about him and make temples and a market place and set up fair statues. So he consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what country he should settle in, and a voice issued from that strange, deep cleft in the rock at Delphi saying that he would find a cow in a field, and should pursue her wherever she wandered. Where she stopped Cadmus also should stop and build a city which he was to call Thebes. As soon as Cadmus left the cave of the oracle, he was surprised to see a white cow wearing a garland of flowers about her neck and cropping in the grass nearby. She raised her head when Cadmus appeared, and walked slowly before him. So he followed her, and she went on until she came to a wide plain in the fertile land of Egypt. Here she stood still and lifted her broad forehead to the sky, filling the air with her lowings. Cadmus stooped down and lifted a handful of the foreign soil to his lips, kissing it, and looking with delight at the beauties of the blue hills which surrounded this spot to which Apollo had guided him. He felt that he ought to offer his thanks to Jupiter, and so he went to a nearby fountain to draw some pure water to bathe his hands before he lifted them up to the sky. The fountain spouted, as clear as crystal, from a cave covered with a thick growth of bushes and situated in an ancient grove that had never been profaned by an axe. Cadmus pushed his way into it, and when he was inside the cave it seemed as if he had left the world behind, so dark was it, with the shadows of the boughs and thick leaves. Cadmus dipped a vase which his servants had brought him in the waters of the fountain, and was about to raise it, brimming full, when it suddenly dropped from his hands, the blood left his cheeks, and his limbs trembled. A venomous serpent whose eyes shone like fire and who showed triple fangs and triple teeth raised its head from the waters with a terrible hiss. Its crested head and scales glittered like burnished bronze; it twisted its body in a huge coil and then raised itself, ready to strike, to a height that over-topped the trees of the grove. And while Cadmus' servants stood still, unable to move for their fright, the serpent killed them all, some with its poisonous fangs, some with its foaming breath, and others in its choking folds. There was only Cadmus left, and at last he crept out of the cave, screening his body behind the bushes, and made ready to take his stand against the serpent. He covered himself from head to foot with a lion's skin. In one hand he carried a javelin and in the other a lance, but in his heart Cadmus carried courage which was a stronger weapon than either of these. Then he faced the serpent, standing in the midst of his fallen men and looking into its bloody jaws as he lifted a huge stone and threw it straight. It struck the serpent's scales and penetrated to its heart. The creature's neck swelled with rage, the panting breath that issued from its nostrils poisoned the air. Then it twisted itself in a circle and fell to the ground where it lay like the shattered trunk of a tree. Cadmus, watching for his chance, went boldly up to the monster and thrust his spear into its head, fastening it to the tree beneath which it had fallen. The serpent's weight bent and twisted the tree as it struggled to free itself, but at last Cadmus saw it give up the fight and hang there, quiet in death. Then a marvellous thing happened. As Cadmus stood, looking at his fallen foe, a voice came to him which he could hear distinctly, although he was not able to know from whence it came, and it said, "It is decreed, O Cadmus, that you shall take out the teeth of this dragon and plant them in the plain upon which you are to found the city of Thebes." So Cadmus obeyed the command. He pulled out the serpent's triple row of sharply pointed teeth. He made a furrow and planted them in it, and scarcely had he covered them with earth than the clods raised themselves. As happened in the days when Jason had traveled all the long way in search of the fleece of gold, the ground where the dragon's teeth had taken root was pierced by the metal points of helmets and spears. After these sprouting signs of war came the heads and breasts of an army of warriors until the entire plain was bright with their shields and the air smoked and resounded with the din of fearful fighting. Cadmus was only one against the terrible ranks of all these earth-born brothers of his, but he made ready to do his best and encounter this new enemy. As he advanced, however, he heard the unknown voice again, "Meddle not with civil war, Cadmus," it said. But Cadmus' spirit was fired with his high desire to build a city which would be a place of peace and industry, and he knew that civil strife was the destruction of such a city. So he entered the battle, single handed, and smote one of these, his fighting brothers, with a sword, but fell, pierced in his side by an arrow. He was up and advancing again as soon as he staunched the flow of blood, killing four of the warriors. In the meantime the warriors seemed to become mad with the spirit of warfare and killed each other until the whole crowd was pitted against one another. At last all of the warriors fell, mortally wounded, except five. These five survivors threw aside their weapons and cried, as with one voice, "Brothers, let us live in peace." And they joined with Cadmus in laying the foundations of a great city which they called Thebes. They measured and laid out roads, making them hard and strong for the wheels of heavy chariots which would bear kings to and from the city. They built houses whose decorations of carvings and precious metals were not to be equalled in all Greece, and they filled them with rare furnishings, and they painted pictures of the contests of the gods on the walls, and shaped golden plates and cups for the tables. They set up a strong citadel at the boundary line of the city to protect it from invasion, and Cadmus built factories for making tools and furniture and household utensils so as to draw traders to the city and increase its prosperity through commerce. And there were seven gates to Thebes, in honor of the seven strings of Apollo's lyre from which he drew the sweet strains that brought harmony to the earth. When Thebes was finished, it seemed as if it had no rival among the cities of the earth, it was so good to look upon, so full of industry, and peace, and plenty. But Cadmus had yet one gift more to make to Thebes. For a long time he worked secretly, carving with a sharp pointed tool upon a stone tablet. One day he brought forth the result of his work. Cadmus had invented the alphabet; he had given the power of learning through reading and writing to his people. That made his city complete, for a people who are through with civil strife, and able to work and be educated can be as great as the gods if they will it so. They became great and they made Cadmus the king of Thebes for a rule that was long and just and good. THE PICTURE MINERVA WOVE Arachne, the wonderful girl weaver of Greece, took a roll of white wool in her skilled hands and separated it into long white strands. Then she carded it until it was as soft and light as a cloud. She was at work out of doors in a green forest and her loom was set up under an old oak tree with the sunlight shining down between the leaves to brighten the pattern that she set up on it. In and out her shuttle flew without stopping until she had woven at last a fair piece of fabric. Then Arachne threaded a needle with wool dyed in rainbow colors. She had all the colors of this long arch, that the sunbeams shining through raindrops make, to use in her work. "What design will the clever Arachne embroider on her tapestry to-day?" one of the Nymphs of the forest who had clustered about her to watch her work asked. Then all the Nymphs, looking like a part of the forest in their soft green garments, crowded close as Arachne began to embroider a picture. The grass seemed to grow in it beneath her needle, and the flowers bloomed just as they always bloom in the spring. [Illustration: "What design will Arachne embroider to-day?" asked one of the nymphs.] "You weave and sew as if the great Minerva herself had taught you her arts," a Nymph said timidly to Arachne. The girl's face flushed with anger. It was true that the goddess Minerva who presided over the arts that women need to know, spinning, weaving and needlework, had taught Arachne her skill, but the girl was vain and always denied it. "My skill is my own," she replied. "Let Minerva try to compete with me and if she is able to finish a rarer piece of work than mine, I am willing to pay any penalty." It was a thoughtless, daring boast which Arachne had made. As she spoke the leaves of the trees fluttered, for the Nymphs, frightened at a mortal's presumption, were moving away from Arachne. She looked up and in their place saw an old dame standing beside her. "Challenge your fellow mortals, my child," she said, "but do not try to compete with a goddess. You ought to ask Minerva's forgiveness for your rash words." Arachne tossed her head in disdain. "Keep your counsel," she replied, "for your hand-maidens. I know what I say and I mean it. I am not afraid of the goddess. I repeat it; let Minerva try her skill with mine if she dare venture." "She comes!" said the old dame, dropping her disguise and appearing before Arachne in the shining silver mail of the goddess Minerva. Arachne grew pale with fear at first, but her presumption overcame her fear. Her heart was full of her foolish conceit and she set a new piece of work on her loom as Minerva produced a second loom, and the contest began. They attached the web to the beam and began tossing their slender shuttles in and out of the threads. They pushed the woof up into place with their fine reeds until the fabric was compact. Then the needlework was begun. Arachne, though, had decided to work something that was forbidden by the gods. She was going to use her skill of hand and all her art for evil instead of good. She began embroidering a picture that would be displeasing to the gods, and she was able to make it seem as if it were alive, because of the figures and scenes she could outline with her needle and fill in with her colored wools. The picture Arachne embroidered was that of the fair Princess Europa tending her father's herds of cattle beside the sea. One of the bulls seemed so tame that Europa mounted his back, and he plunged into the sea with her and carried her far away from her native shores to Greece. Arachne pictured this bull as the great god Jupiter. Minerva's embroidery was of a very different pattern from this. She was the goddess of wisdom and her gift from Mount Olympus to the earth had been the beautiful olive tree that gave mortals shade, and fruit, and oil, and wood for their building. Minerva stitched the pattern of a green olive tree on the tapestry she was embroidering. Among the leaves of the olive tree Minerva embroidered a butterfly. It seemed to live and flutter in and out among the olives. One could almost touch the velvet nap that lay on its wings and the silk down which covered its back; there were its broad, outstretched horns, its gleaming eyes, its glorious colors. Minerva's workmanship was more wonderful than Arachne could ever hope to learn. As they finished she knew that she was outdone. Minerva looked at Arachne's tapestry, woven of pride and a desire for vain conquest. It could not be allowed to stand beside hers that showed the gift of life to man in the olives and such beauty as that of the butterfly. The goddess struck Arachne's tapestry with her shuttle and tore it in pieces. Arachne was suddenly filled with an understanding of how she had wasted her skill, and she longed to get away from all sight and sound of her weaving. A vine trailed down to the ground from a near by tree. Arachne twisted it about her body and tried to pull herself up by it to the tree, but Minerva would not allow this. She touched Arachne's form with the juices of aconite and at once her hair came off, and her nose and her ears as well. Her body shrank and shrivelled and her head grew smaller. Her fingers fastened themselves to her side and served for legs. She hung from the vine which changed to a long gray thread. Arachne, the skilful weaver of Greece, was changed to Arachne, the spider of the forest. Through all the centuries since then she has been spinning her fragile threads and weaving her frail webs that a breath of wind, even, can destroy. THE HERO WITH A FAIRY GODMOTHER The prince who was the hero of one of your favorite once-upon-a-time stories was quite sure to have had a fairy godmother to watch over his ways and help in bringing his adventures to success. But Hercules, the Great, of old Greece than whom we have never known a greater hero, had two fairy godmothers. They were not known by exactly that name in the days when the myths were made, but there were two very powerful goddesses who presided over Hercules' destiny, and the odd thing about it was that no one knew which of these was the more important. Hercules began life just like any other baby except that his father was the mighty Jupiter, a fact which made everyone expect a great deal of him. And just as used to happen in your old fairy tales, he had enemies because of his noble birth. One of these was the goddess, Juno. Hercules lay in his cradle one day before he was able to walk even, and he suddenly saw something that would have frightened anyone much older than he. On each side of his cradle there appeared the green, hissing head of a huge serpent, their poisonous fangs thrust out to sting this child of the gods to death. Hercules' attendants ran away in terror not daring to give fight to the vipers, but he reached out his tiny hands, gripped a serpent in each by its throat and strangled them. People began to look at Hercules in wonder after that. They watched him grow up, just like any other boy except that his limbs were stronger and his muscles harder than those of the average boy of Greece. There were still those who admired him and those who hated him, knowing that he was, really, the son of a god. So his enemies put Hercules in charge of a kind of tutor named Eurystheus who was under orders to give him the most impossible tasks to try and perform. "The lad will fail and then we shall be well rid of him," the goddess Juno, who particularly disliked Hercules, said. Hercules began life in a part of Greece that was known as the valley of Nemea. It was a place of olive orchards and fruit trees and fields of grain, but the terror of the place was the Nemean lion who lived close by in the fastness of the hills. There had never been known so huge a lion, with such wide, blood thirsty jaws. Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring him the tawny hide of this monster. "How shall I slay the Nemean lion?" Hercules asked. "With your arrows and your club," Eurystheus replied carelessly, but he knew that no arrows in all Greece could pierce the lion's skin and that Hercules' club, made of a stout young tree, would also be powerless against the beast. "Hercules will never return," the people of the valley said to each other as they watched the young hero start out boldly toward the hills. But he returned the next day, as fresh and untroubled as when he had started, with the hide of the Nemean lion slung over his shoulder. "Are yours magic arrows, and is your club charmed as well?" the youths who were Hercules' friends asked, crowding around him. "I killed the lion with my hands alone, grasping him about his throat," Hercules explained to them. Eurystheus, listening on the edge of the crowd, frowned at these words. "I must plan a greater labor for him," he thought. There was a rich and beautiful city of Greece named Argos, but a fearful monster called the Hydra infested a swamp just outside it and one never knew when it would descend upon the well that supplied the people with pure water. It had nine heads and one of these was immortal, so the rumor went. "Go to Argos and kill the Hydra," Eurystheus commanded Hercules. Hercules was ready to dare this adventure. He started out again with no other arms than he had carried before and when he came to the well of Argos which kept the country from drought, he found the Hydra stationed there. Going up to it, Hercules struck off one of its heads with his club. What was his surprise to see two heads grow in the place of this one! It was going to be a task to destroy this creature, Hercules understood, as he laid on with his club against the menacing and increasing heads, hitting right and left and with no time between his telling blows. He struck off all of the Hydra's heads at last except the undying one. Finally Hercules thought of a plan for destroying this. He wrenched it off with his mighty hands and buried it deeply underneath a rock. "Hercules shall be put to a task he will not like so well as encountering wild beasts," Eurystheus decided then. "He shall clean the Augean stables. We will see if a son of the gods has the will to accomplish that labor." This was indeed a labor with very little of the spirit of adventure in it. Old King Augeus, of Elis in Greece had a herd of three thousand cattle and their stalls in his many stables had not been cleaned for thirty years. The cattle, all of them of blooded stock, were dying off because they were not properly cared for, and there was no hero of the king's train but felt the work of cleaning the stables to be too menial for him. Hercules had no such thought as this, however. He was ready to attempt the labor; his only idea was how to accomplish it, and thoroughly. At last he had a very novel idea. There were scarcely any of the lesser gods of outdoors who had not, by this time, felt the strength of Hercules. There had been the river god who took delight in leading the waters of the streams over their banks and inundating the farms in the spring when the fields had just been planted. Hercules had wrestled with this river god and had broken off one of his horns, on account of which he had to keep the streams between their banks. Hercules made up his mind that he would take advantage of his power over the river god in his present need. So what did Hercules do but lead the courses of two streams, the Alpheus and the Peneus, right through the Augean stables cleansing them thoroughly. When he finished this labor, the result was so fine that he had quite as much reason to be proud of it as he had over his other prowess. It was as splendid to use one's strength in cleaning as in any other way, Hercules discovered. He went on from one adventure to another with the years, always successful although everyone prophesied that some day his strength would fail and he would have to give up. Eurystheus wanted a new yoke of oxen, and none would do except those who lived in the land of the setting sun, in the western part of Greece and were guarded by a giant who had three bodies. Hercules set out for the place and when he reached it he discovered that not only the giant, but a huge dog that had two heads guarded the oxen. Hercules killed the giant and his dog and drove the oxen home to Eurystheus. Victor over wild beasts and giants, and able to accomplish any work which he attempted! What labor was there left for this son of Mount Olympus? Eurystheus knew. He sent Hercules on what seemed indeed a wild goose search. He commanded him to bring back to Greece the golden apples of the Hesperides without telling him where they were to be found. They were very plump and beautiful apples made altogether of solid gold. It is said that they were the first oranges the world had ever known. However that may be the Greeks wanted them very much. Juno had received them for a wedding present from the goddess of Earth, and had hung some on a golden tree in the fair garden of the daughters of Hesperis who kept a dragon to guard them. It would have been a task to pick them even if one had known where to go for them. Hercules started out, though, without route or chart and it was the most difficult of all his adventures. He met Antaeus, a son of the Earth, who was a mighty giant and wrestler. Hercules encountered this son of the Earth and threw him countless times, but each time the giant rose from the ground with renewed strength. It was like magic, but Hercules found out at last the secret of Antaeus' strength, as you, also, will in the next story, and did battle with him. Then, on went Hercules, for the Earth could no longer stop him, and after awhile he found himself at Mount Atlas in Africa. The bent old giant, Atlas, stood on the top of this, holding up the sky on his shoulders. He was as ancient as the mountain itself and doomed by the gods to stand there through the seasons and never go home to the garden of the Hesperides where his daughters lived. "If you will but bring me the golden apples of the Hesperides, old Atlas, I will take your place on the mountain top for a space," Hercules said to the giant. "The sky is heavier than you imagine, my son," Atlas replied. "I doubt if you can bear it." "Let me but try," Hercules urged him. So Atlas shifted the burden of the heavens from his shoulders to those of Hercules and the hero held them securely. When Atlas returned, his arms full of the precious golden balls, Hercules still held the sky as if he scarcely felt its weight. Atlas wanted to have him hold it always, but Hercules was of no mind to do that. He gave back his load to Atlas and took the apples of the Hesperides home to Greece. Hercules had conquered the earth even in this last adventure, and it seemed as if there was no great deed left for this hero. But he continued using his mighty strength, even to descending to Pluto's realm of darkness and bringing back the heroic Theseus who was a prisoner there. At last even his enemies on Mount Olympus were forced to grant him a place of honor in their midst and Jupiter wrapped him in a cloud and sent a four horse chariot to bring him home along the road of the stars. When Hercules reached the Olympian Heights it is said that old Atlas bent still lower with the weight on his shoulders, for this hero had added new strength to the heavens. But how about those two goddesses, you ask, who presided like fairy godmothers over the destiny of Hercules? The ancients asked that same question, and Hercules answered it just before Jupiter called him away from Greece. One of these goddesses was named Virtue, and the other Pleasure, but it was the first whom Hercules followed all his life. [2]THE PYGMIES. A great while ago, in the days of the myths, there lived an earth-born Giant named Antaeus, and a race of little earth-born people who were called Pygmies. This Giant and these Pygmies, being children of the same Mother Earth, lived together in a very friendly way far off in the middle of hot Africa. It must have been very curious to behold the Pygmies' little cities with streets two or three feet wide paved with the smallest pebbles and bordered by habitations about as big as a squirrel's cage. If one of the Pygmies grew to the height of six or eight inches he was reckoned a prodigiously tall man and there were so many sandy deserts and high mountains between them and the rest of mankind that nobody could get a peep at them oftener than once in a hundred years. The king's palace was about as tall as a dolls' house and this and the rest of their houses were built neither of stone or wood. They were neatly plastered together by the Pygmy workmen, pretty much like birds' nests, out of straw, feathers, egg shells, and other bits of small stuff with stiff clay instead of mortar. And when the sun had dried them they were just as snug and comfortable as a Pygmy could desire. Their giant friend, Antaeus, was so very tall that he carried a pine tree for a walking stick. It took a far-sighted Pygmy to see the top of his head on a cloudy day. But at noonday, when the sun shone brightly over him, Antaeus presented a very grand spectacle. There he used to stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with his great countenance smiling down on his little brothers and his one eye, which was as big as a cart wheel and placed right in the centre of his forehead, giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at once. In spite of the difference in their size, it seemed as if Antaeus needed the Pygmies for his friend as much as they did him for the protection he was to them. No creature of his own size had ever talked with him. When he stood with his head among the clouds, he was quite alone and had been so for hundreds of years and would be forever. Even if he had met one of the other Giants, Antaeus would have fancied the earth not large enough for them both and would have fought with him. But with the Pygmies he was the most merry and sweet tempered old Giant who ever washed his face in a cloud. The Pygmies had but one thing to trouble them in the world. They were constantly at war with the cranes. From time to time very terrible battles had been fought in which sometimes the little men were victorious and sometimes the cranes. When the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward, flapping their wings, and would perhaps snatch up some of the Pygmies crosswise in their beaks. It was truly an awful spectacle to see the little men kicking and sprawling in the air and then disappearing down the crane's crooked throat, swallowed alive. If Antaeus observed that the battle was going hard with his little allies, he ran with mile-long strides to their rescue, flourishing his club and shouting at the cranes who quacked and croaked and retreated as fast as they could. One day the mighty Antaeus was lolling at full length among his friends. His head was in one part of the kingdom and his feet in another and he was taking what comfort he could while the Pygmies scrambled over him and played in his hair. Sometimes, for a minute or two, the Giant dropped to sleep and snored like the rush of a whirlwind. During one of these naps a Pygmy climbed upon his shoulder and took a view around the horizon as from the summit of a hill. Suddenly he saw something, a long way off, that made him rub his eyes and looked sharper than before. At first he mistook it for a mountain and then he saw the mountain move. As it came nearer, what should it turn out to be but a human shape, not so large as Antaeus, but an enormous figure when compared with the Pygmies. The Pygmy scampered as fast as his legs would carry him to the Giant's ear and, stooping over, shouted in it, "Brother Antaeus, get up this minute! Take your walking stick in your hand for here comes another Giant to do battle with you!" "Pooh, pooh!" grumbled Antaeus, only half awake. "None of your nonsense, my little fellow. Don't you see that I am sleepy? There is not another Giant on earth for whom I would take the trouble to get up." But the Pygmy looked again and now perceived that the stranger was coming directly toward the prostrate form of Antaeus. There he was, with the sun flaming on his golden helmet and flashing from his polished breastplate. He had a sword by his side, and a lion's skin over his back, and on his right shoulder he carried a club which looked bulkier and heavier than the pine-tree walking stick of Antaeus. By this time the whole nation of Pygmies had seen the new wonder and a million of them set up a shout all together, "Get up, Antaeus! Bestir yourself, you lazy old Giant. Here comes another Giant, as strong as you are, to fight with you." "Nonsense," growled the sleepy Giant. "I'll have my nap out, come who may." Still the stranger drew nearer, and now the Pygmies could plainly discern that, if his stature were less lofty than the Giant's, yet his shoulders were even broader. What a pair of shoulders they must have been, for they were, later, to uphold the sky! So the Pygmies kept shouting at Antaeus, and even went so far as to prick him with their swords. Antaeus sat up, gave a yawn that was several yards wide, and finally turned his stupid head in the direction in which the little people pointed. No sooner did he set eye on the stranger than, leaping to his feet and seizing his walking stick, he strode a mile or two to meet him, all the while brandishing the sturdy pine-tree so that it whistled through the air. "Who are you?" thundered the Giant, "and what do you want in my domain? Speak, you vagabond, or I'll try the thickness of your skull with my walking-stick." "You are a very discourteous Giant," answered the stranger quietly, "and I shall probably have to teach you a little civility before we part. As for my name, it is Hercules. I have come hither because this is my most convenient road to the garden of the Hesperides, where I am going to get some of the golden apples for King Eurystheus." "Then you shall go no farther!" bellowed Antaeus, for he had heard of the mighty Hercules and hated him because he was said to be so strong. "I will hit you a slight rap with this pine-tree, for I would be ashamed to kill such a puny dwarf as you appear. I will make a slave of you, and you shall likewise be the slave of my brothers here, the Pygmies. So throw down your club. As for that lion's skin you wear, I intend to have a pair of gloves made of it." "Come and take it off my shoulders then," answered Hercules, lifting his club. At that Antaeus, scowling with rage, strode, towerlike, toward the stranger and gave a mighty blow at him with his pine-tree, which Hercules caught upon his club; and, being more skilful than the Giant, he paid him back such a rap that down tumbled the poor man-mountain flat upon the ground. But no sooner was the Giant down than up he bounded, aiming another blow at Hercules. But he was blinded with his wrath and only hit his poor, innocent Mother Earth, who groaned and trembled at the stroke. His pine tree went so deep into the ground that before Antaeus could get it out, Hercules brought his club down over his shoulders with a mighty whack which made the Giant let out a terrible roar. Away it echoed, over mountains and valleys. As for the Pygmies, their capital city was laid in ruins by the vibration it made in the air. But Antaeus scrambled to his feet again and succeeded in pulling his pine-tree out of the earth. He ran at Hercules, and brought down another blow. "This time, rascal!" he shouted, "you shall not escape me." But once more Hercules warded off the stroke with his club, and the Giant's pine-tree was shattered to a thousand splinters. Before Antaeus could get out of the way, Hercules let drive again, and gave him another knock-down blow. Then, watching his opportunity as the Giant rose again, Hercules caught him round the middle with both hands, lifted him high into the air, and held him aloft. But the most wonderful thing was that, as soon as Antaeus was off the earth, he began to lose the vigor that it now appeared he had gained by touching it. Hercules soon discovered that his enemy was growing weaker, both because he kicked and struggled with less violence, and because the thunder of his big voice subsided to a grumble. The truth was that, unless the Giant touched Mother Earth as often as once in five minutes, not only his overgrown strength, but the very breath of his life would depart from him. Hercules had guessed this secret; it may be well for us all to remember it in case we should ever have to fight with a fellow like Antaeus. For these earth-born Giants are not only difficult to conquer on their own ground but may easily be managed if we can contrive to lift them into a loftier and purer region. When Antaeus' strength and breath were gone, Hercules gave his huge body a toss and flung it a mile off where it lay heavily with no more motion than a sand hill. His ponderous form may be lying in the same spot to-day, and might be mistaken for those of an uncommonly large elephant. What a wailing the poor little Pygmies set up when they saw their enormous brother treated in this terrible way! As soon as they saw Hercules preparing for a nap, they nodded their little heads at one another and winked their little eyes. And when he had closed his eyes the whole Pygmy nation set out to destroy the hero. A body of twenty thousand archers marched in front with their little bows all ready and their arrows on the string. The same number were ordered to clamber on Hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles of hay to plug up his mouth and nostrils. These last could not harm him at all, for as soon as he snored he blew out the hay and sent the Pygmies flying before the hurricane of his breath. It was found necessary to hit upon some other way of carrying on the war. After holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect sticks, straws and dry weeds and heap them around the head of Hercules. The archers, meanwhile, were stationed within bow shot with orders to let fly at Hercules the instant that he stirred. Everything being in readiness, a torch was applied to the pile which immediately burst into flames and soon waxed hot enough to roast Hercules. A Pygmy, you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire just as easily as a Giant could. But no sooner did Hercules begin to be scorched than up he started. "What's all this?" he cried, and staring about him as if he expected another Giant. At that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bow strings and the arrows came whizzing like so many mosquitoes. Hercules gazed around, for he hardly felt the arrows. At last, looking narrowly at the ground, he espied the Pygmies at his feet. He stooped down and taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set him on the palm of his left hand and looked at him. "Who in the world, my little fellow, are you?" Hercules asked. "I am your enemy," answered the Pygmy. "You have slain the Giant, Antaeus, our brother by our mother's side, and we are determined to put you to death." Hercules was so amused by the Pygmy's big words and warlike gestures that he burst into laughter and almost dropped the poor little mite of a creature off his hand. "Upon my word," he said, "I thought I had seen wonders before to-day, hydras with many heads, three headed dogs, and giants with furnaces in their stomachs, but you outdo them all. Your body, my little friend, is about the size of an ordinary man's finger. Pray, how big may your soul be?" "As big as your own," said the Pygmy. Hercules was amazed at the little man's courage, and so he left the Pygmies, one and all, in their own country, building their little houses, waging their little warfare with the cranes, and doing their little business whatever it might have been. FOOTNOTE: [2] By permission of and special arrangement with the Houghton Mifflin Co. THE HORN OF PLENTY. Dejanira was one of the most beautiful of princesses who lived in the long ago days of the Greek gods and goddesses. It seemed as if all the charm of the world in this, its myth time, was hers. Her hair was bright with the yellow of the first spring sunshine, and her eyes were as blue as the skies of spring. Summer had touched Dejanira's cheeks with the pink of rose petals, and the colors of the autumn fruits shone in her jewels, crimson and purple and gold. Her robes were as white and soft as the snows of winter, and all the music of soft winds and bird songs and rippling brooks was in this princess' voice. Because of her beauty and her goodness, which even surpassed it, princes came from all over the world to ask Dejanira's father, Aeneus, if she might go home to their kingdoms to be their queen. But to all these Aeneus replied that to none but the strongest would he give the princess. So there were many tests of these strangers' skill and strength in games and wrestling, but one by one they failed. At last there were only two left, Hercules who was strong enough to hold the sky on his broad shoulders, and Achelous, the river-god, who twisted and twined through the fields making them fertile with the brooks and the streams. Each thought himself the greater of the two, and it lay between them which by his prowess should gain the princess to be his wife. Hercules was massive of limb and of powerful strength. Beneath his shaggy eyebrows, his eyes gleamed like balls of fire. His garment was of lions' skins and his staff was a young tree. But the clever Achelous was able to slip between the huge fingers of Hercules. He was as slender and graceful as a willow tree and his garment was of the green of foliage. He wore a crown of water lilies on his fair hair, and carried a staff made of twined reeds. When Achelous spoke, his voice was like the rippling of a stream. "The Princess Dejanira shall be mine!" said Achelous. "I will make her the queen of the river lands. The music of the waters shall be always in her ears, and the plenty that follows wherever I go shall make her rich." "No!" shouted Hercules. "I am the strength of the earth. Dejanira is mine. You shall not have her." Then the river-god grew very angry. His green robe changed its color to that of the black of the sea in a storm, and his voice was as loud as that of a mountain cataract. Achelous could be almost as powerful as Hercules when he was angered. "How do you dare claim this royal maiden?" he roared, "you, who have mortal blood in your veins! I am a god and the king of the waters. Wherever I take my way over the earth grains and fruits ripen and flowers bud and bloom. The Princess Dejanira is mine by right." Hercules frowned as he advanced toward the river-god. "Your strength is only in words," he said scornfully. "My strength is in my arm. If you would win Dejanira, it must be by hand-to-hand combat." So the river-god threw off his garments and Hercules his lion's skin, and the two fought for the hand of the princess. It was a brave and valorous battle. Neither yielded; both stood their ground. Achelous slipped in and out of Hercules' mighty grasp a dozen times, but at last the hero's powerful strength was too much for this god who had to depend upon adroitness only. Hercules gripped the river-god fast by his neck and held him, panting for breath. Then Achelous resorted to the trickery that he knew. He suddenly changed his form through the magic arts he could practise to that of a long, slimy serpent. He twisted out of Hercules' grasp and darted a forked tongue out at him, showing his fangs. Hercules was not yet undone. He only laughed scornfully at the serpent and grasped the creature by the back of its neck, ready to strangle it. Achelous struggled in vain to escape and at last resorted once more to sorcery. In a second the serpent had changed its form to that of a ferocious, roaring bull. It charged upon Hercules with lowered horns. But the hero was still unvanquished. He seized hold of the bull's horns, bent its head, gripped its brawny neck and threw it, burying its horns in the ground. Then he broke off one of the horns with his iron strong hand and held it up in the air shouting, "Victory! Dejanira is mine!" Achelous returned to his own shape and, crying with pain, ran from the castle grounds where the combat had taken place and did not stop until he had plunged into a cooling stream. It had been right that Hercules should triumph, for his was the strength of arm, not of trickery. The Princess Dejanira came to him and with her the goddess of plenty, Ceres, to give the conqueror his reward. Ceres took the great horn which Hercules had torn from Achelous' head and heaped it full to overflowing with the treasures of the year's harvest. Ripe grain, purple grapes, rosy apples, plums, nuts, pomegranates, olives and figs filled the horn and spilled over the edge. The wood-nymphs and the water-nymphs came and twined the horn with vines and crimson leaves and the last bright flowers of the year. Then they carried this first horn of plenty high above their heads and gave it to Hercules and the beautiful Dejanira as a wedding present. It was the richest gift the gods could make, that of the year's harvest. And ever since that long-ago story time of the Greeks, the horn of plenty has stood for the year's blessing of us. THE WONDER THE FROGS MISSED Latona had very wonderful twin babies and the queen of the gods, Juno, was jealous of her on account of these little ones. Perhaps Juno had the power to look ahead through the years to the time when Latona's children should be grown up and take their places with the family of the gods on Mount Olympus. Who were these twins? Oh, that is the end of the story. So Juno, who could work almost any good or evil which she desired, decreed that this mother should never have any fixed home in which to bring up her babies. If Latona found a shelter and a cradle for the twins in the cottage of some hospitable farmer, a drought would descend at once upon his fields and dry up the harvest, or a hailstorm would destroy his fruit crop so that there would be no food for the family. If Latona stopped with the vine dressers, laying her babies in the cool shade of an arbor while she helped to pick the grapes, a gale might arise and sweep down upon the vineyard and all would have to flee for their lives. She was obliged to wander up and down the land with her little ones, wrapping her cloak about them to shield them from the weather, and she grew very weary and despaired of ever raising her little boy and girl to be the fine man and woman she longed to have them. One day in the heat of the summer Latona came to the country of Lycia in Greece and it really seemed as if she could not walk a single step farther. The babies were heavy and she had found no water for refreshing herself for a long time. By chance, though, she saw a pool of clear water just beyond in the hollow of a valley. Some of the country people of Lycia were there on the edge of the water gathering reeds and fine willows with which they were weaving baskets for holding fruits. Latona summoned all her strength and dragged herself to the pool, kneeling down on the bank to drink and dip up water for cooling the babies' heads. "Stop!" the rustic people commanded her. "You have no right to touch our waters!" "I only wish to drink, kind friends," Latona explained to them. "I thought that water was free to all, and my mouth is so dry that I can hardly speak. A drink of water would be nectar to me. The gods give us as common property the sunshine, the air, and the streams and I would only share your pool to revive me, not to bathe in it. See how my babies, too, stretch out their arms to you in pleading!" It was quite true; Latona's little ones were holding out their arms in supplication, but the rustics turned their heads away. They did more than this. They waded into the pool and stirred up the water with their feet so as to make it muddy and unfit to drink. As they did this they laughed at Latona's discomfiture and jeered at her sorry plight. She was a long suffering mother, but she felt as if this unkindness was more than she could bear. She lifted her hands toward the habitation of the gods and called to them for help. "May these rustics who refuse to succor two children of your family be punished!" Latona begged. "May they never be able to leave this pool whose clear waters they have defiled!" The company of the gods, and perhaps Juno also, heard Latona's entreaty and one of the strangest things of all mythology happened. The rustics tried to leave the pool and return to their basket-making, but they discovered that their feet had suddenly grown flat and shapeless and were stuck fast in the mud. They called for help, but their voices were harsh, their throats bloated, and their mouths had stretched so that they were unable to form words. Their necks had disappeared and their heads, with great bulging eyes, were joined to their backs. Their flesh was turned to thick green skin and they could not stand erect. It was as Latona had asked. These boorish, unseeing country clowns would never leave the slimy water into which they had stepped, for the gods had changed them into the first frogs. "This is indeed a terrible punishment for so slight an offence as ridiculing a stranger," the people of Lycia said to each other as they visited the pools and rivers during the seasons that followed and listened to the continual, hoarse croaking of the frogs. The river god, Peneus, knew them also and so did the lovely nymph, Daphne, his daughter, who was never happier than when she was flying on her fairy like feet, her soft green garments fluttering about her, along the edge of some stream. Daphne was more like a spirit of the woods than a girl. She would rather live within the shadow of leaves than under a palace roof, and she liked better to follow the deer and gather wild flowers than to have any intercourse with the boys and girls of the villages. But she was unmatched by the most beautiful daughter of all Greece, her long hair flung loose like a veil over her shoulders, her eyes as soft and shining as stars, and her body as graceful and well moulded as some rare vase. At that time a strange youth was seen to haunt the forests and banks of the river god. He was as fair and well shaped as Daphne, and there was also something unusual about him. Whenever he was seen, there seemed to be more light along the paths where he walked. He made the daytime brighter and the gold rays of the sun shine more gloriously. When this youth stopped for a while with a shepherd, no wolves attacked the flock, and he kept herds safe from the mountain lions. He had made a lyre for himself, a musical instrument of many tuneful strings that had not been heard in Greece before. He was touching the strings into a song about the pastures and the woods in the spring one day when he suddenly saw the nymph, Daphne. He had seen her before moving like a green bough blown by the wind along the shores of many waters. He thought that he had never seen so beautiful a creature or one so much to be desired, but whenever Daphne caught a glimpse of this strange, strong youth, she was frightened and was at once off and away. Now, though, he was determined to pursue Daphne and catch her. He dropped his lyre and ran after her, but she eluded him, running more swiftly than the wind. "Stay, daughter of Peneus," he called. "Do not fly from me as a dove flies from a hawk. I am no rude peasant, but one of the gods and I know all things, present or future. It is for love that I pursue you, and I am miserable in the fear that you may fall and hurt yourself on these stones and I shall have been the cause of your hurt. Pray run slower and I will follow more slowly!" But Daphne was deaf to the youth's entreating words. On she sped, the wind blowing her green garments, and her hair streaming loosely behind her. It was, at last, like the fleet running hound pursuing the hare; the youth was swifter and gained on her. His panting breath touched her neck. In her terror she did not stop to understand that he pursued her only because he loved her so much and that he would not do her any harm. At last she came to the edge of a stream. On one side of Daphne were the croaking frogs and the water reeds and the deeper waters beyond. On the other side was her pursuer. Daphne called to her father, the river god, "Help me, Peneus! Open the earth to take me into it out of sight and sound!" But the god of light and music knew what was better far for Daphne than this. He touched her fair form and it stiffened and her feet stood firmly upon the bank of the stream. Her body was suddenly enclosed in tender bark and her hair became leaves. Her arms were long, drooping branches and her face changed to the form of a tree top. There had never been a tree like the one into which Daphne was transformed, the green laurel tree. The young god looked at her and saw how fair a work of his hands was this changing of a nymph. The tree would never fade, but would stretch its green top up toward the sky to feel the light that he would pour down on it. When the wind touched the laurel's leaves they would sing as his lyre sang. "Come and see what beauty I have given to the nymph, Daphne, whom I loved," he called, and out of the forest came a brave young huntress, a deer walking quite unafraid at her side. It was Diana, his sister, and she hung her quiver of arrows on the laurel tree and led the deer to a shelter underneath its branches. "This shall be my tree," he said putting his hands on the laurel. "I will wear it for my crown, and when the great Roman conquerors lead their troops to the Capitol in triumphal pomp it shall be woven into wreaths for their brows. As eternal youth is mine, the laurel shall always be green and its leaves shall never wither." The sun began to sink behind the hills and the youth saw the light fade in terror. He could give the laurel the brightness of day but he had no power to keep it safe through the darkness of night. Just then a silver ball appeared in the purple sky rising higher and higher and sending down long white beams to brighten the dusk. "Diana, see, there is a light in the evening sky!" the youth exclaimed, but his sister had disappeared. Diana, the huntress, was now Diana, the moon, the queen of the darkness and shedding her light on the laurel tree that her brother, Apollo, the god of the sun, loved so much. The frogs along the river bank croaked harshly and could not understand any of these wonders that had come to pass right beside them. They had missed a wonder when they were rustics, too. There are some people like that. They, too, would see only a ragged, weary stranger with her tired babies, not worth the trouble of helping, when those little ones might be an Apollo and a Diana, the gods of the day and the night. WHEN PHAETON'S CHARIOT RAN AWAY. "You are only boasting, Phaeton. I don't believe for a moment that your father is Apollo, the god of light," Cycnus, one of his schoolmates, said to the lad who had just made this proud statement. "It is true," Phaeton replied. "You won't believe me because I am alone here in Greece, cared for by one of the nymphs and learning the lessons that all Greek boys do. I shall show you, though. I will take my way to the home of the gods and present myself to my father." That was indeed a bold plan on the part of this youth who had not been beyond the shores of his native land in all his life. But Phaeton set out at once for India, since that was the place where the sun which lighted Greece seemed to rise. He felt sure that he would find Apollo at the palace of the Sun, so he did not stop until he had climbed mountains and then beyond and higher through the steeps of the clouds. Suddenly he was obliged to stop, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the brilliant light that dazzled him. There, in front of Phaeton, reared aloft on shining columns, stood the palace of the Sun. It glittered with gold and precious stones, and Phaeton made his way inside through heavy doors of solid silver. He had heard of the beautiful workmanship of Vulcan who had designed Apollo's palace, but when he stood beneath the polished ivory ceilings of the throne room it was more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined. Apollo, in a royal purple robe, sat on the throne that was as bright as if it had been cut from a solid diamond, and about him stood his attendants who helped him in making the earth a pleasant, fruitful habitation for men. On Apollo's right hand and on his left stood the Days, the Months, and the Years, and at regular intervals the Hours. Spring was there, her head crowned with flowers, and Summer who wore a garland formed of spears of ripened grain. Autumn stood beside Apollo, his feet stained with the juice of the grape, and there was icy Winter, his hair stiffened with hoar frost. There was nothing hidden from Apollo in the whole world and he saw Phaeton the instant he entered the hall. "What is your errand here, rash lad?" he asked sternly. Phaeton went closer and knelt at the foot of the throne. "Oh, my father, light of the boundless world!" he said. "I want to be known as your son. Give me some proof by which I can show mortals and the gods as well that I am not of the earth but have a place with you on Mount Olympus!" Apollo was pleased with the pleading of the youth and, laying aside the crown of bright beams that he wore on his head, stretched out his arms and embraced Phaeton. "My son, you do not deserve to be disowned," he said. "To put an end to your doubts ask whatever favor you like of me and the gift shall be yours." It was wonderful; Phaeton had never, in his dreams even, expected so great a boon as this. But he was as reckless and ambitious as many a boy of to-day who fancies himself able to carry on his father's work without all the skill and experience which earned his success. He knew at once the desire that was closest to his heart. "For one day only, father, let me drive your chariot?" Phaeton begged. Apollo drew back in dismay. "I spoke rashly," he said. "That is the one request I ought to refuse you. It is not a safe adventure or suited to your youth and strength, Phaeton. Your arms are mortal and you ask what is beyond mortal's power. You aspire to do that which even the gods can not accomplish. No one but myself, not even Jupiter whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts and the lightning, may drive the flaming chariot of day." "Why is it so difficult a task?" Phaeton asked, determined not to give up. Apollo explained to him with great patience. "It is a difficult track to keep through the skies," he said. "The beginning of the way is so steep that the horses, even when they are fresh in the morning, can hardly be urged to climb it. Then comes the middle of the course, so high up in the heavens and so narrow that I myself can scarcely look below without giddiness at the earth and its waters. The last part of the course descends rapidly and calls for most expert driving. Add to all this the constant, dizzy turning of the sky with its sea of stars. I must be always on my guard lest their movement, which sweeps everything along with it, should hurry me or throw me out of my course. If I lend you my chariot, what can you, a boy, do? Can you keep the road with all the spheres in the universe revolving around you?" "I am sure that I can, father," Phaeton replied boldly. "What you say, of course, does not deter me from starting along it. I have a strong arm and a steady eye for driving. There is no danger other than this on the way, is there?" he asked. "There are greater dangers," Apollo said. "Do you expect to pass cool forests and white cities, the abodes of the gods, and palaces, and temples on the way? The road goes through the domain of frightful monsters. You must run the gauntlet of the Archer's arrows and pass by the horns of the Bull. The Lion's jaws will be open to devour you, the Scorpion will stretch out its tentacles for you, and the great Crab its claws. And you will find it no easy feat to manage the horses, their breasts so full of fire that they breathe it out in flame through their nostrils. I can scarcely hold them myself when they are unruly and resist the reins." "I have driven a chariot at the games of Athens," Phaeton boasted, "when wild beasts were close to the arena, and my steeds were most unmanageable." Apollo made one last plea. "Look the universe over, my son," he entreated, "and choose whatever is most precious in the earth or on the sea. This will I give you in proof that you are my son, but take back your other, rash request." "I have only one wish, to drive the chariot of the Sun," Phaeton answered stubbornly. There was but one course left then for Apollo, because a god could never break his promise. Without a word he led Phaeton to the great stable where he kept his lofty chariot. The chariot was a gift of Vulcan to Apollo, and made of gold. The axle was of gold, the pole and wheels also of gold, and the spokes of the brightest silver. There were rows of chrysolites and diamonds along the seat that reflected the rays of the sun. Apollo ordered the Hours to harness the horses and they led the steeds, full fed with ambrosia, from the stalls, and attached the reins. As Phaeton, full of pride, watched he saw that Dawn had thrown open the purple gates of the east and his pathway, strewn with roses, stretched before him. He seated himself in the chariot and took the reins. Apollo anointed his son's face with a powerful unguent that would make it possible for him to endure the flaming heat of the sun. He set the rays of light on his head and said sorrowfully, "If you will be so rash, I beg of you to hold the reins more tightly than you ever did before and spare the whip. The horses go fast enough of their own accord, and the difficulty is to hold them in. You are not to take the direct road, but turn to the left. You will see the marks of my wheels and these will guide you. Go not too high, or you will set the heavenly dwellings on fire, or so low as to burn the earth, but keep to the middle course which is best. Night is just passing out of the western gates so you can delay no longer. Start the chariot, and may your chance work better for you than you have planned." Phaeton stood up in the gilded chariot, lifted the reins, and was off like a dart. In an instant the snorting, fiery horses discovered that they were carrying a lighter load than usual and they dashed through the clouds as if the chariot had been empty. It reeled and was tossed about like a ship at sea without ballast. The bars of the sky were let down and the limitless plain of the universe lay before the horses. They left Apollo's travelled course and Phaeton was powerless to guide them. He looked down at the earth so far below him, and he grew pale and his knees shook with terror. He turned his eyes on the trackless heavens in front of him and was even more terrified to see the huge forms among which he rode as if he was driven by a tempest; the Archer, the Great Bear, the Lion and the Crab. All those monsters of whom Apollo had warned him were there, and others too. Phaeton wished he had never left the earth, never made so bold a request of his father. He lost his self command and could not tell whether to draw the reins tightly or let them loose. He forgot the names of the steeds. At last, as he saw the Scorpion directly in his path, its two great arms extended and its fangs reeking with poison, he lost all his courage and the reins dropped from his hands. As the horses felt their loosened harness, they dashed away headlong into unknown regions of the sky, now up in high heaven among the stars and then hurling the chariot down almost to the earth. The mountain tops took fire and the clouds began to smoke. Plants withered, the leafy branches of the trees burned, the harvests blazed and the fields were parched with heat. The whole world was on fire. Great cities perished with their beautiful towers and high walls, and entire nations with all their people were reduced to ashes. It is said that the river Nile fled away and hid its head in the desert where it still lies concealed. The earth cracked and the sea shrank. Dry plains lay where there had been oceans before and the mountains that had been covered by the sea lifted up their heads and became islands. Even Neptune, the god of the sea, was driven back by the heat when he tried to lift his head above the surface of the waters, and the Earth looked up to Mount Olympus and called to Jupiter for help. It was indeed time for the gods to act. Jupiter mounted to the tall tower where he kept his forked lightnings and from which he spread the rain clouds over the earth. He tossed his thunderbolts right and left and, brandishing a dart of lightning in his right hand, he aimed it at Phaeton and threw it, tossing him from his chariot down, down through space. The charioteer fell in a trail of fire like a shooting star. One of the great rivers of the earth received him and tried to cool his burning frame, but he was never again to see the palace of the Sun. His recklessness had brought him, not honor, but destruction. Phaeton's friend, Cycnus, stood beside the bank of the river mourning for him and even plunged beneath the surface of the water to see if he could bring him back to the earth. But this angered the gods and they changed Cycnus to the swan who floats always on the water, continually thrusting its head down as if it were still looking for the fated charioteer of the skies. Even the sea shell tells the story of Phaeton. Hold it to your ear and listen to its plaintive singing of the lad who lost a place in the palace of the sun because he drove the chariot of light for his own pride and without thought of others. WHEN APOLLO WAS HERDSMAN. Apollo had incurred the anger of his father, Jupiter, and for the very good reason that this god of light had interfered with Jupiter's will. It was Jupiter's privilege to throw thunderbolts about whenever he wished and to strike down anyone he chose. He kept the Cyclopes busy night and day forging his bolts down under the mountains so that he might have a never-failing supply. One day a thunderbolt directed by Jove hit Aesculapius, a man of the Greeks who could heal almost any sickness among mortals by means of his herbs. Apollo looked upon this physician as an adopted son, because his art of healing brought so much joy and light to men. He resented the injury done him by Jupiter's hand and he did what even mortals do when they are angry; Apollo vented his wrath on whoever was handiest. He aimed his arrows at those innocent workmen, the Cyclopes, and wounded several. Jupiter could not have his authority put aside in this way and he knew that he must punish Apollo. So he commanded him to descend to the earth and offer his services as herdsman to Admetus, the king of Thessaly. It was very humble work for a god to wear a shepherd's dark cloak and pasture his flocks in the meadows outside of Thessaly, particularly a god who was used to living in the sumptuous palace of the sun. Apollo's slender hands were little suited to the work of ploughing, sowing and reaping, but he took excellent care of his ewes and lambs and grew to enjoy his task. In his leisure time he found an empty tortoise-shell and stretched some cords tightly across it. Then he ran his slender finger tips across the cords and drew from them most beautiful music. That was the first lute, and Apollo played on it every day. King Admetus heard his music and came out to listen to the tunes his herdsman played, sitting beside Apollo on a mossy bank, but he looked very sorrowful. The sweet strains seemed to have no power to cheer him, or even rouse him from his sadness. "Why do you mourn, O King?" Apollo asked Admetus at last. "I long for the hand of the fair Alcestis, the princess of a neighboring kingdom, that I may make her my queen," King Admetus explained, "but she has expressed a strange desire. She demands that her suitor appear before her in a chariot drawn by lions and bears in which she will ride home with him. In no other way will Alcestis come to my court and it is impossible for me to harness wild beasts to any one of my chariots." Apollo could not help but be amused at the foolish whim of this wayward princess, but he had a desire to bring happiness wherever he went so he decided to humor her. He went with his lute to the edge of the forest that lay just next to his pasture and he played a tune upon it so sweet as to tame any wild beasts. Then out of the forest came two lions and two bears, as quietly as if they had been sheep. The king fastened them to a gilded chariot and drove off for Alcestis with great rejoicing. And Apollo had the pleasure of seeing the two return and Alcestis crowned as the queen of Thessaly. [Illustration: Apollo charms the wild beasts.] It seemed as if Admetus were destined to enjoy a long and prosperous reign, but shortly after he brought his queen home he fell ill of a very deadly plague. Aesculapius, the physician, was no longer able to come to the king's aid and it seemed as if there was no hope for him. But his celestial herdsman, Apollo, again befriended him. Apollo was not able to entirely remove the plague but he decreed that the king should live if someone, who cared enough for him, would die in his stead. Admetus was full of joy at this hope. He remembered the vows of faith and attachment that bound all his courtiers to him and he expected that a score would at once offer themselves, willing to sacrifice their lives for their king. But not one was to be found. The bravest warrior, who would willingly have given his life for his king on the battlefield, had not the courage to die for him on a sick-bed. Old servants, who had known the king's bounty and that of his father from the days of their childhood, were not willing to give up the rest of their few days for their sovereign. Each subject wished someone else to make the sacrifice. "Why do not the parents of Admetus give their lives for their son?" was asked, but these aged people felt that they could not bear to be parted from him for even a short time, and looked to others. What was to be done about it. It was an irrevocable decree on the part of Apollo that he had wrested only by means of much persuasion from the Fates. There was no remedy for Admetus except this sacrifice. Then a very strange and wonderful thing happened. Queen Alcestis, the fair princess who had wanted to ride behind lions and bears when she was a girl in her own kingdom, had grown very wise and gracious since she had attained to the throne of Thessaly. It had never for an instant entered the minds of anyone that she could be offered to the gods in the place of the king. But Queen Alcestis offered herself to save Admetus, and as she sickened the king revived and was restored to his old health and vigor. Apollo was, of all the mourners of Thessaly, the saddest to see Alcestis so ill. She had often found her way to the pastures where he led his flock and had sat on a bank twining wreaths of wild flowers that she liked better to wear than a crown, while he entertained her with the music of his lute. And, for once, Apollo did not know what to do, banished as he was from the council of the gods for a while, and unable to summon the physician, Aesculapius, to his aid. He knew that only great strength could bring Alcestis back from the stupor in which she now lay, neither moving or speaking, and with her rosy cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He knew, too, that of all the heroes Hercules was the strongest. Hercules had performed feats that no one had believed possible. Would he attempt to keep Alcestis safe from death, Apollo wondered, particularly when he was entreated by a lowly herdsman? Hercules assented, however. He took his station at the gates of the palace and wrestled with Death, throwing him, just as he was about to enter and claim Alcestis. She lost her weakness, opened her eyes, the color came again to her cheeks and she was restored to Admetus by this last labor of Hercules. So the matter which had bade fair to be so disastrous for a good many people turned out very well after all. Apollo returned to Mount Olympus when the period of his exile on the earth was up and he delighted the Muses much with the sweet tones of his lyre. He even pleaded with his father, Jupiter, to take pity on Aesculapius and the god at last made a place for the physician on the road of stars that leads across the sky. HOW JUPITER GRANTED A WISH. Each of the villagers in a town of Phrygia heard a knock at the door of his cottage one summer day in the long-ago time of the myths. Each, on opening it, saw two strangers, weary travellers, who sought food and a shelter for the night. It was a part of the temple teachings that a man should succor a stranger, no matter how humble, but these Phrygians were a pleasure-loving, careless people, neglectful of hospitality and of their temple, even, which had fallen into decay. So it happened that the same retort met the strangers at whatever door they stopped. "Be off! We have only sufficient food for ourselves and no room for any but members of our own family." There was not a single door but was shut in the faces of these travellers. The afternoon was passing and it would soon be dusk. The strangers, tired and half famished, climbed a hill on the edge of the village and came at last upon a little cottage set there among the trees. It was a very poor and humble cottage, thatched with straw, and barely large enough for the two old peasants, Philemon and his wife, Baucis, who lived there. But it opened at once when the strangers knocked to let in the two strangers. "We have come to-day from a far country," the one who seemed to be the older of the two explained. "And we have not touched food since yesterday," added the younger one who might have been his son. "Then you are welcome to whatever we have to offer you," said Philemon. "We are as poor as the birds that nest in the straw of our eaves, but my old wife, Baucis, can prepare a meal from very little which may perhaps serve you if you are hungry. Come in, and share with us whatever we have." The two guests crossed the humble threshold, bowing their heads in order to pass beneath the low lintel, and Baucis offered them a seat and begged them to try and feel at home. The day had grown chilly and the old woman raked out the coals from the ashes, covered them with leaves and dry bark, and blew the fire into flame with her scanty breath. Then she brought some split sticks and dry branches from a corner where she had kept them like a treasure and put them under the kettle that hung over the fire. Afterward, she spread a white cloth on the table. As Baucis made these preparations, Philemon went out to their small garden and gathered the last of the pot-herbs. Baucis put these to boil in the kettle and Philemon cut a piece from their last flitch of bacon and put it in to flavor the herbs. A bowl carved from beech wood was filled with warm water that the strangers might be refreshed by bathing their faces, and then Baucis tremblingly made the preparations for serving the meal. The guests were to sit on the only bench which the cottage afforded and Baucis laid a cushion stuffed with seaweed on it and over the cushion she spread a piece of embroidered cloth, ancient and coarse, but one that she used only on great occasions. One of the legs of the table was shorter than the other, but Philemon placed a flat stone under it to make it level, and Baucis rubbed sweet smelling herbs over the entire top of the table. Then she placed the food before the strangers, the steaming, savory herbs, olives from the wild trees of Minerva, some sweet berries preserved in vinegar, cheese, radishes, and eggs cooked lightly in the ashes. It was served in earthen dishes and beside the guests stood an earthenware pitcher and two wooden cups. There could hardly have been a more appetizing supper, and the kindly cheer of the two old peasants made it seem even more delectable. The guests ate hungrily and when they had emptied the dishes Baucis brought a bowl of rosy apples and a comb of wild honey for dessert. She noticed that the two seemed to be enjoying their milk hugely and it made her anxious, for the pitcher had not been more than half full. They filled their cups again and again and drained them. "They will finish the milk and ask for more," Baucis thought, "and I have not another drop." Then a great fear and awe possessed the old woman. She peered over the shoulder of the older of the strangers into the pitcher and saw that it was brimming full! He poured from it for his companion and it was again full to overflowing as he set it down. Here was a miracle, Baucis knew. Suddenly the strangers rose and their disguise of age and travel stained garments fell from them. They were Jupiter, the king of the gods, and his winged son, Mercury! Baucis and Philemon were struck with terror as they recognized their heavenly guests, and they fell on their knees at the gods' feet. With their shaking hands clasped they implored the gods to pardon them for their poor entertainment. They had an old goose which they tended and cherished as the guardian of their cottage, and now they felt that they must kill it as a sacrifice and offering to Jupiter and Mercury. But the goose ran nimbly away from them and took refuge between the gods themselves. "Do not slay the bird," Jupiter commanded. "Your hospitality has been perfect. But this inhospitable village shall pay the penalty for its lack of reverence. You alone shall remain unpunished. Come and look at the valley below." Baucis and Philemon left the cottage and hobbled a little way down the hill with the gods. In the last light of the setting sun they saw the destruction which the people below had brought upon themselves. There was nothing left of the village. All the valley was sunk in a blue lake, the borders of it being wild marsh land indented with pools in which the fen-birds waded and called shrilly. "There is no house left save ours," Philemon gasped. Then, as they turned, they saw that their cottage, also, had disappeared. It had not been destroyed, though. It was transformed. Stately marble columns had taken the place of the wooden corner posts. The thatch had grown yellow and was now a golden roof. There were colored mosaic floors and wide silver doors with ornaments and carvings of gold. Their little hut, that had been scarcely large enough for two, had grown to the height and bulk of a temple whose gilded spires reached up toward the sky. Baucis and Philemon were too awed for words, but Jupiter spoke to them. "What further gift of the gods would you like, good people? Ask whatever you wish and it shall be granted you." The two old folks consulted for a moment and then Philemon made their request of Jupiter. "We would like to be the guardians of your temple, great Jupiter. And since we have passed so much of our lives here in harmony and love, we wish that we might always remain here and never be parted for a moment." As Philemon finished speaking, he heard Jupiter say, "Your wish is granted." And with these words the gods disappeared from earth. There was a long trail of purple light in the sky like Jupiter's robe, and beside it lay two wing-shaped clouds which marked the road Mercury had taken, but that was all. Baucis and Philemon went into the temple and were its keepers as long as they were able. One day in the spring when the old couple had become very ancient indeed they stood on the temple steps side by side, looking at the new green the earth was putting forth. In that moment another miracle happened to them. Each grew straight instead of bent with age, and their garments were covered with green leaves. A leafy crown grew upon the head of each and as they tried to speak, a covering of bark prevented them. Two stately trees, the linden and the oak, stood beside the temple door to guard it in the place of the two good old people who, for their reverence, had been thus transformed by the gods. HOW HYACINTHUS BECAME A FLOWER. Kings and athletes, country folk and the musicians, sages and merchants from the towns were all on their way toward the green hill of Parnassus, one of the long-ago days of the myths, where the city of Delphi stood. The kings rode in their gaily adorned chariots which were drawn by the fleetest steeds from the royal stables. The youths were dressed for running, or they carried flat, circular discs of stone for throwing at a mark, javelins and bows and quivers of arrows. The road that led to the white temple of Apollo at Delphi was choked with people on foot, people on horseback, and people riding in farm wagons, all going in the same direction. It was a very great occasion indeed, one that came but once in five years, the day when the Pythian games in honor of Apollo were held at Delphi. They climbed the hill of Parnassus which was a very famous mount, because of all that had happened there. When the gods saw fit to destroy the earth, Parnassus, alone, had raised its head above the waters and sheltered man. There, too, Apollo had transformed his beloved, Daphne, into a laurel tree and ever since then the slopes of the hill had been green and pink with the branches and blossoms of the laurel. Now, Parnassus sheltered one of the most famed cities of Greece, Delphi, and on a wide plain, near a deep cleft in the rock where the oracle was supposed to speak, the games of the Greeks were held in honor of Apollo, who was the god of sports. The ground about the game field and the tiers of stone seats surrounding it were soon filled with a crowd of onlookers in their holiday garments of white and purple and gold. Upon a carved marble pillar at the entrance of the field was hung a great wreath of laurel, the prize of the winner, and everyone was talking about who this would be. "The greatest test of all is the discus throwing," a lad on the edge of the crowd said to another. "The stone that is hurled from a javelin, or a spear thrown by a trained soldier has a chance to go straight to the mark, but who can aim the thin discus with the wind waiting to turn it from its course and carry it wide of the mark?" The other lad thought for a moment. Then he spoke. "The youth, Hyacinthus, could," he said. "Oh, Hyacinthus!" the first lad replied as if the name was a kind of spell to work magic. "Hyacinthus, of course, would win the prize, for is he not the friend of Apollo? It is said that the great god of sports has visited and played games with Hyacinthus ever since the lad was able to swing a javelin. He comes to him in the form of a youth like himself because he loves him so, and they run races and have contests of skill here on Parnassus, and roam the groves together. How great an honor to have a god for one's friend!" the boy said wistfully. But both boys stepped back then and watched breathlessly as four war chariots, driven abreast, approached. The horses sweated and foamed, the drivers stood up perilously, shouting and gripping the reins as the chariots tipped and crashed along the course. Two chariots locked wheels and the drivers fell beneath the terrified, stamping steeds, but no one heeded them as the other two rolled and swayed past them, and one reached the goal heralded by a shout the crowd sent up as if from one giant throat. "Now, the discus combat!" the boy who had spoken before said, as a slender youth in a robe of Tyrian dyes stepped proudly into the centre of the field holding the flat, round discus in his hand. "Hyacinthus, by my word!" the second lad exclaimed, "but who is that beside him?" he asked, as another youth, dark eyed, straight limbed, and with a countenance that shone like fire appeared, as if he had dropped from the clouds, and took his place beside Hyacinthus. "It is Apollo himself in the guise of a youth!" the awed whisper ran through the crowd. "He has come to guide the discus that his friend Hyacinthus carries straight to the mark." That was the wonder that had happened. Those who had far-seeing eyes could discern in the strange youth on the game field the god Apollo, his crown of light showing in bright rays about his head. No one spoke. All faces were turned toward the two as Apollo grasped the discus, raised it far above his head, and with a strange power mingled with skill sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched the discus cut through the air as straight as an arrow shot from a bow. He was perfectly sure that it would skim, without turning, as far as the goal at the opposite end of the field and perhaps farther, for he had great faith in this heavenly youth who had been his companion in so many good times. As swiftly as the discus traveled, did Hyacinthus' thoughts wing their memories of Apollo's friendship. He had accompanied Hyacinthus in his tramps through the forest, carried the nets when he went fishing, led his dogs to the chase and even neglected his lyre for their excursions up to the top of Parnassus. "I will run ahead and bring back the discus," Hyacinthus thought, and excited by the sport and the crowds, he leaped forward to follow the flight of the swift stone. At that instant the discus, turned from its course by Zephyrous, the wind-god, who also loved Hyacinthus and was jealous of Apollo's affection for him, struck the earth and bounded back, hitting Hyacinthus' forehead. Apollo, as pale as the fallen Hyacinthus, ran to his side, raised him, and tried with all his art to stop the bleeding of his wound and save his life. But the youth's hurt was beyond the power of all healing. As a white lily, when one has broken it, hangs its head in the garden and turns toward the earth, so the head of the dying Hyacinthus, too heavy for his neck, lay upon his shoulders. "I have killed you, my dearest friend," Apollo cried, as the people pushed closer to see the tragedy and then turned their faces away from this grief of a god which was greater than a mortal could feel. "I have robbed you of your youth. Yours was the suffering and mine the crime. I would that I were able to mingle my blood with yours which is spilled here for me." Then Apollo was silent, looking at the ground where Hyacinthus' blood had stained the grass, for a wonder was happening. The crimson stain on the leaves changed to royal purple, and the stem and foliage and petals of a new flower appeared, so sweetly fragrant that it filled the whole field with its perfume. There had never been so beautiful a blossom as this. Touching its wax-like flowers, Apollo knew that the gods had comforted him in his sorrow. His friend would live always in the flower that had sprung where he fell on Parnassus, our hyacinth, the promise of the spring. HOW KING MIDAS LOST HIS EARS. They needed a new king in the country of Phrygia in Asia and there was an old saying at the court that some day they would have a ruler who arrived at the palace in a farm wagon. No one had thought very much about this prophecy but, to the surprise of all, a peasant and his wife drove into the public square one day in an ox cart, bringing their son, Midas, on the seat between them. The peasant's name was Gordius, and he dismounted, tying his wagon in such a hard knot that it looked as if he intended that the team should stay there. In fact it was called the Gordian knot and it was so hard a knot that it was reported that he who was able to untie it would be the ruler of all Asia. The wagon remained there, just outside the palace gates, securely fastened, and Gordius and his wife walked home leaving Midas. It was so exactly an interpretation of the prophecy that Midas was made king and put upon the throne of Phrygia. He had every opportunity of being a ruler of parts, for his humble birth would not have interfered at all, but Midas, from the very beginning of his reign, used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead of carrying out the will of the people. Bacchus, with vine leaves twisted about his curling locks and a goblet of the purple juice of the grape always in his hand, was the god of the vineyards. King Midas made the acquaintance of Bacchus, who was a friendly, peaceful god and fond of human companionship. And Bacchus unexpectedly offered Midas his choice of any wish that he cherished. What did King Midas ask but that whatever he touched might be turned to gold! He hardly believed that Bacchus would be able to grant the gift of such greedy power as this, and Bacchus wished that Midas had made a better choice. The god consented, though, and King Midas hurried off to test his gift alone so that he need not share it with anyone. He could not believe his eyes when he discovered that the twig of an oak, which he pulled from a branch, turned in his fingers to a bar of solid gold. He picked up a stone; it turned to a gold nugget. He touched a piece of sod; it became a mass of gold dust, thick and heavy. He snatched an apple from an orchard tree; it was as if he had robbed the gardens of Hesperides of one of their apples of gold. King Midas' joy knew no bounds. He hurried home and ordered his servants to prepare and serve a most costly and elaborate feast for him in celebration of his new found gift of gold. He was hungry and could scarcely wait to eat; he almost snatched a piece of white bread to begin his meal. What was King Midas' surprise to see the bread harden into a slab of yellow metal in his hands. He lifted a goblet of creamy milk to his lips and it congealed into a thick, molten liquid of gold. It was so with whatever King Midas tried to eat; fowls, fruit, cakes, all were changed to gold before he had a chance to even touch the food with his lips. He was faced in the midst of all his wealth with death by starvation. Raising his arms, shining with gold, in supplication to Bacchus, Midas begged that he might be saved from his own power of glittering destruction. Although the gods were able to grant gifts, it was not possible for Bacchus to relieve a man from the dangers of his own use of a godly gift unless he, himself, helped. Bacchus was too kind hearted, however, to leave the foolish king to his fate so he consented to show him a way out of his dilemma. "Go," he told Midas, "to the River Pactolus. Follow its winding course to the fountain head and then plunge your body and head in its waters to wash away your greed and its punishment." It was a long and difficult journey for King Midas whose joints, even, creaked and were stiff with the golden metal into which they had changed, and who could find no food or any bed on the way that was not at once transformed to gold the instant he touched it. He was obliged to flee and hide from robbers who pursued this fugitive form of gold. At last, however, he came to the river, immersed himself in it, and had the relief of feeling his stiff, glittering body soften to its natural flesh again. "I have had enough of the power of gold," Midas said when he returned to his court. "From this time I shall avoid all riches and live in the country." So King Midas acquired a farm and took his court there, becoming a worshipper of Pan, the goat-footed god of the fields. The god Pan was the merriest and almost the best beloved of all the gods, for his domain was the whole of the beautiful, wide outdoors. He was a wanderer of the mountains and valleys through all the seasons, peering into the grottos where the shepherds lived, amusing himself by chasing the nymphs, and bringing laughter and merriment wherever he went. The stump of a tree with its shaggy roots was Pan's pillow and the dusky leaves his only shelter. No one on the earth was safe from the wiles of Pan. One summer day Diana, the huntress, was roaming through a forest when she heard a rustle of leaves in the path behind her. Turning, she saw the dark, mocking face of Pan and his horned head and hairy body. Diana fled and Pan followed. Pan must have known it was a goddess whom he pursued, for Diana's hunting horn and her bow were of silver like the moon whose deity she was, but this did not stop him. On he went as Diana ran in terror from him until they came to the bank of a river. Here Pan overtook her and Diana had only time to call to her friends, the water-nymphs, for aid when the god clasped her in his arms. But it was not Diana he had caught. He held a tuft of dripping water reeds in his hands through which the nymphs had allowed the goddess to escape. Pan held up the reeds and breathed a sigh through them because of the failure of his prank. The reeds gave out a lovely melody. Pan was charmed with the novelty and the sweetness of the music. He took some of the reeds of unequal lengths and, placing them side by side, he bound them together. So he made his pipes on which he learned to play tunes like the singing of birds and the babbling of brooks. King Midas enjoyed his life in the country, and he made the acquaintance of the god Pan as he had that of Bacchus. He encouraged Pan in his tricks and flattered him by telling him how well he played his pipes. "If you think me skilful, King Midas, it is possible that I may challenge Apollo in a contest of musical skill," Pan boasted. "It would be an excellent idea," King Midas replied. Midas should have known better and so should the frolicsome, reckless Pan. Apollo's lute was the musical instrument of the heavens and Pan's pipes could play only the tunes of earth, but Pan sent for Apollo and the god of light and song descended to a green field where the contest was to be held. Tmolus, the mountain god, was chosen to be the judge and at a signal Pan played the rustic melody on his pipes which was all he knew, and which greatly pleased King Midas who sat near to listen. Then Apollo rose, crowned with laurel and wearing a robe of Tyrian purple that swept the ground. He struck the strings of his lyre and earth was filled with the music of the gods. The mountain-god swept away the trees that surrounded him so that he could listen better, and the trees themselves leaned toward Apollo in wonder and homage. When the music stopped, the strings still vibrated making the hills carry and echo the harmony to the skies. The mountain-god awarded the victory in the unequal contest to Apollo, but King Midas objected. "I like better the music of Pan's pipes," he said. "I question the judgment of Tmolus." Poor old Midas, still self centered and earthly! Apollo could not suffer such a depraved pair of ears to wear human form any longer. He touched Midas' ears and they began to lengthen, to move where they joined his head, and they grew heavy inside and outside. Midas had the ears of an ass! Such a mortification for a king to have to bear! Indeed King Midas could not stand it alone, and he told the secret of his odd ears to the court hair-dresser in order to get his help in disguising them. "But on pain of death do not tell anyone about my ears!" Midas commanded. The hairdresser cut the King's hair so as to cover up the flopping ass's ears and he even fashioned a large turban to further conceal them, but he couldn't keep such a good secret. He went out into a meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the secret into it. Then he carefully covered it up. In a very short time a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow in the exact spot where the hairdresser had buried the secret of King Midas' disgrace. As soon as the reeds had grown high enough to be played upon by the breezes they began to whisper the story of the king who had to finish his reign with a pair of asses' ears instead of his own, because of his self will. And it is said that the meadow reeds, blown by the wind, tell the story of King Midas to-day. HOW MERCURY GAVE UP HIS TRICKS. Apollo was in great trouble, for he had lost one of the herds of cattle he owned upon the earth. He knew the exact spot where he had left them the night before in a pasture of Arcadia, but when he rode out the next morning in his chariot of light with the first dawning of the day, the herd had disappeared. He searched the country for leagues about, but was unable to find a single trace of the cows. There was not even one hoof print to tell where they had gone. As Apollo searched, he met a farmer of that country named Battus, whose eyes were fairly popping out of his head with wonder. "Have you seen a straying herd of cattle in these parts, rustic?" Apollo asked him. "I have lost my best herd, and can find trace of neither hoof or hide of one of them." "I saw strange doings last evening with a herd," Battus replied. "The night was dark and cloudy, and I went out to see if my flock of sheep was safely fastened in the fold. What I saw was like one of the tricks that Pan and his family of Satyrs plays, but I doubt if even they have such witching powers. I do believe that I must have dreamed it." "Tell me what you saw with no further words," Apollo commanded the farmer impatiently. "It was in the middle of the night," Battus explained. "As I passed a field where a fine herd of cattle was at rest I saw a child coming as swiftly and as surely over the grass as if he had wings. Once in a while he stopped and gathered a handful of broom straw, sorting it into bunches and tying it with dried grass. Presently the child came to the herd, and he tied a bunch of straw to the hoof of each cow. Then he drove the entire herd backward toward the cave of Pylos that you know is but a short distance from here. I followed him for part of the way, but I lost them, for the child went with the speed of the wind. I could not find their trail again, because they left not a single foot print. The brooms on their hoofs swept their track clean." "A trick played on me, of the circle of the gods!" Apollo exclaimed, his eyes dark with anger and the rays of light he wore about his head sending off sparks of fire. And without so much as thanking Battus for his information, Apollo drove with the swiftness of lightning to the cave of Pylos. There was his herd feeding peacefully outside, and as Apollo forced his way into the cave, he saw the mischievous little boy who had been the cause of all the trouble. He was still fast asleep and he was quite alone, for he had been born in that cave and knew no other home. Apollo shook him, and he opened a pair of the brightest, most roguish eyes that ever were seen in the earth or on Mount Olympus either. But when he spied Apollo, he closed them again, pretending that he was asleep, for, like most people who use their clever wits to make trouble for others, he didn't want to be found out. It was Mercury, and he had begun as early as this to play tricks on even the gods. "What do you mean by driving away the herds of Arcadia to this lonely spot?" Apollo asked Mercury angrily. "Do you not know that the inhabitants of the country depend on them for food and that the gods, descending to earth, have need of cream and curds?" But Mercury said not a word. He only shrugged his small shoulders and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. "Well, you shall be punished as you deserve," Apollo said, quite losing his patience, and he picked up Mercury, not very gently, and dropped him into his chariot. Then he drove off with him as fast as he could straight up to the throne of Jupiter, the king of the gods, on Mount Olympus. It must have been quite an ordeal, particularly for a little boy like Mercury. Jupiter's throne was very high and quite blinded his eyes with its flashing gold and precious stones, and there were piles of thunderbolts close by all ready to throw if the need arose. And Jupiter himself wore a very dark frown when Apollo told him of the trick that Mercury had played. "He shall be thrown--" Jupiter began, having in mind the punishment of denying Mercury the fellowship of the gods, but just then Mercury looked the king of the gods straight in the eyes, and Jupiter looked back. Then Jupiter started, for he saw that Mercury was, himself, a god. He might be, just then, a very naughty and young god, but it seemed as if he could do great deeds if only he were to make up his mind to. Jupiter called Mercury close to his throne and spoke to him. "I, myself, have lost a cow," he told Mercury. "In fact she is not really a cow at all, but a beautiful maiden named Io, in disguise, and I understand that she lives upon the earth guarded by a watchman named Argus who has a hundred eyes. I should like to rescue the lovely Io and restore her to her proper form, but Argus never closes all of his eyes at once. He sleeps with as many as fifty of them open. Could you help me in this matter, do you suppose?" Mercury stood up very straight as he said, "I will try." "You may need help, lad," Apollo said, forgetting his anger in his interest at this great adventure Mercury was going to attempt. "Take these," and he gave the young god some very useful presents, a golden divining rod made in a design of two twined serpents, and a pair of wings for his feet and a pair also for his cap. As Mercury took the golden rod in his hand and fastened on his wings, he suddenly grew very tall and of almost the stature and pattern of the gods. He was their messenger now, and he knew that he had quicker wits and more shrewdness than any of them. He set out at once for the green fields of Arcadia where Io was pastured. And there was old Argus guarding her with all his hundred eyes. He let the little heifer feed during the day, but when night came he tied a rough rope around her neck. She longed to stretch out her arms and implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to stretch and her voice was only a loud bellow that frightened even herself. Her father and her brothers fed her tufts of grass but did not know who she was. No wonder Mercury made haste to come to Io's help, laying aside his wings when he reached Argus and keeping only his wand. On the way he borrowed the pipes of Pan and brought a flock of sheep so that he appeared before Argus as only a wandering shepherd. Argus listened to the music of the pipes with the greatest delight, for he had never heard them before. He called to Mercury as he strolled along. "Come and take a seat by me on this stone," he begged. "There is no better grazing ground in all Arcadia than this." So Mercury sat down beside Argus and played to him as long as he wished, and then he told him stories all the rest of the day until the sun had set and it was starlight and Io still grazed nearby without being tied. As the night wore on and Mercury still soothed Argus with his music and his tales, one by one his hundred eyes closed. At the first streak of dawn, the last eye was shut, and Mercury led Io away to Jupiter to be restored to her proper shape. He did something else too. He gave Juno all of Argus' eyes as a present, which pleased her so much that she put them for ornaments in the tail of her peacock. You may see them there to-day. So Mercury was safe in the good graces of the gods. They began giving him unusual things to do, such as taking Pandora and her enchanted box down to the earth, carrying new suits of armor to the heroes, and taking off the chains which Mars, the clumsy god of war, had made for his own uses but had become bound with himself. These commissions were little more than fun for Mercury, and they made him feel so important that he began playing tricks again. Almost all the gods had their own particular treasures which were, in a way, the marks of their authority and power. They grew to depend on these and to feel that they could not carry on their good works without them. And what did that rascal, Mercury, do but take Venus' jewelled girdle, Jupiter's sceptre, Mars' best sword, Vulcan's tongs, and Neptune's trident, and either hide them or try to make use of them himself for a while. Then he would manage to make up in some way for his mischief and smooth the whole matter over. It caused a great deal of anxiety and inconvenience among the gods and at last they sent Mercury down to earth once more to act as a guide to the heroes when they undertook dangerous adventures. So Mercury took his winged way from one end of the world to the other. Whenever there was a hazard where skill and dexterity were needed as greatly as courage, Mercury was there. His journeys took him to the islands of Greece and to many foreign lands, and in these travels he never lost a chance to direct travellers and strangers who had lost their way. Mercury was so busy that he forgot to play tricks on either the gods or men, and after a while he was accepted as a member in good standing of the family of the gods. The people of Greece had reason to worship Mercury because of something very helpful that he did for them. There was a place in Greece where several roads met. It was really such a place as is known as the cross-roads now, and dangerous. A traveller on foot was not able to see the approach of a swiftly driven chariot, and a stranger might easily lose his his way, for the roads were not marked. Mercury set up the first sign post here at the cross-roads with plain directions telling where each one of the roads led. The Greeks placed sign posts in honor of Mercury at every crossing of the roads after that, much more beautiful than ours because they were made in the form of marble pillars with a head of Mercury in his winged cap at the top. Every man who came to one of these first sign posts was asked to place a stone beside it as an offering to Mercury. The stones were greatly appreciated by this god of speed, for they helped in clearing the fields and making the roads easier to travel. Commerce and business were beginning. Loads of timber and grain and wool and fruits were carried in huge ox carts to the sea to be loaded in ships, and Mercury wanted good roads as a help to commerce. Mercury turned out very well indeed, in spite of his bad beginning. It had depended upon how he used his wits, whether or not he helped the world or hindered it. A LITTLE ERRAND GIRL'S NEW DRESS Once upon a time there was a child of the gods named Iris who had many very interesting relatives. On her mother's side was the Pleiades family, daughters of old Atlas who held the earth on his shoulders and nymphs in the train of Diana, the huntress. Diana was to be seen in the silvery moon of the night sky, and the Pleiades surrounded her there, seven shining stars. Iris had a most distinguished grandfather, Oceanus, the sea god. So she spent part of her time in the sky with the Pleiades and part in the ocean with her grandfather. It was very interesting to be in either place, for she loved the bright lights of the heavens, and the coral palaces of the sea made delightful places to explore. All of her family loved Iris, and it is surprising that she was not spoiled with the amount of freedom she had, going here and there between earth and sky without any one saying no to her. But Iris had been well brought up, and she began when she was still quite small making herself just as useful as she possibly could. At that time another child of the gods, Proserpine, had made a great deal of trouble by straying away from home and being kidnapped by Pluto. Her mother Ceres, the goddess of the fields, had to neglect her work for a long time as she searched for Proserpine, and the earth grew dry and barren in her absence. As Iris took her way from the sky to the sea and then back again, she felt sorry for the grain, the fruits and the flowers that were withering, and she did wish that she might help them. One summer day Iris was paying a visit to Oceanus, her grandfather, and having a most beautiful time riding the crest of the waves on a frolicsome dolphin. The sea was covered with soft, light vapor and when it was time for Iris to go home to the sky in order to be there in time to help light the lamps of the Pleiades, she wrapped herself all about with this fleecy vapor. Still wearing it like a cloak, Iris reached the sky when a most unusual thing happened. It was so cool up there among the clouds that the sea foam turned to raindrops. Iris had to hurry away or she would have been wet through. Leaning over the edge of a cloud bank to see what was happening, she discovered that a shower of rain was falling to cool the earth and comfort it a little in its condition of drought. Iris could travel with the speed of the wind from one end of the world to the other, and after that she busied herself searching for thirsty plants and trying to help them. She would descend to the ocean, a lake or a river, wherever she might be, and carry vapor that was full of water to the sky from which it dropped to earth to nourish all growing things. The farmers looked upon Iris as their most important help, and at last the news of her good works came to the ears of the gods on Olympus. The gods had one messenger, Mercury, who wore wings on his heels and also on his cap. He was so swift that he was detailed to carry out the most difficult and delicate errands of the gods such as taking new suits of armor to the warriors of Greece, guiding the heroes, and even rescuing Mars, the god of war, when he once found himself bound by the chains he had designed for others. But one never knew exactly how Mercury would carry out a commission. He liked to linger with Pan in the woods and forests, giving as an excuse the care of young Bacchus, god of the vine, whom he must guard. So the gods decided that they would have an errand girl who would live on Olympus and leave the habitation of the gods only when it was necessary to go to man as a guide and adviser. That was the high trust which was given Iris by the gods. She had to use her own judgment to quite an extent as to when and where she was most needed by the dwellers of the earth, and how she could best help them. One day she noticed something happening in the kingdom of her grandfather. A ship glided out of a harbor, the breeze playing among the ropes, and the seamen drew in their oars and hoisted their sails. The night drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind blew a gale. The captain gave orders to strengthen the ship and reef the sail but none of the sailors could hear his voice above the roar of the wind and the sea. The cries of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the breaking surf mingled with the thunder. Then the swelling sea seemed to be lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds, and then sink away to the bottom. The ship could not stand the storm; it seemed like a wild beast charged upon by the spears of the hunter. There came a flash of lightning, tearing the darkness asunder, and illuminating all with its glare. It shattered the mast and broke the rudder, and the triumphant surge, rising over the ship, looked down on the wreck, then fell and crushed it to fragments. As the ship went down, the captain cried out in longing, "Halcyone!" Then Iris, who could see beyond and through the darkness, had a vision of the beautiful Queen Halcyone, of Sicily, who mourned her shipwrecked husband, the captain of this ship. Without a moment's hesitation, Iris set out for the palace of Somnus, the king of sleep. It was a long and dangerous journey. Even Apollo did not dare to approach it at dawn, noon, or evening. It was set in a country where the light glimmered but faintly, and clouds and shadows rose out of the ground. No wild beast, or cattle, or tree moved by the wind, or any sound of voices broke the stillness, but the river Lethe flowed through it, rippling with a low kind of lullaby. Iris approached the home of Somnus very timidly. All the way there were fields of poppies and the herbs from which Night distilled sleep to scatter over the darkened earth. There was no gate to the palace to creak as it opened, or any watchman. So this little errand girl of the gods went inside and made her way to the room where there was a throne of black ebony draped with dusky plumes and curtains. On the throne reclined Somnus, scarcely opening his eyes, and with his hair and beard covering him like a mantle. Iris knelt before him, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, and soother of careworn hearts," she said, "will you not allow me to despatch a dream to Halcyone about her husband whom she mourns. See these dreams that lie around you, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore grains of sand! Can you not spare one beautiful dream for Halcyone?" Somnus called his servant, Morpheus, who selected a dream and flew, making no noise with his wings, until he came to the city of Trachine where Halcyone could not sleep, but lay and tossed and wept in terror at the thought of what might have happened to her husband's ship. And at that moment Halcyone fell into a deep and happy dream in which she saw her husband. He stood beside her couch and spoke to her. "The stormy winds have sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea," he told Halcyone, "let me not be alone. Arise and come with me!" It was the most enlightening dream that Somnus could have sent. Halcyone left off her lamentations and implored the gods that she be allowed to join her husband, and the pitying gods turned them both into birds. They became the Halcyone gulls of the sea, riding the surf together, guarding their nest that floated upon the sea, and never again separated. As soon as she felt sure that her errand was safely accomplished, Iris made haste to leave the domain of Somnus, for she felt its drowsiness creeping over her. She tried not to crush any of the sleep producing herbs as she went, and she was careful not to pick a single poppy. At last she was safely outside the boundaries, and then she could hardly believe what she saw, for a wonder had happened to her. The gods had built her a long bridge that arched from the earth to the sky and over which she could go home to Olympus. It was made of colored stones, the ruby, the topaz, the emerald, the sapphire, and the amethyst. Row upon row the glistening stones of the arch made a bright path for Iris' feet. She passed along it, the light of the brilliant gems scintillating about her, and when she came to the abode of the gods, Iris found another surprise. There was a beautiful new dress waiting for her there. It had the same colors as those of the precious stones that made the bridge, crimson, orange and yellow, green, blue, and violet and so marvellously blended that they seemed to be one pattern and one piece of brightness. There were wings that went with the dress, and when Iris put it on not even Juno had so beautiful a garment. Iris wore her dress of colors as she took her way along her arched bridge from Olympus to earth and then back again. And her errands were those of help and courage and bright hope. Have you guessed who she was? Why, of course you have, for you see her bridge of colors in the sky after a shower when the sun is shining through the clouds. Iris was the child of the gods who gave us the rainbow. WHEN PROSERPINE WAS LOST There were lilies and great blue violets growing wild on the banks of the lake in the vale of Enna. How could a little girl resist them, and particularly Proserpine whose mother was Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, and who had played and lived outdoors all her life? Proserpine had been racing through the forest with some of her boy and girls friends, farther than was wise. "Don't go out of sight of our own home fields," Ceres had said that morning. But here was Proserpine out of sight and sound of her playmates even. Violets like to grow in damp, dark places, and Proserpine had followed their blue trail until she was shut in the vale of Enna by the trees. She was quite alone and, suddenly, in danger. There was the sound of racing chariot steeds and the crash of heavy wheels breaking the low branches and the bushes. A dark shadow made the vale darker than it had been before. A black chariot burst into sight, drawn by black horses and driven by a man who was dressed in black from head to foot. He was Pluto, the king of darkness, who had been waiting for a long time for this chance to kidnap fair little Proserpine. Her flowers fell from her apron in which she had been holding them; she screamed, but there was no one to hear her. Pluto dragged her into his grasp and threw her in the chariot. The horses dashed away, and Proserpine left the land of springtime for Pluto's dark kingdom beneath the earth. Pluto shouted to his steeds, calling each by name, and giving them the length of the iron colored reins over their heads and necks. He reached the River Cyane which had no bridge, but he struck the waters with his trident and they rolled back, giving him a passage down through the earth to Tartarus where his throne was. It was a prison place that they reached by way of a deep gulf, and its recesses were as far beneath the level of the earth as Mount Olympus was high above their heads. A strange sound of singing came to Proserpine from the depths of the cave where Pluto led her: "Twist ye, twine ye! Even so, Mingle shades of joy and woe, Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife In the thread of human life." And when Proserpine's eyes were a little more used to the dimness of the cave she saw three gray women, the Fates, with threads and shears, seated beside the throne and singing those words. One of them spun the thread of life, and another twisted its bright and dark lines together. But the third Fate cut the threads apart whenever she liked. Other grim and terrible creatures met Proserpine's frightened gaze. The Furies had spread their couches there as had also Fear and Hunger. The Hydra hissed with each one of its nine heads and the Chimaeras breathed fire. There was a giant with a hundred arms, and Discord whose hair was bound with a fillet made of vipers. "Take me back to the light. I want to go home. Oh, I beg of you, take me home!" Proserpine cried, but her words only echoed through the vaults of the kingdom of darkness. And when she tried to make her escape, her frail little hands were bruised from beating against the thick iron door that shut her in. The next morning Aurora rode through the sky to put away the stars and touch the clouds with the pink color of the dawn. Looking down to the earth, she saw a goddess who had arisen long before the dawn and was hurrying up and down the earth, wringing her hands and with tears in her eyes. She wore a chaplet woven of the golden heads of the grain, and she was straight and strong and beautiful in her flowing robes of green, but she did not lift her eyes from the earth, so deep was her sorrow. That evening Hesperus, who followed in Aurora's course each sunset to lead out the stars, saw the same goddess. Her robes were torn and stained from her travels and bedraggled with the dew. She was still weeping, and still searching. She was going to search, without rest, all night. Many others saw this goddess in the days that followed. She was always roaming from daylight until dark, in the open, in sunlight and moonlight, and in falling showers. She was weary and sad. In such a plight a peasant, named Celeus, found her one day. He had been out in a field gathering acorns and blackberries, and binding bundles of sticks for his fire. The goddess sat there on a stone, too tired to go on. "Why do you sit here alone on the rocks?" Celeus asked her. He carried a heavy load, but he stopped to try and succor her. "Come to my cottage and rest," he entreated her. "My little son is very ill, and we have only a most humble roof, but such as it is we will be glad to share it with you." The goddess rose and gathered her arms full of crimson poppies. Then she followed Celeus home. They found deep distress in the cottage, for the little boy was so ill as to be almost past hope. His mother could scarcely speak for her sorrow, but she welcomed the wandering goddess and spread the table for her with curds and cream, apples, and golden honey dripping from the comb. The goddess ate, but her eyes were on the sick child and when his mother poured milk into a goblet for him she mingled the juice of her poppies with it. At last night came, and the peasants slept. Then the goddess arose and took the little boy in her arms. She touched his weak limbs with her strong, skilful hands, said a charm over him three times, and then laid him in the warm ashes of the fire. "Would you kill my son? Wicked woman that you are to so abuse my hospitality!" the child's mother cried, awaking and seeing what the goddess had done. But just then a strange thing happened. The cottage was filled with a splendor like white lightning, and a light seemed to shine from the skin of the goddess. A lovely perfume was scattered from her fragrant garments, and her hair was as bright as gold. "Your son will not die, but live," she told the wife of Celeus. "He shall grow up and be great and useful. He shall teach men the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the cultivation of the soil." "Who are you?" the woman asked in amazement as she saw the boy's white cheeks grow rosy with new life. "I am Ceres," the goddess answered, "whose grief is greater than yours, for my child is lost. I search the earth for her, and never find her." With these words she was gone, as if she had wrapped herself in a cloud and floated away to meet the dawning of another day of her journey. That was who this wanderer of the earth was, the immortal Ceres, who still did not care to live without her loved little daughter, Proserpine. She was obliged to neglect her work of caring for the earth in her search for Proserpine, and disaster came to the land for many seasons. The cattle died and no plough broke the furrows. The seed failed to come up. There was too much sun and too much rain. The birds stole the harvest, little as there was, and seeds and brambles were the main growth. Even Arethusa, the nymph of the fountain, was about to die as Ceres, in her search, came to the banks of the River Cyane, where Pluto had passed with Proserpine to his own domain. Ceres had almost given up hope. "Ungrateful soil that I have clothed with herbs and fruits and grains," she said. "You have taken my child and shall enjoy my favors no longer." But Arethusa spoke: "Do not blame the earth, Mother Ceres," she said. "It opened unwillingly to take your daughter. I come from the waters. I know them so well that I can count the pebbles in the bottom of this river, the willows that shade it and the violets on the bank. I was at play not long since in the river and Alpheus, the god of the stream, pursued me. I ran and he followed in an attempt to keep me from going back to my home in the fountain. As I tried to escape him, I plunged through the depths of the earth and into a cavern. While I passed through the bowels of the earth I saw your Proserpine. She was sad, but had no look of terror. Pluto had made her his queen in the realm of the dead. I have made my way back to tell you." Ceres knew then that Proserpine was lost to her unless Jupiter helped in taking her away from the king of darkness. She summoned her chariot and rode to Mount Olympus, but even Jupiter had not complete power over Pluto. "If Proserpine has taken food in Pluto's realm, the Fates will not allow her to return to earth," he told Ceres. "But I will send my swift messenger, Mercury, with Spring to try and bring her home." In all that time Proserpine had eaten none of the rich food that Pluto had set before her, only six seeds of a red pomegranate as she had pressed the fruit to her lips to quench her thirst. But Spring, with all her strength that can bring new leaves and blooms from dead branches, with the help of Mercury, the god of the winged shoes, brought Proserpine the long way back to her mother for six months. The remaining six months of the year, one month for each pomegranate seed that she had eaten, Proserpine was doomed to spend as queen of Pluto's kingdom of darkness. No one, and particularly not her mother, worried very much, though, about those months of darkness because of the wonders that Proserpine brought when she returned to earth. Every tree that she touched with her garments burst into green, and wherever her feet pressed the earth the grass and wild flowers appeared and spread. Ploughing and planting were begun again, and the new shoots of the corn pushed up through the ground. Indeed, it seemed to Ceres that her other child, the corn, was telling the story of lost Proserpine. The seed of the corn that is thrust into the earth and lies there, concealed in the dark, is like Proserpine carried off by the god of the underworld. Then Spring gives the seed a new form and it appears to bless the earth, just as Proserpine was led forth to her mother and to the light of day. THE PLOUGHMAN WHO BROUGHT FAMINE. Erisichthon had made up his mind to kill the Dryad who lived in the oak tree. He was one of the strongest ploughmen in all Greece, and he knew Ceres who presided over the fields and her favorite Dryad of the oak tree very well. The oak tree had stood for centuries in a grove in which Ceres loved to rest, and it was almost a forest in itself. It overtopped the other trees as far as they stretched above the shrubs. Its trunk measured fifteen cubits around, and it was supported upon roots that were almost as strong as iron cables. It was supposed in those old days of Greece to be a tree of wonders. It was this oak that guarded the wide agricultural domain of Ceres, and the Dryad who lived inside was one of the messengers of this goddess through the farms and orchards. She was a slender, fair young creature who would never grow old and carried sunbeams in her hands that brought new growth wherever she spilled them. When the grove was empty and still, all the other Dryads would step softly from their dwelling places in the cypress, the olive and the pine trees and join hands as they danced lightly about the oak tree, singing their praises of the great Ceres who fed with her bounty the whole of Greece. The country people, and even those from the cities, came to pay their homage to Ceres' oak, bringing garlands of roses and laurel that they hung on its boughs, and carving messages of thanks and love for the Dryad on its bark. Erisichthon knew all this, but he wanted a quantity of wood for his farm without the trouble of earning it. He decided the property of Ceres was his, by right, because he had ploughed her fields at the time of the planting. So Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare the wonderful oak tree, even if it did shelter a Dryad. He called his servants together, armed them with freshly sharpened axes, and they set out for the forest. When they reached the oak tree, Erisichthon's men hesitated. The tree looked like a temple, its wide spreading branches sheltering the other trees, and its great trunk towering toward the sky like a bronze pillar. Each man remembered Ceres' bounty toward him, her gifts of apples and corn, grapes and wheat, and best of all her offering of land that would bring plenty for the ploughing and planting. "We cannot cut it. This is a tree well beloved of Ceres," the men said to their master. "I care not whether it be a tree beloved of the goddess or not," Erisichthon shouted angrily to them. "If I cut it down I shall have no more need of Ceres, for its wood will make me rich beyond the need of planting. She owes me a living on account of the past seasons in which I have worked for her. If Ceres herself were in my way I would cut her down also!" he exclaimed. With this terrible threat on his lips, the lawless ploughman seized an axe from one of his trembling servants and began chopping the trunk of the mighty tree. He had great strength, and each blow cut a deep gash. As Erisichthon cut in toward the heart of the oak tree, that held the Dryad, the oak began to shiver and groan, but he showed it no mercy. He ordered his men to tie ropes to the branches and pull, and he continued to cut it until the tree fell with a crash that was like the sound of a thunderbolt, and brought down with it a great part of the forest that surrounded it. As the giant trunk lay on the ground at the feet of Erisichthon, there was a sighing of the branches like that of a summer breeze passing through, and the leaves fluttered as if they had been stirred by the flight of a bird. It was the spirit of the Dryad whom Erisichthon had so hurt, taking her way to her family of the gods on Mount Olympus. Those Dryads who were left in the grove hastened to Ceres with news of what had happened. "This man must be punished!" they cried. Ceres bowed her head in assent, and the fields of grain bowed also, and the branches of the fruit trees drooped. It was the ripe time of the harvest, but there were no crops on the farm of Erisichthon, and Ceres decreed that no neighbor should share with him. In the northern part of Greece lay the ice topped mountains of Scythia, a bleak, unfertile region without fruit or grain. Cold, and Fear, and Shuddering lived there and one other, who was more to be dreaded than all three. This was Famine with unkempt hair and sunken eyes, blanched lips, and her skin tightly drawn over her sharp bones. She made her home in a hard, stony field where she pulled up the scanty herbage with her claw-like fingers and tried to subsist on it. After Erisichthon had cut down the old oak tree Ceres sent to Scythia for Famine. Erisichthon found that it was going to be a month's task to cut up his wood and carry it to his farm, so he went home to rest over night, planning to start the work in the morning. He felt hungry after his hard work of chopping down the tree, but he had not even a pomegranate for his supper. All his food had strangely disappeared. He decided to go to bed and try to forget his hunger in sleep. "I will sell a load of wood in the morning for many gold coins," he thought, "and buy food in plenty." So Erisichthon lay down on his couch and was soon fast asleep. Then Famine sped in through the window and hovered over where he lay. She folded her wings around him and breathed her poison into his veins. Then she hastened back to Scythia, for she had no other errand in a land of plenty. Erisichthon did not wake but he stirred in his sleep and moved his jaws as if he were eating, for he was very hungry in his dreams. In the morning he woke with a raging hunger that was a hundred times worse than that of the day before. He sold his load of wood and spent all the money for whatever food the earth, the air, and the sea produced. He consumed vast quantities of fish, fowl, the flesh of lambs, fruit and vegetables; but the more Erisichthon ate, the greater was his hunger. The amount of food that would have been enough for the whole of Athens was not sufficient for this man. He continually craved more. Erisichthon sold the wood of the entire oak tree, and began selling pieces of the land that made his farm in order to get food for appeasing his terrible hunger. At last his fields were gone and he had to sell his furniture, his tools, his books, and all his vases. Still he could not get food enough to appease his gnawing appetite, so he sold his house and lived in a tent that he set up beside the road. But his hunger was still unsatisfied and in his madness Erisichthon sold his only daughter to be the slave of a fisherman who cast his nets beside the Aegean Sea. The girl loved her father very dearly and her grief, as she gathered sea weed along the shore for her master, touched the heart of Neptune, the god of the sea. He changed her to the form of a horse, and she went home to Erisichthon, hoping that he would look upon so fine an animal with favor, and give it a home. But her father sold the horse to a chariot racer. She escaped and went again to the shore where Neptune changed her, in turn, to a stag, an ox, and a rare bird. Each time she made her way home, and each time her father sold her to buy food. So the bird flew away to Mount Olympus and was never seen again. At last there came a day when Erisichthon could feed himself no longer. There was nothing left to him in the world that he could sell, and his hunger was so great that he went, like a raving beast, up and down the bountiful fields of Ceres demanding that food be given him. But those whom Famine touches because they break Ceres' laws, and destroy life and property find no help unless they try to restore the order that they have hurt. Erisichthon was too weak to work, and he could never raise another oak tree like that one which had been growing for centuries. So he went, at last, to live with Famine in Scythia which was a long way from the Mount of the gods. THE BEE MAN OF ARCADIA. Strange things were happening in a field of the beautiful country called Arcadia. A youth who wore a wreath of green laurel leaves on his dark hair sat on a rock and held a lyre in his hands from whose strings he drew sweet music. And as he played a wolf, who had been the terror of the shepherds for many leagues around, came out of the woods and lay down like a great dog at the feet of the youth. Next, the nearby olive trees bent their heads to listen and then moved toward him until they stood in a circle at his feet. Then the hard rock on which the musician rested covered itself with soft green verdure and bluebells and violets began to lift their heads, growing out of its age-old stones. This was what always happened when Orpheus, the son of Apollo, played the lyre that his father had given him and had taught him to use. Nothing could withstand the charm of his music. Not only the farmers and shepherds, the nymphs and fauns of Arcadian woods and fields were softened and drawn by his tunes, but the wild beasts as well laid by their fierceness and stood, entranced, at his strains. Orpheus touched his lyre again and played an even lovelier song. And out of the forest glided the nymph, Eurydice, taking her place near Orpheus. His music had won her devotion and Hymen, the god of marriage, had made the two very happy. Their deepest wish was that they might never be separated. The whole of Arcadia was charmed by Orpheus' lute. No, there was just one person in that beautiful country who positively disliked music, and that was the bee-man, Aristaeus. In fact, Aristaeus could not see the value of anything beautiful, the statues and vases in the temple of Apollo, the tapestries the weavers decorated with so many soft colors, the tints of the wild flowers, or the arch of the rainbow in the sky after a shower. This bee-man could find no interest in anything except his combs of yellow honey, their number, and how many gold coins he would be paid for them. Not only did Aristaeus dislike beautiful things, but he did not want others to enjoy them. A cross old Arcadian, was he not? He was feeling particularly disagreeable on the morning when Orpheus began playing his lute near his farm. And when Eurydice, whom Orpheus so loved, approached him to ask for a comb of his delicious honey for dinner for the two, Aristaeus entirely lost his temper. He not only refused the nymph, which no one but a very stingy person could have done, for she smiled at him so winningly and asked for it so politely; but he chased Eurydice off his farm. No one had treated Eurydice so rudely in all her life before. Even Pan had gathered flowers for her to twine into garlands and had refrained from teasing her as he did almost all the other nymphs. And here she was, a long distance from Orpheus and pursued by an ugly tempered country man! Eurydice ran like the wind, the bee-man coming fast behind her. She was much fleeter than he and would have reached the woods safely, but she stepped suddenly on a snake that she had not seen as it lay coiled up in the grass. The snake stung Eurydice's bare feet and she dropped down on the ground. "It serves her right!" the bee-man said, not going to see how badly she was hurt. And with that he went back to his bees. Aristaeus was the very first bee-man, the myths tell us. When the gods made the little creatures of the earth they made also the honey bees and taught them how to build themselves homes in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, to find the nectar in the flowers, and make from it their thick, golden honey. Aristaeus was the son of the water-nymph Cyrene, and he came to Arcadia with the remembrance of the music of the waters and the brightness of the sun in his heart, but when he discovered how to attract the bees to his farm and take their honey away from them and sell it, he forgot everything except his business. That was when he began to dislike Orpheus and to become blind to the fair country in which he lived. "Three hives are swarming to-day," the bee-man thought as he came home. "I ought to be able to get a good sum for the honey." Then, as he reached the orchard where his hives were placed on the wall, he looked about him in amazement. Hives, bees, all were gone. Not a buzz, a sting, or a single drop of honey was left! Aristaeus looked throughout the entire countryside for his bees for days, but he could not find a single one. At last he gave up the search and did what a good many boys and girls would be apt to do in the same emergency. He went to ask the advice of his mother, the sea-nymph Cyrene. He went to the edge of the river where he knew she lived and called her. "O mother, the pride of my life is taken away from me. I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing. Can you turn from me this blow of misfortune?" His mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river with her attendant nymphs around her. They were busy spinning and weaving beautiful designs in water weeds and painting pebbles while another told stories to amuse the rest. But the sad voice of the bee-man interrupted them and one put her head above the water. Seeing Aristaeus, she returned and told his mother, who ordered that he be brought down to her. At the command of Cyrene, the river opened itself and let him pass through, as it stood curled like a mountain on either side. The bee-man descended to the place where the fountains of the great rivers lie. He saw the enormous rock beds of the waters and was almost deafened by their roar as he saw them hurrying off in all their different directions to water the face of the earth. Then Aristaeus came to his mother's palace of shells and stone and he was taken to her apartment where he told her his troubles. Cyrene, being a dweller of the waters which are the fountain of life, was very wise. She understood at once that her son had made a mistake in not seeing that it was possible to combine beauty and usefulness. Arcadia needed bees, but it needed Orpheus and his lute also, and the gods had punished the bee-man for his sordidness. Still, he was her son and Cyrene decided to try and help Aristaeus out of his difficulty. "You must go to old Proteus, who is the herdsman of Neptune's sea-calves," Cyrene said. "He can tell you, my son, how to get back your bees, for he is a great prophet. You will have to force him to help you, however. If you are able to seize him, chain him at once; he will answer your questions in order to be released. I will conduct you to the cave where he comes at noon to take his nap. Then you can easily secure him, but when he finds himself in chains he will cause you a great deal of trouble. He will make a noise like the crackling of flames so as to frighten you into loosing your hold on the chain. Or he may become a wild boar, a fierce tiger, a lion with ravenous jaws or a devouring dragon. But you have only to keep Proteus fast bound and when he finds all his arts to be of no avail he will return to his natural shape and obey your commands." So Cyrene led Aristaeus to the cave by the sea and showed him where to hide behind a rock while she, herself, arose and took her place behind the clouds. Promptly at noon old Proteus, covered with dripping green weeds, issued from the water followed by a herd of sea calves who spread themselves out on the shore. The herdsman of the sea counted them, sat down on the floor of the cave, and then in a very short time had stretched himself out, fast asleep. Aristaeus waited until he was snoring and then he bound him with a heavy chain he had brought for the purpose. When Proteus awoke and found himself captured, he struggled like a wild animal at bay. Next, he turned to flame and then, in succession to many terrible beasts, but Aristaeus never once let go of the chain that secured him. At last he returned to his true form and spoke angrily to Aristaeus. "Who are you, who boldly invades my domain and what do you want?" Proteus demanded. "You know already," the bee-man replied, "for you have the powers of a prophet and nothing is hidden from you. I have lost my bees, and I want to have them returned to me." At these words, the prophet fixed his eyes on Aristaeus with a piercing look. "Your trouble is the just reward sent you by the gods because you killed Eurydice," he said. "To avenge her death, her companion nymphs sent this destruction to your bees." "I killed Eurydice?" Aristaeus asked in amazement. "Does she no longer listen to the music of Orpheus?" "Yes, but not in Arcadia," Proteus explained. "When she was stung by the viper, she was obliged to make her way alone to the dark realm of Pluto. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and men, and then he started out to search for Eurydice. He passed through the crowd of ghosts and entered the realm beyond the dark river Styx. There, in front of the throne of Pluto, he sang of his longing that Eurydice might be restored to him, until the cheeks of even the Fates were wet with tears. "Pluto himself gave way to Orpheus' music and called Eurydice. She came to Orpheus, limping on her wounded foot. They roam the happy fields of the gods together now, he leading sometimes and sometimes she. And Jupiter has placed Orpheus' lyre among the stars." As Proteus finished telling his story, the penitent Aristaeus fell on the ground at his feet. "What can I do to appease the anger of the gods for my wickedness?" he asked. "You may use your skill to build temples to the two in the country of Arcadia which they so loved," Proteus said. "Take your way home. Forget your own gains for a while and gather stones to fit together for the altars." So the bee-man did this, and he discovered that he came to enjoy the work very much. He took pleasure in cutting and polishing the stones until they were as beautiful as those of any temple in Greece. As he worked in the grove that he had selected for his building he often thought that he detected the music of Orpheus' lyre as the birds sang, and the streams rippled, and the wind blew through the leaves. He found it very sweet indeed. One day, shortly after his beautiful altars were built, Aristaeus found a wonder. It was spring, when the nearby orchards were white and sweet with blossoms, and there were all his honey bees returned, and busily starting their hives under the shadow of the temple of Eurydice. WHEN POMONA SHARED HER APPLES. Pomona was a dryad, and Venus had given her a wild apple tree to be her home. As Pomona grew up under the shadow of its branches, protecting the buds from winter storms, dressing herself in its pink blossoms in the spring time, and holding up her hands to catch its apples in the fall, she found that her love for this fruit tree was greater than anything else in her life. At last Pomona planted the first orchard and lived in it and tended it. The dryads were those favored children of the gods who lived in the ancient woods and groves, each in her special tree. Dressed in fluttering green garments, they danced through the woodland ways with steps as light as the wind, sang to the tune of Pan's pipe, or fled, laughing, from the Fauns. They missed Pomona in the woods, and tales came to these forest dwellers of the wonders she was working in the raising of fruits fit for the table of the gods. She had trees on which golden oranges and yellow lemons hung among deep green leaves. She raised citrons and limes, and even cultivated the wide spreading tamarind tree whose fruit was of such value to Epictetus, the physician of Greece, in cooling the fires of fever. The wood folk left their mossy hiding places to peer over the wall of Pomona's orchard and watch her working so busily there. They were a strange company. Pan came from Arcadia where he was the god of flocks and shepherds. He had fastened some reeds from the stream together to make his pipes, and on them he could play the merriest music. It sounded like birds and the singing of brooks and summer breezes all in one. With Pan came his family of Fauns, the deities of the woods and fields. Their bodies were covered with bristling hair, there were short, sprouting horns on their heads, and their feet were shaped like those of a goat. Pan was of the same strange guise as the Fauns were, but to distinguish his rank, he wore a garland of pine about his head. These and Pomona's sisters, the dryads, watched her longingly from the budding time of the year until the harvest. It was a pleasant sight to see Pomona taking care of her apples. She was never without a pruning knife which she carried as proudly as Jupiter did his sceptre. With it she trimmed away the foliage of her fruit trees wherever it had grown too thick, cut the branches that had straggled out of shape, and sometimes deftly split a twig to graft in a new one so that the tree might bear different, better apples. Pomona even led streams of water close to the roots of the trees so that they need not suffer from drought. She looked, herself, a part of the orchard, for she wore a wreath of bright fruits and her arms were often full of apples almost as huge and golden as the famous apples of Hesperides. The dryads and the Fauns begged one, at least, of the apples, but Pomona refused them all. She had grown selfish through the seasons in which she had brought her orchard to a state of such bounteous perfection. She would not give away a single apple, and she kept her gate always locked. So the wood creatures were obliged to go home empty handed to their forest places. In those days Vertumnus was one of the lesser gods who watched over the seasons. The fame of Pomona's fruits came to the ear of Vertumnus and he was suddenly possessed of a great desire to share the orchard and its care with her. He sent messengers in the form of the birds to plead his cause with Pomona, but she was just as cruel to him as she had been to the family of Pan and to her own sisters. She had made up her mind that she would never share her orchard with any one in the world. Vertumnus would not give up, though. He had the power to change his form as he willed, and he decided to go to Pomona in disguise to see if he could not win her by appealing to her pity. She was obliged to buy her grain, and one day in October when the apple boughs bent low with their great red and yellow balls a reaper came to the orchard gate with a basket of ears of corn for Pomona. "I ask no gold for my grain," he said to the goddess, "I want only a basket full of fruit in return for it." "My fruit is not to be given away or bartered for. It is mine and mine alone until it spoils," Pomona replied, driving the reaper away. But the following day a farmer stopped at the orchard, an ox goad in his hand as if he had just unyoked a pair of weary oxen from his hay cart, left them resting beside some stream, and had gone on to ask refreshment for himself. Pomona invited him into her orchard, but she did not offer him a single apple. As soon as the sun began to lower she bade him be on his way. In the days that followed Vertumnus came to Pomona in many guises. He appeared with a pruning hook and a ladder as if he were a vine dresser ready and willing to climb up into her trees and help her gather the harvest. But Pomona scorned his services. Then Vertumnus trudged along as a discharged soldier in need of alms, and again with a fishing rod and a string of fish to exchange for only one apple. Each time that Vertumnus came disguised to Pomona he found her more beautiful and her orchard a place of greater plenty than ever; but the richer her harvest the deeper was her greed. She refused to share even a half of one of her apples. At last, when the vines were dripping with purple juice of the grape and the boughs of the fruit trees hung so heavily that they touched the ground, a strange woman hobbled down the road and stopped at Pomona's gate. Her hair was white and she was obliged to lean on a staff. Pomona opened the gate and the crone entered and sat down on a bank, admiring the trees. "Your orchard does you great credit, my daughter," she said to Pomona. Then she pointed to a grape vine that twined itself about the trunk and branches of an old oak. The oak was massive and strong, and the vine clung to it in safety and had covered itself with bunches of beautiful purple grapes. "If that tree stood alone," the old woman explained to Pomona, "with no vine to cling to it, it would have nothing to offer but its useless leaves. And if the vine did not have the tree to cling to, it would have to lie prostrate on the ground. "You should take a lesson from the vine. Might not your orchard be still more fruitful if you were to open the gate to Vertumnus who has charge of the seasons and can help you as the oak helps the vine? The gods believe in sharing the gifts they give the earth. No one who is selfish can prosper for long." "Tell me about this Vertumnus, good mother," Pomona asked curiously. "I know Vertumnus as well as I know myself," the crone replied. "He is not a wandering god, but belongs among these hills and pastures of our fair land. He is young and handsome and has the power to take upon himself any form that he may wish. He likes the same things that you do, gardening, and caring for the ruddy fruits. Venus, who gave you an apple tree to be your first home, hates a hard heart and if you will persist in living alone in your orchard, refusing to share your apples, she is likely to punish you by sending frosts to blight your young fruits and terrible winds to break the boughs." Pomona clasped her hands in fear. She suddenly understood how true was everything that this old woman said. She had known a spring-time when a storm of wind and hail had shaken off the apple blossoms, and frosts had touched the fruits one fall before she had been able to pick them. "I will open my gate to the country people and to strangers," she said. "I will open it also to Vertumnus if he is still willing to share my orchard and my work." As Pomona spoke, the old woman rose and her gray hair turned to the dark locks of Vertumnus. Her wrinkles faded in the glow of his sunburned cheeks. Her travel stained garments were replaced by Vertumnus' russet gardening smock and her staff to his pruning fork. He seemed to Pomona like the sun bursting through a cloud. She had never really seen him before, having never looked at anyone except with the eyes of selfishness. Vertumnus and Pomona began the harvesting together, and they opened the gate wide to let in those who had need of sharing their plenty. Then the fauns danced in and made merry to the tunes that Pan played. The dryads found new homes for themselves in the trunks of the trees, and the seasons gave rain and sunshine in greater abundance than ever before as these two pruned, and trimmed, and grafted the trees and vines together. Achelous, the river god, took his way past the orchard kingdom of Pomona and Vertumnus and brought with him Plenty who was able to fill her horn with gifts of fruit for all, apples, pears, grapes, oranges, plums, and citrons until it overflowed. Ever since the October when Pomona opened her gate and shared her apples, an orchard has been a place of beauty, bounty, and play. HOW PSYCHE REACHED MOUNT OLYMPUS. Once upon a time there was a king of Greece who had three beautiful daughters, but the youngest, who was named Psyche, was the most beautiful of all. The fame of her lovely face and the charm of her whole being were so great that strangers from the neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight and they paid Psyche the homage of love that was due to Venus herself. Venus' temple was deserted, and as Psyche passed by the people sang her praises, and strewed her way with flowers and wreaths. Venus had a son, Cupid, who was dearer to her than any other being on Mount Olympus or in the earth. Like every mother, Venus had great ambitions for the future of her son, but she was not always able to follow him, for Cupid had wings and a golden bow and arrows with which he was fond of playing among mortals. What was Venus' wrath to discover at last that Cupid had lost his heart to Psyche, the lovely maiden of earth! It was like a fairy story in which a prince marries a peasant girl and may not bring her home to the palace because of her mean birth. Venus quite refused to recognize Psyche or award her a place in the honored family of the gods. Cupid and Psyche had a very wonderful earthly palace in which to live. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls of the apartments of state were richly carved and hung with embroidered tapestries of many colors. When Psyche wished food, all she had to do was to seat herself in an alcove when a table immediately appeared without the aid of servants and covered itself with rare fruits and rich cakes and honey. When she longed for music, she had a feast of it played by invisible lutes, and with a chorus of harmonious voices. But Psyche was not happy in this life of luxury, for she had to be alone so much of the time. Venus could not take Cupid away from her altogether, but she allowed him to be with Psyche only in the hours of darkness. He fled before the dawn. There had been a direful prophecy in Psyche's family of which her sisters had continually reminded her. "Your youngest daughter is destined for a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist," was the oracle given to the king, and the memory of it began to fill Psyche's heart with fear. Her sisters came to visit her and increased her fear. They asked all manner of questions about Cupid, and Psyche was obliged to confess that she could not exactly describe him because she had never seen him in the light of day. Her jealous sisters began at once to fill Psyche's mind with dark suspicions. "How do you know," they asked, "that your husband is not a terrible and venomous serpent, who feeds you for a while with all these dainties that he may devour you in the end? Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp well filled with oil and tonight, when this villain returns and sleeps, go into his apartment and see whether or not our prophecy is true." Psyche tried to resist her sisters, but at last their urging and her own curiosity were too much for her. She filled her lamp, and when her husband had fallen into his first sleep, she went silently to his couch and held the light above him. There lay Cupid, the most beautiful and full of grace of all the gods! His golden ringlets were a crown above his snowy forehead and crimson cheeks, and two wings whose feathers were like the soft white blossoms of the orchard sprang from his shoulders. In her joy at finding no cause for her fears, Psyche leaned over, tipping her lamp, that she might look more closely at Cupid's face. As she bent down, a drop of the burning oil fell on the god's shoulder. He opened his eyes, startled, and looked up at Psyche. Then, without saying a word, he spread his wide wings and flew out of the window. Psyche tried to follow him, but she had no wings and fell to the ground. For one brief moment Cupid stayed his flight and turned to see her lying there below him in the dust. "Foolish Psyche," he said, "why did you repay my love in this way? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, could you not trust me? I will inflict no further punishment upon you than this, that I leave you forever, for love cannot live with suspicion." And with these words Cupid flew out of Psyche's sight. That was the beginning of the long road of trouble Psyche had to follow. She wandered day and night, without food or rest, in search of Cupid. One day she saw a magnificent temple set upon the brow of a lofty hill and she toiled the long way up to it, saying to herself, "Perhaps my love inhabits here." When Psyche reached the top of the hill and entered the temple, she saw heaps of corn, some in sheaves and others in loose ears, and there was barley mingled with it. There were sickles and rakes and all the other instruments of the harvest scattered about in great confusion as if the reapers, at the end of the sultry day, had left them in this disorder. In spite of her sorrow, Psyche could not bear to see this disarray and she began trying to set the place in order. She worked so busily that she did not see Ceres, whose temple it was, enter. Turning at last, Psyche saw the goddess of the harvest, wearing her fruit trimmed garments and standing at her side. "Poor Psyche!" she said pityingly. "But it is possible for you to find a way to the abode of the gods where Cupid has his home. Go and surrender yourself to Venus and try by your own works to win her forgiveness and, perhaps, her favor." So Psyche obeyed this command of Ceres, although it took a great deal of courage, and she travelled to the temple of Venus in Thebes where the goddess received her in anger. "The only way by which you can merit the favor of the gods, unfortunate Psyche," she said, "is by your own efforts. I, myself, am going to make a trial of your housewifely skill to see if you are industrious and dilligent." With these words Venus conducted Psyche to a storehouse connected with her temple where there was an enormous quantity of grain laid up; beans, lentils, barley, wheat and the tiny seeds of the millet which Venus had stored to feed her pigeons. "Separate all these grains," the goddess said to Psyche, "putting those of the same kind in a pile, and see that you finish before evening." Then she left Psyche who was in consternation at the impossible task spread before her. Psyche dipped her fingers into the golden heap gathering up a handful to sort the grains, but it took her a long time and the grain lay about her on every side like a yellow river. The grains she held were less than a drop taken from its surface. "I shall not be able to finish. I shall never see my husband again!" Psyche moaned. Still she worked on steadily and at last a little ant, a native of the fields, crawled across the floor and took compassion on the toiling Psyche. It was a king in its own domain and was followed by a host of its little red subjects. Grain by grain, they separated the seeds, helping to put them in their own piles, and when the work was accomplished they vanished as quickly as they had appeared. When evening came Venus returned, breathing odors of nectar and crowned with roses, from a banquet of the gods. When she saw that Psyche's task was done, she scarcely believed her eyes. "You must have had assistance," she said. "To-morrow you shall try a more difficult undertaking. Beyond my temple you will see a grassy meadow which stretches along the borders of the water. There you will find a flock of sheep with golden shining fleeces on their backs and grazing without a shepherd. Bring me a sample of their precious wool that you gather from each of the fleeces." Psyche once more obeyed, but this was a test of her life as well as of her endurance. As she reached the meadow, the river god, whispering to her through the rushes, warned her. "Do not venture among the flock while the sun shines on them," he told her. "In the heat of the rising sun, the rams burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp teeth. Wait until twilight, when you will find their woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees." The compassion of the river god helped Psyche to do as Venus had commanded her and she returned to the temple in the evening with her arms full of golden fleece. Still Venus was not satisfied. "I have a third task for you," she told the weary Psyche. "Take this box to the realm of Pluto and give it to Proserpine saying to her, 'My mistress, Venus, desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in tending her son whom Psyche burned she has lost some of her own.' And make all possible haste, for I must use it before I appear next in the circle of the gods on Mount Olympus." Psyche felt that now her destruction was surely at hand. It was a dangerous road that led to the dark, underground kingdom of Pluto and there were deadly dangers on the way. But Psyche was finding a new courage with each of the difficulties that she had to encounter, and she set out with the box. She passed safely by Cerberus, Pluto's three headed watch dog. She prevailed upon Charon, the ferryman, to take her across the black river and wait for her while she begged Proserpine to fill the box. Then she started back to the light again. All would have gone well with Psyche if she had not grown curious. That was why her road to the dwelling place of the gods was so long and difficult. Psyche was always mixing up a little bit of earth with her good intentions. Having come so far successfully with her dangerous task, she wanted to open the box. "I would take only the least bit of this beauty from Venus," Psyche thought, "to make myself more fair for Cupid if I ever behold him again." So she carefully opened the box, but there was nothing in it of beauty at all. It was a potion that caused Psyche to fall beside the road in a sleep which seemed to have no waking. She did not stir, or breathe, or remember. It was there that love, in the form of Cupid found Psyche. He was healed of his wound, and he could not bear her absence any longer. He flew through a crack in the window of the palace of Venus and made his way to earth and straight to the spot where Psyche lay. He gathered the deadly sleep from her body and put it fast inside the box again. Then he touched her lightly with one of his arrows and she woke. "Again you have almost perished because of your curiosity," he said as Psyche reached up her arms to him "but perform exactly this task which my mother asked of you and I will attend to the rest." Then Cupid, as swift as a bird flies, returned to Mount Olympus and pleaded with Jupiter for a welcome for Psyche. Jupiter consented at last to have this daughter of earth admitted to the family of the gods and Mercury was sent to bring her and offer her the cup of ambrosial nectar that would make her one of the immortals. It is said that at the moment when Psyche completed her tasks and took her departure for Mount Olympus a winged creature, the butterfly, that had never been seen before on earth, arose from a garden and flew on golden wings up toward the sun. So it was thought that the story of Psyche was the story of the butterfly who bursts its gray house of the cocoon and rises, with a new beauty and the power of wings, toward the sky. And the Greeks had still another name for Psyche whom neither her troubles or the sleep of Pluto could keep from the abode of the gods when Love pleaded for her. They spoke of her as the Soul. HOW MELAMPOS FED THE SERPENT. There was a hollow oak tree in front of the house of Melampos in Greece and inside it was a nest of serpents. Melampos was a farmer, skilful in raising fruits and grains and full of love for everything that lived out of doors. He would not so much as crush an ant hurrying home to its hill with a grain of sand, and although he did not particularly like snakes he saw no harm in these that had made themselves a home in a tree that no one wanted. "They will do us no hurt unless we disturb them," Melampos told his servants. "Let them alone and perhaps, when the weather is warmer, they will take their way off to the neighboring marsh." But Melampos' servants were not so sure as he of the harmlessness of the serpents. "Our master is growing old and child like," they said to each other. "The next time he drives to the city with a load of grain we will get rid of the nest of vipers." So that was what they did. In Melampos' absence they fired the nest of the serpents with a torch and burned it up completely, as they thought. But when Melampos returned that afternoon and sat down under his arbor to rest and eat his supper of bread and grapes, he saw a pair of bright black eyes peering up at him from the grass. Then he spied a round green head raised above a long green body. It was one of the young serpents that had not been hurt when the nest was burned and had come to the master of the place for protection. Melampos looked cautiously around to see that no one was watching him. "If any of the servants see me, they will think me out of my senses," he said to himself, "but I am sorry for this little creature and would befriend it." Then, seeing that he was quite unobserved, Melampos broke off a piece of his bread and threw the crumbs to the young serpent. It devoured them to the last one and then glided off so silently that it left no trail except a long line of gently moving grasses. The next day the serpent came and the next, always hungry and always lifting its little head and looking at Melampos in its odd, bright way. One day as Melampos broke his bread as usual to share it with the serpent, he heard a voice speaking to him. "The gods have been watching your kindness, Melampos," it said, "and have rewarded you in the way you will like best. They have given you the power of understanding the tongues of the wild." Melampos looked all about him, but there was not another mortal within sight. Then his eyes caught those of the serpent and he suddenly realized that it had been its voice which he had heard. That was the beginning of strange experiences for Melampos upon whom the gods had conferred so wonderful a gift. The serpent never returned after that day, but that very same evening a tree toad spoke to Melampos. "Water your olive trees well around the roots, Melampos," it said, "for there is a season of drought approaching." That was an excellent warning, because the farmer had a grove of young trees that needed very tender care. Melampos sprayed the trees and soaked the roots and felt very thankful to the tree toad for its advice. After a few days of dry weather Melampos was on his way to the city when a grasshopper spoke to him from the side of the road. "Turn back, Melampos, and gather your sheaves of wheat into your storehouse," the grasshopper said, "for Jupiter is about to send a thunderbolt down to the earth." That was exactly what happened. Melampos had just time to reach his grain field and order his men to put the ripe sheaves safely under cover when the sky grew black and the thunder rolled along the mountain tops. A high wind blew and the rain was heavy, but Melampos had saved his harvest. All outdoors talked to Melampos after that, and it was very pleasant indeed, for he had no boys and girls of his own to keep him company. If he sat down to rest on a bank of moss in the forest, he was at once surrounded by friends. A little wild bee would light on a branch in front of him and tell him where he might find its sweet comb dripping with honey nearby. A butterfly would poise on his rough, soil stained hand and tell him where he would be able to see a bed of yellow daffodils beside a brook. Or a bird in a nearby bush would sing to him of the gay doings of Pan and the dryads and tell him the road to take to their haunts farther and deeper in the woods. Melampos had never had such a good time in his life. He was an excellent husbandman and managed to make his farm pay well every year, but he cared very much more for this friendship of outdoors than he did for the hoards of food each harvest gave him. And, more and more, he came to stay in the woods and fields, holding conversation with the insects and the wild animals. One harvest season Melampos was returning from the market with a large purse of gold pieces that had just been paid him for the sale of his summer wheat. He was taking his way through a deserted path of the forest where he hoped he might hear the echo, at least, of the merry pipes of Pan. He had not a thought or care in the world when, in an instant, he was laid low on the ground from a blow on his head, his gold was snatched away from him, and he was bound so tightly that he could not move. Melampos had been set upon by a band of robbers who threw him over the back of a horse and made off with him into the recesses of the forest. It was not that peaceful, sylvan grove of the forest that Pan and his friends inhabited, but a dark, gloomy part where it was so still that even the sound of a twig falling to the ground seemed as loud as the splintering of an arrow, and no one ever passed by. The robbers put Melampos in an underground passage of a prison-like fortress which they had built for themselves. From beam to floor the fortress was built all of oak planks so old and thick and so completely covered with ivy on the outside that it looked like part of the forest itself. Melampos had only a slit in the wall for a window, and he never saw his captors save when they tossed him some dried crusts once a day. He could hear them, though, counting their stolen coin and rattling it about. Then he heard the sound of clinking armor and the occasional clashing of swords. "They are planning to kill me," he thought. He looked longingly at the narrow chink in his prison wall, hardly large enough to let a sunbeam through. "If I could but beckon to a wood pigeon and tell it my plight, I should be able to send a message to my friends by it," he sighed, "or I could ask the woodpecker who can bore through wood to try and widen my window so that I might escape." Just then Melampos heard a rustling sound in the heavy beam of the ceiling of the room where he was imprisoned and then a small voice spoke to him. "We could teach you better than any other creatures how to escape," it said. "For years this forest has belonged to us, small as we are, and in a very short time now it will return to the earth from which the trees that built it came." Melampos was amazed. He looked in all the corners of the room but could see no one. Then the voice went on. "No wood, or men who live in shelters made of wood are safe from us. We have bored the beams and timbers of this fortress in a thousand places until they are hollow and ready to fall." Suddenly Melampos discovered the source of the voice. Through a knothole in a beam above his head a wood worm peered down at him. With its companions it had eaten the planks that made the fortress until it was no safer than a house of paper. "We are all doomed," Melampos told one of the robbers who brought him his food that night. "Doomed; what do you mean by that?" the robber asked in terror, for like most of his kind he was nothing but a coward at heart. Melampos showed him the decayed wood, hollow, and riddled with holes, and the man called his companions to see their danger. They decided that they must flee from the fortress at once, and they decided to give Melampos his freedom. It would not have been safe to stay in the fortress another season, for almost as soon as the winter storms came it crumbled like a house of sand, and the ants and the crickets used it to make themselves winter shelters. Melampos went back to his farm and the pleasant conversation of the insects, the birds, and his four-footed friends. He was the first mortal to have such friends, but there were others who followed him and found happiness, also, through being kind to little wild creatures. HOW A HUNTRESS BECAME A BEAR. Although Juno was the queen of the gods she had a failing that is common to mortals. She was very jealous, and particularly of any maiden of Earth whom she fancied might sometime be given a place by Jupiter among the great family of the gods on Mount Olympus. As soon as Juno saw Callisto, a beautiful huntress of the forests of Arcadia, she disliked her. Perhaps Juno would have liked to be free to roam through the woods where Pan played his music for dancing and the Dryads sported from one season to another as Callisto did. The goddess may have envied the huntress her happy, free life with no royal duties to interfere with her daily chase of the deer or any heavy crown to keep the breezes from tossing her long dark hair. Callisto reverenced Jupiter and Juno alike, with no thought that she might be arousing the displeasure of the goddess, but one day a strange and fearful thing happened to her. She had just raised her bow to her shoulder ready to shoot an arrow as straight as a dart through the green path of the forest when it suddenly struck her hand and she fell to the moss upon her hands and knees. She tried to reach out her arms in supplication but they had become thick and heavy and were covered with long black hair. Her hands grew rounded, were armed with crooked claws and served her for feet. Her voice, which had been so sweet that it charmed the birds when she called to them, changed to a terrifying growl. Callisto raised herself as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg mercy of the gods and uttering frightful roars as she bemoaned her fate. She had always been obliged to defend herself from the lions and wolves that haunted the forest and she felt that she would be at their mercy now. All at once, though, she understood what had happened to her. She, herself, was now no longer a mortal but a wild beast. Juno had persuaded Jupiter to change Callisto to the first bear. She had never liked to be out in the wood at night, but now she had no shelter and had to roam through the darkness, pursued often by the same wild beasts whom it had been her custom to hunt before. She fled from her own dogs in terror and was in hourly terror of the same arrows which she had formerly aimed so straight. In the winter Callisto crawled into some hollow log or dug a cave for herself that she might keep alive during the season of the North Wind's reign, and when spring came she crawled out, lean and weak, to search for the wild bee's comb and the first juicy berries of the juniper. One day a boy saw the bear as he was out hunting. Callisto saw him at the same time and realized that he was her own son, Arcas, now grown to be a tall youth and taking his part in the chase as his mother had so many seasons before. Callisto forgot her changed form in her great joy at seeing her son, and she arose to her hind feet and hastened toward him holding out her paws to embrace him. The boy, alarmed, raised his hunting spear and ran to meet the bear and thrust its point through her heart. Callisto's son would have killed her if Jupiter had not, just then, looked down on the forest from his throne and felt a sudden pity for the tragedy he had brought about. The gods had made a long road in the sky that led to the palace of the Sun. Any one may see this road on a clear night, for it stretches across the face of the sky and is known as the Milky Way. The palaces of the illustrious gods stood on either side of the road and a little farther back were placed the homes of the lesser deities. At the very moment that Arcas, his spear raised, rushed upon Callisto, two new comers appeared in the sky near the road of the gods. They had the form of a Great Bear and a Little Bear, but their bodies were made of brightly shining stars. The mighty Jupiter had transformed Callisto and her son into these two constellations. How enraged Juno was when she found it out! She descended to the sea and told her troubles to Oceanus, a giant of the race of Titans who ruled the waters at that time. "Do you wonder, Oceanus," Juno cried, "why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly plains and seek your depths? It is because my authority has been set aside. I shall be supplanted among my fellow gods, for Callisto, the bear, has been taken up to the skies and given a place among the stars. Who can deny but that she may not occupy my throne next!" "What would you have me do about it?" old Oceanus asked, a little puzzled as to why Juno had consulted him. "I forbade Callisto to keep her human form and my will has been unjustly set aside," Juno replied. "Now that she has an abode on the road to heaven she will be able to take any form she desires and may come to you for help in her attempt to steal my throne. I command you to never allow the stars of her constellation to touch the waters." Oceanus called a council of the other powers of the waters and they assented to Juno's decree. One after another the stars rose and set, touching the sea in their courses, but the Great Bear and the Little Bear moved ceaselessly round and round in the sky, never sinking to rest as the other stars did beneath the ocean. Juno had thought that this would be a punishment for them but as it turned out it was a kind of reward. Because the Great Bear and the Little Bear were always to be seen in their changeless, shining course, people who were obliged to travel at night, and particularly those who were at sea, grew to depend upon them as a means of finding their way in the darkness. The last star in the tail of the Little Bear indicated the north and was known after a while as the Pole Star. The ancients called it also the Star of Arcadia, for it helped so many mariners to find their way home across the perilous waters. It had happened to Juno, as it often happens to jealous people to-day, that she had not hurt Callisto in the least but had brought her a great deal of honor. THE ADVENTURE OF GLAUCUS. Glaucus, the fisherman, rubbed his eyes to find out if he was not dreaming. He had just drawn in his net to land and had emptied it, ready to sort the fish that lay, a large haul, all over the grass. But a strange thing was happening to them. Of a sudden, the fishes began to revive and move their fins exactly as if they were in the water. Then, as Glaucus looked at them in astonishment, the fishes one and all moved off to the water, plunged in, and swam away. The spot where Glaucus fished was a beautiful island in the river, but a solitary place, for it was inhabited only by him. It was not used to pasture cattle even, or visited by anyone. No one was there to work sorcery with his haul. Glaucus did not know what to make of the happening. "Can it be that the river-god is working this marvel?" he wondered to himself. Then it occurred to him that there might be some secret power in the thick green leaves that covered the island among the grasses. "What may not be the power of this herb?" he asked himself, pulling up a handful of the leaves and tasting one. Scarcely had the juices of the plant touched Glaucus' tongue than a strange feeling of restlessness filled him, and he was overcome by an unconquerable thirst. He could not keep away from the water but ran to the edge of the river where he had fished for so many years, plunged in and swam away toward the sea. It was a wonderful, free kind of experience for Glaucus who had never known any life but that of hauling in his nets and then casting them again. As he followed the swiftly flowing currents, the waters of a hundred rivers flowed over him, washing away all that was mortal of the fisherman, and he came at last to the sea. A marvellous sight met him there. The surf that beat against a rocky shore became suddenly smooth, as a chariot drawn by horses shod with brass and having long floating manes of gold rolled toward Glaucus over the surface of the sea. A giant who held a three-pointed spear for crushing rocks and blew loud trumpet blasts from a great curved shell, drove the chariot toward Glaucus and then stopped, inviting him to ride down to the depths of the ocean. It was Neptune, the god of the sea, and Glaucus discovered that he felt quite at home in the chariot. He was no longer a dweller of the earth, but had become a citizen of that boundless country that lay beneath the waves. The fisherman was completely changed in form. His hair was sea green and trailed behind him through the water. His shoulders broadened, and his limbs took the shape and use of a fish's tail. He had never known such freedom and joy as now when he spent whole days doing nothing but following the ebb and flow of the tides and learning the use of his newly found fins as a bird tries its wings on first leaving the nest. But Glaucus still retained powers of thinking and of action which are denied the inhabitants of the sea. One day he saw the beautiful maiden, Scylla, one of the water nymphs, come out from a sheltered nook on the shore and seat herself on a rock, dipping her hands in the water and bringing up sea-shells for twining in the water weeds to make a necklace. Glaucus had never seen so fair a creature as Scylla and he moved toward her through the waves, rising at last and stopping at the place where she sat as he murmured his affection for her above the singing of the sea. But Scylla was very much terrified at the sight of this strange personage, half youth and half fish. She turned to run as soon as she saw him and did not stop until she had gained a cliff that overlooked the sea. Here she waited for a moment and turned around to look in wonder as Glaucus raised himself upon a rock and the sun touched his green hair and scaly covering until he shone in its light. He called to Scylla. "Do not flee from me, maiden! I am no monster or even a sea-animal, but have been transformed from a poor fisherman to a god of the sea." Then Glaucus told Scylla the whole story of his amazing adventures and tried to describe to her the kingdom of Neptune with its playing dolphins, the castles of rose colored and white coral, and the never ending music of the waters. "Come with me, and descend to Neptune's realm," he begged, but Scylla would not remain to even listen. She fled and left nothing to console Glaucus but her scattered sea shells lying in bright heaps on the rocks. Glaucus did not pursue Scylla but he felt that he could not give her up. He remembered the strange charm of the sea that there had been in the herbs on his native island, and he wondered if he might, by chance, find some such power for giving the nymph, Scylla, the desire for the sea that had drawn him to Neptune's kingdom. But Glaucus could not explore his little fishing island, for it was a long way off and he had forgotten its direction even. So he made what proved to be an almost disastrous decision. He set out for the island of Circe, the enchantress, to ask her help in winning Scylla. Circe was, in the beginning, a daughter of the sun but she had put her light of learning to wicked uses and had made herself into a powerful sorceress. She lived in a palace embowered with trees and those were the only signs of vegetation on her island. But if a shipwrecked crew came up the shores, hoping to find a welcome and timber for building a new bark, they were immediately surrounded by lions, tigers and wolves who had formerly been men but had been changed by Circe's magic to the form of beasts. The brave hero of Greece, Ulysses, came in his travels to Circe's isle once, and his crew heard the sounds of lovely music coming from the castle in the trees and the tones of a maiden's sweet singing. They had endured the raging of the sea and all its perils for many days and they hastened to the palace where Circe, who had the appearance of a princess, greeted them and ordered a feast for them. As they ate, she touched them one by one with her wand and the men were all changed to swine. They kept the thoughts of men, but they had the head, body, voice and bristles of these despised creatures, and Circe shut them up in sties and fed them with acorns. Ulysses persuaded the sorceress to release his men, but he, the hero, was not able to resist her charms and remained in her palace a year, his work and country forgotten. Surely Glaucus was setting out on a mad errand when he decided to go to Circe. But he persisted and landed on her island. He told her how Scylla had looked upon him with terror, and he begged to have a charm by means of which he might make Scylla love the sea as the herb had made him a subject of Neptune. "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the ocean and sea weed on the mountain peaks than I will cease to love Scylla and her alone," Glaucus told Circe. The enchantress looked on Glaucus and she began to admire him as much as Scylla had been frightened by him. He was really quite a distinguished looking personage, for he had the power to take on human form when he wished, and his trailing robes of green seaweed looked almost kingly. "I will brew a potion as you wish with my own hands and carry it to Scylla," Circe told Glaucus, but she had decided to work harm on the innocent nymph in order to keep Glaucus forever on her island. Circe's potion was mixed of the most poisonous plants which grew on her island. She blended them with deadly skill and then took her way to the coast of Sicily where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the coast where Scylla loved to come in the middle of the day when the sun was high to bathe in the cool waters. Circe poured her poison into the clear blue bay and muttered incantations of mighty power over it. Then she returned to her island. Scylla came that day as usual when the sun was high and plunged into the waters up to her waist. What was her horror to discover that she was sinking to her shoulders and then to her head. The waters covered her before anyone heard her frightened calls for help and where she had stepped so happily into the waters which she loved, there were only a few ripples on the surface of the bay and soon even they were gone. Circe's charm had taken effect and the lovable Scylla had been carried down to Neptune's kingdom, but not as Glaucus had desired, for she was without motion or sight or speech. Glaucus, meanwhile, forgot Scylla in the enchantment of Circe's island and remained in the waters near there, taking human form when he wished and enjoying the luxuries of her palace. Perhaps he might never have remembered that he was a subject of Neptune if his attention had not been attracted one day to the wild beasts which prowled about the island. They were speaking to each other with the voices of men and bewailing the fate by which they had been led there from their ships and brought into Circe's power. Glaucus, hearing them, understood what might be in store for him. He began to hate the powers of the wicked enchantress and the memory came to him of Scylla as she had appeared to him on the rock, her hands full of bright shells. He plunged into the water and was soon a long distance from the fatal island. Glaucus began then to search for Scylla through the many leagues of the ocean but he could not find her. That was because Scylla, through the design of Circe, had gone down as mortals do and been drowned. The sea was full of such, and as Glaucus wandered about among the gardens of sea anemones and along the shell strewn roads of Neptune's kingdom, he felt a new desire in his heart. He knew how those mortals felt whose loved ones had been taken away from them by the sea, and he began using his power to restore the drowned to life again. For a thousand years Glaucus went up and down through the sea restoring mortals who had loved to each other again. And in all his following of the tides he was searching for Scylla. After a thousand years had passed and it seemed to the gods that Glaucus had expiated the wrong he had done in appealing to Circe, he found Scylla in the green depths. And the nymphs say that the two lived always happily together in a coral palace with a sea garden of anemones and green water plants all about it. THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE. Jason was having a boat built in which he planned to set sail on a kind of pirate expedition. He was going as far as the eastern shore of the Black Sea to try and capture and bring home the Golden Fleece. This golden fleece was a prize indeed, for it was a good deal like the magic carpet in a fairy tale. In very ancient times Mercury, the god with the winged shoes, had given the queen of Thessaly a ram whose fleece was of pure gold. There came a time when the queen found it necessary to send her son away from the kingdom for safety as quickly and secretly as possible. So she sent him on the back of this ram, who leaped into the air, crossed the strait that divides Europe and Asia, and landed the boy without accident in Colchis in the Black Sea. Ever since then its fleece of gold had hung in a sacred grove of Colchis guarded by a dragon who never slept. It was said that the fleece could carry one through the air as far as he wished to go, and its gold was the finest and purest in the world. A great many adventurers had equipped expeditions for getting the golden fleece, but so far none of them had been successful. Jason had a different idea about it, however, than any youth of Greece who had set out for the fleece before. He felt that it was his right, in a way, because he was going to be a king if he could bring it home. Jason's uncle, Pelias, was the king of a part of Thessaly. Because the golden fleece had belonged in Thessaly in the first place, Pelias had an idea that any king in Thessaly who could get it might keep it, and enjoy its magic powers. But Pelias did not want the trouble of going for it. He was willing to give up his throne to the lad, Jason, if he could bring the golden fleece home. And Jason was quite willing to be the head of such a pirate expedition with the promise of this advantage at the end. Jason did not even build his ship, but paid a vast sum of money to have it done for him. It was a stupendous task in those days to make a boat that would weather a sea voyage. About the only boats that the Greeks had were small ones shaped like canoes and hollowed out from the trunks of trees. Jason had decided to take fifty of his friends with him, and that meant the building of a larger boat than had ever been launched before from Thessaly. A gigantic tree had to be cut down and gouged and shaped by hand. New looms had to be set working to weave wide enough cloth for the sails. For months the sound of axes and chisels echoed along the beach, until at last this great boat, the Argo, was finished and launched, and Jason brought his friends, whom he called the Argonauts, to board her. Jason chose his crew well. They were all fine, well born youths of Greece, and everyone of them made a name for himself later on. Hercules was of the Argonauts, and there has never been any such strength as his. There was Theseus, who could move rocks and capture robbers single-handed. There was also Orpheus, the son of Apollo, who could tame, wild beasts with the beautiful music of his lyre. Nestor, who grew up to be a famous warrior of Greece, went with them. They seated themselves with their leader, Jason, in the ship, a whistling breeze filled her sails, and they shot swiftly before the wind toward Colchis. It was a long voyage, but they reached this foreign shore with no serious mishap, leaped onto the bank, and went at once to the king of Colchis, demanding from him the golden fleece. The Argonauts thought in the pride of their youth that no one could resist them or refuse them anything, but the king looked serious over the matter. "You must earn the fleece, Jason," he said. "Nothing so valuable can be had for only the asking. Are you brave enough to yoke my bulls to a plough and plant a field full of dragon's teeth?" Jason gasped. He knew these bulls of Colchis by reputation, although it had never occurred to him that he might be called upon to harness and drive them. They had brazen teeth and breathed fire from their nostrils that consumed whatever it touched. The sound of their breathing was like the roar of a furnace, and the smoke of their breath was suffocating. In spite of his fear, though, Jason had another thought. The king had said that the fleece must be earned, that nothing so golden could be had for the asking. That was really true, Jason thought, and he began to feel a great courage. He was growing into the hero that he always had been at heart, being a youth of Greece. "Send out your bulls," he said to the king of Colchis. Something happened then that is very apt to happen when anyone makes up his mind to dare a seemingly impossible deed. Help came to Jason. Medea, the daughter of the king of Colchis, gave Jason a charm that protected him from fire. The bulls rushed into the field toward Jason, sending forth their burning breath like dragons, but Jason advanced boldly to meet them. His friends, the Argonauts, watched him in terror, but he went straight up to the bulls and his voice seemed to soothe their rage. He stroked their necks fearlessly, slipped on the yoke and harnessed them to the plough. Dragons' teeth were a strange kind of seed to plant. As Jason ploughed straight furrows and dropped in the teeth, the people of the kingdom and the Argonauts gathered at the edge of the field to watch, and it came to his mind that perhaps the king was making a joke of him. There would have been some sense in having that pair of fiery bulls use their great strength to plough in corn and wheat, Jason thought, as he plodded up and down the field. But suddenly a cry from the crowd startled Jason and he looked back. A strange sight met his eyes. The clods of earth that covered the teeth of the dragon began to stir, and the bright points of spears thrust their way up through to the surface. Helmets with nodding plumes appeared next, and after them came the shoulders and arms and limbs of men. In a moment the field was alive with armed warriors advancing upon Jason. He was only one hero against all of this foe, but the sight put the same courage that had come to him into the heart of each one of the Argonauts and they rushed to help their leader. Jason led valiantly against the warriors, but there would have been no hope for him and the Greeks if his courage had not been rewarded a second time. Medea sent a charmed sword to the hero. He threw it into the ranks of the warriors and they suddenly ceased attacking the Greeks, fell to fighting among themselves, and were destroyed. There was still another danger for Jason to face, the dragon who guarded the fleece with eyes that never closed. His new courage was equal to it. He entered the grove that sheltered the golden fleece, took the glittering blanket from the oak tree where it hung, escaped the dragon and embarked with the Argonauts for the return trip to Greece. The people proclaimed Jason king when he and the rest of these young heroes of Greece landed in Thessaly. They chose him for his valor, not for his spoils, and it seemed to add to his new glory that he had started out an adventurer and returned a victor in a great fight. The strangest part of the story is that no one knows what became of the golden fleece after Jason and the Argonauts brought it home with them. No one seems to have ever heard of it again. Perhaps even such a treasure as that was grew dull and lost its value in comparison with the golden prize of courage in achievement that the Argonauts found and kept all the rest of their lives. MEDEA'S CALDRON. If a boy of to-day could have lived in the days of the ancient Greeks, learning by means of self restraint and all the arts of soldiery to be a hero in warfare, it is possible that his captain would have told him a strange story as part of his training. The boy would have wondered why he had to hear such a grim tale, and what it all meant, for it was one of the myths which rivalled almost all the rest in its hidden meaning. It was the story of Medea, the dark sorceress, and how she worked her art on Aeson, the father of Jason. Jason brought Medea home to Thessaly with him at the same time that he brought the fleece of gold whose capture had been his great adventure. She was the princess who had helped him with her sorcery to brave a fire breathing dragon, but she was ill suited to the court of Greece, never having taken any pleasure in the arts that most maidens delighted in, needlework, weaving and the other crafts needful in making a home. Instead Medea was wont to flee from the feasts and the games of the court and sit by herself on a cliff beside the sea, her long black hair blowing about her pale face and her lips muttering incantations to the wild accompaniment that the waves sang. She had a fondness for the hero, Jason, though, in her own strange way, and pride in the mighty deeds he had dared. She heard him speak one day of his greatest wish. "There is only one thing lacking in my triumph and the homage that the nation is paying me," Jason told Medea, "I would that my father were able to take part in the rejoicing but he is growing daily more feeble and helpless. I would willingly give enough years from my life to make him young and strong again." Medea replied nothing in answer to this wish, but to herself she said, "My power has been mighty in the aid of this hero and I will try it still farther. If my sorcery avails me anything, the life of Jason's father shall be lengthened without the cost of the sacrifice of any of the youth's own years." So, when the moon was next in the full, Medea made her way silently and alone out of the palace when it was the dead of night and all creatures slept. She moved swiftly along the fields and groves murmuring strange words as she went, and addressing an incantation to the moon and to the stars. There was a goddess, named Hecate, who was supposed to represent the darkness and terror of the night as Diana represented its beauties. At dusk she began her wandering over the earth, seen only by dogs who howled at her approach. Medea followed Hecate, imploring her help, and she also called to Tellus, that goddess of the earth by whose power those herbs that could be brewed for enchantment were grown. And Medea invoked the aid also of the gods of the woods and caverns, of valleys and mountains, of rivers and lakes, and of the winds and vapors. As Medea took her enchanted way through the night, the stars shone with an unusual brilliancy and presently a chariot, drawn by flying serpents descended to meet her through the air. Medea ascended in it and made her way to distant regions where the most powerful plants grew and brought them back before the day's first light for her uses. Nine nights Medea rode away in the chariot of the flying serpents, and in all that time she did not go within the doors of her palace or shelter herself under any roof, or speak to a human being. Hebe was the goddess of youth and one of the cup bearers of the gods. When Medea had gathered the herbs which she needed for her potion, she built a fire in front of a nearby temple to Hebe and over the fire she hung a very wide and deep caldron. In this caldron she mixed the herbs with seeds and flowers that gave out a bitter juice, stones from the far distant east, and sands from the encircling shore of the ocean. There were other ingredients, also, in this brew; a screech owl's head and wings, hoar frost gathered by moonlight, fragments of the shells of tortoises who of all creatures are the most long lived, and the head and beak of a crow, the birds that outlives nine generations of men. Medea boiled all these ingredients together to get them ready for the deed she proposed to do, stirring them with a dried branch from an olive tree. And, strange to say, the branch did not burn, but when the sorceress lifted it out it instantly turned as green as it had been in the spring, and in a short time it was covered with leaves and a luxuriant growth of olives. The potion in the caldron bubbled and simmered and sometimes rose so high as it boiled that it spilled over the edge and down on the ground. But wherever the drops touched the earth, new green grass shot up and there were flowers as bright and fragrant as the most prized blossoms of the May. The sorceress wished to further test her brew, though, and she put an old sheep, one of the most ancient of the flock, in the seething potion. Instead of being cooked, the creature was quite unhurt and when Medea removed the cover, a little new lamb, soft and white, jumped out and ran frisking away to the meadow. So Medea knew that her spell was ready and she commanded that Jason bring his aged father, Aeson, to her. "I would like to know him," she explained, "and hear from his lips of the deeds you did in your youth." Then Jason, all unsuspecting, sent for his father and conducted him to the spot near the temple of Hebe where Medea waited. And as soon as she saw Aeson, Medea threw him into a deep sleep by means of a charm and placed him on a bed of herbs where he lay with no apparent breath or life in him. "Wicked sorceress, you have killed my father whom I so greatly loved," Jason cried. Then, even as he spoke, Medea advanced toward the old man and wounded him deeply, so that all his blood poured out. After this she dipped into her caldron and poured the charmed brew into Aeson's mouth and bathed his wound with it. As soon as he had imbibed it and felt its wonderful power, Aeson's hair and beard lost their whiteness and became as black as they had been in his youth. His paleness and emaciation disappeared, for his veins were full of new blood and his limbs were vigorous and robust. Aeson was amazed at himself as he ran toward Jason, for he was as he remembered himself to have been two score years before. The sorceress Medea had made his years drop away from him. It would be very pleasant to end this story by saying that Medea always used her art for a good purpose as she did in this case, but that was not what happened. She did all manner of things that were wrong, such as riding her serpent-drawn chariot in the pursuit of revenge, sending a poisoned dress to a bride, and setting fire to a palace. What a strange, unusual kind of a story is this one of Medea! What did it mean to the young Greeks who heard it? It meant for them just what it means for us to-day. Medea and her caldron signified those times of cruel war and change that come to every nation. They may result in evil. But sometimes, when the world has become old and feeble, it may be made young and strong again through bitter pains, as Aeson was made young through Medea's caldron of such bitter brewing. HOW A GOLDEN APPLE CAUSED A WAR. No one, as far as could be found out, had invited Eris to the party. Indeed everyone would have desired to keep her away, for it was a very great wedding feast attended by both the immortals and men, and Eris was the goddess of discontent. There was a beautiful nymph of the sea named Thetis whom even Jupiter had looked upon with favor, and she was given in marriage to a mortal, Peleus. The gathering was being held on Mount Olympus and just when the merrymaking was at its height and Ganymede, that comely Trojan youth whom Jupiter in the guise of an eagle had borne away to be the cupbearer of the gods, was offering his nectar to all, a golden apple fell in their midst. It was very large and shone and glittered as if it had been made from skin to core of precious gold. Even the gods scrambled to grasp it, and for a moment they did not see who had thrown it. As Jupiter held the apple, though, and read an inscription on its cheek, "For the Fairest," the guests had a flying vision of Discord, riding away in her dark chariot from the feast she had chosen to make bitter. For that apple was to be the beginning of a war so long and so terrible that there had never been any other to equal it through all the centuries. At once the goddesses began to quarrel among themselves as to which was fair enough to merit the gilded fruit. Juno, being the queen of the gods, demanded the golden apple as only her just due, and Minerva wanted it in addition to her treasure of wisdom. They appealed to the mighty Jupiter, but neither he or any of the other gods dared to decide this question and so a judge had to be found among the mortals upon earth. [Illustration: Paris and the Golden Apple.] Near the city of Troy, on a high mountain named Ida, there lived a young shepherd, Paris. No one but the gods knew the secret of Paris' royal birth. He had been left on Mount Ida when he was only a child because it had been told to his parents in prophecy that he would be the destruction of the kingdom and the ruin of his family. So Paris, all unknowing that he was a prince, had grown up among his flocks, as good to look upon as a young god and greatly beloved by all the hamadryads and nymphs of the woods and streams. It was at last decided that the shepherd Paris should be the judge as to which of the three goddesses, Juno, Minerva or Venus merited the apple of gold, and they descended in clouds of glory to Mount Ida and stood before him for his judgment. They seemed to have forgotten their heavenly birth in their jealousy, for each offered the young shepherd a bribe if he would declare her the most fair. Juno offered Paris great wealth and one of the kingdoms of the earth. Minerva said that she would grant Paris as her boon a share of her wisdom and invincible power in war. But Venus, her unmatched beauty dazzling the youth as the bright rays of the noontide sun, and wearing her enchanted girdle, a spell that no one had ever been able to resist, laid her hand that was as light as sea-foam on Paris' fast beating heart. "I will give you the loveliest woman in the world to be your wife," she said. At Venus' words, Paris pronounced his judgment, which has never been forgotten through all the ages, ringing from singer to singer and from nation to nation in the great strife which it started. He put the apple of gold into the outstretched hands of Venus, not noticing that the cloud which carried the angry Juno and Minerva back to the sky was as black as when Jupiter was preparing to throw his thunderbolts. Paris saw little after that except his own desires and ambitions, and Venus began at once feeding his vanity. She told him of his royal birth. He was the son of King Priam of Troy. So Paris set out for his father's kingdom to find his fortune, and his flocks never saw him again. Just at that time King Priam declared a contest of wrestling among the princes of his court and those of the neighboring kingdoms. On his way to Troy, Paris heard of this, and he also saw the prize being led toward Troy by one of the king's herdsmen. It was the finest bull to be found on all the grazing plains of Mount Ida, and Paris decided to enter the contest and see if he could not win it for himself. So Paris presented himself to the court at Troy and wrestled in the sight of the king and his brothers and his sister, Cassandra, who did not know him. And he threw all his opponents, and was proclaimed the victor. He was greeted with joy, as King Priam recognized him, and was crowned with laurel. Only Cassandra, that sorrowful princess to whom the gods had given the fatal power of seeing coming events, wept as Paris was welcomed at the throne of his father. For Cassandra saw Paris as the destruction of Troy, and her gift of prophecy was her sadness, because she was doomed never to be believed. Then Venus told Paris to demand a ship of King Priam and set sail for Sparta, in Greece, that her promise to him might be fulfilled. Paris set out, a wondrous appearing youth and a glorious victor, and he was well received by King Menelaus and his fair wife, Helen. If Venus' beauty cast a spell among the gods, so did the loveliness of Helen blind the eyes of men to everything save her lovely face. There was a story told that Helen was the child of an enchanted swan and that this was the reason for the enchantment which she wrought in the hearts of the heroes. All the great princes of Greece had sued for Helen's hand, and when she left her home to be the wife of Menelaus, her father made the heroes bind themselves by oath to go to the aid of Menelaus if it should chance that she was ever stolen away from him. Helen's father was fearful for her peace, because of the perilous gift of charm which was hers. In all of Greece, and indeed in the entire world there was nothing so beautiful as Helen's fair face. For a long time Paris remained at the court of Sparta treated with a courtesy and respect which he did not deserve, because during all that time Venus was enchanting Helen until she was able to think of no one save the comely youth, Paris. After awhile King Menelaus was obliged to take a long journey and in his absence Paris persuaded Helen to forsake Sparta and set sail with him for Troy. When these two were discovered in their treachery, the heroes were fired with anger and remembered their pledge to go to King Menelaus' aid if any deep wrong was done to him. Their wrath was not so much directed against Helen, whom they believed to be under the dread spell which Venus had cast upon her, as against Paris who had so violated their hospitality. It was decided that preparations for war must be immediately begun and men were pressed into service everywhere gathering supplies and building ships. Agamemnon, who was a brother of King Menelaus and mighty in battle, was appointed to be the leader of the Greek army, and then began the work of finding the best men to help him in carrying on the great enterprise that was to be directed against Troy. The heroes were as true and of as high courage then as they are to-day, but the adventure of the war was to be directed against a foreign shore and certain of the Greeks found that it tore their hearts to leave their own country, and in the cause of a wilful youth and a fair woman. One among these was Ulysses, the king of Ithaca. Ulysses was content and happy in his peaceful kingdom and the love of his industrious queen, Penelope, and his baby son, Telemachus. We must not commit Ulysses to the sin of cowardice because he did not want to enlist for the Trojan war. There have been heroes like him in all time, destined to be the greatest warriors of all, when they overcame their fears and took swords in their hands in the cause of right. But at first Ulysses pretended that he had lost his reason. He borrowed a plough from a farmer and drove it up and down the seashore, sowing salt in the furrows that he made. Ulysses was pursuing this mad occupation when a messenger of Agamemnon came to demand his services in the army of the Greeks. The messenger could not believe his eyes, and to test Ulysses he grasped the king's little son and laid him on the sand in the direct path of the plough-share. Ulysses dropped the plough handles and lifted the baby Telemachus to his heart, so his game of madness was over. He bade his kingdom and Penelope farewell, and set out to join the heroes. He was to be one of the bravest of them all, and doomed not to see his own land again for twenty years. There was also a hero, a wonder of strength, who was detained from the war because of the very great love that his mother had for him. This was Achilles, who was destined to be the noblest hero of Greece in the contest with the Trojans. When he was a baby, Achilles' mother had taken him to the river Styx and, holding him by one little heel, had plunged him in its sacred waters. This made him safe from any harm that might come to him in battle, although she forgot the heel which she had covered with her hand. Then the mother of Achilles sent him to friends in a far kingdom in the dress of a girl and he was brought up there among women so that he could not be called to arms. At this time, when the Greeks were polishing their shields and fastening on their swords for the advance upon Troy, news of Achilles' cowardly hiding came to Ulysses. He who had overcome his own fear could not bear to have any other hero fall a victim of cowardice. So Ulysses disguised himself as a vendor of fine wares, scents and embroidered silks, carved ivory ornaments and jewels, and he went to the kingdom where Achilles, now a youth, sojourned in the disguise of a maiden. The women of the court seized with the greatest delight the fine fabrics and necklaces from Ulysses' store, but Achilles delved in the packet of goods until his eyes lighted upon some strange and beautifully wrought weapons which Ulysses had brought also. These alone pleased him. So the destiny of Achilles was disclosed and he put on armor and went with Ulysses to join the army. In the meantime King Priam had welcomed the erring Paris and Helen, so great was the charm that her fair face wrought everywhere, and had given them the shelter of his court. It was a sore trial to the heroes of Troy that this should have happened, for they were as bold and upright men in their way as the Greeks were, and had not deserved this shame that had come upon them. But they, too, were banded together to protect their king and so they made all the needful preparations to meet the forces of the enemy when the Greeks should cross the sea. Since this great war had begun in the jealousy of the gods, the gods themselves took part in the struggle. Neptune carried the ships of the Greeks safely over to the plains of Troy where Ulysses accompanied King Menelaus into the city to demand the return of Helen. When King Priam refused, Venus endeavored to keep Helen in her power and she enlisted Mars on the side of the Trojans. Juno favored the Greeks, as did also Minerva, the goddess of just warfare, and Apollo and Jupiter watched over the fate of those of the heroes whom they loved, no matter on which side they fought. So the Trojan war began, but how it ended is a story of a strange horse made all of wood. HOW A WOODEN HORSE WON A CITY. Ten years the siege of Troy lasted, that mighty struggle that had been kindled by the flame of jealousy of gods and men, and ten years the Trojans resisted the Greeks. On both sides the brave fell in battle and the plain outside of the city of Troy became a waste place, full of dread and death. The hero Achilles, while offering up a sacrifice in the temple of Apollo, was treacherously slain by a poisoned arrow from Paris' bow that pierced his heel. The Greeks made use of the arrows of Hercules in their struggle, but even these proved useless against the strong fortifications of the Trojans. There was a statue of Minerva in the city of Troy called the Palladium. It was said to have fallen from heaven and that as long as it remained in the city Troy could not be taken. So the hero, Ulysses, with a few men, entered Troy in disguise and captured this statute at the risk of their lives, carrying it back to the camp of the Greeks, but Troy still held out and the tenth year of the war drew near a close full of wretchedness and famine. It seemed as if the spell of Helen's beauty, as she leaned from one of the towers of King Priam's castle to cheer the Trojans or descended to pass among their ranks, was their safety. No one, looking on her fair face, remembered hardship or felt fear, although the fated Cassandra wept alone, and was deemed mad because she saw, in her prophetic vision, the fall of the strong battlements of Troy. At last the Greeks despaired of ever subduing Troy by force and they asked Ulysses if any plan occurred to him by which they could subdue the Trojans through strategy. Ulysses unfolded a plan to the generals, and what it was and how it succeeded is one of the strangest stories of all warfare. Acting upon his advice, the Greeks made preparation to abandon the war. Their ships that had waited with folded sails in the harbor, now drew anchor and sailed swiftly away, taking refuge behind a neighboring island. And the Trojans, seeing the encampment before their walls broken for the first time in so many years, and the plain that the enemy's tents had whitened clear, broke into joy and merrymaking such as they had not known for so long. They forgot caution and opened the gates through which the men and women and children flocked out to the plain to make merry and exult over the defeat of the Greeks. There they saw an astounding thing. In the centre of the plain stood a great wooden image of a horse, like an idol, more prodigious than any which the Trojans had ever seen. It was so closely fitted and carved from its mammoth hoofs to its head that no one could detect the joining. A hundred men could have ridden the horse with room for more, but they would never have been able to climb up to its back. At first the people of Troy, gathering around the wooden horse, were afraid of it. Then they made up their minds about it. "This is a trophy of war!" they exclaimed, and they were for moving it into the city to exhibit in the public square as a sign of their victory over the Greeks. There was among them, though, a man named Laocoon, a priest of Neptune, who objected to this plan. "Beware, men of Troy!" Laocoon warned them. "You have fought for ten years with the Greeks and know that they do not give up a fight as easily as this. How do you know but that this is a piece of trickery on the part of their dauntless leader, Ulysses? I fear the Greeks, even when they bring us gifts." As Laocoon uttered these prophetic words, he threw his lance at the side of the wooden horse and it rebounded with a hollow sound. At that, perhaps the Trojans might have taken his advice and destroyed the horse there where it stood, but suddenly a man, who appeared to be a prisoner and a Greek, was dragged out from the crowd. He said that he was a Greek, Sinon by name, who had brought upon himself the malice of Ulysses and so had been left behind by the Greeks. He feigned terror, and the Trojans, falling into the trap, reassured Sinon, the spy, and told him that his life would be spared if he would disclose to the chiefs of Troy the secret of the wooden horse. "It is an offering to Minerva," Sinon explained. "The Greeks made it so huge in order that you would never be able to carry it inside the gates of Troy." Sinon's words turned the tides of the people's feelings. They were just planning how they might best start the work of moving the giant horse when something happened which completely reassured them. Two immense serpents appeared advancing directly toward them over the sea. Side by side they moved toward the shore, their great heads erect, their burning eyes full of blood and fire and licking their hissing mouths with their quivering tongues. And these serpents came directly to the spot where Laocoon stood with his two sons. They attacked the boys first, winding round their bodies and breathing their poisonous breath into their faces. Laocoon, trying to rescue his sons, was drawn into the serpent's coils and all three were strangled. Then the creatures moved on, threatening to glide into the city of Troy. "It is an omen of the displeasure of the gods with us for having even doubted the sacred character of the wooden horse," the Trojans said. "Laocoon has been punished for his lack of reverence in despising it." So they gave themselves up again to wild joy and reckless merrymaking. They wreathed the horse with garlands of flowers and dragged it, all lending a hand, across the plain and close to the gates of the city so that they could widen them in the morning and push it through; and they went home with great shouts like those of a victoriously returning army. That night a door, cunningly set and concealed in the side of the wooden horse, was opened by Sinon, the spy. Out of the door came the hero Ulysses, King Menelaus, and a band of picked Greek generals, for the Greeks had made the wooden horse hollow so that a hundred men might be hidden inside for a long time with their arms and provisions and come to no harm. These men opened the gates of Troy, a city sunk in darkness and sleep, and through the gates went the Grecian army which had returned in the ships and crossed the plain silently in the cover of the night. So the prophecy of Laocoon and of the sad Cassandra was proved true, for there was not a Trojan on guard. King Priam and his noblest warriors were killed, Cassandra was taken captive, and the city was set on fire with torches and burned to the ground. Then the Greeks set sail for their own country which they had not seen for so many years, and they took the beautiful Helen with them, awakened at last from the spell which Venus had cast upon her, and sorrowing for all the suffering she had caused. But the glory of the old Trojan days was gone forever. Men search to-day the ruins of ancient Troy that lie hidden like bright jewels in the depths of the ancient mountains. There is little left but the memory of the apple of Discord that caused the destruction of the city and the heroes and the citadel of Troy's old power. [3]THE CYCLOPS. The hero Ulysses was about to sail home to Greece, after the great city of Troy had been taken, having wandered farthest and suffered most of all in the long Trojan war. He was well-nigh the last to sail, for he had tarried many days to do homage to Agamemnon, lord of all the Greeks. Twelve ships he had with him, twelve that he had brought to Troy, and in each there were some fifty men, being scarce half of those that had sailed with them in the old days, so many valiant heroes slept the last sleep on the plain and on the seashore, slain in battle or by the shafts of Apollo. So first Ulysses sailed to the Thracian coast where he and his men filled their ships with foodstuffs and oxen and jars of fragrant juices of the grape. Scarcely had he set out again when the wind began to blow fiercely, and seeing a smooth sandy beach, they drove the ships to shore, dragged them out of reach of the waves, and waited there until the storm should abate. And the third morning, being fair, they sailed again, and journeyed prosperously. On the tenth day they came to the land where the lotus grows, a wonderful fruit which whoever eats cares not to see country, home, or children again. Now the Lotus eaters, for so they call the people of the land, were a kindly folk and gave of the fruit to some of the sailors, not meaning any harm, but thinking it to be the best that they had to give. These men, when they had eaten, said that they would not sail any more over the sea. Which when the wise Ulysses heard, he bade their comrades bind them and carry them, sadly complaining, to the ships. Then, the wind having abated, they took to their oars and rowed for many days until they came to the country where the Cyclops lived. A mile or so from the shore there was an island, very fair and fertile, but no man dwelled there or tilled the soil, and in the island there was a harbor where a ship might be safe from all winds and at the head of the harbor was a stream falling from the rock with whispering alders all about it. Into this the ships passed safely and were hauled upon the beach and the crews slept by them, waiting for morning. But in the morning Ulysses, who was always fond of adventure and would know of every land to which he came what manner of men it sheltered, took one of his twelve ships and bade the sailors row to land. There was a great hill sloping to the shore, and there rose up, here and there, a smoke from the caves where the Cyclopes lived apart, holding no converse with men. They were a rude and savage folk, each ruling his own household without taking thought of his neighbor. Very close to the shore was one of these caves, very huge and deep, with a hedge of laurel hiding the opening and a wall of rough stone shaded by tall oaks and pines. Ulysses selected the twelve bravest men from his crew and bade the rest remain behind to guard the ship while he went to see what manner of dwelling it was and who abode there. He had his sword by his side and on his shoulder a mighty skin of the juice of grapes, sweet smelling and strong, with which he might win the heart of some fierce savage, should he chance to meet such. So they entered the cave, and judged that it was the dwelling of some rich and skilful shepherd, for within there were pens for young sheep and goats, divided according to their age, and there were baskets full of cheeses, and full milk pails ranged along the wall. But the Cyclops, himself, was away in the pastures. Then the companions of Ulysses besought him to depart, but he would not, for he wished to see what manner of host this strange shepherd might be. And truly he saw to his cost! It was evening when the Cyclops came home, a mighty giant, twenty feet or more tall. He carried a vast bundle of pine logs on his back for his fire, and threw them down outside the cave with a great crash. He drove the flocks inside and closed the entrance with a huge rock which twenty wagons and more could not have borne. Then he milked the ewes and goats, and half of the milk he curdled for cheese and half he set ready for himself when he should be hungry. Last, he kindled a fire with the pine logs and the flame lighted up all the cave, showing him Ulysses and his comrades. "Who are you?" cried the Cyclops. "Are you traders, or pirates?" "We are no pirates, mighty sir, but Greeks, sailing back from Troy. And we beg hospitality of you in the name of Jupiter who rewards or punishes the host according as he is hospitable or not." "Then," said the giant, "it is idle to talk to me of Jupiter and the gods. We Cyclops take no account of gods, holding ourselves to be much better and stronger than they." Without more ado, he caught up two of the men, and devoured them with huge draughts of milk between, leaving not even a morsel or one of their bones. And when the giant had ended his meal, he lay down among his sheep and fell asleep. Ulysses would have liked to slay the Cyclops where he lay, but he remembered that, were he to do this, his comrades would perish miserably. How could he move away the great rock that lay against the door of the cave? So they waited until morning. And the monster rose, seized two more men and devoured them for his meal. Then he went to the pastures, but put a great rock on the mouth of the cave just as a man puts down the lid on his quiver of arrows. All that day the wise Ulysses was thinking what he might best do to save himself and his companions, and the end of his thinking was this. There was a mighty pole in the cave, green wood of an olive tree as big as a ship's mast, which the giant proposed to use as a walking staff. Ulysses broke off a fathom's length of this and his companions pointed it and hardened it in the fire. Then they hid it away. At evening the giant came back, drove his flocks into the cave, fastened the door and made his cruel feast as before. Then Ulysses came forward with the skin of crushed grapes in his hand and said: "Drink, Cyclops, now that you have feasted. Drink and see what a strange draught we had in our ship." So the Cyclops drank, and was greatly pleased. "Give me more," he demanded. "In good truth this is a strange draught. We, too, have vines but they do not yield any juices like this, which indeed must be such as the gods drink." Then Ulysses gave him the skin again and he drank from it. Three times he gave it to him and three times the giant drank, not knowing how it would work on his brain. At last he fell into a deep slumber. Ulysses told his men to be of good courage for the time of their deliverance was come. They thrust the olive stick into the fire until, green as it was, it was ready to burst into flame and they thrust it into the monster's eye, for he had but one eye set in the middle of his great forehead, and made him sightless. Then the Cyclops leaped up and bore away the stake and cried aloud so that all the Cyclopes who lived on the mountain side heard him and came down, crowding about the entrance to his cave. The Cyclops rolled away the great stone from the door of the cave and came out in the midst of the other giants stretching out his hands to try and gather his sheep together. And Ulysses wondered how he and his men would be able to escape. At last he lighted on a good device. The Cyclops had driven the rams with the other ship into the cave and they were huge and strong. Ulysses fastened his comrades underneath the rams, tying them with osier twigs of which the giant made his bed. There was one mighty ram, far larger than all the others, and to this Ulysses clung, grasping the fleece tight with both hands. So they waited in the recesses of the cave for morning. And when the morning came, the rams rushed out to pasture as the giant sat in the door, feeling the back of each as it went by, but never touching the man who was bound underneath each. With them Ulysses escaped. When they were out of reach of the giant, Ulysses loosed his hold of the rams and then unbound his comrades. They hastened to their ship, climbed in, and smote the sea with their oars, laying to right lustily that they might the sooner escape from this accursed land. But when they had rowed a hundred yards or so, the Cyclops heard them. He broke off the top of a great hill, a mighty rock, and hurled it where he heard the sound of the oars. It fell right in front of the ship's bow and washed the ship back to the shore again. But Ulysses seized a long pole with both hands and pushed the ship from the land and bade his comrades ply their oars softly, nodding with his head, for he was too wise to speak, lest the Cyclops should know where they were. Then they rowed with all their might and main. They had gone twice as far as before, when Ulysses' pride became so great that he could no longer contain himself. He stood up in the boat and called out. "Hear, Cyclops. If any man asks who destroyed your power for evil, say it was the warrior Ulysses, dwelling in Ithaca." The giant heard and he lifted up his hands and spoke to Neptune, the god of the sea, who was the father of the Cyclopes. "Hear me, Neptune, if I am indeed your son and you are my father. May this Ulysses never reach his home; or, if the Fates have ordered that he shall reach it, may he come alone, with all his comrades lost." And as the Cyclops ended this wicked prayer, he hurled another mighty rock which almost lighted on the rudder's end, yet missed it as if by a hair's breadth. So Ulysses escaped and all his comrades with him, and they came to the island of the wild goats where they found the rest of their men who had waited long for them in sore fear lest they had perished. And they went home in triumph to Greece. FOOTNOTE: [3] Copyright Doubleday, Page and Co. GLOSSARY. Achelous Ach-e-lo'us Achilles A-chil'les Acrisius A-cris'i-us Admetus Ad-me'tus Aegean Ae-ge'an Aeneas Ae-ne'as Aesculapius Aes'cu-la'pi-us Aetna Aet'na Agamemnon Aga'mem-non Alcestis Al-ces'tis Alpheus Al-phe'us Andromeda An-drom'e-da Antaeus An-tae'us Arachne A-rach'ne Arcas Ar'cas Arethusa Ar-e-thu'sa Argonaut Ar'go-naut Argos Ar'gos Ariadne A-ri-ad'ne Aristaeus Ar-is-tae'us Atalanta At-a-lan'ta Attica At'tica Argus Ar'gus Aurora Au-ro'ra Bacchus Bac'chus Battus Bat'tus Baucis Bau'cis Bellerophon Bel-ler'o-phon Belvidere Bel-vi-dere Boreas Bo're-as Cadmus Cad'mus Callisto Cal-lis'to Cassandra Cas-san'dra Cassiopeia Cas-si-o-pe'ia Celeus Ce'le-us Cerberus Cer'be-rus Ceres Ce'res Charon Cha'ron Chimaera Chi-mae'ra Circe Cir'ce Colchis Col'chis Crete Cre'te Cyane Cy'a-ne Cyclopes Cy-clo'pes Cycnus Cyc'nus Cyrene Cy-re'ne Daedalus Daed'a-lus Danae Dan'a-e Daphne Daph'ne Dejanira Dej'a-ni'ra Delos De'los Delphi Del'phi Diana Di-a'na Elis E'lis Elysian E-lys'i-an Enceladus En-cel'a-dus Ephialtes Eph'i-al'tes Epimetheus Ep-i-me'theus Erisichthon Er-i-sich'thon Europa Eu-ro'pa Eurydice Eu-ryd'i-ce Eurystheus Eu-rys'theus Galatea Gal-a-te'a Glaucus Glau'cus Gordius Gor'di-us Gorgon Gor'gon Halcyone Hal-cy'o-ne Hamadryad Ham-a-dry'ad Hebe He'be Hector Hec'tor Helios He'lios Hercules Her'cu-les Hesperides Hes-per'i-des Hesperus Hes'pe-rus Hippomenes Hip-pom'e-nes Hydra Hy'dra Icarus I'ca-rus Iobates I-ob'a-tes Iris I'ris Laocoon La-oc'o-on Latona La-to'na Lemnos Lem'nos Lycia Lyc'i-a Medusa Me-du'sa Melampos Me-lam'pos Menelaus Men-e-la'us Mercury Mer'cu-ry Merope Mer'o-pe Midas Mi'das Minerva Mi-ner'va Minos Mi'nos Minotaur Min'o-taur Mosychlos Mosy'chlos Nemea Ne'me-a Nereides Ne-re'i-des Olympus O-lym'pus Orion O-ri'on Orpheus Or'pheus Ossa Os'sa Otus O-tus Ovid Ov'id Pactolus Pac-to'lus Pandora Pan-do'ra Patroclus Pa-tro'clus Pegasus Peg'a-sus Pelias Pe'li-as Peneus Pe-ne'us Perseus Per'seus Phaeton Pha'e-ton Phineas Phin'e-us Polydectes Pol-y-dec'tes Priam Pri'am Prometheus Pro-me'theus Proserpine Pro-ser'pine Philemon Phi-le'mon Phrygia Phryg'ia Pomona Po-mo'na Proteus Pro'teus Psyche Psy'che Pygmalion Pyg-ma'lion Pylos Py-los Python Py'thon Samos Sa'mos Scylla Scyl'la Seriphus Se-ri'phus Sinon Si'non Sirius Sir'i-us Somnus Som'nus Terminalia Ter'mi-nal-ia Theseus The'se-us Thessaly Thess'a-ly Thetis The'tis Thracian Thra-ci'an Tityus Tit'yus Trachine Tra'ch-ine Tmolus Tmo'lus Triton Tri'ton Troegene Troe'gene Ulysses U-lys'ses Vertumnus Ver-tum'nus Vulcan Vul'can 
44460	----	CARLETON'S CONDENSED CLASSICAL DICTIONARY. BEING BRIEF BUT SUCCINCT INFORMATION CONCERNING THE PROMINENT NAMES IN CLASSICAL HISTORY AND MYTHOLOGY, TOGETHER WITH THE MOST CONSPICUOUS INCIDENTS ASSOCIATED WITH THEM. _CAREFULLY PREPARED AND EDITED_ BY GEORGE W. CARLETON, AUTHOR OF "OUR ARTIST IN CUBA, PERU, ALGIERS AND SPAIN." "Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it."--_Boswell's Life of Johnson._ NEW YORK Copyright, 1882, by _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_. MADISON SQUARE. MDCCCLXXXII. CARLETON'S CONDENSED CLASSICAL DICTIONARY. =Aby´dos.= A city of Asia opposite Sestos in Europe. It is famous for the loves of Hero and Leander, and for the bridge of boats which Xerxes built there across the Hellespont. Leander was in the habit of swimming across the Hellespont to see Hero, till at length, on a stormy night, he was drowned. =Aby´dos.= A town of Egypt, where was the famous temple of Osiris. =Acade´mi´a.= A place surrounded with trees, near Athens, belonging to Academus, from whom the name is derived. Here Plato opened his school of philosophy, and from this every place sacred to learning has ever since been called Academia. =Acha´tes.= A friend of Æneas, whose fidelity was so exemplary that _Fidus Achates_ has become a proverb. =Achelo´us.= The son of Oceanus and Terra, or Tethys, god of the river of the same name in Epirus. As one of the numerous suitors of Dejanira, he entered the lists against Hercules, and being inferior, changed himself into a serpent, and afterwards into an ox. Hercules broke off one of his horns and defeated him, after which, according to some, he was changed into a river. =Ac´heron.= One of the rivers of hell; often used to signify hell itself. =Achil´les=, the son of Peleus and Thetis, was the bravest of all the Greeks in the Trojan war. During his infancy, Thetis plunged him in the Styx, thus making every part of his body invulnerable except the heel by which she held him. To prevent him from going to the Trojan war, Thetis sent him privately to the court of Lycomedes, where he was disguised in a female dress. As Troy could not be taken without his aid, Ulysses went to the court of Lycomedes in the habit of a merchant, and exposed jewels and arms for sale. Achilles, choosing the arms, discovered his sex, and went to the war. Vulcan made him a strong suit of armor, which was proof against all weapons. He was deprived by Agamemnon of his favorite Briseis, and for this affront he would not appear on the field till the death of Patroclus impelled him to vengeance. He slew Hector, who had killed Patroclus, and tying his corpse to his war-car, dragged it three times round Troy. He is said to have been killed by Paris, who inflicted a mortal wound in his vulnerable heel with an arrow. =A´cis.= A shepherd of Sicily, son of Faunus and the nymph Simæthis. Galatea passionately loved him, upon which his rival, Polyphemus, crushed him to death with a piece of broken rock. The gods changed Acis into a stream, which rises from Mount Etna. =Actæ´on.= A famous huntsman, son of Aristæus and Autonoe, daughter of Cadmus. He saw Diana and her attendants bathing, for which he was changed into a stag and devoured by his own dogs. =Ac´tium.= A town and promontory of Epirus, famous for the naval victory which Augustus obtained over Antony and Cleopatra, B. C. 31. =A´des or Hades.= The God of hell amongst the Greeks; the same as the Pluto of the Latins. The word is often used for hell itself by the ancient poets. =Adher´bal.= Son of Micipsa, and grandson of Masinissa, was besieged at Cirta, and put to death by Jugurtha, after vainly imploring the aid of Rome, B. C. 112. =Adme´tus.= Son of Pheres and Clymene, king of Pheræ in Thessaly. Apollo, when banished from heaven, is said to have tended his flocks for nine years. =Ado´nis=, son of Cinyras and Myrrha, was the favorite of Venus. He was fond of hunting, and was often cautioned not to hunt wild beasts. This advice he slighted, and at last was mortally wounded by a wild boar. Venus changed him into the flower anemone. Proserpine is said to have restored him to life, on condition that he should spend six months of the year with her, and the rest of the year with Venus. This implies the alternate return of summer and winter. =Adras´tus=, son of Talaus and Lysimache, was king of Argos. Polynices, being banished from Thebes by his brother Eteocles, fled to Argos, where he married Argia, daughter of Adrastus. The king assisted his son-in-law, and marched against Thebes with an army. He was defeated with great slaughter, and fled to Athens, where Theseus gave him assistance, and was victorious. Adrastus died from grief, occasioned by the death of his son Ægialeus. =Adria´nus.= A famous emperor of Rome. He is represented as an active, learned, warlike, and austere general. He came to Britain, where he built a wall between the modern towns of Carlisle and Newcastle-on-Tyne, to protect the Britons from the incursions of the Caledonians. =Ædi´les.= Roman magistrates, who had the charge of all buildings, baths, and aqueducts, and examined weights and measures. The office of an Ædile was honorable, and the primary step to a more distinguished position in the State. =Ægeus.= King of Athens, son of Pandion. Being desirous of having children, he went to consult the oracle, and on his return stopped at the court of Pittheus, king of Troezene, who gave him his daughter Æthra in marriage. He directed her, if she had a son, to send him to Athens as soon as he could lift a stone under which he had concealed his sword. Æthra became mother of Theseus, whom she sent to Athens with his father's sword, Ægeus being at that time living with Medea, the divorced wife of Jason. When Theseus came to Athens, Medea attempted to poison him, but he escaped; and upon showing Ægeus the sword, discovered himself to be his son. When Theseus returned from Crete, after the death of the Minotaur, he omitted to hoist up white sails, as a signal of success, and at sight of black sails, Ægeus, concluding that his son was dead, threw himself into the sea, which, as some suppose, has since been called the Ægean sea. Ægeus died B. C. 1235. =Ægis.= The shield of Jupiter. He gave it to Pallas, who placed Medusa's head on it, which turned into stones all those who gazed at it. =Ægy´ptus=, son of Belus, and brother to Danaus, gave his fifty sons in marriage to the fifty daughters of his brother. Danaus, who had established himself at Argos, and was jealous of his brother, obliged all his daughters to murder their husbands on the first night of their nuptials. This was done, Hypermnestra alone sparing her husband Lynceus. Ægyptus himself was killed by his niece Polyxena. =Ælia´nus Clau´dius.= A Roman sophist of Præneste in the reign of Adrian. He taught rhetoric at Rome. He wrote treatises on animals in seventeen books, and on various other subjects in fourteen books. Ælian died at the age of sixty, A. D. 140. =Æne´as.= A Trojan prince, son of Anchises and Venus. He married Creusa, the daughter of Priam, and they had a son named Ascanius. During the Trojan war Æneas behaved with great valor in defense of Troy. When the city was in flames he is said to have carried away his father Anchises on his shoulders, leading his son Ascanius by the hand, his wife following them. Subsequently he built a fleet of twenty ships, with which he set sail in quest of a settlement. He was driven on the coasts of Africa, and was kindly received by Dido, Queen of Carthage, who became enamored with him; but he left Carthage by the order of the gods. He has been praised for his piety and his submission to the will of the gods; the term "Pius" is generally appended to his name. =Æne´is.= The Æneid, a grand poem by Virgil, the great merit of which is well known. The author has imitated the style of Homer, and is by some thought to equal him. =Æolus=, the ruler of storms and winds, was the son of Hippotas. He reigned over Æolia. He was the inventor of sails, and a great astronomer, from which the poets have called him the god of wind. =Æs´chines.= An Athenian orator who lived about 342 B.C.; and distinguished himself by his rivalship with Demosthenes. =Æs´chylus=, a soldier and poet of Athens, son of Euphorion. He was in the Athenian army at the battles of Marathon, Salamis, and Platæa; but his most solid fame rests on his writings. He wrote ninety tragedies, forty of which were rewarded with a public prize. He was killed by the fall of a tortoise, dropped from the beak of an eagle on his head, B.C. 456. =Æscula´pius=, son of Apollo and Coronis, or, as some say, of Apollo and Larissa, daughter of Phlegias, was the god of medicine. He married Epione, and they had two sons, famous for their skill in medicine, Machaon and Podalirus; of their four daughters, Hygeia, goddess of health, is the most celebrated. =Æson=, son of Cretheus, was born at the same birth as Pelias. He succeeded his father in the kingdom of Iolchos, but was soon exiled by his brother. He married Alcimeda, by whom he had Jason, whose education he intrusted to Chiron. When Jason reached manhood he demanded his father's kingdom from his uncle, who gave him evasive answers, and persuaded him to go in quest of the Golden Fleece. On his return Jason found his father very infirm, and at his request Medea drew the blood from Æson's veins and refilled them with the juice of certain herbs, which restored the old man to the vigor of youth. =Æso´pus.= A Phrygian philosopher who, originally a slave, procured his liberty by his genius. He dedicated his fables to his patron Croesus. The fables which we have now under his name doubtless are a collection of fables and apologues of wits before and after the age of Æsop, conjointly with his own. =Agamem´non=, king of Mycenæ and Argos, was brother to Menelaus, and son of Plisthenes, the son of Atreus. He married Clytemnestra, and Menelaus Helen, both daughters of Tyndarus, king of Sparta. When Helen eloped with Paris, Agamemnon was elected commander-in-chief of the Grecian forces invading Troy. =Agesila´us.= Of the family of the Proclidæ, son of Archidamus, king of Sparta, whom he succeeded. He made war against Artaxerxes, king of Persia, with success; but in the midst of his conquests he was called home to oppose the Athenians and Boetians. He passed over in thirty days that tract of country which had taken up a whole year of Xerxes' expedition. He defeated his enemies at Coronea, but sickness interfered with his conquests, and the Spartans were beaten in every engagement till he again appeared at their head. He died 362 years B.C. =Agrip´pa, M. Vipsanius.= A celebrated Roman who obtained a victory over S. Pompey, and favored the cause of Augustus at the battles of Actium and Philippi, where he behaved with great valor. In his expeditions in Gaul and Germany he obtained several victories, but refused the honor of a triumph, and turned his attention to the embellishment of Rome and the raising of magnificent buildings, among them the Pantheon. Augustus gave him his daughter Julia in marriage. He died universally lamented at Rome, aged fifty-one, B.C. 12. =Agrip´pa.= A son of Aristobulus, grandson of the great Herod. He was popular with the Jews, and it is said that while they were flattering him with the appellation of god he was struck with death, A.D. 43. His son of the same name was with Titus at the siege of Jerusalem, and died A.D. 94. It was before him that St. Paul pleaded. There were a number of others of the same name, but of less celebrity. =A´jax=, son of Telamon and Periboea, or Eriboea, was one of the bravest of the Greeks in the Trojan war. After the death of Achilles, Ajax and Ulysses both claimed the arms of the dead hero, which were given to Ulysses. Some say that he was killed in battle by Paris, but others record that he was murdered by Ulysses. =Alari´cus.= A famous king of the Goths, who plundered Rome in the reign of Honorius. He was greatly respected for his valor, and during his reign he kept the Roman empire in continual alarm. He died after a reign of twelve years, A.D. 410. He was buried in the bed of a river which had been turned from its course for the reception of his corpse, in order that it might be said that no one should tread on the earth where he reposed. =Al´bion=, son of Neptune and Amphitrite, came into Britain, where he established a kingdom, and introduced astrology and the art of building ships. Great Britain is called "Albion" after him. =Alcæ´us.= A celebrated lyric poet of Mitylene, in Lesbos, about 600 years before the Christian era. He fled from a battle, and the armor in which he left the field was hung up in the temple of Minerva as a monument of his disgrace. He was enamored of Sappho. Of his works only a few fragments remain. =Alces´te= or =Alces´tis=, daughter of Pelias, married Admetus. She, with her sisters, put her father to death that he might be restored to youth and vigor by Medea, who had promised to effect this by her enchantments. She, however, refused to fulfill her promise, on which the sisters fled to Admetus, who married Alceste. =Alcibi´ades.= An Athenian general, famous for his enterprise, versatile genius, and natural foibles. He was a disciple of Socrates, whose lessons and example checked for a while his vicious propensities. In the Peloponnesian war he encouraged the Athenians to undertake an expedition against Syracuse. He died in his forty-sixth year, B.C. 404. =Alcme´na.= Daughter of Electrion, king of Argos. Her father promised her and his crown to Amphitryon if he would revenge the death of his sons, who had been killed by the Teleboans. In the absence of Amphitryon, Jupiter assumed his form and visited Alcmena, who, believing the god to be her lover, received him with joy. Amphitryon, on his return, ascertained from the prophet Tiresias the deception which had been practiced. After the death of Amphitryon Alcmena married Rhadamanthus. Hercules was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena. =Alcy´one= or =Halcy´one=, daughter of Æolus, married Ceyx, who was drowned as he was going to consult the oracle. The gods apprised Alcyone in a dream of her husband's fate, and when she found his body washed ashore she threw herself into the sea, and she and her husband were changed into birds. =Alec´to.= One of the Furies. She is represented with her head covered with serpents, and breathing vengeance, war, and pestilence. =Alexan´der=, surnamed the Great, was son of Philip and Olympias. He was born B. C. 355, on the night on which the famous temple of Diana at Ephesus was burnt. This event, according to the magicians, was a prognostic of his future greatness, as well as the taming of Bucephalus, a horse which none of the king's attendants could manage. Philip, it is recorded, said, with tears in his eyes, that his son must seek another kingdom, as that of Macedonia would not be large enough for him. He built a town, which he called Alexandria, on the Nile. His conquests were extended to India, where he fought with Porus, a powerful king of the country, and after he had invaded Scythia, he retired to Babylon laden with spoils. His entry into the city was predicted by the magicians as to prove fatal to him. He died at Babylon in his thirty-second year, after a reign of twelve years and eight months of continual success, B. C. 323. There were a number of others of the same name, but of less celebrity. =Althæ´a=, daughter of Thestius and Eurythemis, married OEneus, king of Calydon, by whom she had many children, amongst them being Meleager. When he was born the Parcæ put a log of wood on the fire, saying, as long as it was preserved the life of the child would be prolonged. The mother took the wood from the flames and preserved it, but when Meleager killed his two uncles, Althæa, to revenge them, threw the log in the fire, and when it was burnt Meleager expired. Althæa then killed herself. =Amaryl´lis.= The name of a countrywoman in Virgil's Eclogues. Some commentators have supposed that the poet spoke of Rome under this fictitious name. =Amaz´ones or Amazonides.= A nation of famous women who lived near the river Thermodon in Cappadocia. All their lives were employed in wars and manly exercises. They founded an extensive empire in Asia Minor along the shores of the Euxine. =Ambra´cia.= A city of Epirus, the residence of King Pyrrhus. Augustus, after the battle of Actium, called it Nicopolis. =Amphiara´us=, son of Oicleus and Hypermnestra, was at the chase of the Calydonian boar, and accompanied the Argonauts in their expedition. He was famous for his knowledge of futurity. =Amphic´tyon=, son of Deucalion and Pyrrha, reigned at Athens after Cranaus. Some say the deluge happened in his age. =Amphic´tyon=, the son of Helenus, who first established the celebrated Council of the Amphictyons, composed of the wisest and most virtuous men of some cities of Greece. =Amphi´on=, son of Jupiter and Antiope. He cultivated poetry, and made such progress in music that he is said to have been the inventor of it, and to have built the walls of Thebes by the sound of his lyre. =Amphitri´te.= A daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, who married Neptune. She is sometimes called Salatia. She was mother of Triton, a sea deity. =Amphit´ryon.= A Theban prince, son of Alcæus and Hipponome. His sister Anaxo married Electryon, king of Mycenæ, whose sons were killed in battle by the Teleboans. Electryon gave his daughter Alcmena to Amphitryon for avenging the death of his sons. =Anachar´sis=, a Scythian philosopher 592 years B. C., who, on account of his wisdom, temperance, and knowledge, has been called one of the seven wise men. He has rendered himself famous among the Ancients by his writings, his poems on war, the laws of the Scythians, etc. =Anac´reon.= A famous lyric poet of Teos, in Ionia, favored by Polycrates and Hipparchus, son of Philostratus. He was of intemperate habits and fond of pleasure. Some of his odes are extant, and the elegance of his poetry has been the admiration of every age and country. He lived to the age of eighty-five, and after a life of voluptuousness was choked with a grape stone. He flourished B. C. 532. =Anadyom´ene.= A famous painting by Apelles of Venus rising from the sea. =Anaxag´oras.= A Clazomenian philosopher, who disregarded wealth and honors to indulge his fondness for meditation and philosophy. He applied himself to astronomy, and obtained a knowledge of eclipses. He used to say he preferred a grain of wisdom to heaps of gold. He was accused of impiety and condemned to die, but he ridiculed the sentence, which he said had already been pronounced on him by nature. He died at the age of seventy-two, B. C. 428. =Anaxar´ete.= A girl of Salamis, who so arrogantly rejected the addresses of Iphis, a youth of ignoble birth, that he hanged himself at her door. She saw the spectacle without emotion, and was changed into stone. =Anchi´ses.= A son of Capys and Themis. He was so beautiful that Venus came down from heaven on Mount Ida to enjoy his company. Æneas was the son of Anchises and Venus, and was intrusted to the care of Chiron the Centaur. When Troy was taken, Anchises had become so infirm that Æneas had to carry him through the flames upon his shoulders, and thus saved his life. =Androm´ache.= Daughter of Eetion, king of Thebes. She married Hector, son of Priam, and was the mother of Astyanax. Her parting with Hector, who was going to battle, is described in the Iliad, and has been deemed one of the most beautiful passages in that great work. Pope's translation of the Iliad (book 6) describes with great pathos and beauty the parting of Hector from his wife and child. =Androm´eda.= A daughter of Cepheus, king of Æthiopia, and Cassiope. She was promised in marriage to Phineus when Neptune drowned the kingdom and sent a sea monster to ravage the country, because Cassiope had boasted that she was fairer than Juno and the Nereides. The oracle of Jupiter Ammon was consulted, but nothing could stop the resentment of Neptune except the exposure of Andromeda to the sea monster. She was accordingly tied to a rock, but at the moment that the monster was about to devour her, Perseus, returning from the conquest of the Gorgons, saw her, and was captivated with her beauty. He changed the monster into a rock by showing Medusa's head, and released Andromeda and married her. =Anthropoph´agi.= A people of Scythia who fed on human flesh. They lived near the country of the Messagetæ. Shakspeare makes Othello, in his speech to the Senate, allude to the Anthropophagi thus:-- "The cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders." =Antig´one.= A daughter of OEdipus, king of Thebes. She buried by night her brother Polynices, against the orders of Creon, who ordered her to be buried alive. She, however, killed herself on hearing of the sentence. The death of Antigone is the subject of one of the finest tragedies of Sophocles. The play has been adapted for representation on the English stage, Miss Helen Faucit performing the heroine with exquisite pathos. =Antig´onus.= One of Alexander's generals, who, on the division of the provinces after the king's death, received Pamphylia, Lycia, and Phrygia. Eventually his power became so great that Ptolemy, Seleucus, Cassander, and Lysimachus combined to destroy him. He gained many victories over them, but at last was killed in battle at the age of eighty, B.C. 301. There were others of the same name, but much less conspicuous. =Antin´ous.= A youth of Bithynia of whom the emperor Adrian was so extremely fond that, at his death, he erected a temple to him, and wished it to be believed that he had been changed into a constellation. =Anti´ochus=, surnamed _Soter_, was son of Seleucus and king of Syria. He made a treaty of alliance with Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt. He wedded his step-mother Stratonice. He was succeeded by his son Antiochus II., who put an end to the war which had begun with Ptolemy, and married his daughter Berenice, but being already married to Laodice, she, in revenge, poisoned him. Antiochus, the third of that name, surnamed the Great, was king of Syria, and reigned thirty-six years. He was defeated by Ptolemy Philopater at Raphia. He conquered the greater part of Greece, and Hannibal incited him to enter on a crusade against Roma. He was killed 187 years before the Christian era. Antiochus Epiphanes, the fourth of the name, was king of Syria after his brother Seleucus. He behaved with cruelty to the Jews. He reigned eleven years, and died unregretted. There were many others of the same name of less note. =Ant´iope=, daughter of Nycteus, king of Thebes, and Polyxo, was beloved by Jupiter. Amphion and Tethus were her offspring. =Antip´ater=, son of Iolaus, was a soldier under King Philip, and raised to the rank of a general under Alexander the Great. When Alexander went to invade Asia, he left Antipater supreme governor of Macedonia. He has been suspected of giving poison to Alexander to advance himself in power. =Antoni´nus=, surnamed _Pius_, was adopted by the Emperor Adrian, whom he succeeded. He was remarkable for all the virtues forming a perfect statesman, philosopher, and king. He treated his subjects with affability and humanity, and listened with patience to every complaint brought before him. He died in his seventy-fifth year, after a reign of twenty-three years, A.D. 160. =Anto´nius Mar´cus.= Mark Antony, the triumvir, distinguished himself by his ambitious views. When Julius Cæsar was killed in the senate house, Antony delivered an oration over his body, the eloquence of which is recorded in Shakspeare's tragedy of Julius Cæsar. Antony had married Fulvia, whom he repudiated to marry Octavia, the sister of Augustus. He fought by the side of Augustus at the battle of Philippi, against the murderers of Julius Cæsar. Subsequently he became enamored with Cleopatra, the renowned queen of Egypt, and repudiated Octavia to marry her. He was utterly defeated at the battle of Actium, and stabbed himself. He died in the fifty-sixth year of his age, B.C. 30. =Anto´nius, Ju´lius=, son of the famous triumvir Antony, by Fulvia, was consul with Paulus Fabius Maximus. He was surnamed Africanus, and put to death by order of Augustus, but some say he killed himself. =Anto´nius M. Gni´pho.= A poet of Gaul who taught rhetoric at Rome. Cicero and other illustrious men frequented his school. There were a number of others of the same name, but of less repute. =Apel´les.= A celebrated painter of Cos, or, as others say, of Ephesus, son of Pithius. He lived in the age of Alexander the Great, who forbade any one but Apelles to paint his portrait. He was so absorbed in his profession that he never allowed a day to pass without employing himself at his art: hence the proverb of _Nulla dies sine linea_. His most perfect picture was Venus Anadyomene, which was not quite finished when he died. He painted a picture in which a horse was a prominent feature, and so correctly was it delineated that a horse passing by it neighed, supposing it to be alive. He was ordered by Alexander to paint a portrait of one of his favorites--Campaspe. Apelles became enamored with her and married her. He only put his name to three of his pictures--a sleeping Venus, Venus Anadyomene, and an Alexander. The proverb, _Ne sutor ultra crepidam_, has been used in reference to him by some writers. =Aphrodi´te.= The Grecian name for Venus, from the Greek word [Greek: aphros], _froth_, because Venus is said to have been born from the froth of the ocean. =Apic´ius.= A famous gourmand in Rome. There were three of this name, all noted for their voracious appetites. =A´pis.= One of the ancient kings of Peloponnesus, son of Phoroneus and Laodice. Some say that Apollo was his father, and that he was king of Argos, whilst others called him king of Sicyon, and fix the time of his reign above 200 years earlier. Varro and others have supposed that Apis went to Egypt with a colony of Greeks, and that he civilized the inhabitants and polished their manners, for which they made him a god after death, and paid divine honors to him under the name of Serapis. =A´pis.= A god of the Egyptians, worshiped under the form of an ox. Some say that Isis and Osiris are the deities worshiped under this name, because they taught the Egyptians agriculture. =Apol´lo.= Son of Jupiter and Latona; called also Phoebus. He was the god of the fine arts and the reputed originator of music, poetry, and eloquence. He had received from Jupiter the power of knowing futurity, and his oracles were in repute everywhere. As soon as he was born he destroyed with his arrows the serpent Python, which Juno had sent to persecute Latona; hence he was called Pythius. He was not the inventor of the lyre, as some have supposed, but it was given to him by Mercury, who received in return the famous Caduceus. He received the surnames of Phoebus, Delius, Cynthius, Pæan, Delphicus, etc. He is in sculpture generally represented as a handsome young man with a bow in his hand, from which an arrow has just been discharged. =Appia´nus.= An historian of Alexandria, who flourished A.D. 123. His Universal History, which consisted of twenty-four books, was a history of all the nations conquered by the Romans. =Ap´pius Clau´dius.= A decemvir who obtained his power by force and oppression. He grossly insulted Virginia, whom her father killed to save her from the power of the tyrant. =Arca´dia.= A district of Peloponnesus, which has been much extolled by the poets. It was famous for its mountains. The inhabitants were for the most part shepherds, who lived upon acorns. They were skillful warriors and able musicians. Pan lived chiefly among them. =Archil´ochus.= A poet of Paros, who wrote elegies, satires, odes, and epigrams. He lived B.C. 685. =Archime´des.= A famous geometrician of Syracuse, who invented a machine of glass that represented the motion of the heavenly bodies. When Marcellus, the Roman consul, besieged Syracuse, Archimedes constructed machines which suddenly raised into the air the ships of the enemy, which then fell into the sea and were sunk. He also set fire to the ships with burning-glasses. When the enemy were in possession of the town, a soldier, not knowing who he was, killed him, B.C. 212. =Arethu´sa=, a nymph of Elis, daughter of Oceanus, and one of Diana's attendants. As she returned one day from hunting she bathed in the Alpheus stream. The god of the river was enamored of her, and pursued her over the mountains, till Arethusa, ready to sink from fatigue, implored Diana to change her into a fountain, which the goddess did. =Ar´go.= The name of the famous ship which carried Jason and his companions to Polchis, when they went to recover the Golden Fleece. =Argonau´tæ.= The Argonauts, those ancient heroes who went with Jason in the Argo to Aolchis to recover the Golden Fleece, about seventy-nine years before the capture of Troy. The number of the Argonauts is not exactly known. =Ar´gus.= A son of Arestor, whence he is sometimes called Arestorides. He had a hundred eyes, of which only two were asleep at one time. Juno set him to watch Io, whom Jupiter had changed into a heifer, but Mercury, by order of Jupiter, slew him, by lulling all his eyes to sleep with the notes of the lyre. Juno put the eyes of Argus in the tail of the peacock, a bird sacred to her. =Ariad´ne=, daughter of Minos, second king of Crete, and Pasiphæ, fell in love with Theseus, who was shut up in the labyrinth to be devoured by the Minotaur. She gave Theseus a clue of thread by which he extricated himself from the windings of the labyrinth. After he had conquered the Minotaur he married her, but after a time forsook her. On this, according to some authorities, she hanged herself. According to other writers, after being abandoned by Theseus, Bacchus loved her, and gave her a crown of seven stars, which were made a constellation. =Ari´on.= A famous lyric poet and musician, son of Cyclos of Methymna in Lesbos. He went into Italy with Periander, tyrant of Corinth, where he gained much wealth by his profession. Afterwards he wished to revisit the place of his nativity, and he embarked in a ship, the sailors of which resolved to kill him for the riches he had with him. Arion entreated them to listen to his music, and as soon as he had finished playing he threw himself into the sea. A number of dolphins had been attracted by the sweetness of his music, and it is said that one of them carried him safely on its back to Tænarus, whence he went to the court of Periander, who ordered all the sailors to be crucified. =Aristæ´us.= Son of Apollo and Cyrene, famous for his fondness for hunting. He married Autonoe, the daughter of Cadmus, Actæon being their son. He was after death worshiped as a demigod. =Aristar´chus.= A celebrated grammarian of Samos, disciple of Aristophanes. He lived the greatest part of his life at Alexandria. He wrote about 800 commentaries on different authors. He died in his seventy-second year, B.C. 157. =Aristi´des.= A celebrated Athenian, son of Lysimachus, in the age of Themistocles, whose great temperance and virtue procured for him the name of the "Just." He was rival to Themistocles, by whose influence he was banished for ten years, B.C. 484. He was at the battle of Salamis, and was appointed to be chief commander with Pausanias against Mardonius, whom they defeated at Platæa. =Aristip´pus=, the elder, a philosopher of Cyrene, a disciple of Socrates, and founder of the Cyrenaic sect. =Aristogi´ton= and =Harmo´dis=. Two celebrated friends of Athens, who, by their joint efforts, delivered their country from the tyranny of the Pisistratidæ, B.C. 510. =Aristoph´anes.= A celebrated comic poet of Athens, son of Philip of Rhodes. He wrote fifty-four comedies, of which eleven have come down to us. He lived B.C. 434, and lashed the vices of the age with a masterly hand. =Aristot´eles.= A famous philosopher, son of Nicomachus, born at Stagira. He went to Athens to hear Plato's lectures, where he soon signalized himself by his genius. He has been called by Plato the philosopher of truth, and Cicero complimented him for his eloquence, fecundity of thought, and universal knowledge. He died in his sixty-third year, B.C. 322. As he expired he is said to have exclaimed: _Causa causarum miserere mei_, which sentence has since become famous, and is by some attributed to Cicero. The term Stagirite has been applied to Aristotle from the name of his birthplace. =Artaxerx´es= the First succeeded to the kingdom of Persia after Xerxes. He made war against the Bactrians, and reconquered Egypt, which had revolted. He was remarkable for his equity and moderation. =Artaxerx´es= the Second. King of Persia, surnamed Mnemon. His brother Cyrus endeavored to make himself king in his place, and marched against his brother at the head of 100,000 Barbarians and 13,000 Greeks. He was opposed by Artaxerxes with a large army, and a bloody battle was fought at Cunaxa, in which Cyrus was killed and his forces routed. =Ar´temis.= The Greek name of Diana. Her festivals, called Artemesia, were celebrated in several parts of Greece, particularly at Delphi. =Asca´nius=, son of Æneas and Creusa, was saved from the flames of Troy by his father, whom he accompanied in his voyage to Italy. He was afterwards called Iulus. =Aspa´sia.= Daughter of Axiochus, born at Miletus. She came to Athens, where she taught eloquence. Socrates was one of her scholars. She so captivated Pericles by her accomplishments that he made her his wife. The conduct of Pericles and Aspasia greatly corrupted the morals of the Athenians, and caused much dissipation in the State. =Aspa´sia.= A daughter of Hermotimus of Phocæa, famous for her personal charms. She was priestess of the sun, and became mistress to Cyrus. =Astar´te.= A powerful divinity of Syria, the same as the Venus of the Greeks. She had a famous temple at Hierapolis in Syria, which was attended by 300 priests. =Astræ´a.= A daughter of Astræus, king of Arcadia, or, according to others, daughter of Titan and Aurora. Some make her daughter of Jupiter and Themis. She was called Justice, of which virtue she was the goddess. =Asty´anax.= A son of Hector and Andromache. He was very young when the Greeks besieged Troy, and when the city was taken his mother saved him in her arms from the flames. According to Euripides he was killed by Menelaus. =Atalan´ta.= Daughter of Schoeneus, king of Scyros. According to some she was the daughter of Jasus, or Jasius, and Clymene, but others say that Menalion was her father. She determined to live in celibacy, but her beauty gained her many admirers, and to free herself from their importunities she proposed to run a race with them. As she was almost invincible in running, her suitors, who entered the lists against her, were defeated, till Hippomenes, the son of Macareus, proposed himself as an admirer. Venus gave him three golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, and with these concealed about him he entered the lists to race against Atalanta. As the race proceeded he dropped the apples, which she stopped to pick up, thus enabling Hippomenes to arrive first at the goal, and obtain her in marriage. =A´te.= Daughter of Jupiter, and goddess of all evil. She raised such discord amongst the gods that Jupiter banished her from heaven, and sent her to dwell on earth, where she incited mankind to evil thoughts and actions. =Athana´sius.= A bishop of Alexandria, celebrated for his determined opposition to Arius and his doctrines. He died A.D. 373, after filling the archiepiscopal chair for forty-seven years. The famous creed which is named after him is no longer supposed to have been written by him, and its authorship remains in doubt. =At´las.= One of the Titans, son of Iapetus and Clymene. He married Pleione, daughter of Oceanus (or of Hesperis, according to some writers). He had seven daughters, who were called the Atlantides. =A´treus.= A son of Pelops and Hippodamia, was king of Mycenæ. His brother Chrysippus was illegitimate, and Hippodamia wished to get rid of him, and urged Atreus and another of her sons, Thyestes, to murder him, which, on their refusal, she did herself. Atreus retired to the court of Eurystheus, king of Argos, and succeeded to his throne. =At´ticus, T. Pomponius.= A celebrated Roman knight, to whom Cicero wrote a number of letters, containing the general history of the age. He retired to Athens, where he endeared himself to the citizens, who erected statues to him in commemoration of his virtues. He died at the age of seventy-seven, B.C. 32. =At´tila.= A celebrated king of the Huns, who invaded the Roman empire in the reign of Valentinian, with an army of half a million of men. He laid waste the provinces, and marched on Rome, but retreated on being paid a large sum of money. He called himself the "Scourge of God," and died A.D. 453, of an effusion of blood, on the night of his marriage. =Angus´tus, Octavia´nus Cæ´sar=, emperor of Rome, was son of Octavius, a senator, and Accia, sister to Julius Cæsar. He was associated in the triumvirate with Antony and Lepidus, and defeated the armies of Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. Octavia, the sister of Augustus, married Antony after the death of his wife Fulvia. Octavia, however, was slighted for the charms of Cleopatra, which incensed Augustus, who took up arms to avenge the wrongs of his sister, and at the great battle of Actium (B.C. 31), the forces of Antony and Cleopatra suffered a disastrous defeat. =Aurelia´nus=, emperor of Rome, was austere and cruel in the execution of the laws, and in his treatment of his soldiers. He was famous for his military character, and his expedition against Zenobia, queen of Palmyra, gained him great honors. It is said that in his various battles he killed 800 men with his own hand. He was assassinated near Byzantium, A.D. 275. =Aure´lius, M. Antoni´nus=, surnamed "the philosopher," possessed all the virtues which should adorn the character of a prince. He raised to the imperial dignity his brother L. Verus, whose dissipation and voluptuousness were as conspicuous as the moderation of the philosopher. During their reign the Quadi, Parthians, and Marcomanni were defeated. Verus died of apoplexy, and Antoninus survived him eight years, dying in his sixty-first year, after a reign of nineteen years and ten days. =Auro´ra.= A goddess, daughter of Hyperion and Thia or Thea. She is generally represented by the poets as sitting in a chariot and opening with her fingers the gates of the east, pouring dew on the earth, and making the flowers grow. The Greeks call her Eos. =Bac´chus= was son of Jupiter and Semele, the daughter of Cadmus. He was the god of wine, and is generally represented crowned with vine leaves. He is said to have married Ariadne after she had been forsaken by Theseus. =Belisa´rius.= A celebrated general who, in the reign of Justinian, emperor of Constantinople, renewed the victories which had rendered the first Romans so distinguished. He died, after a life of glory, suffering from royal ingratitude, 565 years before the Christian era. =Beller´ophon=, son of Glaucus, king of Ephyre, and Eurymede; was at first called Hipponous. He was sent by Iobates, king of Lycia, to conquer the monster Chimæra. Minerva assisted him in the expedition, and by the aid of the winged horse Pegasus he conquered the monster and returned victorious. After sending him on other dangerous adventures, Iobates gave him his daughter in marriage, and made him successor to his throne. =Bello´na=, goddess of war, was daughter of Phorcys and Ceto; called by the Greeks Enyo, and is often confounded with Minerva. She prepared the chariot of Mars when he was going to war, and appeared in battles armed with a whip to animate the combatants, and holding a torch. =Be´lus=, one of the most ancient kings of Babylon, about 1800 years before the age of Semiramis, was made a god after death, and was worshiped by the Assyrians and Babylonians. He was supposed to be the son of the Osiris of the Egyptians. The temple of Belus was the most ancient and magnificent in the world, and was said to have been originally the tower of Babel. =Bereni´ce.= A daughter of Philadelphus, who married Antiochus, king of Syria, after he had divorced his former wife Laodice. =Bereni´ce.= The mother of Agrippa, whose name occurs in the history of the Jews as daughter-in-law of Herod the Great. A number of others of minor celebrity were known by the same name. =Bi´on.= A philosopher of Scythia who rendered himself famous for his knowledge of poetry, music, and philosophy. Another of the same name was a Greek poet of Smyrna who wrote pastorals. He was a friend of Moschus, who says that he died by poison about 300 years B.C. =Boadice´a.= A famous British queen who rebelled against the Romans and was defeated, on which she poisoned herself. Her cruel treatment by the Romans is the subject of an ode by Cowper. =Bo´reas.= The name of the north wind blowing from the Hyperborean mountains. According to the poets, he was son of Astræus and Aurora. He was passionately fond of Hyacinthus. =Bren´nus.= A general of the Galli Senones, who entered Italy, defeated the Romans, and marched into the city. The Romans fled into the Capitol, and left the city in possession of the enemy. The Gauls climbed the Tarpeian rock in the night, and would have taken the Capitol had not the Romans been awakened by the cackling of some geese, on which they roused themselves and repelled the enemy. =Bri´a´reus.= A famous giant, son of Coelus and Terra. He had a hundred hands and fifty heads, and was called by men by the name of Ægeon. =Bru´tus L. Junius.= Son of M. Junius and Tarquinia. When Lucretia killed herself, B.C. 509, in consequence of the brutality of Tarquin, Brutus snatched the dagger from the wound and swore upon the reeking blade immortal hatred to the royal family, and made the people swear they would submit no longer to the kingly authority. His sons conspired to restore the Tarquins, and were tried and condemned before their father, who himself attended their execution. Mr. John Howard Payne, the American dramatist, has written a tragedy, of which Brutus is the hero. =Bru´tus, Mar´cus Ju´nius=, father of Cæsar's murderer, followed the party of Marius, and was conquered by Pompey, by whose orders he was put to death. =Bru´tus, Mar´cus Ju´nius=, the destroyer of Cæsar, conspired with many of the most illustrious citizens of Rome, against Cæsar, and stabbed him in Pompey's Basilica. The tumult following the murder was great, but the conspirators fled to the Capitol, and by proclaiming freedom and liberty to the populace, for the time established tranquillity. Antony, however, soon obtained the popular ear, and the murderers were obliged to leave Rome. Brutus retired into Greece, where he gained many friends. He was soon pursued by Antony, who was accompanied by the young Octavius. The famous battle of Philippi followed, in which Brutus and his friend Cassius, who commanded the left wing of the army, were totally defeated. Brutus fell on his own sword, B.C. 42, and was honored with a magnificent funeral by Antony. Plutarch relates that Cæsar's ghost appeared to Brutus in his tent before the battle of Philippi, warning him of his approaching fall. =Buceph´alus.= A horse of Alexander's, so frequently named by writers that the term has become proverbial. Alexander was the only person that could mount him, and he always knelt down for his master to bestride him. =Ca´cus.= A famous robber, son of Vulcan and Medusa, represented as a three-headed monster vomiting flames. He resided in Italy, and the avenues of his cave were covered with human bones. When Hercules returned from the conquest of Geryon, Cacus stole some of his cows, which Hercules discovering, he strangled Cacus. =Cad´mus=, son of Agenor, king of Phoenicia, and Telephassa, or Agriope, was ordered by his father to go in quest of his sister Europa, whom Jupiter had carried away. His search proving fruitless, he consulted the oracle of Apollo, and was told to build a city where he saw a heifer stop in the grass, and call the country around Boeotia. He found the heifer, as indicated by the oracle. Requiring water, he sent his companions to fetch some from a neighboring grove. The water was guarded by a dragon, who devoured those who were sent for it, and Cadmus, tired of waiting, went himself to the place. He attacked the dragon and killed it, sowing its teeth in the ground, on which a number of armed men rose out of the earth. Cadmus threw a stone amongst them, and they at once began fighting, and all were killed except five, who assisted him in building the city. Cadmus introduced the use of letters in Greece--the alphabet, as introduced by him, consisting of sixteen letters. =Cadu´ceus.= A rod entwined at one end with two serpents. It was the attribute of Mercury, and was given to him by Apollo in exchange for the lyre. =Cæ´sar.= A surname given to the Julian family in Rome. This name, after it had been dignified in the person of Julius Cæsar and his successors, was given to the apparent heir of the empire in the age of the Roman emperors. The first twelve emperors were distinguished by the name of Cæsar. They reigned in this order--Julius Cæsar, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero, Galba, Otho, Vitellius, Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian. Suetonius has written an exhaustive history of the Cæsars. C. Julius Cæsar, the first emperor of Rome, was son of L. Cæsar and Aurelia, the daughter of Cotta. He was descended, according to some accounts, from Julus, the son of Æneas. His eloquence procured him friends at Rome, and the generous manner in which he lived equally served to promote his interest. He was appointed for five years over the Gauls. Here he enlarged the boundaries of the Roman empire by conquest, and invaded Britain, which till then was unknown to the Romans. The corrupt state of the Roman senate, and the ambition of Cæsar and Pompey, caused a civil war. Neither of these celebrated Romans would endure a superior, and the smallest matters were grounds enough for unsheathing the sword. By the influence of Pompey a decree was passed to strip Cæsar of his power. Antony, as tribune, opposed this, and went to Cæsar's camp with the news. On this Cæsar crossed the Rubicon, which was the boundary of his province. The passage of the Rubicon was a declaration of war, and Cæsar entered Italy with his army. Upon this Pompey left Rome and retired to Dyrrachium, and Cæsar shortly afterwards entered Rome. He then went to Spain, where he conquered the partisans of Pompey, and on his return to Rome was declared dictator, and soon afterwards consul. The two hostile generals met in the plains of Pharsalia, and a great battle ensued B.C. 48. Pompey was defeated and fled to Egypt, where he was slain. At length Cæsar's glory came to an end. Enemies had sprung up around him, and a conspiracy, consisting of many influential Romans, was formed against him. Conspicuous among the conspirators was Brutus, his most intimate friend, who, with others, assassinated him in the senate house in the ides of March, B.C. 44, in the fifty-sixth year of his age. He wrote his Commentaries on the Gallic wars when the battles were fought. This work is admired for its elegance and purity of style. It was after his conquest over Pharnaces, king of Pontus, that he made use of the words, which have since become proverbial, _Veni, vidi, vici_, illustrative of the activity of his operations. Shakspeare's tragedy of Julius Cæsar, in the third act of which he is assassinated, uttering as his last words, "_Et tu, Brute!_ Then fall Cæsar"--is devoted to the conspiracy and its results, ending with defeat and death of Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. =Calig´ula=, a Roman emperor, was son of Germanicus by Agrippina. He was proud, wanton, and cruel. He was pleased when disasters befell his subjects, and often expressed a wish that the Romans had but one head, that he might have the pleasure of striking it off. He had a favorite horse made consul, and adorned it with the most valuable trappings and ornaments. The tyrant was murdered A.D. 41, in his twenty-ninth year, after a reign of three years and ten months. =Calli´ope.= One of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne, who presided over eloquence and heroic poetry. =Cal´ydon.= A city of Ætolia, where OEneus, the father of Meleager, reigned. During the reign of OEneus Diana sent a wild boar to ravage the country on account of the neglect which had been shown of her divinity by the king. All the princes of the age assembled to hunt the Calydonian boar. Meleager killed the animal, and gave the head to Atalanta, of whom he was enamored. =Calyp´so.= One of the Oceanides, or one of the daughters of Atlas, according to some writers. When Ulysses was shipwrecked on her coasts she received him with hospitality, and offered him immortality if he would remain with her as a husband, which he refused to do, and after seven years' delay he was permitted to depart from the island where Calypso reigned. =Camby´ses=, king of Persia, was the son of Cyrus the Great. He conquered Egypt, and was so disgusted at the superstition of the Egyptians, that he killed their god Apis and plundered their temples. =Camill´us, L. Fu´rius.= A celebrated Roman, called a second Romulus from the services he rendered his country. He was banished for distributing the spoils he had obtained at Veii. During his exile Rome was besieged by the Gauls under Brennus. The besieged Romans then elected him dictator, and he went to the relief of his country, which he delivered after it had been some time occupied by the enemy. He died B.C. 365. =Cam´pus Mar´tius.= A large plain without the walls of Rome, where the Roman youth were instructed in athletic exercises and learnt to throw the discus, hurl the javelin, etc. =Can´næ.= A village of Apuleia, where Hannibal defeated the Roman consuls Æmylius and Varro, B.C. 216. =Capitoli´num.= A celebrated temple and citadel at Rome on the Tarpeian rock. =Caracal´la=, son of the emperor Septimius Severus, was notorious for his cruelties. He killed his brother Geta in his mother's arms, and attempted to destroy the writings of Aristotle. After a life made odious by his vices he was assassinated, A.D. 217, in the forty-third year of his age. =Carac´tacus.= A king of the Britons, who was conquered by the Romans and taken prisoner to Rome. =Cartha´go.= Carthage, a celebrated city of Africa, the rival of Rome, and for a long period the capital of the country, and mistress of Spain, Sicily, and Sardinia. The time of its foundation is unknown, but it seems to be agreed on that it was built by Dido about 869 years before the Christian era, or, according to some writers, 72 or 73 years before the foundation of Rome. It had reached its highest glory in the days of Hamilcar and Hannibal. =Cassan´der=, son of Antipater, made himself master of Macedonia after his father's death, where he reigned for eighteen years. =Cassan´dra=, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, was passionately loved by Apollo, who promised to grant her whatever she might require, and she obtained from him the power of seeing into futurity. Some say she received the gift of prophecy, with her brother Helenus, by being placed when young one night in the temple of Apollo, where serpents were found wreathed round their bodies and licking their ears, which gave them a knowledge of futurity. She was allotted to Agamemnon in the division of the spoils of Troy, and was slain by Clytemnestra, Agamemnon's wife. =Cas´sius C.= A celebrated Roman who became famous by being first quæstor to Crassus in his expedition against Parthia. He married Junia, the sister of Brutus, and joined Brutus in the conspiracy formed to assassinate Cæsar, after which he returned to Philippi with Brutus, and commanded one wing of the army in the famous battle fought there. On the defeat of his forces he ordered one of his freedmen to kill him, and he perished by the sword which had inflicted a wound on Cæsar. He was called by Brutus "the last of all the Romans." =Casta´lius Fons=, or =Casta´lia=. A fountain of Parnassus sacred to the Muses. =Castor= and =Pollux= were twin brothers, sons of Jupiter and Leda. Mercury carried them to Pallena, where they were educated. As soon as they arrived at manhood they embarked with Jason in quest of the Golden Fleece. In this expedition they evinced great courage. Pollux defeated and slew Amycus in the combat of the Cestus, and was afterwards considered to be the god and patron of boxing and wrestling. Castor distinguished himself in the management of horses. =Catili´na, L. Ser´gius=, a celebrated Roman, descended from a noble family. When he had squandered his fortune he secretly meditated the ruin of his country, and conspired with many Romans as dissolute as himself to extirpate the senate, plunder the treasuries, and set Rome on fire. This plot, known as the Catiline conspiracy, was unsuccessful. The history of it is written by Sallust. Catiline was killed in battle B.C. 63. =Ca´to, Mar´cus=, was great-grandson of the censor Cato. The early virtues that appeared in his childhood seemed to promise that he would become a great man. He was austere in his morals and a strict follower of the tenets of the Stoics. His fondness for candor was so great that his veracity became proverbial. In the Catilinian conspiracy he supported Cicero, and was the chief cause of the capital punishment which was inflicted on some of the conspirators. He stabbed himself after reading Plato's treatise on the immortality of the soul, B.C. 46, in the fifty-ninth year of his age. =Catul´lus C.=, or =Q. Vale´rius=. A poet of Verona whose compositions are the offspring of a luxuriant imagination. He was acquainted with the most distinguished people of his age. He directed his satire against Cæsar, whose only revenge was to invite him to a sumptuous banquet. =Cel´sus=, a physician in the age of Tiberius, who wrote eight books on medicine, besides treatises on agriculture, rhetoric, and military affairs. =Centau´ri.= A people of Thessaly, half men and half horses. They were the offspring of Centaurus and Stilbia. =Centum´viri.= The members of a court of justice at Rome. Though originally 105 in number, they were known as Centumvirs, and this name they retained when they were increased to 180. =Cer´berus.= A dog of Pluto. According to Hesiod he had fifty heads, but according to other mythologists he had three only. He was placed at the entrance to the infernal regions to prevent the living from entering, and the inhabitants of the place from escaping. =Ce´res=, the goddess of corn and harvests, was daughter of Saturn and Vesta. She was the mother of Proserpine, who was carried away by Pluto whilst she was gathering flowers. =Chærone´a=, a city of Boeotia celebrated for a great battle fought there, in which the Athenians were defeated by the Boeotians, B.C. 447, and for the victory which Philip of Macedonia obtained there over the confederate armies of the Thebans and Athenians, B.C. 338. It was the birth-place of Plutarch. =Cha´ron.= A god of the infernal regions, son of Nox and Erebus, who conducted the souls of the dead in a boat over the rivers Styx and Acheron. =Che´ops.= A king of Egypt, after Rhampsinitus, famous for building pyramids. =Chimæ´ra.= A celebrated monster which continually vomited flames. It was destroyed by Bellerophon. =Chi´ron.= A centaur, half a man and half a horse, son of Philyra and Saturn. He was famous for his knowledge of music, medicine, and shooting, and taught mankind the use of plants and medicinal herbs. =Chrysos´tom.= A bishop of Constantinople who died A.D. 407. He was a great disciplinarian, and by severely lashing the vices of his age he made many enemies. =Cic´ero, M. T.=, born at Arpinum, was son of a Roman knight and lineally descended from the ancient kings of the Sabines. In youth he displayed many abilities, and was taught philosophy by Philo, and law by Mutius Scævola. He applied himself with great diligence to the study of oratory, and was distinguished above all the speakers of his time in the Roman forum. He signalized himself in opposing Catiline, whom he publicly accused of treason against the State, and whom he drove from the city. After a number of vicissitudes of fortune he was assassinated, B.C. 43, at the age of sixty-three. =Cincinna´tus, L. Q.= A celebrated Roman, who was informed, as he plowed in the fields, that the senate had chosen him to be dictator. On this he left the plow and repaired to the field of battle, where his countrymen were opposed by the Volsci and Æqui. He conquered the enemy, and entered Rome in triumph. =Cir´ce.= A daughter of Sol and Perseis, celebrated for her knowledge of magic and venomous herbs. She was carried by her father to an island called Æaea. Ulysses, on his return from the Trojan war, visited her coasts, and his companions were changed, by her potions, into swine. Ulysses, who was fortified against enchantments by an herb which he had received from Mercury, demanded of Circe the restoration of his companions to their former shape; she complied with his wishes, and eventually permitted him to depart from her island. =Claudia´nus.= A celebrated poet, in the age of Honorius, who is considered by some writers to equal Virgil in the majestic character of his style. =Clau´dius, T. Drusus Nero=, son of Drusus, became emperor of Rome after the death of Caligula. He went to Britain, and obtained a triumph for victories achieved by his generals. He suffered himself to be governed by favorites, whose avarice plundered the State and distracted the provinces. He was poisoned by Agrippina, who wished to raise her son Nero to the throne. =Cleopa´tra=, queen of Egypt, daughter of Ptolemy Auletes, was celebrated for her beauty. Antony became enamored of her and married her, ignoring his connection with Octavia, the sister of Augustus. He gave her the greatest part of the eastern provinces of the Roman empire. This caused a rupture between Augustus and Antony, and these two famous men met at Actium, when Cleopatra, by flying with sixty ships, ruined the battle for Antony, and he was defeated. Cleopatra destroyed herself by applying an asp to her breast. =Cli´o.= The first of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. She presided over history. =Cloaci´na.= A goddess at Rome who presided over the Cloacæ, which were large receptacles for the filth of the whole city. =Clo´tho=, the youngest of the three Parcæ, who were daughters of Jupiter and Themis, was supposed to preside over the moment of birth. She held the distaff in her hand and spun the thread of life. =Clytemnes´tra.= A daughter of Tyndarus, king of Sparta, and Leda, married Agamemnon, king of Argos, in whose absence in the Trojan war she misconducted herself with his cousin Ægysthus. On the return of Agamemnon Clytemnestra murdered him, as well as Cassandra, whom he had brought with him. After this Clytemnestra ascended the throne of Argos. In the meantime her son Orestes, after an absence of seven years, returned, resolved to avenge the death of his father Agamemnon. On an occasion when Ægysthus and Clytemnestra repaired to the Temple of Apollo, Orestes, with his friend Pylades, killed them. =Clyt´ia= or =Clyt´ie=. A daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, beloved by Apollo. She was changed into a sun-flower. =Co´cles, P. Horatius.= A celebrated Roman who alone opposed the whole army of Porsenna at the head of a bridge whilst his companions were cutting off the communication with the other shore. When the bridge was destroyed, Cocles, though wounded by the darts of the enemy, leapt into the Tiber and swam across it, armed as he was. For his heroism a brazen statue was raised to him in the Temple of Vulcan. =Co´drus.= The last king of Athens, son of Melanthus. When the Heraclidæ made war against Athens, the oracle said that the victory would be granted to that nation whose king was killed in battle. The Heraclidæ on hearing this gave orders to spare the life of Codrus, but the patriotic king disguised himself, and engaging with one of the enemy, was killed. The Athenians obtained the victory, and Codrus was regarded as the savior of his country. =Coe´lus= or =Ura´nus=. An ancient deity supposed to be the father of Saturn, Oceanus, and Hyperion. =Col´chis= or =Col´chos=. A country of Asia famous for the expedition of the Argonauts, and as being the birthplace of Medea. =Collati´nus, L. Tarquinius.= A nephew of Tarquin the Proud. He married Lucretia. He, with Brutus, drove the Tarquins from Rome. =Colos´sus.= A celebrated brazen image at Rhodes, which was considered to be one of the seven wonders of the world. =Com´modus, L. Aure´lius Antoni´nus=, son of M. Antoninus, succeeded his father in the Roman empire. He was naturally cruel and fond of indulging his licentious propensities. Desirous of being likened to Hercules, he adorned his shoulders with a lion's skin, and carried a knotted club in his hand. He fought with the gladiators, and boasted of his skill in killing wild beasts in the amphitheatre. He was strangled by a wrestler in the thirty-first year of his age, A.D. 192. =Co´mus.= The god of revelry, feasting, and nocturnal amusements. He is represented as a drunken young man with a torch in his hand. =Concor´dia.= The goddess of peace and concord at Rome, to whom Camillus raised a temple in the Capitol. =Confu´cius.= A Chinese philosopher, as much honored amongst his countrymen as if he had been a monarch. He died about 499 years B.C. =Co´non.= A famous general of Athens, son of Timotheus. He was made governor of all the islands of the Athenians, and was defeated in a naval battle by Lysander. He defeated the Spartans near Cnidos, when Pisander, the enemy's admiral, was killed. He died in prison B.C. 393. =Constan´tia.= A granddaughter of the great Constantine, married the Emperor Gratian. =Constanti´nus=, surnamed the Great from the greatness of his exploits, was son of Constantius. It is said that as he was going to fight against Maxentius, one of his rivals, he saw a cross in the sky with the inscription, _In hoc vince_. From this he became a convert to Christianity, ever after adopting a cross for his standard. He founded a city where old Byzantium formerly stood, and called it Constantinopolis. There he kept his court, and made it the rival of Rome in population and magnificence. He died A.D. 337, after a reign of thirty-one years of the greatest glory. =Constan´tius Chlo´rus=, son of Eutropius, and father of the great Constantine. He obtained victories in Britain and Germany. He became the colleague of Galerius on the abdication of Dioclesian, and died A.D. 306, bearing the reputation of being brave, humane, and benevolent. =Con´sul.= A magistrate at Rome with real authority for the space of a year. There were two consuls, who were annually chosen in the Campus Martius. The first two were L. Jun. Brutus and L. Tarquinius Collatinus. =Corin´na.= A celebrated woman of Thebes, whose father was Archelodorus. It is said that she obtained a poetical prize five times against the competitorship of Pindar. =Coriola´nus.= The surname of C. Martius, from his victory over Corioli. After a number of military exploits, and many services to his country, he was refused the consulship. He was banished, and went to the Volsci, where he met with a gracious reception from Tullus Aufidius, whom he advised to make war against Rome, marching with the Volsci as general. His approach alarmed the Romans, who sent his mother and his wife to meet him and appease his resentment against his countrymen, which with difficulty they succeeded in doing. =Corne´lia.= A daughter of Scipio Africanus, famous for her learning and virtues, and as being the mother of the Gracchi, Tiberius and Caius Gracchus. Her husband was T. Sempronius Gracchus. =Cras´sus, M. Licin´ius.= A celebrated Roman, who by educating slaves and selling them, became very wealthy. He was made consul with Pompey, and was afterwards censor, and formed one of the first triumvirate, his associates in it being Pompey and Cæsar. In the hope of enlarging his possessions he left Rome, crossed the Euphrates, and hastened to make himself master of Parthia. He was met by Surena, the Parthian general, and in the battle which ensued 20,000 of the Romans were killed and 10,000 made prisoners. Crassus surrendered, and was put to death B.C. 53. =Cre´on=, king of Corinth, was son of Sisyphus. He promised his daughter Glauce to Jason, who had repudiated Medea. To revenge herself on her rival, Medea sent her a present of a dress covered with poison. Glauce put it on, and was seized with sudden pain. Her body took fire, and she expired in the greatest agony. The house in which she was was also consumed, and Creon and his family shared Glauce's fate. =Cre´on.= King of Thebes, whose territories were ravaged by the Sphinx. Creon offered his crown to any one who would explain the enigmas proposed by the Sphinx. OEdipus solved the riddles, and ascended the throne of Thebes. =Croe´sus=, the fifth and last of the Mermnadæ, who reigned in Lydia, was the son of Alyattes, and was considered the richest man in the world. His court was an asylum for learning, and Æsop, the famous fable writer, with other learned men, lived under his patronage. "As rich as Croesus," has become a proverb. =Cupi´do=, god of love, son of Jupiter and Venus, is represented as a winged infant, naked, armed with a bow and arrows. On gems and ornaments he is represented generally as amusing himself with some childish diversion. Cupid, like the rest of the gods, assumed different shapes, and we find him in the Æneid putting on, at the request of his mother, the form of Ascanius, and going to Dido's court, where he inspired the queen with love. =Cur´tius, M.= A Roman who devoted himself to the service of his country, about 360 years B.C., by leaping on horseback, and fully armed, into a huge gap in the earth, at the command of the oracle. =Cyb´ele.= A goddess, daughter of Coelus and Terra, and wife of Saturn. She was supposed to be the same as Ceres, Rhea, Ops, Vesta, etc. According to Diodorus, she was the daughter of a Lydian prince. On her birth she was exposed on a mountain, where she was tended and fed by wild beasts, receiving the name of Cybele from the mountain where her life had been preserved. =Cyclo´pes.= A race of men of gigantic stature, supposed to be the sons of Coelus and Terra. They had only one eye, which was in the center of the forehead. According to Hesiod they were three in number, and named Arges, Brontes, and Steropes. =Cy´rus.= A king of Persia, son of Cambyses and Mandane, daughter of Astyages, king of Media. Xenophon has written the life of Cyrus; and delineates him as a brave and virtuous prince, and often puts in his mouth many of the sayings of Socrates. =Cy´rus= the younger was the son of Darius Nothus, and the brother of Artaxerxes, the latter succeeding to the throne at the death of Nothus. Cyrus was appointed to the command of Lydia and the sea-coasts, where he fomented rebellion and levied troops under various pretenses. At length he took the field with an army of 100,000 Barbarians and 13,000 Greeks under the command of Clearchus. Artaxerxes met him with 900,000 men near Cunaxa. The engagement ended fatally for Cyrus, who was killed 401 years B.C. =Dæd´alus=, an Athenian, was the most ingenious artist of his age; he was the inventor of the wedge and many other mechanical instruments. He made a famous labyrinth for Minos, king of Crete, but incurred the displeasure of Minos, who ordered him to be confined in the labyrinth. Here he made himself wings with feathers and wax, and fitted them to his body, adopting the same course with his son Icarus, who was the companion of his confinement. They mounted into the air, but the heat of the sun melted the wax on the wings of Icarus, and he fell into the ocean, which after him has been called the Icarian Sea. The father alighted safely at Cumæ, where he built a temple to Apollo. =Dan´ae=, daughter of Acrisius, king of Argos, and Eurydice. Jupiter was enamored with her, and they had a son, with whom Danae was exposed in a boat on the sea by her father. The winds carried them to the island of Seriphus, where she was saved by some fishermen, and carried to Polydectes, king of the place, whose brother, named Dictys, educated the child, who was called Perseus, and kindly treated the mother. =Dana´ides.= The fifty daughters of Danaus, king of Argos, who married the fifty sons of their uncle Ægyptus. Danaus had been told by the oracle that he would be killed by a son-in-law, and he made his daughters promise to slay their husbands immediately after marriage. All of them fulfilled their father's wishes except one, Hypermnestra, who spared her husband Lynceus. =Daph´ne.= A daughter of the River Peneus, or of the Ladon, and the goddess Terra, of whom Apollo became enamored. Daphne fled to avoid the addresses of this god, and was changed into a laurel. =Dar´danus.= A son of Jupiter, who killed his brother Jasius to obtain the kingdom of Etruria. He built the city of Dardania, and was reckoned to have been the founder of Troy. =Dari´us.= A noble satrap of Persia, son of Hystaspes, who usurped the crown of Persia after the death of Cambyses. Darius was twenty-nine years old when he ascended the throne, and he soon distinguished himself by his military prowess. He besieged Babylon, which he took after a siege of twenty months. He died B.C. 485. =Dari´us=, the second king of Persia of that name, ascended the throne of Persia soon after the murder of Xerxes. He carried on many wars with success, aided by his generals and his son Cyrus the younger. He died B.C. 404, after a reign of nineteen years. =Dari´us.= The third king of Persia of that name. He soon had to take the field against Alexander, who invaded Persia. Darius met him with an enormous army, which, however, was more remarkable for the luxuries indulged in by its leaders than for military courage. A battle was fought near the Granicus, in which the Persians were easily defeated, and another conflict followed near Issus, equally fatal to the Persians. Darius escaped and assembled another powerful army. The last and decisive battle was fought at Arbela, Alexander being again victorious. When the fight was over Darius was found in his chariot covered with wounds and expiring, B.C. 331. =Dejani´ra.= A daughter of OEneus, king of Ætolia. Her beauty procured her many admirers, and her father promised to give her in marriage to him who should excel in a competition of strength. Hercules obtained the prize, and married Dejanira. =Del´phi.= A town of Phocis, at the south-west side of Mount Parnassus. It was famous for a temple of Apollo, and for an oracle celebrated in every age and country. =Deme´trius.= A son of Antigonus and Stratonice, surnamed Poliorcetes, _destroyer of towns_. At the age of twenty-two he was sent by his father against Ptolemy, who had invaded Syria. He was defeated at Gaza, but soon afterwards obtained a victory. The greater part of his life was passed in warfare, his fortunes undergoing many changes. He was distinguished for his fondness of dissipation when in dissolute society, and for military skill and valor in the battle-field. He died B.C. 286. =Deme´trius.= Surnamed _Soter_, king of Syria. His father gave him as a hostage to the Romans. After the death of his father, Seleucus Philopator, Antiochus Epiphanes usurped the throne of Syria, and was succeeded by his son Antiochus Eupator. Demetrius procured his liberty, and established himself on the throne, causing Eupator to be put to death. =Deme´trius.= Son of Soter, whom he succeeded after he had driven from the throne a usurper, Alexander Bala. Demetrius gave himself up to luxury, and suffered his kingdom to be governed by his favorites, thus becoming odious to his subjects. He was at last killed by the governor of Tyre, where he had fled for protection. =Deme´trius Phale´reus.= A disciple of Theophrastus, who gained such influence over the Athenians by his eloquence and the purity of his manners that he was elected decennial archon, B.C. 317. He embellished the city, and rendered himself popular by his munificence, but his enemies plotted against him, and he fled to the court of Ptolemy Lagus, where he was received with kindness. He put an end to his life by permitting an asp to bite him, B.C. 284. There were several others of the name of Demetrius of minor note. =Democ´ritus.= A celebrated philosopher of Abdera, one of the disciples of Leucippus. He travelled over the greatest part of Europe, Asia, and Africa, in quest of knowledge, and returned home in the greatest poverty. He indulged in continual laughter at the follies of mankind for distracting themselves with care and anxiety in the short term of their lives. He told Darius, who was inconsolable for the loss of his wife, that he would raise her from the dead if he could find three persons who had gone through life without adversity, whose names he might engrave on the queen's monument. He taught his disciples that the soul died with the body. He died in his 109th year, B.C. 361. He has been termed "the laughing philosopher." =Demos´thenes.= A celebrated Athenian, was son of a rich blacksmith and Cleobule. He became pupil of Plato, and applied himself to study the orations of Isocrates. At the age of seventeen he gave early proof of his eloquence and abilities in displaying them against his guardians, from whom he obtained restitution of the greater part of his estate. To correct the stammering of voice under which he labored he spoke with pebbles in his mouth. In the battle of Cheronæa he evinced cowardice, and saved his life by flight. He ended his life by taking poison, which he always carried in a quill, in the sixtieth year of his age, B.C. 322. =Deuca´lion.= A son of Prometheus, who married Pyrrha, the daughter of Epimetheus. He reigned over part of Thessaly, and in his age the earth was covered by a deluge of water, sent by Jupiter as a punishment for the impiety of mankind. Deucalion constructed a ship, and by this means saved himself and Pyrrha. The ship, after being tossed on the waves for nine days, rested on Mount Parnassus. The deluge of Deucalion is supposed to have occurred B.C. 1503. =Dia´na.= The goddess of hunting. According to Cicero there were three of the name--viz.: a daughter of Jupiter and Proserpine, a daughter of Jupiter and Latona, and a daughter of Upis and Glauce. The second is the most celebrated, and all mention of Diana by ancient writers refers to her. To shun the society of men she devoted herself to hunting, and was always accompanied by a number of young women, who, like herself, abjured marriage. She is represented with a quiver, and attended by dogs. The most famous of her temples was that at Ephesus, which was one of the wonders of the world. =Dicta´tor.= A magistrate at Rome, invested with regal authority. =Di´do.= A daughter of Belus, king of Tyre, who married Sichæus or Sicharbus, her uncle, who was priest of Hercules. Pygmalion killed Sichæsus to obtain his immense riches, and Dido, disconsolate at the loss of her husband, set sail with a number of Tyrians in quest of a place in which to form a settlement. A storm drove her fleet on the African coast, and she bought of the inhabitants as much land as could be covered by a bull's hide cut into thongs. On this land she built a citadel called Byrsa, which was the nucleus of a great city. Her subjects wished her to marry again, but she refused, and erected a funeral pile, on which she ascended and stabbed herself to death. =Diocletia´nus, Cai´us Valer´ius Jo´vius.= A celebrated Roman emperor, born of an obscure family in Dalmatia. He was first a common soldier, and by merit gradually rose to the position of a general, and at length he was invested with imperial power. He has been celebrated for his military virtues, and though he was naturally unpolished by education, yet he was the friend and patron of learning and genius. His cruelty, however, against the followers of Christianity, has been severely reprobated. After reigning twenty-one years in great prosperity, he abdicated, A.D. 304, and died nine years afterwards, aged sixty-eight. =Diodo´rus, Sic´ulus.= Celebrated as the author of a history of Egypt, Persia, Syria, Media, Greece, Rome and Carthage. It was divided into forty books, of which only fifteen are extant, with a few fragments. =Dio´genes.= A celebrated cynic philosopher of Sinope, banished from his country for coining false money. From Sinope he retired to Athens, where he became the disciple of Antisthenes, who was at the head of the Cynics. He dressed himself in the garment which distinguished the Cynics, and walked about the streets with a tub on his head, which served him as a house. His singularity, joined to his great contempt for riches, gained him reputation, and Alexander the Great visited the philosopher and asked him if there was anything in which he could oblige him. "Get out of my sunshine," was the reply of the Cynic. Such independence pleased the monarch, who, turning to his courtiers, said, "Were I not Alexander, I would wish to be Diogenes." He was once sold as a slave, and his magnanimity so pleased his master, that he made him the preceptor of his children and the guardian of his estates. He died, B.C. 324, in the ninety-sixth year of his age. The life of Diogenes does not bear strict examination: whilst boasting of his poverty, he was so arrogant that it has been observed that his virtues arose from pride and vanity, not from wisdom or sound philosophy. =Dio´genes Laer´tius.= An Epicurean philosopher, born in Cilicia. He wrote the lives of the philosophers, in ten books. This work contains an accurate account of the ancient philosophers, and is replete with anecdotes respecting them. It is compiled, however, without any plan, method, or precision, though neatness and conciseness are observable in it. =Diome´des=, a son of Tydeus and Deiphyle, was king of Ætolia, and one of the bravest of the Grecian chiefs in the Trojan war. He often engaged Hector and Æneas, and obtained much military glory. =Diome´des.= A king of Thrace, son of Mars and Cyrene, who fed his horses with human flesh. Hercules destroyed Diomedes, and gave him to his own horses to be devoured. =Di´on.= A Syracusan, son of Hipparina, famous for his power and abilities. He was related to Dionysius the First, who constantly advised with him, and at whose court he obtained great popularity. He was assassinated 354 years before the Christian era by one of his familiar friends. His death was greatly lamented by the Syracusans, who raised a monument to his memory. When Dionysius the Second ascended the throne he banished Dion, who collected some forces, and in three days made himself master of Syracuse. =Di´on Cas´sius.= A native of Nicæa in Bithynia, who was raised to some of the greatest offices of state in the Roman empire. He is celebrated as the writer of a history of Rome which occupied him twelve years in composing. =Dionys´ius= the Elder was son of Hermocrates. He signalized himself in the wars which the Syracusans carried on against Carthage, and made himself absolute at Syracuse. His tyranny rendered himself odious to his subjects. He made a subterraneous cave in a rock in the form of a human ear, which was called "the Ear of Dionysius." The sounds of this cave were all directed to one common tympanum, which had a communication with an adjoining room, where Dionysius spent part of his time in listening to what was said by those whom he had imprisoned. He died in the sixty-third year of his age, B.C. 368, after a reign of thirty-eight years. =Dionys´ius= the Younger was son of Dionysius the First and Doris. He succeeded his father, and as soon as he ascended the throne he invited Plato to his court and studied under him for some time. Plato advised him to lay aside the supreme power, in which he was supported by Dion. This highly incensed Dionysius, who banished Dion, who collected forces in Greece, and in three days rendered himself master of Syracuse, and expelled the tyrant, B.C. 357. He, however, recovered Syracuse ten years afterward, but was soon compelled to retire again by the Corinthians under Timoleon. =Dionys´ius= of Halicarnassus. A historian who left his country and came to reside in Rome that he might study all the authors who had written Roman history. He was occupied during twenty-four years on his work on Roman antiquities, which consisted of twenty books. =Dir´ce.= A woman whom Lycus, king of Thebes, married after he had divorced Antiope. Amphion and Zethus, sons of Antiope, for cruelties she practiced on Antiope, tied Dirce to the tail of a wild bull, by which she was dragged over rocks and precipices till the gods pitied her and changed her into a fountain. =Discor´dia.= A malevolent deity, daughter of Nox, and sister to Nemesis, the Parcæ, and Death. She was driven from heaven by Jupiter because she sowed dissensions amongst the gods. At the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis she threw an apple amongst the gods, inscribed with the words, _Detur pulchriori_, which was the primary cause of the ruin of Troy, and of infinite misfortunes to the Greeks. =Dolabel´la, P. Corn.= A Roman who married the daughter of Cicero. During the civil wars he warmly espoused the cause of Julius Cæsar, whom he accompanied at the famous battles of Pharsalia and Munda. =Domitia´nus, Ti´tus Fla´vius=, son of Vespasian and Flavia Domitilla, made himself emperer of Rome on the death of his brother Titus, whom, according to some accounts, he destroyed by poison. The beginning of his reign promised hopefully, but Domitian became cruel, and gave way to vicious indulgences. In the latter part of his reign he became suspicious and remorseful. He was assassinated A.D. 96, in the forty-fifth year of his age. =Dra´co.= A celebrated lawgiver of Athens, who made a code of laws, B.C. 623, which, on account of their severity, were said to be written in letters of blood. Hence the term "Draconic," applied to any punishment of exceptional severity. =Dru´sus.= A son of Tiberius and Vipsania, who became famous for his courage displayed in Illyricum and Pannonia. =Dru´sus, M. Liv´ius.= A celebrated Roman, who renewed the proposals bearing on the Agrarian laws, which had proved fatal to the Gracchi. =Dru´sus, Ne´ro Clau´dius.= A son of Tiberius Nero and Livia. He distinguished himself in the wars in Germany and Gaul, and was honored with a triumph. There were other Romans of the same name, but of smaller distinction. =Dry´ades.= Nymphs that presided over the woods. Oblations of milk, oil, and honey were offered to them. Sometimes the votaries of the Dryads sacrificed a goat to them. =Duum´viri.= Two patricians at Rome, first appointed by Tarquin to keep the Sibylline books, which were supposed to contain the fate of the Roman empire. =Ech´o.= A daughter of the Air and Tellus, who was one of Juno's attendants. She was deprived of speech by Juno, but was allowed to reply to questions put to her. =Ege´ria.= A nymph of Aricia in Italy, where Diana was particularly worshiped. Egeria was courted by Numa, and, according to Ovid, became his wife. Ovid says that she was disconsolate at the death of Numa, and that she wept so violently that Diana changed her into a fountain. =Elec´tra.= A daughter of Agamemnon, king of Argos. She incited her brother Orestes to revenge his father's death by assassinating his mother Clytemnestra. Her adventures and misfortunes form the subject of one of the finest of the tragedies of Sophocles. =Eleu´sinia.= A great festival observed by the Lacedæmonians, Cretans, and others, every fourth year, and by the people of Athens every fifth year, at Eleusis in Attica, where it was introduced by Eumolpus, B.C. 1356. It was the most celebrated of all the religious ceremonies of Greece. The term "Mysteries" is often applied to it. The expression "Eleusinian mysteries," as applied to anything that is inexplicable, has become proverbial. =Elys´ium.= The Elysian Fields, a place in the infernal regions, where, according to the ancients, the souls of the virtuous existed after death. =Emped´ocles.= A philosopher, poet, and historian of Agrigentum in Sicily, who lived 444 B.C. He was a Pythagorean, and warmly espoused the belief in the transmigration of souls. =Endym´ion.= A shepherd, son of Æthlius and Calyce. He is said to have required of Jupiter that he might be always young. Diana saw him as he slept on Mount Latmus, and was so struck with his beauty that she came down from heaven every night to visit him. =En´nius.= An ancient poet, born in Calabria. He obtained the privileges of a Roman citizen on account of his learning and genius. =E´os.= The name of Aurora among the Greeks. =Epaminon´das.= A famous Theban descended from the ancient kings of Boeotia. At the head of the Theban armies he defeated the Spartans at the celebrated battle of Leuctra about 370 B.C. He was killed in battle in the forty-eighth year of his age. =Eph´esus.= A city of Ionia, famous for a temple of Diana, which was considered to be one of the seven wonders of the world. =Epicte´tus.= A Stoic philosopher of Hieropolis, originally the slave of Epaphroditus, the freedman of Nero. He supported the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. =Epicu´rus.= A celebrated philosopher, born in Attica of obscure parents. He distinguished himself at school by the brilliancy of his genius. He taught that the happiness of mankind consisted in pleasure, which arises from mental enjoyment, and the sweets of virtue. His death occurred 270 B.C., his age being seventy-two. =Er´ato.= One of the Muses. She presided over lyric poetry, and is represented as crowned with roses and myrtle, and holding a lyre in her hand. =Er´ebus=, A deity of the infernal regions, son of Chaos and Darkness. The poets often use the word to signify the infernal regions. =Ete´ocles.= A king of Thebes, son of OEdipus and Jocasta. After his father's death it was agreed between him and his brother Polynices that they should reign a year each alternately. Eteocles first ascended the throne, but at the end of the year he refused to resign the crown. Thus treated, Polynices implored assistance from Adrastus, king of Argos, whose daughter he married, and who placed an army at his disposal. Eteocles marshalled his forces, and several skirmishes took place between the hostile hosts, when it was agreed on that the brothers should decide the contest by single combat. They fought with inveterate fury, and both were killed. =Eucli´des.= A famous mathematician of Alexandria, who lived B.C. 300. He wrote fifteen books on the elements of mathematics. Euclid was so much respected that King Ptolemy became one of his pupils. =Eu´menes.= A Greek officer in the army of Alexander. He was the most worthy of all Alexander's generals to succeed him after his death. He conquered Paphlagonia and Cappadocia, of which he obtained the government, till the power of Antigonus obliged him to retire. Eventually, after many vicissitudes of fortune, he was put to death in prison by order of Antigonus. =Eumen´ides.= A name given to the Furies. They sprang from the drops of blood which flowed from a wound which Coelus received from Saturn. According to some writers they were daughters of the Earth, and sprung from the blood of Saturn. Others make them to be daughters of Acheron and Night, or Pluto and Proserpine. According to the generally received opinion they were three in number--Tisiphone, Megara, and Alecto, to which some add Nemesis. =Euphor´bus.= A famous Trojan. He wounded Patroclus, whom Hector killed. He died by the hand of Menelaus. =Euphra´tes.= A large river in Asia which flowed through the middle of the city of Babylon. =Eurip´ides.= A celebrated tragic poet born at Salamis. He studied eloquence under Prodicus, ethics under Socrates, and philosophy under Anaxagoras. He often retired to a solitary cave, where he wrote his tragedies. It is said that he met his death by being attacked and torn in pieces by dogs, 407 years before the Christian era, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. He is accredited with the authorship of seventy-five tragedies, of which only nineteen are extant. One of his plays, "Ion," has become familiarized in name to general readers by the exquisite play thus called written by the late Judge Talfourd, and first acted at Covent Garden theater, May 26, 1836. =Euro´pa.= A daughter of Agenor, king of Phoenicia, and Telaphassa. Her beauty attracted Jupiter, and to become possessed of her he assumed the shape of a handsome bull, and mingled with the herds of Agenor while Europa was gathering flowers in the meadows. She caressed the animal, and mounted on his back. The god crossed the sea with her, and arrived in Crete, where he assumed his proper form, and declared his love. She became mother of Minos, Sarpedon, and Rhadamanthus. =Euryd´ice.= The wife of the poet Orpheus. As she fled from Aristæus, who was enamored with her, she was bit by a serpent, and died of the wound. Orpheus was disconsolate at her loss, and descended to the infernal regions in search of her, and by the melody of his lyre he obtained from Pluto the restoration of Eurydice, provided he did not look behind him till he reached the earth; but his eagerness to see his wife caused him to violate the conditions, and he looked behind him, thus losing Eurydice forever. =Euryd´ice.= Wife of Amyntas, king of Macedonia. Alexander, Perdiccas, and Philip were their sons, and they had a daughter named Euryone. She conspired against Amyntas, but was prevented from killing him by Euryone. =Eurys´thenes.= A son of Aristodemus, who lived in perpetual dissension with his twin brother Procles whilst they both sat on the Spartan throne. The descendants of Eurysthenes were called Eurysthenidæ, and those of Procles Proclidæ. =Eurys´theus.= A king of Argos and Mycenæ, son of Sthenelus and Nicippe. Juno hastened his birth by two months that he might come into the world before Hercules, the son of Alcmena, as the younger of the two was doomed by Jupiter to be subservient to the other. This natural right was cruelly exercised by Eurystheus, who was jealous of the fame of Hercules, and who, to destroy him, imposed upon him the most dangerous enterprises, known as the Twelve Labors of Hercules, all of which were successfully accomplished. =Euse´bius.= A bishop of Cæsarea, in favor with the Emperor Constantine. He was mixed up in the theological disputes of Arius and Athanasius, and distinguished himself by writing an ecclesiastical history and other works. =Euter´pe.= One of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. She presided over music. =Entro´pius.= A Latin historian in the age of Julian. He wrote an epitome of the history of Rome from the age of Romulus to the reign of the emperor Valens. =Fa´bii.= A noble and powerful family at Rome. They fought with the Veientes, and all of them were slain. One of the family, of tender age, remained in Rome, and from him descended the family which afterwards became so distinguished. =Fa´bius, Max´imus Rullia´nus=, was the first of the Fabii who obtained the name of "Maximus." He was master of the horse, and his victory over the Samnites in that capacity nearly cost him his life. He was five times consul, twice dictator, and once censor. =Fa´bius, Q. Max´imus.= A celebrated Roman who was raised to the highest offices of state. In his first consulship he obtained a victory over Liguria, and the battle of Thrasymenus caused his election to the dictatorship. In this office he opposed Hannibal, harassing him more by countermarches and ambuscades than by fighting in the open field. He died at the age of 100, after being consul five times. Others of the family were of minor distinction, though their names occur in Roman history. =Fabric´ius, Cai´us.= A distinguished Roman, who in his first consulship obtained several victories over the Samnites and Lucanians. He had the most consummate knowledge of military matters, and was distinguished for the simplicity of his manners. =Faler´nus.= A fertile mountain and plain of Campania, famous for its wine. Falernian wine was held in great esteem by the Romans, and it is often alluded to by the poets. =Fau´ni.= Rural deities represented as having the legs, feet, and ears of goats, and the rest of the body human. =Flac´cus.= A consul who marched against Sylla and was assassinated. =Flamin´ius, T. Q.= A famous Roman who was trained in the art of war against Hannibal. He was sent in command of the Roman troops against Philip of Macedonia, and met with great success. =Flo´ra.= The goddess of flowers and gardens among the Romans. She was the same as the Chloris of the Greeks. =Fortu´na.= A powerful deity among the ancients, daughter of Oceanus, according to Homer, or one of the Parcæ according to Pindar. She was the goddess of Fortune, and bestowed riches or poverty on mankind. =Ful´via.= An ambitious woman, wife of the tribune Clodius, afterwards of Curio, and lastly of Antony. Antony divorced her for Cleopatra. She attempted to avenge her wrongs by persuading Augustus to take up arms against Antony. =Galatæ´a.= A sea nymph, daughter of Nereus and Doris. She was loved by Polyphemus, the Cyclops, whom she treated with disdain, while she was in love with Acis, a shepherd of Sicily. =Gal´ba, Ser´vius Sulpi´cius.= A Roman who rose to the greatest offices of the state, and exercised his powers with equity till he was seated on the throne, when his virtues disappeared. He was assassinated in the seventy-third year of his age. =Gallie´nus, Pub. Licin´ius.= A son of the emperor Valerian. He reigned conjointly with his father for seven years, and then became sole emperor, A.D. 260. In his youth he showed military ability in an expedition against the Germans and Sarmatæ, but when possessed of the purple he gave himself up to pleasure and vice. He was assassinated in his fiftieth year, A.D. 268. =Gal´lus, Corne´lius.= A Roman knight famous for his poetical as well as his military talents. He was greatly attached to his slave Lycoris (or Cytheris), whose beauty he extolled in his poetry. =Ganyme´des.= A beautiful youth of Phrygia. He was taken to heaven by Jupiter while tending flocks on Mount Ida, and he became the cupbearer of the gods in place of Hebe. =Gel´lius Au´lus.= A Roman grammarian in the age of M. Antoninus. He wrote a work called "Noctes Atticæ," which he composed at Athens. =German´icus Cæ´sar.= A son of Drusus and Antonia, the niece of Augustus. He was raised to the most important position in the state, and was employed in war in Germany, where his successes obtained him a triumph. He was secretly poisoned, A.D. 19, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. He has been commended not only for his military talents but for his learning and humanity. =Ge´ryon.= A monster, represented by the poets as having three bodies and three heads. It was killed by Hercules. =Gigan´tes.= The sons of Coelus and Terra, who, according to Hesiod, sprang from the blood of a wound inflicted on Coelus by his son Saturn. They are represented as huge giants, with strength in accordance with their size. =Glau´cus.= A son of Hippolochus, the son of Bellerophon. He aided Priam in the Trojan war, and was noted for his folly in exchanging his golden armor with Diomedes for an iron one. =Glau´cus.= A fisherman of Boeotia. He observed that the fishes which he caught and laid on the grass became invigorated and leaped into the sea. He tasted the grass, and suddenly felt a desire to live in the sea. He was made a sea deity by Oceanus and Tethys. =Glau´cus.= A son of Minos the Second and Pasiphae, who was smothered in a cask of honey. The soothsayer Polyidus, on being commanded by Minos to find his son, discovered him, and by rubbing his body with a certain herb restored him to life. =Gordia´nus, M. Anto´nius Africa´nus.= Son of Metius Marcellus. He applied himself to poetry, and composed a poem in thirty books. He was sent as proconsul to Africa, and subsequently, when he had attained his eightieth year, he was proclaimed emperor. He strangled himself at Carthage A.D. 236, and was deeply lamented by the army and the people. =Gordia´nus, M. Anto´nius Africa´nus=, son of Gordianus, was made prefect of Rome, and afterwards consul, by Alexander Severus. He was elected emperor in conjunction with his father. He was killed in a battle fought with Maximinus in Mauritania. =Gordia´nus M. Anto´nius Pius=, was grandson of the first Gordian. He was proclaimed emperor in the sixteenth year of his age. He married the daughter of Misetheus, who was distinguished by his virtues, and to whom Gordian intrusted many of the chief offices of the state. Gordian conquered Sapor, king of Persia, and took many cities from him. He was assassinated A.D. 244. =Gor´dius.= A Phrygian who, from the position of a peasant, was raised to the throne consequent on a prediction of the oracle. The knot which tied the yoke to the draught-tree of his chariot was made so cunningly that the ends of the cord could not be seen, and a report arose that the empire of Asia was promised by the oracle to him who should untie the Gordian knot. Alexander cut the knot with his sword. =Gor´gones= (the Gorgons). Three sisters, daughters of Phorcys and Ceto, whose names were Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa. They possessed the power of turning into stone those on whom they looked. Perseus attacked them and cut off Medusa's head, which he gave to Minerva, who placed it on her ægis, which turned into stone those who fixed their eyes on it. =Grac´chus, T. Sempronius=, was twice consul and once censor. He married Cornelia, of the family of the Scipios, a woman of piety and learning. Their children, Tiberius and Caius, rendered themselves famous for their obstinate attachment to the interests of the populace, which at last proved fatal to them. The Gracchi stand out conspicuously in Roman annals. The history of Gaius Gracchus has been dramatized by James Sheridan Knowles. It was one of his earliest efforts in dramatic literature, and has long been obsolete as an acting play. =Gymna´sium.= A place among the Greeks where all the public exercises were performed, and where not only dancers and wrestlers exhibited, but where poets and philosophers repeated their compositions. =Ha´des=, see ADES. =Halicarnas´sus.= A maritime city in Asia Minor, where a mausoleum, one of the seven wonders of the world, was erected. It is celebrated as being the birthplace of Herodotus, Dionysius, and Heraclitus. =Hamadry´ades.= Nymphs who lived in the country and presided over trees. =Hamil´car.= A famous Carthaginian, father of Hannibal. He was engaged in Sicily during the first Punic war. He used to say of his three sons that he kept three lions to devour the Roman power. =Han´nibal.= A celebrated Carthaginian general, son of Hamilcar. While a child he took a solemn oath never to be at peace with Rome. His passage of the Alps with a great army was achieved by softening the rocks with fire and vinegar, so that even his armed elephants descended the mountains without difficulty. He defeated the Romans in the great battle of Cannæ, but was subsequently conquered by Scipio at Zama. He died by poison taken from a ring in which he kept it concealed. This occurred in his seventieth year, about 182 years B.C. =Harmo´dius.= A friend of Aristogiton who assisted in delivering his country from the tyranny of the Pisistratidæ. =Harpy´læ.= The Harpies, winged monsters who had the face of a woman, the body of a vulture, and feet and fingers armed with claws. They were three in number--Aello, Ocypete, and Celeno. They were daughters of Neptune and Terra. =Has´drubal.= A son of Hamilcar, and brother of Hannibal. He crossed the Alps and entered Italy, where he was defeated by the consuls, M. Livius Salinator and Claudius Nero. He was killed in the battle B.C. 207, and his head was sent to Hannibal. One of the finest passages in Professor Nichol's tragedy of Hannibal is the invocation over Hasdrubal's head at the close of the play. =He´be.= A daughter of Jupiter and Juno. She was made cup-bearer to the gods, but was dismissed from the office by Jupiter, because she fell down in a clumsy posture as she was pouring out nectar at a festival, and Ganymedes succeeded her as cupbearer. =Hec´ate.= A daughter of Persus and Asteria. She was called Luna in heaven, Diana on earth, and Hecate or Proserpine in hell. =Hec´tor=, son of King Priam and Hecuba, was the most valiant of all the Trojan chiefs who fought against the Greeks. He married Andromache, the daughter of Eetion, Astyanax being their son. Hector was made chief of the Trojan forces when Troy was besieged by the Greeks, and it is said that thirty-one of the most valiant Greek chiefs were killed by him, but when he met Achilles he fled. Achilles pursued him, and Hector was killed, and his body dragged in triumph at the chariot wheels of the conqueror. =Hec´uba=, daughter of Dymas, a Phrygian prince, or, according to some, of Cisseus, a Thracian king, was the second wife of Priam, king of Troy. When her son Paris was born, she exposed him on Mount Ida, hoping he would perish, as the soothsayers had predicted that he would be the ruin of his country. In the Trojan war she saw most of her children perish. After enduring many misfortunes, she threw herself into the sea, and was drowned. =Hel´ena.= One of the most beautiful women in the age in which she lived. Her beauty was so universally admired, even in her infancy, that Theseus, with his friend Pirithous, carried her away when she was ten years of age and concealed her with his mother, but she was recovered by Castor and Pollux, and restored to her native country. She married Menelaus, son of Atreus, but when Paris visited Menelaus he persuaded her to fly with him to Troy, B.C. 1198. On this, Menelaus sent ambassadors to the court of Priam to demand her restitution, but in vain, and the result was the Trojan war. When Troy was taken she returned to Menelaus, and after his death she retired to Rhodes, where she was strangled by order of Polyxo, who reigned there. Her beauty and misfortunes have been a theme for the poets in all ages. =Hel´icon.= A mountain of Boeotia on the borders of Phocis. It was sacred to the Muses, who had a temple there. The fountain Hippocrene flowed from this mountain. =Heliogab´alus, M. Aure´lius Antoni´nus.= A Roman emperor who had been priest to a divinity in Phoenicia. Under his sway Rome became the scene of cruelty and vice. He raised his horse to the honors of consulship, and indulged in a number of absurdities which rendered him odious to his subjects. His head was cut off by his soldiers A.D. 222. =Hel´le.= A daughter of Athamas and Nephele. She fled from her father's house to avoid the oppression of her mother-in-law Ino. According to some accounts she was carried through the air on a golden ram, when, becoming giddy, she fell into the sea, which received from her the name Hellespont. =Hellespon´tus.= A narrow strait between Europe and Asia, which received its name from Helle, who is said to have been drowned in it. It is celebrated as being the scene of the love and death of Leander. =Heracli´tus.= A celebrated Greek philosopher of Ephesus, who lived about 500 years before the Christian era. He received the appellation of the Obscure Philosopher and the Mourner, from his custom of weeping at the follies and frailties of human life. =Hercula´neum.= A town of Campania swallowed up by an earthquake, produced by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius, A.D. 79. =Her´cules.= A celebrated hero who, after death, was ranked among the gods. According to the ancients there were many persons of the same name, but the son of Jupiter and Alcmena, generally called the Theban, is the most celebrated. The birth of Hercules was attended with many miraculous events. Before he was eight months old Juno sent two snakes to devour him, which he seized, and crushed them to death. He achieved a series of enterprises known as the "Twelve Labors of Hercules." These comprised the slaughter of the Nemæan lion, the destruction of the Lernæan hydra, the catching of a stag having golden horns and remarkable for his swiftness, the seizing alive a wild boar which committed great ravages, the cleansing of the stables of Augias, the killing of the carnivorous birds near Lake Stymphalis, the taking captive a prodigious wild bull, the obtaining the mares of Diomedes which fed on human flesh, the getting possession of the girdle of the queen of the Amazons, the destruction of the monster Geryon, the obtaining the apples from the garden of the Hesperides, and the bringing to the earth the three-headed dog Cerberus. Besides these labors he aided the gods in their wars with the giants, and performed numerous difficult feats. He was conducted by Mercury to Omphale, queen of Lydia, whom he married, and whom he permitted to dress in his armor while he was sitting to spin with her female servants. He delivered Dejanira from the Centaur Nessus, whom he killed. The Centaur, as he expired, gave Dejanira a mystic tunic, which, in a jealous paroxysm, she gave to Hercules to put on, which he had no sooner done than he was seized with a desperate distemper which was incurable. He erected a burning pile on Mount Ætna, on which he cast himself. Jupiter surrounded the burning pile with smoke, amidst which Hercules, after his mortal parts were consumed, was carried to heaven in a chariot drawn by four horses. =Her´mes.= A name of Mercury among the Greeks. =Hermin´ius.= A valiant Roman who defended the bridge with Cocles against the army of Porsenna. =Hermi´one.= A daughter of Mars and Venus who married Cadmus. She was changed into a serpent, and placed in the Elysian Fields. =Hermi´one.= A daughter of Menelaus and Helen. She was privately promised in marriage to Orestes, the son of Agamemnon, but her father, ignorant of the engagement, gave her hand to Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, whose services he had experienced in the Trojan war. =Hermip´pus.= A freedman, disciple of Philo, in the reign of Adrian, by whom he was greatly esteemed. He wrote five books on dreams. =Hermoc´rates.= A general of Syracuse, who was sent against the Athenians. His lenity towards the Athenian prisoners was regarded with suspicion. He was banished from Sicily, and was murdered on his attempt to return to his country. =Hermodo´rus.= A philosopher of Ephesus who is said to have assisted, as interpreter, the Roman decemvirs, in the composition of the ten tables of laws which had been collected in Greece. =He´ro.= A beautiful girl of Sestos, greatly beloved by Leander, a youth of Abydos. The lovers were greatly attached to each other, and often in the night Leander swam across the Hellespont to Hero in Sestos, till on one tempestuous night he was drowned, and Hero in despair threw herself into the sea and perished. =Hero´des=, surnamed the Great, followed the fortunes of Brutus and Cassius, and afterwards those of Antony. He was made king of Judæa by the aid of Antony, and after the battle of Actium he was continued in power by submission to and flattery of Augustus. He rendered himself odious by his cruelty, and as he knew his death would be a cause for rejoicing, he ordered a number of the most illustrious of his subjects to be confined and murdered directly he expired, that there might appear to be grief and shedding of tears for his own death. Herod died in the seventieth year of his age, after a reign of 40 years. =Herod´otus.= A celebrated historian of Halicarnassus. He ranks amongst historians as Homer does amongst the poets and Demosthenes amongst the orators. His great work is a history of the wars of the Persians against the Greeks, from the age of Cyrus to the battle of Mycale in the reign of Xerxes; besides which it gives an account of many celebrated nations. A life of Homer is attributed to his pen, though by some the authorship is doubted. =Hesi´odus.= A celebrated poet, born at Ascra in Boeotia. He lived in the age of Homer, and obtained a poetical prize in competition with him, according to Varro and Plutarch. Quintilian, Philostratus, and others, maintain that Hesiod lived before the age of Homer. Hesiod, without possessing the sublimity of Homer, is admired for the elegance of his diction. =Hesi´one.= A daughter of Laodemon, king of Troy. It was her fate to be exposed to a sea-monster, to whom the Trojans presented yearly a young girl to appease the resentment of Apollo and Neptune, whom Laodemon had offended. Hercules undertook to rescue her, and attacking the monster just as he was about to devour her, killed him with his club. =Hesper´ides.= Three Nymphs, daughters of Hesperus. Apollodorus mentions four, Ægle, Erythia, Vesta and Arethusa. They were appointed to guard the golden apples which Juno gave to Jupiter on the day of their marriage. The place where the Hesperides lived was a celebrated garden, abounding with delicious fruit, and was guarded by a dragon which never slept. It was one of the labors of Hercules to procure some of the golden apples, which he succeeded in doing after slaying the dragon. =Hieron´ymus.= A tyrant of Sicily, who succeeded to the throne when he was fifteen years old. He rendered himself odious by his cruelty and oppression. =Hieron´ymus.= A Christian writer, commonly called St. Jerome. He was distinguished for his zeal against heretics. He wrote commentaries on the prophets, St. Matthew's Gospel, &c. He died A.D. 420, in his eightieth year. =Hippar´chus.= A son of Pisistratus, who succeeded his father, as tyrant of Athens, with his brother Hippias. He patronized some of the learned men of his age, and distinguished himself for his love of literature. =Hippoc´rates.= A celebrated physician of Cos. He delivered Athens from a dreadful pestilence in the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, for which he was rewarded with a golden crown. He died in his ninety-ninth year, B.C. 361. =Hippocre´ne.= A fountain of Boeotia, near Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses. It rose from the ground when struck by the feet of the horse Pegasus. =Hippodami´a.= A daughter of OEnomaus, king of Pisa, who married Pelops, son of Tantalus. Her father would marry her only to some one who should conquer him in a chariot race. Her beauty was great, and many were competitors for her hand, though the conditions involved death in case of defeat in the race. After thirteen suitors had been defeated, Pelops entered the lists, and by bribing the charioteer of OEnomaus, obtained the victory and married Hippodamia. =Hippol´yte.= A queen of the Amazons, given in marriage to Theseus by Hercules. Hippolytus was their son. =Hippol´ytus.= Son of Theseus and Hippolyte. His step-mother Phædra fell in love with him. He fled to the sea-shore, where, his horses taking fright and rushing among the rocks, his chariot was broken in pieces, and he was killed. According to some accounts he was restored to life by Diana. =Hippo´nax.= A Greek poet born at Ephesus, 540 years before the Christian era. He cultivated satirical poetry, which was marked by its beauty and vigor. =Home´rus.= A celebrated Greek poet, the most ancient of all the profane writers. The age in which he lived is not known, though some suppose it to be about 168 years after the Trojan war. Uncertainty prevails, also, as to the place of his nativity, seven cities claiming to be thus honored. These are Smyrna, Chios, Colophon, Salamis, Rhodos, Argos, and Athenæ. In his two famous poems, the Iliad and Odyssey, he has displayed the most consummate knowledge of human nature, and rendered himself immortal by the sublimity and elegance of his poetry. In the Iliad be gives a narrative of the siege of Troy, and the Odyssey deals with the wanderings of Ulysses after the fall of the city. =Hono´rius.= An emperor of the Western Empire of Rome, who succeeded his father, Theodosius the Great. He conquered his enemies by the ability of his generals, and suffered his people to be governed by ministers who took advantage of his indolence and indifference. He died A.D. 423. =Hora´tii.= Three brave Romans, born at the same time, who fought against the three Curiatii about 667 years before Christ. At the beginning of the fight two of the Horatii were killed, and the surviving one pretended to fly, thus separating his antagonists as they pursued him, and then, attacking them singly, he slew them all. =Hora´tius Q. Flac´cus.= A celebrated poet born at Venusia. His rising talents obtained the attention of Virgil and Varius, who recommended him to the care of Mæcenas and Augustus, the celebrated patrons of literature. Under this fostering patronage Horace gave himself up to indolence and pleasure. He was warm in his friendships, and if he at any time gave offense he was ready to make any concession to effect a reconciliation. In his satires and epistles he displays much wit and satirical humor. He died in his fifty-seventh year, B.C. 8. =Hora´tius.= See =Cocles=. =Horten´sius, Q.= A celebrated orator who began to distinguish himself in the Roman Forum when he was nineteen years old. Cicero speaks eulogistically of his oratorical powers, and of his retentive memory. Quintilian alludes to his orations in terms of high commendation. =Hyacin´thus.= A son of Amyclas and Diomede, greatly beloved by Apollo and Zephyrus. He was accidentally killed by Apollo, who changed his blood into a flower which bore his name. =Hy´bla.= A mountain in Sicily, famous for the odoriferous herbs which grew on it. It was famous for its honey. =Hy´dra.= A celebrated monster which infested the neighborhood of Lake Lerna in Peloponnesus. It was one of the labors of Hercules to destroy the monster, which he effected with the aid of Iolas. =Hyge´ia.= The goddess of health, daughter of Æsculapius. She was held in great veneration among the ancients. =Hymenæ´us= or =Hy´men=, the god of marriage among the Greeks, was the son of Bacchus and Venus, or, according to some, of Apollo and one of the Muses. =Hymet´tus.= A mountain of Attica, about two miles from Athens, famous for its bees and honey. =Hyperi´on.= A son of Coelus and Terra, who married Thea. Aurora was their daughter. Hyperion is often used by the poets to signify the sun. Also in "Troilus and Cressida" and other of Shakspeare's plays, the same license is used. =Hypermnes´tra.= One of the Danaides, who were the fifty daughters of Danaus. She was ordered by her father to murder her husband Lynceus on the night of their marriage, which she refused to do. Danaus wished to punish her for her disobedience, but afterwards forgave her, and left his kingdom at his death to Lynceus. =Hypsip´yle.= A queen of Lemnos, daughter of Thoas. During her reign, Venus, whose altars had been slighted, punished the Lemnian women by causing their husbands' affections to be estranged from them. This enraged the women, and they put to death their male relations, except in the case of Hypsipyle, who spared her father Thoas. =Ic´arus.= A son of Daedalus, who, with his father, took a winged flight from Crete to escape the anger of Minos. His flight was too high, and thus the sun melted the wax which cemented his wings, and he fell into the sea and was drowned. =Idom´eneus= succeeded his father Deucalion on the throne of Crete, and accompanied the Greeks to the Trojan war, during which he rendered himself famous for his valor. On his voyage home, being caught in a great tempest, he vowed to Neptune that if he escaped he would make an offering to the god of the first living creature he saw on his arrival at the Cretan shore. He escaped the storm, and the first to meet him on his landing was his son. He performed his vow, and became so odious to his subjects that he had to leave his dominions. =Igna´tius.= A bishop of Antioch, torn to pieces by lions in the amphitheater at Rome A.D. 107. His works consisted of letters to the Ephesians, Romans, etc. He zealously supported the doctrine of the divinity of Christ. =I´lus=, fourth king of Troy, was son of Tros by Callirrhoe. He married Eurydice, the daughter of Adrastus. He embellished the city of Ilium, called also Troy from his father Tros. =I´no.= A daughter of Cadmus and Harmonia, who nursed Bacchus. She married Athamas, king of Thebes, after he had divorced Nephele. =I´o=, a daughter of Inachus, was a priestess of Juno at Argos. Juno changed her into a beautiful heifer, and eventually restored her to her own form. She was greatly persecuted by Juno. She married Telegonus, king of Egypt, or Osiris, according to others, and treated her subjects with such kindness that after death she received divine honors, and was worshiped under the name of Isis. =I´olas= or =Iola´us=. A son of Iphiclus, king of Thessaly, who assisted Hercules in conquering the Hydra; he burnt with a hot iron the place where the monster's heads had been cut off to prevent their re-growth. =Iph´iclus.= A son of Amphitryon and Alcmena, twin brother of Hercules. As the children were cradled together, Juno, jealous of Hercules, sent two large serpents to destroy him. At the sight of the snakes Iphiclus showed great alarm, but Hercules seized them, one in each hand, and squeezed them to death. =Iphic´rates.= A celebrated general of Athens, who, though son of a shoemaker, rose to the highest offices in the state. He made war against the Thracians, and assisted the Persian king against Egypt. =Iphigeni´a.= A daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. When the Greeks, going to the Trojan war, were detained at Aulis by contrary winds, they were informed by a soothsayer that to appease the gods they must sacrifice Iphigenia to Diana. As the fatal knife was about to be plunged into her, Iphigenia suddenly disappeared, and a goat of great beauty was found in the place where she had stood ready for the sacrifice. =Iph´itus.= A son of Eurytus, king of OEchalia. When his father had promised his daughter Iole to any one who could excel him or his sons in drawing the bow, Hercules accepted the challenge and was victorious. Eurytus, however, refused to fulfill the compact by giving his daughter to the conqueror. Afterwards some oxen were stolen from Eurytus, and Iphitus was sent in quest of them. In his search he met Hercules, who aided him in seeking the lost animals, but on recollecting the faithlessness of Eurytus he killed Iphitus. =Irenæ´us.= A native of Greece, disciple of Polycarp, and bishop of Lyons. He wrote on different subjects, and suffered martyrdom A.D. 202. =I´ris.= One of the Oceanides, messenger of the gods, and more particularly of Juno. Her office was to cut the thread which seemed to detain the soul of those who were expiring. She is the same as the rainbow. =I´sis.= A celebrated deity of the Egyptians, daughter of Saturn and Rhea, according to Diodorus of Sicily. Some suppose her to be the same as Io, who was changed into a cow, and restored to her human form in Egypt, where she taught agriculture, and governed the people with mildness and equity, for which she received divine honors after her death. =Isoc´rates.= A celebrated orator, son of a musical instrument maker at Athens. He opened a school of eloquence at Athens, where he was distinguished for the number, character, and fame of his pupils. He was intimate with Philip of Macedon, but the aspiring ambition of Philip displeased Isocrates, and the defeat of the Athenians at Chæronea had such an effect on him that he did not long survive it. He died, after being four days without taking any aliment, in his ninety-ninth year, about 338 years B.C. He was honored after death by the erection of a brazen statue to his memory by Timotheus, one of his pupils, and Aphareus, his adopted son. Milton, in one of his sonnets, speaks of him as "that old man eloquent" when alluding to his death as being caused by the news of the battle of Chæronea. =I´tys.= A son of Tereus, king of Thrace, and Procne, daughter of Pandion, king of Athens. He was killed by his mother when he was six years old, and served up to his father to be eaten by him. He was changed into a pheasant, his mother into a swallow, and his father into an owl. =Ixi´on.= A king of Thessaly, son of Phlegias, or, according to Hyginus, of Leontes, or, according to Diodorus, of Antion and Perimela. Jupiter carried him to heaven and placed him at the table of the gods, where he became enamored with Juno, which so incensed Jupiter that he banished him from heaven, and ordered Mercury to tie him to a wheel in hell, which continually whirled round, keeping Ixion in perpetual torture. =Ja´nus.= An ancient king who reigned in Italy. He was a native of Thessaly, and, according to some writers, a son of Apollo. He built a town which he called Janiculum. Some authors make him to have been son of Coelus and Hecate. He is represented with two faces, because he was acquainted with the past and future. His temple was always open in time of war, and was shut when peace existed. =Jap´etus.= A son of Coelus or Titan and Terra, who married Asia, or, according to some writers, Clymene. The Greeks looked on him as the father of all mankind. =Ja´son.= A celebrated hero, son of Æson and Alcimedes. His education was entrusted to the Centaur Chiron. The greatest feat recorded of him is his voyage in the Argo to Colchis to obtain the Golden Fleece, which, aided by Juno, he succeeded in doing. Medea, daughter of Ætes, king of Colchis, fell in love with Jason. She was a powerful magician, and on Jason having vowed eternal fidelity to her, she gave him charms to protect him from danger. After securing the Fleece, Jason set sail from the country with his wife Medea. After some years he became enamored with Glauce, daughter of Creon, king of Corinth, whom he married, having divorced Medea. This cruel act was revenged by Medea, who destroyed her children in the presence of their father. Jason is said to have been killed by a beam which fell on his head as he was reposing by the side of the ship which had borne him to Colchis. =Jocas´ta.= A daughter of Menoeceus, who married Laius, king of Thebes, OEdipus being their son. She afterwards married OEdipus without knowing who he was, and on the discovery she hanged herself. By some mythologists she is called Epicasta. =Jose´phus, Fla´vius.= A celebrated Jew, born in Jerusalem, who signalized himself in a siege conducted by Vespasian and Titus in a small town in Judæa. He was present at the siege of Jerusalem by Titus, and received all the sacred books which it contained from the conqueror's hands. He wrote a history of the wars of the Jews, in Syriac, and afterwards translated it into Greek. He also wrote a work, which he divided into twenty books, on Jewish antiquities. He died A.D. 93, in his fifty-sixth year. =Jovia´nus, Fla´vius Clau´dius.= A native of Pannonia elected emperor of Rome by the soldiers after the death of Julian. He refused the purple at first, but on being assured that his subjects were favorably disposed towards Christianity he accepted the crown. He died about seven months after assuming the supreme power, being found in bed suffocated by the vapors of charcoal which had been lighted in his room, A.D. 364. =Ju´ba.= A king of Numidia and Mauritania who favored the cause of Pompey against Julius Cæsar. He defeated Curio, whom Cæsar had sent to Africa, and after the battle of Pharsalia he joined his forces to those of Scipio. He was conquered in a battle at Thapsus, and killed himself. His kingdom became a Roman province, of which Sallust was the first governor. =Ju´ba=, the second of that name, was led captive to Rome to give lustre to the triumph of Cæsar. He wrote a history of Rome, which was often commended and quoted by the ancients. =Jugur´tha.= A distinguished Numidian who went with a body of troops to the assistance of Scipio, who was besieging Numantia. Jugurtha endeared himself to the Roman general by his bravery and activity. His uncle Micipsa appointed him successor to the throne, with his two sons Adherbal and Hiempsal, the latter of whom was slain by Jugurtha, and the former had to fly to Rome for safety. Cæcilius Metellus was sent against Jugurtha, who was betrayed and delivered into the hands of the Romans. He died in prison B.C. 106. =Ju´lia.= A daughter of Julius Cæsar and Cornelia, famous for her virtues and personal charms. She was obliged by her father to divorce herself from her first husband to marry Pompey the Great, with the object of cementing the friendship between him and her father. =Ju´lia.= Daughter of Augustus, remarkable for her beauty, genius, and vices. Her father give her in marriage to Marcellus, after whose death she united herself to Agrippa, and again becoming a widow she married Tiberius. Her conduct now became so unseemly that she was banished to a small island on the coast of Campania, where she was starved to death. =Ju´lia.= A daughter of Germanicus and Agrippina, born at Lesbos, A.D. 17. She married M. Vinucius, a senator, when she was sixteen years old. She was banished on suspicion of conspiracy by her brother Caligula. She was notorious for her licentious conduct, and was put to death when she was about twenty-four years of age. =Ju´lia.= A celebrated woman born in Phoenicia. She applied herself to the study of philosophy, and was conspicuous for her mental as well as her personal charms. She came to Rome, where she married Septimius Severus, who was afterwards invested with the purple. She was also called Domna. =Julia´nus.= A son of Julius Constantius, the brother of Constantine the Great, born in Constantinople. The massacre which attended the elevation of the sons of Constantine to the throne nearly proved fatal to Julian and his brother Gallus. The two brothers were privately educated and taught the doctrines of the Christian religion--which afterwards Julian disavowed, and in consequence of this the term "Apostate" is generally affixed to his name. He died, A.D. 363, in his thirty-second year. His last moments were spent in a conversation with a philosopher about the immortality of the soul. Julian's character has been admired by some writers, but generally he is censured for his apostasy. =Ju´no.= A celebrated deity among the ancients, daughter of Saturn and Ops. Jupiter married her, and the nuptials were celebrated with the greatest solemnity in the presence of all the gods. By her marriage with Jupiter, Juno became the queen of all the gods, and mistress of heaven and earth. She presided over marriage, and patronized those of her sex who were distinguished for virtuous conduct. Paris gave her great offense by giving the golden apple, as an award to beauty, to Venus instead of herself. =Ju´piter.= The chief of all the gods of the ancients. According to Varro there were three hundred persons of that name. To him of Crete, who passed for the son of Saturn and Ops, the actions of the rest have been attributed. Jupiter was educated in a cave on Mount Ida, in Crete, and fed with the milk of the goat Amalthæa. While he was very young he made war on the Titans, whom he conquered. The beginning of his reign in the supernal regions was interrupted by the rebellion of the giants, who were sons of the earth, and who were desirous of revenging the death of the Titans, but by the aid of Hercules, Jupiter overpowered them. Jupiter married Metis, Themis, Ceres, Euronyme, Mnemosyne, Latona, and Juno. His worship was universal: he was the Ammon of the Africans, the Belus of Babylon, and the Osiris of Egypt. =Juvena´lis, D. Ju´nius.= A poet born at Axuinum in Italy. He came to Rome at an early age, where he applied himself to the writing of satires, some of which are extant. He died in the reign of Trajan, A.D. 128. His writings are distinguished by a lively style, but abound with ill humor. =Labe´rius, J. Dec´imus.= A Roman knight famous for his skill in writing pantomimes. Cæsar made him appear on the stage in one of his plays, which he resented by throwing out aspersions on Cæsar during the performance, and by warning the audience against tyranny. =Lach´esis.= One of the Parcæ, or Fates. She presided over futurity, and was represented as spinning the thread of life, or, according to some, as holding the spindle. =Laer´tes.= A king of Ithaca who married Anticlea, daughter of Autolycus. Ulysses was their son, and succeeded him on the throne, Laertes retiring to the country, and devoting his time to gardening, in which employment he was found by Ulysses on his return from the Trojan war, after twenty years´ absence. =La´gus.= A Macedonian of mean extraction, who married Arsinoe, daughter of Meleager. On the birth of a child it was exposed in the woods by Lagus, but an eagle preserved its life by feeding and sheltering it with her wings. The infant was afterwards known as King Ptolemy the First of Egypt. =La´is.= A woman of immoral character, daughter of Timandra and Alcibiades. Diogenes, the Cynic, was one of her admirers, and gained her heart. She went to Thessaly, where the women, jealous of her charms, assassinated her. =Laoc´oon.= A priest of Apollo who in the Trojan war was opposed to the admission of the wooden horse to the city. For this, as a punishment, two enormous serpents were sent to attack him, which they did whilst, accompanied by his two sons, he was offering a sacrifice to Neptune. The serpents coiled round him and his sons, and crushed them to death. =Laom´edon.= Son of Ilus, and king of Troy. He married Strymo, called by some Placia or Leucippe. Podarces, afterwards known as Priam, was their son. Laomedon built the walls of Troy, in which he was assisted by Apollo and Neptune. =Lap´ithus.= A son of Apollo and Stilbe. He married Orsinome, Phorbas and Periphas being their children, to whose numerous descendants was given the name Lapithæ, a number of whom attended the nuptials of Pirithous with Hippodamia, the daughter of Adrastus, king of Argos. The Centaurs also attended the festivity, and quarrelled with the Lapithæ, which resulted in blows and slaughter. Many of the Centaurs were slain, and they were at last obliged to retire. =La´res.= Gods of inferior power at Rome, who presided over houses and families. They were two in number, sons of Mercury and Lara. =Lati´nus.= A son of Faunus and Marica, king of the Aborigines in Italy, who from him were called Latini. =Lato´na.= A daughter of Coeus, the Titan, and Phoebe. She was admired for her beauty by Jupiter. Juno made Latona the object of her vengeance, and sent the serpent Python to persecute her. =Lean´der.= A youth of Abydos. He was passionately in love with Hero, a young girl of Sestos. He was in the habit of swimming across the Hellespont to visit her, in doing which, on a tempestuous night, he was drowned. Lord Byron performed the same feat in 1810, an exploit which he has celebrated in verse in his occasional pieces. He expresses surprise that, as the truth of Leander's story had been questioned, no one had hitherto tested its practicability. =Le´da.= A daughter of king Thespius and Eurythemis, who married Tyndarus, king of Sparta. She is famous for her intrigue with Jupiter. She brought forth two eggs, from one of which sprang Pollux and Helena, and from the other Castor and Clytemnestra. She is said to have received the name of Nemesis after death. =Lem´ures.= The manes of the dead. The ancients supposed that after death the departed souls wandered over the world and disturbed the peace of its inhabitants. =Leon´idas.= A celebrated king of Lacedæmon who went to oppose Xerxes, king of Persia, who had invaded Greece with a vast army. A great battle was fought at Thermopylæ, the entire army of Leonidas consisting of 300 men who refused to abandon him. For a time this small army resisted the vast legions of Xerxes, till at length a traitor conducted a detachment of Persians by a secret path to the rear of Leonidas, when his soldiers were cut to pieces, one only of the 300 escaping. =Lep´idus, M. Æmil´ius.= A celebrated Roman, one of the triumvirs with Augustus and Antony. He was of an illustrious family, and, like many of his contemporaries, remarkable for ambition. He was unable to maintain his position as triumvir, and, resigning power, he sank into obscurity. =Le´the.= One of the rivers of hell, whose waters were imbibed by the souls of the dead which had been for a certain period confined in Tartarus. Those who drank of this river forgot what they had previously known. In this sense the word is constantly used by the poets. =Leucip´pus.= A celebrated philosopher of Abdera, about 428 years before Christ. He was a disciple of Zeno. His life was written by Diogenes. There were several others of the same name. =Leuc´tra.= A village in Boeotia, famous for the victory which Epaminondas, the Theban general, obtained over the superior force of Cleombrotus, king of Sparta, B.C. 371. =Licin´ius, C.= A tribune of the people, celebrated for his intrigues and ability. He was a plebeian, and was the first of that class that was raised to the office of master of the horse to the dictator. There were a number of other Romans of the same name. =Liv´ius, Ti´tus.= A native of Padua, a celebrated historian. He passed the chief part of his time at Naples and Rome, but more particularly at the court of Augustus, who liberally patronized him. The name of Livy is rendered immortal by his history of the Roman empire. The merit of this history is admitted by all, and the high rank which Livy holds amongst historians is undisputed. =Liv´ius Androni´cus= was a dramatic poet who flourished at Rome about 240 years before the Christian era. =Longi´nus, Dionys´ius Cas´sius.= A celebrated Greek philosopher of Athens. He was preceptor of the Greek language, and afterwards minister, to Zenobia, the famous queen of Palmyra. =Luca´nus M. Annæ´us.= A native of Corduba in Spain. At an early age he went to Rome, where his rising talents recommended him to the emperor Nero. He unwisely entered into a poetical contest with Nero, in which he obtained an easy victory, which greatly offended the emperor. After this Lucan was exposed to much annoyance from Nero, and was induced to join in a conspiracy against him, on which he was condemned to death, the mode of which he had the liberty of choosing. He decided to have his veins opened in a warm bath, and died quoting some lines from his "Pharsalia." Of all his works none but the "Pharsalia" remains. =Lucia´nus.= A celebrated writer of Samosata. His works are numerous, consisting chiefly of dialogues written with much force. He died A.D. 180, being, as some say, torn in pieces by dogs for his impiety. =Lu´cifer.= The name of the planet Venus, or morning star. It is called Lucifer when appearing in the morning before the sun, but when it appears after its setting it is called Hesperus. =Lucil´ius, C.= A Roman knight, who is regarded as the first satirical writer amongst the Romans. Of thirty satires which he wrote only a few verses remain. He died at Naples B.C. 103. =Lucil´ius Luci´nus.= A famous Roman who fled with Brutus from the battle of Philippi. He was taken prisoner, but the conquerors spared his life. =Luci´na.= Daughter of Jupiter and Juno. She was the goddess who presided over the birth of children. =Lucre´tia.= A celebrated Roman lady, daughter of Lucretius and wife of Tarquinius Collatinus. A number of young noble Romans at Ardea, among whom were Collatinus and the sons of Tarquin the Proud, were discussing the virtues of their wives at home, and it was agreed to go to Rome to ascertain how their wives employed themselves in their husbands' absence in the camp. While the wives of the others were indulging in feasting and dissipation, Lucretia was found in her house employing herself with her servants in domestic duties. She was brutally treated by Sextus Tarquin, a relative of Collatinus, and stabbed herself. This was the signal for a rebellion, the result being the expulsion of the Tarquins from Rome. =Lucre´tius, Ca´rus T.= A celebrated Roman poet and philosopher. The tenets of Epicurus were embraced by him, and were explained and elucidated in a poem which he wrote, _De rerum natura_. This poem is distinguished by genius and elegance, but the doctrines it inculcates have an atheistical tendency. Lucretius is said to have destroyed himself B.C. 54. =Lucul´lus, Lu´cius Licin´ius.= A Roman noted for his fondness of luxury and for his military abilities. He was born about 115 years before the Christian era, and distinguished himself by his proficiency in eloquence and philosophy. He was soon advanced to the consulship, and intrusted with the management of the Mithridatic war, in which he displayed his military talents. =Lycur´gus.= A celebrated lawgiver of Sparta, son of King Eunomus and brother to Polydectes. He succeeded his brother on the Spartan throne. In the laws which he enacted he maintained a just equilibrium between the throne and the people; he banished luxury and encouraged the useful arts, and adopted a number of measures having for their object the well-being of the people. Lycurgus has been compared with Solon, the celebrated legislator of Athens. =Lyn´ceus=, son of Aphareus, was one of the hunters of the Calydonian boar, and one of the Argonauts. He was so sharp-sighted that he could see through the earth and distinguish objects at a great distance from him. There was another person of the same name who married Hypermnestra, daughter of Danaus. =Lysan´der.= A celebrated general of Sparta in the last years of the Peloponnesian war. He drew Ephesus from the interest of Athens, and gained the friendship of Cyrus the Younger. He gave battle to the Athenian fleet, and destroyed it all except three ships. In this battle, which was fought 405 years before the Christian era, the Athenians lost a great number of men, and in consequence of it forfeited their influence over neighboring states. Lysander was killed in battle 394 years B.C. =Lysim´achus.= A son of Agathocles, who was one of the generals of Alexander. After the death of that monarch Lysimachus made himself master of Thrace, where he built a town which he called Lysimachia. =Lysip´pus.= A famous statuary of Sicyon. He applied himself to painting, but he was born to excel in sculpture. He lived about 325 years before the Christian era, in the age of Alexander the Great. =Macro´bius.= A Latin writer, who died A.D. 415. He has rendered himself famous for a composition called _Saturnalia_, a miscellaneous collection of antiquarian and critical literature. =Mæan´der.= A celebrated river of Asia Minor flowing into the Ægean Sea. It is famous amongst the poets for its windings, and from it the application of the word "meandering" to a winding stream has become proverbial. =Ma´ecenas=, or =Meca´enas, C. Cilnius=, a celebrated Roman knight, has rendered himself immortal by his liberal patronage of learned men. To the interference of Maecenas Virgil was indebted for the restitution of his lands. Maecenas, according to the received opinion, wrote a history of animals and a journal of the life of Augustus. Virgil dedicated his Georgics to him, as did Horace his Odes. =Ma´nes.= A name applied by the ancients to the soul when departed from the body. =Man´lius, Mar´cus.= A celebrated Roman who, at an early age, distinguished himself for valor. When Rome was taken by the Gauls, he, with a body of his countrymen, fled to the Capitol, which he defended when it was surprised in the night by the enemy. This gained him the surname of _Capitolinus_, and the geese which had awakened him to action by their clamor were afterwards held sacred among the Romans. =Mar´athon.= A village of Attica, celebrated for the victory which the Athenians and Platæans, under the command of Miltiades, gained over the Persian army, 490 B.C. =Marcel´lus, Mar´cus Clau´dius.= A famous Roman general. He was the first Roman who obtained some advantage over Hannibal. He conquered Syracuse, with the spoils from which he adorned Rome. He was killed in battle in his fifth consulship. =Marcel´lus.= A Roman who distinguished himself in the civil wars of Cæsar and Pompey by his firm attachment to the latter. He was banished by Cæsar, but was afterwards recalled at the request of the Senate. There were some other Romans of the same name, of minor repute. =Mardo´nius.= A general in the army of Xerxes who was defeated in the battle of Platæa, where he was slain, B.C. 479. =Ma´rius, C.= A celebrated Roman who signalized himself under Scipio at the siege of Numantia. He was appointed to finish the war against Jugurtha, who was defeated and betrayed into the hands of the Romans. After this new honors awaited Marius. He was elected consul, and was sent against the Teutones. The war was prolonged, and Marius was a third and fourth time invested with the consulship. At length two engagements were fought, and the Teutones were defeated, a vast number of them being left dead on the battlefields. After many vicissitudes Marius died, B.C. 86, directly after he had been honored with the consulship for the seventh time. There were a number of others of the same name, but of minor note. =Mars=, the god of war, was the son of Jupiter and Juno, or of Juno alone, according to Ovid. The loves of Mars and Venus are greatly celebrated. On one occasion, while in each other's company, Vulcan spread a net round them, from which they could not escape without assistance. They were thus exposed to the ridicule of the gods till Neptune induced Vulcan to set them at liberty. During the Trojan war Mars interested himself on the side of the Trojans, and defended the favorites of Venus with great determination. =Mar´syas.= A celebrated piper of Celæne in Phrygia. He challenged Apollo to a trial of skill in music, which challenge was accepted, the Muses being appointed umpires. The palm of victory was awarded to Apollo, who tied his antagonist to a tree and flayed him. =Martia´lis, Mar´cus Vale´rius.= A native of Spain who came to Rome when he was about twenty years old, where he became noticeable by his poetical genius. Martial wrote fourteen books of epigrams, and died in the seventy-fifth year of his age. =Masinis´sa.= A king of a small part of Africa, who at first assisted the Carthaginians in their wars against Rome, but who subsequently became an ally of the Romans. After his defeat of Syphax he married Sophonisba, the wife of Syphax, which gave offense to the Roman general, Scipio, on which Masinissa induced Sophonisba to end her life by poison. In the battle of Zama, Masinissa greatly contributed to the defeat of Hannibal. He died in his ninety-seventh year, 149 years before the Christian era. =Mauso´lus.= A king of Caria. His wife Artemisia was very disconsolate at his death, and erected one of the grandest monuments of antiquity to perpetuate his memory. This famous building, which was deemed to be one of the seven wonders of the world, was called "Mausoleum," which name has been since applied to other grand sepulchral monuments. =Maximi´nus, Ca´ius Ju´lius Ve´rus=, was the son of a peasant of Thrace. He entered the Roman armies, where he gradually rose till he was proclaimed emperor A.D. 235. He ruled with great cruelty, and was eventually killed by his own soldiers. He was of immense size and strength, and was able to break the hardest stones between his fingers. =Mede´a.= A celebrated magician, daughter of Ætes, king of Colchis, and niece of Circe. When Jason came to Colchis in quest of the Golden Fleece, Medea fell in love with him, and they exchanged oaths of fidelity, and when he had overcome all the difficulties which he had to encounter, Medea embarked with him for Greece. She lived in Corinth with her husband Jason for ten years, with much conjugal happiness, when he became enamored with Glauce, daughter of Creon, king of Corinth. To avenge herself on Jason she caused the destruction of Glauce, and killed her two children in his presence. =Medu´sa.= One of the three Gorgons, daughter of Phorcys and Ceto. She was the only one of the Gorgons subject to mortality. She was celebrated for her personal charms and the beauty of her hair, which Minerva changed into serpents. According to Apollodorus and others, the Gorgons were born with snakes on their heads instead of hair, and with yellow wings and brazen hands. Perseus rendered himself famous by his conquest of Medusa. He cut off her head and placed it on the ægis of Minerva. The head had the power of changing those who looked at it into stone. =Melea´ger.= A celebrated hero of antiquity, who signalized himself in the Argonautic expedition, and especially by killing the Calydonian boar, a famous event in mythological history. =Melpom´ene.= One of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. She presided over tragedy. She is generally represented as a young woman wearing a buskin and holding a dagger in her hand. =Mem´non.= A king of Ethiopia, son of Tithonus and Aurora. He came with ten thousand men to assist Priam in the Trojan war, where he behaved with great courage, and killed Antilochus, Nestor's son, on which Nestor challenged Memnon to fight, but he refused on account of the great age of the challenger; but he fought Achilles, who killed him. A statue was erected in his honor, which had the property of uttering a melodious sound every day at sunrise. =Menan´der.= A celebrated comic poet of Athens, educated under Theophrastus. He was universally esteemed by the Greeks. He wrote 108 comedies, but of which only a few fragments remain. =Menela´us.= A king of Sparta, brother to Agamemnon. He married Helen, the most beautiful woman of her time. Paris, having arrived in Sparta in the absence of Menelaus, persuaded her to elope with him, which was the cause of the Trojan war. In the tenth year of the war Helen, it is said, obtained the forgiveness of Menelaus, with whom she returned to Sparta, where, shortly after his return, he died. =Mene´nius Agrippa.= A celebrated Roman who appeased the Roman populace in the infancy of the consular government by repeating to them the well-known fable of the belly and limbs. He lived B.C. 495. =Menip´pus.= A Cynic philosopher of Phoenicia. He was originally a slave, and, obtaining his liberty, became notorious as a usurer. He wrote thirteen books of satires. =Men´tor.= A faithful friend of Ulysses, and guide and instructor of his son Telemachus. The term Mentor has become proverbial as applied to any one who is an educator of youth. =Mercu´rius.= A celebrated god of antiquity, called Hermes by the Greeks. He was the messenger of the gods, and conducted the souls of the dead into the infernal regions. He presided over orators, merchants, and was also the god of thieves. The invention of the lyre is ascribed to him. This he gave to Apollo, and received in exchange the Caduceus, which the god of poetry used to drive the flocks of King Admetus. =Mer´ope.= One of the Atlantides. She married Sisyphus, son of Æolus, and was changed into a constellation. =Me´rops.= A king of the island of Cos, who married Clymene, one of the Oceanides. He was changed into an eagle, and placed among the constellations. =Messali´na, Vale´ria=, was notorious for her vices. She married the emperor Claudius, who, wearied with her misconduct, cited her to appear before him and reply to the accusations which were brought against her, on which she attempted to destroy herself, but failing to do so, was slain by one of the tribunes who had been sent to summon her. =Metel´li.= The surname of the family of the Cæcilii at Rome, the most noted of whom are--a general who defeated the Achæans, took Thebes, and invaded Macedonia; Quintus Cæcilius, rendered famous by his successes against Jugurtha, the king of Numidia; Q. Cæcilius Celer, who distinguished himself against Catiline. He died fifty-seven years B.C., greatly lamented by Cicero, who was one of his warmest friends; L. Cæcilius, a tribune in the civil wars of Cæsar and Pompey, who favored the cause of Pompey; Q. Caæilius, a warlike general who conquered Crete and Macedonia; Metellus Cimber, one of the conspirators against Cæsar. He gave the signal to attack and murder the dictator. =Micip´sa.= A king of Numidia, son of Masinissa, who, at his death, B.C. 119, left his kingdom between his sons Adherbal and Hiempsal, and his nephew Jugurtha. =Mi´das.= A king of Phrygia, son of Gordius or Gorgias. According to some traditions, in the early part of his life he found a treasure, to which he owed his greatness and opulence. He showed hospitality to Silenus, in return for which Bacchus permitted him to choose whatever recompense he pleased. He demanded of the god that whatever he touched might be turned into gold. His wish was granted, but when the very food which he attempted to eat became gold in his mouth he prayed Bacchus to revoke the favor, and he was ordered to wash himself in the river Pactolus, the sands of which were turned into gold by the touch of Midas. Afterwards, in consequence of maintaining that Pan was superior to Apollo in singing and playing the flute, he had his ears changed into those of an ass by the god. =Mi´lo.= A celebrated athlete of Crotona in Italy. He is said to have carried on his shoulders a bullock for a considerable distance, and to have killed it with a blow from his fist, and eaten it in one day. In his old age he attempted to pull up a tree by the roots, which, when half-cleft, reunited, and his hands remaining imprisoned in the tree, he was eaten by wild beasts about 500 years before the Christian era. =Milti´ades=, son of Simon, was sent by the Athenians to take possession of the Chersonesus. On his arrival he seized some of the principal inhabitants of the country, made himself absolute in Chersonese, and married the daughter of Olorus, king of the Thracians. He was present at the celebrated battle of Marathon, where the command was ceded to him, owing to his superior abilities. He obtained the victory, but an olive crown, which he demanded from his fellow-citizens as a reward for his valor, was refused. Afterwards he was intrusted with a fleet of seventy ships, with which to punish some islands which had revolted to the Persians. At first he was successful, but afterwards fortune frowned on him. He was accused of treason and condemned to death, but his sentence was, owing to his great services, commuted. He died in prison of some wounds he had received, which became incurable. =Miner´va=, the goddess of wisdom, war, and all the liberal arts, sprang, full-grown and armed, from the head of Jupiter, and was immediately admitted to the assembly of the gods, and became one of the most faithful counselors of her father. Her power in heaven was great: she could hurl the thunders of Jupiter, prolong the life of men, and bestow the gift of prophecy. She was known amongst the ancients by many names. She was called Athena, Pallas, Parthenos, Tritonia (because she was worshiped near the lake Tritonis) and Hippia (because she first taught mankind how to manage the horse), Sais (because she was worshipped at Sais), and some other names. She is usually represented with a helmet on her head with a large plume on it, in one hand holding a spear, and in the other a shield with the head of Medusa on it. Temples were erected for her worship in different places, one of the most renowned of which was the Parthenon at Athens. From this building a large collection of ancient sculpture was brought to the British Museum by Lord Elgin more than sixty years ago, which is known as the "Elgin Marbles." =Mi´nos.= A king of Crete, son of Jupiter and Europa, who gave laws to his subjects, B.C. 1406, which remained in full force in the age of Plato. =Mi´nos the Second= was a son of Lycastes, the son of Minos the first, and king of Crete. He married Pasiphae, the daughter of Sol and Perseis. =Minotau´rus.= A celebrated monster, half a man and half a bull, for which a number of young Athenian men and maidens were yearly exacted to be devoured. The Minotaur was confined in a famous labyrinth, where at length it was slain by Theseus, who was guided out of the labyrinth by a clue of thread given to him by Ariadne, daughter of King Minos. =Mithrida´tes First=, king of Pontus. He was tributary to the crown of Persia: his attempts to make himself independent of that fealty proved fruitless, being defeated in a battle which he had provoked, and having to sue for peace. =Mithrida´tes=, surnamed "Eupator" and "The Great," succeeded to the throne of Pontus when eleven years of age. The beginning of his reign was marked by ambition and cruelty. At an early age he inured himself to hardships by devoting himself to manly exercises, and sleeping in the open air on the bare earth. He was constantly engaged in warfare against the Romans, and his contests with them are known as the Mithridatic wars. His hatred of the Romans was so great that, to destroy their power, he ordered all of them that were in his dominions to be massacred, and in one night 150,000, according to Plutarch, or 80,000, according to another authority, were slaughtered. This cruel act called for revenge, and great armies were sent against him. After varied fortunes Mithridates had to succumb to Pompey, and, worn out with misfortune, attempted to poison himself, but unsuccessfully, as the numerous antidotes to poison which in early life he had taken strengthened his constitution to resist the effect. He then ordered one of his soldiers to give him the fatal blow with a sword, which was done. He died about sixty-three years before the Christian era, in his seventy-second year. He is said to have been the most formidable opponent the Romans ever had, and Cicero estimates him as the greatest monarch that ever sat upon a throne. It is recorded of him that he conquered twenty-four nations, whose different languages he knew and spoke fluently. There were a number of persons of the same name, but of inferior note. =Mnemos´yne.= A daughter of Coelus and Terra, mother of the nine Muses. Jupiter assumed the form of a shepherd in order to enjoy her company. =Mo´mus=, the god of mirth amongst the ancients, according to Hesiod, was the son of Nox. He amused himself by satirizing the gods by turning into ridicule whatever they did. =Mor´pheus.= A minister of the god Somnus, who imitated very naturally the gestures, words, and manners of mankind. He is sometimes called the god of sleep. He is generally represented as a sleeping child, of great corpulence, with wings. =Mos´chus.= A Greek Bucolic poet in the age of Ptolemy Philadelphus. His eclogues are characterized by sweetness and elegance, and are said to be equal in merit to the productions of Theocritus. =Mure´na.= A celebrated Roman who invaded the dominions of Mithridates, at first with success, but afterwards he met with defeat. He was honored with a triumph on his return to Rome. =Mu´sæ.= The Muses, certain goddesses who presided over poetry, music, dancing, and all the liberal arts. They were daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne, and were nine in number, Clio, Euterpe, Thalia, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, Calliope, and Urania. =Myce´næ.= A town of Argolis, said to have been built by Perseus. It received its name from Mycene, a nymph of Laconia. It was taken and destroyed by the Argives. =Nai´ades.= Inferior deities who presided over rivers, springs, wells, and fountains. The Naiads generally inhabited the country, and resorted to the woods and meadows near the stream over which they presided. They are represented as young and beautiful girls leaning on an urn, from which flows a stream of water. Ægle was the fairest of them, according to Virgil. The word Naiad has become Anglicized, and is in frequent use, especially by the poets. =Narcis´sus=, a beautiful youth, son of Cephisus and the nymph Liriope, was born at Thespis in Boeotia. He saw his image reflected in a fountain and became in love with it, thinking it to be the nymph of the place. His fruitless attempts to reach this beautiful object so provoked him, that he killed himself. His blood was changed into a flower which still bears his name. =Nemæ´a.= A town of Argolis, with a wood where Hercules in the sixteenth year of his age killed the celebrated Nemæan lion. It was the first of the labors of Hercules to destroy the monster, and when he found that his arrows and clubs were useless, against an animal whose skin was impenetrable, he seized it in his arms and strangled it. =Nem´esis.= One of the infernal deities, daughter of Nox. She was the goddess of vengeance. She is made one of the Parcæ by some mythologists, and is represented with a helm and a wheel. The term is sometimes used to signify vengeance itself. =Neoptol´emus.= A king of Epirus, son of Achilles and Deidamia, called also Pyrrhus. He greatly signalized himself during the siege of Troy, and he was the first who entered the wooden horse. He was inferior to none of the Grecian warriors in valor. Ulysses and Nestor alone were his superiors in eloquence and wisdom. =Ne´pos, Corne´lius.= A celebrated historian in the reign of Augustus, and, like the rest of his literary contemporaries, he enjoyed the patronage and obtained the favor of the emperor. He was the intimate friend of Cicero and Atticus, and recommended himself to notice by delicacy of sentiment and a lively disposition. Of all his valuable works the only one extant is his lives of illustrious Greek and Roman generals. =Neptu´nus.= One of the gods, son of Saturn and Ops, and brother to Jupiter and Pluto. He was devoured by his father as soon as he was born, and restored to life again by a potion given to Saturn, by Metis, the first wife of Jupiter. Neptune shared with his brothers the empire of Saturn, and received as his portion the kingdom of the sea. He did not think this equivalent to the empire of heaven and earth, which Jupiter had claimed, therefore he conspired to dethrone him. The conspiracy was discovered, and Jupiter condemned Neptune to build the walls of Troy. He married Amphitrite, who thus broke a vow she had made of perpetual celibacy. =Nere´ides.= Nymphs of the sea, daughters of Nereus and Doris. According to most of the mythologists, they were fifty in number. They are represented as young and handsome girls, sitting on dolphins and armed with tridents. =Ne´ro, Clau´dius Domit´ius Cæ´sar.= A celebrated Roman emperor, son of Caius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Agrippina, the daughter of Germanicus. His name is the synonym for cruelty and vice. In the night it was his wont to sally out from his palace to visit the meanest taverns and the different scenes of depravity that were to be found. He appeared on the stage, sometimes representing the meanest characters. He resolved to imitate the burning of Troy, and caused Rome to be set on fire in different places, the flames being unextinguished for nine days, and he enjoyed the terrible scene. During the conflagration he placed himself on the top of a tower and sang, accompanying himself on a lyre, of the destruction of Troy. Many conspiracies were formed against him, the most dangerous of which he was saved from by the confession of a slave. He killed himself A.D. 68, in the thirty-second year of his age, after a reign of thirteen years and eight months. Wretch that he was, it is said that he had some few to mourn for him, and Suetonius records that some unseen hand had placed flowers on his tomb. =Ner´va, M. Cocce´ius.= A Roman emperor after the death of Domitian A.D. 96. He rendered himself popular by his mildness and generosity. In his civil character he set an example of good manners and sobriety. He made an oath that no senator should suffer death during his reign, which he carried out by pardoning two members of the Senate who had conspired against his life. He died in his seventy-second year, A.D. 98, and was succeeded by his son Trajan. =Nes´sus.= A celebrated Centaur killed by Hercules for insulting Dejanira. =Nes´tor.= A son of Neleus and Chloris, nephew to Pelias, and grandson to Neptune. He was present at the bloody battle between the Lapithæ and the Centaurs, which took place at the nuptials of Pirithous. As king of Pylos he led his soldiers to the Trojan war, where he distinguished himself among the Grecian chieftains by eloquence, wisdom, and prudence. Homer makes his character as the most perfect of all his heroes. After the Trojan war Nestor retired to Greece, where he lived during his declining years in peace and tranquillity. The manner and time of his death are unknown. =Ni´nus.= A son of Belus. He built Nineveh and founded the Assyrian monarchy, of which he was the first sovereign, B.C. 2059. He married Semiramis, whose husband had destroyed himself through fear of Ninus. He reigned fifty-two years. =Ni´obe.= A daughter of Tantalus, king of Lydia, and Euryanassa, or Dione. She married Amphion, and, according to Hesiod, they had ten sons and ten daughters. All the sons of Niobe expired by the darts of Apollo, and all the daughters, except Chloris, were destroyed by Diana. Niobe, overwhelmed with grief, was changed into a stone. =Nito´cris.= A celebrated queen of Babylon, who built a bridge across the Euphrates in the middle of that city, and dug a number of reservoirs for the superfluous water of the river. =Nom´ades.= A name given to people who had no fixed habitation, and who continually changed their place of residence in quest of fresh pastures for the cattle they tended. There were Nomades in Scythia, India, Arabia, etc. The word is in constant use as Anglicized--Nomad--meaning any one who leads a wandering and unsettled life. =Nox.= One of the most ancient deities among the heathens, daughter of Chaos. She gave birth to the Day and the Light, and was mother of the Parcæ, Hesperides, Dreams, Death, etc. =Nu´ma Pompil´ius.= A celebrated philosopher of Cures. He married Tatia, daughter of Tatius, king of the Sabines, and at her death he retired into the country to devote himself to literary pursuits. At the death of Romulus the Romans fixed on him to be their new king. Numa at first refused the offer of the crown, but at length was prevailed on to accept it. He endeavored to inculcate into the minds of his subjects a reverence for the deity, and he did all he could to heal their dissensions. He encouraged the report of his visits to the nymph Egeria, and made use of her name to give sanction to the laws which he had made. He dedicated a temple to Janus, which, during his whole reign, remained closed as a mark of peace and tranquillity at Rome. Numa died after a reign of forty-three years (B.C. 672), during which he had given encouragement to the useful arts, and had cultivated peace. =Nym´phæ.= Certain female deities among the ancients. They were generally divided into two classes--nymphs of the land and nymphs of the sea. Of the former some presided over woods, and were called Dryades and Hamadryades. Of the sea nymphs some were called Oceanides, Nereides, Naiades, etc. =Ocean´ides and Oceanit´ides.= Sea nymphs, daughters of Oceanus, from whom they received their name. According to Apollodorus they were 3000 in number, whilst Hesiod speaks of them as consisting of forty-one. =Oce´anus.= A powerful deity of the sea, son of Coelus and Terra. He married Tethys, the Oceanides being their children. =Octa´via.= A Roman lady, sister to the emperor Augustus, celebrated for her beauty and virtues. She married Claudius Marcellus, and, after his death, Antony, who for some time was attentive to her, but eventually deserted her for Cleopatra. =Octavia´nus, or Octa´vius Cæ´sar.= A famous Roman who, after the battle of Actium, had bestowed on him by the senate the surname _Augustus_, as expressing his dignity and greatness. =Odena´tus.= A celebrated prince of Palmyra. At an early period of his life he inured himself to bear fatigue by hunting wild beasts. He was a faithful ally of the Romans, and gave great offense to Sapor, king of Persia, in consequence. In the warfare which ensued he obtained advantage over the troops of Sapor, and took his wife prisoner, besides gaining great booty. He died by the hand of one of his relations whom he had offended. Zenobia succeeded him on the throne. =OE´dipus.= A son of Laius, king of Thebes, and Jocasta. Laius was informed by the oracle, as soon as he married Jocasta, that he would perish by the hands of his son. On his birth OEdipus was given to a domestic, with orders to expose him to death on the mountains, where he was found by one of the shepherds of Polybus, king of Corinth. Periboea, the wife of Polybus, educated him as her own child, tending him with great care. In after life he met Laius in a narrow lane in a chariot, and being haughtily ordered to make way for Laius, a combat ensued in which Laius was slain. After this OEdipus was attracted to Thebes by the fame of the Sphinx, who devoured all those who attempted to explain without success the enigmas which she propounded. The enigma proposed by the Sphinx to OEdipus was:--What animal in the morning walks upon four feet, at noon upon two, and in the evening upon three? OEdipus solved the riddle by replying that the animal was man, who in childhood crawls on his hands and feet, on attaining manhood walks on two feet erect, and in the evening of life supports his tottering steps with a staff. The monster on hearing the correct solution of the riddle, dashed her head against a rock and perished. =OE´neus.= A king of Calydon, son of Parthaon or Portheus and Euryte. He married Althæa, their children being Clymenus, Meleager, Gorge, and Dejanira. In a general sacrifice he made to the gods he slighted Diana, who, in revenge, sent a wild boar to waste his country. The animal was killed by Meleager in the celebrated Calydonian boar hunt. After this misfortunes overtook OEneus, and he exiled himself from Calydon, and died on his way to Argolis. =OEnom´aus.= King of Pisa, in Elis, and father of Hippodamia. He was told by the oracle that he would perish by his son-in-law. Being skillful in driving a chariot, he announced that he would give his daughter in marriage only to some one who could defeat him in a race, death being the result of those who were defeated. After a number of aspirants had contended and failed, Pelops, son of Tantalus, entered the lists, and by bribing the charioteer of OEnomaus, who provided a chariot with a broken axle-tree, Pelops won the race, and married Hippodamia, becoming king of Pisa. OEnomaus was killed in the race. =Olym´pia.= Celebrated games which received their name either from Olympia, where they were observed, or from Jupiter Olympius, to whom they were dedicated. =Olym´pus.= A mountain in Macedonia and Thessaly. The ancients supposed that it touched the heavens, and thus they have made it the residence of the gods, and the place where Jupiter held his court. On the top of the mountain, according to the poets, eternal spring reigned. =Om´phale.= A queen of Lydia, daughter of Jardanus. She married Tmolus, who at his death left her mistress of his kingdom. She had heard of the exploits of Hercules, and wished to see him. After he had slain Eurytus, Hercules was ordered to be sold as a slave, and was purchased by Omphale, who gave him his liberty. He became in love with Omphale, who reciprocated his passion. He is represented by the poets as being so infatuated with her that he sat spinning by her side surrounded by her women, whilst she garbed herself with his lion's skin, arming herself with his club. =Oppia´nus.= A Greek poet of Cilicia. He wrote some poems celebrated for their sublimity and elegance. Caracalla gave him a piece of gold for every verse in one of his poems. Oppian died of the plague in the thirtieth year of his age. =Ops.= A daughter of Coelus and Terra, the same as the Rhea of the Greeks, who married Saturn, and became mother of Jupiter. She was known amongst the ancients by the different names of Cybele, Bona Dea, Magna Mater, Thya, Tellus, and Proserpina. =Ores´tes.= A son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. His father was slain by Clytemnestra and Ægisthus, but young Orestes was saved from his mother's dagger by his sister Electra, called by Homer Laodicea, and was conveyed to the house of Strophius, king of Phocis, who had married a sister of Agamemnon. He was indulgently treated by Strophius, who educated him with his son Pylades. The two young princes formed the most inviolable friendship. When Orestes had arrived at years of manhood he avenged his father's death by killing his mother Clytemnestra. =Or´igen.= A Greek writer, celebrated for his learning and the sublimity of his genius. He suffered martyrdom in his sixty-ninth year. His works are numerous, consisting of commentaries on the Scriptures and various treatises. =Or´pheus.= A son of OEger and the Muse Calliope. Some suppose him to be the son of Apollo. He received a lyre from Apollo, or, according to some, from Mercury, on which he played in such a masterly manner that the melodious sounds caused rivers to cease to flow, and savage beasts to forget their wildness. He married Eurydice, who died from the bite of a serpent. Orpheus felt her death acutely, and to recover her he visited the infernal regions. Pluto, the king of the infernal regions, was enraptured with the strains of music from the lyre of Orpheus, and, according to the poets, the wheel of Ixion stopped, the stone of Sisyphus stood still, Tantalus forgot his burning thirst, and even the Furies relented, so fascinating were the sounds extracted from the lyre. Pluto was moved by the sorrow of Orpheus, and consented to restore Eurydice to him, provided he forebore to look behind him till he had reached the extremity of his domain. Orpheus agreed to this, but forgot his promise, and turned round to look at Eurydice, who instantly vanished from his sight. After this he separated himself from the society of mankind, and the Thracian women, whom he had offended by his coldness, attacked him whilst they celebrated the orgies of Bacchus, and after they had torn his body to pieces they threw his head into the Hebrus. =Osi´ris.= A great deity of the Egyptians, husband of Isis. The ancients differ in opinion concerning this celebrated god, but they all agree that as ruler of Egypt he took care to civilize his subjects, to improve their morals, to give them good and salutary laws, and to teach them agriculture. =Ovid´ius, P. Na´so.= A celebrated Roman poet born at Sulmo. He was sent at an early age to Rome, and afterwards went to Athens in the sixteenth year of his age, where his progress in the study of eloquence was great. His natural inclination, however, was towards poetry, and to this he devoted his chief attention. His lively genius and fertile imagination soon gained him admirers; the learned became his friends; Virgil, Propertius, Horace, and Tibullus, honored him with their correspondence, and Augustus patronized him with unbounded liberality. These favors, however, were transitory, and he was banished to a place on the Euxine Sea by order of the emperor. The true cause of his banishment is not known. His friends ardently entreated the emperor to permit him to return, but in vain, and he died in the seventh or eighth year of his banishment, in the fifty-ninth year of his age, A.D. 17. A great portion of his works remains. These consist of the "Metamorphoses," "Fasti," "Epistolæ," etc. Whilst his works are occasionally disfigured by indelicacy, they are distinguished by great sweetness and elegance. =Pacto´lus.= A celebrated river of Lydia. It was in this river that Midas washed himself when he turned into gold whatever he touched. =Pæ´an.= A surname of Apollo, derived from the word _pæan_, a hymn which was sung in his honor for killing the serpent Python. =Palæ´mon= or =Pale´mon=. A sea deity, son of Athamas and Ino. His original name was Melicerta. He assumed the name of Palæmon after being changed into a sea deity by Neptune. =Palame´des.= A Grecian chief, son of Nauplius, king of Euboea, and Clymene. He was sent by the Greek princes, who were going to the Trojan war, to bring Ulysses to the camp, who, to withdraw himself from the expedition, had pretended to be insane. Palamedes soon penetrated the deception, and Ulysses was obliged to join in the war, but an inveterate enmity arose between the two, and by an unworthy artifice Ulysses procured the death of Palamedes. Palamedes is accredited with the invention of dice, backgammon, and other games. =Palati´nus, Mons.= A celebrated hill, the largest of the seven hills on which Rome was built. =Palinu´rus.= A skillful pilot of the ship of Æneas. He fell into the sea whilst asleep, and was exposed to the waves for three days, and on reaching the shore was murdered by the inhabitants of the place where he landed. =Palla´dium.= A celebrated statue of Pallas. It represented the goddess as holding a spear in her right hand, and in her left a distaff and spindle. It fell down from heaven near the tent of Ilus as he was building the citadel of Ilium, whilst, according to others, it fell in Phrygia; another account says Dardanus received it as a present from his mother Electra; other accounts are given of its origin. It is generally agreed, however, that on the preservation of the statue the fate of Troy depended. This was known to the Greeks during the Trojan war, and they contrived to obtain possession of it. But some authors say that the true Palladium was not carried away by the Greeks, but only a statue which had been placed near it, and which bore some resemblance to it. =Pal´las.= A name of Minerva. She is said to have received the name because she killed a noted giant bearing that name. =Palmy´ra.= The capital of Palmyrene, a country on the eastern boundaries of Syria, now called Tadmor. It is famous as being the seat of government of the celebrated Queen Zenobia. =Pan.= The god of shepherds, huntsmen, and the inhabitants of the country. He was in appearance a monster; he had two small horns on his head, and his legs, thighs, tail, and feet were like those of the goat. =Pan´darus.= A son of Lycaon, who aided the Trojans in their war with the Greeks. He broke the truce which had been agreed on by the contending armies, and wounded Menelaus and Diomedes. He was at last killed by Diomedes. =Pandi´on.= A king of Athens, father of Procne and Philomela. During his reign there was such an abundance of corn, wine, and oil in his realm, that it was supposed that Bacchus and Minerva had personally visited the country. =Pando´ra.= A celebrated woman; the first mortal female that ever lived, according to Hesiod. She was made of clay by Vulcan, and having received life, all the gods made presents to her. Venus gave her beauty and the art of pleasing; the Graces gave her the power of captivating; Apollo taught her how to sing, and Mercury instructed her in eloquence. Jupiter gave her a beautiful box, which she was ordered to present to the man who married her. This was Epithemeus, brother of Prometheus, who opened the box, from which issued a multitude of evils, which became dispersed all over the world, and which from that fatal moment have never ceased to affect the human race. Hope alone remained at the bottom of the box. =Pan´sa, C. Vib´ius.= A Roman consul, who, with Hirtius, pursued the assassins of Cæsar, and was killed in a battle near Mutina. =Pan´theon.= A celebrated temple at Rome, built by Agrippa in the reign of Augustus, and dedicated to all the gods. =Par´cæ.= The Fates, powerful goddesses who presided over the birth and life of mankind. They were three in number, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, daughters of Nox and Erebus, according to Hesiod, or, according to what he says in another place, of Jupiter and Themis. =Par´is.= The son of Priam, king of Troy, and Hecuba; he was also called Alexander. He was destined before his birth to cause the ruin of his country, and before he was born his mother dreamt that he would be a torch which would set fire to her palace. The soothsayers predicted that he would be the cause of the destruction of Troy. In consequence of these foretold calamities Priam ordered a slave to destroy the child immediately after birth, but instead of acting thus the slave exposed the child on Mount Ida, where some shepherds found him and took care of him. Paris gave early proofs of courage, and his graceful countenance recommended him to OEnone, a nymph of Ida, whom he married. At the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, the goddess of discord, who had not been invited, showed her displeasure by throwing into the assembly of the gods, who were at the nuptials, a golden apple, on which were the words: Let it be given to the fairest. The apple was claimed by Juno, Venus, and Minerva. Paris, who had been appointed to award it to the most beautiful of the three goddesses, gave it to Venus. Subsequently Paris visited Sparta, where he persuaded Helen, wife of Menelaus, the most beautiful woman of the age, to elope with him. This caused the Trojan war. Different accounts are given of the death of Paris. By some he is said to have been killed by one of the arrows of Philoctetes which had once belonged to Hercules. =Parme´nio.= A celebrated general in the armies of Alexander the Great, by whom he was regarded with the greatest affection. The firm friendship which existed between the two generals was broken in a sudden fit of anger by Alexander, who ordered his friend to be put to death, B.C. 330. =Parnas´sus.= A mountain of Phocis sacred to the Muses, and to Apollo and Bacchus. It was named thus after a son of Neptune who bore that designation. =Parrha´sius.= A famous painter of Ephesus in the age of Zeuxis, about fifteen years before Christ. He contended, on one occasion, with Zeuxis for the palm in painting, and Zeuxis acknowledged that he was excelled by Parrhasius. =Par´thenon.= A temple of Athens sacred to Minerva. It was destroyed by the Persians, and was rebuilt by Pericles. =Pasiph´ae.= A daughter of the Sun and of Perseis, who married Minos, king of Crete. She became the mother of the Minotaur, which was killed by Theseus. =Patro´clus.= One of the Grecian chiefs during the Trojan war. He contracted an intimate friendship with Achilles, and when the Greeks went to the Trojan war Patroclus accompanied them. He was the constant companion of Achilles, living in the same tent, and when his friend refused to appear in the field of battle, because of being offended with Agamemnon, Patroclus imitated his example. Nestor, however, prevailed on him again to take the field, and Achilles lent him his armor. Hector encountered him, and after a desperate fight slew him. The Greeks obtained his dead body, which was brought into the Grecian camp, where Achilles received it with great lamentation, and again taking the field, killed Hector, thus avenging the death of his friend. =Pau´lus Æmil´ius.= A Roman celebrated for his military achievements, surnamed "Macedonicus" from his conquest of Macedonia. In early life he distinguished himself by his application and for his love for military discipline. In his first consulship he reduced the Ligurians to subjection, and subsequently obtained a great victory over the Macedonians, making himself master of the country. In the office of censor, which he filled, he behaved with great moderation, and at his death, about 168 years before the Christian era, the Romans mourned deeply for him. =Pausa´nias.= A Spartan general who greatly signalized himself at the battle of Platæa against the Persians. He afterwards, at the head of the Spartan armies, extended his conquests in Asia, but the haughtiness of his behavior made him many enemies. He offered, on certain conditions, to betray Greece to the Persians, but his perfidy was discovered, on which he fled for safety to a temple of Minerva, where he was starved to death, B.C. 471. =Peg´asus.= A winged horse sprung from the blood of Medusa. According to Ovid he fixed his abode on Mount Helicon, where, by striking the earth with his foot, he raised a fountain which has been called Hippocrene. =Pe´leus.= A king of Thessaly, son of Æacus and Endeis, the daughter of Chiron. He married Thetis, one of the Nereids. =Pe´lias.= Son of Neptune and Tyro. On his birth he was exposed in the woods, but his life was preserved by some shepherds. Subsequently Tyro was married to Cretheus, king of Iolchos. They had three children, of whom Æson was the eldest. Pelias visited his mother after the death of Cretheus, and usurped the authority which properly belonged to the children of the deceased monarch. Jason, the son of Æson, who had been educated by Chiron, on attaining manhood demanded the kingdom, the government of which Pelias had usurped. Jason was persuaded by Pelias to waive his claim for the present, and start on the Argonautic expedition. On his return, accompanied by the sorceress Medea, she undertook to restore Pelias to youth, explaining that it was necessary first to cut his body to pieces and place the limbs in a caldron of boiling water. This was done, when Medea refused to fulfill her promise, which she had solemnly made to the daughters of Pelias, who were four in number, and who had received the patronymic of the "Peliades." =Pe´lion=, sometimes called Pelios. A celebrated mountain of Thessaly, the top of which is covered with pine-trees. =Pelop´idas.= A celebrated general of Thebes, son of Hippoclus. It was owing to his valor and prudence, combined with the ability of Epaminondas, that the famous victory of Leuctra was won. =Pe´lops.= A celebrated prince, son of Tantalus, king of Phrygia. He was killed by his father, and served up as a feast to the gods, who had visited Phrygia. He was restored to life, and married Hippodamia, having won her through defeating her father in a chariot race. =Pena´tes.= Certain inferior deities among the Romans, who presided over the domestic affairs of families. =Penel´ope.= A celebrated princess of Greece, daughter of Icarius, and wife of Ulysses, king of Ithaca. She became the mother of Telemachus, and was obliged to part, with great reluctance, from her husband, when the Greeks obliged him to go to the Trojan war. The strife between the hostile forces continued for ten years, and when Ulysses did not return home at the conclusion of the war her fears and anxieties became overwhelming. She was beset by a number of suitors, who told her that her husband would never return, and she ought to give herself to one of her admirers. She received their advances with coldness, but as she was devoid of power, and, as it were, almost a prisoner in their hands, she temporized with them. After twenty years' absence Ulysses returned, and at once delivered her from the persecutions of her suitors. Penelope is described by Homer as a model of female propriety, whilst some more modern writers dispute the correctness of this view. The accounts given by different authors respecting her, in fact, differ materially. By some she is said to have been the mother of Pan. =Penthesile´a.= A queen of the Amazons, daughter of Mars. She came to assist Priam in the last years of the Trojan war, and was slain by Achilles. =Per´gamus.= The citadel of the city of Troy. The word is often used to signify Troy. From it Xerxes reviewed his troops as he marched to invade Greece. =Per´icles.= An Athenian of noble family, son of Xanthippus and Agariste. His naturally great mental powers were greatly improved by attending the lectures of Zeno and other philosophers. He became a commander, a statesman, and an orator, and gained the esteem of the people by his address and liberality. In his ministerial capacity, Pericles did not enrich himself. The prosperity and happiness of Athens was his primary object. He made war against the Lacedæmonians, and restored the temple of Delphi to the care of the Phocians, who had been improperly deprived of that honorable trust. The Peloponnesian war was fomented by his ambitious views. He at length lost his popularity, but only temporarily, and he was restored to all the honors of which he had been deprived. A pestilence which prevailed proved fatal to him in his seventieth year, about 429 years before Christ. =Per´seus.= A son of Jupiter and Danae, the daughter of Acrisius. It had been predicted by the oracle that Acrisius was to perish by his daughter's offspring, so Perseus, soon after his birth, was, with his mother Danae, thrown into the sea. Both were saved and reached the island of Seriphos, where they were treated kindly by Polydectes, the king, who, however, soon became jealous of the genius of Perseus. Perseus had promised Polydectes to bring him the head of the Gorgon Medusa. To enable him to obtain this Pluto lent him a helmet which made the wearer invisible. Minerva gave him her buckler, and Mercury furnished him with wings. Thus equipped he found the Gorgons, and cut off Medusa's head, with which he fled through the air, and from the blood which dropped from it, sprang the horse Pegasus. During his flight Perseus discovered Andromeda chained to a rock to be devoured by a sea monster, which he destroyed, and married Andromeda. He now returned to Seriphos, where he turned into stone Polydectes by showing him Medusa's head. By an accident, in throwing a quoit he killed Acrisius, thus fulfilling the prediction of the oracle. =Per´seus= or =Per´ses=. A son of Philip, king of Macedonia. He distinguished himself by his enmity to the Romans, and when he had made sufficient preparations he declared war against them. He, however, wanted courage and resolution, and though he at first obtained some advantages over the Roman armies, his timidity proved destructive to his cause. He was defeated at Pydna, and soon after was taken prisoner, and died in prison at Rome. =Per´sius, Au´lus Flac´cus.= A Latin poet of Volaterræ. He was of a good family, and soon became intimate with the most illustrious Romans of his day. The early part of his life was spent in his native town, but at the age of sixteen he was removed to Rome, where he studied philosophy. He died in his thirtieth year, A.D. 62. The satires of Persius were read with pleasure and avidity by his contemporaries. =Per´tinax, Pub´lius Hel´vius.= A Roman emperor after the death of Commodus. He was descended from an obscure family, and for some time was employed in drying wood and making charcoal. He entered on a military life and by his valor rose to offices of the highest trust, and was made consul. At the death of Commodus he was selected to succeed to the throne. His patriotism gained him the affection of the worthiest of his subjects, but there were some who plotted against him. He was killed by his soldiers, A.D. 193. =Petro´nius Ar´biter.= A favorite of the emperor Nero, and one of the ministers and associates of his pleasures and vices. He was made proconsul of Bithynia, and afterwards was honored with the consulship. Eventually he became out of favor with Nero, and resolved to destroy himself, which he did by having his veins opened, A.D. 66. Petronius distinguished himself by his writings as well as by his voluptuousness. He is the author of many elegant compositions, which are, however, often characterized by impropriety of language. =Phæ´dra.= A daughter of Minos and Pasiphæ, who married Theseus. She became the mother of Acamas and Demophoon. She brought an unjust accusation against Hippolytus (a son of Theseus before she married him), who was killed by the horses in his chariot taking fright, causing him to be thrown under the wheels and crushed to death. On hearing this Phædra acknowledged the falseness of the charge she had brought against Hippolytus, and hanged herself in despair. =Phæ´drus.= A Thracian who became one of the freed men of the emperor Augustus. He translated the fables of Æsop into Iambic verse. =Pha´ethon.= A son of the Sun, or of Phoebus and Clymene. According to Hesiod and Pausanias he was son of Cephalus and Aurora, or of Tithonus and Aurora, according to Apollodorus. He is, however, generally acknowledged to be son of Phoebus and Clymene. Phoebus allowed him to drive the chariot of the sun for one day. Phaethon, on receiving the reins, at once showed his incapacity; the horses became unmanageable, and heaven and earth were threatened with a conflagration, when Jupiter struck Phaethon with a thunderbolt, and hurled him into the river Po, where he perished. =Phal´aris.= A tyrant of Agrigentum, who treated his subjects with great cruelty. Perillus made him a brazen bull, inside of which he proposed to place culprits, and by applying fire burn them to death. The first to be thus burnt in this manner was Perillus himself. The cruelties practiced by Phalaris were revenged by a revolt of his people, who put him to death by burning him in the bull. =Pha´on.= A boatman of Mitylene, in Lesbos. He received a box of ointment from Venus, who had presented herself to him in the form of an old woman. When he had rubbed himself with the unguent he became beautiful, and Sappho, the celebrated poetess, became enamored with him. For a short time he devoted himself to her, but soon treated her with coldness, upon which she threw herself into the sea and was drowned. =Pharnaba´zus.= A satrap of Persia who assisted the Lacedæmonians against the Athenians, and gained their esteem by his devotion to their cause. =Pha´ros.= A small island in the bay of Alexandria, on which was built a tower which was considered one of the seven wonders of the world. It was erected in the reigns of Ptolemy Soter and Ptolemy Philadelphus, the architect being Sostratus, the son of Dexiphanes. =Pharsa´lia.= A town of Thessaly, famous for the great battle fought there between Julius Cæsar and Pompey, in which the former obtained the victory. =Phid´ias.= A celebrated sculptor of Athens, who died B.C. 432. He executed a statue of Minerva, which was placed in the Pantheon. =Philip´pi.= A town of Macedonia, celebrated for two battles fought there, B.C. 42, between Augustus and Antony and the republican forces of Brutus and Cassius, in which the former were victorious. =Philip´pus=, king of Macedonia, was son of Amyntas, king of Macedonia. He learnt the art of war from Epaminondas. He married Olympias, the daughter of Neoptolemus, king of the Molossi, and became father of Alexander the Great. Amongst the most important events of his reign was the battle of Chæronea, which he won from the Greeks. The character of Philip is that of a sagacious, prudent, but artful and intriguing, monarch. He was assassinated by Pausanias at the celebration of the nuptials of his daughter, in the forty-seventh year of his age and the twenty-fourth of his reign, about 336 years before the Christian era. =Philip´pus.= The last king of Macedonia of that name was son of Demetrius. He aspired to become the friend of Hannibal. His intrigues were discovered by the Romans, who invaded his territories, and extorted peace from him on terms which were humiliating. He died in the forty-second year of his reign, 179 years before the Christian era. =Phi´lo.= A Jewish writer of Alexandria, A.D. 40. His works related to the creation of the world, sacred history, and the laws and customs of the Jewish nation. =Philocte´tes= was one of the Argonauts. He received from Hercules the arrows which had been dipped in the gall of the Hydra. The Greeks, in the tenth year of the Trojan war, were informed by the oracle that Troy could not be taken without these arrows. Philoctetes repaired to the Grecian camp, where he destroyed a number of the Trojans, among whom was Paris, with the arrows. The adventures of Philoctetes are the subject of one of the best tragedies of Sophocles. =Philome´la.= A daughter of Pandion, king of Athens. Her sister Procne had married Tereus, king of Thrace, and being separated from Philomela spent her time in great melancholy. She persuaded her husband to go to Athens and bring her sister to Thrace. Tereus, on the journey, treated Philomela with great cruelty, and cut off her tongue, confining her in a lonely castle, and reporting to Procne that she was dead. Philomela, however, found means to inform Procne that she was living. In revenge for the cruelty of Tereus, Procne murdered his son and served him up as food at a banquet. On hearing this Tereus drew his sword to slay the sisters, when he was changed into a hoopoe, Philomela into a nightingale, and Procne into a swallow. =Philopoe´men.= A celebrated general of the Achæans, born at Megalopolis. At an early age he distinguished himself in the field of battle, at the same time appearing fond of agriculture and a country life. He adopted Epaminondas as his model, and was not unsuccessful in imitating the prudence and other good qualities of the famous Theban. When Megalopolis was attacked by the Spartans, Philopoemen, then in his thirtieth year, gave the most decisive proofs of his valor. Raised to the rank of commander, he showed his ability to discharge that important trust, by killing with his own hand Mechanidas, the tyrant of Sparta, and defeating his army. Sparta having become, after its conquest, tributary to the Achæans, Philopoemen enjoyed the triumph of having subdued one of the most powerful states of Greece. He was at length made prisoner by the Messenians, and was treated by their general, Dinocrates, with great severity. He was poisoned in his seventieth year, about 183 years before the Christian era. =Philos´tratus.= A famous Sophist, born at Lemnos, or, according to some, at Athens. He came to Rome, where he was patronized by Julia, the wife of the emperor Severus. She intrusted him with some papers referring to Apollonius, whose life he wrote. This biography is written with elegance, but contains many exaggerated descriptions and improbable stories. =Phi´neus.= A son of Agenor, king of Phoenicia, or, according to some, a son of Neptune, who became king of Thrace. He married Cleopatra (called by some Cleobula), the daughter of Boreas, their children being Plexippus and Pandion. After the death of Cleopatra, he married Idæa, the daughter of Dardanus, who, jealous of Cleopatra's children, accused them of an attempt on their father's life, and they were condemned by Phineus to have their eyes put out. This cruelty was punished by the gods, Phineus being made blind, and the Harpies were sent by Jupiter to keep him in continual alarm. He recovered his sight by means of the Argonauts, whom he received with great hospitality. =Phleg´ethon.= A river in the infernal regions, between the banks of which flames of fire flowed instead of water. =Phle´gon.= One of the emperor Adrian's freedmen. He wrote a historical account of Sicily, an account of the principal places in Rome, and treatises on different subjects. His style was inelegant, and he evinced a want of judgment in his writings. =Pho´cion.= An Athenian celebrated for his public and private virtues. He was distinguished for his zeal for the general good, and for his military abilities. The fickleness of the Athenians, however, caused them to lose sight of his virtues, and being accused of treason, he was condemned to drink poison, which he took with the greatest heroism. His death occurred about 318 years before the Christian era. =Phoe´nix=, son of Amyntor, king of Argos, and Cleobule or Hippodamia, was preceptor to Achilles. He accompanied his pupil to the Trojan war, and Achilles was ever grateful for the precepts he had received from him. After the fall of Troy he died in Thrace, and, according to Strabo, was buried near Trachinia, where his name was given to a river. =Phry´ne.= A beautiful woman who lived at Athens about 328 years before the Christian era. She was beloved by Praxiteles, who painted her portrait. It is said that Apelles painted his Venus Anadyomene after he had seen Phryne on the sea-shore with disheveled hair. There was another woman of the same name, who was accused of impiety. When her judges were about to condemn her she unveiled her bosom, and her beauty so captivated them that they acquitted her. =Phryx´us.= A son of Athamas, king of Thebes, and Nephele. On the plea of insanity, Nephele was repudiated by Athamas, who then married Ino, who persecuted Phryxus with inveterate hatred, because he was to succeed to the throne in preference to one of her own children. Being apprised that Ino had designs on his life, he started with his sister Helle to go to Ætes, king of Colchis. According to the poets they mounted on a ram, whose fleece was gold, which soared into the air, directing its course to Colchis. Helle became giddy, and falling into the sea (afterwards called the Hellespont), was drowned. Phryxus arrived at the court of Ætes, whose daughter Chalciope he married. Sometime afterwards he was killed by his father-in-law. The murder of Phryxus gave rise to the famous Argonautic expedition under Jason, the object being to recover the Golden Fleece, which Jason succeeded in obtaining. =Phyl´lis.= A daughter of Sithon, or, according to other writers, of Lycurgus, king of Thrace. She received Demophoon, who landed on her coasts on his return from the Trojan war, and fell in love with him, and he reciprocated her affection; but afterwards proving faithless, Phyllis hanged herself, and according to an old tradition, was changed into an almond tree. =Pi´cus.= King of Latium, son of Saturn, who married Venilia. As he was hunting he was met by Circe, who became enamored with him. She changed him into a woodpecker. =Pier´ides.= A name given to the Muses, because they were born in Pieria, or, as some say, because they were supposed to be the daughters of Pierus, a king of Macedonia, who settled in Boeotia. =Pin´darus.= A celebrated lyric poet of Thebes. When he was young it is said that a swarm of bees settled on his lips and left on them some honey, which was regarded as a prognostic of his future greatness. After his death great respect was shown to his memory, and a statue was erected in his honor in one of the most public places in Thebes. Pindar is said to have died at the age of eighty-six, B.C. 435. Of his works, the odes only are extant; they are admired for sublimity of sentiment and grandeur of expression. =Piræ´us.= A celebrated harbor at Athens about three miles from the city. It was joined to the town by two walls, one built by Pericles, and the other by Themistocles. =Pirith´ous.= Son of Ixion and Dia, the daughter of Deioneus. He was king of the Lapithæ, and wished to become acquainted with Theseus, king of Athens, of whose fame and exploits he had heard. They became cordial friends. Pirithous married Hippodamia, and invited the Centaurs to attend his nuptials, where, having become intoxicated, they behaved with great rudeness, on which they were attacked and overcome by Theseus, Pirithous, Hercules, and the rest of the Lapithæ. Many of the Centaurs were slain, and the rest saved their lives by flight. =Pisan´der.= A commander in the Spartan fleet during the Peloponnesian war. He was greatly opposed to democracy at Athens. He was killed in a naval battle near Cnidus, B.C. 394. =Pisis´tratus.= A celebrated Athenian who distinguished himself by valor in the field and by eloquence at home. He obtained a bodyguard of fifty men to defend his person, and having thus got a number of armed men on whom he could rely, he seized the citadel of Athens, and soon made himself absolute. After this a conspiracy was formed against him, and he was banished from the city. He soon, however, re-established himself in power, and married the daughter of Megacles, one of his greatest enemies, whom he afterwards repudiated. On this his popularity waned, and he fled from Athens, but after an absence of eleven years he returned, and was received by the people with acclamation. He died about 527 years before the Christian era. =Pi´so.= A celebrated family at Rome, eleven of whom had obtained the consulship, and some of whom had been honored with triumphs for their victories. Of this family the most famous were--LUCIUS CALPURNIUS, who was tribune of the people about 149 years before Christ, and afterwards consul. He gained honor as an orator, a statesman, and a historian. CAIUS, another of the family, distinguished himself during his consulship by his firmness in resisting the tumults raised by the tribunes and the clamors of the people. CENIUS, who was consul under Augustus, rendered himself odious by his cruelty. He was accused of poisoning Germanicus, and, being shunned by his friends, destroyed himself. LUCIUS, a governor of Spain, who was assassinated by a peasant. LUCIUS, a governor of Rome for twenty years, during which time he discharged his duties with moderation and justice. CAIUS, who was at the head of a conspiracy against Nero. He committed suicide by venesection. =Pit´tacus=, a native of Mitylene in Lesbos, was one of the seven wise men of Greece. He died in the eighty-second year of his age, about 570 years B.C., the latter part of his life being spent in retirement. Many of his maxims were inscribed on the walls of Apollo's temple at Delphi, to show how high an opinion his countrymen entertained of his abilities as a moralist and philosopher. =Plau´cus L. Muna´tius.= A Roman conspicuous for his follies and extravagance. He had been consul, and had presided over a province, but he forgot his dignity, and became one of the most servile flatterers of Antony and Cleopatra. =Platæ´a.= A town of Boeotia, near Mount Citheron, celebrated as the scene of a battle between Mardonius, the general of Xerxes, king of Persia, and Pausanias, who commanded the Athenians. The Persians were defeated with great slaughter. =Pla´to.= A celebrated philosopher of Athens. He was educated carefully, his mind being cultivated by the study of poetry and geometry, whilst his body was invigorated by the practice of gymnastics. He began his literary career by writing poetry and tragedies. At the age of twenty he was introduced to Socrates, with whom he was for some time a pupil. After traveling in various countries, he retired to the neighborhood of Athens, where his lectures were attended by a crowd of learned, noble, and illustrious pupils. He died on his birthday in the eighty-first year of his age, about 348 years before the Christian era. His writings were so celebrated, and his opinions so highly regarded, that he was called the Divine. =Plau´tus, M. Ac´cius.= A dramatic poet born in Umbria. He wrote twenty-five comedies, of which only nineteen are extant. He died about 184 years before the Christian era. =Plei´ades.= A name given to seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. They were placed after death in the heavens, and formed a constellation. =Plin´ius, C. Secun´dus=, called the Elder, was born at Verona, of a noble family. He distinguished himself in the field, and was appointed governor of Spain. When at Misenum in command of the Roman fleet, Pliny observed the appearance of a cloud of dust and ashes, which was the commencement of the famous eruption of Mount Vesuvius which overwhelmed Herculaneum and Pompeii. He sailed for the scene of the eruption, where he was suffocated by the vapors emitted. This occurred in the seventy-ninth year of the Christian era. =Plin´ius, C. Cæcil´ius Secun´dus=, surnamed the Younger Pliny, was son of L. Cæcilius by the sister of Pliny the Elder. At the age of nineteen he distinguished himself at the bar. When Trajan was invested with the purple Pliny was created consul. He died in the fifty-second year of his age, A.D. 113. Pliny had much to do with the persecutions of the Christians in the early promulgation of the Christian religion. The Rev. James Copland, M. A., in an admirable little work entitled "Reasons why we Believe the Bible," gives a very interesting letter from Pliny to the emperor Trajan, asking instructions how to deal with the Christians when they were cited to appear before him. =Plutar´chus=, the celebrated biographer, was born at Chæronea, his father being distinguished for his learning and virtues. After traveling in quest of knowledge, he retired to Rome, where he opened a school. Subsequently he removed to Chæronea, where he died at an advanced age about the 140th year of the Christian era. His most esteemed work is the Lives of Illustrious Men. =Plu´to=, son of Saturn and Ops, inherited his father's kingdom with his brothers, Jupiter and Neptune. He received as his portion the kingdom of the infernal regions, of death, and funerals. He seized Proserpine as she was gathering flowers, and carrying her away on his chariot, she became his wife and queen of the infernal regions. =Plu´tus=, the god of riches, was the son of Jason, or Jasius, and Ceres. =Pol´lio, C. Asin´ius.= A Roman consul in the reign of Augustus, who distinguished himself equally by his eloquence and exploits in war. He wrote a history and some tragedies, and died in his eightieth year, A.D. 4. =Pol´lux.= A son of Jupiter and Leda, brother to Castor. =Polyb´ius.= A native of Megalopolis. He distinguished himself by his valor against the Romans in Macedonia, He wrote an universal history in Greek, and died about 124 years B.C. =Polydec´tes.= A son of Magnes, king of Seriphos. He received with kindness Danae and her son Perseus, who had been exposed on the sea. Polydectes was turned into stone by being shown Medusa's head by Perseus. =Polyhym´nia.= One of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. She presided over singing and rhetoric. =Polyni´ces.= A son of OEdipus, king of Thebes, and Jocasta. He inherited his father's throne with his brother Eteocles, and it was agreed that they should reign a year alternately. Eteocles first ascended the throne, but refused to resign the crown. Polynices upon this fled to Argos, where he married Argia, the daughter of Adrastus, the king of the country, and levied an army with which he marched on Thebes. The battle was decided by a combat between the brothers, who killed each other. =Polyphe´mus.= A celebrated Cyclops, son of Neptune and Thoosa, the daughter of Phorcys. He is represented as a monster with one eye in the middle of his forehead. Ulysses was his captive, but escaped by putting a firebrand in the monster's eye. =Pomo´na.= A nymph at Rome, who was supposed to preside over gardens and to be the goddess of fruit trees. =Pompe´ii or Pompei´um.= A town of Campania. It was partly destroyed by an earthquake, A.D. 63, and sixteen years afterwards it was swallowed up by another earthquake. Herculaneum, in its vicinity, shared the same fate. =Pompe´ius, Cnei´us=, surnamed Magnus from his exploits, was son of Pompeius Strabo and Lucilia. In the contentions which existed between Marius and Sylla, Pompey linked himself with the latter. Subsequently he united his interest with that of Cæsar and Crassus, thus forming the first triumvirate. A breach soon occurred, and at the great battle of Pharsalia, where the forces of Cæsar and Pompey met, the latter was totally defeated, and fled to Egypt, where he was assassinated in the fifty-eighth year of his age, B.C. 48. He left two sons, Cneius and Sextus, who at their father's death were masters of a powerful army, with which they opposed Cæsar, but were defeated at the battle of Munda, where Cneius was slain. Sextus escaped, and was put to death by Antony about thirty-five years before the Christian era. =Por´cia.= A daughter of Cato of Utica, who married Bibulus, and after his death Brutus. She was distinguished for her prudence and courage. After her husband's death she killed herself by swallowing burning coals. She is said to have given herself a severe wound to show that she could bear pain. =Porphyr´ius.= A Platonic philosopher of Tyre. He studied eloquence at Athens under Longinus, and afterwards retired to Rome. His most celebrated work was in reference to the Christian religion. Porphyry died A.D. 304, aged seventy-one years. =Porsen´na or Por´sena.= A king of Etruria, who declared war against the Romans because they refused to restore Tarquin to the throne; He was prevented from entering the gates of Rome by the valor of P. Horatius Cocles, who at the head of a bridge kept back Porsenna's army, whilst the bridge was being cut down by the Romans to prevent the entry of their enemies into the city. Eventually Porsenna abandoned the cause of Tarquin. =Praxit´eles.= A famous sculptor of Greece, who lived about 324 years before the Christian era. The most famous of his works was a Cupid, which he gave to Phyrne. He executed a statue of Phyrne, and also one of Venus. =Pri´amus.= The last king of Troy was son of Laomedon, by Strymo, called Placia by some writers. He married Arisba, whom he divorced in order to marry Hecuba, by whom he had a number of children, the most celebrated of whom were Hector, Paris, Deiphobus, Helenus, Laodice, and Cassandra. After he had reigned some time, Priam was anxious to recover his sister Hesione, who had been carried into Greece by Hercules, and to achieve this, he manned a fleet, the command of which he gave to his son Paris, who, instead of obeying the paternal instructions, carried away Helen, the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta. This caused the Trojan war, which lasted for ten years. At the end of the war Priam was slain by Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles. =Pro´bus, M. Aure´lius.= A native of Pannonia. His father was a gardener, who became a military tribune. His son obtained the same office in the twenty-second year of his age, and distinguished himself so much by his probity and valor that he was invested with the imperial purple. He encouraged the arts, and by his victories added to the glory of his country. He was slain by his soldiers in the fiftieth year of his age, B.C. 282. =Proco´pius=, born of a noble family in Cilicia, was related to the emperor Julian. He signalized himself under Julian, and afterwards retired to the Thracian Chersonesus, whence he made his appearance at Constantinople, and proclaimed himself master of the Eastern Empire. He was defeated in Phrygia, and beheaded A.D. 366. There was a famous Greek historian of the same name, who wrote the history of the reign of Justinian, and who was secretary to Belisarius. =Prome´theus.= A son of Iapetus and Clymene, one of the Oceanides. He ridiculed the gods and deceived Jupiter himself, who, to punish him and the rest of mankind, took fire away from the earth; but Prometheus climbed the heavens by the assistance of Minerva, and stole fire from the chariot of the sun, which he brought down to the earth. This provoked Jupiter, and he ordered Prometheus to be chained to a rock, where a vulture was to feed on his liver, which was never exhausted. He was delivered from his torture by Hercules, who killed the vulture. =Proper´tius, Sex´tus Aure´lius.= A Latin poet born in Umbria. He came to Rome, where his genius greatly recommended him to the great and powerful. His works consist of four books of elegies which are marked by much ability. He died about nineteen years B.C. =Proser´pina=, a daughter of Ceres and Jupiter, called by the Greeks Persephone. As she was gathering flowers Pluto carried her off to the infernal regions, where he married her. Ceres, having learnt that her daughter had been carried away by Pluto, demanded of Jupiter that Pluto should be punished. As queen of hell, Proserpine presided over the death of mankind. She was known by the names of Hecate, Juno Inferna, Libitina, and several others. =Protag´oras.= A Greek philosopher of Abdera in Thrace. He wrote a book in which he denied the existence of a Supreme Being, which book was publicly burnt at Athens, and its author was banished from the city. =Pro´tesila´us.= A king of part of Thessaly, who married Laodamia, and shortly afterwards went to the Trojan war. He was the first of the Greeks who entered the Trojan domain, and on that account, in accordance with the prediction of the oracle, was killed by his countrymen. =Pro´teus.= A sea deity, son of Oceanus and Tethys, or, according to some writers, of Neptune and Phenice. He had received the gift of prophecy from Neptune, but when consulted he often refused to give answers, and puzzled those who consulted him by assuming different shapes. =Psy´che.= A nymph who married Cupid. Venus put her to death because of this, but Jupiter, at the request of Cupid, granted immortality to her. =Ptolemæ´us= First, called Ptolemy, surnamed Lagus. A king of Egypt, son of Arsinoe and Lagus. He was educated in the court of the king of Macedonia, and when Alexander invaded Asia Ptolemy attended him. After Alexander's death Ptolemy obtained the government of Egypt, where he gained the esteem of the people by acts of kindness. He made himself master of Phoenicia and Syria, and rendered assistance to the people of Rhodes against their enemies, for which he received the name of _Soter_. He laid the foundation of a library, which became the most celebrated in the world. He died in his eighty-fourth year, about 284 years B.C. He was succeeded by his son, Ptolemy Philadelphus, who showed himself to be a worthy successor of his father. His palace was an asylum for learned men, and he greatly increased the library his father had founded. Ptolemy Third succeeded his father Philadelphus on the Egyptian throne. He conquered Syria and Cilicia, and returned home laden with spoils. He was, like his predecessors, a patron of learning and the arts. Ptolemy Fourth, called Philopater, succeeded to the throne, his reign being marked by acts of cruelty and oppression. He died in his thirty-seventh year, after a reign of seventeen years, 204 years B.C. Numerous members of this celebrated family in succession occupied the throne, not, however, approaching to the greatness of the founders of the family. =Ptolemæ´us.= A celebrated geographer and astronomer in the reign of Adrian and Antoninus. He was a native of Alexandria, or, as some say, of Pelusium. In his system of the world, designated the Ptolemaic system, he places the earth in the center of the universe, which was generally received as correct till it was confuted by Copernicus. =Pyr´rhus.= A famous king of Epirus, son of Æacides and Phthia. He is celebrated for his military talents; and not only his friends, but his enemies, have been warm in extolling him. He is said to have had no superior in the art of war. He wrote several books on encampments and the ways of training an army. He fought against the Romans with much valor, and they passed encomiums on his great military skill. He was killed in an attack on Argos, by a tile thrown on his head from a housetop. =Pyr´rhus.= See NEOPTOLEMUS. =Pythag´oras.= A celebrated philosopher born at Samos. He first made himself known in Greece at the Olympic games, where, when he was eighteen years old, he obtained the prize for wrestling. He also distinguished himself by his discoveries in geometry, astronomy, and mathematics. He was the first who supported the doctrine of metempsychosis, or transmigration of the soul into different bodies. He believed that the universe was created from a shapeless mass of passive matter by the hands of a powerful Being, who was the mover and soul of the world, and of whose substance the souls of mankind were a portion. The time and place of death of this great philosopher are unknown, but some suppose that he died at Metapontum about 497 years B.C. =Py´thon.= A celebrated serpent sprung from the mud and stagnated waters which remained on the surface of the earth after the deluge of Deucalion. Apollo killed the monster. =Quintilia´nus, Mar´cus Fa´bius=, a celebrated rhetorician, born in Spain. He opened a school of rhetoric at Rome, and was the first who obtained a salary from the State as a public teacher. He died A.D. 95. =Quin´tus Cur´tius Ru´fus.= A Latin historian supposed to have lived in the reign of Vespasian. He wrote a history of the reign of Alexander the Great. This work is admired for the elegance of its diction. =Regil´lus.= A small lake in Latium, famous as being the scene of a great Roman victory, which forms the subject of a fine poem by Lord Macaulay, called "The Battle of the Lake Regillus," included in his "Lays of Ancient Rome." =Reg´ulus, M. Attil´ius.= A consul during the first Punic war. He reduced Brundusium, and in his second consulship he captured a great portion of the Carthaginian fleet. After further successes he was taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, who put him to death with refined tortures. =Rhadaman´thus.= A son of Jupiter and Europa. He reigned in the Cyclades, where his rule was characterized by marked justice and impartiality. =Rom´ulus.= According to tradition the founder of Rome. He was a son of Mars and Ilia, and was twin brother of Remus. The twins were thrown into the Tiber, but were saved and suckled by a she-wolf till they were found by Fautulus, a shepherd, who brought them up. Disputes arising between the brothers in reference to the building of the city, Romulus caused Remus to be slain. =Ros´cius.= A celebrated Roman actor. He died about 60 years B.C. =Ru´bicon.= A small river in Italy. By crossing it, and thus transgressing the boundaries of his province, Cæsar declared war against the senate and Pompey. "Passing the Rubicon" has become a proverbial expression, indicating an irrevocable step taken in any weighty matter. =Sa´cra, Vi´a.= An important street in Rome, where a treaty of peace was made between Romulus and Tatius. =Sal´amis.= An island of Attica celebrated for a battle fought there between the fleets of the Greeks and the Persians, in which the latter suffered defeat. =Sallus´tius Cris´pus.= A celebrated Latin historian. He wrote a history of the Catalinian conspiracy, and died thirty-five years before the Christian era. =Sanchoni´athon.= A Phoenician historian born at Berytus, or, as some say, at Tyre. He lived a few years before the Trojan war; and wrote on the antiquities of Phoenicia. =Sa´por.= A king of Persia, who succeeded to the throne about the 238th year of the Christian era. He wished to increase his dominions by conquest, but was defeated by Odenatus, who defeated his army with great slaughter. He was assassinated A.D. 273. =Sa´por.= The second king of Persia of that name. He fought against the Romans, and obtained several victories over them. Died A.D. 380. =Sap´pho=, celebrated for her beauty and poetical talents, was born at Lesbos about 600 years before Christ. She became enamored with Phaon, a youth of Mitylene, but he not reciprocating her passion, she threw herself into the sea from the rock of Leucadia. =Sardanapa´lus.= The last king of Assyria, celebrated for his luxury and indolence. His effeminacy induced his subjects to conspire against him with success, on which he set fire to his palace and perished in the flames, B.C. 820. =Satur´nus.= The son of Coelus, or Uranus, by Terra. It was customary to offer human victims on his altars till this custom was abolished by Hercules. He is generally represented as an old man bent with age, and holding a scythe in his right hand. =Sat´yri.= Demigods whose origin is unknown. They had the feet and legs of a goat, their body bearing the human form. =Scævola, Mu´tius=, surnamed Cordus, was famous for his courage. He attempted to assassinate Porsenna, but was seized; and to show his fortitude when confronted with Porsenna, he thrust his hand into the fire, on which the king pardoned him. =Scip´io.= The name of a celebrated family at Rome, the most conspicuous of which was Publius Cornelius, afterwards called Africanus. He was the son of Publius Scipio, and commanded an army against the Carthaginians. After obtaining some victories he encountered Hannibal at the famous battle of Zama, in which he obtained a decisive victory. He died about 184 years before Christ, in his forty-eighth year. =Scip´io, Lu´cius Corne´lius=, surnamed Asiaticus, accompanied his brother Africanus in his expedition in Africa. He was made consul A.U.C. 562, and sent to attack Antiochus, king of Syria, whom he completely routed. He was accused of receiving bribes of Antiochus, and was condemned to pay large fines which reduced him to poverty. =Scip´io, P. Æmilia´nus.= Called Africanus the younger. He finished the war with Carthage, the total submission of which occurred B.C. 147. The captive city was set on fire, and Scipio was said to have wept bitterly over the melancholy scene. On his return to Rome he was appointed to conclude the war against Numantia, the fall of which soon occurred, and Scipio had Numantinus added to his name. He was found dead in his bed, and was presumed to have been strangled, B.C. 128. =Sem´ele.= A daughter of Cadmus and Hermione, the daughter of Mars and Venus. She was the mother of Bacchus. After death she was made immortal under the name of Thyone. =Semir´amis.= A celebrated queen of Assyria, who married the governor of Nineveh, and at his death she became the wife of King Ninus. She caused many improvements to be effected in her kingdom, as well as distinguishing herself as a warrior. She is supposed to have lived 1965 years before the Christian era. =Sen´eca, L. Annæ´us=, at an early period of his life, was distinguished by his talents. He became preceptor to Nero, in which capacity he gained general approbation. The tyrant, however, determined to put him to death, and he chose to have his veins opened in a hot bath, but death not ensuing, he swallowed poison, and was eventually suffocated by the soldiers who were in attendance. This occurred in his fifty-third year, and in the sixty-fifth of the Christian era. His works, which were numerous, were chiefly on moral subjects. =Sera´pis.= One of the Egyptian deities, supposed to be the same as Osiris. He had a magnificent temple at Memphis, another at Alexandria, and a third at Canopus. =Sesos´tris.= A celebrated king of Egypt, who lived long prior to the Trojan war. He was ambitious of military fame, and achieved many conquests. On his return from his victories he employed himself in encouraging the fine arts. He destroyed himself after a reign of forty-four years. =Seve´rus, Lu´cius Septim´ius.= A Roman emperor, born in Africa, noticeable for his ambition. He invaded Britain, and built a wall in the north as a check to the incursions of the Caledonians. He died at York in the 211th year of the Christian era. =Sile´nus.= A demigod, who is represented generally as a fat old man riding on an ass, with flowers crowning his head. =Sil´ius Ital´icus, C.= A Latin poet who retired from the bar to consecrate his time to study. He imitated Virgil, but with little success. His poetry, however, is commended for its purity. =Simon´ides.= A celebrated poet of Cos, who lived B.C. 538 years. He wrote elegies, epigrams, and dramatic pieces, esteemed for their beauty. =Sire´nes.= The Sirens. They lured to destruction those who listened to their songs. When Ulysses sailed past their island he stopped the ears of his companions with wax, and had himself tied to the mast of his ship. Thus he passed with safety, and the Sirens, disappointed of their prey, drowned themselves. =Sis´yphus.= Son of Æolus and Enaretta. After death he was condemned, in the infernal regions, to roll a stone to the summit of a hill, which always rolled back, and rendered his punishment eternal. =Soc´rates.= The most celebrated philosopher of antiquity, born near Athens, whose virtues rendered his name venerated. His independence of spirit created for him many enemies, and he was accused of making innovations in the religion of the Greeks. He was condemned to death by drinking hemlock, and expired a few moments after imbibing the poison, in his seventieth year, B.C. 400. His wife was Xanthippe, remarkable for her shrewish disposition, for which her name has become proverbial. =So´lon=, one of the wise men of Greece, was born at Salamis, and educated at Athens. After traveling over Greece he returned, and was elected archon and sovereign legislator, in which capacity he effected numerous reforms in the state, binding the Athenians by a solemn oath to observe the laws he enacted for one hundred years. After this he visited Egypt, and on returning to Athens after ten years' absence, he found most of his regulations disregarded by his countrymen. On this he retired to Cyprus, where he died in his eightieth year, 558 years before the Christian era. =Som´nus=, son of Nox and Erebus, was one of the infernal deities and presided over sleep. =Soph´ocles.= A celebrated tragic poet of Athens. He was distinguished also as a statesman, and exercised the office of archon with credit and honor. He wrote for the stage, and obtained the poetical prize on twenty different occasions. He was the rival of Euripides for public applause, each having his admirers. He died at the age of ninety-one, 406 years before Christ. =Sophonis´ba.= A daughter of Hasdrubal, the Carthaginian, celebrated for her beauty. She married Syphax, prince of Numidia, and when he was conquered by the Romans she became a captive to their ally, the Numidian general Masinissa, whom she married. This displeased the Romans, and Scipio ordered Masinissa to separate from Sophonisba, and she, urged to this by Masinissa, took poison, about 203 years before Christ. =Soz´omen.= A historian who died 450 A.D. He wrote an important work on ecclesiastical history. =Sphinx.= A monster, having the head and breasts of a woman, the body of a dog, the tail of a serpent, the wings of a bird, and the paws of a lion. The Sphinx was sent into the neighborhood of Thebes by Juno, where she propounded enigmas, devouring those who were unable to solve them. One of the riddles proposed was--What animal walked on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? OEdipus solved it, giving as the meaning--A man, who when an infant crawled on his hands and feet, walking erect in manhood, and in the evening of life supporting himself with a stick. On hearing the solution the Sphinx destroyed herself. =Stagi´ra.= A town on the borders of Macedonia, where Aristotle was born; hence he is called the Stagirite. =Sta´tius, P. Papin´us.= A poet, born at Naples in the reign of Domitian. He was the author of two epic poems, the Thebais, in twelve books, and the Achilleis, in two books. =Sten´tor.= One of the Greeks who went to the Trojan war. He was noted for the loudness of his voice, and from him the term "stentorian" has become proverbial. =Sto´ici.= A celebrated sect of philosophers founded by Zeno. They preferred virtue to all other things, and regarded everything opposed to it as an evil. =Stra´bo.= A celebrated geographer, born at Amasia, on the borders of Cappadocia. He flourished in the age of Augustus. His work on geography consists of seventeen books, and is admired for its purity of diction. =Styx.= A celebrated river of the infernal regions. The gods held it in such veneration that they always swore by it, the oath being inviolable. =Sueto´nius, C. Tranquil´lus.= A Latin historian who became secretary to Adrian. His best known work is his Lives of the Cæsars. =Sul´la.= See SYLLA. =Syb´aris.= A town on the bay of Tarentum. Its inhabitants were distinguished by their love of ease and pleasure, hence the term "Sybarite." =Syl´la= (or =Sulla=), =L. Corne´lius=. A celebrated Roman, of a noble family, who rendered himself conspicuous in military affairs; and became antagonistic to Marius. In the zenith of his power he was guilty of the greatest cruelty. His character is that of an ambitious, tyrannical, and resolute commander. He died about seventy years before Christ, aged sixty. =Sy´phax.= A king of the Masæsyllii in Numidia, who married Sophonisba, the daughter of Hasdrubal. He joined the Carthaginians against the Romans, and was taken by Scipio as a prisoner to Rome, where he died in prison. =Tac´itus, C. Corne´lius.= A celebrated Latin historian, born in the reign of Nero. Of all his works the "Annals" is the most extensive and complete. His style is marked by force, precision, and dignity, and his Latin is remarkable for being pure and classical. =Tac´itus, M. Clau´dius.= A Roman, elected emperor by the Senate when he was seventy years of age. He displayed military vigor, and as a ruler was a pattern of economy and moderation. He died in the 276th year of the Christian era. =Tan´talus.= A king of Lydia, father of Niobe and Pelops. He is represented by the poets as being, in the infernal regions, placed in a pool of water which flowed from him whenever he attempted to drink, thus causing him to suffer perpetual thirst; hence the origin of the term "tantalizing." =Tarquin´ius Pris´cus=, the fifth king of Rome, was son of Demaratus, a native of Greece. He exhibited military talents in the victories he gained over the Sabines. During peace he devoted attention to the improvement of the capital. He was assassinated in his eightieth year, 578 years B.C. =Tarquin´ius Super´bus.= He ascended the throne of Rome after Servius Tullius, whom he murdered, and married his daughter Tullia. His reign was characterized by tyranny, and eventually he was expelled from Rome, surviving his disgrace for fourteen years, and dying in his ninetieth year. =Tar´tarus.= One of the regions of hell, where, according to Virgil, the souls of those who were exceptionally depraved were punished. =Telem´achus.= Son of Penelope and Ulysses. At the end of the Trojan war he went in search of his father, whom, with the aid of Minerva, he found. Aided by Ulysses he delivered his mother from the suitors that beset her. =Tem´pe.= A valley in Thessaly through which the river Peneus flows into the Ægean. It is described by the poets as one of the most delightful places in the world. =Teren´tius Pub´lius= (=Terence=). A native of Africa, celebrated for the comedies he wrote. He was twenty-five years old when his first play was produced on the Roman stage. Terence is admired for the purity of his language and the elegance of his diction. He is supposed to have been drowned in a storm about 159 B.C. =Te´reus.= A king of Thrace who married Procne, daughter of Pandion, king of Athens. He aided Pandion in a war against Megara. =Terpsich´ore.= One of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. She presided over dancing. =Tertullia´nus, J. Septim´ius Flor´ens.= A celebrated Christian writer of Carthage, who lived A.D. 196. He was originally a Pagan, but embraced Christianity, of which faith he became an able advocate. =Tha´is.= A celebrated woman of Athens, who accompanied Alexander the Great in his Asiatic conquests. =Tha´les.= One of the seven wise men of Greece, born at Miletus in Ionia. His discoveries in astronomy were great, and he was the first who calculated with accuracy a solar eclipse. He died about 548 years before the Christian era. =Thali´a.= One of the Muses. She presided over festivals and comic poetry. =Themis´tocles.= A celebrated general born at Athens. When Xerxes invaded Greece, Themistocles was intrusted with the care of the fleet, and at the famous battle of Salamis, fought B.C. 480, the Greeks, instigated to fight by Themistocles, obtained a complete victory over the formidable navy of Xerxes. He died in the sixty-fifth year of his age, having, as some writers affirm, poisoned himself by drinking bull's blood. =Theoc´ritus.= A Greek poet who lived at Syracuse in Sicily, 282 B.C. He distinguished himself by his poetical compositions, of which some are extant. =Theodo´sius, Fla´vius.= A Roman emperor surnamed _Magnus_ from the greatness of his exploits. The first years of his reign were marked by conquests over the Barbarians. In his private character Theodosius was an example of temperance. He died in his sixtieth year, A.D. 395, after a reign of sixteen years. =Theodo´sius Second= became emperor of the Western Roman empire at an early age. His territories were invaded by the Persians, but on his appearance at the head of a large force they fled, losing a great number of their army in the Euphrates. Theodosius was a warm advocate of the Christian religion. He died, aged forty-nine, A.D. 450. =Theophras´tus.= A native of Lesbos. Diogenes enumerates the titles of more than 200 treatises which he wrote. He died in his 107th year, B.C. 288. =Thermop´ylæ.= A narrow Pass leading from Thessaly into Locris and Phocis, celebrated for a battle fought there, B.C. 480, between Xerxes and the Greeks, in which three hundred Spartans, commanded by Leonidas, resisted for three successive days an enormous Persian army. =Thersi´tes.= A deformed Greek, in the Trojan war, who indulged in ridicule against Ulysses and others. Achilles killed him because he laughed at his grief for the death of Penthesilea. Shakspeare, who introduced Thersites in his play of "Troilus and Cressida," describes him as "a deformed and scurrilous Grecian." =The´seus=, king of Athens and son of Ægeus by Æthra, was one of the most celebrated heroes of antiquity. He caught the bull of Marathon and sacrificed it to Minerva. After this he went to Crete amongst the seven youths sent yearly by the Athenians to be devoured by the Minotaur, and by the aid of Ariadne he slew the monster. He ascended his father's throne B.C. 1235. Pirithous, king of the Lapithæ, invaded his territories, but the two became firm friends. They descended into the infernal regions to carry off Proserpine, but their intentions were frustrated by Pluto. After remaining for some time in the infernal regions, Theseus returned to his kingdom to find the throne filled by an usurper, whom he vainly tried to eject. He retired to Scyros, where he was killed by a fall from a precipice. =Thes´pis.= A Greek poet of Attica, supposed to be the inventor of tragedy, B.C. 536. He went from place to place upon a cart, on which he gave performances. Hence the term "Thespians" as applied to wandering actors. =The´tis.= A sea deity, daughter of Nereus and Doris. She married Peleus, their son being Achilles, whom she plunged into the Styx, thus rendering him invulnerable in every part of his body except the heel by which she held him. =This´be.= A beautiful girl of Babylon, beloved by Pyramus. =Thrasybu´lus.= A famous general of Athens, who, with the help of a few associates, expelled the Thirty Tyrants, B.C. 401. He was sent with a powerful fleet to recover the Athenian power on the coast of Asia, and after gaining many advantages, was killed by the people of Aspendos. =Thucid´ydes.= A celebrated Greek historian born at Athens. He wrote a history of the events connected with the Peloponnesian war. He died at Athens in his eightieth year, B.C. 391. =Tibe´rius, Clau´dius Ne´ro.= A Roman emperor descended from the Claudii. In his early years he entertained the people with magnificent shows and gladiatorial exhibitions, which made him popular. At a later period of his life he retired to the island of Capreæ, where he indulged in vice and debauchery. He died aged seventy-eight, after a reign of twenty-two years. =Tibul´lus, Au´lus Al´bius.= A Roman knight celebrated for his poetical compositions. His favorite occupation was writing love poems. Four books of elegies are all that remain of his compositions. =Timo´leon.= A celebrated Corinthian, son of Timodemus and Demariste. When the Syracusans, oppressed with the tyranny of Dionysius the Younger, solicited aid from the Corinthians, Timoleon sailed for Syracuse with a small fleet. He was successful in the expedition, and Dionysius gave himself up as a prisoner. Timoleon died at Syracuse, amidst universal regret. =Ti´mons.= A native of Athens, called the Misanthrope from his aversion to mankind. He is the hero of Shakspeare's play of "Timon of Athens" in which his churlish character is powerfully delineated. =Timo´theus.= A famous musician in the time of Alexander the Great. Dryden names him in his well-known ode, "Alexander's Feast." =Tire´sias.= A celebrated prophet of Thebes. Juno deprived him of sight, and, to recompense him for the loss, Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of prophecy. =Tisiph´one.= One of the Furies, daughter of Nox and Acheron. =Tita´nes.= The Titans. A name given to the gigantic sons of Coelus and Terra. The most conspicuous of them are Saturn, Hyperion, Oceanus, Iapetus, Cottus, and Briareus. =Ti´tus Vespasia´nus.= Son of Vespasian and Flavia Domitilla, known by his valor, particularly at the siege of Jerusalem. He had been distinguished for profligacy, but on assuming the purple, he became a model of virtue. His death, which occasioned great lamentations, occurred A.D. 81, in the forty-first year of his age. =Traja´nus, M. Ul´pius Crini´tus.= A Roman emperor born at Ithaca. His services to the empire recommended him to the notice of the emperor Nerva, who adopted him as his son, and invested him with the purple. The actions of Trajan were those of a benevolent prince. He died in Cilicia, in August A.D. 117, in his sixty-fourth year, and his ashes were taken to Rome and deposited under a stately column which he had erected. =Tribu´ni Ple´bi.= Magistrates at Rome created in the year, U.C. 261. The office of Tribune to the people was one of the first steps which led to more honorable employments. =Triptol´emus.= Son of Oceanus and Terra, or, according to some authorities, son of Celeus, king of Attica, and Neæra. He was in his youth cured of a severe illness by Ceres, with whom he became a great favorite. She taught him agriculture, and gave him her chariot drawn by dragons, in which he traveled over the earth, distributing corn to the inhabitants. =Tri´ton.= A sea deity, son of Neptune and Amphitrite. He was very powerful, and could calm the sea and abate storms at his pleasure. =Trium´viri.= Three magistrates appointed to govern the Roman state with absolute power. =Tul´lus Hostil´ius= succeeded Numa as king of Rome. He was of a warlike disposition, and distinguished himself by his expedition against the people of Alba, whom he conquered. =Typhoe´us=, or =Ty´phon=. A famous giant, son of Tartarus and Terra, who had a hundred heads. He made war against the gods, and was put to flight by the thunderbolts of Jupiter, who crushed him under Mount Ætna. =Tyrtæ´us.= A Greek elegiac poet born in Attica. Of his compositions none are extant except a few fragments. =Ulys´ses.= The famous king of Ithaca, son of Anticlea and Laertes (or, according to some, of Sisyphus). He married Penelope, daughter of Icarius, on which his father resigned to him the crown. He went to the Trojan war, where he was esteemed for his sagacity. On the conclusion of the war he embarked for Greece, but was exposed to numerous misfortunes on his journey. In his wanderings, he, with some of his companions, was seized by the Cyclops, Polyphemus, from whom he made his escape. Afterwards he was thrown on the island of Æea, where he was exposed to the wiles of the enchantress Circe. Eventually he was restored to his own country, after an absence of twenty years. The adventures of Ulysses on his return from the Trojan war form the subject of Homer's Odyssey. =Ura´nia.= One of the Muses, daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne. She presided over astronomy. =Valentinia´nus= the First. Son of Gratian, raised to the throne by his merit and valor. He obtained victories over the Barbarians in Gaul and in Africa, and punished the Quadi with severity. He broke a blood-vessel and died, A.D. 375. Immediately after his death, his son, Valentinian the Second, was proclaimed emperor. He was robbed of his throne by Maximus, but regained it by the aid of Theodosius, emperor of the East. He was strangled by one of his officers. He was remarkable for benevolence and clemency. The third Valentinian was made emperor in his youth, and on coming to maturer age he disgraced himself by violence and oppression. He was murdered A.D. 454. =Valeria´nus, Pub´lius Licin´ius.= A celebrated Roman emperor, who, on ascending the throne, lost the virtues he had previously possessed. He made his son Gallienus his colleague in the empire. He made war against the Goths and Scythians. He was defeated in battle and made prisoner by Tapor, king of Persia, who put him to death by torture. =Var´ro.= A Latin author, celebrated for his great learning. He wrote no less than five hundred volumes, but all his works are lost except a treatise De Re Rusticâ, and another De Linguâ Latinâ He died B.C. 28, in his eighty-eighth year. =Ve´nus.= One of the most celebrated deities of the ancients; the goddess of beauty, and mother of love. She sprang from the foam of the sea, and was carried to heaven, where all the gods admired her beauty. Jupiter gave her in marriage to Vulcan, but she intrigued with some of the gods, and, notably, with Mars, their offspring being Hermione, Cupid, and Anteros. She became enamored of Adonis, which caused her to abandon Olympus. Her contest for the golden apple, which she gained against her opponents Juno and Minerva, is a prominent episode in mythology. She had numerous names applied to her, conspicuous amongst which may be named Anadyomene, under which cognomen she is distinguished by the picture, representing her as rising from the ocean, by Apelles. She was known under the Grecian name of Aphrodite. =Vespasia´nus Ti´tus Fla´vius.= A Roman emperor of obscure descent. He began the siege of Jerusalem, which was continued by his son Titus. He died A.D. 79, in his seventieth year. =Ves´ta.= A goddess, daughter of Rhea and Saturn. The Palladium, a celebrated statue of Pallas, was supposed to be preserved within her sanctuary, where a fire was kept continually burning. =Vesta´les.= The Vestals, priestesses consecrated to the service of Vesta. They were required to be of good families and free from blemish and deformity. One of their chief duties was to see that the sacred fire of Vesta was not extinguished. =Virgil´ius, Pub´lius Ma´ro=, called the prince of the Latin poets, was born at Andes, near Mantua, about seventy years before Christ. He went to Rome, where he formed an acquaintance with Mæcenas, and recommended himself to Augustus. His Bucolics were written in about three years, and subsequently he commenced the Georgics, which is considered one of the most perfect of all Latin compositions. The Æneid is supposed to have been undertaken at the request of Augustus. Virgil died in his fifty-first year B.C. 19. =Virgin´ia.= Daughter of the centurion L. Virginius. She was slain by her father to save her from the violence of the decemvir, Appius Claudius. =Virgin´ius.= A valiant Roman, father of Virginia. (See Virginia.) The story of Virginius and his ill-fated daughter is the subject of the well-known tragedy of "Virginius," one of the early productions of J. Sheridan Knowles. It is rarely performed in the present day. =Vulca´nus.= The god who presided over fire, and who was the patron of those who worked in iron. According to Homer, he was the son of Jupiter and Juno, and was so deformed, that at his birth his mother threw him into the sea, where he remained nine years; but other writers differ from this opinion. He married Venus at the instigation of Jupiter. He is known by the name of Mulciber. The Cyclopes were his attendants, and with them he forged the thunderbolts of Jupiter. =Xanthip´pe= or =Xantip´pe=. The wife of Socrates, remarkable for her ill-humor and fretful disposition. She was a constant torment to her husband, and on one occasion, after bitterly reviling him, she emptied a vessel of dirty water on him, on which the philosopher coolly remarked, "After thunder rain generally falls." =Xenoc´rates.= An ancient philosopher born at Calcedonia, and educated in the school of Plato, whose friendship he gained. Died B.C. 314. =Xen´ophon.= A celebrated Athenian, son of Gryllus, famous as a general, philosopher, and historian. He joined Cyrus the Younger in an expedition against Artaxerxes, king of Persia, and after the decisive battle of Cunaxa, in which Cyrus was defeated and killed, the skill and bravery of Xenophon became conspicuous. He had to direct an army of ten thousand Greeks, who were now more than six hundred leagues from home, and in a country surrounded by an active enemy. He rose superior to all difficulties till the celebrated "Retreat of the Ten Thousand" was effected; the Greeks returning home after a march of two hundred and fifteen days. Xenophon employed his pen in describing the expedition of Cyrus, in his work the "Anabasis." He also wrote the "Cyropædia," "Memorabilia," "Hellenica," etc. He died at Corinth in his ninetieth year, about 360 years before the Christian era. =Xer´xes= succeeded his father Darius on the throne of Persia. He entered Greece with an immense army, which was checked at Thermopylæ by the valor of three hundred Spartans under king Leonidas, who, for three successive days, successfully opposed the enormous forces of Xerxes, and were at last slaughtered. From this period the fortunes of Xerxes waned. His fleet being defeated at Salamis, and mortified with ill-success, he hastened to Persia, where he gave himself up to debauchery, and was murdered in the twenty-first year of his reign, about 464 years before the Christian era. =Za´ma.= A town of Numidia, celebrated as the scene of the victory of Scipio over Hannibal, B.C. 202. =Ze´no=, a celebrated philosopher, the founder of the sect of Stoics, was born at Citium in Cyprus. He opened a school in Athens, and soon became noticed by the great and learned. His life was devoted to sobriety and moderation. He died at the age of ninety-eight, B.C. 264. =Ze´no.= A philosopher of Elea or Velia, in Italy. He was the disciple, or, according to some, the adopted son of Parmenides. Being tortured to cause him to reveal his confederates in a plot he had engaged in, he bit off his tongue that he might not betray his friends. =Zeno´bia.= A celebrated princess of Palmyra, the wife of Odenatus. After her husband's death, the Roman emperor Aurelian declared war against her. She took the field with seven hundred thousand men, and though at first successful, she was eventually conquered. Aurelian, when she became his prisoner, treated her with great humanity and consideration. She was admired for her literary talents as well as her military abilities. =Zeux´is.= A celebrated painter born at Heraclea. He flourished 468 years before the Christian era. He painted some grapes so naturally that the birds came to peck them on the canvas; but he was disgusted with the picture, because the man painted as carrying the grapes was not natural enough to frighten the birds. =Zo´ilus.= A sophist and grammarian of Amphipolis, B.C. 259. He became known by his severe criticisms on the works of Isocrates and Homer. =Zoroas´ter.= A king of Bactria, supposed to have lived in the age of Ninus, king of Assyria, some time before the Trojan war. He rendered himself known by his deep researches in philosophy. He admitted no visible object of devotion except fire, which he considered the proper emblem of a Supreme Being. He was respected by his subjects and contemporaries for his abilities as a monarch, a lawgiver, and a philosopher, and though many of his doctrines may be deemed puerile, he had many disciples. The religion of the Parsees of the present day was founded by Zoroaster. =Zos´imus.= A Greek historian who lived about the year 410 of the Christian era. He wrote a history of some of the Roman emperors, which is characterized by graceful diction, but he indulges in malevolent and vituperative attacks on the Christians in his History of Constantine. A LIST OF COMMON ABBREVIATIONS OF WORDS USED IN WRITING AND PRINTING. =A 1=, first class. =a= or =aa= (Gr. _ana_), in _med._, of each the same quantity. =A.B.=, Bachelor of Arts. =A.D.= (L. _anno Domini_), in the year of our Lord. =ad lib.=, or =ad libit.= (L. _ad libitum_), at pleasure. =Æ.=, =Æt.= (L. _ætatis_), of age; aged. =A.M.= (L. _artium magister_), Master of Arts. =A.M.= (L. _ante meridiem_), before noon. =A.M.= (L. _anno mundi_), in the year of the world. =anon.=, anonymous. =A.R.A.=, Associate of the Royal Academy. =A.R.S.A.=, Associate of the Royal Scottish Academy. =A.R.S.S.= (L. _antiquariorum regiæ societatis socius_), Fellow of the Royal Society of Antiquaries. =AS.=, Anglo-Saxon. =A.U.C.= (L. _anno urbis conditæ_, or _anno ab urbe conditâ_), in the year of, or from the building of the city, viz., Rome. =B.A.=, Bachelor of Arts. =Bart.= or =Bt.=, Baronet. =B.C.=, before Christ. =B.C.L.=, Bachelor of Civil Law. =B.D.=, Bachelor of Divinity. =B.LL.=, also =LL.B.=, Bachelor of Laws. =B.Sc.=, Bachelor of Science. =B.S.L.=, Botanical Society of London. =C.= (L. _centum_), a hundred. =Cantab.= (L. _Cantabrigiensis_), of Cambridge. =Cantuar.=, Canterbury. =cap.= (L. _caput_, the head), chapter; =cap.=, capital; =cap.=, a capital letter; =caps.=, capital letters. =C.B.=, Companion of the Bath. =C.E.=, Civil Engineer. =cent.= (L. _centum_), a hundred. =cf.= (L. _confer_), compare. =chap.=, chapter. =con.= (L. _contra_), against; in opposition. =cos.=, cosine. =cres.=, crescendo. =crim. con.=, criminal conversation; adultery. =ct.=, cent; also (L. _centum_), a hundred. =curt.=, current--that is, in this period of time, as month, year, or century. =cwt.= (_c._ for L. _centum_, a hundred; _wt._ for Eng. weight), a hundred-weight. =D.C.= (It. _da capo_), in _music_, again; from the beginning. =D.C.L.=, Doctor of Civil or Canon Law. =D.D.= (L. _divinitatis doctor_), Doctor of Divinity. =D.G.= (L. _Dei gratiâ_), by the grace of God; (L. _Deo gratias_), thanks to God. =do.= or =Do.=, the same. =doz.=, dozen. =Dr.=, doctor; debtor. =D.S.= (It. _dal segno_), from the sign. =D.Sc.=, Doctor of Science. =Dunelm.=, Durham. =D.V.= (L. _Deo volente_), God willing. =dwt.= (L. _denarius_, a silver coin, a penny; and first and last letters of Eng. _weight_), pennyweight. =Ebor.= (L. _Ebor[)a]cum_), York. =E.C.=, Established Church. =Ed.=, editor. =E.E.=, errors excepted. =e.g.=, (L. _exempli gratiâ_, for the sake of example), for example; for instance. =E.I.=, East Indies; East India. =E.I.C.=, East India Company; =E.I.C.S.=, East India Company's Service. =E. long.=, east longitude. =E.N.E.=, east-north-east. =E.S.E.=, east-south-east. =Esq.= or =Esqr.=, Esquire. =etc.= (L. _et cætera_), &c.; and others; and so forth. =et seq.= (L. _et sequentia_), and the following. =ex.=, example; exception; =ex=, "out of," as, a cargo _ex_ Maria. =exch.=, exchequer; exchange. =Exon.= (L. _Exonia_), Exeter. =f.=, feminine; farthing or farthings; foot or feet. =Fahr.=, Fahrenheit. =far.=, farriery; farthing. =F.A.S.=, Fellow of the Society of Arts. =F.A.S.E.=, Fellow of the Antiquarian Society, Edinburgh. =F.B.S.E.=, Fellow of the Botanical Society of Edinburgh. =F.C.=, Free Church. =fcp.=, foolscap. =F.D.= (L. _fidei defensor_), Defender of the Faith. =F.E.I.S.=, Fellow of the Educational Institute of Scotland. =F.E.S.=, Fellow of the Entomological Society; Fellow of the Ethnological Society. =F.G.S.=, Fellow of the Geological Society. =F.H.S.=, Fellow of the Horticultural Society. =Fl.=, Flemish; Florida; florin. =F.L.S.=, Fellow of the Linnæan Society. =F.M.=, field-marshal. =fo.=, =fol.=, folio. =F.P.=, fire-plug. =F.P.S.=, Fellow of the Philological Society. =Fr.=, France; French. =F.R.A.S.=, Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society. =F.R.C.P.=, Fellow of the Royal College of Preceptors, or of Physicians. =F.R.C.P.E.=, Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, Edinburgh. =F.R.C.S.=, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. =F.R.C.S.E.=, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, Edinburgh. =F.R.C.S.I.=, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, Ireland. =F.R.C.S.L.=, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, London. =F.R.G.S.=, Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. =F.R.S.=, Fellow of the Royal Society. =F.R.S.E.=, Fellow of the Royal Society, Edinburgh. =F.R.S.L.=, Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. =F.S.A.=, Fellow of the Society of Arts, or of Antiquaries: =F.S.A., Scot.=, an F.S.A. of Scotland. =ft.=, foot or feet. =F.T.C.D.=, Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. =F.Z.A.=, Fellow of the Zoological Academy. =G.A.=, General Assembly. =G.C.B.=, Knight Grand Cross of the Bath. =G.P.O.=, General Post-office. =gtt.= (L. _gutta_ or _guttæ_), a drop or drops. =H.B.C.=, Hudson Bay Company. =H.E.I.C.=, Honorable East India Company. =H.G.=, Horse Guards. =hhd.=, hogshead; hogsheads. =H.I.H.=, His (or Her) Imperial Highness. =H.M.S.=, Her (or His) Majesty's steamer, ship, or service. =H.R.H.=, His (or Her) Royal Highness. =H.S.S.= (L. _historiæ societatis socius_), Fellow of the Historical Society. =ib.=, =ibid.= (L. _ibidem_), in the same place. =id.= (L. _idem_), the same. =i. e.= (L. _id est_), that is. =I.H.S.= (L. _Iesus Hominum Salvator_), Jesus the Saviour of Men. =incog.= (L. _incognito_), unknown. =in lim.= (L. _in limine_), at the outset. =in loc.= (L. _in loco_), in its place. =inst.=, instant--that is, the present month. =in trans.= (L. _in transitu_), on the passage. =I.O.U.=, three letters being identical in sound with the three words "I owe you,"--written as a simple acknowledgment for money lent, followed by sum and signature. =Ir.=, Ireland; Irish. =i.q.= (L. _idem quod_), the same as. =J.P.=, Justice of the Peace. =K.C.B.=, Knight Commander of the Bath (Great Britain). =K.G.=, Knight of the Garter (Great Britain). =K.G.C.=, Knight of the Grand Cross (Great Britain). =K.G.C.B.=, Knight of the Grand Cross of the Bath (Great Britain). =Knt.=, knight. =K.P.=, Knight of St. Patrick (Ireland). =Kt.= or =Knt.=, knight. =K.T.=, Knight of the Thistle (Scotland). =K.S.E.=, Knight of the Star of the East. =L.= or =lb.= (L. _libra_), a pound in weight. =lat.=, latitude, N. or S. =lb.=--see =L.= =leg.= (It. _legato_), smoothly. =L.G.=, Life Guards. =lib.= (L. _liber_), a book. =Linn.=, Linnæus; Linnæan. =LL.B.=, (L. _legum_, of laws, and _baccalaureus_, bachelor), Bachelor of Laws, an academic title. =LL.D.=, (L. _legum_, of laws, and _doctor_, doctor), Doctor of Laws, an academic title, higher than LL.B. =long.=, longitude, E. or W. =L.S.D.=, or =£ s. d.= (said to be from L. _libra_, a balance, a pound in weight; _solidus_, a coin of the value of 25 denarii, subsequently only a half of that value; and _denarius_, a silver coin worth about 8-1/2d. Eng.), pounds, shillings, pence--that is, in any written statement of money, L. is put over pounds, S. over shillings, and D. over pence; in _printing_, £ for L. is put before the sum, as £15, s. and d. in single letter, after, as 4s. 6d. =M.= (L. _mille_), a thousand. =M.A.= (L. _magister artium_), Master of Arts, an academic title. =M.C.S.=, Madras Civil Service. =M.D.=, (L. _medicinæ_, of medicine, _doctor_, doctor), Doctor of Medicine. =M.E.=, Mining Engineer. =Mdlle.= (F. _Mademoiselle_), Miss. =Mme.= (F. _Madame_), Madam. =Mons.= (F. _Monsieur_), Mr.; Sir. =M.P.=, Member of Parliament. =M.P.S.=, Member of the Philological Society; Member of the Pharmaceutical Society. =M.R.A.S.=, Member of the Royal Asiatic Society; Member of the Royal Academy of Science. =M.R.C.P.=, Member of the Royal College of Preceptors, or of Physicians. =M.R.C.S.=, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons. =M.R.G.S.=, Member of the Royal Geographical Society. =MS.=, manuscript; =MSS.=, manuscripts. =Mus. B.=, Bachelor of Music; =Mus. D.=, Doctor of Music. =N.B.=, North British; North Britain, that is Scotland; New Brunswick; (L. _nota_, note, _bene_, well), note well, or take notice. =N.E.=, north-east; New England. =N.N.E.=, north-north-east. =N.N.W.=, north-north-west. =non obst.= (L. _non_, not, _obstante_, standing over against, withstanding), notwithstanding. =non pros.= (L. _non_, not, _prosequitur_, he follows after, he prosecutes), he does not prosecute--applied to a judgment entered against a plaintiff who does not appear. =non seq.= (L. _non_, not, _sequitur_, it follows), it does not follow. =N.P.=, notary public. =N.S.=, new style; Nova Scotia. =N.T.=, New Testament. =N.W.=, north-west. =ob.= (L. _obiit_), he died. =obs.=, obsolete. =O.S.=, old style. =Oxon.= (L. _Oxonia_), Oxford. =oz.=, ounce. =p.=, page; =pp.=, pages. =P.C.=, Privy Council or Councillor. =P.D.= or =Ph.D.=, Doctor of Philosophy. =per an.= (L. _per annum_), by the year. =per cent.= (L. _per_, by; _centum_, a hundred,) by the hundred. =pinx., pxt.= (L. _pinxit_), he or she painted it. =P.M.=, postmaster; (L. _post meridiem_), afternoon. =P.M.G.=, postmaster-general. =P.O.=, post-office; =P.O.O.=, Post-Office Order. =pp.=, pages. =P.P.=, parish-priest. =P.P.C.=, (F. _pour prendre congé_, to take leave), put on calling cards to intimate leave-taking. =pr.= (L. _per_, by), by the. =pres.=, also =preses=, _pr[)e]s´-[)e]s_; president. =prof.=, professor. =pro tem.= (L. _pro tempore_), for the time being. =prox.= (L. _proximo_), next; of the next month. =P.S.=, (L. _post scriptum_), postscript. =p.t.=, post-town. =pxt.= (L. _pinxit_), he or she painted it. =Q.= or =Qu.=, question; query. =Q.C.=, Queen's Counsel; Queen's College. =q.e.= (L. _quod est_), which is. =Q E.D.= (L. _quod erat demonstrandum_), which was to be demonstrated. =Q.E.F.= (L. _quod erat faciendum_), which was to be done. =Q.E.I.= (L. _quod erat inveniendum_), which was to be found out. =q.l.= (L. _quantum libet_), as much as you please. =Q.M.G.=, quartermaster-general. =qr.=, quarter; quire: =qrs=., quarters. =qt.=, quart: =qts.=, quarts. =q.v.= (L. _quod vide_), which see. =R.=, L. _rex_, king; _regina_, queen. =R.=, L. _recipe_, take. =R.A.=, Royal Academy, or Academician; Royal Artillery; Rear-Admiral; Right Ascension. =R.C.=, Roman Catholic. =Ref. Ch.=, Reformed Church. =Reg. Prof.=, Regius Professor. =R.I.P.= (L.), requiescat in pace. =R.Rev.=, right reverend. =R.S.A.=, Royal Society of Antiquaries; Royal Scottish Academy. =R.S.S.= (L. _regiæ societatis socius_), Fellow of the Royal Society. =Rt.=, Right. =S.=, south. =S.A.=, South America; South Africa; South Australia. =Sarum=, Salisbury. =S.A.S.= (L. _societatis antiquariorum socius_), Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. =s. caps.=, small capital letters. =sc.= or =sculp.= (L. _sculpsit_), he or she engraved it. =s.= or =scil.= (L. _scilicet_), to wit; namely. =scr.=, scruple. =sculp.= or =sculpt.= (L. _sculpsit_), he or she engraved it. =S.E.=, south-east. =sec.=, secretary; second. =Sep.= or =Sept.=, Septuagint; also LXX. =seq.= (L. _sequentes_ or _sequentia_), the following; the next. =S.G.=, solicitor-general. =S.H.S.= (_societatis historiæ socius_), Fellow of the Historical Society. =S.J.=, Society of Jesus. =S.L.=, solicitor-at-law. =Sol.-Gen.=, solicitor-general. =S.P.C.K.=, Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. =S.P.G.=, Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. =sq.=, square: =sq. ft.=, square feet: =sq. in.=, square inches: =sq. m.=, square miles: =sq. yds.=, square yards. =S.R.I.= (L. _sacrum Romanum imperium_), the Holy Roman Empire. =s.s.=, steamship. =S.S.E.=, south-south-east. =S.S.W.=, south-south-west. =S.T.P.= (L. _sacræ theologia professor_), Professor of Theology. =super.=, superfine. =supp.=, supplement. =S.W.=, south-west. =syn.=, synonym; synonymous. =T.O.=, turn over. =tr.= or =trs=., transpose. =U.C.=, Upper Canada; (L. _urbe condita_, the founding of the city), the year of Rome. =univ.=, university. =U.P.=, United Presbyterian. =U.S.=, United States. =v.g.= (L. _verbi gratiâ_), for example. =vid.= (L. _vide_), see. =viz.= (a corruption of L. _videlicet_), namely; to wit. =vol.=, volume: =vols.=, volumes. =V.P.=, vice-president. =vul.=, vulgate. =W.=, west; western. =Winton=, Winchester. =W. long.=, west longitude. =W.M.S.=, Wesleyan Missionary Society. =W.N.W.=, west-north-west. =W.S.W.=, west-south-west. =wt.=, weight. =X.= or =Xt.=, Christ: =Xm.= or =Xmas.=, Christmas: =Xn.= or =Xtian.=, Christian. =yd.=, yard: =yds.=, yards. THE END. * * * * * 1883.--1883. G. W. CARLETON & CO. NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS, RECENTLY ISSUED BY G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Madison Square, New York. The Publishers, on receipt of price, send any book on this Catalogue by mail, _postage free_. All handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs suitable for libraries. =Mary J. Holmes' Works.= Tempest and Sunshine $1 50 English Orphans 1 50 Homestead on the Hillside 1 50 'Lena Rivers 1 50 Meadow Brook 1 50 Dora Deane 1 50 Cousin Maude 1 50 Marian Grey 1 50 Edith Lyle 1 50 Daisy Thornton 1 50 Chateau D´Or (New) 1 50 Darkness and Daylight 1 50 Hugh Worthington 1 50 Cameron Pride 1 50 Rose Mather 1 50 Ethelyn's Mistake 1 50 Millbank 1 50 Edna Browning 1 50 West Lawn 1 50 Mildred 1 50 Forrest House 1 50 Madeline (New) 1 50 =Marion Harland's Works.= Alone $1 50 Hidden Path 1 50 Moss Side 1 50 Nemesis 1 50 Miriam 1 50 At Last 1 50 Helen Gardner 1 50 True as Steel (New) 1 50 Sunnybank 1 50 Husbands and Homes 1 50 Ruby's Husband 1 50 Phemie's Temptation 1 50 The Empty Heart 1 50 Jessamine 1 50 From My Youth Up 1 50 My Little Love 1 50 =Charles Dickens--15 Vols.--"Carleton's Edition."= Pickwick and Catalogue $1 50 Dombey and Son 1 50 Bleak House 1 50 Martin Chuzzlewit 1 50 Barnaby Rudge--Edwin Drood. 1 50 Child's. England--Miscellaneous 1 50 Christmas Books--Two Cities 1 50 David Copperfield 1 50 Nicholas Nickleby 1 50 Little Dorrit. 1 50 Our Mutual Friend 1 50 Curiosity Shop--Miscellaneous 1 50 Sketches by Boz--Hard Times 1 50 Great Expectations--Italy 1 50 Oliver Twist--Uncommercial 1 50 Sets of Dickens' Complete Works, in 15 vols.--[elegant half calf bindings] 50 00 =Augusta J. Evans' Novels.= Beulah $1 75 Macaria 1 75 Ines 1 75 St. Elmo $2 00 Vashti 2 00 Infelice (New) 2 00 =May Agnes Fleming's Novels.= Guy Earlscourt's Wife $1 50 A Wonderful Woman 1 50 A Terrible Secret 1 50 A Mad Marriage 1 50 Norine's Revenge 1 50 One Night's Mystery 1 50 Kate Danton 1 50 Silent and True 1 50 Heir of Charlton 1 50 Carried by Storm 1 50 Lost for a Woman 1 50 A Wife's Tragedy 1 50 A Changed Heart 1 50 Pride and Passion 1 50 Sharing Her Crime (New) 1 50 =Allan Pinkerton's Works.= Expressmen and Detectives $1 50 Mollie Maguires and Detectives 1 50 Somnambulists and Detectives 1 50 Claude Melnotte and Detectives 1 50 Criminal Reminiscences, etc. 1 50 Rail-Road Forger, etc. 1 50 Bank Robbers and Detectives 1 50 Gypsies and Detectives 1 50 Spiritualists and Detectives 1 50 Model Town and Detectives 1 50 Strikers, Communists, etc. 1 50 Mississippi Outlaws, etc. 1 50 Bucholz and Detectives 1 50 =Bertha Clay's Novels.= Thrown on the World $1 50 A Bitter Atonement 1 50 Love Works Wonders 1 50 Evelyn's Folly 1 50 Under a Shadow (New) 1 50 A Woman's Temptation 1 50 Repented at Leisure 1 50 Between Two Loves 1 50 Lady Damer's Secret 1 50 A Struggle for a Ring (New) 1 50 ="New York Weekly" Series.= Brownie's Triumph--Sheldon $1 50 The Forsaken Bride. do. 1 50 Earle Wayne's Nobility. do. 1 50 A New Book. do. 1 50 His Other Wife--Ashleigh 1 50 Curse of Everleigh--Pierce 1 50 Peerless Cathleen--Agnew 1 50 Faithful Margaret--Ashmore 1 50 Nick Whiffles--Robinson 1 50 Grinder Papers--Dallas 1 50 Lady Leonora--Conklin 1 50 =Miriam Coles Harris' Novels.= Rutledge $1 50 Frank Warrington 1 50 Louie's Last Term, St. Mary's 1 50 A Perfect Adonis 1 50 Missy (New) 1 50 The Sutherlands 1 50 St. Philips 1 50 Round Hearts for Children 1 50 Richard Vandermarck 1 50 Happy-Go-Lucky 1 50 =A. S. Roe's Select Stories.= True to the Last $1 50 The Star and the Cloud 1 50 How Could He Help it? 1 50 A Long Look Ahead 1 50 I've Been Thinking 1 50 To Love and to be Loved 1 50 =Julie P. Smith's Novels.= Widow Goldsmith's Daughter $1 50 Chris and Otho 1 50 Ten Old Maids 1 50 His Young Wife 1 50 Lucy (New) 1 50 The Widower 1 50 The Married Belle 1 50 Courting and Farming 1 50 Kiss and be Friends 1 50 =Artemas Ward.= Complete Comic Writings--With Biography, Portrait and 50 illustrations $1 50 =The Game of Whist.= Pole on Whist--The English standard work. With the "Portland Rules" $ 75 =Victor Hugo's Great Novel.= Les Miserables--Translated from the French. The only complete edition $1 50 =Mrs. Hill's Cook Book.= Mrs. A. P. Hill's New Southern Cookery Book, and domestic receipts $2 00 =Carleton's Popular Quotations.= Carleton's New Hand-Book--Familiar Quotations, with their authorship $1 50 Carleton's Classical Dictionary--Condensed Mythology for popular use 75 =Celia E. Gardner's Novels.= Stolen Waters. (In verse) $1 50 Broken Dreams. do. 1 50 Compensation. do. 1 50 A Twisted Skein. do. 1 50 Tested 1 50 Rich Medway 1 50 A Woman's Wiles 1 50 Terrace Roses 1 50 ="New York Weekly" Series.= Thrown on the World. $1 50 A Bitter Atonement. 1 50 Love Works Wonders. 1 50 Evelyn's Folly. 1 50 Lady Damer's Secret. 1 50 A Woman's Temptation. 1 50 Repented at Leisure. 1 50 Between Two Loves. 1 50 Peerless Cathleen. 1 50 Brownie's Triumph. 1 50 The Forsaken Bride. 1 50 His Other Wife. 1 50 Nick Whiffles. 1 50 Lady Leonore. 1 50 The Grinder Papers. 1 50 Faithful Margaret. 1 50 Curse of Everleigh. 1 50 =Artemas Ward.= Complete Comic Writings--With Biography, Portrait, and 50 illustrations. $1 50 =Charles Dickens.= Dickens' Parlor Table Album of Illustrations--with descriptive text. $2 50 =M. M. Pomeroy= ("=Brick="). Sense. A serious book. $1 50 Gold Dust.--Do. 1 50 Our Saturday Nights. 1 50 Nonsense. (A comic book). 1 50 Brick-dust.--Do. 1 50 Home Harmonies. 1 50 =Ernest Renan's French Works.= The Life of Jesus. Translated. $1 75 Lives of the Apostles.--Do. 1 75 The Life of St. Paul. Translated. 1 75 The Bible in India--By Jacolliot. 2 00 =G. W. Carleton.= Our Artist in Cuba, Peru, Spain, and Algiers--150 Caricatures of travel. $1 00 =Miscellaneous Publications.= The Children's Fairy Geography--With hundreds of beautiful illustrations. $2 50 Hawk-eyes--A comic book by "The Burlington Hawkeye Man." Illustrated. 1 50 Among the Thorns--A new novel by Mrs. Mary Lowe Dickinson. 1 50 Our Daughters--A talk with mothers, by Marion Harland, author of "Alone," 50 Redbirds Christmas Story--An illustrated Juvenile. By Mary J. Holmes. 50 Carleton's Popular Readings--Edited by Mrs. Anna Randall Diehl. 1 50 The Culprit Fay--Joseph Rodman Drake's Poem. With 100 illustrations. 2 00 L'Assommoir--English Translation from Zola's famous French novel. 1 00 Parlor Amusements--Games, Tricks, and Home Amusements, by F. Bellew. 1 00 Love [L'Amour]--Translation from Michelet's famous French work. 1 50 Woman [La Femme].--Do.--Do.--Do. 1 50 Verdant Green--A racy English college Story. With 200 comic illustrations. 1 00 Solid for Mulhooly--The Sharpest Political Satire of the Day. 1 00 A Northern Governess at the Sunny South--By Professor J. H. Ingraham. 1 50 Laus Veneris, and other Poems--By Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1 50 Birds of a Feather Flock Together--By Edward A. Sothern, the actor. 1 00 Beatrice Cenci--from the Italian novel, with Guido's celebrated portrait. 1 50 Morning Glories--A charming collection of Children's stories. By Louisa Alcot. 1 00 Some Women of To-day--A novel by Mrs. Dr. Wm. H. White. 1 50 From New York to San Francisco--By Mrs. Frank Leslie. Illustrated. 1 50 Why Wife and I Quarreled--A Poem by author "Betsey and I are out." 1 00 West India Pickles--A yacht Cruise in the Tropics. By W. P. Talboys. 1 00 Threading My Way--The Autobiography of Robert Dale Owen. 1 50 Debatable Land between this World and Next--Robert Dale Owen. 2 00 Lights and Shadows of Spiritualism--By D. D. Home, the Medium. 2 00 Yachtman's Primer--Instructions for Amateur Sailors. By Warren. 50 The Fall of Man--A Darwinian Satire, by author of "New Gospel of Peace." 50 The Chronicles of Gotham--A New York Satire.--Do.--Do. 25 Tales from the Operas--A collection of stories based upon the Opera plots. 1 00 Ladies and Gentlemen's Etiquette Book of the best Fashionable Society. 1 00 Self Culture in Conversation, Letter-Writing, and Oratory. 1 00 Love and Marriage--A book for young people. By Frederick Saunders. 1 00 Under the Rose--A Capital book, by the author of "East Lynne," 1 00 So Dear a Dream--A novel by Miss Grant, author of "The Sun Maid". 1 00 Give me thine Heart--A Capital new Love Story by Roe. 1 00 Meeting Her Fate--A charming novel by the author of "Aurora Floyd". 1 00 The New York Cook-Book--Book of Domestic Receipts. By Mrs. Astor. 1 00 =Miscellaneous Works.= Dawn to Noon--By Violet Fane $1 50 Constance's Fate--Do. 1 50 French Love Songs--Translated 50 A Bad Boy's First Reader 10 Lion Jack--By P. T. Barnum 1 50 Jack in the Jungle--Do. 1 50 Cats, Cooks, Etc--By Edw. T. Ely 50 Drumming as a Fine Art 50 How to Win in Wall Street 50 The Life of Sarah Bernhardt 25 Arctic Travels--Isaac I. Hayes 1 50 College Tramps--Fred. A. Stokes 1 50 Gospels in Poetry--E. H. Kimball 1 50 Me--By Mrs. Spencer W. Coe 50 N.Y. to San Francisco--Leslie 1 50 Don Quixote--Illustrated $1 00 Arabian Nights--Do. 1 00 Robinson Crusoe--Do 1 00 Swiss Family Robinson--Illus. 1 00 Debatable Land--R. Dale Owen 2 00 Threading My Way.--Do. 1 50 Spiritualism--By D. D. Home 2 00 Fanny Fern Memorials 2 00 Orpheus C. Kerr--4 vols. in one 2 00 Northern Ballads--E. L. Anderson 1 00 Offenbach's Tour in America 1 50 Stories about Doctors--Jeffreson 1 50 Stories about Lawyers--Do. 1 50 Mrs. Spriggins.--By Widow Bedott 1 50 How to Make Money--Davies 1 50 =Miscellaneous Novels.= Doctor Antonio--By Ruffini $1 50 Beatrice Cenci--From the Italian 1 50 Madame--By Frank Lee Benedict 1 50 A Late Remorse--Do. 1 50 Hammer and Anvil--Do. 1 50 Her Friend Laurence--Do. 1 50 Prairie Flower--Emerson Bennett 1 50 Among the Thorns--Dickinson 1 50 Women of To-day--Mrs. W.H. White 1 50 Braxton's Bar--R. M. Daggett 1 50 Miss Beck--Tilbury Holt 1 50 Sub Rosa--Chas. T. Murray 50 Hilda and I--E. Bedell Benjamin 1 50 A College Widow--C. H. Seymour 1 50 Old M'sieur's Secret--Translation 50 Petticoats and Slippers 50 Shiftless Folks--Fannie Smith 1 50 Peace Pelican.--Do. 1 50 Price of a Life--R. Forbes Sturgis 1 50 Hidden Power--T. H. Tibbles 1 50 Two Brides--Bernard O'Reilly 1 50 Sorry Her Lot--Miss Grant 1 00 Two of Us--Calista Halsey 75 Cupid on Crutches--A. B. Wood 75 Parson Thorne--E. M. Buckingham 1 50 Marston Hall--L. Ella Byrd 1 50 Ange--Florence Marryatt 1 00 Errors--Ruth Carter 1 50 Unmistakable Flirtation--Garner 75 Wild Oats--Florence Marryatt 1 50 Widow Cherry--B. L. Farjeon 25 Solomon Isaacs.--Do. 50 Edith Murray--Joanna Mathews 1 50 Doctor Mortimer--Fannie Bean 1 50 Outwitted at Last--S. A. Gardner 1 50 Vesta Vane--L. King, R. 1 50 Louise and I--C. R. Dodge 1 50 My Queen--By Sandette 1 50 Fallen among Thieves--Rayne 1 50 San Miniato--Mrs. Hamilton 1 00 All For Her--A Tale of New York 1 50 All for Him--Author "All for Her" 1 50 For Each Other.--Do. 1 50 The Baroness--Joaquin Miller 1 50 One Fair Woman.--Do. 1 50 Saint Leger--Richard B. Kimball $1 75 Was He Successful?--Do. 1 75 Undercurrents of Wall St.--Do. 1 75 Romance of Student Life.--Do. 1 75 To-day.--Do. 1 75 Life in San Domingo.--Do. 1 75 Henry Powers, Banker.--Do. 1 75 Led Astray--Octave Feuillet 1 50 She Loved Him Madly--Borys 1 50 Thick and Thin--Mery 1 50 So Fair yet False--Chavette 1 50 A Fatal Passion--C. Bernard 1 50 A Woman's Case--Bessie Turner 1 50 Marguerite's Journal--for Girls 1 50 Rose of Memphis--W. C. Falkner 1 50 Spell-Bound--Alexandre Dumas 75 Heart's Delight--Mrs. Alderdice 1 50 Another Man's Wife--Mrs. Hartt 1 50 Purple and Fine Linen--Fawcett 1 50 Pauline's Trial--L. D. Courtney 1 50 The Forgiving Kiss--M. Loth 1 75 Flirtation--A West Point novel 1 50 Loyal unto Death 1 50 That Awful Boy 50 That Bridget of Ours 50 Phemie Frost--Ann S. Stephens 1 50 Charette--An American novel 1 50 Fairfax--John Esten Cooke 1 50 Hilt to Hilt.--Do. 1 50 Out of the Foam.--Do. 1 50 Hammer and Rapier.--Do. 1 50 Warwick--By M. T. Walworth 1 75 Lulu.--Do. 1 75 Hotspur--Do. 1 75 Stormcliff.--Do. 1 75 Delaplaine.--Do. 1 75 Beverly.--Do. 1 75 Kenneth--Sallie A. Brock 1 75 Heart Hungry--Westmoreland 1 50 Clifford Troupe.--Do. 1 50 Silcott Mill--Maria D. Deslonde 1 50 John Maribel.--Do. 1 50 Conquered--By a New Author 1 50 Janet--An English novel 1 50 Tales from the Popular Operas 1 50 * * * * * POPULAR NEW BOOKS. _"NEW YORK WEEKLY" SERIES._ Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of _The New York Weekly_, having been requested by their readers to issue their best and most popular Stories in Book Form, have consented, and have now made arrangements for such publications with the well-known New York House of G. W. 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The size and form is most convenient for holding,--the type is entirely new, and of a clear and open character that has received the approval of the reading community in other works. The illustrations are by the original artists chosen by Charles Dickens himself--and the paper, printing, and binding are of an attractive and substantial character. This beautiful new edition is complete in 15 volumes--at the extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as follows:-- 1.--PICKWICK PAPERS AND CATALOGUE. 2.--OLIVER TWIST.--UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. 3.--DAVID COPPERFIELD. 4.--GREAT EXPECTATIONS.--ITALY AND AMERICA. 5.--DOMBEY AND SON. 6.--BARNABY RUDGE AND EDWIN DROOD. 7.--NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 8.--CURIOSITY SHOP AND MISCELLANEOUS. 9.--BLEAK HOUSE. 10.--LITTLE DORRIT. 11.--MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 12.--OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 13.--CHRISTMAS BOOKS.--TALE OF TWO CITIES. 14.--SKETCHES BY BOZ AND HARD TIMES. 15.--CHILD'S ENGLAND AND MISCELLANEOUS. The first volume--Pickwick Papers--contains an alphabetical catalogue of all of Charles Dickens' writings, with their exact positions in the volumes. This edition is sold by Booksellers, everywhere--and single specimen copies will be forwarded by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of price, $1.50, by G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Madison Square, New York. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: Hercules was the son of Jupiter and Almena.=> Hercules was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena. {pg 11} Pelops and and Hippodamia=> Pelops and Hippodamia {pg 25} mathemathics=> mathematics {pg 57} asissted=> assisted {pg 69} briqing the charioteer=> bribing the charioteer {pg 106} ane Minerva=> and Minerva {pg 112} 
976	----	TANGLEWOOD TALES By Nathaniel Hawthorne THE WAYSIDE. INTRODUCTORY. A short time ago, I was favored with a flying visit from my young friend Eustace Bright, whom I had not before met with since quitting the breezy mountains of Berkshire. It being the winter vacation at his college, Eustace was allowing himself a little relaxation, in the hope, he told me, of repairing the inroads which severe application to study had made upon his health; and I was happy to conclude, from the excellent physical condition in which I saw him, that the remedy had already been attended with very desirable success. He had now run up from Boston by the noon train, partly impelled by the friendly regard with which he is pleased to honor me, and partly, as I soon found, on a matter of literary business. It delighted me to receive Mr. Bright, for the first time, under a roof, though a very humble one, which I could really call my own. Nor did I fail (as is the custom of landed proprietors all about the world) to parade the poor fellow up and down over my half a dozen acres; secretly rejoicing, nevertheless, that the disarray of the inclement season, and particularly the six inches of snow then upon the ground, prevented him from observing the ragged neglect of soil and shrubbery into which the place had lapsed. It was idle, however, to imagine that an airy guest from Monument Mountain, Bald Summit, and old Graylock, shaggy with primeval forests, could see anything to admire in my poor little hillside, with its growth of frail and insect-eaten locust trees. Eustace very frankly called the view from my hill top tame; and so, no doubt, it was, after rough, broken, rugged, headlong Berkshire, and especially the northern parts of the county, with which his college residence had made him familiar. But to me there is a peculiar, quiet charm in these broad meadows and gentle eminences. They are better than mountains, because they do not stamp and stereotype themselves into the brain, and thus grow wearisome with the same strong impression, repeated day after day. A few summer weeks among mountains, a lifetime among green meadows and placid slopes, with outlines forever new, because continually fading out of the memory--such would be my sober choice. I doubt whether Eustace did not internally pronounce the whole thing a bore, until I led him to my predecessor's little ruined, rustic summer house, midway on the hillside. It is a mere skeleton of slender, decaying tree trunks, with neither walls nor a roof; nothing but a tracery of branches and twigs, which the next wintry blast will be very likely to scatter in fragments along the terrace. It looks, and is, as evanescent as a dream; and yet, in its rustic network of boughs, it has somehow enclosed a hint of spiritual beauty, and has become a true emblem of the subtile and ethereal mind that planned it. I made Eustace Bright sit down on a snow bank, which had heaped itself over the mossy seat, and gazing through the arched windows opposite, he acknowledged that the scene at once grew picturesque. "Simple as it looks," said he, "this little edifice seems to be the work of magic. It is full of suggestiveness, and, in its way, is as good as a cathedral. Ah, it would be just the spot for one to sit in, of a summer afternoon, and tell the children some more of those wild stories from the classic myths!" "It would, indeed," answered I. "The summer house itself, so airy and so broken, is like one of those old tales, imperfectly remembered; and these living branches of the Baldwin apple tree, thrusting so rudely in, are like your unwarrantable interpolations. But, by the by, have you added any more legends to the series, since the publication of the 'Wonder-Book'?" "Many more," said Eustace; "Primrose, Periwinkle, and the rest of them, allow me no comfort of my life unless I tell them a story every day or two. I have run away from home partly to escape the importunity of these little wretches! But I have written out six of the new stories, and have brought them for you to look over." "Are they as good as the first?" I inquired. "Better chosen, and better handled," replied Eustace Bright. "You will say so when you read them." "Possibly not," I remarked. "I know from my own experience, that an author's last work is always his best one, in his own estimate, until it quite loses the red heat of composition. After that, it falls into its true place, quietly enough. But let us adjourn to my study, and examine these new stories. It would hardly be doing yourself justice, were you to bring me acquainted with them, sitting here on this snow bank!" So we descended the hill to my small, old cottage, and shut ourselves up in the south-eastern room, where the sunshine comes in, warmly and brightly, through the better half of a winter's day. Eustace put his bundle of manuscript into my hands; and I skimmed through it pretty rapidly, trying to find out its merits and demerits by the touch of my fingers, as a veteran story-teller ought to know how to do. It will be remembered that Mr. Bright condescended to avail himself of my literary experience by constituting me editor of the "Wonder-Book." As he had no reason to complain of the reception of that erudite work by the public, he was now disposed to retain me in a similar position with respect to the present volume, which he entitled TANGLEWOOD TALES. Not, as Eustace hinted, that there was any real necessity for my services as introducer, inasmuch as his own name had become established in some good degree of favor with the literary world. But the connection with myself, he was kind enough to say, had been highly agreeable; nor was he by any means desirous, as most people are, of kicking away the ladder that had perhaps helped him to reach his present elevation. My young friend was willing, in short, that the fresh verdure of his growing reputation should spread over my straggling and half-naked boughs; even as I have sometimes thought of training a vine, with its broad leafiness, and purple fruitage, over the worm-eaten posts and rafters of the rustic summer house. I was not insensible to the advantages of his proposal, and gladly assured him of my acceptance. Merely from the title of the stories I saw at once that the subjects were not less rich than those of the former volume; nor did I at all doubt that Mr. Bright's audacity (so far as that endowment might avail) had enabled him to take full advantage of whatever capabilities they offered. Yet, in spite of my experience of his free way of handling them, I did not quite see, I confess, how he could have obviated all the difficulties in the way of rendering them presentable to children. These old legends, so brimming over with everything that is most abhorrent to our Christianized moral sense some of them so hideous, others so melancholy and miserable, amid which the Greek tragedians sought their themes, and moulded them into the sternest forms of grief that ever the world saw; was such material the stuff that children's playthings should be made of! How were they to be purified? How was the blessed sunshine to be thrown into them? But Eustace told me that these myths were the most singular things in the world, and that he was invariably astonished, whenever he began to relate one, by the readiness with which it adapted itself to the childish purity of his auditors. The objectionable characteristics seem to be a parasitical growth, having no essential connection with the original fable. They fall away, and are thought of no more, the instant he puts his imagination in sympathy with the innocent little circle, whose wide-open eyes are fixed so eagerly upon him. Thus the stories (not by any strained effort of the narrator's, but in harmony with their inherent germ) transform themselves, and re-assume the shapes which they might be supposed to possess in the pure childhood of the world. When the first poet or romancer told these marvellous legends (such is Eustace Bright's opinion), it was still the Golden Age. Evil had never yet existed; and sorrow, misfortune, crime, were mere shadows which the mind fancifully created for itself, as a shelter against too sunny realities; or, at most, but prophetic dreams to which the dreamer himself did not yield a waking credence. Children are now the only representatives of the men and women of that happy era; and therefore it is that we must raise the intellect and fancy to the level of childhood, in order to re-create the original myths. I let the youthful author talk as much and as extravagantly as he pleased, and was glad to see him commencing life with such confidence in himself and his performances. A few years will do all that is necessary towards showing him the truth in both respects. Meanwhile, it is but right to say, he does really appear to have overcome the moral objections against these fables, although at the expense of such liberties with their structure as must be left to plead their own excuse, without any help from me. Indeed, except that there was a necessity for it--and that the inner life of the legends cannot be come at save by making them entirely one's own property--there is no defense to be made. Eustace informed me that he had told his stories to the children in various situations--in the woods, on the shore of the lake, in the dell of Shadow Brook, in the playroom, at Tanglewood fireside, and in a magnificent palace of snow, with ice windows, which he helped his little friends to build. His auditors were even more delighted with the contents of the present volume than with the specimens which have already been given to the world. The classically learned Mr. Pringle, too, had listened to two or three of the tales, and censured them even more bitterly than he did THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES; so that, what with praise, and what with criticism, Eustace Bright thinks that there is good hope of at least as much success with the public as in the case of the "WonderBook." I made all sorts of inquiries about the children, not doubting that there would be great eagerness to hear of their welfare, among some good little folks who have written to me, to ask for another volume of myths. They are all, I am happy to say (unless we except Clover), in excellent health and spirits. Primrose is now almost a young lady, and, Eustace tells me, is just as saucy as ever. She pretends to consider herself quite beyond the age to be interested by such idle stories as these; but, for all that, whenever a story is to be told, Primrose never fails to be one of the listeners, and to make fun of it when finished. Periwinkle is very much grown, and is expected to shut up her baby house and throw away her doll in a month or two more. Sweet Fern has learned to read and write, and has put on a jacket and pair of pantaloons--all of which improvements I am sorry for. Squash Blossom, Blue Eye, Plantain, and Buttercup have had the scarlet fever, but came easily through it. Huckleberry, Milkweed, and Dandelion were attacked with the whooping cough, but bore it bravely, and kept out of doors whenever the sun shone. Cowslip, during the autumn, had either the measles, or some eruption that looked very much like it, but was hardly sick a day. Poor Clover has been a good deal troubled with her second teeth, which have made her meagre in aspect and rather fractious in temper; nor, even when she smiles, is the matter much mended, since it discloses a gap just within her lips, almost as wide as the barn door. But all this will pass over, and it is predicted that she will turn out a very pretty girl. As for Mr. Bright himself, he is now in his senior year at Williams College, and has a prospect of graduating with some degree of honorable distinction at the next Commencement. In his oration for the bachelor's degree, he gives me to understand, he will treat of the classical myths, viewed in the aspect of baby stories, and has a great mind to discuss the expediency of using up the whole of ancient history, for the same purpose. I do not know what he means to do with himself after leaving college, but trust that, by dabbling so early with the dangerous and seductive business of authorship, he will not be tempted to become an author by profession. If so I shall be very sorry for the little that I have had to do with the matter, in encouraging these first beginnings. I wish there were any likelihood of my soon seeing Primrose, Periwinkle, Dandelion, Sweet Fern, Clover Plantain, Huckleberry, Milkweed, Cowslip, Buttercup, Blue Eye, and Squash Blossom again. But as I do not know when I shall re-visit Tanglewood, and as Eustace Bright probably will not ask me to edit a third "WonderBook," the public of little folks must not expect to hear any more about those dear children from me. Heaven bless them, and everybody else, whether grown people or children! THE MINOTAUR. In the old city of Troezene, at the foot of a lofty mountain, there lived, a very long time ago, a little boy named Theseus. His grandfather, King Pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was reckoned a very wise man; so that Theseus, being brought up in the royal palace, and being naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of profiting by the old king's instructions. His mother's name was Aethra. As for his father, the boy had never seen him. But, from his earliest remembrance, Aethra used to go with little Theseus into a wood, and sit down upon a moss-grown rock, which was deeply sunken into the earth. Here she often talked with her son about his father, and said that he was called Aegeus, and that he was a great king, and ruled over Attica, and dwelt at Athens, which was as famous a city as any in the world. Theseus was very fond of hearing about King Aegeus, and often asked his good mother Aethra why he did not come and live with them at Troezene. "Ah, my dear son," answered Aethra, with a sigh, "a monarch has his people to take care of. The men and women over whom he rules are in the place of children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his own children as other parents do. Your father will never be able to leave his kingdom for the sake of seeing his little boy." "Well, but, dear mother," asked the boy, "why cannot I go to this famous city of Athens, and tell King Aegeus that I am his son?" "That may happen by and by," said Aethra. "Be patient, and we shall see. You are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an errand." "And how soon shall I be strong enough?" Theseus persisted in inquiring. "You are but a tiny boy as yet," replied his mother. "See if you can lift this rock on which we are sitting?" The little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength. So, grasping the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled amain, and got himself quite out of breath, without being able to stir the heavy stone. It seemed to be rooted into the ground. No wonder he could not move it; for it would have taken all the force of a very strong man to lift it out of its earthy bed. His mother stood looking on, with a sad kind of a smile on her lips and in her eyes, to see the zealous and yet puny efforts of her little boy. She could not help being sorrowful at finding him already so impatient to begin his adventures in the world. "You see how it is, my dear Theseus," said she. "You must possess far more strength than now before I can trust you to go to Athens, and tell King Aegeus that you are his son. But when you can lift this rock, and show me what is hidden beneath it, I promise you my permission to depart." Often and often, after this, did Theseus ask his mother whether it was yet time for him to go to Athens; and still his mother pointed to the rock, and told him that, for years to come, he could not be strong enough to move it. And again and again the rosy-checked and curly-headed boy would tug and strain at the huge mass of stone, striving, child as he was, to do what a giant could hardly have done without taking both of his great hands to the task. Meanwhile the rock seemed to be sinking farther and farther into the ground. The moss grew over it thicker and thicker, until at last it looked almost like a soft green seat, with only a few gray knobs of granite peeping out. The overhanging trees, also, shed their brown leaves upon it, as often as the autumn came; and at its base grew ferns and wild flowers, some of which crept quite over its surface. To all appearance, the rock was as firmly fastened as any other portion of the earth's substance. But, difficult as the matter looked, Theseus was now growing up to be such a vigorous youth, that, in his own opinion, the time would quickly come when he might hope to get the upper hand of this ponderous lump of stone. "Mother, I do believe it has started!" cried he, after one of his attempts. "The earth around it is certainly a little cracked!" "No, no, child!" his mother hastily answered. "It is not possible you can have moved it, such a boy as you still are!" Nor would she be convinced, although Theseus showed her the place where he fancied that the stem of a flower had been partly uprooted by the movement of the rock. But Aethra sighed, and looked disquieted; for, no doubt, she began to be conscious that her son was no longer a child, and that, in a little while hence, she must send him forth among the perils and troubles of the world. It was not more than a year afterwards when they were again sitting on the moss-covered stone. Aethra had once more told him the oft-repeated story of his father, and how gladly he would receive Theseus at his stately palace, and how he would present him to his courtiers and the people, and tell them that here was the heir of his dominions. The eyes of Theseus glowed with enthusiasm, and he would hardly sit still to hear his mother speak. "Dear mother Aethra," he exclaimed, "I never felt half so strong as now! I am no longer a child, nor a boy, nor a mere youth! I feel myself a man! It is now time to make one earnest trial to remove the stone." "Ah, my dearest Theseus," replied his mother "not yet! not yet!" "Yes, mother," said he, resolutely, "the time has come!" Then Theseus bent himself in good earnest to the task, and strained every sinew, with manly strength and resolution. He put his whole brave heart into the effort. He wrestled with the big and sluggish stone, as if it had been a living enemy. He heaved, he lifted, he resolved now to succeed, or else to perish there, and let the rock be his monument forever! Aethra stood gazing at him, and clasped her hands, partly with a mother's pride, and partly with a mother's sorrow. The great rock stirred! Yes, it was raised slowly from the bedded moss and earth, uprooting the shrubs and flowers along with it, and was turned upon its side. Theseus had conquered! While taking breath, he looked joyfully at his mother, and she smiled upon him through her tears. "Yes, Theseus," she said, "the time has come, and you must stay no longer at my side! See what King Aegeus, your royal father, left for you beneath the stone, when he lifted it in his mighty arms, and laid it on the spot whence you have now removed it." Theseus looked, and saw that the rock had been placed over another slab of stone, containing a cavity within it; so that it somewhat resembled a roughly-made chest or coffer, of which the upper mass had served as the lid. Within the cavity lay a sword, with a golden hilt, and a pair of sandals. "That was your father's sword," said Aethra, "and those were his sandals. When he went to be king of Athens, he bade me treat you as a child until you should prove yourself a man by lifting this heavy stone. That task being accomplished, you are to put on his sandals, in order to follow in your father's footsteps, and to gird on his sword, so that you may fight giants and dragons, as King Aegeus did in his youth." "I will set out for Athens this very day!" cried Theseus. But his mother persuaded him to stay a day or two longer, while she got ready some necessary articles for his journey. When his grandfather, the wise King Pittheus, heard that Theseus intended to present himself at his father's palace, he earnestly advised him to get on board of a vessel, and go by sea; because he might thus arrive within fifteen miles of Athens, without either fatigue or danger. "The roads are very bad by land," quoth the venerable king; "and they are terribly infested with robbers and monsters. A mere lad, like Theseus, is not fit to be trusted on such a perilous journey, all by himself. No, no; let him go by sea." But when Theseus heard of robbers and monsters, he pricked up his ears, and was so much the more eager to take the road along which they were to be met with. On the third day, therefore, he bade a respectful farewell to his grandfather, thanking him for all his kindness; and, after affectionately embracing his mother, he set forth with a good many of her tears glistening on his cheeks, and some, if the truth must be told, that had gushed out of his own eyes. But he let the sun and wind dry them, and walked stoutly on, playing with the golden hilt of his sword, and taking very manly strides in his father's sandals. I cannot stop to tell you hardly any of the adventures that befell Theseus on the road to Athens. It is enough to say, that he quite cleared that part of the country of the robbers about whom King Pittheus had been so much alarmed. One of these bad people was named Procrustes; and he was indeed a terrible fellow, and had an ugly way of making fun of the poor travelers who happened to fall into his clutches. In his cavern he had a bed, on which, with great pretense of hospitality, he invited his guests to lie down; but, if they happened to be shorter than the bed, this wicked villain stretched them out by main force; or, if they were too tall, he lopped off their heads or feet, and laughed at what he had done, as an excellent joke. Thus, however weary a man might be, he never liked to lie in the bed of Procrustes. Another of these robbers, named Scinis, must likewise have been a very great scoundrel. He was in the habit of flinging his victims off a high cliff into the sea; and, in order to give him exactly his deserts, Theseus tossed him off the very same place. But if you will believe me, the sea would not pollute itself by receiving such a bad person into its bosom; neither would the earth, having once got rid of him, consent to take him back; so that, between the cliff and the sea, Scinis stuck fast in the air, which was forced to bear the burden of his naughtiness. After these memorable deeds, Theseus heard of an enormous sow, which ran wild, and was the terror of all the farmers round about; and, as he did not consider himself above doing any good thing that came in his way, he killed this monstrous creature, and gave the carcass to the poor people for bacon. The great sow had been an awful beast, while ramping about the woods and fields, but was a pleasant object enough when cut up into joints, and smoking on I know not how many dinner tables. Thus, by the time he reached his journey's end, Theseus had done many valiant feats with his father's golden-hilted sword, and had gained the renown of being one of the bravest young men of the day. His fame traveled faster than he did, and reached Athens before him. As he entered the city, he heard the inhabitants talking at the street corners, and saying that Hercules was brave, and Jason too, and Castor and Pollux likewise, but that Theseus, the son of their own king, would turn out as great a hero as the best of them. Theseus took longer strides on hearing this, and fancied himself sure of a magnificent reception at his father's court, since he came thither with Fame to blow her trumpet before him, and cry to King Aegeus, "Behold your son!" He little suspected, innocent youth that he was, that here, in this very Athens, where his father reigned, a greater danger awaited him than any which he had encountered on the road. Yet this was the truth. You must understand that the father of Theseus, though not very old in years, was almost worn out with the cares of government, and had thus grown aged before his time. His nephews, not expecting him to live a very great while, intended to get all the power of the kingdom into their own hands. But when they heard that Theseus had arrived in Athens, and learned what a gallant young man he was, they saw that he would not be at all the kind of a person to let them steal away his father's crown and scepter, which ought to be his own by right of inheritance. Thus these bad-hearted nephews of King Aegeus, who were the own cousins of Theseus, at once became his enemies. A still more dangerous enemy was Medea, the wicked enchantress; for she was now the king's wife, and wanted to give the kingdom to her son Medus, instead of letting it be given to the son of Aethra, whom she hated. It so happened that the king's nephews met Theseus, and found out who he was, just as he reached the entrance of the royal palace. With all their evil designs against him, they pretended to be their cousin's best friends, and expressed great joy at making his acquaintance. They proposed to him that he should come into the king's presence as a stranger, in order to try whether Aegeus would discover in the young man's features any likeness either to himself or his mother Aethra, and thus recognize him for a son. Theseus consented; for he fancied that his father would know him in a moment, by the love that was in his heart. But, while he waited at the door, the nephews ran and told King Aegeus that a young man had arrived in Athens, who, to their certain knowledge, intended to put him to death, and get possession of his royal crown. "And he is now waiting for admission to your majesty's presence," added they. "Aha!" cried the old king, on hearing this. "Why, he must be a very wicked young fellow indeed! Pray, what would you advise me to do with him?" In reply to this question, the wicked Medea put in her word. As I have already told you, she was a famous enchantress. According to some stories, she was in the habit of boiling old people in a large caldron, under pretense of making them young again; but King Aegeus, I suppose, did not fancy such an uncomfortable way of growing young, or perhaps was contented to be old, and therefore would never let himself be popped into the caldron. If there were time to spare from more important matters, I should be glad to tell you of Medea's fiery chariot, drawn by winged dragons, in which the enchantress used often to take an airing among the clouds. This chariot, in fact, was the vehicle that first brought her to Athens, where she had done nothing but mischief ever since her arrival. But these and many other wonders must be left untold; and it is enough to say, that Medea, amongst a thousand other bad things, knew how to prepare a poison, that was instantly fatal to whomsoever might so much as touch it with his lips. So, when the king asked what he should do with Theseus, this naughty woman had an answer ready at her tongue's end. "Leave that to me, please your majesty," she replied. "Only admit this evil-minded young man to your presence, treat him civilly, and invite him to drink a goblet of wine. Your majesty is well aware that I sometimes amuse myself by distilling very powerful medicines. Here is one of them in this small phial. As to what it is made of, that is one of my secrets of state. Do but let me put a single drop into the goblet, and let the young man taste it; and I will answer for it, he shall quite lay aside the bad designs with which he comes hither." As she said this, Medea smiled; but, for all her smiling face, she meant nothing less than to poison the poor innocent Theseus, before his father's eyes. And King Aegeus, like most other kings, thought any punishment mild enough for a person who was accused of plotting against his life. He therefore made little or no objection to Medea's scheme, and as soon as the poisonous wine was ready, gave orders that the young stranger should be admitted into his presence. The goblet was set on a table beside the king's throne; and a fly, meaning just to sip a little from the brim, immediately tumbled into it, dead. Observing this, Medea looked round at the nephews, and smiled again. When Theseus was ushered into the royal apartment, the only object that he seemed to behold was the white-bearded old king. There he sat on his magnificent throne, a dazzling crown on his head, and a scepter in his hand. His aspect was stately and majestic, although his years and infirmities weighed heavily upon him, as if each year were a lump of lead, and each infirmity a ponderous stone, and all were bundled up together, and laid upon his weary shoulders. The tears both of joy and sorrow sprang into the young man's eyes; for he thought how sad it was to see his dear father so infirm, and how sweet it would be to support him with his own youthful strength, and to cheer him up with the alacrity of his loving spirit. When a son takes a father into his warm heart it renews the old man's youth in a better way than by the heat of Medea's magic caldron. And this was what Theseus resolved to do. He could scarcely wait to see whether King Aegeus would recognize him, so eager was he to throw himself into his arms. Advancing to the foot of the throne, he attempted to make a little speech, which he had been thinking about, as he came up the stairs. But he was almost choked by a great many tender feelings that gushed out of his heart and swelled into his throat, all struggling to find utterance together. And therefore, unless he could have laid his full, over-brimming heart into the king's hand, poor Theseus knew not what to do or say. The cunning Medea observed what was passing in the young man's mind. She was more wicked at that moment than ever she had been before; for (and it makes me tremble to tell you of it) she did her worst to turn all this unspeakable love with which Theseus was agitated to his own ruin and destruction. "Does your majesty see his confusion?" she whispered in the king's ear. "He is so conscious of guilt, that he trembles and cannot speak. The wretch lives too long! Quick! offer him the wine!" Now King Aegeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger, as he drew near the throne. There was something, he knew not what, either in his white brow, or in the fine expression of his mouth, or in his beautiful and tender eyes, that made him indistinctly feel as if he had seen this youth before; as if, indeed, he had trotted him on his knee when a baby, and had beheld him growing to be a stalwart man, while he himself grew old. But Medea guessed how the king felt, and would not suffer him to yield to these natural sensibilities; although they were the voice of his deepest heart, telling him as plainly as it could speak, that here was our dear son, and Aethra's son, coming to claim him for a father. The enchantress again whispered in the king's ear, and compelled him, by her witchcraft, to see everything under a false aspect. He made up his mind, therefore, to let Theseus drink off the poisoned wine. "Young man," said he, "you are welcome! I am proud to show hospitality to so heroic a youth. Do me the favor to drink the contents of this goblet. It is brimming over, as you see, with delicious wine, such as I bestow only on those who are worthy of it! None is more worthy to quaff it than yourself!" So saying, King Aegeus took the golden goblet from the table, and was about to offer it to Theseus. But, partly through his infirmities, and partly because it seemed so sad a thing to take away this young man's life, however wicked he might be, and partly, no doubt, because his heart was wiser than his head, and quaked within him at the thought of what he was going to do--for all these reasons, the king's hand trembled so much that a great deal of the wine slopped over. In order to strengthen his purpose, and fearing lest the whole of the precious poison should be wasted, one of his nephews now whispered to him: "Has your Majesty any doubt of this stranger's guilt? This is the very sword with which he meant to slay you. How sharp, and bright, and terrible it is! Quick!--let him taste the wine; or perhaps he may do the deed even yet." At these words, Aegeus drove every thought and feeling out of his breast, except the one idea of how justly the young man deserved to be put to death. He sat erect on his throne, and held out the goblet of wine with a steady hand, and bent on Theseus a frown of kingly severity; for, after all, he had too noble a spirit to murder even a treacherous enemy with a deceitful smile upon his face. "Drink!" said he, in the stern tone with which he was wont to condemn a criminal to be beheaded. "You have well deserved of me such wine as this!" Theseus held out his hand to take the wine. But, before he touched it, King Aegeus trembled again. His eyes had fallen on the gold-hilted sword that hung at the young man's side. He drew back the goblet. "That sword!" he exclaimed: "how came you by it?" "It was my father's sword," replied Theseus, with a tremulous voice. "These were his sandals. My dear mother (her name is Aethra) told me his story while I was yet a little child. But it is only a month since I grew strong enough to lift the heavy stone, and take the sword and sandals from beneath it, and come to Athens to seek my father." "My son! my son!" cried King Aegeus, flinging away the fatal goblet, and tottering down from the throne to fall into the arms of Theseus. "Yes, these are Aethra's eyes. It is my son." I have quite forgotten what became of the king's nephews. But when the wicked Medea saw this new turn of affairs, she hurried out of the room, and going to her private chamber, lost no time to setting her enchantments to work. In a few moments, she heard a great noise of hissing snakes outside of the chamber window; and behold! there was her fiery chariot, and four huge winged serpents, wriggling and twisting in the air, flourishing their tails higher than the top of the palace, and all ready to set off on an aerial journey. Medea staid only long enough to take her son with her, and to steal the crown jewels, together with the king's best robes, and whatever other valuable things she could lay hands on; and getting into the chariot, she whipped up the snakes, and ascended high over the city. The king, hearing the hiss of the serpents, scrambled as fast as he could to the window, and bawled out to the abominable enchantress never to come back. The whole people of Athens, too, who had run out of doors to see this wonderful spectacle, set up a shout of joy at the prospect of getting rid of her. Medea, almost bursting with rage, uttered precisely such a hiss as one of her own snakes, only ten times more venomous and spiteful; and glaring fiercely out of the blaze of the chariot, she shook her hands over the multitude below, as if she were scattering a million of curses among them. In so doing, however, she unintentionally let fall about five hundred diamonds of the first water, together with a thousand great pearls, and two thousand emeralds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and topazes, to which she had helped herself out of the king's strong box. All these came pelting down, like a shower of many-colored hailstones, upon the heads of grown people and children, who forthwith gathered them up, and carried them back to the palace. But King Aegeus told them that they were welcome to the whole, and to twice as many more, if he had them, for the sake of his delight at finding his son, and losing the wicked Medea. And, indeed, if you had seen how hateful was her last look, as the flaming chariot flew upward, you would not have wondered that both king and people should think her departure a good riddance. And now Prince Theseus was taken into great favor by his royal father. The old king was never weary of having him sit beside him on his throne (which was quite wide enough for two), and of hearing him tell about his dear mother, and his childhood, and his many boyish efforts to lift the ponderous stone. Theseus, however, was much too brave and active a young man to be willing to spend all his time in relating things which had already happened. His ambition was to perform other and more heroic deeds, which should be better worth telling in prose and verse. Nor had he been long in Athens before he caught and chained a terrible mad bull, and made a public show of him, greatly to the wonder and admiration of good King Aegeus and his subjects. But pretty soon, he undertook an affair that made all his foregone adventures seem like mere boy's play. The occasion of it was as follows: One morning, when Prince Theseus awoke, he fancied that he must have had a very sorrowful dream, and that it was still running in his mind, even now that his eyes were opened. For it appeared as if the air was full of a melancholy wail; and when he listened more attentively, he could hear sobs, and groans, and screams of woe, mingled with deep, quiet sighs, which came from the king's palace, and from the streets, and from the temples, and from every habitation in the city. And all these mournful noises, issuing out of thousands of separate hearts, united themselves into one great sound of affliction, which had startled Theseus from slumber. He put on his clothes as quickly as he could (not forgetting his sandals and gold-hilted sword), and, hastening to the king, inquired what it all meant. "Alas! my son," quoth King Aegeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very lamentable matter in hand! This is the wofulest anniversary in the whole year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of the youths and maids of Athens shall go to be devoured by the horrible Minotaur!" "The Minotaur!" exclaimed Prince Theseus; and like a brave young prince as he was, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "What kind of a monster may that be? Is it not possible, at the risk of one's life, to slay him?" But King Aegeus shook his venerable head, and to convince Theseus that it was quite a hopeless case, he gave him an explanation of the whole affair. It seems that in the island of Crete there lived a certain dreadful monster, called a Minotaur, which was shaped partly like a man and partly like a bull, and was altogether such a hideous sort of a creature that it is really disagreeable to think of him. If he were suffered to exist at all, it should have been on some desert island, or in the duskiness of some deep cavern, where nobody would ever be tormented by his abominable aspect. But King Minos, who reigned over Crete, laid out a vast deal of money in building a habitation for the Minotaur, and took great care of his health and comfort, merely for mischief's sake. A few years before this time, there had been a war between the city of Athens and the island of Crete, in which the Athenians were beaten, and compelled to beg for peace. No peace could they obtain, however, except on condition that they should send seven young men and seven maidens, every year, to be devoured by the pet monster of the cruel King Minos. For three years past, this grievous calamity had been borne. And the sobs, and groans, and shrieks, with which the city was now filled, were caused by the people's woe, because the fatal day had come again, when the fourteen victims were to be chosen by lot; and the old people feared lest their sons or daughters might be taken, and the youths and damsels dreaded lest they themselves might be destined to glut the ravenous maw of that detestable man-brute. But when Theseus heard the story, he straightened himself up, so that he seemed taller than ever before; and as for his face it was indignant, despiteful, bold, tender, and compassionate, all in one look. "Let the people of Athens this year draw lots for only six young men, instead of seven," said he, "I will myself be the seventh; and let the Minotaur devour me if he can!" "O my dear son," cried King Aegeus, "why should you expose yourself to this horrible fate? You are a royal prince, and have a right to hold yourself above the destinies of common men." "It is because I am a prince, your son, and the rightful heir of your kingdom, that I freely take upon me the calamity of your subjects," answered Theseus, "And you, my father, being king over these people, and answerable to Heaven for their welfare, are bound to sacrifice what is dearest to you, rather than that the son or daughter of the poorest citizen should come to any harm." The old king shed tears, and besought Theseus not to leave him desolate in his old age, more especially as he had but just begun to know the happiness of possessing a good and valiant son. Theseus, however, felt that he was in the right, and therefore would not give up his resolution. But he assured his father that he did not intend to be eaten up, unresistingly, like a sheep, and that, if the Minotaur devoured him, it should not be without a battle for his dinner. And finally, since he could not help it, King Aegeus consented to let him go. So a vessel was got ready, and rigged with black sails; and Theseus, with six other young men, and seven tender and beautiful damsels, came down to the harbor to embark. A sorrowful multitude accompanied them to the shore. There was the poor old king, too, leaning on his son's arm, and looking as if his single heart held all the grief of Athens. Just as Prince Theseus was going on board, his father bethought himself of one last word to say. "My beloved son," said he, grasping the Prince's hand, "you observe that the sails of this vessel are black; as indeed they ought to be, since it goes upon a voyage of sorrow and despair. Now, being weighed down with infirmities, I know not whether I can survive till the vessel shall return. But, as long as I do live, I shall creep daily to the top of yonder cliff, to watch if there be a sail upon the sea. And, dearest Theseus, if by some happy chance, you should escape the jaws of the Minotaur, then tear down those dismal sails, and hoist others that shall be bright as the sunshine. Beholding them on the horizon, myself and all the people will know that you are coming back victorious, and will welcome you with such a festal uproar as Athens never heard before." Theseus promised that he would do so. Then going on board, the mariners trimmed the vessel's black sails to the wind, which blew faintly off the shore, being pretty much made up of the sighs that everybody kept pouring forth on this melancholy occasion. But by and by, when they had got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from the north-west, and drove them along as merrily over the white-capped waves as if they had been going on the most delightful errand imaginable. And though it was a sad business enough, I rather question whether fourteen young people, without any old persons to keep them in order, could continue to spend the whole time of the voyage in being miserable. There had been some few dances upon the undulating deck, I suspect, and some hearty bursts of laughter, and other such unseasonable merriment among the victims, before the high blue mountains of Crete began to show themselves among the far-off clouds. That sight, to be sure, made them all very grave again. Theseus stood among the sailors, gazing eagerly towards the land; although, as yet, it seemed hardly more substantial than the clouds, amidst which the mountains were looming up. Once or twice, he fancied that he saw a glare of some bright object, a long way off, flinging a gleam across the waves. "Did you see that flash of light?" he inquired of the master of the vessel. "No, prince; but I have seen it before," answered the master. "It came from Talus, I suppose." As the breeze came fresher just then, the master was busy with trimming his sails, and had no more time to answer questions. But while the vessel flew faster and faster towards Crete, Theseus was astonished to behold a human figure, gigantic in size, which appeared to be striding, with a measured movement, along the margin of the island. It stepped from cliff to cliff, and sometimes from one headland to another, while the sea foamed and thundered on the shore beneath, and dashed its jets of spray over the giant's feet. What was still more remarkable, whenever the sun shone on this huge figure, it flickered and glimmered; its vast countenance, too, had a metallic lustre, and threw great flashes of splendor through the air. The folds of its garments, moreover, instead of waving in the wind, fell heavily over its limbs, as if woven of some kind of metal. The nigher the vessel came, the more Theseus wondered what this immense giant could be, and whether it actually had life or no. For, though it walked, and made other lifelike motions, there yet was a kind of jerk in its gait, which, together with its brazen aspect, caused the young prince to suspect that it was no true giant, but only a wonderful piece of machinery. The figure looked all the more terrible because it carried an enormous brass club on its shoulder. "What is this wonder?" Theseus asked of the master of the vessel, who was now at leisure to answer him. "It is Talus, the Man of Brass," said the master. "And is he a live giant, or a brazen image?" asked Theseus. "That, truly," replied the master, "is the point which has always perplexed me. Some say, indeed, that this Talus was hammered out for King Minos by Vulcan himself, the skilfullest of all workers in metal. But who ever saw a brazen image that had sense enough to walk round an island three times a day, as this giant walks round the island of Crete, challenging every vessel that comes nigh the shore? And, on the other hand, what living thing, unless his sinews were made of brass, would not be weary of marching eighteen hundred miles in the twenty-four hours, as Talus does, without ever sitting down to rest? He is a puzzler, take him how you will." Still the vessel went bounding onward; and now Theseus could hear the brazen clangor of the giant's footsteps, as he trod heavily upon the sea-beaten rocks, some of which were seen to crack and crumble into the foaming waves beneath his weight. As they approached the entrance of the port, the giant straddled clear across it, with a foot firmly planted on each headland, and uplifting his club to such a height that its butt-end was hidden in the cloud, he stood in that formidable posture, with the sun gleaming all over his metallic surface. There seemed nothing else to be expected but that, the next moment, he would fetch his great club down, slam bang, and smash the vessel into a thousand pieces, without heeding how many innocent people he might destroy; for there is seldom any mercy in a giant, you know, and quite as little in a piece of brass clockwork. But just when Theseus and his companions thought the blow was coming, the brazen lips unclosed themselves, and the figure spoke. "Whence come you, strangers?" And when the ringing voice ceased, there was just such a reverberation as you may have heard within a great church bell, for a moment or two after the stroke of the hammer. "From Athens!" shouted the master in reply. "On what errand?" thundered the Man of Brass. And he whirled his club aloft more threateningly than ever, as if he were about to smite them with a thunderstroke right amidships, because Athens, so little while ago, had been at war with Crete. "We bring the seven youths and the seven maidens," answered the master, "to be devoured by the Minotaur!" "Pass!" cried the brazen giant. That one loud word rolled all about the sky, while again there was a booming reverberation within the figure's breast. The vessel glided between the headlands of the port, and the giant resumed his march. In a few moments, this wondrous sentinel was far away, flashing in the distant sunshine, and revolving with immense strides round the island of Crete, as it was his never-ceasing task to do. No sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of King Minos came down to the water side, and took charge of the fourteen young men and damsels. Surrounded by these armed warriors, Prince Theseus and his companions were led to the king's palace, and ushered into his presence. Now, Minos was a stern and pitiless king. If the figure that guarded Crete was made of brass, then the monarch, who ruled over it, might be thought to have a still harder metal in his breast, and might have been called a man of iron. He bent his shaggy brows upon the poor Athenian victims. Any other mortal, beholding their fresh and tender beauty, and their innocent looks, would have felt himself sitting on thorns until he had made every soul of them happy by bidding them go free as the summer wind. But this immitigable Minos cared only to examine whether they were plump enough to satisfy the Minotaur's appetite. For my part, I wish he himself had been the only victim; and the monster would have found him a pretty tough one. One after another, King Minos called these pale, frightened youths and sobbing maidens to his footstool, gave them each a poke in the ribs with his sceptre (to try whether they were in good flesh or no), and dismissed them with a nod to his guards. But when his eyes rested on Theseus, the king looked at him more attentively, because his face was calm and brave. "Young man," asked he, with his stern voice, "are you not appalled at the certainty of being devoured by this terrible Minotaur?" "I have offered my life in a good cause," answered Theseus, "and therefore I give it freely and gladly. But thou, King Minos, art thou not thyself appalled, who, year after year, hast perpetrated this dreadful wrong, by giving seven innocent youths and as many maidens to be devoured by a monster? Dost thou not tremble, wicked king, to turn thine eyes inward on thine own heart? Sitting there on thy golden throne, and in thy robes of majesty, I tell thee to thy face, King Minos, thou art a more hideous monster than the Minotaur himself!" "Aha! do you think me so?" cried the king, laughing in his cruel way. "To-morrow, at breakfast time, you shall have an opportunity of judging which is the greater monster, the Minotaur or the king! Take them away, guards; and let this free-spoken youth be the Minotaur's first morsel." Near the king's throne (though I had no time to tell you so before) stood his daughter Ariadne. She was a beautiful and tender-hearted maiden, and looked at these poor doomed captives with very different feelings from those of the iron-breasted King Minos. She really wept indeed, at the idea of how much human happiness would be needlessly thrown away, by giving so many young people, in the first bloom and rose blossom of their lives, to be eaten up by a creature who, no doubt, would have preferred a fat ox, or even a large pig, to the plumpest of them. And when she beheld the brave, spirited figure of Prince Theseus bearing himself so calmly in his terrible peril, she grew a hundred times more pitiful than before. As the guards were taking him away, she flung herself at the king's feet, and besought him to set all the captives free, and especially this one young man. "Peace, foolish girl!" answered King Minos. "What hast thou to do with an affair like this? It is a matter of state policy, and therefore quite beyond thy weak comprehension. Go water thy flowers, and think no more of these Athenian caitiffs, whom the Minotaur shall as certainly eat up for breakfast as I will eat a partridge for my supper." So saying, the king looked cruel enough to devour Theseus and all the rest of the captives himself, had there been no Minotaur to save him the trouble. As he would hear not another word in their favor, the prisoners were now led away, and clapped into a dungeon, where the jailer advised them to go to sleep as soon as possible, because the Minotaur was in the habit of calling for breakfast early. The seven maidens and six of the young men soon sobbed themselves to slumber. But Theseus was not like them. He felt conscious that he was wiser, and braver, and stronger than his companions, and that therefore he had the responsibility of all their lives upon him, and must consider whether there was no way to save them, even in this last extremity. So he kept himself awake, and paced to and fro across the gloomy dungeon in which they were shut up. Just before midnight, the door was softly unbarred, and the gentle Ariadne showed herself, with a torch in her hand. "Are you awake, Prince Theseus?" she whispered. "Yes," answered Theseus. "With so little time to live, I do not choose to waste any of it in sleep." "Then follow me," said Ariadne, "and tread softly." What had become of the jailer and the guards, Theseus never knew. But, however that might be, Ariadne opened all the doors, and led him forth from the darksome prison into the pleasant moonlight. "Theseus," said the maiden, "you can now get on board your vessel, and sail away for Athens." "No," answered the young man; "I will never leave Crete unless I can first slay the Minotaur, and save my poor companions, and deliver Athens from this cruel tribute." "I knew that this would be your resolution," said Ariadne. "Come, then, with me, brave Theseus. Here is your own sword, which the guards deprived you of. You will need it; and pray Heaven you may use it well." Then she led Theseus along by the hand until they came to a dark, shadowy grove, where the moonlight wasted itself on the tops of the trees, without shedding hardly so much as a glimmering beam upon their pathway. After going a good way through this obscurity, they reached a high marble wall, which was overgrown with creeping plants, that made it shaggy with their verdure. The wall seemed to have no door, nor any windows, but rose up, lofty, and massive, and mysterious, and was neither to be clambered over, nor, as far as Theseus could perceive, to be passed through. Nevertheless, Ariadne did but press one of her soft little fingers against a particular block of marble and, though it looked as solid as any other part of the wall, it yielded to her touch, disclosing an entrance just wide enough to admit them They crept through, and the marble stone swung back into its place. "We are now," said Ariadne, "in the famous labyrinth which Daedalus built before he made himself a pair of wings, and flew away from our island like a bird. That Daedalus was a very cunning workman; but of all his artful contrivances, this labyrinth is the most wondrous. Were we to take but a few steps from the doorway, we might wander about all our lifetime, and never find it again. Yet in the very center of this labyrinth is the Minotaur; and, Theseus, you must go thither to seek him." "But how shall I ever find him," asked Theseus, "if the labyrinth so bewilders me as you say it will?" Just as he spoke, they heard a rough and very disagreeable roar, which greatly resembled the lowing of a fierce bull, but yet had some sort of sound like the human voice. Theseus even fancied a rude articulation in it, as if the creature that uttered it were trying to shape his hoarse breath into words. It was at some distance, however, and he really could not tell whether it sounded most like a bull's roar or a man's harsh voice. "That is the Minotaur's noise," whispered Ariadne, closely grasping the hand of Theseus, and pressing one of her own hands to her heart, which was all in a tremble. "You must follow that sound through the windings of the labyrinth, and, by and by, you will find him. Stay! take the end of this silken string; I will hold the other end; and then, if you win the victory, it will lead you again to this spot. Farewell, brave Theseus." So the young man took the end of the silken string in his left hand, and his gold-hilted sword, ready drawn from its scabbard, in the other, and trod boldly into the inscrutable labyrinth. How this labyrinth was built is more than I can tell you. But so cunningly contrived a mizmaze was never seen in the world, before nor since. There can be nothing else so intricate, unless it were the brain of a man like Daedalus, who planned it, or the heart of any ordinary man; which last, to be sure, is ten times as great a mystery as the labyrinth of Crete. Theseus had not taken five steps before he lost sight of Ariadne; and in five more his head was growing dizzy. But still he went on, now creeping through a low arch, now ascending a flight of steps, now in one crooked passage and now in another, with here a door opening before him, and there one banging behind, until it really seemed as if the walls spun round, and whirled him round along with them. And all the while, through these hollow avenues, now nearer, now farther off again, resounded the cry of the Minotaur; and the sound was so fierce, so cruel, so ugly, so like a bull's roar, and withal so like a human voice, and yet like neither of them, that the brave heart of Theseus grew sterner and angrier at every step; for he felt it an insult to the moon and sky, and to our affectionate and simple Mother Earth, that such a monster should have the audacity to exist. As he passed onward, the clouds gathered over the moon, and the labyrinth grew so dusky that Theseus could no longer discern the bewilderment through which he was passing. He would have left quite lost, and utterly hopeless of ever again walking in a straight path, if, every little while, he had not been conscious of a gentle twitch at the silken cord. Then he knew that the tender-hearted Ariadne was still holding the other end, and that she was fearing for him, and hoping for him, and giving him just as much of her sympathy as if she were close by his side. O, indeed, I can assure you, there was a vast deal of human sympathy running along that slender thread of silk. But still he followed the dreadful roar of the Minotaur, which now grew louder and louder, and finally so very loud that Theseus fully expected to come close upon him, at every new zizgag and wriggle of the path. And at last, in an open space, at the very center of the labyrinth, he did discern the hideous creature. Sure enough, what an ugly monster it was! Only his horned head belonged to a bull; and yet, somehow or other, he looked like a bull all over, preposterously waddling on his hind legs; or, if you happened to view him in another way, he seemed wholly a man, and all the more monstrous for being so. And there he was, the wretched thing, with no society, no companion, no kind of a mate, living only to do mischief, and incapable of knowing what affection means. Theseus hated him, and shuddered at him, and yet could not but be sensible of some sort of pity; and all the more, the uglier and more detestable the creature was. For he kept striding to and fro, in a solitary frenzy of rage, continually emitting a hoarse roar, which was oddly mixed up with half-shaped words; and, after listening a while, Theseus understood that the Minotaur was saying to himself how miserable he was, and how hungry, and how he hated everybody, and how he longed to eat up the human race alive. Ah! the bull-headed villain! And O, my good little people, you will perhaps see, one of these days, as I do now, that every human being who suffers any thing evil to get into his nature, or to remain there, is a kind of Minotaur, an enemy of his fellow-creatures, and separated from all good companionship, as this poor monster was. Was Theseus afraid? By no means, my dear auditors. What! a hero like Theseus afraid! Not had the Minotaur had twenty bull-heads instead of one. Bold as he was, however, I rather fancy that it strengthened his valiant heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the silken cord, which he was still holding in his left hand. It was as if Ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and much as he already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice as much. And to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for now the Minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of Theseus, and instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does when he means to rush against an enemy. At the same time, he belched forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute. Theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that rather by his gestures than his words; for the Minotaur's horns were sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than his tongue. But probably this was the sense of what he uttered: "Ah, wretch of a human being! I'll stick my horns through you, and toss you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down." "Come on, then, and try it!" was all that Theseus deigned to reply; for he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent language. Without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight between Theseus and the Minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or moon. I really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster, in his first headlong rush against Theseus, had not missed him, by a hair's breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the stone wall. On this mishap, he bellowed so intolerably that a part of the labyrinth tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of Crete mistook the noise for an uncommonly heavy thunder storm. Smarting with the pain, he galloped around the open space in so ridiculous a way that Theseus laughed at it, long afterwards, though not precisely at the moment. After this, the two antagonists stood valiantly up to one another, and fought, sword to horn, for a long while. At last, the Minotaur made a run at Theseus, grazed his left side with his horn, and flung him down; and thinking that he had stabbed him to the heart, he cut a great caper in the air, opened his bull mouth from ear to ear, and prepared to snap his head off. But Theseus by this time had leaped up, and caught the monster off his guard. Fetching a sword stroke at him with all his force, he hit him fair upon the neck, and made his bull head skip six yards from his human body, which fell down flat upon the ground. So now the battle was ended. Immediately the moon shone out as brightly as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness and the ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever. And Theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another twitch of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter, he had held it fast in his left hand. Eager to let Ariadne know of his success, he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found himself at the entrance of the labyrinth. "Thou hast slain the monster," cried Ariadne, clasping her hands. "Thanks to thee, dear Ariadne," answered Theseus, "I return victorious." "Then," said Ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get them and thyself on board the vessel before dawn. If morning finds thee here, my father will avenge the Minotaur." To make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and, hardly knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what Theseus had done, and that they must set sail for Athens before daybreak. Hastening down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except Prince Theseus, who lingered behind them on the strand, holding Ariadne's hand clasped in his own. "Dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us. Thou art too gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as King Minos. He cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the little flower that grows in one of its crevices. But my father, King Aegeus, and my dear mother, Aethra, and all the fathers and mothers in Athens, and all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee as their benefactress. Come with us, then; for King Minos will be very angry when he knows what thou hast done." Now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of Theseus and Ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young stranger whose life she had preserved. They say, too, that Prince Theseus (who would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in the world) ungratefully deserted Ariadne, on a solitary island, where the vessel touched on its voyage to Athens. But, had the noble Theseus heard these falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors as he served the Minotaur! Here is what Ariadne answered, when the brave prince of Athens besought her to accompany him: "No, Theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand, and then drawing back a step or two, "I cannot go with you. My father is old, and has nobody but myself to love him. Hard as you think his heart is, it would break to lose me. At first, King Minos will be angry; but he will soon forgive his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, I know, that no more youths and maidens must come from Athens to be devoured by the Minotaur. I have saved you, Theseus, as much for my father's sake as for your own. Farewell! Heaven bless you!" All this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet a dignity, that Theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer. Nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid Ariadne an affectionate farewell, and to go on board the vessel, and set sail. In a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow, as Prince Theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with a whistling breeze behind them. Talus, the brazen giant, on his never-ceasing sentinel's march, happened to be approaching that part of the coast; and they saw him, by the glimmering of the moonbeams on his polished surface, while he was yet a great way off. As the figure moved like clockwork, however, and could neither hasten his enormous strides nor retard them, he arrived at the port when they were just beyond the reach of his club. Nevertheless, straddling from headland to headland, as his custom was, Talus attempted to strike a blow at the vessel, and, overreaching himself, tumbled at full length into the sea, which splashed high over his gigantic shape, as when an iceberg turns a somerset. There he lies yet; and whoever desires to enrich himself by means of brass had better go thither with a diving bell, and fish up Talus. On the homeward voyage, the fourteen youths and damsels were in excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose. They spent most of their time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck slope too much. In due season, they came within sight of the coast of Attica, which was their native country. But here, I am grieved to tell you, happened a sad misfortune. You will remember (what Theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father, King Aegeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead of black ones, in case he should overcome the Minotaur, and return victorious. In the joy of their success, however, and amidst the sports, dancing, and other merriment, with which these young folks wore away the time, they never once thought whether their sails were black, white, or rainbow colored, and, indeed, left it entirely to the mariners whether they had any sails at all. Thus the vessel returned, like a raven, with the same sable wings that had wafted her away. But poor King Aegeus, day after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the summit of a cliff that overhung the sea, and there sat watching for Prince Theseus, homeward bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal blackness of the sails, than he concluded that his dear son, whom he loved so much, and felt so proud of, had been eaten by the Minotaur. He could not bear the thought of living any longer; so, first flinging his crown and sceptre into the sea (useless baubles that they were to him now), King Aegeus merely stooped forward, and fell headlong over the cliff, and was drowned, poor soul, in the waves that foamed at its base! This was melancholy news for Prince Theseus, who, when he stepped ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no; and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very much out of spirits. However, he sent for his dear mother to Athens, and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people. THE PYGMIES. A great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived an earth-born Giant, named Antaeus, and a million or more of curious little earth-born people, who were called Pygmies. This Giant and these Pygmies being children of the same mother (that is to say, our good old Grandmother Earth), were all brethren, and dwelt together in a very friendly and affectionate manner, far, far off, in the middle of hot Africa. The Pygmies were so small, and there were so many sandy deserts and such high mountains between them and the rest of mankind, that nobody could get a peep at them oftener than once in a hundred years. As for the Giant, being of a very lofty stature, it was easy enough to see him, but safest to keep out of his sight. Among the Pygmies, I suppose, if one of them grew to the height of six or eight inches, he was reckoned a prodigiously tall man. It must have been very pretty to behold their little cities, with streets two or three feet wide, paved with the smallest pebbles, and bordered by habitations about as big as a squirrel's cage. The king's palace attained to the stupendous magnitude of Periwinkle's baby house, and stood in the center of a spacious square, which could hardly have been covered by our hearth-rug. Their principal temple, or cathedral, was as lofty as yonder bureau, and was looked upon as a wonderfully sublime and magnificent edifice. All these structures were built neither of stone nor wood. They were neatly plastered together by the Pygmy workmen, pretty much like birds' nests, out of straw, feathers, egg shells, and other small bits of stuff, with stiff clay instead of mortar; and when the hot sun had dried them, they were just as snug and comfortable as a Pygmy could desire. The country round about was conveniently laid out in fields, the largest of which was nearly of the same extent as one of Sweet Fern's flower beds. Here the Pygmies used to plant wheat and other kinds of grain, which, when it grew up and ripened, overshadowed these tiny people as the pines, and the oaks, and the walnut and chestnut trees overshadow you and me, when we walk in our own tracts of woodland. At harvest time, they were forced to go with their little axes and cut down the grain, exactly as a woodcutter makes a clearing in the forest; and when a stalk of wheat, with its overburdened top, chanced to come crashing down upon an unfortunate Pygmy, it was apt to be a very sad affair. If it did not smash him all to pieces, at least, I am sure, it must have made the poor little fellow's head ache. And O, my stars! if the fathers and mothers were so small, what must the children and babies have been? A whole family of them might have been put to bed in a shoe, or have crept into an old glove, and played at hide-and-seek in its thumb and fingers. You might have hidden a year-old baby under a thimble. Now these funny Pygmies, as I told you before, had a Giant for their neighbor and brother, who was bigger, if possible, than they were little. He was so very tall that he carried a pine tree, which was eight feet through the butt, for a walking stick. It took a far-sighted Pygmy, I can assure you, to discern his summit without the help of a telescope; and sometimes, in misty weather, they could not see his upper half, but only his long legs, which seemed to be striding about by themselves. But at noonday in a clear atmosphere, when the sun shone brightly over him, the Giant Antaeus presented a very grand spectacle. There he used to stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with his great countenance smiling down upon his little brothers, and his one vast eye (which was as big as a cart wheel, and placed right in the center of his forehead) giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at once. The Pygmies loved to talk with Antaeus; and fifty times a day, one or another of them would turn up his head, and shout through the hollow of his fists, "Halloo, brother Antaeus! How are you, my good fellow?" And when the small distant squeak of their voices reached his ear, the Giant would make answer, "Pretty well, brother Pygmy, I thank you," in a thunderous roar that would have shaken down the walls of their strongest temple, only that it came from so far aloft. It was a happy circumstance that Antaeus was the Pygmy people's friend; for there was more strength in his little finger than in ten million of such bodies as this. If he had been as ill-natured to them as he was to everybody else, he might have beaten down their biggest city at one kick, and hardly have known that he did it. With the tornado of his breath, he could have stripped the roofs from a hundred dwellings and sent thousands of the inhabitants whirling through the air. He might have set his immense foot upon a multitude; and when he took it up again, there would have been a pitiful sight, to be sure. But, being the son of Mother Earth, as they likewise were, the Giant gave them his brotherly kindness, and loved them with as big a love as it was possible to feel for creatures so very small. And, on their parts, the Pygmies loved Antaeus with as much affection as their tiny hearts could hold. He was always ready to do them any good offices that lay in his power; as for example, when they wanted a breeze to turn their windmills, the Giant would set all the sails a-going with the mere natural respiration of his lungs. When the sun was too hot, he often sat himself down, and let his shadow fall over the kingdom, from one frontier to the other; and as for matters in general, he was wise enough to let them alone, and leave the Pygmies to manage their own affairs--which, after all, is about the best thing that great people can do for little ones. In short, as I said before, Antaeus loved the Pygmies, and the Pygmies loved Antaeus. The Giant's life being as long as his body was large, while the lifetime of a Pygmy was but a span, this friendly intercourse had been going on for innumerable generations and ages. It was written about in the Pygmy histories, and talked about in their ancient traditions. The most venerable and white-bearded Pygmy had never heard of a time, even in his greatest of grandfathers' days, when the Giant was not their enormous friend. Once, to be sure (as was recorded on an obelisk, three feet high, erected on the place of the catastrophe), Antaeus sat down upon about five thousand Pygmies, who were assembled at a military review. But this was one of those unlucky accidents for which nobody is to blame; so that the small folks never took it to heart, and only requested the Giant to be careful forever afterwards to examine the acre of ground where he intended to squat himself. It is a very pleasant picture to imagine Antaeus standing among the Pygmies, like the spire of the tallest cathedral that ever was built, while they ran about like pismires at his feet; and to think that, in spite of their difference in size, there were affection and sympathy between them and him! Indeed, it has always seemed to me that the Giant needed the little people more than the Pygmies needed the Giant. For, unless they had been his neighbors and well wishers, and, as we may say, his playfellows, Antaeus would not have had a single friend in the world. No other being like himself had ever been created. No creature of his own size had ever talked with him, in thunder-like accents, face to face. When he stood with his head among the clouds, he was quite alone, and had been so for hundreds of years, and would be so forever. Even if he had met another Giant, Antaeus would have fancied the world not big enough for two such vast personages, and, instead of being friends with him, would have fought him till one of the two was killed. But with the Pygmies he was the most sportive and humorous, and merry-hearted, and sweet-tempered old Giant that ever washed his face in a wet cloud. His little friends, like all other small people, had a great opinion of their own importance, and used to assume quite a patronizing air towards the Giant. "Poor creature!" they said one to another. "He has a very dull time of it, all by himself; and we ought not to grudge wasting a little of our precious time to amuse him. He is not half so bright as we are, to be sure; and, for that reason, he needs us to look after his comfort and happiness. Let us be kind to the old fellow. Why, if Mother Earth had not been very kind to ourselves, we might all have been Giants too." On all their holidays, the Pygmies had excellent sport with Antaeus. He often stretched himself out at full length on the ground, where he looked like the long ridge of a hill; and it was a good hour's walk, no doubt, for a short-legged Pygmy to journey from head to foot of the Giant. He would lay down his great hand flat on the grass, and challenge the tallest of them to clamber upon it, and straddle from finger to finger. So fearless were they, that they made nothing of creeping in among the folds of his garments. When his head lay sidewise on the earth, they would march boldly up, and peep into the great cavern of his mouth, and take it all as a joke (as indeed it was meant) when Antaeus gave a sudden snap of his jaws, as if he were going to swallow fifty of them at once. You would have laughed to see the children dodging in and out among his hair, or swinging from his beard. It is impossible to tell half of the funny tricks that they played with their huge comrade; but I do not know that anything was more curious than when a party of boys were seen running races on his forehead, to try which of them could get first round the circle of his one great eye. It was another favorite feat with them to march along the bridge of his nose, and jump down upon his upper lip. If the truth must be told, they were sometimes as troublesome to the Giant as a swarm of ants or mosquitoes, especially as they had a fondness for mischief, and liked to prick his skin with their little swords and lances, to see how thick and tough it was. But Antaeus took it all kindly enough; although, once in a while, when he happened to be sleepy, he would grumble out a peevish word or two, like the muttering of a tempest, and ask them to have done with their nonsense. A great deal oftener, however, he watched their merriment and gambols until his huge, heavy, clumsy wits were completely stirred up by them; and then would he roar out such a tremendous volume of immeasurable laughter, that the whole nation of Pygmies had to put their hands to their ears, else it would certainly have deafened them. "Ho! ho! ho!" quoth the Giant, shaking his mountainous sides. "What a funny thing it is to be little! If I were not Antaeus, I should like to be a Pygmy, just for the joke's sake." The Pygmies had but one thing to trouble them in the world. They were constantly at war with the cranes, and had always been so, ever since the long-lived Giant could remember. From time to time, very terrible battles had been fought in which sometimes the little men won the victory, and sometimes the cranes. According to some historians, the Pygmies used to go to the battle, mounted on the backs of goats and rams; but such animals as these must have been far too big for Pygmies to ride upon; so that, I rather suppose, they rode on squirrel-back, or rabbit-back, or rat-back, or perhaps got upon hedgehogs, whose prickly quills would be very terrible to the enemy. However this might be, and whatever creatures the Pygmies rode upon, I do not doubt that they made a formidable appearance, armed with sword and spear, and bow and arrow, blowing their tiny trumpet, and shouting their little war cry. They never failed to exhort one another to fight bravely, and recollect that the world had its eyes upon them; although, in simple truth, the only spectator was the Giant Antaeus, with his one, great, stupid eye in the middle of his forehead. When the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward, flapping their wings and stretching out their necks, and would perhaps snatch up some of the Pygmies crosswise in their beaks. Whenever this happened, it was truly an awful spectacle to see those little men of might kicking and sprawling in the air, and at last disappearing down the crane's long, crooked throat, swallowed up alive. A hero, you know, must hold himself in readiness for any kind of fate; and doubtless the glory of the thing was a consolation to him, even in the crane's gizzard. If Antaeus observed that the battle was going hard against his little allies, he generally stopped laughing, and ran with mile-long strides to their assistance, flourishing his club aloft and shouting at the cranes, who quacked and croaked, and retreated as fast as they could. Then the Pygmy army would march homeward in triumph, attributing the victory entirely to their own valor, and to the warlike skill and strategy of whomsoever happened to be captain general; and for a tedious while afterwards, nothing would be heard of but grand processions, and public banquets, and brilliant illuminations, and shows of wax-work, with likenesses of the distinguished officers, as small as life. In the above-described warfare, if a Pygmy chanced to pluck out a crane's tail feather, it proved a very great feather in his cap. Once or twice, if you will believe me, a little man was made chief ruler of the nation for no other merit in the world than bringing home such a feather. But I have now said enough to let you see what a gallant little people these were, and how happily they and their forefathers, for nobody knows how many generations, had lived with the immeasurable Giant Antaeus. In the remaining part of the story, I shall tell you of a far more astonishing battle than any that was fought between the Pygmies and the cranes. One day the mighty Antaeus was lolling at full length among his little friends. His pine-tree walking stick lay on the ground, close by his side. His head was in one part of the kingdom, and his feet extended across the boundaries of another part; and he was taking whatever comfort he could get, while the Pygmies scrambled over him, and peeped into his cavernous mouth, and played among his hair. Sometimes, for a minute or two, the Giant dropped asleep, and snored like the rush of a whirlwind. During one of these little bits of slumber, a Pygmy chanced to climb upon his shoulder, and took a view around the horizon, as from the summit of a hill; and he beheld something, a long way off, which made him rub the bright specks of his eyes, and look sharper than before. At first he mistook it for a mountain, and wondered how it had grown up so suddenly out of the earth. But soon he saw the mountain move. As it came nearer and nearer, what should it turn out to be but a human shape, not so big as Antaeus, it is true, although a very enormous figure, in comparison with Pygmies, and a vast deal bigger than the men we see nowadays. When the Pygmy was quite satisfied that his eyes had not deceived him, he scampered, as fast as his legs would carry him, to the Giant's ear, and stooping over its cavity, shouted lustily into it: "Halloo, brother Antaeus! Get up this minute, and take your pine-tree walking stick in your hand. Here comes another Giant to have a tussle with you." "Poh, poh!" grumbled Antaeus, only half awake. "None of your nonsense, my little fellow! Don't you see I'm sleepy? There is not a Giant on earth for whom I would take the trouble to get up." But the Pygmy looked again, and now perceived that the stranger was coming directly towards the prostrate form of Antaeus. With every step, he looked less like a blue mountain, and more like an immensely large man. He was soon so nigh, that there could be no possible mistake about the matter. There he was, with the sun flaming on his golden helmet, and flashing from his polished breastplate; he had a sword by his side, and a lion's skin over his back, and on his right shoulder he carried a club, which looked bulkier and heavier than the pine-tree walking stick of Antaeus. By this time, the whole nation of the Pygmies had seen the new wonder, and a million of them set up a shout all together; so that it really made quite an audible squeak. "Get up, Antaeus! Bestir yourself, you lazy old Giant! Here comes another Giant, as strong as you are, to fight with you." "Nonsense, nonsense!" growled the sleepy Giant. "I'll have my nap out, come who may." Still the stranger drew nearer; and now the Pygmies could plainly discern that, if his stature were less lofty than the Giant's, yet his shoulders were even broader. And, in truth, what a pair of shoulders they must have been! As I told you, a long while ago, they once upheld the sky. The Pygmies, being ten times as vivacious as their great numskull of a brother, could not abide the Giant's slow movements, and were determined to have him on his feet. So they kept shouting to him, and even went so far as to prick him with their swords. "Get up, get up, get up," they cried. "Up with you, lazy bones! The strange Giant's club is bigger than your own, his shoulders are the broadest, and we think him the stronger of the two." Antaeus could not endure to have it said that any mortal was half so mighty as himself. This latter remark of the Pygmies pricked him deeper than their swords; and, sitting up, in rather a sulky humor, he gave a gape of several yards wide, rubbed his eyes, and finally turned his stupid head in the direction whither his little friends were eagerly pointing. No sooner did he set eyes on the stranger, than, leaping on his feet, and seizing his walking stick, he strode a mile or two to meet him; all the while brandishing the sturdy pine tree, so that it whistled through the air. "Who are you?" thundered the Giant. "And what do you want in my dominions?" There was one strange thing about Antaeus, of which I have not yet told you, lest, hearing of so many wonders all in a lump, you might not believe much more than half of them. You are to know, then, that whenever this redoubtable Giant touched the ground, either with his hand, his foot, or any other part of his body, he grew stronger than ever he had been before. The Earth, you remember, was his mother, and was very fond of him, as being almost the biggest of her children; and so she took this method of keeping him always in full vigor. Some persons affirm that he grew ten times stronger at every touch; others say that it was only twice as strong. But only think of it! Whenever Antaeus took a walk, supposing it were but ten miles, and that he stepped a hundred yards at a stride, you may try to cipher out how much mightier he was, on sitting down again, than when he first started. And whenever he flung himself on the earth to take a little repose, even if he got up the very next instant, he would be as strong as exactly ten just such giants as his former self. It was well for the world that Antaeus happened to be of a sluggish disposition and liked ease better than exercise; for, if he had frisked about like the Pygmies, and touched the earth as often as they did, he would long ago have been strong enough to pull down the sky about people's ears. But these great lubberly fellows resemble mountains, not only in bulk, but in their disinclination to move. Any other mortal man, except the very one whom Antaeus had now encountered, would have been half frightened to death by the Giant's ferocious aspect and terrible voice. But the stranger did not seem at all disturbed. He carelessly lifted his club, and balanced it in his hand, measuring Antaeus with his eye, from head to foot, not as if wonder-smitten at his stature, but as if he had seen a great many Giants before, and this was by no means the biggest of them. In fact, if the Giant had been no bigger than the Pygmies (who stood pricking up their ears, and looking and listening to what was going forward), the stranger could not have been less afraid of him. "Who are you, I say?" roared Antaeus again. "What's your name? Why do you come hither? Speak, you vagabond, or I'll try the thickness of your skull with my walking-stick!" "You are a very discourteous Giant," answered the stranger quietly, "and I shall probably have to teach you a little civility, before we part. As for my name, it is Hercules. I have come hither because this is my most convenient road to the garden of the Hesperides, whither I am going to get three of the golden apples for King Eurystheus." "Caitiff, you shall go no farther!" bellowed Antaeus, putting on a grimmer look than before; for he had heard of the mighty Hercules, and hated him because he was said to be so strong. "Neither shall you go back whence you came!" "How will you prevent me," asked Hercules, "from going whither I please?" "By hitting you a rap with this pine tree here," shouted Antaeus, scowling so that he made himself the ugliest monster in Africa. "I am fifty times stronger than you; and now that I stamp my foot upon the ground, I am five hundred times stronger! I am ashamed to kill such a puny little dwarf as you seem to be. I will make a slave of you, and you shall likewise be the slave of my brethren here, the Pygmies. So throw down your club and your other weapons; and as for that lion's skin, I intend to have a pair of gloves made of it." "Come and take it off my shoulders, then," answered Hercules, lifting his club. Then the Giant, grinning with rage, strode tower-like towards the stranger (ten times strengthened at every step), and fetched a monstrous blow at him with his pine tree, which Hercules caught upon his club; and being more skilful than Antaeus, he paid him back such a rap upon the sconce, that down tumbled the great lumbering man-mountain, flat upon the ground. The poor little Pygmies (who really never dreamed that anybody in the world was half so strong as their brother Antaeus) were a good deal dismayed at this. But no sooner was the Giant down, than up he bounced again, with tenfold might, and such a furious visage as was horrible to behold. He aimed another blow at Hercules, but struck awry, being blinded with wrath, and only hit his poor innocent Mother Earth, who groaned and trembled at the stroke. His pine tree went so deep into the ground, and stuck there so fast, that, before Antaeus could get it out, Hercules brought down his club across his shoulders with a mighty thwack, which made the Giant roar as if all sorts of intolerable noises had come screeching and rumbling out of his immeasurable lungs in that one cry. Away it went, over mountains and valleys, and, for aught I know, was heard on the other side of the African deserts. As for the Pygmies, their capital city was laid in ruins by the concussion and vibration of the air; and, though there was uproar enough without their help, they all set up a shriek out of three millions of little throats, fancying, no doubt, that they swelled the Giant's bellow by at least ten times as much. Meanwhile, Antaeus had scrambled upon his feet again, and pulled his pine tree out of the earth; and, all aflame with fury, and more outrageously strong than ever, he ran at Hercules, and brought down another blow. "This time, rascal," shouted he, "you shall not escape me." But once more Hercules warded off the stroke with his club, and the Giant's pine tree was shattered into a thousand splinters, most of which flew among the Pygmies, and did them more mischief than I like to think about. Before Antaeus could get out of the way, Hercules let drive again, and gave him another knock-down blow, which sent him heels over head, but served only to increase his already enormous and insufferable strength. As for his rage, there is no telling what a fiery furnace it had now got to be. His one eye was nothing but a circle of red flame. Having now no weapons but his fists, he doubled them up (each bigger than a hogshead), smote one against the other, and danced up and down with absolute frenzy, flourishing his immense arms about, as if he meant not merely to kill Hercules, but to smash the whole world to pieces. "Come on!" roared this thundering Giant. "Let me hit you but one box on the ear, and you'll never have the headache again." Now Hercules (though strong enough, as you already know, to hold the sky up) began to be sensible that he should never win the victory, if he kept on knocking Antaeus down; for, by and by, if he hit him such hard blows, the Giant would inevitably, by the help of his Mother Earth, become stronger than the mighty Hercules himself. So, throwing down his club, with which he had fought so many dreadful battles, the hero stood ready to receive his antagonist with naked arms. "Step forward," cried he. "Since I've broken your pine tree, we'll try which is the better man at a wrestling match." "Aha! then I'll soon satisfy you," shouted the Giant; for, if there was one thing on which he prided himself more than another, it was his skill in wrestling. "Villain, I'll fling you where you can never pick yourself up again." On came Antaeus, hopping and capering with the scorching heat of his rage, and getting new vigor wherewith to wreak his passion, every time he hopped. But Hercules, you must understand, was wiser than this numskull of a Giant, and had thought of a way to fight him--huge, earth-born monster that he was--and to conquer him too, in spite of all that his Mother Earth could do for him. Watching his opportunity, as the mad Giant made a rush at him, Hercules caught him round the middle with both hands, lifted him high into the air, and held him aloft overhead. Just imagine it, my dear little friends. What a spectacle it must have been, to see this monstrous fellow sprawling in the air, face downwards, kicking out his long legs and wriggling his whole vast body, like a baby when its father holds it at arm's length towards the ceiling. But the most wonderful thing was, that, as soon as Antaeus was fairly off the earth, he began to lose the vigor which he had gained by touching it. Hercules very soon perceived that his troublesome enemy was growing weaker, both because he struggled and kicked with less violence, and because the thunder of his big voice subsided into a grumble. The truth was that unless the Giant touched Mother Earth as often as once in five minutes, not only his overgrown strength, but the very breath of his life, would depart from him. Hercules had guessed this secret; and it may be well for us all to remember it, in case we should ever have to fight a battle with a fellow like Antaeus. For these earth-born creatures are only difficult to conquer on their own ground, but may easily be managed if we can contrive to lift them into a loftier and purer region. So it proved with the poor Giant, whom I am really a little sorry for, notwithstanding his uncivil way of treating strangers who came to visit him. When his strength and breath were quite gone, Hercules gave his huge body a toss, and flung it about a mile off, where it fell heavily, and lay with no more motion than a sand hill. It was too late for the Giant's Mother Earth to help him now; and I should not wonder if his ponderous bones were lying on the same spot to this very day, and were mistaken for those of an uncommonly large elephant. But, alas me! What a wailing did the poor little Pygmies set up when they saw their enormous brother treated in this terrible manner! If Hercules heard their shrieks, however, he took no notice, and perhaps fancied them only the shrill, plaintive twittering of small birds that had been frightened from their nests by the uproar of the battle between himself and Antaeus. Indeed, his thoughts had been so much taken up with the Giant, that he had never once looked at the Pygmies, nor even knew that there was such a funny little nation in the world. And now, as he had traveled a good way, and was also rather weary with his exertions in the fight, he spread out his lion's skin on the ground, and, reclining himself upon it, fell fast asleep. As soon as the Pygmies saw Hercules preparing for a nap, they nodded their little heads at one another, and winked with their little eyes. And when his deep, regular breathing gave them notice that he was asleep, they assembled together in an immense crowd, spreading over a space of about twenty-seven feet square. One of their most eloquent orators (and a valiant warrior enough, besides, though hardly so good at any other weapon as he was with his tongue) climbed upon a toadstool, and, from that elevated position, addressed the multitude. His sentiments were pretty much as follows; or, at all events, something like this was probably the upshot of his speech: "Tall Pygmies and mighty little men! You and all of us have seen what a public calamity has been brought to pass, and what an insult has here been offered to the majesty of our nation. Yonder lies Antaeus, our great friend and brother, slain, within our territory, by a miscreant who took him at disadvantage, and fought him (if fighting it can be called) in a way that neither man, nor Giant, nor Pygmy ever dreamed of fighting, until this hour. And, adding a grievous contumely to the wrong already done us, the miscreant has now fallen asleep as quietly as if nothing were to be dreaded from our wrath! It behooves you, fellow-countrymen, to consider in what aspect we shall stand before the world, and what will be the verdict of impartial history, should we suffer these accumulated outrages to go unavenged. "Antaeus was our brother, born of that same beloved parent to whom we owe the thews and sinews, as well as the courageous hearts, which made him proud of our relationship. He was our faithful ally, and fell fighting as much for our national rights and immunities as for his own personal ones. We and our forefathers have dwelt in friendship with him, and held affectionate intercourse as man to man, through immemorial generations. You remember how often our entire people have reposed in his great shadow, and how our little ones have played at hide-and-seek in the tangles of his hair, and how his mighty footsteps have familiarly gone to and fro among us, and never trodden upon any of our toes. And there lies this dear brother--this sweet and amiable friend--this brave and faithful ally---this virtuous Giant--this blameless and excellent Antaeus--dead! Dead! Silent! Powerless! A mere mountain of clay! Forgive my tears! Nay, I behold your own. Were we to drown the world with them, could the world blame us? "But to resume: Shall we, my countrymen, suffer this wicked stranger to depart unharmed, and triumph in his treacherous victory, among distant communities of the earth? Shall we not rather compel him to leave his bones here on our soil, by the side of our slain brother's bones? So that, while one skeleton shall remain as the everlasting monument of our sorrow, the other shall endure as long, exhibiting to the whole human race a terrible example of Pygmy vengeance! Such is the question. I put it to you in full confidence of a response that shall be worthy of our national character, and calculated to increase, rather than diminish, the glory which our ancestors have transmitted to us, and which we ourselves have proudly vindicated in our warfare with the cranes." The orator was here interrupted by a burst of irrepressible enthusiasm; every individual Pygmy crying out that the national honor must be preserved at all hazards. He bowed, and, making a gesture for silence, wound up his harangue in the following admirable manner: "It only remains for us, then, to decide whether we shall carry on the war in our national capacity--one united people against a common enemy--or whether some champion, famous in former fights, shall be selected to defy the slayer of our brother Antaeus to single combat. In the latter case, though not unconscious that there may be taller men among you, I hereby offer myself for that enviable duty. And believe me, dear countrymen, whether I live or die, the honor of this great country, and the fame bequeathed us by our heroic progenitors, shall suffer no diminution in my hands. Never, while I can wield this sword, of which I now fling away the scabbard--never, never, never, even if the crimson hand that slew the great Antaeus shall lay me prostrate, like him, on the soil which I give my life to defend." So saying, this valiant Pygmy drew out his weapon (which was terrible to behold, being as long as the blade of a penknife), and sent the scabbard whirling over the heads of the multitude. His speech was followed by an uproar of applause, as its patriotism and self-devotion unquestionably deserved; and the shouts and clapping of hands would have been greatly prolonged, had they not been rendered quite inaudible by a deep respiration, vulgarly called a snore, from the sleeping Hercules. It was finally decided that the whole nation of Pygmies should set to work to destroy Hercules; not, be it understood, from any doubt that a single champion would be capable of putting him to the sword, but because he was a public enemy, and all were desirous of sharing in the glory of his defeat. There was a debate whether the national honor did not demand that a herald should be sent with a trumpet, to stand over the ear of Hercules, and after blowing a blast right into it, to defy him to the combat by formal proclamation. But two or three venerable and sagacious Pygmies, well versed in state affairs, gave it as their opinion that war already existed, and that it was their rightful privilege to take the enemy by surprise. Moreover, if awakened, and allowed to get upon his feet, Hercules might happen to do them a mischief before he could be beaten down again. For, as these sage counselors remarked, the stranger's club was really very big, and had rattled like a thunderbolt against the skull of Antaeus. So the Pygmies resolved to set aside all foolish punctilios, and assail their antagonist at once. Accordingly, all the fighting men of the nation took their weapons, and went boldly up to Hercules, who still lay fast asleep, little dreaming of the harm which the Pygmies meant to do him. A body of twenty thousand archers marched in front, with their little bows all ready, and the arrows on the string. The same number were ordered to clamber upon Hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles of hay, and all manner of rubbish with which they intended to plug up his mouth and nostrils, so that he might perish for lack of breath. These last, however, could by no means perform their appointed duty; inasmuch as the enemy's breath rushed out of his nose in an obstreperous hurricane and whirlwind, which blew the Pygmies away as fast as they came nigh. It was found necessary, therefore, to hit upon some other method of carrying on the war. After holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect sticks, straws, dry weeds, and whatever combustible stuff they could find, and make a pile of it, heaping it high around the head of Hercules. As a great many thousand Pygmies were employed in this task, they soon brought together several bushels of inflammatory matter, and raised so tall a heap, that, mounting on its summit, they were quite upon a level with the sleeper's face. The archers, meanwhile, were stationed within bow shot, with orders to let fly at Hercules the instant that he stirred. Everything being in readiness, a torch was applied to the pile, which immediately burst into flames, and soon waxed hot enough to roast the enemy, had he but chosen to lie still. A Pygmy, you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire, just as easily as a Giant could; so that this was certainly the very best way of dealing with their foe, provided they could have kept him quiet while the conflagration was going forward. But no sooner did Hercules begin to be scorched, than up he started, with his hair in a red blaze. "What's all this?" he cried, bewildered with sleep, and staring about him as if he expected to see another Giant. At that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bowstrings, and the arrows came whizzing, like so many winged mosquitoes, right into the face of Hercules. But I doubt whether more than half a dozen of them punctured the skin, which was remarkably tough, as you know the skin of a hero has good need to be. "Villain!" shouted all the Pygmies at once. "You have killed the Giant Antaeus, our great brother, and the ally of our nation. We declare bloody war against you, and will slay you on the spot." Surprised at the shrill piping of so many little voices, Hercules, after putting out the conflagration of his hair, gazed all round about, but could see nothing. At last, however, looking narrowly on the ground, he espied the innumerable assemblage of Pygmies at his feet. He stooped down, and taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set him on the palm of his left hand, and held him at a proper distance for examination. It chanced to be the very identical Pygmy who had spoken from the top of the toadstool, and had offered himself as a champion to meet Hercules in single combat. "What in the world, my little fellow," ejaculated Hercules, "may you be?" "I am your enemy," answered the valiant Pygmy, in his mightiest squeak. "You have slain the enormous Antaeus, our brother by the mother's side, and for ages the faithful ally of our illustrious nation. We are determined to put you to death; and for my own part, I challenge you to instant battle, on equal ground." Hercules was so tickled with the Pygmy's big words and warlike gestures, that he burst into a great explosion of laughter, and almost dropped the poor little mite of a creature off the palm of his hand, through the ecstasy and convulsion of his merriment. "Upon my word," cried he, "I thought I had seen wonders before to-day--hydras with nine heads, stags with golden horns, six-legged men, three-headed dogs, giants with furnaces in their stomachs, and nobody knows what besides. But here, on the palm of my hand, stands a wonder that outdoes them all! Your body, my little friend, is about the size of an ordinary man's finger. Pray, how big may your soul be?" "As big as your own!" said the Pygmy. Hercules was touched with the little man's dauntless courage, and could not help acknowledging such a brotherhood with him as one hero feels for another. "My good little people," said he, making a low obeisance to the grand nation, "not for all the world would I do an intentional injury to such brave fellows as you! Your hearts seem to me so exceedingly great, that, upon my honor, I marvel how your small bodies can contain them. I sue for peace, and, as a condition of it, will take five strides, and be out of your kingdom at the sixth. Good-bye. I shall pick my steps carefully, for fear of treading upon some fifty of you, without knowing it. Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! For once, Hercules acknowledges himself vanquished." Some writers say, that Hercules gathered up the whole race of Pygmies in his lion's skin, and carried them home to Greece, for the children of King Eurystheus to play with. But this is a mistake. He left them, one and all, within their own territory, where, for aught I can tell, their descendants are alive to the present day, building their little houses, cultivating their little fields, spanking their little children, waging their little warfare with the cranes, doing their little business, whatever it may be, and reading their little histories of ancient times. In those histories, perhaps, it stands recorded, that, a great many centuries ago, the valiant Pygmies avenged the death of the Giant Antaeus by scaring away the mighty Hercules. THE DRAGON'S TEETH. Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, and their little sister Europa (who was a very beautiful child), were at play together near the seashore in their father's kingdom of Phoenicia. They had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents dwelt, and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the sea, all sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently against the beach. The three boys were very happy, gathering flowers, and twining them into garlands, with which they adorned the little Europa. Seated on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an abundance of buds and blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily out, and, as Cadmus said, was the prettiest of all the flowers. Just then, there came a splendid butterfly, fluttering along the meadow; and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out that it was a flower with wings. Europa, who was a little wearied with playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers, but sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes. For a while, she listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a voice saying "Hush!" and bidding her go to sleep. But the pretty child, if she slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment, when she heard something trample on the grass, not far from her, and, peeping out from the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull. And whence could this bull have come? Europa and her brothers had been a long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other living thing, either there or on the neighboring hills. "Brother Cadmus!" cried Europa, starting up out of the midst of the roses and lilies. "Phoenix! Cilix! Where are you all? Help! Help! Come and drive away this bull!" But her brothers were too far off to hear; especially as the fright took away Europa's voice, and hindered her from calling very loudly. So there she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white lilies that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands. Nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the bull, rather than anything frightful in his appearance, that caused Europa so much alarm. On looking at him more attentively, she began to see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly amiable expression in his face. As for his breath--the breath of cattle, you know, is always sweet--it was as fragrant as if he had been grazing on no other food than rosebuds, or at least, the most delicate of clover blossoms. Never before did a bull have such bright and tender eyes, and such smooth horns of ivory, as this one. And the bull ran little races, and capered sportively around the child; so that she quite forgot how big and strong he was, and, from the gentleness and playfulness of his actions, soon came to consider him as innocent a creature as a pet lamb. Thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen Europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and ivory horns. Then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them out of her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be friends with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had touched. Well, my stars! was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty, and amiable creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a little girl? When the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is really wonderful to think of), when he saw that Europa was no longer afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself for delight. He frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping from twig to twig. Indeed, his motion was as light as if he were flying through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their print in the grassy soil over which he trod. With his spotless hue, he resembled a snow drift, wafted along by the wind. Once he galloped so far away that Europa feared lest she might never see him again; so, setting up her childish voice, called him back. "Come back, pretty creature!" she cried. "Here is a nice clover blossom." And then it was delightful to witness the gratitude of this amiable bull, and how he was so full of joy and thankfulness that he capered higher than ever. He came running, and bowed his head before Europa, as if he knew her to be a king's daughter, or else recognized the important truth that a little girl is everybody's queen. And not only did the bull bend his neck, he absolutely knelt down at her feet, and made such intelligent nods, and other inviting gestures, that Europa understood what he meant just as well as if he had put it in so many words. "Come, dear child," was what he wanted to say, "let me give you a ride on my back." At the first thought of such a thing, Europa drew back. But then she considered in her wise little head that there could be no possible harm in taking just one gallop on the back of this docile and friendly animal, who would certainly set her down the very instant she desired it. And how it would surprise her brothers to see her riding across the green meadow! And what merry times they might have, either taking turns for a gallop, or clambering on the gentle creature, all four children together, and careering round the field with shouts of laughter that would be heard as far off as King Agenor's palace! "I think I will do it," said the child to herself. And, indeed, why not? She cast a glance around, and caught a glimpse of Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, who were still in pursuit of the butterfly, almost at the other end of the meadow. It would be the quickest way of rejoining them, to get upon the white bull's back. She came a step nearer to him therefore; and--sociable creature that he was--he showed so much joy at this mark of her confidence, that the child could not find in her heart to hesitate any longer. Making one bound (for this little princess was as active as a squirrel), there sat Europa on the beautiful bull, holding an ivory horn in each hand, lest she should fall off. "Softly, pretty bull, softly!" she said, rather frightened at what she had done. "Do not gallop too fast." Having got the child on his back, the animal gave a leap into the air, and came down so like a feather that Europa did not know when his hoofs touched the ground. He then began a race to that part of the flowery plain where her three brothers were, and where they had just caught their splendid butterfly. Europa screamed with delight; and Phoenix, Cilix, and Cadmus stood gaping at the spectacle of their sister mounted on a white bull, not knowing whether to be frightened or to wish the same good luck for themselves. The gentle and innocent creature (for who could possibly doubt that he was so?) pranced round among the children as sportively as a kitten. Europa all the while looked down upon her brothers, nodding and laughing, but yet with a sort of stateliness in her rosy little face. As the bull wheeled about to take another gallop across the meadow, the child waved her hand, and said, "Good-bye," playfully pretending that she was now bound on a distant journey, and might not see her brothers again for nobody could tell how long. "Good-bye," shouted Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, all in one breath. But, together with her enjoyment of the sport, there was still a little remnant of fear in the child's heart; so that her last look at the three boys was a troubled one, and made them feel as if their dear sister were really leaving them forever. And what do you think the snowy bull did next? Why, he set off, as swift as the wind, straight down to the seashore, scampered across the sand, took an airy leap, and plunged right in among the foaming billows. The white spray rose in a shower over him and little Europa, and fell spattering down upon the water. Then what a scream of terror did the poor child send forth! The three brothers screamed manfully, likewise, and ran to the shore as fast as their legs would carry them, with Cadmus at their head. But it was too late. When they reached the margin of the sand, the treacherous animal was already far away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and tail emerging, and poor little Europa between them, stretching out one hand towards her dear brothers, while she grasped the bull's ivory horn with the other. And there stood Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, gazing at this sad spectacle, through their tears, until they could no longer distinguish the bull's snowy head from the white-capped billows that seemed to boil up out of the sea's depths around him. Nothing more was ever seen of the white bull--nothing more of the beautiful child. This was a mournful story, as you may well think, for the three boys to carry home to their parents. King Agenor, their father, was the ruler of the whole country; but he loved his little daughter Europa better than his kingdom, or than all his other children, or than anything else in the world. Therefore, when Cadmus and his two brothers came crying home, and told him how that a white bull had carried off their sister, and swam with her over the sea, the king was quite beside himself with grief and rage. Although it was now twilight, and fast growing dark, he bade them set out instantly in search of her. "Never shall you see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring me back my little Europa, to gladden me with her smiles and her pretty ways. Begone, and enter my presence no more, till you come leading her by the hand." As King Agenor said this, his eyes flashed fire (for he was a very passionate king), and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys did not even venture to ask for their suppers, but slunk away out of the palace, and only paused on the steps a moment to consult whither they should go first. While they were standing there, all in dismay, their mother, Queen Telephassa (who happened not to be by when they told the story to the king), came hurrying after them, and said that she too would go in quest of her daughter. "O, no, mother!" cried the boys. "The night is dark, and there is no knowing what troubles and perils we may meet with." "Alas! my dear children," answered poor Queen Telephassa; weeping bitterly, "that is only another reason why I should go with you. If I should lose you, too, as well as my little Europa, what would become of me!" "And let me go likewise!" said their playfellow Thasus, who came running to join them. Thasus was the son of a seafaring person in the neighborhood; he had been brought up with the young princes, and was their intimate friend, and loved Europa very much; so they consented that he should accompany them. The whole party, therefore, set forth together. Cadmus, Phoenix, Cilix, and Thasus clustered round Queen Telephassa, grasping her skirts, and begging her to lean upon their shoulders whenever she felt weary. In this manner they went down the palace steps, and began a journey, which turned out to be a great deal longer than they dreamed of. The last that they saw of King Agenor, he came to the door, with a servant holding a torch beside him, and called after them into the gathering darkness: "Remember! Never ascend these steps again without the child!" "Never!" sobbed Queen Telephassa; and the three brothers and Thasus answered, "Never! Never! Never! Never!" And they kept their word. Year after year, King Agenor sat in the solitude of his beautiful palace, listening in vain for their returning footsteps, hoping to hear the familiar voice of the queen, and the cheerful talk of his sons and their playfellow Thasus, entering the door together, and the sweet, childish accents of little Europa in the midst of them. But so long a time went by, that, at last, if they had really come, the king would not have known that this was the voice of Telephassa, and these the younger voices that used to make such joyful echoes, when the children were playing about the palace. We must now leave King Agenor to sit on his throne, and must go along with Queen Telephassa, and her four youthful companions. They went on and on, and traveled a long way, and passed over mountains and rivers, and sailed over seas. Here, and there, and everywhere, they made continual inquiry if any person could tell them what had become of Europa. The rustic people, of whom they asked this question, paused a little while from their labors in the field, and looked very much surprised. They thought it strange to behold a woman in the garb of a queen (for Telephassa in her haste had forgotten to take off her crown and her royal robes), roaming about the country, with four lads around her, on such an errand as this seemed to be. But nobody could give them any tidings of Europa; nobody had seen a little girl dressed like a princess, and mounted on a snow-white bull, which galloped as swiftly as the wind. I cannot tell you how long Queen Telephassa, and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, her three sons, and Thasus, their playfellow, went wandering along the highways and bypaths, or through the pathless wildernesses of the earth, in this manner. But certain it is, that, before they reached any place of rest, their splendid garments were quite worn out. They all looked very much travel-stained, and would have had the dust of many countries on their shoes, if the streams, through which they waded, had not washed it all away. When they had been gone a year, Telephassa threw away her crown, because it chafed her forehead. "It has given me many a headache," said the poor queen, "and it cannot cure my heartache." As fast as their princely robes got torn and tattered, they exchanged them for such mean attire as ordinary people wore. By and by, they come to have a wild and homeless aspect; so that you would much sooner have taken them for a gypsy family than a queen and three princes, and a young nobleman, who had once a palace for a home, and a train of servants to do their bidding. The four boys grew up to be tall young men, with sunburnt faces. Each of them girded on a sword, to defend themselves against the perils of the way. When the husbandmen, at whose farmhouses they sought hospitality, needed their assistance in the harvest field, they gave it willingly; and Queen Telephassa (who had done no work in her palace, save to braid silk threads with golden ones) came behind them to bind the sheaves. If payment was offered, they shook their heads, and only asked for tidings of Europa. "There are bulls enough in my pasture," the old farmers would reply; "but I never heard of one like this you tell me of. A snow-white bull with a little princess on his back! Ho! ho! I ask your pardon, good folks; but there never such a sight seen hereabouts." At last, when his upper lip began to have the down on it, Phoenix grew weary of rambling hither and thither to no purpose. So one day, when they happened to be passing through a pleasant and solitary tract of country, he sat himself down on a heap of moss. "I can go no farther," said Phoenix. "It is a mere foolish waste of life, to spend it as we do, always wandering up and down, and never coming to any home at nightfall. Our sister is lost, and never will be found. She probably perished in the sea; or, to whatever shore the white bull may have carried her, it is now so many years ago, that there would be neither love nor acquaintance between us, should we meet again. My father has forbidden us to return to his palace, so I shall build me a hut of branches, and dwell here." "Well, son Phoenix," said Telephassa, sorrowfully, "you have grown to be a man, and must do as you judge best. But, for my part, I will still go in quest of my poor child." "And we three will go along with you!" cried Cadmus and Cilix, and their faithful friend Thasus. But, before setting out, they all helped Phoenix to build a habitation. When completed, it was a sweet rural bower, roofed overhead with an arch of living boughs. Inside there were two pleasant rooms, one of which had a soft heap of moss for a bed, while the other was furnished with a rustic seat or two, curiously fashioned out of the crooked roots of trees. So comfortable and home-like did it seem, that Telephassa and her three companions could not help sighing, to think that they must still roam about the world, instead of spending the remainder of their lives in some such cheerful abode as they had here built for Phoenix. But, when they bade him farewell, Phoenix shed tears, and probably regretted that he was no longer to keep them company. However, he had fixed upon an admirable place to dwell in. And by and by there came other people, who chanced to have no homes; and, seeing how pleasant a spot it was, they built themselves huts in the neighborhood of Phoenix's habitation. Thus, before many years went by, a city had grown up there, in the center of which was seen a stately palace of marble, wherein dwelt Phoenix, clothed in a purple robe, and wearing a golden crown upon his head. For the inhabitants of the new city, finding that he had royal blood in his veins, had chosen him to be their king. The very first decree of state which King Phoenix issued was, that, if a maiden happened to arrive in the kingdom, mounted on a snow-white bull, and calling herself Europa, his subjects should treat her with the greatest kindness and respect, and immediately bring her to the palace. You may see, by this, that Phoenix's conscience never quite ceased to trouble him, for giving up the quest of his dear sister, and sitting himself down to be comfortable, while his mother and her companions went onward. But often and often, at the close of a weary day's journey, did Telephassa and Cadmus, Cilix, and Thasus, remember the pleasant spot in which they had left Phoenix. It was a sorrowful prospect for these wanderers, that on the morrow they must again set forth, and that, after many nightfalls, they would perhaps be no nearer the close of their toilsome pilgrimage than now. These thoughts made them all melancholy at times, but appeared to torment Cilix more than the rest of the party. At length, one morning, when they were taking their staffs in hand to set out, he thus addressed them: "My dear mother, and you, good brother Cadmus, and my friend Thasus, methinks we are like people in a dream. There is no substance in the life which we are leading. It is such a dreary length of time since the white bull carried off my sister Europa, that I have quite forgotten how she looked, and the tones of her voice, and, indeed, almost doubt whether such a little girl ever lived in the world. And whether she once lived or no, I am convinced that she no longer survives, and that therefore it is the merest folly to waste our own lives and happiness in seeking her. Were we to find her, she would now be a woman grown, and would look upon us all as strangers. So, to tell you the truth, I have resolved to take up my abode here; and I entreat you, mother, brother, and friend, to follow my example." "Not I, for one," said Telephassa; although the poor queen, firmly as she spoke, was so travel-worn that she could hardly put her foot to the ground. "Not I, for one! In the depths of my heart, little Europa is still the rosy child who ran to gather flowers so many years ago. She has not grown to womanhood, nor forgotten me. At noon, at night, journeying onward, sitting down to rest, her childish voice is always in my ears, calling, 'Mother! mother!' Stop here who may, there is no repose for me." "Nor for me," said Cadmus, "while my dear mother pleases to go onward." And the faithful Thasus, too, was resolved to bear them company. They remained with Cilix a few days, however, and helped him to build a rustic bower, resembling the one which they had formerly built for Phoenix. When they were bidding him farewell Cilix burst into tears, and told his mother that it seemed just as melancholy a dream to stay there, in solitude, as to go onward. If she really believed that they would ever find Europa, he was willing to continue the search with them, even now. But Telephassa bade him remain there, and be happy, if his own heart would let him. So the pilgrims took their leave of him, and departed, and were hardly out of sight before some other wandering people came along that way, and saw Cilix's habitation, and were greatly delighted with the appearance of the place. There being abundance of unoccupied ground in the neighborhood, these strangers built huts for themselves, and were soon joined by a multitude of new settlers, who quickly formed a city. In the middle of it was seen a magnificent palace of colored marble, on the balcony of which, every noontide, appeared Cilix, in a long purple robe, and with a jeweled crown upon his head; for the inhabitants, when they found out that he was a king's son, had considered him the fittest of all men to be a king himself. One of the first acts of King Cilix's government was to send out an expedition, consisting of a grave ambassador, and an escort of bold and hardy young men, with orders to visit the principal kingdoms of the earth, and inquire whether a young maiden had passed through those regions, galloping swiftly on a white bull. It is, therefore, plain to my mind, that Cilix secretly blamed himself for giving up the search for Europa, as long as he was able to put one foot before the other. As for Telephassa, and Cadmus, and the good Thasus, it grieves me to think of them, still keeping up that weary pilgrimage. The two young men did their best for the poor queen, helping her over the rough places, often carrying her across rivulets in their faithful arms and seeking to shelter her at nightfall, even when they themselves lay on the ground. Sad, sad it was to hear them asking of every passer-by if he had seen Europa, so long after the white bull had carried her away. But, though the gray years thrust themselves between, and made the child's figure dim in their remembrance, neither of these true-hearted three ever dreamed of giving up the search. One morning, however, poor Thasus found that he had sprained his ankle, and could not possibly go a step farther. "After a few days, to be sure," said he, mournfully, "I might make shift to hobble along with a stick. But that would only delay you, and perhaps hinder you from finding dear little Europa, after all your pains and trouble. Do you go forward, therefore, my beloved companions, and leave me to follow as I may." "Thou hast been a true friend, dear Thasus," said Queen Telephassa, kissing his forehead. "Being neither my son, nor the brother of our lost Europa, thou hast shown thyself truer to me and her than Phoenix and Cilix did, whom we have left behind us. Without thy loving help, and that of my son Cadmus, my limbs could not have borne me half so far as this. Now, take thy rest, and be at peace. For--and it is the first time I have owned it to myself--I begin to question whether we shall ever find my beloved daughter in this world." Saying this, the poor queen shed tears, because it was a grievous trial to the mother's heart to confess that her hopes were growing faint. From that day forward, Cadmus noticed that she never traveled with the same alacrity of spirit that had heretofore supported her. Her weight was heavier upon his arm. Before setting out, Cadmus helped Thasus build a bower; while Telephassa, being too infirm to give any great assistance, advised them how to fit it up and furnish it, so that it might be as comfortable as a hut of branches could. Thasus, however, did not spend all his days in this green bower. For it happened to him, as to Phoenix and Cilix, that other homeless people visited the spot, and liked it, and built themselves habitations in the neighborhood. So here, in the course of a few years, was another thriving city, with a red freestone palace in the center of it, where Thasus sat upon a throne, doing justice to the people, with a purple robe over his shoulders, a sceptre in his hand, and a crown upon his head. The inhabitants had made him king, not for the sake of any royal blood (for none was in his veins), but because Thasus was an upright, true-hearted, and courageous man, and therefore fit to rule. But when the affairs of his kingdom were all settled, King Thasus laid aside his purple robe and crown, and sceptre, and bade his worthiest subjects distribute justice to the people in his stead. Then, grasping the pilgrim's staff that had supported him so long, he set forth again, hoping still to discover some hoof-mark of the snow-white bull, some trace of the vanished child. He returned after a lengthened absence, and sat down wearily upon his throne. To his latest hour, nevertheless, King Thasus showed his true-hearted remembrance of Europa, by ordering that a fire should always be kept burning in his palace, and a bath steaming hot, and food ready to be served up, and a bed with snow-white sheets, in case the maiden should arrive, and require immediate refreshment. And, though Europa never came, the good Thasus had the blessings of many a poor traveler, who profited by the food and lodging which were meant for the little playmate of the king's boyhood. Telephassa and Cadmus were now pursuing their weary way, with no companion but each other. The queen leaned heavily upon her son's arm, and could walk only a few miles a day. But for all her weakness and weariness, she would not be persuaded to give up the search. It was enough to bring tears into the eyes of bearded men to hear the melancholy tone with which she inquired of every stranger whether he could not tell her any news of the lost child. "Have you seen a little girl--no, no, I mean a young maiden of full growth--passing by this way, mounted on a snow-white bull, which gallops as swiftly as the wind?" "We have seen no such wondrous sight," the people would reply; and very often, taking Cadmus aside, they whispered to him, "Is this stately and sad-looking woman your mother? Surely she is not in her right mind; and you ought to take her home, and make her comfortable, and do your best to get this dream out of her fancy." "It is no dream," said Cadmus. "Everything else is a dream, save that." But, one day, Telephassa seemed feebler than usual, and leaned almost her whole weight on the arm of Cadmus, and walked more slowly than ever before. At last they reached a solitary spot, where she told her son that she must needs lie down, and take a good long rest. "A good long rest!" she repeated, looking Cadmus tenderly in the face. "A good long rest, thou dearest one!" "As long as you please, dear mother," answered Cadmus. Telephassa bade him sit down on the turf beside her, and then she took his hand. "My son," said she, fixing her dim eyes most lovingly upon him, "this rest that I speak of will be very long indeed! You must not wait till it is finished. Dear Cadmus, you do not comprehend me. You must make a grave here, and lay your mother's weary frame into it. My pilgrimage is over." Cadmus burst into tears, and, for a long time, refused to believe that his dear mother was now to be taken from him. But Telephassa reasoned with him, and kissed him, and at length made him discern that it was better for her spirit to pass away out of the toil, the weariness, and grief, and disappointment which had burdened her on earth, ever since the child was lost. He therefore repressed his sorrow, and listened to her last words. "Dearest Cadmus," said she, "thou hast been the truest son that ever mother had, and faithful to the very last. Who else would have borne with my infirmities as thou hast! It is owing to thy care, thou tenderest child, that my grave was not dug long years ago, in some valley, or on some hillside, that lies far, far behind us. It is enough. Thou shalt wander no more on this hopeless search. But, when thou hast laid thy mother in the earth, then go, my son, to Delphi, and inquire of the oracle what thou shalt do next." "O mother, mother," cried Cadmus, "couldst thou but have seen my sister before this hour!" "It matters little now," answered Telephassa, and there was a smile upon her face. "I go now to the better world, and, sooner or later, shall find my daughter there." I will not sadden you, my little hearers, with telling how Telephassa died and was buried, but will only say, that her dying smile grew brighter, instead of vanishing from her dead face; so that Cadmus left convinced that, at her very first step into the better world, she had caught Europa in her arms. He planted some flowers on his mother's grave, and left them to grow there, and make the place beautiful, when he should be far away. After performing this last sorrowful duty, he set forth alone, and took the road towards the famous oracle of Delphi, as Telephassa had advised him. On his way thither, he still inquired of most people whom he met whether they had seen Europa; for, to say the truth, Cadmus had grown so accustomed to ask the question, that it came to his lips as readily as a remark about the weather. He received various answers. Some told him one thing, and some another. Among the rest, a mariner affirmed, that, many years before, in a distant country, he had heard a rumor about a white bull, which came swimming across the sea with a child on his back, dressed up in flowers that were blighted by the sea water. He did not know what had become of the child or the bull; and Cadmus suspected, indeed, by a queer twinkle in the mariner's eyes, that he was putting a joke upon him, and had never really heard anything about the matter. Poor Cadmus found it more wearisome to travel alone than to bear all his dear mother's weight, while she had kept him company. His heart, you will understand, was now so heavy that it seemed impossible, sometimes, to carry it any farther. But his limbs were strong and active, and well accustomed to exercise. He walked swiftly along, thinking of King Agenor and Queen Telephassa, and his brothers, and the friendly Thasus, all of whom he had left behind him, at one point of his pilgrimage or another, and never expected to see them any more. Full of these remembrances, he came within sight of a lofty mountain, which the people thereabouts told him was called Parnassus. On the slope of Mount Parnassus was the famous Delphi, whither Cadmus was going. This Delphi was supposed to be the very midmost spot of the whole world. The place of the oracle was a certain cavity in the mountain side, over which, when Cadmus came thither, he found a rude bower of branches. It reminded him of those which he had helped to build for Phoenix and Cilix, and afterwards for Thasus. In later times, when multitudes of people came from great distances to put questions to the oracle, a spacious temple of marble was erected over the spot. But in the days of Cadmus, as I have told you, there was only this rustic bower, with its abundance of green foliage, and a tuft of shrubbery, that ran wild over the mysterious hole in the hillside. When Cadmus had thrust a passage through the tangled boughs, and made his way into the bower, he did not at first discern the half-hidden cavity. But soon he felt a cold stream of air rushing out of it, with so much force that it shook the ringlets on his cheek. Pulling away the shrubbery which clustered over the hole, he bent forward, and spoke in a distinct but reverential tone, as if addressing some unseen personage inside of the mountain. "Sacred oracle of Delphi," said he, "whither shall I go next in quest of my dear sister Europa?" There was at first a deep silence, and then a rushing sound, or a noise like a long sigh, proceeding out of the interior of the earth. This cavity, you must know, was looked upon as a sort of fountain of truth, which sometimes gushed out in audible words; although, for the most part, these words were such a riddle that they might just as well have staid at the bottom of the hole. But Cadmus was more fortunate than many others who went to Delphi in search of truth. By and by, the rushing noise began to sound like articulate language. It repeated, over and over again, the following sentence, which, after all, was so like the vague whistle of a blast of air, that Cadmus really did not quite know whether it meant anything or not: "Seek her no more! Seek her no more! Seek her no more!" "What, then, shall I do?" asked Cadmus. For, ever since he was a child, you know, it had been the great object of his life to find his sister. From the very hour that he left following the butterfly in the meadow, near his father's palace, he had done his best to follow Europa, over land and sea. And now, if he must give up the search, he seemed to have no more business in the world. But again the sighing gust of air grew into something like a hoarse voice. "Follow the cow!" it said. "Follow the cow! Follow the cow!" And when these words had been repeated until Cadmus was tired of hearing them (especially as he could not imagine what cow it was, or why he was to follow her), the gusty hole gave vent to another sentence. "Where the stray cow lies down, there is your home." These words were pronounced but a single time, and died away into a whisper before Cadmus was fully satisfied that he had caught the meaning. He put other questions, but received no answer; only the gust of wind sighed continually out of the cavity, and blew the withered leaves rustling along the ground before it. "Did there really come any words out of the hole?" thought Cadmus; "or have I been dreaming all this while?" He turned away from the oracle, and thought himself no wiser than when he came thither. Caring little what might happen to him, he took the first path that offered itself, and went along at a sluggish pace; for, having no object in view, nor any reason to go one way more than another, it would certainly have been foolish to make haste. Whenever he met anybody, the old question was at his tongue's end. "Have you seen a beautiful maiden, dressed like a king's daughter, and mounted on a snow-white bull, that gallops as swiftly as the wind?" But, remembering what the oracle had said, he only half uttered the words, and then mumbled the rest indistinctly; and from his confusion, people must have imagined that this handsome young man had lost his wits. I know not how far Cadmus had gone, nor could he himself have told you, when at no great distance before him, he beheld a brindled cow. She was lying down by the wayside, and quietly chewing her cud; nor did she take any notice of the young man until he had approached pretty nigh. Then, getting leisurely upon her feet, and giving her head a gentle toss, she began to move along at a moderate pace, often pausing just long enough to crop a mouthful of grass. Cadmus loitered behind, whistling idly to himself, and scarcely noticing the cow; until the thought occurred to him, whether this could possibly be the animal which, according to the oracle's response, was to serve him for a guide. But he smiled at himself for fancying such a thing. He could not seriously think that this was the cow, because she went along so quietly, behaving just like any other cow. Evidently she neither knew nor cared so much as a wisp of hay about Cadmus, and was only thinking how to get her living along the wayside, where the herbage was green and fresh. Perhaps she was going home to be milked. "Cow, cow, cow!" cried Cadmus. "Hey, Brindle, hey! Stop, my good cow!" He wanted to come up with the cow, so as to examine her, and see if she would appear to know him, or whether there were any peculiarities to distinguish her from a thousand other cows, whose only business is to fill the milk-pail, and sometimes kick it over. But still the brindled cow trudged on, whisking her tail to keep the flies away, and taking as little notice of Cadmus as she well could. If he walked slowly, so did the cow, and seized the opportunity to graze. If he quickened his pace, the cow went just so much the faster; and once, when Cadmus tried to catch her by running, she threw out her heels, stuck her tail straight on end, and set off at a gallop, looking as queerly as cows generally do, while putting themselves to their speed. When Cadmus saw that it was impossible to come up with her, he walked on moderately, as before. The cow, too, went leisurely on, without looking behind. Wherever the grass was greenest, there she nibbled a mouthful or two. Where a brook glistened brightly across the path, there the cow drank, and breathed a comfortable sigh, and drank again, and trudged onward at the pace that best suited herself and Cadmus. "I do believe," thought Cadmus, "that this may be the cow that was foretold me. If it be the one, I suppose she will lie down somewhere hereabouts." Whether it were the oracular cow or some other one, it did not seem reasonable that she should travel a great way farther. So, whenever they reached a particularly pleasant spot on a breezy hillside, or in a sheltered vale, or flowery meadow, on the shore of a calm lake, or along the bank of a clear stream, Cadmus looked eagerly around to see if the situation would suit him for a home. But still, whether he liked the place or no, the brindled cow never offered to lie down. On she went at the quiet pace of a cow going homeward to the barn yard; and, every moment, Cadmus expected to see a milkmaid approaching with a pail, or a herdsman running to head the stray animal, and turn her back towards the pasture. But no milkmaid came; no herdsman drove her back; and Cadmus followed the stray Brindle till he was almost ready to drop down with fatigue. "O brindled cow," cried he, in a tone of despair, "do you never mean to stop?" He had now grown too intent on following her to think of lagging behind, however long the way, and whatever might be his fatigue. Indeed, it seemed as if there were something about the animal that bewitched people. Several persons who happened to see the brindled cow, and Cadmus following behind, began to trudge after her, precisely as he did. Cadmus was glad of somebody to converse with, and therefore talked very freely to these good people. He told them all his adventures, and how he had left King Agenor in his palace, and Phoenix at one place, and Cilix at another, and Thasus at a third, and his dear mother, Queen Telephassa, under a flowery sod; so that now he was quite alone, both friendless and homeless. He mentioned, likewise, that the oracle had bidden him be guided by a cow, and inquired of the strangers whether they supposed that this brindled animal could be the one. "Why, 'tis a very wonderful affair," answered one of his new companions. "I am pretty well acquainted with the ways of cattle, and I never knew a cow, of her own accord, to go so far without stopping. If my legs will let me, I'll never leave following the beast till she lies down." "Nor I!" said a second. "Nor I!" cried a third. "If she goes a hundred miles farther, I am determined to see the end of it." The secret of it was, you must know, that the cow was an enchanted cow, and that, without their being conscious of it, she threw some of her enchantment over everybody that took so much as half a dozen steps behind her. They could not possibly help following her, though all the time they fancied themselves doing it of their own accord. The cow was by no means very nice in choosing her path; so that sometimes they had to scramble over rocks, or wade through mud and mire, and all in a terribly bedraggled condition, and tired to death, and very hungry, into the bargain. What a weary business it was! But still they kept trudging stoutly forward, and talking as they went. The strangers grew very fond of Cadmus, and resolved never to leave him, but to help him build a city wherever the cow might lie down. In the center of it there should be a noble palace, in which Cadmus might dwell, and be their king, with a throne, a crown, a sceptre, a purple robe, and everything else that a king ought to have; for in him there was the royal blood, and the royal heart, and the head that knew how to rule. While they were talking of these schemes, and beguiling the tediousness of the way with laying out the plan of the new city, one of the company happened to look at the cow. "Joy! joy!" cried he, clapping his hands. "Brindle is going to lie down." They all looked; and, sure enough, the cow had stopped, and was staring leisurely about her, as other cows do when on the point of lying down. And slowly, slowly did she recline herself on the soft grass, first bending her forelegs, and then crouching her hind ones. When Cadmus and his companions came up with her, there was the brindled cow taking her ease, chewing her cud, and looking them quietly in the face; as if this was just the spot she had been seeking for, and as if it were all a matter of course. "This, then," said Cadmus, gazing around him, "this is to be my home." It was a fertile and lovely plain, with great trees flinging their sun-speckled shadows over it, and hills fencing it in from the rough weather. At no great distance, they beheld a river gleaming in the sunshine. A home feeling stole into the heart of poor Cadmus. He was very glad to know that here he might awake in the morning without the necessity of putting on his dusty sandals to travel farther and farther. The days and the years would pass over him, and find him still in this pleasant spot. If he could have had his brothers with him, and his friend Thasus, and could have seen his dear mother under a roof of his own, he might here have been happy after all their disappointments. Some day or other, too, his sister Europa might have come quietly to the door of his home, and smiled round upon the familiar faces. But, indeed, since there was no hope of regaining the friends of his boyhood, or ever seeing his dear sister again, Cadmus resolved to make himself happy with these new companions, who had grown so fond of him while following the cow. "Yes, my friends," said he to them, "this is to be our home. Here we will build our habitations. The brindled cow, which has led us hither, will supply us with milk. We will cultivate the neighboring soil and lead an innocent and happy life." His companions joyfully assented to this plan; and, in the first place, being very hungry and thirsty, they looked about them for the means of providing a comfortable meal. Not far off they saw a tuft of trees, which appeared as if there might be a spring of water beneath them. They went thither to fetch some, leaving Cadmus stretched on the ground along with the brindled cow; for, now that he had found a place of rest, it seemed as if all the weariness of his pilgrimage, ever since he left King Agenor's palace, had fallen upon him at once. But his new friends had not long been gone, when he was suddenly startled by cries, shouts, and screams, and the noise of a terrible struggle, and in the midst of it all, a most awful hissing, which went right through his ears like a rough saw. Running towards the tuft of trees, he beheld the head and fiery eyes of an immense serpent or dragon, with the widest jaws that ever a dragon had, and a vast many rows of horribly sharp teeth. Before Cadmus could reach the spot, this pitiless reptile had killed his poor companions, and was busily devouring them, making but a mouthful of each man. It appears that the fountain of water was enchanted, and that the dragon had been set to guard it, so that no mortal might ever quench his thirst there. As the neighboring inhabitants carefully avoided the spot, it was now a long time (not less than a hundred years or thereabouts) since the monster had broken his fast; and, as was natural enough, his appetite had grown to be enormous, and was not half satisfied by the poor people whom he had just eaten up. When he caught sight of Cadmus, therefore, he set up another abominable hiss, and flung back his immense jaws, until his mouth looked like a great red cavern, at the farther end of which were seen the legs of his last victim, whom he had hardly had time to swallow. But Cadmus was so enraged at the destruction of his friends that he cared neither for the size of the dragon's jaws nor for his hundreds of sharp teeth. Drawing his sword, he rushed at the monster, and flung himself right into his cavernous mouth. This bold method of attacking him took the dragon by surprise; for, in fact, Cadmus had leaped so far down into his throat, that the rows of terrible teeth could not close upon him, nor do him the least harm in the world. Thus, though the struggle was a tremendous one, and though the dragon shattered the tuft of trees into small splinters by the lashing of his tail, yet, as Cadmus was all the while slashing and stabbing at his very vitals, it was not long before the scaly wretch bethought himself of slipping away. He had not gone his length, however, when the brave Cadmus gave him a sword thrust that finished the battle; and creeping out of the gateway of the creature's jaws, there he beheld him still wriggling his vast bulk, although there was no longer life enough in him to harm a little child. But do not you suppose that it made Cadmus sorrowful to think of the melancholy fate which had befallen those poor, friendly people, who had followed the cow along with him? It seemed as if he were doomed to lose everybody whom he loved, or to see them perish in one way or another. And here he was, after all his toils and troubles, in a solitary place, with not a single human being to help him build a hut. "What shall I do?" cried he aloud. "It were better for me to have been devoured by the dragon, as my poor companions were." "Cadmus," said a voice but whether it came from above or below him, or whether it spoke within his own breast, the young man could not tell--"Cadmus, pluck out the dragon's teeth, and plant them in the earth." This was a strange thing to do; nor was it very easy, I should imagine, to dig out all those deep-rooted fangs from the dead dragon's jaws. But Cadmus toiled and tugged, and after pounding the monstrous head almost to pieces with a great stone, he at last collected as many teeth as might have filled a bushel or two. The next thing was to plant them. This, likewise, was a tedious piece of work, especially as Cadmus was already exhausted with killing the dragon and knocking his head to pieces, and had nothing to dig the earth with, that I know of, unless it were his sword blade. Finally, however, a sufficiently large tract of ground was turned up, and sown with this new kind of seed; although half of the dragon's teeth still remained to be planted some other day. Cadmus, quite out of breath, stood leaning upon his sword, and wondering what was to happen next. He had waited but a few moments, when he began to see a sight, which was as great a marvel as the most marvelous thing I ever told you about. The sun was shining slantwise over the field, and showed all the moist, dark soil just like any other newly-planted piece of ground. All at once, Cadmus fancied he saw something glisten very brightly, first at one spot, then at another, and then at a hundred and a thousand spots together. Soon he perceived them to be the steel heads of spears, sprouting up everywhere like so many stalks of grain, and continually growing taller and taller. Next appeared a vast number of bright sword blades, thrusting themselves up in the same way. A moment afterwards, the whole surface of the ground was broken by a multitude of polished brass helmets, coming up like a crop of enormous beans. So rapidly did they grow, that Cadmus now discerned the fierce countenance of a man beneath every one. In short, before he had time to think what a wonderful affair it was, he beheld an abundant harvest of what looked like human beings, armed with helmets and breastplates, shields, swords, and spears; and before they were well out of the earth, they brandished their weapons, and clashed them one against another, seeming to think, little while as they had yet lived, that they had wasted too much of life without a battle. Every tooth of the dragon had produced one of these sons of deadly mischief. Up sprouted also a great many trumpeters; and with the first breath that they drew, they put their brazen trumpets to their lips, and sounded a tremendous and ear-shattering blast, so that the whole space, just now so quiet and solitary, reverberated with the clash and clang of arms, the bray of warlike music, and the shouts of angry men. So enraged did they all look, that Cadmus fully expected them to put the whole world to the sword. How fortunate would it be for a great conqueror, if he could get a bushel of the dragon's teeth to sow! "Cadmus," said the same voice which he had before heard, "throw a stone into the midst of the armed men." So Cadmus seized a large stone, and flinging it into the middle of the earth army, saw it strike the breastplate of a gigantic and fierce-looking warrior. Immediately on feeling the blow, he seemed to take it for granted that somebody had struck him; and, uplifting his weapon, he smote his next neighbor a blow that cleft his helmet asunder, and stretched him on the ground. In an instant, those nearest the fallen warrior began to strike at one another with their swords, and stab with their spears. The confusion spread wider and wider. Each man smote down his brother, and was himself smitten down before he had time to exult in his victory. The trumpeters, all the while, blew their blasts shriller and shriller; each soldier shouted a battle cry, and often fell with it on his lips. It was the strangest spectacle of causeless wrath, and of mischief for no good end, that had ever been witnessed; but, after all, it was neither more foolish nor more wicked than a thousand battles that have since been fought, in which men have slain their brothers with just as little reason as these children of the dragon's teeth. It ought to be considered, too, that the dragon people were made for nothing else; whereas other mortals were born to love and help one another. Well, this memorable battle continued to rage until the ground was strewn with helmeted heads that had been cut off. Of all the thousands that began the fight, there were only five left standing. These now rushed from different parts of the field, and, meeting in the middle of it, clashed their swords, and struck at each other's hearts as fiercely as ever. "Cadmus," said the voice again, "bid those five warriors sheathe their swords. They will help you to build the city." Without hesitating an instant, Cadmus stepped forward, with the aspect of a king and a leader, and extending his drawn sword amongst them, spoke to the warriors in a stern and commanding voice. "Sheathe your weapons!" said he. And forthwith, feeling themselves bound to obey him, the five remaining sons of the dragon's teeth made him a military salute with their swords, returned them to the scabbards, and stood before Cadmus in a rank, eyeing him as soldiers eye their captain, while awaiting the word of command. These five men had probably sprung from the biggest of the dragon's teeth, and were the boldest and strongest of the whole army. They were almost giants indeed, and had good need to be so, else they never could have lived through so terrible a fight. They still had a very furious look, and, if Cadmus happened to glance aside, would glare at one another, with fire flashing out of their eyes. It was strange, too, to observe how the earth, out of which they had so lately grown, was incrusted, here and there, on their bright breastplates, and even, begrimed their faces; just as you may have seen it clinging to beets and carrots, when pulled out of their native soil. Cadmus hardly knew whether to consider them as men, or some odd kind of vegetable; although, on the whole, he concluded that there was human nature in them, because they were so fond of trumpets and weapons, and so ready to shed blood. They looked him earnestly in the face, waiting for his next order, and evidently desiring no other employment than to follow him from one battlefield to another, all over the wide world. But Cadmus was wiser than these earth-born creatures, with the dragon's fierceness in them, and knew better how to use their strength and hardihood. "Come!" said he. "You are sturdy fellows. Make yourselves useful! Quarry some stones with those great swords of yours, and help me to build a city." The five soldiers grumbled a little, and muttered that it was their business to overthrow cities, not to build them up. But Cadmus looked at them with a stern eye, and spoke to them in a tone of authority, so that they knew him for their master, and never again thought of disobeying his commands. They set to work in good earnest, and toiled so diligently, that, in a very short time, a city began to make its appearance. At first, to be sure, the workmen showed a quarrelsome disposition. Like savage beasts, they would doubtless have done one another a mischief, if Cadmus had not kept watch over them, and quelled the fierce old serpent that lurked in their hearts, when he saw it gleaming out of their wild eyes. But, in course of time, they got accustomed to honest labor, and had sense enough to feel that there was more true enjoyment in living at peace, and doing good to one's neighbor, than in striking at him with a two-edged sword. It may not be too much to hope that the rest of mankind will by and by grow as wise and peaceable as these five earth-begrimed warriors, who sprang from the dragon's teeth. And now the city was built, and there was a home in it for each of the workmen. But the palace of Cadmus was not yet erected, because they had left it till the last, meaning to introduce all the new improvements of architecture, and make it very commodious, as well as stately and beautiful. After finishing the rest of their labors, they all went to bed betimes, in order to rise in the gray of the morning, and get at least the foundation of the edifice laid before nightfall. But, when Cadmus arose, and took his way towards the site where the palace was to be built, followed by his five sturdy workmen marching all in a row, what do you think he saw? What should it be but the most magnificent palace that had ever been seen in the world. It was built of marble and other beautiful kinds of stone, and rose high into the air, with a splendid dome and a portico along the front, and carved pillars, and everything else that befitted the habitation of a mighty king. It had grown up out of the earth in almost as short a time as it had taken the armed host to spring from the dragon's teeth; and what made the matter more strange, no seed of this stately edifice ever had been planted. When the five workmen beheld the dome, with the morning sunshine making it look golden and glorious, they gave a great shout. "Long live King Cadmus," they cried, "in his beautiful palace." And the new king, with his five faithful followers at his heels, shouldering their pickaxes and marching in a rank (for they still had a soldier-like sort of behavior, as their nature was), ascended the palace steps. Halting at the entrance, they gazed through a long vista of lofty pillars, that were ranged from end to end of a great hall. At the farther extremity of this hall, approaching slowly towards him, Cadmus beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful, and adorned with a royal robe, and a crown of diamonds over her golden ringlets, and the richest necklace that ever a queen wore. His heart thrilled with delight. He fancied it his long-lost sister Europa, now grown to womanhood, coming to make him happy, and to repay him with her sweet sisterly affection, for all those weary wonderings in quest of her since he left King Agenor's palace--for the tears that he had shed, on parting with Phoenix, and Cilix, and Thasus--for the heart-breakings that had made the whole world seem dismal to him over his dear mother's grave. But, as Cadmus advanced to meet the beautiful stranger, he saw that her features were unknown to him, although, in the little time that it required to tread along the hall, he had already felt a sympathy betwixt himself and her. "No, Cadmus," said the same voice that had spoken to him in the field of the armed men, "this is not that dear sister Europa whom you have sought so faithfully all over the wide world. This is Harmonia, a daughter of the sky, who is given you instead of sister, and brothers, and friend, and mother. You will find all those dear ones in her alone." So King Cadmus dwelt in the palace, with his new friend Harmonia, and found a great deal of comfort in his magnificent abode, but would doubtless have found as much, if not more, in the humblest cottage by the wayside. Before many years went by, there was a group of rosy little children (but how they came thither has always been a mystery to me) sporting in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and running joyfully to meet King Cadmus when affairs of state left him at leisure to play with them. They called him father, and Queen Harmonia mother. The five old soldiers of the dragon's teeth grew very fond of these small urchins, and were never weary of showing them how to shoulder sticks, flourish wooden swords, and march in military order, blowing a penny trumpet, or beating an abominable rub-a-dub upon a little drum. But King Cadmus, lest there should be too much of the dragon's tooth in his children's disposition, used to find time from his kingly duties to teach them their A B C--which he invented for their benefit, and for which many little people, I am afraid, are not half so grateful to him as they ought to be. CIRCE'S PALACE. Some of you have heard, no doubt, of the wise King Ulysses, and how he went to the siege of Troy, and how, after that famous city was taken and burned, he spent ten long years in trying to get back again to his own little kingdom of Ithaca. At one time in the course of this weary voyage, he arrived at an island that looked very green and pleasant, but the name of which was unknown to him. For, only a little while before he came thither, he had met with a terrible hurricane, or rather a great many hurricanes at once, which drove his fleet of vessels into a strange part of the sea, where neither himself nor any of his mariners had ever sailed. This misfortune was entirely owing to the foolish curiosity of his shipmates, who, while Ulysses lay asleep, had untied some very bulky leathern bags, in which they supposed a valuable treasure to be concealed. But in each of these stout bags, King Aeolus, the ruler of the winds, had tied up a tempest, and had given it to Ulysses to keep in order that he might be sure of a favorable passage homeward to Ithaca; and when the strings were loosened, forth rushed the whistling blasts, like air out of a blown bladder, whitening the sea with foam, and scattering the vessels nobody could tell whither. Immediately after escaping from this peril, a still greater one had befallen him. Scudding before the hurricane, he reached a place, which, as he afterwards found, was called Laestrygonia, where some monstrous giants had eaten up many of his companions, and had sunk every one of his vessels, except that in which he himself sailed, by flinging great masses of rock at them, from the cliffs along the shore. After going through such troubles as these, you cannot wonder that King Ulysses was glad to moor his tempest-beaten bark in a quiet cove of the green island, which I began with telling you about. But he had encountered so many dangers from giants, and one-eyed Cyclops, and monsters of the sea and land, that he could not help dreading some mischief, even in this pleasant and seemingly solitary spot. For two days, therefore, the poor weather-worn voyagers kept quiet, and either staid on board of their vessel, or merely crept along under the cliffs that bordered the shore; and to keep themselves alive, they dug shellfish out of the sand, and sought for any little rill of fresh water that might be running towards the sea. Before the two days were spent, they grew very weary of this kind of life; for the followers of King Ulysses, as you will find it important to remember, were terrible gormandizers, and pretty sure to grumble if they missed their regulars meals, and their irregular ones besides. Their stock of provisions was quite exhausted, and even the shellfish began to get scarce, so that they had now to choose between starving to death or venturing into the interior of the island, where perhaps some huge three-headed dragon, or other horrible monster, had his den. Such misshapen creatures were very numerous in those days; and nobody ever expected to make a voyage, or take a journey, without running more or less risk of being devoured by them. But King Ulysses was a bold man as well as a prudent one; and on the third morning he determined to discover what sort of a place the island was, and whether it were possible to obtain a supply of food for the hungry mouths of his companions. So, taking a spear in his hand, he clambered to the summit of a cliff, and gazed round about him. At a distance, towards the center of the island, he beheld the stately towers of what seemed to be a palace, built of snow-white marble, and rising in the midst of a grove of lofty trees. The thick branches of these trees stretched across the front of the edifice, and more than half concealed it, although, from the portion which he saw, Ulysses judged it to be spacious and exceedingly beautiful, and probably the residence of some great nobleman or prince. A blue smoke went curling up from the chimney, and was almost the pleasantest part of the spectacle to Ulysses. For, from the abundance of this smoke, it was reasonable to conclude that there was a good fire in the kitchen, and that, at dinner-time, a plentiful banquet would be served up to the inhabitants of the palace, and to whatever guests might happen to drop in. With so agreeable a prospect before him, Ulysses fancied that he could not do better than go straight to the palace gate, and tell the master of it that there was a crew of poor shipwrecked mariners, not far off, who had eaten nothing for a day or two, save a few clams and oysters, and would therefore be thankful for a little food. And the prince or nobleman must be a very stingy curmudgeon, to be sure, if, at least, when his own dinner was over, he would not bid them welcome to the broken victuals from the table. Pleasing himself with this idea, King Ulysses had made a few steps in the direction of the palace, when there was a great twittering and chirping from the branch of a neighboring tree. A moment afterwards, a bird came flying towards him, and hovered in the air, so as almost to brush his face with its wings. It was a very pretty little bird, with purple wings and body, and yellow legs, and a circle of golden feathers round its neck, and on its head a golden tuft, which looked like a king's crown in miniature. Ulysses tried to catch the bird. But it fluttered nimbly out of his reach, still chirping in a piteous tone, as if it could have told a lamentable story, had it only been gifted with human language. And when he attempted to drive it away, the bird flew no farther than the bough of the next tree, and again came fluttering about his head, with its doleful chirp, as soon as he showed a purpose of going forward. "Have you anything to tell me, little bird?" asked Ulysses. And he was ready to listen attentively to whatever the bird might communicate; for, at the siege of Troy, and elsewhere, he had known such odd things to happen, that he would not have considered it much out of the common run had this little feathered creature talked as plainly as himself. "Peep!" said the bird, "peep, peep, pe--weep!" And nothing else would it say, but only, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" in a melancholy cadence, and over and over and over again. As often as Ulysses moved forward, however, the bird showed the greatest alarm, and did its best to drive him back, with the anxious flutter of its purple wings. Its unaccountable behavior made him conclude, at last, that the bird knew of some danger that awaited him, and which must needs be very terrible, beyond all question, since it moved even a little fowl to feel compassion for a human being. So he resolved, for the present, to return to the vessel, and tell his companions what he had seen. This appeared to satisfy the bird. As soon as Ulysses turned back, it ran up the trunk of a tree, and began to pick insects out of the bark with its long, sharp bill; for it was a kind of woodpecker, you must know, and had to get its living in the same manner as other birds of that species. But every little while, as it pecked at the bark of the tree, the purple bird bethought itself of some secret sorrow, and repeated its plaintive note of "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" On his way to the shore, Ulysses had the good luck to kill a large stag by thrusting his spear into his back. Taking it on his shoulders (for he was a remarkably strong man), he lugged it along with him, and flung it down before his hungry companions. I have already hinted to you what gormandizers some of the comrades of King Ulysses were. From what is related of them, I reckon that their favorite diet was pork, and that they had lived upon it until a good part of their physical substance was swine's flesh, and their tempers and dispositions were very much akin to the hog. A dish of venison, however, was no unacceptable meal to them, especially after feeding so long on oysters and clams. So, beholding the dead stag, they felt of its ribs, in a knowing way, and lost no time in kindling a fire of driftwood, to cook it. The rest of the day was spent in feasting; and if these enormous eaters got up from table at sunset, it was only because they could not scrape another morsel off the poor animal's bones. The next morning, their appetites were as sharp as ever. They looked at Ulysses, as if they expected him to clamber up the cliff again, and come back with another fat deer upon his shoulders. Instead of setting out, however, he summoned the whole crew together, and told them it was in vain to hope that he could kill a stag every day for their dinner, and therefore it was advisable to think of some other mode of satisfying their hunger. "Now," said he, "when I was on the cliff, yesterday, I discovered that this island is inhabited. At a considerable distance from the shore stood a marble palace, which appeared to be very spacious, and had a great deal of smoke curling out of one of its chimneys." "Aha!" muttered some of his companions, smacking their lips. "That smoke must have come from the kitchen fire. There was a good dinner on the spit; and no doubt there will be as good a one to-day." "But," continued the wise Ulysses, "you must remember, my good friends, our misadventure in the cavern of one-eyed Polyphemus, the Cyclops! Instead of his ordinary milk diet, did he not eat up two of our comrades for his supper, and a couple more for breakfast, and two at his supper again? Methinks I see him yet, the hideous monster, scanning us with that great red eye, in the middle of his forehead, to single out the fattest. And then, again, only a few days ago, did we not fall into the hands of the king of the Laestrygons, and those other horrible giants, his subjects, who devoured a great many more of us than are now left? To tell you the truth, if we go to yonder palace, there can be no question that we shall make our appearance at the dinner table; but whether seated as guests, or served up as food, is a point to be seriously considered." "Either way," murmured some of the hungriest of the crew; "it will be better than starvation; particularly if one could be sure of being well fattened beforehand, and daintily cooked afterwards." "That is a matter of taste," said King Ulysses, "and, for my own part, neither the most careful fattening nor the daintiest of cookery would reconcile me to being dished at last. My proposal is, therefore, that we divide ourselves into two equal parties, and ascertain, by drawing lots, which of the two shall go to the palace, and beg for food and assistance. If these can be obtained, all is well. If not, and if the inhabitants prove as inhospitable as Polyphemus, or the Laestrygons, then there will but half of us perish, and the remainder may set sail and escape." As nobody objected to this scheme, Ulysses proceeded to count the whole band, and found that there were forty-six men, including himself. He then numbered off twenty-two of them, and put Eurylochus (who was one of his chief officers, and second only to himself in sagacity) at their head. Ulysses took command of the remaining twenty-two men, in person. Then, taking off his helmet, he put two shells into it, on one of which was written, "Go," and on the other "Stay." Another person now held the helmet, while Ulysses and Eurylochus drew out each a shell; and the word "Go" was found written on that which Eurylochus had drawn. In this manner, it was decided that Ulysses and his twenty-two men were to remain at the seaside until the other party should have found out what sort of treatment they might expect at the mysterious palace. As there was no help for it, Eurylochus immediately set forth at the head of his twenty-two followers, who went off in a very melancholy state of mind, leaving their friends in hardly better spirits than themselves. No sooner had they clambered up the cliff, than they discerned the tall marble towers of the palace, ascending, as white as snow, out of the lovely green shadow of the trees which surrounded it. A gush of smoke came from a chimney in the rear of the edifice. This vapor rose high in the air, and, meeting with a breeze, was wafted seaward, and made to pass over the heads of the hungry mariners. When people's appetites are keen, they have a very quick scent for anything savory in the wind. "That smoke comes from the kitchen!" cried one of them, turning up his nose as high as he could, and snuffing eagerly. "And, as sure as I'm a half-starved vagabond, I smell roast meat in it." "Pig, roast pig!" said another. "Ah, the dainty little porker. My mouth waters for him." "Let us make haste," cried the others, "or we shall be too late for the good cheer!" But scarcely had they made half a dozen steps from the edge of the cliff, when a bird came fluttering to meet them. It was the same pretty little bird, with the purple wings and body, the yellow legs, the golden collar round its neck, and the crown-like tuft upon its head, whose behavior had so much surprised Ulysses. It hovered about Eurylochus, and almost brushed his face with its wings. "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" chirped the bird. So plaintively intelligent was the sound, that it seemed as if the little creature were going to break its heart with some mighty secret that it had to tell, and only this one poor note to tell it with. "My pretty bird," said Eurylochus--for he was a wary person, and let no token of harm escape his notice--"my pretty bird, who sent you hither? And what is the message which you bring?" "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" replied the bird, very sorrowfully. Then it flew towards the edge of the cliff, and looked around at them, as if exceedingly anxious that they should return whence they came. Eurylochus and a few of the others were inclined to turn back. They could not help suspecting that the purple bird must be aware of something mischievous that would befall them at the palace, and the knowledge of which affected its airy spirit with a human sympathy and sorrow. But the rest of the voyagers, snuffing up the smoke from the palace kitchen, ridiculed the idea of returning to the vessel. One of them (more brutal than his fellows, and the most notorious gormandizer in the crew) said such a cruel and wicked thing, that I wonder the mere thought did not turn him into a wild beast, in shape, as he already was in his nature. "This troublesome and impertinent little fowl," said he, "would make a delicate titbit to begin dinner with. Just one plump morsel, melting away between the teeth. If he comes within my reach, I'll catch him, and give him to the palace cook to be roasted on a skewer." The words were hardly out of his mouth, before the purple bird flew away, crying, "Peep, peep, pe--weep," more dolorously than ever. "That bird," remarked Eurylochus, "knows more than we do about what awaits us at the palace." "Come on, then," cried his comrades, "and we'll soon know as much as he does." The party, accordingly, went onward through the green and pleasant wood. Every little while they caught new glimpses of the marble palace, which looked more and more beautiful the nearer they approached it. They soon entered a broad pathway, which seemed to be very neatly kept, and which went winding along, with streaks of sunshine falling across it and specks of light quivering among the deepest shadows that fell from the lofty trees. It was bordered, too, with a great many sweet-smelling flowers, such as the mariners had never seen before. So rich and beautiful they were, that, if the shrubs grew wild here, and were native in the soil, then this island was surely the flower garden of the whole earth; or, if transplanted from some other clime, it must have been from the Happy Islands that lay towards the golden sunset. "There has been a great deal of pains foolishly wasted on these flowers," observed one of the company; and I tell you what he said, that you may keep in mind what gormandizers they were. "For my part, if I were the owner of the palace, I would bid my gardener cultivate nothing but savory pot herbs to make a stuffing for roast meat, or to flavor a stew with." "Well said!" cried the others. "But I'll warrant you there's a kitchen garden in the rear of the palace." At one place they came to a crystal spring, and paused to drink at it for want of liquor which they liked better. Looking into its bosom, they beheld their own faces dimly reflected, but so extravagantly distorted by the gush and motion of the water, that each one of them appeared to be laughing at himself and all his companions. So ridiculous were these images of themselves, indeed, that they did really laugh aloud, and could hardly be grave again as soon as they wished. And after they had drank, they grew still merrier than before. "It has a twang of the wine cask in it," said one, smacking his lips. "Make haste!" cried his fellows: "we'll find the wine cask itself at the palace, and that will be better than a hundred crystal fountains." Then they quickened their pace, and capered for joy at the thought of the savory banquet at which they hoped to be guests. But Eurylochus told them that he felt as if he were walking in a dream. "If I am really awake," continued he, "then, in my opinion, we are on the point of meeting with some stranger adventure than any that befell us in the cave of Polyphemus, or among the gigantic man-eating Laestrygons, or in the windy palace of King Aeolus, which stands on a brazen-walled island. This kind of dreamy feeling always comes over me before any wonderful occurrence. If you take my advice, you will turn back." "No, no," answered his comrades, snuffing the air, in which the scent from the palace kitchen was now very perceptible. "We would not turn back, though we were certain that the king of the Laestrygons, as big as a mountain, would sit at the head of the table, and huge Polyphemus, the one-eyed Cyclops, at its foot." At length they came within full sight of the palace, which proved to be very large and lofty, with a great number of airy pinnacles upon its roof. Though it was midday, and the sun shone brightly over the marble front, yet its snowy whiteness, and its fantastic style of architecture, made it look unreal, like the frost work on a window pane, or like the shapes of castles which one sees among the clouds by moonlight. But, just then, a puff of wind brought down the smoke of the kitchen chimney among them, and caused each man to smell the odor of the dish that he liked best; and, after scenting it, they thought everything else moonshine, and nothing real save this palace, and save the banquet that was evidently ready to be served up in it. So they hastened their steps towards the portal, but had not got half way across the wide lawn, when a pack of lions, tigers, and wolves came bounding to meet them. The terrified mariners started back, expecting no better fate than to be torn to pieces and devoured. To their surprise and joy, however, these wild beasts merely capered around them, wagging their tails, offering their heads to be stroked and patted, and behaving just like so many well-bred house dogs, when they wish to express their delight at meeting their master, or their master's friends. The biggest lion licked the feet of Eurylochus; and every other lion, and every wolf and tiger, singled out one of his two and twenty followers, whom the beast fondled as if he loved him better than a beef bone. But, for all that, Eurylochus imagined that he saw something fierce and savage in their eyes; nor would he have been surprised, at any moment, to feel the big lion's terrible claws, or to see each of the tigers make a deadly spring, or each wolf leap at the throat of the man whom he had fondled. Their mildness seemed unreal, and a mere freak; but their savage nature was as true as their teeth and claws. Nevertheless, the men went safely across the lawn with the wild beasts frisking about them, and doing no manner of harm; although, as they mounted the steps of the palace, you might possibly have heard a low growl, particularly from the wolves; as if they thought it a pity, after all, to let the strangers pass without so much as tasting what they were made of. Eurylochus and his followers now passed under a lofty portal, and looked through the open doorway into the interior of the palace. The first thing that they saw was a spacious hall, and a fountain in the middle of it, gushing up towards the ceiling out of a marble basin, and falling back into it with a continual plash. The water of this fountain, as it spouted upward, was constantly taking new shapes, not very distinctly, but plainly enough for a nimble fancy to recognize what they were. Now it was the shape of a man in a long robe, the fleecy whiteness of which was made out of the fountain's spray; now it was a lion, or a tiger, or a wolf, or an ass, or, as often as anything else, a hog, wallowing in the marble basin as if it were his sty. It was either magic or some very curious machinery that caused the gushing waterspout to assume all these forms. But, before the strangers had time to look closely at this wonderful sight, their attention was drawn off by a very sweet and agreeable sound. A woman's voice was singing melodiously in another room of the palace, and with her voice was mingled the noise of a loom, at which she was probably seated, weaving a rich texture of cloth, and intertwining the high and low sweetness of her voice into a rich tissue of harmony. By and by, the song came to an end; and then, all at once, there were several feminine voices, talking airily and cheerfully, with now and then a merry burst of laughter, such as you may always hear when three or four young women sit at work together. "What a sweet song that was!" exclaimed one of the voyagers. "Too sweet, indeed," answered Eurylochus, shaking his head. "Yet it was not so sweet as the song of the Sirens, those bird-like damsels who wanted to tempt us on the rocks, so that our vessel might be wrecked, and our bones left whitening along the shore." "But just listen to the pleasant voices of those maidens, and that buzz of the loom, as the shuttle passes to and fro," said another comrade. "What a domestic, household, home-like sound it is! Ah, before that weary siege of Troy, I used to hear the buzzing loom and the women's voices under my own roof. Shall I never hear them again? nor taste those nice little savory dishes which my dearest wife knew how to serve up?" "Tush! we shall fare better here," said another. "But how innocently those women are babbling together, without guessing that we overhear them! And mark that richest voice of all, so pleasant and so familiar, but which yet seems to have the authority of a mistress among them. Let us show ourselves at once. What harm can the lady of the palace and her maidens do to mariners and warriors like us?" "Remember," said Eurylochus, "that it was a young maiden who beguiled three of our friends into the palace of the king of the Laestrygons, who ate up one of them in the twinkling of an eye." No warning or persuasion, however, had any effect on his companions. They went up to a pair of folding doors at the farther end of the hall, and throwing them wide open, passed into the next room. Eurylochus, meanwhile, had stepped behind a pillar. In the short moment while the folding doors opened and closed again, he caught a glimpse of a very beautiful woman rising from the loom, and coming to meet the poor weather-beaten wanderers, with a hospitable smile, and her hand stretched out in welcome. There were four other young women, who joined their hands and danced merrily forward, making gestures of obeisance to the strangers. They were only less beautiful than the lady who seemed to be their mistress. Yet Eurylochus fancied that one of them had sea-green hair, and that the close-fitting bodice of a second looked like the bark of a tree, and that both the others had something odd in their aspect, although he could not quite determine what it was, in the little while that he had to examine them. The folding doors swung quickly back, and left him standing behind the pillar, in the solitude of the outer hall. There Eurylochus waited until he was quite weary, and listened eagerly to every sound, but without hearing anything that could help him to guess what had become of his friends. Footsteps, it is true, seemed to be passing and repassing, in other parts of the palace. Then there was a clatter of silver dishes, or golden ones, which made him imagine a rich feast in a splendid banqueting hall. But by and by he heard a tremendous grunting and squealing, and then a sudden scampering, like that of small, hard hoofs over a marble floor, while the voices of the mistress and her four handmaidens were screaming all together, in tones of anger and derision. Eurylochus could not conceive what had happened, unless a drove of swine had broken into the palace, attracted by the smell of the feast. Chancing to cast his eyes at the fountain, he saw that it did not shift its shape, as formerly, nor looked either like a long-robed man, or a lion, a tiger, a wolf, or an ass. It looked like nothing but a hog, which lay wallowing in the marble basin, and filled it from brim to brim. But we must leave the prudent Eurylochus waiting in the outer hall, and follow his friends into the inner secrecy of the palace. As soon as the beautiful woman saw them, she arose from the loom, as I have told you, and came forward, smiling, and stretching out her hand. She took the hand of the foremost among them, and bade him and the whole party welcome. "You have been long expected, my good friends," said she. "I and my maidens are well acquainted with you, although you do not appear to recognize us. Look at this piece of tapestry, and judge if your faces must not have been familiar to us." So the voyagers examined the web of cloth which the beautiful woman had been weaving in her loom; and, to their vast astonishment, they saw their own figures perfectly represented in different colored threads. It was a life-like picture of their recent adventures, showing them in the cave of Polyphemus, and how they had put out his one great moony eye; while in another part of the tapestry they were untying the leathern bags, puffed out with contrary winds; and farther on, they beheld themselves scampering away from the gigantic king of the Laestrygons, who had caught one of them by the leg. Lastly, there they were, sitting on the desolate shore of this very island, hungry and downcast, and looking ruefully at the bare bones of the stag which they devoured yesterday. This was as far as the work had yet proceeded; but when the beautiful woman should again sit down at her loom, she would probably make a picture of what had since happened to the strangers, and of what was now going to happen. "You see," she said, "that I know all about your troubles; and you cannot doubt that I desire to make you happy for as long a time as you may remain with me. For this purpose, my honored guests, I have ordered a banquet to be prepared. Fish, fowl, and flesh, roasted, and in luscious stews, and seasoned, I trust, to all your tastes, are ready to be served up. If your appetites tell you it is dinner time, then come with me to the festal saloon." At this kind invitation, the hungry mariners were quite overjoyed; and one of them, taking upon himself to be spokesman, assured their hospitable hostess that any hour of the day was dinner time with them, whenever they could get flesh to put in the pot, and fire to boil it with. So the beautiful woman led the way; and the four maidens (one of them had sea-green hair, another a bodice of oak bark, a third sprinkled a shower of water drops from her fingers' ends, and the fourth had some other oddity, which I have forgotten), all these followed behind, and hurried the guests along, until they entered a magnificent saloon. It was built in a perfect oval, and lighted from a crystal dome above. Around the walls were ranged two and twenty thrones, overhung by canopies of crimson and gold, and provided with the softest of cushions, which were tasselled and fringed with gold cord. Each of the strangers was invited to sit down; and there they were, two and twenty storm-beaten mariners, in worn and tattered garb, sitting on two and twenty cushioned and canopied thrones, so rich and gorgeous that the proudest monarch had nothing more splendid in his stateliest hall. Then you might have seen the guests nodding, winking with one eye, and leaning from one throne to another, to communicate their satisfaction in hoarse whispers. "Our good hostess has made kings of us all," said one. "Ha! do you smell the feast? I'll engage it will be fit to set before two and twenty kings." "I hope," said another, "it will be, mainly, good substantial joints, sirloins, spareribs, and hinder quarters, without too many kickshaws. If I thought the good lady would not take it amiss, I should call for a fat slice of fried bacon to begin with." Ah, the gluttons and gormandizers! You see how it was with them. In the loftiest seats of dignity, on royal thrones, they could think of nothing but their greedy appetite, which was the portion of their nature that they shared with wolves and swine; so that they resembled those vilest of animals far more than they did kings--if, indeed, kings were what they ought to be. But the beautiful woman now clapped her hands; and immediately there entered a train of two and twenty serving men, bringing dishes of the richest food, all hot from the kitchen fire, and sending up such a steam that it hung like a cloud below the crystal dome of the saloon. An equal number of attendants brought great flagons of wine, of various kinds, some of which sparkled as it was poured out, and went bubbling down the throat; while, of other sorts, the purple liquor was so clear that you could see the wrought figures at the bottom of the goblet. While the servants supplied the two and twenty guests with food and drink, the hostess and her four maidens went from one throne to another, exhorting them to eat their fill, and to quaff wine abundantly, and thus to recompense themselves, at this one banquet, for the many days when they had gone without a dinner. But whenever the mariners were not looking at them (which was pretty often, as they looked chiefly into the basins and platters), the beautiful woman and her damsels turned aside, and laughed. Even the servants, as they knelt down to present the dishes, might be seen to grin and sneer, while the guests were helping themselves to the offered dainties. And, once in a while, the strangers seemed to taste something that they did not like. "Here is an odd kind of spice in this dish," said one. "I can't say it quite suits my palate. Down it goes, however." "Send a good draught of wine down your throat," said his comrade on the next throne. "That is the stuff to make this sort of cookery relish well. Though I must needs say, the wine has a queer taste too. But the more I drink of it, the better I like the flavor." Whatever little fault they might find with the dishes, they sat at dinner a prodigiously long while; and it would really have made you ashamed to see how they swilled down the liquor and gobbled up the food. They sat on golden thrones, to be sure; but they behaved like pigs in a sty; and, if they had had their wits about them, they might have guessed that this was the opinion of their beautiful hostess and her maidens. It brings a blush into my face to reckon up, in my own mind, what mountains of meat and pudding, and what gallons of wine, these two and twenty guzzlers and gormandizers ate and drank. They forgot all about their homes, and their wives and children, and all about Ulysses, and everything else, except this banquet, at which they wanted to keep feasting forever. But at length they began to give over, from mere incapacity to hold any more. "That last bit of fat is too much for me," said one. "And I have not room for another morsel," said his next neighbor, heaving a sigh. "What a pity! My appetite is as sharp as ever." In short, they all left off eating, and leaned back on their thrones, with such a stupid and helpless aspect as made them ridiculous to behold. When their hostess saw this, she laughed aloud; so did her four damsels; so did the two and twenty serving men that bore the dishes, and their two and twenty fellows that poured out the wine. And the louder they all laughed, the more stupid and helpless did the two and twenty gormandizers look. Then the beautiful woman took her stand in the middle of the saloon, and stretching out a slender rod (it had been all the while in her hand, although they never noticed it till this moment), she turned it from one guest to another, until each had felt it pointed at himself. Beautiful as her face was, and though there was a smile on it, it looked just as wicked and mischievous as the ugliest serpent that ever was seen; and fat-witted as the voyagers had made themselves, they began to suspect that they had fallen into the power of an evil-minded enchantress. "Wretches," cried she, "you have abused a lady's hospitality; and in this princely saloon your behavior has been suited to a hog-pen. You are already swine in everything but the human form, which you disgrace, and which I myself should be ashamed to keep a moment longer, were you to share it with me. But it will require only the slightest exercise of magic to make the exterior conform to the hoggish disposition. Assume your proper shapes, gormandizers, and begone to the sty!" Uttering these last words, she waved her wand; and stamping her foot imperiously, each of the guests was struck aghast at beholding, instead of his comrades in human shape, one and twenty hogs sitting on the same number of golden thrones. Each man (as he still supposed himself to be) essayed to give a cry of surprise, but found that he could merely grunt, and that, in a word, he was just such another beast as his companions. It looked so intolerably absurd to see hogs on cushioned thrones, that they made haste to wallow down upon all fours, like other swine. They tried to groan and beg for mercy, but forthwith emitted the most awful grunting and squealing that ever came out of swinish throats. They would have wrung their hands in despair, but, attempting to do so, grew all the more desperate for seeing themselves squatted on their hams, and pawing the air with their fore trotters. Dear me! what pendulous ears they had! what little red eyes, half buried in fat! and what long snouts, instead of Grecian noses! But brutes as they certainly were, they yet had enough of human nature in them to be shocked at their own hideousness; and still intending to groan, they uttered a viler grunt and squeal than before. So harsh and ear-piercing it was, that you would have fancied a butcher was sticking his knife into each of their throats, or, at the very least, that somebody was pulling every hog by his funny little twist of a tail. "Begone to your sty!" cried the enchantress, giving them some smart strokes with her wand; and then she turned to the serving men--"Drive out these swine, and throw down some acorns for them to eat." The door of the saloon being flung open, the drove of hogs ran in all directions save the right one, in accordance with their hoggish perversity, but were finally driven into the back yard of the palace. It was a sight to bring tears into one's eyes (and I hope none of you will be cruel enough to laugh at it), to see the poor creatures go snuffing along, picking up here a cabbage leaf and there a turnip top, and rooting their noses in the earth for whatever they could find. In their sty, moreover, they behaved more piggishly than the pigs that had been born so; for they bit and snorted at one another, put their feet in the trough, and gobbled up their victuals in a ridiculous hurry; and, when there was nothing more to be had, they made a great pile of themselves among some unclean straw, and fell fast asleep. If they had any human reason left, it was just enough to keep them wondering when they should be slaughtered, and what quality of bacon they should make. Meantime, as I told you before, Eurylochus had waited, and waited, and waited, in the entrance hall of the palace, without being able to comprehend what had befallen his friends. At last, when the swinish uproar resounded through the palace, and when he saw the image of a hog in the marble basin, he thought it best to hasten back to the vessel, and inform the wise Ulysses of these marvelous occurrences. So he ran as fast as he could down the steps, and never stopped to draw breath till he reached the shore. "Why do you come alone?" asked King Ulysses, as soon as he saw him. "Where are your two and twenty comrades?" At these questions, Eurylochus burst into tears. "Alas!" he cried, "I greatly fear that we shall never see one of their faces again." Then he told Ulysses all that had happened, as far as he knew it, and added that he suspected the beautiful woman to be a vile enchantress, and the marble palace, magnificent as it looked, to be only a dismal cavern in reality. As for his companions, he could not imagine what had become of them, unless they had been given to the swine to be devoured alive. At this intelligence, all the voyagers were greatly affrighted. But Ulysses lost no time in girding on his sword, and hanging his bow and quiver over his shoulders, and taking a spear in his right hand. When his followers saw their wise leader making these preparations, they inquired whither he was going, and earnestly besought him not to leave them. "You are our king," cried they; "and what is more, you are the wisest man in the whole world, and nothing but your wisdom and courage can get us out of this danger. If you desert us, and go to the enchanted palace, you will suffer the same fate as our poor companions, and not a soul of us will ever see our dear Ithaca again." "As I am your king," answered Ulysses, "and wiser than any of you, it is therefore the more my duty to see what has befallen our comrades, and whether anything can yet be done to rescue them. Wait for me here until tomorrow. If I do not then return, you must hoist sail, and endeavor to find your way to our native land. For my part, I am answerable for the fate of these poor mariners, who have stood by my side in battle, and been so often drenched to the skin, along with me, by the same tempestuous surges. I will either bring them back with me, or perish." Had his followers dared, they would have detained him by force. But King Ulysses frowned sternly on them, and shook his spear, and bade them stop him at their peril. Seeing him so determined, they let him go, and sat down on the sand, as disconsolate a set of people as could be, waiting and praying for his return. It happened to Ulysses, just as before, that, when he had gone a few steps from the edge of the cliff, the purple bird came fluttering towards him, crying, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" and using all the art it could to persuade him to go no farther. "What mean you, little bird?" cried Ulysses. "You are arrayed like a king in purple and gold, and wear a golden crown upon your head. Is it because I too am a king, that you desire so earnestly to speak with me? If you can talk in human language, say what you would have me do." "Peep!" answered the purple bird, very dolorously. "Peep, peep, pe--we--e!" Certainly there lay some heavy anguish at the little bird's heart; and it was a sorrowful predicament that he could not, at least, have the consolation of telling what it was. But Ulysses had no time to waste in trying to get at the mystery. He therefore quickened his pace, and had gone a good way along the pleasant wood path, when there met him a young man of very brisk and intelligent aspect, and clad in a rather singular garb. He wore a short cloak and a sort of cap that seemed to be furnished with a pair of wings; and from the lightness of his step, you would have supposed that there might likewise be wings on his feet. To enable him to walk still better (for he was always on one journey or another) he carried a winged staff, around which two serpents were wriggling and twisting. In short, I have said enough to make you guess that it was Quicksilver; and Ulysses (who knew him of old, and had learned a great deal of his wisdom from him) recognized him in a moment. "Whither are you going in such a hurry, wise Ulysses?" asked Quicksilver. "Do you not know that this island is enchanted? The wicked enchantress (whose name is Circe, the sister of King Aetes) dwells in the marble palace which you see yonder among the trees. By her magic arts she changes every human being into the brute, beast, or fowl whom he happens most to resemble." "That little bird, which met me at the edge of the cliff," exclaimed Ulysses; "was he a human being once?" "Yes," answered Quicksilver. "He was once a king, named Picus, and a pretty good sort of a king, too, only rather too proud of his purple robe, and his crown, and the golden chain about his neck; so he was forced to take the shape of a gaudy-feathered bird. The lions, and wolves, and tigers, who will come running to meet you, in front of the palace, were formerly fierce and cruel men, resembling in their disposition the wild beasts whose forms they now rightfully wear." "And my poor companions," said Ulysses. "Have they undergone a similar change, through the arts of this wicked Circe?" "You well know what gormandizers they were," replied Quicksilver; and rogue that he was, he could not help laughing at the joke. "So you will not be surprised to hear that they have all taken the shapes of swine! If Circe had never done anything worse, I really should not think her so very much to blame." "But can I do nothing to help them?" inquired Ulysses. "It will require all your wisdom," said Quicksilver, "and a little of my own into the bargain, to keep your royal and sagacious self from being transformed into a fox. But do as I bid you; and the matter may end better than it has begun." While he was speaking, Quicksilver seemed to be in search of something; he went stooping along the ground, and soon laid his hand on a little plant with a snow-white flower, which he plucked and smelt of. Ulysses had been looking at that very spot only just before; and it appeared to him that the plant had burst into full flower the instant when Quicksilver touched it with his fingers. "Take this flower, King Ulysses," said he. "Guard it as you do your eyesight; for I can assure you it is exceedingly rare and precious, and you might seek the whole earth over without ever finding another like it. Keep it in your hand, and smell of it frequently after you enter the palace, and while you are talking with the enchantress. Especially when she offers you food, or a draught of wine out of her goblet, be careful to fill your nostrils with the flower's fragrance. Follow these directions, and you may defy her magic arts to change you into a fox." Quicksilver then gave him some further advice how to behave, and bidding him be bold and prudent, again assured him that, powerful as Circe was, he would have a fair prospect of coming safely out of her enchanted palace. After listening attentively, Ulysses thanked his good friend, and resumed his way. But he had taken only a few steps, when, recollecting some other questions which he wished to ask, he turned round again, and beheld nobody on the spot where Quicksilver had stood; for that winged cap of his, and those winged shoes, with the help of the winged staff, had carried him quickly out of sight. When Ulysses reached the lawn, in front of the palace, the lions and other savage animals came bounding to meet him, and would have fawned upon him and licked his feet. But the wise king struck at them with his long spear, and sternly bade them begone out of his path; for he knew that they had once been bloodthirsty men, and would now tear him limb from limb, instead of fawning upon him, could they do the mischief that was in their hearts. The wild beasts yelped and glared at him, and stood at a distance, while he ascended the palace steps. On entering the hall, Ulysses saw the magic fountain in the center of it. The up-gushing water had now again taken the shape of a man in a long, white, fleecy robe, who appeared to be making gestures of welcome. The king likewise heard the noise of the shuttle in the loom and the sweet melody of the beautiful woman's song, and then the pleasant voices of herself and the four maidens talking together, with peals of merry laughter intermixed. But Ulysses did not waste much time in listening to the laughter or the song. He leaned his spear against one of the pillars of the hall, and then, after loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped boldly forward, and threw the folding doors wide open. The moment she beheld his stately figure standing in the doorway, the beautiful woman rose from the loom, and ran to meet him with a glad smile throwing its sunshine over her face, and both her hands extended. "Welcome, brave stranger!" cried she. "We were expecting you." And the nymph with the sea-green hair made a courtesy down to the ground, and likewise bade him welcome; so did her sister with the bodice of oaken bark, and she that sprinkled dew-drops from her fingers' ends, and the fourth one with some oddity which I cannot remember. And Circe, as the beautiful enchantress was called (who had deluded so many persons that she did not doubt of being able to delude Ulysses, not imagining how wise he was), again addressed him: "Your companions," said she, "have already been received into my palace, and have enjoyed the hospitable treatment to which the propriety of their behavior so well entitles them. If such be your pleasure, you shall first take some refreshment, and then join them in the elegant apartment which they now occupy. See, I and my maidens have been weaving their figures into this piece of tapestry." She pointed to the web of beautifully-woven cloth in the loom. Circe and the four nymphs must have been very diligently at work since the arrival of the mariners; for a great many yards of tapestry had now been wrought, in addition to what I before described. In this new part, Ulysses saw his two and twenty friends represented as sitting on cushions and canopied thrones, greedily devouring dainties, and quaffing deep draughts of wine. The work had not yet gone any further. O, no, indeed. The enchantress was far too cunning to let Ulysses see the mischief which her magic arts had since brought upon the gormandizers. "As for yourself, valiant sir," said Circe, "judging by the dignity of your aspect, I take you to be nothing less than a king. Deign to follow me, and you shall be treated as befits your rank." So Ulysses followed her into the oval saloon, where his two and twenty comrades had devoured the banquet, which ended so disastrously for themselves. But, all this while, he had held the snow-white flower in his hand, and had constantly smelt of it while Circe was speaking; and as he crossed the threshold of the saloon, he took good care to inhale several long and deep snuffs of its fragrance. Instead of two and twenty thrones, which had before been ranged around the wall, there was now only a single throne, in the center of the apartment. But this was surely the most magnificent seat that ever a king or an emperor reposed himself upon, all made of chased gold, studded with precious stones, with a cushion that looked like a soft heap of living roses, and overhung by a canopy of sunlight which Circe knew how to weave into drapery. The enchantress took Ulysses by the hand, and made him sit down upon this dazzling throne. Then, clapping her hands, she summoned the chief butler. "Bring hither," said she, "the goblet that is set apart for kings to drink out of. And fill it with the same delicious wine which my royal brother, King Aetes, praised so highly, when he last visited me with my fair daughter Medea. That good and amiable child! Were she now here, it would delight her to see me offering this wine to my honored guest." But Ulysses, while the butler was gone for the wine, held the snow-white flower to his nose. "Is it a wholesome wine?" he asked. At this the four maidens tittered; whereupon the enchantress looked round at them, with an aspect of severity. "It is the wholesomest juice that ever was squeezed out of the grape," said she; "for, instead of disguising a man, as other liquor is apt to do, it brings him to his true self, and shows him as he ought to be." The chief butler liked nothing better than to see people turned into swine, or making any kind of a beast of themselves; so he made haste to bring the royal goblet, filled with a liquid as bright as gold, and which kept sparkling upward, and throwing a sunny spray over the brim. But, delightfully as the wine looked, it was mingled with the most potent enchantments that Circe knew how to concoct. For every drop of the pure grape juice there were two drops of the pure mischief; and the danger of the thing was, that the mischief made it taste all the better. The mere smell of the bubbles, which effervesced at the brim, was enough to turn a man's beard into pig's bristles, or make a lion's claws grow out of his fingers, or a fox's brush behind him. "Drink, my noble guest," said Circe, smiling, as she presented him with the goblet. "You will find in this draught a solace for all your troubles." King Ulysses took the goblet with his right hand, while with his left he held the snow-white flower to his nostrils, and drew in so long a breath that his lungs were quite filled with its pure and simple fragrance. Then, drinking off all the wine, he looked the enchantress calmly in the face. "Wretch," cried Circe, giving him a smart stroke with her wand, "how dare you keep your human shape a moment longer! Take the form of the brute whom you most resemble. If a hog, go join your fellow-swine in the sty; if a lion, a wolf, a tiger, go howl with the wild beasts on the lawn; if a fox, go exercise your craft in stealing poultry. Thou hast quaffed off my wine, and canst be man no longer." But, such was the virtue of the snow-white flower, instead of wallowing down from his throne in swinish shape, or taking any other brutal form, Ulysses looked even more manly and king-like than before. He gave the magic goblet a toss, and sent it clashing over the marble floor to the farthest end of the saloon. Then, drawing his sword, he seized the enchantress by her beautiful ringlets, and made a gesture as if he meant to strike off her head at one blow. "Wicked Circe," cried he, in a terrible voice, "this sword shall put an end to thy enchantments. Thou shalt die, vile wretch, and do no more mischief in the world, by tempting human beings into the vices which make beasts of them." The tone and countenance of Ulysses were so awful, and his sword gleamed so brightly, and seemed to have so intolerably keen an edge, that Circe was almost killed by the mere fright, without waiting for a blow. The chief butler scrambled out of the saloon, picking up the golden goblet as he went; and the enchantress and the four maidens fell on their knees, wringing their hands, and screaming for mercy. "Spare me!" cried Circe. "Spare me, royal and wise Ulysses. For now I know that thou art he of whom Quicksilver forewarned me, the most prudent of mortals, against whom no enchantments can prevail. Thou only couldst have conquered Circe. Spare me, wisest of men. I will show thee true hospitality, and even give myself to be thy slave, and this magnificent palace to be henceforth thy home." The four nymphs, meanwhile, were making a most piteous ado; and especially the ocean nymph, with the sea-green hair, wept a great deal of salt water, and the fountain nymph, besides scattering dewdrops from her fingers' ends, nearly melted away into tears. But Ulysses would not be pacified until Circe had taken a solemn oath to change back his companions, and as many others as he should direct, from their present forms of beast or bird into their former shapes of men. "On these conditions," said he, "I consent to spare your life. Otherwise you must die upon the spot." With a drawn sword hanging over her, the enchantress would readily have consented to do as much good as she had hitherto done mischief, however little she might like such employment. She therefore led Ulysses out of the back entrance of the palace, and showed him the swine in their sty. There were about fifty of these unclean beasts in the whole herd; and though the greater part were hogs by birth and education, there was wonderfully little difference to be seen betwixt them and their new brethren, who had so recently worn the human shape. To speak critically, indeed, the latter rather carried the thing to excess, and seemed to make it a point to wallow in the miriest part of the sty, and otherwise to outdo the original swine in their own natural vocation. When men once turn to brutes, the trifle of man's wit that remains in them adds tenfold to their brutality. The comrades of Ulysses, however, had not quite lost the remembrance of having formerly stood erect. When he approached the sty, two and twenty enormous swine separated themselves from the herd, and scampered towards him, with such a chorus of horrible squealing as made him clap both hands to his ears. And yet they did not seem to know what they wanted, nor whether they were merely hungry, or miserable from some other cause. It was curious, in the midst of their distress, to observe them thrusting their noses into the mire, in quest of something to eat. The nymph with the bodice of oaken bark (she was the hamadryad of an oak) threw a handful of acorns among them; and the two and twenty hogs scrambled and fought for the prize, as if they had tasted not so much as a noggin of sour milk for a twelvemonth. "These must certainly be my comrades," said Ulysses. "I recognize their dispositions. They are hardly worth the trouble of changing them into the human form again. Nevertheless, we will have it done, lest their bad example should corrupt the other hogs. Let them take their original shapes, therefore, Dame Circe, if your skill is equal to the task. It will require greater magic, I trow, than it did to make swine of them." So Circe waved her wand again, and repeated a few magic words, at the sound of which the two and twenty hogs pricked up their pendulous ears. It was a wonder to behold how their snouts grew shorter and shorter, and their mouths (which they seemed to be sorry for, because they could not gobble so expeditiously) smaller and smaller, and how one and another began to stand upon his hind legs, and scratch his nose with his fore trotters. At first the spectators hardly knew whether to call them hogs or men, but by and by came to the conclusion that they rather resembled the latter. Finally, there stood the twenty-two comrades of Ulysses, looking pretty much the same as when they left the vessel. You must not imagine, however, that the swinish quality had entirely gone out of them. When once it fastens itself into a person's character, it is very difficult getting rid of it. This was proved by the hamadryad, who, being exceedingly fond of mischief, threw another handful of acorns before the twenty-two newly-restored people; whereupon down they wallowed in a moment, and gobbled them up in a very shameful way. Then, recollecting themselves, they scrambled to their feet, and looked more than commonly foolish. "Thanks, noble Ulysses!" they cried. "From brute beasts you have restored us to the condition of men again." "Do not put yourselves to the trouble of thanking me," said the wise king. "I fear I have done but little for you." To say the truth, there was a suspicious kind of a grunt in their voices, and, for a long time afterwards, they spoke gruffly, and were apt to set up a squeal. "It must depend on your own future behavior," added Ulysses, "whether you do not find your way back to the sty." At this moment, the note of a bird sounded from the branch of a neighboring tree. "Peep, peep, pe--wee--e!" It was the purple bird, who, all this while, had been sitting over their heads, watching what was going forward, and hoping that Ulysses would remember how he had done his utmost to keep him and his followers out of harm's way. Ulysses ordered Circe instantly to make a king of this good little fowl, and leave him exactly as she found him. Hardly were the words spoken, and before the bird had time to utter another "pe--weep," King Picus leaped down from the bough of a tree, as majestic a sovereign as any in the world, dressed in a long purple robe and gorgeous yellow stockings, with a splendidly wrought collar about his neck, and a golden crown upon his head. He and King Ulysses exchanged with one another the courtesies which belong to their elevated rank. But from that time forth, King Picus was no longer proud of his crown and his trappings of royalty, nor of the fact of his being a king; he felt himself merely the upper servant of his people, and that it must be his life-long labor to make them better and happier. As for the lions, tigers, and wolves (though Circe would have restored them to their former shapes at his slightest word), Ulysses thought it advisable that they should remain as they now were, and thus give warning of their cruel dispositions, instead of going about under the guise of men, and pretending to human sympathies, while their hearts had the blood-thirstiness of wild beasts. So he let them howl as much as they liked, but never troubled his head about them. And, when everything was settled according to his pleasure, he sent to summon the remainder of his comrades, whom he had left at the sea-shore. These being arrived, with the prudent Eurylochus at their head, they all made themselves comfortable in Circe's enchanted palace, until quite rested and refreshed from the toils and hardships of their voyage. THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS. Mother Ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter Proserpina, and seldom let her go alone into the fields. But, just at the time when my story begins, the good lady was very busy, because she had the care of the wheat, and the Indian corn, and the rye and barley and, in short, of the crops of every kind, all over the earth; and as the season had thus far been uncommonly backward, it was necessary to make the harvest ripen more speedily than usual. So she put on her turban, made of poppies (a kind of flower which she was always noted for wearing), and got into her car drawn by a pair of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off. "Dear mother," said Proserpina, "I shall be very lonely while you are away. May I not run down to the shore, and ask some of the sea nymphs to come up out of the waves and play with me?" "Yes, child," answered Mother Ceres. "The sea nymphs are good creatures, and will never lead you into any harm. But you must take care not to stray away from them, nor go wandering about the fields by yourself. Young girls, without their mothers to take care of them, are very apt to get into mischief." The child promised to be as prudent as if she were a grown-up woman; and, by the time the winged dragons had whirled the car out of sight, she was already on the shore, calling to the sea nymphs to come and play with her. They knew Proserpina's voice, and were not long in showing their glistening faces and sea-green hair above the water, at the bottom of which was their home. They brought along with them a great many beautiful shells; and sitting down on the moist sand, where the surf wave broke over them, they busied themselves in making a necklace, which they hung round Proserpina's neck. By way of showing her gratitude, the child besought them to go with her a little way into the fields, so that they might gather abundance of flowers, with which she would make each of her kind playmates a wreath. "O no, dear Proserpina," cried the sea nymphs; "we dare not go with you upon the dry land. We are apt to grow faint, unless at every breath we can snuff up the salt breeze of the ocean. And don't you see how careful we are to let the surf wave break over us every moment or two, so as to keep ourselves comfortably moist? If it were not for that, we should look like bunches of uprooted seaweed dried in the sun. "It is a great pity," said Proserpina. "But do you wait for me here, and I will run and gather my apron full of flowers, and be back again before the surf wave has broken ten times over you. I long to make you some wreaths that shall be as lovely as this necklace of many colored shells." "We will wait, then," answered the sea nymphs. "But while you are gone, we may as well lie down on a bank of soft sponge under the water. The air to-day is a little too dry for our comfort. But we will pop up our heads every few minutes to see if you are coming." The young Proserpina ran quickly to a spot where, only the day before, she had seen a great many flowers. These, however, were now a little past their bloom; and wishing to give her friends the freshest and loveliest blossoms, she strayed farther into the fields, and found some that made her scream with delight. Never had she met with such exquisite flowers before--violets so large and fragrant--roses with so rich and delicate a blush--such superb hyacinths and such aromatic pinks--and many others, some of which seemed to be of new shapes and colors. Two or three times, moreover, she could not help thinking that a tuft of most splendid flowers had suddenly sprouted out of the earth before her very eyes, as if on purpose to tempt her a few steps farther. Proserpina's apron was soon filled, and brimming over with delightful blossoms. She was on the point of turning back in order to rejoin the sea nymphs, and sit with them on the moist sands, all twining wreaths together. But, a little farther on, what should she behold? It was a large shrub, completely covered with the most magnificent flowers in the world. "The darlings!" cried Proserpina; and then she thought to herself, "I was looking at that spot only a moment ago. How strange it is that I did not see the flowers!" The nearer she approached the shrub, the more attractive it looked, until she came quite close to it; and then, although its beauty was richer than words can tell, she hardly knew whether to like it or not. It bore above a hundred flowers of the most brilliant hues, and each different from the others, but all having a kind of resemblance among themselves, which showed them to be sister blossoms. But there was a deep, glossy luster on the leaves of the shrub, and on the petals of the flowers, that made Proserpina doubt whether they might not be poisonous. To tell you the truth, foolish as it may seem, she was half inclined to turn round and run away. "What a silly child I am!" thought she, taking courage. "It is really the most beautiful shrub that ever sprang out of the earth. I will pull it up by the roots, and carry it home, and plant it in my mother's garden." Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand, Proserpina seized the large shrub with the other, and pulled, and pulled, but was hardly able to loosen the soil about its roots. What a deep-rooted plant it was! Again the girl pulled with all her might, and observed that the earth began to stir and crack to some distance around the stem. She gave another pull, but relaxed her hold, fancying that there was a rumbling sound right beneath her feet. Did the roots extend down into some enchanted cavern? Then laughing at herself for so childish a notion, she made another effort: up came the shrub, and Proserpina staggered back, holding the stem triumphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep hole which its roots had left in the soil. Much to her astonishment, this hole kept spreading wider and wider, and growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to have no bottom; and all the while, there came a rumbling noise out of its depths, louder and louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounding like the tramp of horses' hoofs and the rattling of wheels. Too much frightened to run away, she stood straining her eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a team of four sable horses, snorting smoke out of their nostrils, and tearing their way out of the earth with a splendid golden chariot whirling at their heels. They leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all; and there they were, tossing their black manes, flourishing their black tails, and curvetting with every one of their hoofs off the ground at once, close by the spot where Proserpina stood. In the chariot sat the figure of a man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming with diamonds. He was of a noble aspect, and rather handsome, but looked sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing his eyes and shading them with his hand, as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be very fond of its light. As soon as this personage saw the affrighted Proserpina, he beckoned her to come a little nearer. "Do not be afraid," said he, with as cheerful a smile as he knew how to put on. "Come! Will you not like to ride a little way with me, in my beautiful chariot?" But Proserpina was so alarmed, that she wished for nothing but to get out of his reach. And no wonder. The stranger did not look remarkably good-natured, in spite of his smile; and as for his voice, its tones were deep and stern, and sounded as much like the rumbling of an earthquake underground than anything else. As is always the case with children in trouble, Proserpina's first thought was to call for her mother. "Mother, Mother Ceres!" cried she, all in a tremble. "Come quickly and save me." But her voice was too faint for her mother to hear. Indeed, it is most probable that Ceres was then a thousand miles off, making the corn grow in some far distant country. Nor could it have availed her poor daughter, even had she been within hearing; for no sooner did Proserpina begin to cry out, than the stranger leaped to the ground, caught the child in his arms, and again mounted the chariot, shook the reins, and shouted to the four black horses to set off. They immediately broke into so swift a gallop, that it seemed rather like flying through the air than running along the earth. In a moment, Proserpina lost sight of the pleasant vale of Enna, in which she had always dwelt. Another instant, and even the summit of Mount Aetna had become so blue in the distance, that she could scarcely distinguish it from the smoke that gushed out of its crater. But still the poor child screamed, and scattered her apron full of flowers along the way, and left a long cry trailing behind the chariot; and many mothers, to whose ears it came, ran quickly to see if any mischief had befallen their children. But Mother Ceres was a great way off, and could not hear the cry. As they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe her. "Why should you be so frightened, my pretty child?" said he, trying to soften his rough voice. "I promise not to do you any harm. What! you have been gathering flowers? Wait till we come to my palace, and I will give you a garden full of prettier flowers than those, all made of pearls, and diamonds, and rubies. Can you guess who I am? They call my name Pluto; and I am the king of diamonds and all other precious stones. Every atom of the gold and silver that lies under the earth belongs to me, to say nothing of the copper and iron, and of the coal mines, which supply me with abundance of fuel. Do you see this splendid crown upon my head? You may have it for a plaything. O, we shall be very good friends, and you will find me more agreeable than you expect, when once we get out of this troublesome sunshine." "Let me go home!" cried Proserpina. "Let me go home!" "My home is better than your mother's," answered King Pluto. "It is a palace, all made of gold, with crystal windows; and because there is little or no sunshine thereabouts, the apartments are illuminated with diamond lamps. You never saw anything half so magnificent as my throne. If you like, you may sit down on it, and be my little queen, and I will sit on the footstool." "I don't care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed Proserpina. "Oh, my mother, my mother! Carry me back to my mother!" But King Pluto, as he called himself, only shouted to his steeds to go faster. "Pray do not be foolish, Proserpina," said he, in rather a sullen tone. "I offer you my palace and my crown, and all the riches that are under the earth; and you treat me as if I were doing you an injury. The one thing which my palace needs is a merry little maid, to run upstairs and down, and cheer up the rooms with her smile. And this is what you must do for King Pluto." "Never!" answered Proserpina, looking as miserable as she could. "I shall never smile again till you set me down at my mother's door." But she might just as well have talked to the wind that whistled past them, for Pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than ever. Proserpina continued to cry out, and screamed so long and so loudly that her poor little voice was almost screamed away; and when it was nothing but a whisper, she happened to cast her eyes over a great broad field of waving grain--and whom do you think she saw? Who, but Mother Ceres, making the corn grow, and too busy to notice the golden chariot as it went rattling along. The child mustered all her strength, and gave one more scream, but was out of sight before Ceres had time to turn her head. King Pluto had taken a road which now began to grow excessively gloomy. It was bordered on each side with rocks and precipices, between which the rumbling of the chariot wheels was reverberated with a noise like rolling thunder. The trees and bushes that grew in the crevices of the rocks had very dismal foliage; and by and by, although it was hardly noon, the air became obscured with a gray twilight. The black horses had rushed along so swiftly, that they were already beyond the limits of the sunshine. But the duskier it grew, the more did Pluto's visage assume an air of satisfaction. After all, he was not an ill-looking person, especially when he left off twisting his features into a smile that did not belong to them. Proserpina peeped at his face through the gathering dusk, and hoped that he might not be so very wicked as she at first thought him. "Ah, this twilight is truly refreshing," said King Pluto, "after being so tormented with that ugly and impertinent glare of the sun. How much more agreeable is lamplight or torchlight, more particularly when reflected from diamonds! It will be a magnificent sight, when we get to my palace." "Is it much farther?" asked Proserpina. "And will you carry me back when I have seen it?" "We will talk of that by and by," answered Pluto. "We are just entering my dominions. Do you see that tall gateway before us? When we pass those gates, we are at home. And there lies my faithful mastiff at the threshold. Cerberus! Cerberus! Come hither, my good dog!" So saying, Pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped the chariot right between the tall, massive pillars of the gateway. The mastiff of which he had spoken got up from the threshold, and stood on his hinder legs, so as to put his fore paws on the chariot wheel. But, my stars, what a strange dog it was! Why, he was a big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with three separate heads, and each of them fiercer than the two others; but fierce as they were, King Pluto patted them all. He seemed as fond of his three-headed dog as if it had been a sweet little spaniel, with silken ears and curly hair. Cerberus, on the other hand, was evidently rejoiced to see his master, and expressed his attachment, as other dogs do, by wagging his tail at a great rate. Proserpina's eyes being drawn to it by its brisk motion, she saw that this tail was neither more nor less than a live dragon, with fiery eyes, and fangs that had a very poisonous aspect. And while the three-headed Cerberus was fawning so lovingly on King Pluto, there was the dragon tail wagging against its will, and looking as cross and ill-natured as you can imagine, on its own separate account. "Will the dog bite me?" asked Proserpina, shrinking closer to Pluto. "What an ugly creature he is!" "O, never fear," answered her companion. "He never harms people, unless they try to enter my dominions without being sent for, or to get away when I wish to keep them here. Down, Cerberus! Now, my pretty Proserpina, we will drive on." On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed greatly pleased to find himself once more in his own kingdom. He drew Proserpina's attention to the rich veins of gold that were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed to several places where one stroke of a pickaxe would loosen a bushel of diamonds. All along the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems, which would have been of inestimable value above ground, but which here were reckoned of the meaner sort and hardly worth a beggar's stooping for. Not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge, which seemed to be built of iron. Pluto stopped the chariot, and bade Proserpina look at the stream which was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in her life had she beheld so torpid, so black, so muddy-looking a stream; its waters reflected no images of anything that was on the banks, and it moved as sluggishly as if it had quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and had rather stagnate than flow either one way or the other. "This is the River Lethe," observed King Pluto. "Is it not a very pleasant stream?" "I think it a very dismal one," answered Proserpina. "It suits my taste, however," answered Pluto, who was apt to be sullen when anybody disagreed with him. "At all events, its water has one excellent quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget every care and sorrow that has hitherto tormented them. Only sip a little of it, my dear Proserpina, and you will instantly cease to grieve for your mother, and will have nothing in your memory that can prevent your being perfectly happy in my palace. I will send for some, in a golden goblet, the moment we arrive." "O, no, no, no!" cried Proserpina, weeping afresh. "I had a thousand times rather be miserable with remembering my mother, than be happy in forgetting her. That dear, dear mother! I never, never will forget her." "We shall see," said King Pluto. "You do not know what fine times we will have in my palace. Here we are just at the portal. These pillars are solid gold, I assure you." He alighted from the chariot, and taking Proserpina in his arms, carried her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace. It was splendidly illuminated by means of large precious stones, of various hues, which seemed to burn like so many lamps, and glowed with a hundred-fold radiance all through the vast apartment. And yet there was a kind of gloom in the midst of this enchanted light; nor was there a single object in the hall that was really agreeable to behold, except the little Proserpina herself, a lovely child, with one earthly flower which she had not let fall from her hand. It is my opinion that even King Pluto had never been happy in his palace, and that this was the true reason why he had stolen away Proserpina, in order that he might have something to love, instead of cheating his heart any longer with this tiresome magnificence. And, though he pretended to dislike the sunshine of the upper world, yet the effect of the child's presence, bedimmed as she was by her tears, was as if a faint and watery sunbeam had somehow or other found its way into the enchanted hall. Pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in preparing a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things, not to fail of setting a golden beaker of the water of Lethe by Proserpina's plate. "I will neither drink that nor anything else," said Proserpina. "Nor will I taste a morsel of food, even if you keep me forever in your palace." "I should be sorry for that," replied King Pluto, patting her cheek; for he really wished to be kind, if he had only known how. "You are a spoiled child, I perceive, my little Proserpina; but when you see the nice things which my cook will make for you, your appetite will quickly come again." Then, sending for the head cook, he gave strict orders that all sorts of delicacies, such as young people are usually fond of, should be set before Proserpina. He had a secret motive in this; for, you are to understand, it is a fixed law, that when persons are carried off to the land of magic, if they once taste any food there, they can never get back to their friends. Now, if King Pluto had been cunning enough to offer Proserpina some fruit, or bread and milk (which was the simple fare to which the child had always been accustomed), it is very probable that she would soon have been tempted to eat it. But he left the matter entirely to his cook, who, like all other cooks, considered nothing fit to eat unless it were rich pastry, or highly-seasoned meat, or spiced sweet cakes--things which Proserpina's mother had never given her, and the smell of which quite took away her appetite, instead of sharpening it. But my story must now clamber out of King Pluto's dominions, and see what Mother Ceres had been about, since she was bereft of her daughter. We had a glimpse of her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling along the chariot, in which her beloved Proserpina was so unwillingly borne away. You recollect, too, the loud scream which Proserpina gave, just when the chariot was out of sight. Of all the child's outcries, this last shriek was the only one that reached the ears of Mother Ceres. She had mistaken the rumbling of the chariot wheels for a peal of thunder, and imagined that a shower was coming up, and that it would assist her in making the corn grow. But, at the sound of Proserpina's shriek, she started, and looked about in every direction, not knowing whence it came, but feeling almost certain that it was her daughter's voice. It seemed so unaccountable, however, that the girl should have strayed over so many lands and seas (which she herself could not have traversed without the aid of her winged dragons), that the good Ceres tried to believe that it must be the child of some other parent, and not her own darling Proserpina, who had uttered this lamentable cry. Nevertheless, it troubled her with a vast many tender fears, such as are ready to bestir themselves in every mother's heart, when she finds it necessary to go away from her dear children without leaving them under the care of some maiden aunt, or other such faithful guardian. So she quickly left the field in which she had been so busy; and, as her work was not half done, the grain looked, next day, as if it needed both sun and rain, and as if it were blighted in the ear, and had something the matter with its roots. The pair of dragons must have had very nimble wings; for, in less than an hour, Mother Ceres had alighted at the door of her home, and found it empty. Knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting on the sea-shore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld the wet faces of the poor sea nymphs peeping over a wave. All this while, the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and once, every half minute or so, had popped up their four heads above water, to see if their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw Mother Ceres, they sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it toss them ashore at her feet. "Where is Proserpina?" cried Ceres. "Where is my child? Tell me, you naughty sea nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?" "O, no, good Mother Ceres," said the innocent sea nymphs, tossing back their green ringlets, and looking her in the face. "We never should dream of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true; but she left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the dry land, and gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the day, and we have seen nothing of her since." Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before she hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But nobody told her anything that would enable the poor mother to guess what had become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers; several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot wheels, or the rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid people! It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they knew, that it was dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she must seek her daughter elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth, resolving never to come back until Proserpina was discovered. In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the search more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in which she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and looking carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened, she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers which grew on the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up. "Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. "Here is mischief in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of mine, nor of its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child." But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina. All night long, at the door of every cottage and farm-house, Ceres knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen her child; and they stood, gaping and half-asleep, at the threshold, and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At the portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to repose in. And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch in her hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody had seen Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint which way to seek her. Thus passed the night; and still she continued her search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even remembering to put out the torch although first the rosy dawn, and then the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin and pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in all the weary days and nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina. It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her daughter. In the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of another nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary places, and were very sociable with persons who understood their language and customs, as Mother Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and immediately its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a beautiful maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves sported with the breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels had seen Proserpina. Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come to a fountain, gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would dabble with her hand in the water. Behold, up through its sandy and pebbly bed, along with the fountain's gush, a young woman with dripping hair would arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres, half out of the water, and undulating up and down with its ever-restless motion. But when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink out of the fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these water-nymphs had tears to spare for everybody's grief), would answer "No!" in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the stream. Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gamboled merrily about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome kind of creature but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow, when Ceres inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell. But sometimes she same suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces like monkeys, and horses' tails behind them, and who were generally dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder, and make new merriment out of the lone woman's distress. How unkind of those ugly satyrs! And once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a personage named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, and making music on a shepherd's flute. He, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goats' feet; but, being acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of Proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild people. And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and nights, finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a withered flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because she fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand. All day she traveled onward through the hot sun; and, at night again, the flame of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she continued her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest. On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern within which (though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been only a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning there. It flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not half light up the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres was resolved to leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the cave, and lighted it up a little more, by holding her own torch before her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman, sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which had been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it were) was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her head, they tell me, was shaped very much like a dog's, and, by way of ornament, she wore a wreath of snakes around it. But Mother Ceres, the moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have a word to say to other people, unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she herself delighted to be. "I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet." So she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss, she had found no other companion. "O Hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?" "No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every word or two; "no, Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter. But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way, that all cries of distress and affright all over the world are pretty sure to find their way to them; and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very miserable, I heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great distress. Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster, was carrying her away." "You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. "Where was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?" "It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time, there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell you nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see your daughter again. The best advice I can give you is, to take up your abode in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the world." "Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come with your torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then, if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered leaves or on the naked rock, I will show what it is to be miserable. But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I will not allow myself space even to grieve." The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches, although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met, along the road, could not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a second glance. As the pair traveled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck Ceres. "There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor child, and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I think of him before? It is Phoebus." "What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine? O, pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous young fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is such a glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which I have almost wept away already." "You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phoebus along with it." Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phoebus, both of them sighing grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it. By and by, after a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole world. There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so exceedingly vivid, that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering that he ought to wear a black veil. Phoebus (for this was the very person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most exquisite song, which he had recently composed. For, beside a great many other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable poetry. As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phoebus smiled on them so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres, she was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether Phoebus smiled or frowned. "Phoebus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to you for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child Proserpina?" "Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phoebus, endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of pleasant ideas in his mind, that he was apt to forget what had happened no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very lovely child, indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the little Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself perfectly easy about her. She is safe, and in excellent hands." "O, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands, and flinging herself at his feet. "Why," said Phoebus--and as he spoke he kept touching his lyre so as to make a thread of music run in and out among his words--"as the little damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste for flowers), she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto, and carried off to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the universe; but the royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of architecture, and of the most splendid and costly materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious stones will be your daughter's ordinary playthings. I recommend to you, my dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness. Proserpina's sense of beauty will be duly gratified, and even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable life." "Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres, indignantly. "What is there to gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you speak of without affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me you go with me, Phoebus, to demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?" "Pray excuse me," replied Phoebus, with an elegant obeisance. "I certainly wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so immediately pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you. Besides, I am not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway; for I should be compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know, are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom." "Ah, Phoebus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have a harp instead of a heart. Farewell." "Will not you stay a moment," asked Phoebus, "and hear me turn the pretty and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?" But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate. Phoebus (who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to make an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to judge of his sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed with a very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the habit of using his heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as much as he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though Phoebus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the sunbeams amid which he dwelt. Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary, looked more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground, there might have been hopes of regaining her. But now that the poor child was shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her to the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres answered, that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that, for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance to King Pluto's dominions. And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with a glimpse of her dog's face as she went. Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her toilsome way, all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned together in her heart. So much did she suffer, that, though her aspect had been quite youthful when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly person in a very brief time. She cared not how she was dressed, nor had she ever thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies, which she put on the very morning of Proserpina's disappearance. She roamed about in so wild a way, and with her hair so disheveled, that people took her for some distracted creature, and never dreamed that this was Mother Ceres, who had the oversight of every seed which the husbandman planted. Nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble about seed time nor harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their own affairs, and the crops to fade or flourish, as the case might be. There was nothing, now, in which Ceres seemed to feel an interest, unless when she saw children at play, or gathering flowers along the wayside. Then, indeed, she would stand and gaze at them with tears in her eyes. The children, too, appeared to have a sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves in a little group about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face; and Ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them to their homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight. "For if they do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me, that the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a liking to your darlings, and snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away." One day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to Pluto's kingdom, she came to the palace of King Cereus, who reigned at Eleusis. Ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered the portal, and found the royal household in very great alarm about the queen's baby. The infant, it seems, was sickly (being troubled with its teeth, I suppose), and would take no food, and was all the time moaning with pain. The queen--her name was Metanira--was desirous of funding a nurse; and when she beheld a woman of matronly aspect coming up the palace steps, she thought, in her own mind, that here was the very person whom she needed. So Queen Metanira ran to the door, with the poor wailing baby in her arms, and besought Ceres to take charge of it, or, at least, to tell her what would do it good. "Will you trust the child entirely to me?" asked Ceres. "Yes, and gladly, too," answered the queen, "if you will devote all your time to him. For I can see that you have been a mother." "You are right," said Ceres. "I once had a child of my own. Well; I will be the nurse of this poor, sickly boy. But beware, I warn you, that you do not interfere with any kind of treatment which I may judge proper for him. If you do so, the poor infant must suffer for his mother's folly." Then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good; for he smiled and nestled closely into her bosom. So Mother Ceres set her torch in a corner (where it kept burning all the while), and took up her abode in the palace of King Cereus, as nurse to the little Prince Demophoon. She treated him as if he were her own child, and allowed neither the king nor the queen to say whether he should be bathed in warm or cold water, or what he should eat, or how often he should take the air, or when he should be put to bed. You would hardly believe me, if I were to tell how quickly the baby prince got rid of his ailments, and grew fat, and rosy, and strong, and how he had two rows of ivory teeth in less time than any other little fellow, before or since. Instead of the palest, and wretchedest, and puniest imp in the world (as his own mother confessed him to be, when Ceres first took him in charge), he was now a strapping baby, crowing, laughing, kicking up his heels, and rolling from one end of the room to the other. All the good women of the neighborhood crowded to the palace, and held up their hands, in unutterable amazement, at the beauty and wholesomeness of this darling little prince. Their wonder was the greater, because he was never seen to taste any food; not even so much as a cup of milk. "Pray, nurse," the queen kept saying, "how is it that you make the child thrive so?" "I was a mother once," Ceres always replied; "and having nursed my own child, I know what other children need." But Queen Metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity to know precisely what the nurse did to her child. One night, therefore, she hid herself in the chamber where Ceres and the little prince were accustomed to sleep. There was a fire in the chimney, and it had now crumbled into great coals and embers, which lay glowing on the hearth, with a blaze flickering up now and then, and flinging a warm and ruddy light upon the walls. Ceres sat before the hearth with the child in her lap, and the firelight making her shadow dance upon the ceiling overhead. She undressed the little prince, and bathed him all over with some fragrant liquid out of a vase. The next thing she did was to rake back the red embers, and make a hollow place among them, just where the backlog had been. At last, while the baby was crowing, and clapping its fat little hands, and laughing in the nurse's face (just as you may have seen your little brother or sister do before going into its warm bath), Ceres suddenly laid him, all naked as he was, in the hollow among the red-hot embers. She then raked the ashes over him, and turned quietly away. You may imagine, if you can, how Queen Metanira shrieked, thinking nothing less than that her dear child would be burned to a cinder. She burst forth from her hiding-place, and running to the hearth, raked open the fire, and snatched up poor little Prince Demophoon out of his bed of live coals, one of which he was gripping in each of his fists. He immediately set up a grievous cry, as babies are apt to do, when rudely startled out of a sound sleep. To the queen's astonishment and joy, she could perceive no token of the child's being injured by the hot fire in which he had lain. She now turned to Mother Ceres, and asked her to explain the mystery. "Foolish woman," answered Ceres, "did you not promise to intrust this poor infant entirely to me? You little know the mischief you have done him. Had you left him to my care, he would have grown up like a child of celestial birth, endowed with superhuman strength and intelligence, and would have lived forever. Do you imagine that earthly children are to become immortal without being tempered to it in the fiercest heat of the fire? But you have ruined your own son. For though he will be a strong man and a hero in his day, yet, on account of your folly, he will grow old, and finally die, like the sons of other women. The weak tenderness of his mother has cost the poor boy an immortality. Farewell." Saying these words, she kissed the little Prince Demophoon, and sighed to think what he had lost, and took her departure without heeding Queen Metanira, who entreated her to remain, and cover up the child among the hot embers as often as she pleased. Poor baby! He never slept so warmly again. While she dwelt in the king's palace, Mother Ceres had been so continually occupied with taking care of the young prince, that her heart was a little lightened of its grief for Proserpina. But now, having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just as wretched as before. At length, in her despair, she came to the dreadful resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was good for man or beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her daughter were restored. She even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody's heart should be cheered by their beauty. Now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself out of the ground, without the especial permission of Ceres, you may conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth. The husbandmen plowed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand. The pastures looked as brown in the sweet month of June as ever they did in chill November. The rich man's broad acres and the cottager's small garden patch were equally blighted. Every little girl's flower bed showed nothing but dry stalks. The old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing the warm smile of summer on its face. It was really piteous to see the poor, starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres, lowing and bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect help from her; and everybody that was acquainted with her power besought her to have mercy on the human race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow. But Mother Ceres, though naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now inexorable. "Never," said she. "If the earth is ever again to see any verdure, it must first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming back to me." Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend Quicksilver was sent post-haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he might be persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything right again, by giving up Proserpina. Quicksilver accordingly made the best of his way to the great gate, took a flying leap right over the three-headed mastiff, and stood at the door of the palace in an inconceivably short time. The servants knew him both by his face and garb; for his short cloak, and his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky staff had often been seen thereabouts in times gone by. He requested to be shown immediately into the king's presence; and Pluto, who heard his voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself with Quicksilver's merry talk, called out to him to come up. And while they settle their business together, we must inquire what Proserpina had been doing ever since we saw her last. The child had declared, as you may remember, that she would not taste a mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to remain in King Pluto's palace. How she contrived to maintain her resolution, and at the same time to keep herself tolerably plump and rosy, is more than I can explain; but some young ladies, I am given to understand, possess the faculty of living on air, and Proserpina seems to have possessed it too. At any rate, it was now six months since she left the outside of the earth; and not a morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify, had yet passed between her teeth. This was the more creditable to Proserpina, inasmuch as King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day by day, with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly-preserved fruits, and delicacies of every sort, such as young people are generally most fond of. But her good mother had often told her of the hurtfulness of these things; and for that reason alone, if there had been no other, she would have resolutely refused to taste them. All this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the little damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed. The immense palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and wonderful objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true, which half hid itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before the child as she wandered among them, and treading stealthily behind her in the echo of her footsteps. Neither was all the dazzle of the precious stones, which flamed with their own light, worth one gleam of natural sunshine; nor could the most brilliant of the many-colored gems, which Proserpina had for playthings, vie with the simple beauty of the flowers she used to gather. But still, whenever the girl went among those gilded halls and chambers, it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with her, and as if she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her left. After Proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of stately artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been. The inhabitants all felt this, and King Pluto more than any of them. "My own little Proserpina," he used to say. "I wish you could like me a little better. We gloomy and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm hearts, at bottom, as those of a more cheerful character. If you would only stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than the possession of a hundred such palaces as this." "Ah," said Proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you before carrying me off. And the best thing you can now do is, to let me go again. Then I might remember you sometimes, and think that you were as kind as you knew how to be. Perhaps, too, one day or other, I might come back, and pay you a visit." "No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, "I will not trust you for that. You are too fond of living in the broad daylight, and gathering flowers. What an idle and childish taste that is! Are not these gems, which I have ordered to be dug for you, and which are richer than any in my crown--are they not prettier than a violet?" "Not half so pretty," said Proserpina, snatching the gems from Pluto's hand, and flinging them to the other end of the hall. "O my sweet violets, shall I never see you again?" And then she burst into tears. But young people's tears have very little saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame the eyes so much as those of grown persons; so that it is not to be wondered at, if, a few moments afterwards, Proserpina was sporting through the hall almost as merrily as she and the four sea nymphs had sported along the edge of the surf wave. King Pluto gazed after her, and wished that he, too, was a child. And little Proserpina, when she turned about, and beheld this great king standing in his splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so melancholy, and so lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity. She ran back to him, and, for the first time in all her life, put her small, soft hand in his. "I love you a little," whispered she, looking up in his face. "Do you, indeed, my dear child?" cried Pluto, bending his dark face down to kiss her; but Proserpina shrank away from the kiss, for, though his features were noble, they were very dusky and grim. "Well, I have not deserved it of you, after keeping you a prisoner for so many months, and starving you besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there nothing which I can get you to eat?" In asking this question, the king of the mines had a very cunning purpose; for, you will recollect, if Proserpina tasted a morsel of food in his dominions, she would never afterwards be at liberty to quit them. "No indeed," said Proserpina. "Your head cook is always baking, and stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste, and contriving one dish or another, which he imagines may be to my liking. But he might just as well save himself the trouble, poor, fat little man that he is. I have no appetite for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of bread, of my mother's own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden." When Pluto heard this, he began to see that he had mistaken the best method of tempting Proserpina to eat. The cook's made dishes and artificial dainties were not half so delicious, in the good child's opinion, as the simple fare to which Mother Ceres had accustomed her. Wondering that he had never thought of it before, the king now sent one of his trusty attendants with a large basket, to get some of the finest and juiciest pears, peaches, and plums which could anywhere be found in the upper world. Unfortunately, however, this was during the time when Ceres had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after seeking all over the earth, King Pluto's servant found only a single pomegranate, and that so dried up as not to be worth eating. Nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought this dry, old withered pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a magnificent golden salver, and carried it up to Proserpina. Now, it happened, curiously enough, that, just as the servant was bringing the pomegranate into the back door of the palace, our friend Quicksilver had gone up the front steps, on his errand to get Proserpina away from King Pluto. As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver, she told the servant he had better take it away again. "I shall not touch it, I assure you," said she. "If I were ever so hungry, I should never think of eating such a miserable, dry pomegranate as that." "It is the only one in the world," said the servant. He set down the golden salver, with the wizened pomegranate upon it, and left the room. When he was gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to the table, and looking at this poor specimen of dried fruit with a great deal of eagerness; for, to say the truth, on seeing something that suited her taste, she felt all the six months' appetite taking possession of her at once. To be sure, it was a very wretched-looking pomegranate, and seemed to have no more juice in it than an oyster shell. But there was no choice of such things in King Pluto's palace. This was the first fruit she had seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see; and unless she ate it up immediately, it would grow drier than it already was, and be wholly unfit to eat. "At least, I may smell it," thought Proserpina. So she took up the pomegranate, and applied it to her nose; and, somehow or other, being in such close neighborhood to her mouth, the fruit found its way into that little red cave. Dear me! what an everlasting pity! Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually bitten it, of their own accord. Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the apartment opened, and in came King Pluto, followed by Quicksilver, who had been urging him to let his little prisoner go. At the first noise of their entrance, Proserpina withdrew the pomegranate from her mouth. But Quicksilver (whose eyes were very keen, and his wits the sharpest that ever anybody had) perceived that the child was a little confused; and seeing the empty salver, he suspected that she had been taking a sly nibble of something or other. As for honest Pluto, he never guessed at the secret. "My little Proserpina," said the king, sitting down, and affectionately drawing her between his knees, "here is Quicksilver, who tells me that a great many misfortunes have befallen innocent people on account of my detaining you in my dominions. To confess the truth, I myself had already reflected that it was an unjustifiable act to take you away from your good mother. But, then, you must consider, my dear child, that this vast palace is apt to be gloomy (although the precious stones certainly shine very bright), and that I am not of the most cheerful disposition, and that therefore it was a natural thing enough to seek for the society of some merrier creature than myself. I hoped you would take my crown for a plaything, and me--ah, you laugh, naughty Proserpina--me, grim as I am, for a playmate. It was a silly expectation." "Not so extremely silly," whispered Proserpina. "You have really amused me very much, sometimes." "Thank you," said King Pluto, rather dryly. "But I can see plainly enough, that you think my palace a dusky prison, and me the iron-hearted keeper of it. And an iron heart I should surely have, if I could detain you here any longer, my poor child, when it is now six months since you tasted food. I give you your liberty. Go with Quicksilver. Hasten home to your dear mother." Now, although you may not have supposed it, Proserpina found it impossible to take leave of poor King Pluto without some regrets, and a good deal of compunction for not telling him about the pomegranate. She even shed a tear or two, thinking how lonely and cheerless the great palace would seem to him, with all its ugly glare of artificial light, after she herself--his one little ray of natural sunshine, whom he had stolen, to be sure, but only because he valued her so much--after she should have departed. I know not how many kind things she might have said to the disconsolate king of the mines, had not Quicksilver hurried her way. "Come along quickly," whispered he in her ear, "or his majesty may change his royal mind. And take care, above all things, that you say nothing of what was brought you on the golden salver." In a very short time, they had passed the great gateway (leaving the three-headed Cerberus, barking, and yelping, and growling, with threefold din, behind them), and emerged upon the surface of the earth. It was delightful to behold, as Proserpina hastened along, how the path grew verdant behind and on either side of her. Wherever she set her blessed foot, there was at once a dewy flower. The violets gushed up along the wayside. The grass and the grain began to sprout with tenfold vigor and luxuriance, to make up for the dreary months that had been wasted in barrenness. The starved cattle immediately set to work grazing, after their long fast, and ate enormously, all day, and got up at midnight to eat more. But I can assure you it was a busy time of year with the farmers, when they found the summer coming upon them with such a rush. Nor must I forget to say, that all the birds in the whole world hopped about upon the newly-blossoming trees, and sang together, in a prodigious ecstasy of joy. Mother Ceres had returned to her deserted home, and was sitting disconsolately on the doorstep, with her torch burning in her hand. She had been idly watching the flame for some moments past, when, all at once, it flickered and went out. "What does this mean?" thought she. "It was an enchanted torch, and should have kept burning till my child came back." Lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden verdure flashing over the brown and barren fields, exactly as you may have observed a golden hue gleaming far and wide across the landscape, from the just risen sun. "Does the earth disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres, indignantly. "Does it presume to be green, when I have bidden it be barren, until my daughter shall be restored to my arms?" "Then open your arms, dear mother," cried a well-known voice, "and take your little daughter into them." And Proserpina came running, and flung herself upon her mother's bosom. Their mutual transport is not to be described. The grief of their separation had caused both of them to shed a great many tears; and now they shed a great many more, because their joy could not so well express itself in any other way. When their hearts had grown a little more quiet, Mother Ceres looked anxiously at Proserpina. "My child," said she, "did you taste any food while you were in King Pluto's palace?" "Dearest mother," exclaimed Proserpina, "I will tell you the whole truth. Until this very morning, not a morsel of food had passed my lips. But to-day, they brought me a pomegranate (a very dry one it was, and all shriveled up, till there was little left of it but seeds and skin), and having seen no fruit for so long a time, and being faint with hunger, I was tempted just to bite it. The instant I tasted it, King Pluto and Quicksilver came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel; but--dear mother, I hope it was no harm--but six of the pomegranate seeds, I am afraid, remained in my mouth." "Ah, unfortunate child, and miserable me!" exclaimed Ceres. "For each of those six pomegranate seeds you must spend one month of every year in King Pluto's palace. You are but half restored to your mother. Only six months with me, and six with that good-for-nothing King of Darkness!" "Do not speak so harshly of poor King Pluto," said Prosperina, kissing her mother. "He has some very good qualities; and I really think I can bear to spend six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend the other six with you. He certainly did very wrong to carry me off; but then, as he says, it was but a dismal sort of life for him, to live in that great gloomy place, all alone; and it has made a wonderful change in his spirits to have a little girl to run up stairs and down. There is some comfort in making him so happy; and so, upon the whole, dearest mother, let us be thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year round." THE GOLDEN FLEECE. When Jason, the son of the dethroned King of Iolchos, was a little boy, he was sent away from his parents, and placed under the queerest schoolmaster that ever you heard of. This learned person was one of the people, or quadrupeds, called Centaurs. He lived in a cavern, and had the body and legs of a white horse, with the head and shoulders of a man. His name was Chiron; and, in spite of his odd appearance, he was a very excellent teacher, and had several scholars, who afterwards did him credit by making a great figure in the world. The famous Hercules was one, and so was Achilles, and Philoctetes likewise, and Aesculapius, who acquired immense repute as a doctor. The good Chiron taught his pupils how to play upon the harp, and how to cure diseases, and how to use the sword and shield, together with various other branches of education, in which the lads of those days used to be instructed, instead of writing and arithmetic. I have sometimes suspected that Master Chiron was not really very different from other people, but that, being a kind-hearted and merry old fellow, he was in the habit of making believe that he was a horse, and scrambling about the schoolroom on all fours, and letting the little boys ride upon his back. And so, when his scholars had grown up, and grown old, and were trotting their grandchildren on their knees, they told them about the sports of their school days; and these young folks took the idea that their grandfathers had been taught their letters by a Centaur, half man and half horse. Little children, not quite understanding what is said to them, often get such absurd notions into their heads, you know. Be that as it may, it has always been told for a fact (and always will be told, as long as the world lasts), that Chiron, with the head of a schoolmaster, had the body and legs of a horse. Just imagine the grave old gentleman clattering and stamping into the schoolroom on his four hoofs, perhaps treading on some little fellow's toes, flourishing his switch tail instead of a rod, and, now and then, trotting out of doors to eat a mouthful of grass! I wonder what the blacksmith charged him for a set of iron shoes? So Jason dwelt in the cave, with this four-footed Chiron, from the time that he was an infant, only a few months old, until he had grown to the full height of a man. He became a very good harper, I suppose, and skilful in the use of weapons, and tolerably acquainted with herbs and other doctor's stuff, and, above all, an admirable horseman; for, in teaching young people to ride, the good Chiron must have been without a rival among schoolmasters. At length, being now a tall and athletic youth, Jason resolved to seek his fortune in the world, without asking Chiron's advice, or telling him anything about the matter. This was very unwise, to be sure; and I hope none of you, my little hearers, will ever follow Jason's example. But, you are to understand, he had heard how that he himself was a prince royal, and how his father, King Jason, had been deprived of the kingdom of Iolchos by a certain Pelias, who would also have killed Jason, had he not been hidden in the Centaur's cave. And, being come to the strength of a man, Jason determined to set all this business to rights, and to punish the wicked Pelias for wronging his dear father, and to cast him down from the throne, and seat himself there instead. With this intention, he took a spear in each hand, and threw a leopard's skin over his shoulders, to keep off the rain, and set forth on his travels, with his long yellow ringlets waving in the wind. The part of his dress on which he most prided himself was a pair of sandals, that had been his father's. They were handsomely embroidered, and were tied upon his feet with strings of gold. But his whole attire was such as people did not very often see; and as he passed along, the women and children ran to the doors and windows, wondering whither this beautiful youth was journeying, with his leopard's skin and his golden-tied sandals, and what heroic deeds he meant to perform, with a spear in his right hand and another in his left. I know not how far Jason had traveled, when he came to a turbulent river, which rushed right across his pathway, with specks of white foam among its black eddies, hurrying tumultuously onward, and roaring angrily as it went. Though not a very broad river in the dry seasons of the year, it was now swollen by heavy rains and by the melting of the snow on the sides of Mount Olympus; and it thundered so loudly, and looked so wild and dangerous, that Jason, bold as he was, thought it prudent to pause upon the brink. The bed of the stream seemed to be strewn with sharp and rugged rocks, some of which thrust themselves above the water. By and by, an uprooted tree, with shattered branches, came drifting along the current, and got entangled among the rocks. Now and then, a drowned sheep, and once the carcass of a cow, floated past. In short, the swollen river had already done a great deal of mischief. It was evidently too deep for Jason to wade, and too boisterous for him to swim; he could see no bridge; and as for a boat, had there been any, the rocks would have broken it to pieces in an instant. "See the poor lad," said a cracked voice close to his side. "He must have had but a poor education, since he does not know how to cross a little stream like this. Or is he afraid of wetting his fine golden-stringed sandals? It is a pity his four-footed schoolmaster is not here to carry him safely across on his back!" Jason looked round greatly surprised, for he did not know that anybody was near. But beside him stood an old woman, with a ragged mantle over her head, leaning on a staff, the top of which was carved into the shape of a cuckoo. She looked very aged, and wrinkled, and infirm; and yet her eyes, which were as brown as those of an ox, were so extremely large and beautiful, that, when they were fixed on Jason's eyes, he could see nothing else but them. The old woman had a pomegranate in her hand, although the fruit was then quite out of season. "Whither are you going, Jason?" she now asked. She seemed to know his name, you will observe; and, indeed, those great brown eyes looked as if they had a knowledge of everything, whether past or to come. While Jason was gazing at her, a peacock strutted forward, and took his stand at the old woman's side. "I am going to Iolchos," answered the young man, "to bid the wicked King Pelias come down from my father's throne, and let me reign in his stead." "Ah, well, then," said the old woman, still with the same cracked voice, "if that is all your business, you need not be in a very great hurry. Just take me on your back, there's a good youth, and carry me across the river. I and my peacock have something to do on the other side, as well as yourself." "Good mother," replied Jason, "your business can hardly be so important as the pulling down a king from his throne. Besides, as you may see for yourself, the river is very boisterous; and if I should chance to stumble, it would sweep both of us away more easily than it has carried off yonder uprooted tree. I would gladly help you if I could; but I doubt whether I am strong enough to carry you across." "Then," said she, very scornfully, "neither are you strong enough to pull King Pelias off his throne. And, Jason, unless you will help an old woman at her need, you ought not to be a king. What are kings made for, save to succor the feeble and distressed? But do as you please. Either take me on your back, or with my poor old limbs I shall try my best to struggle across the stream." Saying this, the old woman poked with her staff in the river, as if to find the safest place in its rocky bed where she might make the first step. But Jason, by this time, had grown ashamed of his reluctance to help her. He felt that he could never forgive himself, if this poor feeble creature should come to any harm in attempting to wrestle against the headlong current. The good Chiron, whether half horse or no, had taught him that the noblest use of his strength was to assist the weak; and also that he must treat every young woman as if she were his sister, and every old one like a mother. Remembering these maxims, the vigorous and beautiful young man knelt down, and requested the good dame to mount upon his back. "The passage seems to me not very safe," he remarked. "But as your business is so urgent, I will try to carry you across. If the river sweeps you away, it shall take me too." "That, no doubt, will be a great comfort to both of us," quoth the old woman. "But never fear. We shall get safely across." So she threw her arms around Jason's neck; and lifting her from the ground, he stepped boldly into the raging and foaming current, and began to stagger away from the shore. As for the peacock, it alighted on the old dame's shoulder. Jason's two spears, one in each hand, kept him from stumbling, and enabled him to feel his way among the hidden rocks; although every instant, he expected that his companion and himself would go down the stream, together with the driftwood of shattered trees, and the carcasses of the sheep and cow. Down came the cold, snowy torrent from the steep side of Olympus, raging and thundering as if it had a real spite against Jason, or, at all events, were determined to snatch off his living burden from his shoulders. When he was half way across, the uprooted tree (which I have already told you about) broke loose from among the rocks, and bore down upon him, with all its splintered branches sticking out like the hundred arms of the giant Briareus. It rushed past, however, without touching him. But the next moment his foot was caught in a crevice between two rocks, and stuck there so fast, that, in the effort to get free, he lost one of his golden-stringed sandals. At this accident Jason could not help uttering a cry of vexation. "What is the matter, Jason?" asked the old woman. "Matter enough," said the young man. "I have lost a sandal here among the rocks. And what sort of a figure shall I cut, at the court of King Pelias, with a golden-stringed sandal on one foot, and the other foot bare!" "Do not take it to heart," answered his companion cheerily. "You never met with better fortune than in losing that sandal. It satisfies me that you are the very person whom the Speaking Oak has been talking about." There was no time, just then, to inquire what the Speaking Oak had said. But the briskness of her tone encouraged the young man; and, besides, he had never in his life felt so vigorous and mighty as since taking this old woman on his back. Instead of being exhausted, he gathered strength as he went on; and, struggling up against the torrent, he at last gained the opposite shore, clambered up the bank, and set down the old dame and her peacock safely on the grass. As soon as this was done, however, he could not help looking rather despondently at his bare foot, with only a remnant of the golden string of the sandal clinging round his ankle. "You will get a handsomer pair of sandals by and by," said the old woman, with a kindly look out of her beautiful brown eyes. "Only let King Pelias get a glimpse of that bare foot, and you shall see him turn as pale as ashes, I promise you. There is your path. Go along, my good Jason, and my blessing go with you. And when you sit on your throne remember the old woman whom you helped over the river." With these words, she hobbled away, giving him a smile over her shoulder as she departed. Whether the light of her beautiful brown eyes threw a glory round about her, or whatever the cause might be, Jason fancied that there was something very noble and majestic in her figure, after all, and that, though her gait seemed to be a rheumatic hobble, yet she moved with as much grace and dignity as any queen on earth. Her peacock, which had now fluttered down from her shoulder, strutted behind her in a prodigious pomp, and spread out its magnificent tail on purpose for Jason to admire it. When the old dame and her peacock were out of sight, Jason set forward on his journey. After traveling a pretty long distance, he came to a town situated at the foot of a mountain, and not a great way from the shore of the sea. On the outside of the town there was an immense crowd of people, not only men and women, but children too, all in their best clothes, and evidently enjoying a holiday. The crowd was thickest towards the sea-shore; and in that direction, over the people's heads, Jason saw a wreath of smoke curling upward to the blue sky. He inquired of one of the multitude what town it was near by, and why so many persons were here assembled together. "This is the kingdom of Iolchos," answered the man, "and we are the subjects of King Pelias. Our monarch has summoned us together, that we may see him sacrifice a black bull to Neptune, who, they say, is his majesty's father. Yonder is the king, where you see the smoke going up from the altar." While the man spoke he eyed Jason with great curiosity; for his garb was quite unlike that of the Iolchians, and it looked very odd to see a youth with a leopard's skin over his shoulders, and each hand grasping a spear. Jason perceived, too, that the man stared particularly at his feet, one of which, you remember, was bare, while the other was decorated with his father's golden-stringed sandal. "Look at him! only look at him!" said the man to his next neighbor. "Do you see? He wears but one sandal!" Upon this, first one person, and then another, began to stare at Jason, and everybody seemed to be greatly struck with something in his aspect; though they turned their eyes much oftener towards his feet than to any other part of his figure. Besides, he could hear them whispering to one another. "One sandal! One sandal!" they kept saying. "The man with one sandal! Here he is at last! Whence has he come? What does he mean to do? What will the king say to the one-sandaled man?" Poor Jason was greatly abashed, and made up his mind that the people of Iolchos were exceedingly ill-bred, to take such public notice of an accidental deficiency in his dress. Meanwhile, whether it were that they hustled him forward, or that Jason, of his own accord, thrust a passage through the crowd, it so happened that he soon found himself close to the smoking altar, where King Pelias was sacrificing the black bull. The murmur and hum of the multitude, in their surprise at the spectacle of Jason with his one bare foot, grew so loud that it disturbed the ceremonies; and the king, holding the great knife with which he was just going to cut the bull's throat, turned angrily about, and fixed his eyes on Jason. The people had now withdrawn from around him, so that the youth stood in an open space, near the smoking altar, front to front with the angry King Pelias. "Who are you?" cried the king, with a terrible frown. "And how dare you make this disturbance, while I am sacrificing a black bull to my father Neptune?" "It is no fault of mine," answered Jason. "Your majesty must blame the rudeness of your subjects, who have raised all this tumult because one of my feet happens to be bare." When Jason said this, the king gave a quick startled glance down at his feet. "Ha!" muttered he, "here is the one-sandaled fellow, sure enough! What can I do with him?" And he clutched more closely the great knife in his hand, as if he were half a mind to slay Jason, instead of the black bull. The people round about caught up the king's words, indistinctly as they were uttered; and first there was a murmur amongst them, and then a loud shout. "The one-sandaled man has come! The prophecy must be fulfilled!" For you are to know, that, many years before, King Pelias had been told by the Speaking Oak of Dodona, that a man with one sandal should cast him down from his throne. On this account, he had given strict orders that nobody should ever come into his presence, unless both sandals were securely tied upon his feet; and he kept an officer in his palace, whose sole business it was to examine people's sandals, and to supply them with a new pair, at the expense of the royal treasury, as soon as the old ones began to wear out. In the whole course of the king's reign, he had never been thrown into such a fright and agitation as by the spectacle of poor Jason's bare foot. But, as he was naturally a bold and hard-hearted man, he soon took courage, and began to consider in what way he might rid himself of this terrible one-sandaled stranger. "My good young man," said King Pelias, taking the softest tone imaginable, in order to throw Jason off his guard, "you are excessively welcome to my kingdom. Judging by your dress, you must have traveled a long distance, for it is not the fashion to wear leopard skins in this part of the world. Pray what may I call your name? and where did you receive your education?" "My name is Jason," answered the young stranger. "Ever since my infancy, I have dwelt in the cave of Chiron the Centaur. He was my instructor, and taught me music, and horsemanship, and how to cure wounds, and likewise how to inflict wounds with my weapons!" "I have heard of Chiron the schoolmaster," replied King Pelias, "and how that there is an immense deal of learning and wisdom in his head, although it happens to be set on a horse's body. It gives me great delight to see one of his scholars at my court. But to test how much you have profited under so excellent a teacher, will you allow me to ask you a single question?" "I do not pretend to be very wise," said Jason. "But ask me what you please, and I will answer to the best of my ability." Now King Pelias meant cunningly to entrap the young man, and to make him say something that should be the cause of mischief and distraction to himself. So, with a crafty and evil smile upon his face, he spoke as follows: "What would you do, brave Jason," asked he, "if there were a man in the world, by whom, as you had reason to believe, you were doomed to be ruined and slain--what would you do, I say, if that man stood before you, and in your power?" When Jason saw the malice and wickedness which King Pelias could not prevent from gleaming out of his eyes, he probably guessed that the king had discovered what he came for, and that he intended to turn his own words against himself. Still he scorned to tell a falsehood. Like an upright and honorable prince as he was, he determined to speak out the real truth. Since the king had chosen to ask him the question, and since Jason had promised him an answer, there was no right way save to tell him precisely what would be the most prudent thing to do, if he had his worst enemy in his power. Therefore, after a moment's consideration, he spoke up, with a firm and manly voice. "I would send such a man," said he, "in quest of the Golden Fleece!" This enterprise, you will understand, was, of all others, the most difficult and dangerous in the world. In the first place it would be necessary to make a long voyage through unknown seas. There was hardly a hope, or a possibility, that any young man who should undertake this voyage would either succeed in obtaining the Golden Fleece, or would survive to return home, and tell of the perils he had run. The eyes of King Pelias sparkled with joy, therefore, when he heard Jason's reply. "Well said, wise man with the one sandal!" cried he. "Go, then, and at the peril of your life, bring me back the Golden Fleece." "I go," answered Jason, composedly. "If I fail, you need not fear that I will ever come back to trouble you again. But if I return to Iolchos with the prize, then, King Pelias, you must hasten down from your lofty throne, and give me your crown and sceptre." "That I will," said the king, with a sneer. "Meantime, I will keep them very safely for you." The first thing that Jason thought of doing, after he left the king's presence, was to go to Dodona, and inquire of the Talking Oak what course it was best to pursue. This wonderful tree stood in the center of an ancient wood. Its stately trunk rose up a hundred feet into the air, and threw a broad and dense shadow over more than an acre of ground. Standing beneath it, Jason looked up among the knotted branches and green leaves, and into the mysterious heart of the old tree, and spoke aloud, as if he were addressing some person who was hidden in the depths of the foliage. "What shall I do," said he, "in order to win the Golden Fleece?" At first there was a deep silence, not only within the shadow of the Talking Oak, but all through the solitary wood. In a moment or two, however, the leaves of the oak began to stir and rustle, as if a gentle breeze were wandering amongst them, although the other trees of the wood were perfectly still. The sound grew louder, and became like the roar of a high wind. By and by, Jason imagined that he could distinguish words, but very confusedly, because each separate leaf of the tree seemed to be a tongue, and the whole myriad of tongues were babbling at once. But the noise waxed broader and deeper, until it resembled a tornado sweeping through the oak, and making one great utterance out of the thousand and thousand of little murmurs which each leafy tongue had caused by its rustling. And now, though it still had the tone of a mighty wind roaring among the branches, it was also like a deep bass voice, speaking as distinctly as a tree could be expected to speak, the following words: "Go to Argus, the shipbuilder, and bid him build a galley with fifty oars." Then the voice melted again into the indistinct murmur of the rustling leaves, and died gradually away. When it was quite gone, Jason felt inclined to doubt whether he had actually heard the words, or whether his fancy had not shaped them out of the ordinary sound made by a breeze, while passing through the thick foliage of the tree. But on inquiry among the people of Iolchos, he found that there was really a man in the city, by the name of Argus, who was a very skilful builder of vessels. This showed some intelligence in the oak; else how should it have known that any such person existed? At Jason's request, Argus readily consented to build him a galley so big that it should require fifty strong men to row it; although no vessel of such a size and burden had heretofore been seen in the world. So the head carpenter and all his journeymen and apprentices began their work; and for a good while afterwards, there they were, busily employed, hewing out the timbers, and making a great clatter with their hammers; until the new ship, which was called the Argo, seemed to be quite ready for sea. And, as the Talking Oak had already given him such good advice, Jason thought that it would not be amiss to ask for a little more. He visited it again, therefore, and standing beside its huge, rough trunk, inquired what he should do next. This time, there was no such universal quivering of the leaves, throughout the whole tree, as there had been before. But after a while, Jason observed that the foliage of a great branch which stretched above his head had begun to rustle, as if the wind were stirring that one bough, while all the other boughs of the oak were at rest. "Cut me off!" said the branch, as soon as it could speak distinctly; "cut me off! cut me off! and carve me into a figure-head for your galley." Accordingly, Jason took the branch at its word, and lopped it off the tree. A carver in the neighborhood engaged to make the figurehead. He was a tolerably good workman, and had already carved several figure-heads, in what he intended for feminine shapes, and looking pretty much like those which we see nowadays stuck up under a vessel's bowsprit, with great staring eyes, that never wink at the dash of the spray. But (what was very strange) the carver found that his hand was guided by some unseen power, and by a skill beyond his own, and that his tools shaped out an image which he had never dreamed of. When the work was finished, it turned out to be the figure of a beautiful woman, with a helmet on her head, from beneath which the long ringlets fell down upon her shoulders. On the left arm was a shield, and in its center appeared a lifelike representation of the head of Medusa with the snaky locks. The right arm was extended, as if pointing onward. The face of this wonderful statue, though not angry or forbidding, was so grave and majestic, that perhaps you might call it severe; and as for the mouth, it seemed just ready to unclose its lips, and utter words of the deepest wisdom. Jason was delighted with the oaken image, and gave the carver no rest until it was completed, and set up where a figure-head has always stood, from that time to this, in the vessel's prow. "And now," cried he, as he stood gazing at the calm, majestic face of the statue, "I must go to the Talking Oak and inquire what next to do." "There is no need of that, Jason," said a voice which, though it was far lower, reminded him of the mighty tones of the great oak. "When you desire good advice, you can seek it of me." Jason had been looking straight into the face of the image when these words were spoken. But he could hardly believe either his ears or his eyes. The truth was, however, that the oaken lips had moved, and, to all appearance, the voice had proceeded from the statue's mouth. Recovering a little from his surprise, Jason bethought himself that the image had been carved out of the wood of the Talking Oak, and that, therefore, it was really no great wonder, but on the contrary, the most natural thing in the world, that it should possess the faculty of speech. It would have been very odd, indeed, if it had not. But certainly it was a great piece of good fortune that he should be able to carry so wise a block of wood along with him in his perilous voyage. "Tell me, wondrous image," exclaimed Jason,--"since you inherit the wisdom of the Speaking Oak of Dodona, whose daughter you are,--tell me, where shall I find fifty bold youths, who will take each of them an oar of my galley? They must have sturdy arms to row, and brave hearts to encounter perils, or we shall never win the Golden Fleece." "Go," replied the oaken image, "go, summon all the heroes of Greece." And, in fact, considering what a great deed was to be done, could any advice be wiser than this which Jason received from the figure-head of his vessel? He lost no time in sending messengers to all the cities, and making known to the whole people of Greece, that Prince Jason, the son of King Jason, was going in quest of the Fleece of Gold, and that he desired the help of forty-nine of the bravest and strongest young men alive, to row his vessel and share his dangers. And Jason himself would be the fiftieth. At this news, the adventurous youths, all over the country, began to bestir themselves. Some of them had already fought with giants, and slain dragons; and the younger ones, who had not yet met with such good fortune, thought it a shame to have lived so long without getting astride of a flying serpent, or sticking their spears into a Chimaera, or, at least, thrusting their right arms down a monstrous lion's throat. There was a fair prospect that they would meet with plenty of such adventures before finding the Golden Fleece. As soon as they could furbish up their helmets and shields, therefore, and gird on their trusty swords, they came thronging to Iolchos, and clambered on board the new galley. Shaking hands with Jason, they assured him that they did not care a pin for their lives, but would help row the vessel to the remotest edge of the world, and as much farther as he might think it best to go. Many of these brave fellows had been educated by Chiron, the four-footed pedagogue, and were therefore old schoolmates of Jason, and knew him to be a lad of spirit. The mighty Hercules, whose shoulders afterwards upheld the sky, was one of them. And there were Castor and Pollux, the twin brothers, who were never accused of being chicken-hearted, although they had been hatched out of an egg; and Theseus, who was so renowned for killing the Minotaur, and Lynceus, with his wonderfully sharp eyes, which could see through a millstone, or look right down into the depths of the earth, and discover the treasures that were there; and Orpheus, the very best of harpers, who sang and played upon his lyre so sweetly, that the brute beasts stood upon their hind legs, and capered merrily to the music. Yes, and at some of his more moving tunes, the rocks bestirred their moss-grown bulk out of the ground, and a grove of forest trees uprooted themselves, and, nodding their tops to one another, performed a country dance. One of the rowers was a beautiful young woman, named Atalanta, who had been nursed among the mountains by a bear. So light of foot was this fair damsel, that she could step from one foamy crest of a wave to the foamy crest of another, without wetting more than the sole of her sandal. She had grown up in a very wild way, and talked much about the rights of women, and loved hunting and war far better than her needle. But in my opinion, the most remarkable of this famous company were two sons of the North Wind (airy youngsters, and of rather a blustering disposition) who had wings on their shoulders, and, in case of a calm, could puff out their cheeks, and blow almost as fresh a breeze as their father. I ought not to forget the prophets and conjurors, of whom there were several in the crew, and who could foretell what would happen to-morrow or the next day, or a hundred years hence, but were generally quite unconscious of what was passing at the moment. Jason appointed Tiphys to be helmsman because he was a star-gazer, and knew the points of the compass. Lynceus, on account of his sharp sight, was stationed as a look-out in the prow, where he saw a whole day's sail ahead, but was rather apt to overlook things that lay directly under his nose. If the sea only happened to be deep enough, however, Lynceus could tell you exactly what kind of rocks or sands were at the bottom of it; and he often cried out to his companions, that they were sailing over heaps of sunken treasure, which yet he was none the richer for beholding. To confess the truth, few people believed him when he said it. Well! But when the Argonauts, as these fifty brave adventurers were called, had prepared everything for the voyage, an unforeseen difficulty threatened to end it before it was begun. The vessel, you must understand, was so long, and broad, and ponderous, that the united force of all the fifty was insufficient to shove her into the water. Hercules, I suppose, had not grown to his full strength, else he might have set her afloat as easily as a little boy launches his boat upon a puddle. But here were these fifty heroes, pushing, and straining, and growing red in the face, without making the Argo start an inch. At last, quite wearied out, they sat themselves down on the shore exceedingly disconsolate, and thinking that the vessel must be left to rot and fall in pieces, and that they must either swim across the sea or lose the Golden Fleece. All at once, Jason bethought himself of the galley's miraculous figure-head. "O, daughter of the Talking Oak," cried he, "how shall we set to work to get our vessel into the water?" "Seat yourselves," answered the image (for it had known what had ought to be done from the very first, and was only waiting for the question to be put),--"seat yourselves, and handle your oars, and let Orpheus play upon his harp." Immediately the fifty heroes got on board, and seizing their oars, held them perpendicularly in the air, while Orpheus (who liked such a task far better than rowing) swept his fingers across the harp. At the first ringing note of the music, they felt the vessel stir. Orpheus thrummed away briskly, and the galley slid at once into the sea, dipping her prow so deeply that the figure-head drank the wave with its marvelous lips, and rising again as buoyant as a swan. The rowers plied their fifty oars; the white foam boiled up before the prow; the water gurgled and bubbled in their wake; while Orpheus continued to play so lively a strain of music, that the vessel seemed to dance over the billows by way of keeping time to it. Thus triumphantly did the Argo sail out of the harbor, amidst the huzzas and good wishes of everybody except the wicked old Pelias, who stood on a promontory, scowling at her, and wishing that he could blow out of his lungs the tempest of wrath that was in his heart, and so sink the galley with all on board. When they had sailed above fifty miles over the sea, Lynceus happened to cast his sharp eyes behind, and said that there was this bad-hearted king, still perched upon the promontory, and scowling so gloomily that it looked like a black thunder-cloud in that quarter of the horizon. In order to make the time pass away more pleasantly during the voyage, the heroes talked about the Golden Fleece. It originally belonged, it appears, to a Boeotian ram, who had taken on his back two children, when in danger of their lives, and fled with them over land and sea as far as Colchis. One of the children, whose name was Helle, fell into the sea and was drowned. But the other (a little boy, named Phrixus) was brought safe ashore by the faithful ram, who, however, was so exhausted that he immediately lay down and died. In memory of this good deed, and as a token of his true heart, the fleece of the poor dead ram was miraculously changed to gold, and became one of the most beautiful objects ever seen on earth. It was hung upon a tree in a sacred grove, where it had now been kept I know not how many years, and was the envy of mighty kings, who had nothing so magnificent in any of their palaces. If I were to tell you all the adventures of the Argonauts, it would take me till nightfall, and perhaps a great deal longer. There was no lack of wonderful events, as you may judge from what you have already heard. At a certain island, they were hospitably received by King Cyzicus, its sovereign, who made a feast for them, and treated them like brothers. But the Argonauts saw that this good king looked downcast and very much troubled, and they therefore inquired of him what was the matter. King Cyzicus hereupon informed them that he and his subjects were greatly abused and incommoded by the inhabitants of a neighboring mountain, who made war upon them, and killed many people, and ravaged the country. And while they were talking about it, Cyzicus pointed to the mountain, and asked Jason and his companions what they saw there. "I see some very tall objects," answered Jason; "but they are at such a distance that I cannot distinctly make out what they are. To tell your majesty the truth, they look so very strangely that I am inclined to think them clouds, which have chanced to take something like human shapes." "I see them very plainly," remarked Lynceus, whose eyes, you know, were as far-sighted as a telescope. "They are a band of enormous giants, all of whom have six arms apiece, and a club, a sword, or some other weapon in each of their hands." "You have excellent eyes," said King Cyzicus. "Yes; they are six-armed giants, as you say, and these are the enemies whom I and my subjects have to contend with." The next day, when the Argonauts were about setting sail, down came these terrible giants, stepping a hundred yards at a stride, brandishing their six arms apiece, and looking formidable, so far aloft in the air. Each of these monsters was able to carry on a whole war by himself, for with one arm he could fling immense stones, and wield a club with another, and a sword with a third, while the fourth was poking a long spear at the enemy, and the fifth and sixth were shooting him with a bow and arrow. But, luckily, though the giants were so huge, and had so many arms, they had each but one heart, and that no bigger nor braver than the heart of an ordinary man. Besides, if they had been like the hundred-armed Briareus, the brave Argonauts would have given them their hands full of fight. Jason and his friends went boldly to meet them, slew a great many, and made the rest take to their heels, so that if the giants had had six legs apiece instead of six arms, it would have served them better to run away with. Another strange adventure happened when the voyagers came to Thrace, where they found a poor blind king, named Phineus, deserted by his subjects, and living in a very sorrowful way, all by himself. On Jason's inquiring whether they could do him any service, the king answered that he was terribly tormented by three great winged creatures, called Harpies, which had the faces of women, and the wings, bodies, and claws of vultures. These ugly wretches were in the habit of snatching away his dinner, and allowed him no peace of his life. Upon hearing this, the Argonauts spread a plentiful feast on the sea-shore, well knowing, from what the blind king said of their greediness, that the Harpies would snuff up the scent of the victuals, and quickly come to steal them away. And so it turned out; for, hardly was the table set, before the three hideous vulture women came flapping their wings, seized the food in their talons, and flew off as fast as they could. But the two sons of the North Wind drew their swords, spread their pinions, and set off through the air in pursuit of the thieves, whom they at last overtook among some islands, after a chase of hundreds of miles. The two winged youths blustered terribly at the Harpies (for they had the rough temper of their father), and so frightened them with their drawn swords, that they solemnly promised never to trouble King Phineus again. Then the Argonauts sailed onward and met with many other marvelous incidents, any one of which would make a story by itself. At one time they landed on an island, and were reposing on the grass, when they suddenly found themselves assailed by what seemed a shower of steel-headed arrows. Some of them stuck in the ground, while others hit against their shields, and several penetrated their flesh. The fifty heroes started up, and looked about them for the hidden enemy, but could find none, nor see any spot, on the whole island, where even a single archer could lie concealed. Still, however, the steel-headed arrows came whizzing among them; and, at last, happening to look upward, they beheld a large flock of birds, hovering and wheeling aloft, and shooting their feathers down upon the Argonauts. These feathers were the steel-headed arrows that had so tormented them. There was no possibility of making any resistance; and the fifty heroic Argonauts might all have been killed or wounded by a flock of troublesome birds, without ever setting eyes on the Golden Fleece, if Jason had not thought of asking the advice of the oaken image. So he ran to the galley as fast as his legs would carry him. "O, daughter of the Speaking Oak," cried he, all out of breath, "we need your wisdom more than ever before! We are in great peril from a flock of birds, who are shooting us with their steel-pointed feathers. What can we do to drive them away?" "Make a clatter on your shields," said the image. On receiving this excellent counsel, Jason hurried back to his companions (who were far more dismayed than when they fought with the six-armed giants), and bade them strike with their swords upon their brazen shields. Forthwith the fifty heroes set heartily to work, banging with might and main, and raised such a terrible clatter, that the birds made what haste they could to get away; and though they had shot half the feathers out of their wings, they were soon seen skimming among the clouds, a long distance off, and looking like a flock of wild geese. Orpheus celebrated this victory by playing a triumphant anthem on his harp, and sang so melodiously that Jason begged him to desist, lest, as the steel-feathered birds had been driven away by an ugly sound, they might be enticed back again by a sweet one. While the Argonauts remained on this island, they saw a small vessel approaching the shore, in which were two young men of princely demeanor, and exceedingly handsome, as young princes generally were, in those days. Now, who do you imagine these two voyagers turned out to be? Why, if you will believe me, they were the sons of that very Phrixus, who, in his childhood, had been carried to Colchis on the back of the golden-fleeced ram. Since that time, Phrixus had married the king's daughter; and the two young princes had been born and brought up at Colchis, and had spent their play-days in the outskirts of the grove, in the center of which the Golden Fleece was hanging upon a tree. They were now on their way to Greece, in hopes of getting back a kingdom that had been wrongfully taken from their father. When the princes understood whither the Argonauts were going, they offered to turn back, and guide them to Colchis. At the same time, however, they spoke as if it were very doubtful whether Jason would succeed in getting the Golden Fleece. According to their account, the tree on which it hung was guarded by a terrible dragon, who never failed to devour, at one mouthful, every person who might venture within his reach. "There are other difficulties in the way," continued the young princes. "But is not this enough? Ah, brave Jason, turn back before it is too late. It would grieve us to the heart, if you and your nine and forty brave companions should be eaten up, at fifty mouthfuls, by this execrable dragon." "My young friends," quietly replied Jason, "I do not wonder that you think the dragon very terrible. You have grown up from infancy in the fear of this monster, and therefore still regard him with the awe that children feel for the bugbears and hobgoblins which their nurses have talked to them about. But, in my view of the matter, the dragon is merely a pretty large serpent, who is not half so likely to snap me up at one mouthful as I am to cut off his ugly head, and strip the skin from his body. At all events, turn back who may, I will never see Greece again, unless I carry with me the Golden Fleece." "We will none of us turn back!" cried his nine and forty brave comrades. "Let us get on board the galley this instant; and if the dragon is to make a breakfast of us, much good may it do him." And Orpheus (whose custom it was to set everything to music) began to harp and sing most gloriously, and made every mother's son of them feel as if nothing in this world were so delectable as to fight dragons, and nothing so truly honorable as to be eaten up at one mouthful, in case of the worst. After this (being now under the guidance of the two princes, who were well acquainted with the way), they quickly sailed to Colchis. When the king of the country, whose name was Aetes, heard of their arrival, he instantly summoned Jason to court. The king was a stern and cruel looking potentate; and though he put on as polite and hospitable an expression as he could, Jason did not like his face a whit better than that of the wicked King Pelias, who dethroned his father. "You are welcome, brave Jason," said King Aetes. "Pray, are you on a pleasure voyage?--Or do you meditate the discovery of unknown islands?--or what other cause has procured me the happiness of seeing you at my court?" "Great sir," replied Jason, with an obeisance--for Chiron had taught him how to behave with propriety, whether to kings or beggars--"I have come hither with a purpose which I now beg your majesty's permission to execute. King Pelias, who sits on my father's throne (to which he has no more right than to the one on which your excellent majesty is now seated), has engaged to come down from it, and to give me his crown and sceptre, provided I bring him the Golden Fleece. This, as your majesty is aware, is now hanging on a tree here at Colchis; and I humbly solicit your gracious leave to take it away." In spite of himself, the king's face twisted itself into an angry frown; for, above all things else in the world, he prized the Golden Fleece, and was even suspected of having done a very wicked act, in order to get it into his own possession. It put him into the worst possible humor, therefore, to hear that the gallant Prince Jason, and forty-nine of the bravest young warriors of Greece, had come to Colchis with the sole purpose of taking away his chief treasure. "Do you know," asked King Aetes, eyeing Jason very sternly, "what are the conditions which you must fulfill before getting possession of the Golden Fleece?" "I have heard," rejoined the youth, "that a dragon lies beneath the tree on which the prize hangs, and that whoever approaches him runs the risk of being devoured at a mouthful." "True," said the king, with a smile that did not look particularly good-natured. "Very true, young man. But there are other things as hard, or perhaps a little harder, to be done before you can even have the privilege of being devoured by the dragon. For example, you must first tame my two brazen-footed and brazen-lunged bulls, which Vulcan, the wonderful blacksmith, made for me. There is a furnace in each of their stomachs; and they breathe such hot fire out of their mouths and nostrils, that nobody has hitherto gone nigh them without being instantly burned to a small, black cinder. What do you think of this, my brave Jason?" "I must encounter the peril," answered Jason, composedly, "since it stands in the way of my purpose." "After taming the fiery bulls," continued King Aetes, who was determined to scare Jason if possible, "you must yoke them to a plow, and must plow the sacred earth in the Grove of Mars, and sow some of the same dragon's teeth from which Cadmus raised a crop of armed men. They are an unruly set of reprobates, those sons of the dragon's teeth; and unless you treat them suitably, they will fall upon you sword in hand. You and your nine and forty Argonauts, my bold Jason, are hardly numerous or strong enough to fight with such a host as will spring up." "My master Chiron," replied Jason, "taught me, long ago, the story of Cadmus. Perhaps I can manage the quarrelsome sons of the dragon's teeth as well as Cadmus did." "I wish the dragon had him," muttered King Aetes to himself, "and the four-footed pedant, his schoolmaster, into the bargain. Why, what a foolhardy, self-conceited coxcomb he is! We'll see what my fire-breathing bulls will do for him. Well, Prince Jason," he continued, aloud, and as complaisantly as he could, "make yourself comfortable for to-day, and to-morrow morning, since you insist upon it, you shall try your skill at the plow." While the king talked with Jason, a beautiful young woman was standing behind the throne. She fixed her eyes earnestly upon the youthful stranger, and listened attentively to every word that was spoken; and when Jason withdrew from the king's presence, this young woman followed him out of the room. "I am the king's daughter," she said to him, "and my name is Medea. I know a great deal of which other young princesses are ignorant, and can do many things which they would be afraid so much as to dream of. If you will trust to me, I can instruct you how to tame the fiery bulls, and sow the dragon's teeth, and get the Golden Fleece." "Indeed, beautiful princess," answered Jason, "if you will do me this service, I promise to be grateful to you my whole life long." Gazing at Medea, he beheld a wonderful intelligence in her face. She was one of those persons whose eyes are full of mystery; so that, while looking into them, you seem to see a very great way, as into a deep well, yet can never be certain whether you see into the farthest depths, or whether there be not something else hidden at the bottom. If Jason had been capable of fearing anything, he would have been afraid of making this young princess his enemy; for, beautiful as she now looked, she might, the very next instant, become as terrible as the dragon that kept watch over the Golden Fleece. "Princess," he exclaimed, "you seem indeed very wise and very powerful. But how can you help me to do the things of which you speak? Are you an enchantress?" "Yes, Prince Jason," answered Medea, with a smile, "you have hit upon the truth. I am an enchantress. Circe, my father's sister, taught me to be one, and I could tell you, if I pleased, who was the old woman with the peacock, the pomegranate, and the cuckoo staff, whom you carried over the river; and, likewise, who it is that speaks through the lips of the oaken image, that stands in the prow of your galley. I am acquainted with some of your secrets, you perceive. It is well for you that I am favorably inclined; for, otherwise, you would hardly escape being snapped up by the dragon." "I should not so much care for the dragon," replied Jason, "if I only knew how to manage the brazen-footed and fiery-lunged bulls." "If you are as brave as I think you, and as you have need to be," said Medea, "your own bold heart will teach you that there is but one way of dealing with a mad bull. What it is I leave you to find out in the moment of peril. As for the fiery breath of these animals, I have a charmed ointment here, which will prevent you from being burned up, and cure you if you chance to be a little scorched." So she put a golden box into his hand, and directed him how to apply the perfumed unguent which it contained, and where to meet her at midnight. "Only be brave," added she, "and before daybreak the brazen bulls shall be tamed." The young man assured her that his heart would not fail him. He then rejoined his comrades, and told them what had passed between the princess and himself, and warned them to be in readiness in case there might be need of their help. At the appointed hour he met the beautiful Medea on the marble steps of the king's palace. She gave him a basket, in which were the dragon's teeth, just as they had been pulled out of the monster's jaws by Cadmus, long ago. Medea then led Jason down the palace steps, and through the silent streets of the city, and into the royal pasture ground, where the two brazen-footed bulls were kept. It was a starry night, with a bright gleam along the eastern edge of the sky, where the moon was soon going to show herself. After entering the pasture, the princess paused and looked around. "There they are," said she, "reposing themselves and chewing their fiery cuds in that farthest corner of the field. It will be excellent sport, I assure you, when they catch a glimpse of your figure. My father and all his court delight in nothing so much as to see a stranger trying to yoke them, in order to come at the Golden Fleece. It makes a holiday in Colchis whenever such a thing happens. For my part, I enjoy it immensely. You cannot imagine in what a mere twinkling of an eye their hot breath shrivels a young man into a black cinder." "Are you sure, beautiful Medea," asked Jason, "quite sure, that the unguent in the gold box will prove a remedy against those terrible burns?" "If you doubt, if you are in the least afraid," said the princess, looking him in the face by the dim starlight, "you had better never have been born than to go a step nigher to the bulls." But Jason had set his heart steadfastly on getting the Golden Fleece; and I positively doubt whether he would have gone back without it, even had he been certain of finding himself turned into a red-hot cinder, or a handful of white ashes, the instant he made a step farther. He therefore let go Medea's hand, and walked boldly forward in the direction whither she had pointed. At some distance before him he perceived four streams of fiery vapor, regularly appearing and again vanishing, after dimly lighting up the surrounding obscurity. These, you will understand, were caused by the breath of the brazen bulls, which was quietly stealing out of their four nostrils, as they lay chewing their cuds. At the first two or three steps which Jason made, the four fiery streams appeared to gush out somewhat more plentifully; for the two brazen bulls had heard his foot tramp, and were lifting up their hot noses to snuff the air. He went a little farther, and by the way in which the red vapor now spouted forth, he judged that the creatures had got upon their feet. Now he could see glowing sparks, and vivid jets of flame. At the next step, each of the bulls made the pasture echo with a terrible roar, while the burning breath, which they thus belched forth, lit up the whole field with a momentary flash. One other stride did bold Jason make; and, suddenly as a streak of lightning, on came these fiery animals, roaring like thunder, and sending out sheets of white flame, which so kindled up the scene that the young man could discern every object more distinctly than by daylight. Most distinctly of all he saw the two horrible creatures galloping right down upon him, their brazen hoofs rattling and ringing over the ground, and their tails sticking up stiffly into the air, as has always been the fashion with angry bulls. Their breath scorched the herbage before them. So intensely hot it was, indeed, that it caught a dry tree under which Jason was now standing, and set it all in a light blaze. But as for Jason himself (thanks to Medea's enchanted ointment), the white flame curled around his body, without injuring him a jot more than if he had been made of asbestos. Greatly encouraged at finding himself not yet turned into a cinder, the young man awaited the attack of the bulls. Just as the brazen brutes fancied themselves sure of tossing him into the air, he caught one of them by the horn, and the other by his screwed-up tail, and held them in a gripe like that of an iron vice, one with his right hand, the other with his left. Well, he must have been wonderfully strong in his arms, to be sure. But the secret of the matter was, that the brazen bulls were enchanted creatures, and that Jason had broken the spell of their fiery fierceness by his bold way of handling them. And, ever since that time, it has been the favorite method of brave men, when danger assails them, to do what they call "taking the bull by the horns"; and to gripe him by the tail is pretty much the same thing--that is, to throw aside fear, and overcome the peril by despising it. It was now easy to yoke the bulls, and to harness them to the plow, which had lain rusting on the ground for a great many years gone by; so long was it before anybody could be found capable of plowing that piece of land. Jason, I suppose, had been taught how to draw a furrow by the good old Chiron, who, perhaps, used to allow himself to be harnessed to the plow. At any rate, our hero succeeded perfectly well in breaking up the greensward; and, by the time that the moon was a quarter of her journey up the sky, the plowed field lay before him, a large tract of black earth, ready to be sown with the dragon's teeth. So Jason scattered them broadcast, and harrowed them into the soil with a brush-harrow, and took his stand on the edge of the field, anxious to see what would happen next. "Must we wait long for harvest time?" he inquired of Medea, who was now standing by his side. "Whether sooner or later, it will be sure to come," answered the princess. "A crop of armed men never fails to spring up, when the dragon's teeth have been sown." The moon was now high aloft in the heavens, and threw its bright beams over the plowed field, where as yet there was nothing to be seen. Any farmer, on viewing it, would have said that Jason must wait weeks before the green blades would peep from among the clods, and whole months before the yellow grain would be ripened for the sickle. But by and by, all over the field, there was something that glistened in the moonbeams, like sparkling drops of dew. These bright objects sprouted higher, and proved to be the steel heads of spears. Then there was a dazzling gleam from a vast number of polished brass helmets, beneath which, as they grew farther out of the soil, appeared the dark and bearded visages of warriors, struggling to free themselves from the imprisoning earth. The first look that they gave at the upper world was a glare of wrath and defiance. Next were seen their bright breastplates; in every right hand there was a sword or a spear, and on each left arm a shield; and when this strange crop of warriors had but half grown out of the earth, they struggled--such was their impatience of restraint--and, as it were, tore themselves up by the roots. Wherever a dragon's tooth had fallen, there stood a man armed for battle. They made a clangor with their swords against their shields, and eyed one another fiercely; for they had come into this beautiful world, and into the peaceful moonlight, full of rage and stormy passions, and ready to take the life of every human brother, in recompense of the boon of their own existence. There have been many other armies in the world that seemed to possess the same fierce nature with the one which had now sprouted from the dragon's teeth; but these, in the moonlit field, were the more excusable, because they never had women for their mothers. And how it would have rejoiced any great captain, who was bent on conquering the world, like Alexander or Napoleon, to raise a crop of armed soldiers as easily as Jason did! For a while, the warriors stood flourishing their weapons, clashing their swords against their shields, and boiling over with the red-hot thirst for battle. Then they began to shout--"Show us the enemy! Lead us to the charge! Death or victory!" "Come on, brave comrades! Conquer or die!" and a hundred other outcries, such as men always bellow forth on a battle field, and which these dragon people seemed to have at their tongues' ends. At last, the front rank caught sight of Jason, who, beholding the flash of so many weapons in the moonlight, had thought it best to draw his sword. In a moment all the sons of the dragon's teeth appeared to take Jason for an enemy; and crying with one voice, "Guard the Golden Fleece!" they ran at him with uplifted swords and protruded spears. Jason knew that it would be impossible to withstand this blood-thirsty battalion with his single arm, but determined, since there was nothing better to be done, to die as valiantly as if he himself had sprung from a dragon's tooth. Medea, however, bade him snatch up a stone from the ground. "Throw it among them quickly!" cried she. "It is the only way to save yourself." The armed men were now so nigh that Jason could discern the fire flashing out of their enraged eyes, when he let fly the stone, and saw it strike the helmet of a tall warrior, who was rushing upon him with his blade aloft. The stone glanced from this man's helmet to the shield of his nearest comrade, and thence flew right into the angry face of another, hitting him smartly between the eyes. Each of the three who had been struck by the stone took it for granted that his next neighbor had given him a blow; and instead of running any farther towards Jason, they began to fight among themselves. The confusion spread through the host, so that it seemed scarcely a moment before they were all hacking, hewing, and stabbing at one another, lopping off arms, heads, and legs and doing such memorable deeds that Jason was filled with immense admiration; although, at the same time, he could not help laughing to behold these mighty men punishing each other for an offense which he himself had committed. In an incredibly short space of time (almost as short, indeed, as it had taken them to grow up), all but one of the heroes of the dragon's teeth were stretched lifeless on the field. The last survivor, the bravest and strongest of the whole, had just force enough to wave his crimson sword over his head and give a shout of exultation, crying, "Victory! Victory! Immortal fame!" when he himself fell down, and lay quietly among his slain brethren. And there was the end of the army that had sprouted from the dragon's teeth. That fierce and feverish fight was the only enjoyment which they had tasted on this beautiful earth. "Let them sleep in the bed of honor," said the Princess Medea, with a sly smile at Jason. "The world will always have simpletons enough, just like them, fighting and dying for they know not what, and fancying that posterity will take the trouble to put laurel wreaths on their rusty and battered helmets. Could you help smiling, Prince Jason, to see the self-conceit of that last fellow, just as he tumbled down?" "It made me very sad," answered Jason, gravely. "And, to tell you the truth, princess, the Golden Fleece does not appear so well worth the winning, after what I have here beheld!" "You will think differently in the morning," said Medea. "True, the Golden Fleece may not be so valuable as you have thought it; but then there is nothing better in the world; and one must needs have an object, you know. Come! Your night's work has been well performed; and to-morrow you can inform King Aetes that the first part of your allotted task is fulfilled." Agreeably to Medea's advice, Jason went betimes in the morning to the palace of King Aetes. Entering the presence chamber, he stood at the foot of the throne, and made a low obeisance. "Your eyes look heavy, Prince Jason," observed the king; "you appear to have spent a sleepless night. I hope you have been considering the matter a little more wisely, and have concluded not to get yourself scorched to a cinder, in attempting to tame my brazen-lunged bulls." "That is already accomplished, may it please your majesty," replied Jason. "The bulls have been tamed and yoked; the field has been plowed; the dragon's teeth have been sown broadcast, and harrowed into the soil; the crop of armed warriors have sprung up, and they have slain one another, to the last man. And now I solicit your majesty's permission to encounter the dragon, that I may take down the Golden Fleece from the tree, and depart, with my nine and forty comrades." King Aetes scowled, and looked very angry and excessively disturbed; for he knew that, in accordance with his kingly promise, he ought now to permit Jason to win the Fleece, if his courage and skill should enable him to do so. But, since the young man had met with such good luck in the matter of the brazen bulls and the dragon's teeth, the king feared that he would be equally successful in slaying the dragon. And therefore, though he would gladly have seen Jason snapped up at a mouthful, he was resolved (and it was a very wrong thing of this wicked potentate) not to run any further risk of losing his beloved Fleece. "You never would have succeeded in this business, young man," said he, "if my undutiful daughter Medea had not helped you with her enchantments. Had you acted fairly, you would have been, at this instant, a black cinder, or a handful of white ashes. I forbid you, on pain of death, to make any more attempts to get the Golden Fleece. To speak my mind plainly, you shall never set eyes on so much as one of its glistening locks." Jason left the king's presence in great sorrow and anger. He could think of nothing better to be done than to summon together his forty-nine brave Argonauts, march at once to the Grove of Mars, slay the dragon, take possession of the Golden Fleece, get on board the Argo, and spread all sail for Iolchos. The success of this scheme depended, it is true, on the doubtful point whether all the fifty heroes might not be snapped up, at so many mouthfuls, by the dragon. But, as Jason was hastening down the palace steps, the Princess Medea called after him, and beckoned him to return. Her black eyes shone upon him with such a keen intelligence, that he felt as if there were a serpent peeping out of them; and, although she had done him so much service only the night before, he was by no means very certain that she would not do him an equally great mischief before sunset. These enchantresses, you must know, are never to be depended upon. "What says King Aetes, my royal and upright father?" inquired Medea, slightly smiling. "Will he give you the Golden Fleece, without any further risk or trouble?" "On the contrary," answered Jason, "he is very angry with me for taming the brazen bulls and sowing the dragon's teeth. And he forbids me to make any more attempts, and positively refuses to give up the Golden Fleece, whether I slay the dragon or no." "Yes, Jason," said the princess, "and I can tell you more. Unless you set sail from Colchis before to-morrow's sunrise, the king means to burn your fifty-oared galley, and put yourself and your forty-nine brave comrades to the sword. But be of good courage. The Golden Fleece you shall have, if it lies within the power of my enchantments to get it for you. Wait for me here an hour before midnight." At the appointed hour you might again have seen Prince Jason and the Princess Medea, side by side, stealing through the streets of Colchis, on their way to the sacred grove, in the center of which the Golden Fleece was suspended to a tree. While they were crossing the pasture ground, the brazen bulls came towards Jason, lowing, nodding their heads, and thrusting forth their snouts, which, as other cattle do, they loved to have rubbed and caressed by a friendly hand. Their fierce nature was thoroughly tamed; and, with their fierceness, the two furnaces in their stomachs had likewise been extinguished, insomuch that they probably enjoyed far more comfort in grazing and chewing their cuds than ever before. Indeed, it had heretofore been a great inconvenience to these poor animals, that, whenever they wished to eat a mouthful of grass, the fire out of their nostrils had shriveled it up, before they could manage to crop it. How they contrived to keep themselves alive is more than I can imagine. But now, instead of emitting jets of flame and streams of sulphurous vapor, they breathed the very sweetest of cow breath. After kindly patting the bulls, Jason followed Medea's guidance into the Grove of Mars, where the great oak trees, that had been growing for centuries, threw so thick a shade that the moonbeams struggled vainly to find their way through it. Only here and there a glimmer fell upon the leaf-strewn earth, or now and then a breeze stirred the boughs aside, and gave Jason a glimpse of the sky, lest, in that deep obscurity, he might forget that there was one, overhead. At length, when they had gone farther and farther into the heart of the duskiness, Medea squeezed Jason's hand. "Look yonder," she whispered. "Do you see it?" Gleaming among the venerable oaks, there was a radiance, not like the moonbeams, but rather resembling the golden glory of the setting sun. It proceeded from an object, which appeared to be suspended at about a man's height from the ground, a little farther within the wood. "What is it?" asked Jason. "Have you come so far to seek it," exclaimed Medea, "and do you not recognize the meed of all your toils and perils, when it glitters before your eyes? It is the Golden Fleece." Jason went onward a few steps farther, and then stopped to gaze. O, how beautiful it looked, shining with a marvelous light of its own, that inestimable prize which so many heroes had longed to behold, but had perished in the quest of it, either by the perils of their voyage, or by the fiery breath of the brazen-lunged bulls. "How gloriously it shines!" cried Jason, in a rapture. "It has surely been dipped in the richest gold of sunset. Let me hasten onward, and take it to my bosom." "Stay," said Medea, holding him back. "Have you forgotten what guards it?" To say the truth, in the joy of beholding the object of his desires, the terrible dragon had quite slipped out of Jason's memory. Soon, however, something came to pass, that reminded him what perils were still to be encountered. An antelope, that probably mistook the yellow radiance for sunrise, came bounding fleetly through the grove. He was rushing straight towards the Golden Fleece, when suddenly there was a frightful hiss, and the immense head and half the scaly body of the dragon was thrust forth (for he was twisted round the trunk of the tree on which the Fleece hung), and seizing the poor antelope, swallowed him with one snap of his jaws. After this feat, the dragon seemed sensible that some other living creature was within reach, on which he felt inclined to finish his meal. In various directions he kept poking his ugly snout among the trees, stretching out his neck a terrible long way, now here, now there, and now close to the spot where Jason and the princess were hiding behind an oak. Upon my word, as the head came waving and undulating through the air, and reaching almost within arm's length of Prince Jason, it was a very hideous and uncomfortable sight. The gape of his enormous jaws was nearly as wide as the gateway of the king's palace. "Well, Jason," whispered Medea (for she was ill natured, as all enchantresses are, and wanted to make the bold youth tremble), "what do you think now of your prospect of winning the Golden Fleece?" Jason answered only by drawing his sword, and making a step forward. "Stay, foolish youth," said Medea, grasping his arm. "Do not you see you are lost, without me as your good angel? In this gold box I have a magic potion, which will do the dragon's business far more effectually than your sword." The dragon had probably heard the voices; for swift as lightning, his black head and forked tongue came hissing among the trees again, darting full forty feet at a stretch. As it approached, Medea tossed the contents of the gold box right down the monster's wide-open throat. Immediately, with an outrageous hiss and a tremendous wriggle--flinging his tail up to the tip-top of the tallest tree, and shattering all its branches as it crashed heavily down again--the dragon fell at full length upon the ground, and lay quite motionless. "It is only a sleeping potion," said the enchantress to Prince Jason. "One always finds a use for these mischievous creatures, sooner or later; so I did not wish to kill him outright. Quick! Snatch the prize, and let us begone. You have won the Golden Fleece." Jason caught the fleece from the tree, and hurried through the grove, the deep shadows of which were illuminated as he passed by the golden glory of the precious object that he bore along. A little way before him, he beheld the old woman whom he had helped over the stream, with her peacock beside her. She clapped her hands for joy, and beckoning him to make haste, disappeared among the duskiness of the trees. Espying the two winged sons of the North Wind (who were disporting themselves in the moonlight, a few hundred feet aloft), Jason bade them tell the rest of the Argonauts to embark as speedily as possible. But Lynceus, with his sharp eyes, had already caught a glimpse of him, bringing the Golden Fleece, although several stone walls, a hill, and the black shadows of the Grove of Mars, intervened between. By his advice, the heroes had seated themselves on the benches of the galley, with their oars held perpendicularly, ready to let fall into the water. As Jason drew near, he heard the Talking Image calling to him with more than ordinary eagerness, in its grave, sweet voice: "Make haste, Prince Jason! For your life, make haste!" With one bound, he leaped aboard. At sight of the glorious radiance of the Golden Fleece, the nine and forty heroes gave a mighty shout, and Orpheus, striking his harp, sang a song of triumph, to the cadence of which the galley flew over the water, homeward bound, as if careering along with wings! 
30332	----	THE EARTHLY PARADISE A POEM. BY WILLIAM MORRIS Author of the Life and Death of Jason. Part II. _ELEVENTH IMPRESSION_ LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK AND BOMBAY 1903 CONTENTS. PAGE _MAY_ 2 _The Story of Cupid and Psyche_ 5 _The Writing on the Image_ 98 _JUNE_ 112 _The Love of Alcestis_ 114 _The Lady of the Land_ 164 _JULY_ 186 _The Son of Croesus_ 188 _The Watching of the Falcon_ 210 _AUGUST_ 244 _Pygmalion and the Image_ 246 _Ogier the Dane_ 275 THE EARTHLY PARADISE. MAY, JUNE, JULY, AUGUST. MAY. O love, this morn when the sweet nightingale Had so long finished all he had to say, That thou hadst slept, and sleep had told his tale; And midst a peaceful dream had stolen away In fragrant dawning of the first of May, Didst thou see aught? didst thou hear voices sing Ere to the risen sun the bells 'gan ring? For then methought the Lord of Love went by To take possession of his flowery throne, Ringed round with maids, and youths, and minstrelsy; A little while I sighed to find him gone, A little while the dawning was alone, And the light gathered; then I held my breath, And shuddered at the sight of Eld and Death. Alas! Love passed me in the twilight dun, His music hushed the wakening ousel's song; But on these twain shone out the golden sun, And o'er their heads the brown bird's tune was strong, As shivering, twixt the trees they stole along; None noted aught their noiseless passing by, The world had quite forgotten it must die. * * * * * Now must these men be glad a little while That they had lived to see May once more smile Upon the earth; wherefore, as men who know How fast the bad days and the good days go, They gathered at the feast: the fair abode Wherein they sat, o'erlooked, across the road Unhedged green meads, which willowy streams passed through, And on that morn, before the fresh May dew Had dried upon the sunniest spot of grass, From bush to bush did youths and maidens pass In raiment meet for May apparelled, Gathering the milk-white blossoms and the red; And now, with noon long past, and that bright day Growing aweary, on the sunny way They wandered, crowned with flowers, and loitering, And weary, yet were fresh enough to sing The carols of the morn, and pensive, still Had cast away their doubt of death and ill, And flushed with love, no more grew red with shame. So to the elders as they sat, there came, With scent of flowers, the murmur of that folk Wherethrough from time to time a song outbroke, Till scarce they thought about the story due; Yet, when anigh to sun-setting it grew, A book upon the board an elder laid, And turning from the open window said, "Too fair a tale the lovely time doth ask, For this of mine to be an easy task, Yet in what words soever this is writ, As for the matter, I dare say of it That it is lovely as the lovely May; Pass then the manner, since the learned say No written record was there of the tale, Ere we from our fair land of Greece set sail; How this may be I know not, this I know That such-like tales the wind would seem to blow From place to place, e'en as the feathery seed Is borne across the sea to help the need Of barren isles; so, sirs, from seed thus sown, This flower, a gift from other lands has grown. THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE. ARGUMENT. Psyche, a king's daughter, by her exceeding beauty caused the people to forget Venus; therefore the goddess would fain have destroyed her: nevertheless she became the bride of Love, yet in an unhappy moment lost him by her own fault, and wandering through the world suffered many evils at the hands of Venus, for whom she must accomplish fearful tasks. But the gods and all nature helped her, and in process of time she was reunited to Love, forgiven by Venus, and made immortal by the Father of gods and men. In the Greek land of old there was a King Happy in battle, rich in everything; Most rich in this, that he a daughter had Whose beauty made the longing city glad. She was so fair, that strangers from the sea Just landed, in the temples thought that she Was Venus visible to mortal eyes, New come from Cyprus for a world's surprise. She was so beautiful that had she stood On windy Ida by the oaken wood, And bared her limbs to that bold shepherd's gaze, Troy might have stood till now with happy days; And those three fairest, all have left the land And left her with the apple in her hand. And Psyche is her name in stories old, As ever by our fathers we were told. All this beheld Queen Venus from her throne, And felt that she no longer was alone In beauty, but, if only for a while, This maiden matched her god-enticing smile; Therefore, she wrought in such a wise, that she, If honoured as a goddess, certainly Was dreaded as a goddess none the less, And midst her wealth, dwelt long in loneliness. Two sisters had she, and men deemed them fair, But as King's daughters might be anywhere, And these to men of name and great estate Were wedded, while at home must Psyche wait. The sons of kings before her silver feet Still bowed, and sighed for her; in measures sweet The minstrels to the people sung her praise, Yet must she live a virgin all her days. So to Apollo's fane her father sent, Seeking to know the dreadful Gods' intent, And therewith sent he goodly gifts of price A silken veil, wrought with a paradise, Three golden bowls, set round with many a gem, Three silver robes, with gold in every hem, And a fair ivory image of the god That underfoot a golden serpent trod; And when three lords with these were gone away, Nor could return until the fortieth day, Ill was the King at ease, and neither took Joy in the chase, or in the pictured book The skilled Athenian limner had just wrought, Nor in the golden cloths from India brought. At last the day came for those lords' return, And then 'twixt hope and fear the King did burn, As on his throne with great pomp he was set, And by him Psyche, knowing not as yet Why they had gone: thus waiting, at noontide They in the palace heard a voice outside, And soon the messengers came hurrying, And with pale faces knelt before the King, And rent their clothes, and each man on his head Cast dust, the while a trembling courtier read This scroll, wherein the fearful answer lay, Whereat from every face joy passed away. THE ORACLE. O father of a most unhappy maid, O King, whom all the world henceforth shall know As wretched among wretches, be afraid To ask the gods thy misery to show, But if thou needs must hear it, to thy woe Take back thy gifts to feast thine eyes upon, When thine own flesh and blood some beast hath won. "For hear thy doom, a rugged rock there is Set back a league from thine own palace fair, There leave the maid, that she may wait the kiss Of the fell monster that doth harbour there: This is the mate for whom her yellow hair And tender limbs have been so fashioned, This is the pillow for her lovely head. "O what an evil from thy loins shall spring, For all the world this monster overturns, He is the bane of every mortal thing, And this world ruined, still for more he yearns; A fire there goeth from his mouth that burns Worse than the flame of Phlegethon the red-- To such a monster shall thy maid be wed. "And if thou sparest now to do this thing, I will destroy thee and thy land also, And of dead corpses shalt thou be the King, And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go, Howling for second death to end thy woe; Live therefore as thou mayst and do my will, And be a King that men may envy still." What man was there, whose face changed not for grief At hearing this? Psyche, shrunk like the leaf The autumn frost first touches on the tree, Stared round about with eyes that could not see, And muttered sounds from lips that said no word, And still within her ears the sentence heard When all was said and silence fell on all 'Twixt marble columns and adorned wall. Then spoke the King, bowed down with misery: "What help is left! O daughter, let us die, Or else together fleeing from this land, From town to town go wandering hand in hand Thou and I, daughter, till all men forget That ever on a throne I have been set, And then, when houseless and disconsolate, We ask an alms before some city gate, The gods perchance a little gift may give, And suffer thee and me like beasts to live." Then answered Psyche, through her bitter tears, "Alas! my father, I have known these years That with some woe the gods have dowered me, And weighed 'gainst riches infelicity; Ill is it then against the gods to strive; Live on, O father, those that are alive May still be happy; would it profit me To live awhile, and ere I died to see Thee perish, and all folk who love me well, And then at last be dragged myself to hell Cursed of all men? nay, since all things must die, And I have dreamed not of eternity, Why weepest thou that I must die to-day? Why weepest thou? cast thought of shame away. The dead are not ashamed, they feel no pain; I have heard folk who spoke of death as gain-- And yet--ah, God, if I had been some maid, Toiling all day, and in the night-time laid Asleep on rushes--had I only died Before this sweet life I had fully tried, Upon that day when for my birth men sung, And o'er the feasting folk the sweet bells rung." And therewith she arose and gat away, And in her chamber, mourning long she lay, Thinking of all the days that might have been, And how that she was born to be a queen, The prize of some great conqueror of renown, The joy of many a country and fair town, The high desire of every prince and lord, One who could fright with careless smile or word The hearts of heroes fearless in the war, The glory of the world, the leading-star Unto all honour and all earthly fame-- --Round goes the wheel, and death and deadly shame Shall be her lot, while yet of her men sing Unwitting that the gods have done this thing. Long time she lay there, while the sunbeams moved Over her body through the flowers she loved; And in the eaves the sparrows chirped outside, Until for weariness she grew dry-eyed, And into an unhappy sleep she fell. But of the luckless King now must we tell, Who sat devising means to 'scape that shame, Until the frightened people thronging came About the palace, and drove back the guards, Making their way past all the gates and wards; And, putting chamberlains and marshals by, Surged round the very throne tumultuously. Then knew the wretched King all folk had heard The miserable sentence, and the word The gods had spoken; and from out his seat He rose, and spoke in humble words, unmeet For a great King, and prayed them give him grace, While 'twixt his words the tears ran down his face On to his raiment stiff with golden thread. But little heeded they the words he said, For very fear had made them pitiless; Nor cared they for the maid and her distress, But clashed their spears together and 'gan cry: "For one man's daughter shall the people die, And this fair land become an empty name, Because thou art afraid to meet the shame Wherewith the gods reward thy hidden sin? Nay, by their glory do us right herein!" "Ye are in haste to have a poor maid slain," The King said; "but my will herein is vain, For ye are many, I one aged man: Let one man speak, if for his shame he can." Then stepped a sturdy dyer forth, who said,-- "Fear of the gods brings no shame, by my head. Listen; thy daughter we would have thee leave Upon the fated mountain this same eve; And thither must she go right well arrayed In marriage raiment, loose hair as a maid, And saffron veil, and with her shall there go Fair maidens bearing torches, two and two; And minstrels, in such raiment as is meet The god-ordainéd fearful spouse to greet. So shalt thou save our wives and little ones, And something better than a heap of stones, Dwelt in by noisesome things, this town shall be, And thou thyself shalt keep thy sovereignty; But if thou wilt not do the thing I say, Then shalt thou live in bonds from this same day, And we will bear thy maid unto the hill, And from the dread gods save the city still." Then loud they shouted at the words he said, And round the head of the unhappy maid, Dreaming uneasily of long-past joys, Floated the echo of that dreadful noise, And changed her dreams to dreams of misery. But when the King knew that the thing must be, And that no help there was in this distress, He bade them have all things in readiness To take the maiden out at sun-setting, And wed her to the unknown dreadful thing. So through the palace passed with heavy cheer Her women gathering the sad wedding gear, Who lingering long, yet at the last must go, To waken Psyche to her bitter woe. So coming to her bower, they found her there, From head to foot rolled in her yellow hair, As in the saffron veil she should be soon Betwixt the setting sun and rising moon; But when above her a pale maiden bent And touched her, from her heart a sigh she sent, And waking, on their woeful faces stared, Sitting upright, with one white shoulder bared By writhing on the bed in wretchedness. Then suddenly remembering her distress, She bowed her head and 'gan to weep and wail But let them wrap her in the bridal veil, And bind the sandals to her silver feet, And set the rose-wreath on her tresses sweet: But spoke no word, yea, rather, wearily Turned from the yearning face and pitying eye Of any maid who seemed about to speak. Now through the garden trees the sun 'gan break, And that inevitable time drew near; Then through the courts, grown cruel, strange, and drear, Since the bright morn, they led her to the gate. Where she beheld a golden litter wait. Whereby the King stood, aged and bent to earth, The flute-players with faces void of mirth, The down-cast bearers of the ivory wands, The maiden torch-bearers' unhappy bands. So then was Psyche taken to the hill, And through the town the streets were void and still; For in their houses all the people stayed, Of that most mournful music sore afraid. But on the way a marvel did they see, For, passing by, where wrought of ivory, There stood the Goddess of the flowery isle, All folk could see the carven image smile. But when anigh the hill's bare top they came, Where Psyche must be left to meet her shame, They set the litter down, and drew aside The golden curtains from the wretched bride, Who at their bidding rose and with them went Afoot amidst her maids with head down-bent, Until they came unto the drear rock's brow; And there she stood apart, not weeping now, But pale as privet blossom is in June. There as the quivering flutes left off their tune, In trembling arms the weeping, haggard King Caught Psyche, who, like some half-lifeless thing, Took all his kisses, and no word could say, Until at last perforce he turned away; Because the longest agony has end, And homeward through the twilight did they wend. But Psyche, now faint and bewildered, Remembered little of her pain and dread; Her doom drawn nigh took all her fear away, And left her faint and weary; as they say It haps to one who 'neath a lion lies, Who stunned and helpless feels not ere he dies The horror of the yellow fell, the red Hot mouth, and white teeth gleaming o'er his head; So Psyche felt, as sinking on the ground She cast one weary vacant look around, And at the ending of that wretched day Swooning beneath the risen moon she lay. * * * * * Now backward must our story go awhile And unto Cyprus the fair flowered isle, Where hid away from every worshipper Was Venus sitting, and her son by her Standing to mark what words she had to say, While in his dreadful wings the wind did play: Frowning she spoke, in plucking from her thigh The fragrant flowers that clasped it lovingly. "In such a town, O son, a maid there is Whom any amorous man this day would kiss As gladly as a goddess like to me, And though I know an end to this must be, When white and red and gold are waxen grey Down on the earth, while unto me one day Is as another; yet behold, my son, And go through all my temples one by one And look what incense rises unto me; Hearken the talk of sailors from the sea Just landed, ever will it be the same, 'Hast thou then seen her?'--Yea, unto my shame Within the temple that is calléd mine, As through the veil I watched the altar shine This happed; a man with outstretched hand there stood, Glittering in arms, of smiling joyous mood, With crisp, black hair, and such a face one sees But seldom now, and limbs like Hercules; But as he stood there in my holy place, Across mine image came the maiden's face, And when he saw her, straight the warrior said Turning about unto an earthly maid, 'O, lady Venus, thou art kind to me After so much of wandering on the sea To show thy very body to me here,' But when this impious saying I did hear, I sent them a great portent, for straightway I quenched the fire, and no priest on that day Could light it any more for all his prayer. "So must she fall, so must her golden hair Flash no more through the city, or her feet Be seen like lilies moving down the street; No more must men watch her soft raiment cling About her limbs, no more must minstrels sing The praises of her arms and hidden breast. And thou it is, my son, must give me rest From all this worship wearisomely paid Unto a mortal who should be afraid To match the gods in beauty; take thy bow And dreadful arrows, and about her sow The seeds of folly, and with such an one I pray thee cause her mingle, fair my son, That not the poorest peasant girl in Greece Would look on for the gift of Jason's fleece. Do this, and see thy mother glad again, And free from insult, in her temples reign Over the hearts of lovers in the spring." "Mother," he said, "thou askest no great thing, Some wretch too bad for death I soon shall find, Who round her perfect neck his arms shall wind. She shall be driven from the palace gate Where once her crowd of worshippers would wait From earliest morning till the dew was dry On chance of seeing her gold gown glancing by; There through the storm of curses shall she go In evil raiment midst the winter snow, Or in the summer in rough sheepskins clad. And thus, O mother, shall I make thee glad Remembering all the honour thou hast brought Unto mine altars; since as thine own thought My thought is grown, my mind as thy dear mind." Then straight he rose from earth and down the wind Went glittering 'twixt the blue sky and the sea, And so unto the place came presently Where Psyche dwelt, and through the gardens fair Passed seeking her, and as he wandered there Had still no thought but to do all her will, Nor cared to think if it were good or ill: So beautiful and pitiless he went, And toward him still the blossomed fruit-trees leant, And after him the wind crept murmuring, And on the boughs the birds forgot to sing. Withal at last amidst a fair green close, Hedged round about with woodbine and red rose, Within the flicker of a white-thorn shade In gentle sleep he found the maiden laid One hand that held a book had fallen away Across her body, and the other lay Upon a marble fountain's plashing rim, Among whose broken waves the fish showed dim, But yet its wide-flung spray now woke her not, Because the summer day at noon was hot, And all sweet sounds and scents were lulling her. So soon the rustle of his wings 'gan stir Her looser folds of raiment, and the hair Spread wide upon the grass and daisies fair, As Love cast down his eyes with a half smile Godlike and cruel; that faded in a while, And long he stood above her hidden eyes With red lips parted in a god's surprise. Then very Love knelt down beside the maid And on her breast a hand unfelt he laid, And drew the gown from off her dainty feet, And set his fair cheek to her shoulder sweet, And kissed her lips that knew of no love yet, And wondered if his heart would e'er forget The perfect arm that o'er her body lay. But now by chance a damsel came that way, One of her ladies, and saw not the god, Yet on his shafts cast down had well-nigh trod In wakening Psyche, who rose up in haste And girded up her gown about her waist, And with that maid went drowsily away. From place to place Love followed her that day And ever fairer to his eyes she grew, So that at last when from her bower he flew, And underneath his feet the moonlit sea Went shepherding his waves disorderly, He swore that of all gods and men, no one Should hold her in his arms but he alone; That she should dwell with him in glorious wise Like to a goddess in some paradise; Yea, he would get from Father Jove this grace That she should never die, but her sweet face And wonderful fair body should endure Till the foundations of the mountains sure Were molten in the sea; so utterly Did he forget his mother's cruelty. And now that he might come to this fair end, He found Apollo, and besought him lend His throne of divination for a while, Whereby he did the priestess there beguile, To give the cruel answer ye have heard Unto those lords, who wrote it word by word, And back unto the King its threatenings bore, Whereof there came that grief and mourning sore, Of which ye wot; thereby is Psyche laid Upon the mountain-top; thereby, afraid Of some ill yet, within the city fair Cower down the people that have sent her there. Withal did Love call unto him the Wind Called Zephyrus, who most was to his mind, And said, "O rainy wooer of the spring, I pray thee, do for me an easy thing; To such a hill-top go, O gentle Wind, And there a sleeping maiden shalt thou find; Her perfect body in thine arms with care Take up, and unto the green valley bear That lies before my noble house of gold; There leave her lying on the daisies cold." Then, smiling, toward the place the fair Wind went While 'neath his wing the sleeping lilies bent, And flying 'twixt the green earth and the sea Made the huge anchored ships dance merrily, And swung round from the east the gilded vanes On many a palace, and from unhorsed wains Twitched off the wheat-straw in his hurried flight; But ere much time had passed he came in sight Of Psyche laid in swoon upon the hill, And smiling, set himself to do Love's will; For in his arms he took her up with care, Wondering to see a mortal made so fair, And came into the vale in little space, And set her down in the most flowery place; And then unto the plains of Thessaly Went ruffling up the edges of the sea. Now underneath the world the moon was gone, But brighter shone the stars so left alone, Until a faint green light began to show Far in the east, whereby did all men know, Who lay awake either with joy or pain, That day was coming on their heads again; Then widening, soon it spread to grey twilight, And in a while with gold the east was bright; The birds burst out a-singing one by one, And o'er the hill-top rose the mighty sun. Therewith did Psyche open wide her eyes, And rising on her arm, with great surprise Gazed on the flowers wherein so deep she lay, And wondered why upon that dawn of day Out in the fields she had lift up her head Rather than in her balmy gold-hung bed. Then, suddenly remembering all her woes, She sprang upon her feet, and yet arose Within her heart a mingled hope and dread Of some new thing: and now she raised her head, And gazing round about her timidly, A lovely grassy valley could she see, That steep grey cliffs upon three sides did bound, And under these, a river sweeping round, With gleaming curves the valley did embrace, And seemed to make an island of that place; And all about were dotted leafy trees, The elm for shade, the linden for the bees, The noble oak, long ready for the steel Which in that place it had no fear to feel; The pomegranate, the apple, and the pear, That fruit and flowers at once made shift to bear, Nor yet decayed therefor, and in them hung Bright birds that elsewhere sing not, but here sung As sweetly as the small brown nightingales Within the wooded, deep Laconian vales. But right across the vale, from side to side, A high white wall all further view did hide, But that above it, vane and pinnacle Rose up, of some great house beyond to tell, And still betwixt these, mountains far away Against the sky rose shadowy, cold, and grey. She, standing in the yellow morning sun, Could scarcely think her happy life was done, Or that the place was made for misery; Yea, some lone heaven it rather seemed to be, Which for the coming band of gods did wait; Hope touched her heart; no longer desolate, Deserted of all creatures did she feel, And o'er her face sweet colour 'gan to steal, That deepened to a flush, as wandering thought Desires before unknown unto her brought, So mighty was the God, though far away. But trembling midst her hope, she took her way Unto a little door midmost the wall, And still on odorous flowers her feet did fall, And round about her did the strange birds sing, Praising her beauty in their carolling. Thus coming to the door, when now her hand First touched the lock, in doubt she needs must stand, And to herself she said, "Lo, here the trap! And yet, alas! whatever now may hap, How can I 'scape the ill which waiteth me? Let me die now!" and herewith, tremblingly, She raised the latch, and her sweet sinless eyes Beheld a garden like a paradise, Void of mankind, fairer than words can say, Wherein did joyous harmless creatures play After their kind, and all amidst the trees Were strange-wrought founts and wondrous images; And glimmering 'twixt the boughs could she behold A house made beautiful with beaten gold, Whose open doors in the bright sun did gleam; Lonely, but not deserted did it seem. Long time she stood debating what to do, But at the last she passed the wicket through, Which, shutting clamorously behind her, sent A pang of fear throughout her as she went; But when through all that green place she had passed And by the palace porch she stood at last, And saw how wonderfully the wall was wrought, With curious stones from far-off countries brought, And many an image and fair history Of what the world has been, and yet shall be, And all set round with golden craftsmanship, Well-wrought as some renowned cup's royal lip, She had a thought again to turn aside: And yet again, not knowing where to bide, She entered softly, and with trembling hands Holding her gown; the wonder of all lands Met there the wonders of the land and sea. Now went she through the chambers tremblingly, And oft in going would she pause and stand, And drop the gathered raiment from her hand, Stilling the beating of her heart for fear As voices whispering low she seemed to hear, But then again the wind it seemed to be Moving the golden hangings doubtfully, Or some bewildered swallow passing close Unto the pane, or some wind-beaten rose. Soon seeing that no evil thing came near, A little she began to lose her fear, And gaze upon the wonders of the place, And in the silver mirrors saw her face Grown strange to her amidst that loneliness, And stooped to feel the web her feet did press, Wrought by the brown slim-fingered Indian's toil Amidst the years of war and vain turmoil; Or she the figures of the hangings felt, Or daintily the unknown blossoms smelt, Or stood and pondered what new thing might mean The images of knight and king and queen Wherewith the walls were pictured here and there, Or touched rich vessels with her fingers fair, And o'er her delicate smooth cheek would pass The long-fixed bubbles of strange works of glass: So wandered she amidst these marvels new Until anigh the noontide now it grew. At last she came unto a chamber cool Paved cunningly in manner of a pool, Where red fish seemed to swim through floating weed And at the first she thought it so indeed, And took the sandals quickly from her feet, But when the glassy floor these did but meet The shadow of a long-forgotten smile Her anxious face a moment did beguile; And crossing o'er, she found a table spread With dainty food, as delicate white bread And fruits piled up and covered savoury meat, As though a king were coming there to eat, For the worst vessel was of beaten gold. Now when these dainties Psyche did behold She fain had eaten, but did nowise dare, Thinking she saw a god's feast lying there. But as she turned to go the way she came She heard a low soft voice call out her name, Then she stood still, and trembling gazed around, And seeing no man, nigh sank upon the ground, Then through the empty air she heard the voice. "O, lovely one, fear not! rather rejoice That thou art come unto thy sovereignty: Sit now and eat, this feast is but for thee, Yea, do whatso thou wilt with all things here, And in thine own house cast away thy fear, For all is thine, and little things are these So loved a heart as thine, awhile to please. "Be patient! thou art loved by such an one As will not leave thee mourning here alone, But rather cometh on this very night; And though he needs must hide him from thy sight Yet all his words of love thou well mayst hear, And pour thy woes into no careless ear. "Bethink thee then, with what solemnity Thy folk, thy father, did deliver thee To him who loves thee thus, and void of dread Remember, sweet, thou art a bride new-wed." Now hearing this, did Psyche, trembling sore And yet with lighter heart than heretofore, Sit down and eat, till she grew scarce afeard; And nothing but the summer noise she heard Within the garden, then, her meal being done, Within the window-seat she watched the sun Changing the garden-shadows, till she grew Fearless and happy, since she deemed she knew The worst that could befall, while still the best Shone a fair star far off: and mid the rest This brought her after all her grief and fear, She said, "How sweet it would be, could I hear, Soft music mate the drowsy afternoon, And drown awhile the bees' sad murmuring tune Within these flowering limes." E'en as she spoke, A sweet-voiced choir of unknown unseen folk Singing to words that match the sense of these Hushed the faint music of the linden trees. SONG. O pensive, tender maid, downcast and shy, Who turnest pale e'en at the name of love, And with flushed face must pass the elm-tree by Ashamed to hear the passionate grey dove Moan to his mate, thee too the god shall move, Thee too the maidens shall ungird one day, And with thy girdle put thy shame away. What then, and shall white winter ne'er be done Because the glittering frosty morn is fair? Because against the early-setting sun Bright show the gilded boughs though waste and bare? Because the robin singeth free from care? Ah! these are memories of a better day When on earth's face the lips of summer lay. Come then, beloved one, for such as thee Love loveth, and their hearts he knoweth well, Who hoard their moments of felicity, As misers hoard the medals that they tell, Lest on the earth but paupers they should dwell: "We hide our love to bless another day; The world is hard, youth passes quick," they say. Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget Amidst your outpoured love that you must die, Then ye, my servants, were death's conquerors yet, And love to you should be eternity How quick soever might the days go by: Yes, ye are made immortal on the day Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh. Thou hearkenest, love? O, make no semblance then That thou art loved, but as thy custom is Turn thy grey eyes away from eyes of men, With hands down-dropped, that tremble with thy bliss, With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's kiss; Call this eternity which is to-day, Nor dream that this our love can pass away. They ceased, and Psyche pondering o'er their song, Not fearing now that aught would do her wrong, About the chambers wandered at her will, And on the many marvels gazed her fill, Where'er she passed still noting everything, Then in the gardens heard the new birds sing And watched the red fish in the fountains play, And at the very faintest time of day Upon the grass lay sleeping for a while Midst heaven-sent dreams of bliss that made her smile; And when she woke the shades were lengthening, So to the place where she had heard them sing She came again, and through a little door Entered a chamber with a marble floor, Open a-top unto the outer air, Beneath which lay a bath of water fair, Paved with strange stones and figures of bright gold, And from the steps thereof could she behold The slim-leaved trees against the evening sky Golden and calm, still moving languidly. So for a time upon the brink she sat, Debating in her mind of this and that, And then arose and slowly from her cast Her raiment, and adown the steps she passed Into the water, and therein she played, Till of herself at last she grew afraid, And of the broken image of her face, And the loud splashing in that lonely place. So from the bath she gat her quietly, And clad herself in whatso haste might be; And when at last she was apparelled Unto a chamber came, where was a bed Of gold and ivory, and precious wood Some island bears where never man has stood; And round about hung curtains of delight, Wherein were interwoven Day and Night Joined by the hands of Love, and round their wings Knots of fair flowers no earthly May-time brings. Strange for its beauty was the coverlet, With birds and beasts and flowers wrought over it; And every cloth was made in daintier wise Than any man on earth could well devise: Yea, there such beauty was in everything, That she, the daughter of a mighty king, Felt strange therein, and trembled lest that she, Deceived by dreams, had wandered heedlessly Into a bower for some fair goddess made. Yet if perchance some man had thither strayed, It had been long ere he had noted aught But her sweet face, made pensive by the thought Of all the wonders that she moved in there. But looking round, upon a table fair She saw a book wherein old tales were writ, And by the window sat, to read in it Until the dusk had melted into night, When waxen tapers did her servants light With unseen hands, until it grew like day. And so at last upon the bed she lay, And slept a dreamless sleep for weariness, Forgetting all the wonder and distress. But at the dead of night she woke, and heard A rustling noise, and grew right sore afeard, Yea, could not move a finger for affright; And all was darker now than darkest night. Withal a voice close by her did she hear. "Alas, my love! why tremblest thou with fear, While I am trembling with new happiness? Forgive me, sweet, thy terror and distress: Not otherwise could this our meeting be. O loveliest! such bliss awaiteth thee, For all thy trouble and thy shameful tears. Such nameless honour, and such happy years, As fall not unto women of the earth. Loved as thou art, thy short-lived pains are worth The glory and the joy unspeakable Wherein the Treasure of the World shall dwell: A little hope, a little patience yet, Ere everything thou wilt, thou may'st forget, Or else remember as a well-told tale, That for some pensive pleasure may avail. Canst thou not love me, then, who wrought thy woe, That thou the height and depth of joy mightst know?" He spoke, and as upon the bed she lay, Trembling amidst new thoughts, he sent a ray Of finest love unto her inmost heart, Till, murmuring low, she strove the night to part, And like a bride who meets her love at last, When the long days of yearning are o'erpast, She reached to him her perfect arms unseen, And said, "O Love, how wretched I have been! What hast thou done?" And by her side he lay. Till just before the dawning of the day. * * * * * The sun was high when Psyche woke again, And turning to the place where he had lain And seeing no one, doubted of the thing That she had dreamed it, till a fair gold ring, Unseen before, upon her hand she found, And touching her bright head she felt it crowned With a bright circlet; then withal she sighed. And wondered how the oracle had lied, And wished her father knew it, and straightway Rose up and clad herself. Slow went the day, Though helped with many a solace, till came night; And therewithal the new, unseen delight, She learned to call her Love. So passed away The days and nights, until upon a day As in the shade, at noon she lay asleep. She dreamed that she beheld her sisters weep, And her old father clad in sorry guise, Grown foolish with the weight of miseries, Her friends black-clad and moving mournfully, And folk in wonder landed from the sea, At such a fall of such a matchless maid, And in some press apart her raiment laid Like precious relics, and an empty tomb Set in the palace telling of her doom. Therefore she wept in sleep, and woke with tears Still on her face, and wet hair round her ears, And went about unhappily that day, Framing a gentle speech wherewith to pray For leave to see her sisters once again, That they might know her happy, and her pain Turned all to joy, and honour come from shame. And so at last night and her lover came, And midst their fondling, suddenly she said, "O Love, a little time we have been wed, And yet I ask a boon of thee this night." "Psyche," he said, "if my heart tells me right, This thy desire may bring us bitter woe, For who the shifting chance of fate can know? Yet, forasmuch as mortal hearts are weak, To-morrow shall my folk thy sisters seek, And bear them hither; but before the day Is fully ended must they go away. And thou--beware--for, fresh and good and true, Thou knowest not what worldly hearts may do, Or what a curse gold is unto the earth. Beware lest from thy full heart, in thy mirth, Thou tell'st the story of thy love unseen: Thy loving, simple heart, fits not a queen." Then by her kisses did she know he frowned, But close about him her fair arms she wound, Until for happiness he 'gan to smile, And in those arms forgat all else awhile. So the next day, for joy that they should come, Would Psyche further deck her strange new home, And even as she 'gan to think the thought, Quickly her will by unseen hands was wrought, Who came and went like thoughts. Yea, how should I Tell of the works of gold and ivory, The gems and images, those hands brought there The prisoned things of earth, and sea, and air, They brought to please their mistress? Many a beast, Such as King Bacchus in his reckless feast Makes merry with--huge elephants, snow-white With gilded tusks, or dusky-grey with bright And shining chains about their wrinkled necks; The mailed rhinoceros, that of nothing recks; Dusky-maned lions; spotted leopards fair That through the cane-brake move, unseen as air; The deep-mouthed tiger, dread of the brown man; The eagle, and the peacock, and the swan-- --These be the nobles of the birds and beasts. But therewithal, for laughter at their feasts, They brought them the gods' jesters, such as be Quick-chattering apes, that yet in mockery Of anxious men wrinkle their ugly brows; Strange birds with pouches, birds with beaks like prows Of merchant-ships, with tufted crests like threads, With unimaginable monstrous heads. Lo, such as these, in many a gilded cage They brought, or chained for fear of sudden rage. Then strewed they scented branches on the floor, And hung rose-garlands up by the great door, And wafted incense through the bowers and halls, And hung up fairer hangings on the walls, And filled the baths with water fresh and clear, And in the chambers laid apparel fair, And spread a table for a royal feast. Then when from all these labours they had ceased, Psyche they sung to sleep with lullabies; Who slept not long, but opening soon her eyes, Beheld her sisters on the threshold stand: Then did she run to take them by the hand, And laid her cheek to theirs, and murmured words Of little meaning, like the moan of birds, While they bewildered stood and gazed around, Like people who in some strange land have found One that they thought not of; but she at last Stood back, and from her face the strayed locks cast, And, smiling through her tears, said, "Ah, that ye Should have to weep such useless tears for me! Alas, the burden that the city bears For nought! O me, my father's burning tears, That into all this honour I am come! Nay, does he live yet? Is the ancient home Still standing? do the galleys throng the quays? Do the brown Indians glitter down the ways With rubies as of old? Yes, yes, ye smile, For ye are thinking, but a little while Apart from these has she been dwelling here; Truly, yet long enough, loved ones and dear, To make me other than I was of old, Though now when your dear faces I behold Am I myself again. But by what road Have ye been brought to this my new abode?" "Sister," said one, "I rose up from my bed It seems this morn, and being apparelléd, And walking in my garden, in a swoon Helpless and unattended I sank down, Wherefrom I scarce am waked, for as a dream Dost thou with all this royal glory seem, But for thy kisses and thy words, O love." "Yea, Psyche," said the other, "as I drove The ivory shuttle through the shuttle-race, All was changed suddenly, and in this place I found myself, and standing on my feet, Where me with sleepy words this one did greet. Now, sister, tell us whence these wonders come With all the godlike splendour of your home." "Sisters," she said, "more marvels shall ye see When ye, have been a little while with me, Whereof I cannot tell you more than this That 'midst them all I dwell in ease and bliss, Well loved and wedded to a mighty lord, Fair beyond measure, from whose loving word I know that happier days await me yet. But come, my sisters, let us now forget To seek for empty knowledge; ye shall take Some little gifts for your lost sister's sake; And whatso wonders ye may see or hear Of nothing frightful have ye any fear." Wondering they went with her, and looking round, Each in the other's eyes a strange look found, For these, her mother's daughters, had no part In her divine fresh singleness of heart, But longing to be great, remembered not How short a time one heart on earth has got. But keener still that guarded look now grew As more of that strange lovely place they knew, And as with growing hate, but still afeard, The unseen choirs' heart-softening strains they heard, Which did but harden these; and when at noon They sought the shaded waters' freshening boon, And all unhidden once again they saw That peerless beauty, free from any flaw, Which now at last had won its precious meed, Her kindness then but fed the fire of greed Within their hearts--her gifts, the rich attire Wherewith she clad them, where like sparks of fire The many-coloured gems shone midst the pearls The soft silks' winding lines, the work of girls By the Five Rivers; their fair marvellous crowns, Their sandals' fastenings worth the rent of towns, Zones and carved rings, and nameless wonders fair, All things her faithful slaves had brought them there, Given amid kisses, made them not more glad; Since in their hearts the ravening worm they had That love slays not, nor yet is satisfied While aught but he has aught; yet still they tried To look as they deemed loving folk should look, And still with words of love her bounty took. So at the last all being apparelléd, Her sisters to the banquet Psyche led, Fair were they, and each seemed a glorious queen With all that wondrous daintiness beseen, But Psyche clad in gown of dusky blue Little adorned, with deep grey eyes that knew The hidden marvels of Love's holy fire, Seemed like the soul of innocent desire, Shut from the mocking world, wherefrom those twain Seemed come to lure her thence with labour vain. Now having reached the place where they should eat, Ere 'neath the canopy the three took seat, The eldest sister unto Psyche said, "And he, dear love, the man that thou hast wed, Will he not wish to-day thy kin to see? Then could we tell of thy felicity The better, to our folk and father dear." Then Psyche reddened, "Nay, he is not here," She stammered, "neither will be here to-day, For mighty matters keep him far away." "Alas!" the younger sister said, "Say then, What is the likeness of this first of men; What sayest thou about his loving eyne, Are his locks black, or golden-red as thine?" "Black-haired like me," said Psyche stammering, And looking round, "what say I? like the king Who rules the world, he seems to me at least-- Come, sisters, sit, and let us make good feast! My darling and my love ye shall behold I doubt not soon, his crispy hair of gold, His eyes unseen; and ye shall hear his voice, That in my joy ye also may rejoice." Then did they hold their peace, although indeed Her stammering haste they did not fail to heed. But at their wondrous royal feast they sat Thinking their thoughts, and spoke of this or that Between the bursts of music, until when The sun was leaving the abodes of men; And then must Psyche to her sisters say That she was bid, her husband being away, To suffer none at night to harbour there, No, not the mother that her body bare Or father that begat her, therefore they Must leave her now, till some still happier day. And therewithal more precious gifts she brought Whereof not e'en in dreams they could have thought Things whereof noble stories might be told; And said; "These matters that you here behold Shall be the worst of gifts that you shall have; Farewell, farewell! and may the high gods save Your lives and fame; and tell our father dear Of all the honour that I live in here, And how that greater happiness shall come When I shall reach a long-enduring home." Then these, though burning through the night to stay, Spake loving words, and went upon their way, When weeping she had kissed them; but they wept Such tears as traitors do, for as they stepped Over the threshold, in each other's eyes They looked, for each was eager to surprise The envy that their hearts were filled withal, That to their lips came welling up like gall. "So," said the first, "this palace without folk, These wonders done with none to strike a stroke. This singing in the air, and no one seen, These gifts too wonderful for any queen, The trance wherein we both were wrapt away, And set down by her golden house to-day-- --These are the deeds of gods, and not of men; And fortunate the day was to her, when Weeping she left the house where we were born, And all men deemed her shamed and most forlorn." Then said the other, reddening in her rage, "She is the luckiest one of all this age; And yet she might have told us of her case, What god it is that dwelleth in the place, Nor sent us forth like beggars from her gate. And beggarly, O sister, is our fate, Whose husbands wring from miserable hinds What the first battle scatters to the winds; While she to us whom from her door she drives And makes of no account or honour, gives Such wonderful and priceless gifts as these, Fit to bedeck the limbs of goddesses! And yet who knows but she may get a fall? The strongest tower has not the highest wall, Think well of this, when you sit safe at home By this unto the river were they come, Where waited Zephyrus unseen, who cast A languor over them that quickly passed Into deep sleep, and on the grass they sank; Then straightway did he lift them from the bank, And quickly each in her fair house set down, Then flew aloft above the sleeping town. Long in their homes they brooded over this, And how that Psyche nigh a goddess is; While all folk deemed that she quite lost had been For nought they said of all that they had seen. But now that night when she, with many a kiss, Had told their coming, and of that and this That happed, he said, "These things, O Love, are well; Glad am I that no evil thing befell. And yet, between thy father's house and me Must thou choose now; then either royally Shalt thou go home, and wed some king at last, And have no harm for all that here has passed; Or else, my love, bear as thy brave heart may, This loneliness in hope of that fair day, Which, by my head, shall come to thee; and then Shalt thou be glorious to the sons of men, And by my side shalt sit in such estate That in all time all men shall sing thy fate." But with that word such love through her he breathed, That round about him her fair arms she wreathed; And so with loving passed the night away, And with fresh hope came on the fresh May-day. And so passed many a day and many a night. And weariness was balanced with delight, And into such a mind was Psyche brought, That little of her father's house she thought, But ever of the happy day to come When she should go unto her promised home. Till she that threw the golden apple down Upon the board, and lighted up Troy town, On dusky wings came flying o'er the place, And seeing Psyche with her happy face Asleep beneath some fair tree blossoming, Into her sleep straight cast an evil thing; Whereby she dreamed she saw her father laid Panting for breath beneath the golden shade Of his great bed's embroidered canopy, And with his last breath moaning heavily Her name and fancied woes; thereat she woke, And this ill dream through all her quiet broke, And when next morn her Love from her would go, And going, as it was his wont to do, Would kiss her sleeping, he must find the tears Filling the hollows of her rosy ears And wetting half the golden hair that lay Twixt him and her: then did he speak and say, "O Love, why dost thou lie awake and weep, Who for content shouldst have good heart to sleep This cold hour ere the dawning?" Nought she said, But wept aloud. Then cried he, "By my head! Whate'er thou wishest I will do for thee; Yea, if it make an end of thee and me." "O Love," she said, "I scarce dare ask again, Yet is there in mine heart an aching pain To know what of my father is become: So would I send my sisters to my home, Because I doubt indeed they never told Of all my honour in this house of gold; And now of them a great oath would I take." He said, "Alas! and hast thou been awake For them indeed? who in my arms asleep Mightst well have been; for their sakes didst thou weep, Who mightst have smiled to feel my kiss on thee? Yet as thou wishest once more shall it be, Because my oath constrains me, and thy tears. And yet again beware, and make these fears Of none avail; nor waver any more, I pray thee: for already to the shore Of all delights and joys thou drawest nigh." He spoke, and from the chamber straight did fly To highest heaven, and going softly then, Wearied the father of all gods and men With prayers for Psyche's immortality. Meantime went Zephyrus across the sea, To bring her sisters to her arms again, Though of that message little was he fain, Knowing their malice and their cankered hearts. For now these two had thought upon their parts And made up a false tale for Psyche's ear; For when awaked, to her they drew anear, Sobbing, their faces in their hands they hid, Nor when she asked them why this thing they did Would answer aught, till trembling Psyche said, "Nay, nay, what is it? is our father dead? Or do ye weep these tears for shame that ye Have told him not of my felicity, To make me weep amidst my new-found bliss? Be comforted, for short the highway is To my forgiveness: this day shall ye go And take him gifts, and tell him all ye know Of this my unexpected happy lot." Amidst fresh sobs one said, "We told him not But by good counsel did we hide the thing, Deeming it well that he should feel the sting For once, than for awhile be glad again, And after come to suffer double pain." "Alas! what mean you, sister?" Psyche said, For terror waxing pale as are the dead. "O sister, speak!" "Child, by this loving kiss," Spake one of them, "and that remembered bliss We dwelt in when our mother was alive, Or ever we began with ills to strive, By all the hope thou hast to see again Our aged father and to soothe his pain, I charge thee tell me,--Hast thou seen the thing Thou callest Husband?" Breathless, quivering, Psyche cried out, "Alas! what sayest thou? What riddles wilt thou speak unto me now?" "Alas!" she said; "then is it as I thought. Sister, in dreadful places have we sought To learn about thy case, and thus we found A wise man, dwelling underneath the ground In a dark awful cave: he told to us A horrid tale thereof, and piteous, That thou wert wedded to an evil thing, A serpent-bodied fiend of poisonous sting, Bestial of form, yet therewith lacking not E'en such a soul as wicked men have got. Thus ages long agone the gods made him, And set him in a lake hereby to swim; But every hundred years he hath this grace, That he may change within this golden place Into a fair young man by night alone. Alas, my sister, thou hast cause to groan! What sayest thou?--_His words are fair and soft;_ _He raineth loving kisses on me oft,_ _Weeping for love; he tells me of a day_ _When from this place we both shall go away,_ _And he shall kiss me then no more unseen,_ _The while I sit by him a glorious queen_---- --Alas, poor child! it pleaseth thee, his kiss? Then must I show thee why he doeth this: Because he willeth for a time to save Thy body, wretched one! that he may have Both child and mother for his watery hell-- Ah, what a tale this is for me to tell! "Thou prayest us to save thee, and we can; Since for nought else we sought that wise old man, Who for great gifts and seeing that of kings We both were come, has told us all these things, And given us a fair lamp of hallowed oil That he has wrought with danger and much toil; And thereto has he added a sharp knife, In forging which he well-nigh lost his life, About him so the devils of the pit Came swarming--O, my sister, hast thou it?" Straight from her gown the other one drew out The lamp and knife, which Psyche, dumb with doubt And misery at once, took in her hand. Then said her sister, "From this doubtful land Thou gav'st us royal gifts a while ago, But these we give thee, though they lack for show, Shall be to thee a better gift,--thy life. Put now in some sure place this lamp and knife, And when he sleeps rise silently from bed And hold the hallowed lamp above his head, And swiftly draw the charméd knife across His cursed neck, thou well may'st bear the loss, Nor shall he keep his man's shape more, when he First feels the iron wrought so mysticly: But thou, flee unto us, we have a tale, Of what has been thy lot within this vale, When we have 'scaped therefrom, which we shall do By virtue of strange spells the old man knew. Farewell, sweet sister! here we may not stay, Lest in returning he should pass this way; But in the vale we will not fail to wait Till thou art loosened from thine evil fate." Thus went they, and for long they said not aught, Fearful lest any should surprise their thought, But in such wise had envy conquered fear, That they were fain that eve to bide anear Their sister's ruined home; but when they came Unto the river, on them fell the same Resistless languor they had felt before. And from the blossoms of that flowery shore Their sleeping bodies soon did Zephyr bear, For other folk to hatch new ills and care. But on the ground sat Psyche all alone, The lamp and knife beside her, and no moan She made, but silent let the long hours go, Till dark night closed around her and her woe. Then trembling she arose, for now drew near The time of utter loneliness and fear, And she must think of death, who until now Had thought of ruined life, and love brought low; And with, that thought, tormenting doubt there came, And images of some unheard-of shame, Until forlorn, entrapped of gods she felt, As though in some strange hell her spirit dwelt. Yet driven by her sisters' words at last, And by remembrance of the time now past, When she stood trembling, as the oracle With all its fearful doom upon her fell, She to her hapless wedding-chamber turned, And while the waxen tapers freshly burned She laid those dread gifts ready to her hand, Then quenched the lights, and by the bed did stand, Turning these matters in her troubled mind; And sometimes hoped some glorious man to find Beneath the lamp, fit bridegroom for a bride Like her; ah, then! with what joy to his side Would she creep back in the dark silent night; But whiles she quaked at thought of what a sight The lamp might show her; the hot rush of blood The knife might shed upon her as she stood, The dread of some pursuit, the hurrying out, Through rooms where every sound would seem a shout Into the windy night among the trees, Where many a changing monstrous sight one sees, When nought at all has happed to chill the blood. But as among these evil thoughts she stood, She heard him coming, and straight crept to bed. And felt him touch her with a new-born dread, And durst not answer to his words of love. But when he slept, she rose that tale to prove. And sliding down as softly as might be, And moving through the chamber quietly, She gat the lamp within her trembling hand, And long, debating of these things, did stand In that thick darkness, till she seemed to be A dweller in some black eternity, And what she once had called the world did seem A hollow void, a colourless mad dream; For she felt so alone--three times in vain She moved her heavy hand, three times again It fell adown; at last throughout the place Its flame glared, lighting up her woeful face, Whose eyes the silken carpet did but meet, Grown strange and awful, and her own wan feet As toward the bed she stole; but come thereto Back with dosed eyes and quivering lips, she threw Her lovely head, and strove to think of it, While images of fearful things did flit Before her eyes; thus, raising up the hand That bore the lamp, one moment did she stand As man's time tells it, and then suddenly Opened her eyes, but scarce kept back a cry At what she saw; for there before her lay The very Love brighter than dawn of day; And as he lay there smiling, her own name His gentle lips in sleep began to frame, And as to touch her face his hand did move; O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love, And she began to sob, and tears fell fast Upon the bed.--But as she turned at last To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing That quenched her new delight, for flickering The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there The meaning of that sad sight knew full well, Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell. Then on her knees she fell with a great cry, For in his face she saw the thunder nigh, And she began to know what she had done, And saw herself henceforth, unloved, alone, Pass onward to the grave; and once again She heard the voice she now must love in vain "Ah, has it come to pass? and hast thou lost A life of love, and must thou still be tossed One moment in the sun 'twixt night and night? And must I lose what would have been delight, Untasted yet amidst immortal bliss, To wed a soul made worthy of my kiss, Set in a frame so wonderfully made? "O wavering heart, farewell! be not afraid That I with fire will burn thy body fair, Or cast thy sweet limbs piecemeal through the air; The fates shall work thy punishment alone, And thine own memory of our kindness done. "Alas! what wilt thou do? how shalt thou bear The cruel world, the sickening still despair, The mocking, curious faces bent on thee, When thou hast known what love there is in me? O happy only, if thou couldst forget, And live unholpen, lonely, loveless yet, But untormented through the little span That on the earth ye call the life of man. Alas! that thou, too fair a thing to die, Shouldst so be born to double misery! "Farewell! though I, a god, can never know How thou canst lose thy pain, yet time will go Over thine head, and thou mayst mingle yet The bitter and the sweet, nor quite forget, Nor quite remember, till these things shall seem The wavering memory of a lovely dream." Therewith he caught his shafts up and his bow, And striding through the chambers did he go, Light all around him; and she, wailing sore, Still followed after; but he turned no more, And when into the moonlit night he came From out her sight he vanished like a flame, And on the threshold till the dawn of day Through all the changes of the night she lay. * * * * * At daybreak when she lifted up her eyes, She looked around with heavy dull surprise, And rose to enter the fair golden place; But then remembering all her piteous case She turned away, lamenting very sore, And wandered down unto the river shore; There, at the head of a green pool and deep, She stood so long that she forgot to weep, And the wild things about the water-side From such a silent thing cared not to hide; The dace pushed 'gainst the stream, the dragon-fly, With its green-painted wing, went flickering by; The water-hen, the lustred kingfisher, Went on their ways and took no heed of her; The little reed birds never ceased to sing, And still the eddy, like a living thing, Broke into sudden gurgles at her feet. But 'midst these fair things, on that morning sweet, How could she, weary creature, find a place? She moved at last, and lifting up her face, Gathered her raiment up and cried, "Farewell, O fairest lord! and since I cannot dwell With thee in heaven, let me now hide my head In whatsoever dark place dwell the dead!" And with that word she leapt into the stream, But the kind river even yet did deem That she should live, and, with all gentle care, Cast her ashore within a meadow fair. Upon the other side, where Shepherd Pan Sat looking down upon the water wan, Goat-legged and merry, who called out, "Fair maid Why goest thou hurrying to the feeble shade Whence none return? Well do I know thy pain, For I am old, and have not lived in vain; Thou wilt forget all that within a while, And on some other happy youth wilt smile; And sure he must be dull indeed if he Forget not all things in his ecstasy At sight of such a wonder made for him, That in that clinging gown makes mine eyes swim, Old as I am: but to the god of Love Pray now, sweet child, for all things can he move." Weeping she passed him, but full reverently, And well she saw that she was not to die Till she had filled the measure of her woe. So through the meads she passed, half blind and slow, And on her sisters somewhat now she thought; And, pondering on the evil they had wrought, The veil fell from her, and she saw their guile. "Alas!" she said, "can death make folk so vile? What wonder that the gods are glorious then, Who cannot feel the hates and fears of men? Sisters, alas, for what ye used to be! Once did I think, whatso might hap to me, Still at the worst, within your arms to find A haven of pure love; then were ye kind, Then was your joy e'en as my very own-- And now, and now, if I can be alone That is my best: but that can never be, For your unkindness still shall stay with me When ye are dead--But thou, my love! my dear! Wert thou not kind?--I should have lost my fear Within a little--Yea, and e'en just now With angry godhead on thy lovely brow, Still thou wert kind--And art thou gone away For ever? I know not, but day by day Still will I seek thee till I come to die, And nurse remembrance of felicity Within my heart, although it wound me sore; For what am I but thine for evermore!" Thenceforth her back upon the world she turned As she had known it; in her heart there burned Such deathless love, that still untired she went: The huntsman dropping down the woody bent, In the still evening, saw her passing by, And for her beauty fain would draw anigh, But yet durst not; the shepherd on the down Wondering, would shade his eyes with fingers brown, As on the hill's brow, looking o'er the lands, She stood with straining eyes and clinging hands, While the wind blew the raiment from her feet; The wandering soldier her grey eyes would meet, That took no heed of him, and drop his own; Like a thin dream she passed the clattering town; On the thronged quays she watched the ships come in Patient, amid the strange outlandish din; Unscared she saw the sacked towns' miseries, And marching armies passed before her eyes. And still of her the god had such a care That none might wrong her, though alone and fair. Through rough and smooth she wandered many a day, Till all her hope had well-nigh passed away. Meanwhile the sisters, each in her own home, Waited the day when outcast she should come And ask their pity; when perchance, indeed, They looked to give her shelter in her need, And with soft words such faint reproaches take As she durst make them for her ruin's sake; But day passed day, and still no Psyche came, And while they wondered whether, to their shame, Their plot had failed, or gained its end too well, And Psyche slain, no tale thereof could tell.-- Amidst these things, the eldest sister lay Asleep one evening of a summer day, Dreaming she saw the god of Love anigh, Who seemed to say unto her lovingly, "Hail unto thee, fair sister of my love; Nor fear me for that thou her faith didst prove, And found it wanting, for thou, too, art fair, Nor is her place filled; rise, and have no care For father or for friends, but go straightway Unto the rock where she was borne that day; There, if thou hast a will to be my bride, Put thou all fear of horrid death aside, And leap from off the cliff, and there will come My slaves, to bear thee up and take thee home. Haste then, before the summer night grows late, For in my house thy beauty I await!" So spake the dream; and through the night did sail, And to the other sister bore the tale, While this one rose, nor doubted of the thing, Such deadly pride unto her heart did cling; But by the tapers' light triumphantly, Smiling, her mirrored body did she eye, Then hastily rich raiment on her cast And through the sleeping serving-people passed, And looked with changed eyes on the moonlit street, Nor scarce could feel the ground beneath her feet. But long the time seemed to her, till she came There where her sister once was borne to shame; And when she reached the bare cliff's rugged brow She cried aloud, "O Love, receive me now, Who am not all unworthy to be thine!" And with that word, her jewelled arms did shine Outstretched beneath the moon, and with one breath She sprung to meet the outstretched arms of Death, The only god that waited for her there, And in a gathered moment of despair A hideous thing her traitrous life did seem. But with the passing of that hollow dream The other sister rose, and as she might, Arrayed herself alone in that still night, And so stole forth, and making no delay Came to the rock anigh the dawn of day; No warning there her sister's spirit gave, No doubt came nigh the fore-doomed soul to save, But with a fever burning in her blood, With glittering eyes and crimson cheeks she stood One moment on the brow, the while she cried, "Receive me, Love, chosen to be thy bride From all the million women of the world!" Then o'er the cliff her wicked limbs were hurled, Nor has the language of the earth a name For that surprise of terror and of shame. * * * * * Now, midst her wanderings, on a hot noontide, Psyche passed down a road, where, on each side The yellow cornfields lay, although as yet Unto the stalks no sickle had been set; The lark sung over them, the butterfly Flickered from ear to ear distractedly, The kestrel hung above, the weasel peered From out the wheat-stalks on her unafeard, Along the road the trembling poppies shed On the burnt grass their crumpled leaves and red; Most lonely was it, nothing Psyche knew Unto what land of all the world she drew; Aweary was she, faint and sick at heart, Bowed to the earth by thoughts of that sad part She needs must play: some blue flower from the corn That in her fingers erewhile she had borne, Now dropped from them, still clung unto her gown; Over the hard way hung her head adown Despairingly, but still her weary feet Moved on half conscious, her lost love to meet. So going, at the last she raised her eyes, And saw a grassy mound before her rise Over the yellow plain, and thereon was A marble fane with doors of burnished brass, That 'twixt the pillars set about it burned; So thitherward from off the road she turned, And soon she heard a rippling water sound, And reached a stream that girt the hill around, Whose green waves wooed her body lovingly; So looking round, and seeing no soul anigh, Unclad, she crossed the shallows, and there laid Her dusty raiment in the alder-shade, And slipped adown into the shaded pool, And with the pleasure of the water cool Soothed her tired limbs awhile, then with a sigh Came forth, and clad her body hastily, And up the hill made for the little fane. But when its threshold now her feet did gain, She, looking through the pillars of the shrine, Beheld therein a golden image shine Of golden Ceres; then she passed the door, And with bowed head she stood awhile before The smiling image, striving for some word That did not name her lover and her lord, Until midst rising tears at last she prayed: "O kind one, if while yet I was a maid I ever did thee pleasure, on this day Be kind to me, poor wanderer on the way, Who strive my love upon the earth to meet! Then let me rest my weary, doubtful feet Within thy quiet house a little while, And on my rest if thou wouldst please to smile, And send me news of my own love and lord, It would not cost thee, lady, many a word." But straight from out the shrine a sweet voice came, "O Psyche, though of me thou hast no blame, And though indeed thou sparedst not to give What my soul loved, while happy thou didst live, Yet little can I give now unto thee, Since thou art rebel, slave, and enemy Unto the love-inspiring Queen; this grace Thou hast alone of me, to leave this place Free as thou camest, though the lovely one Seeks for the sorceress who entrapped her son In every land, and has small joy in aught, Until before her presence thou art brought." Then Psyche, trembling at the words she spake, Durst answer nought, nor for that counsel's sake Could other offerings leave except her tears, As now, tormented by the new-born fears The words divine had raised in her, she passed The brazen threshold once again, and cast A dreary hopeless look across the plain, Whose golden beauty now seemed nought and vain Unto her aching heart; then down the hill She went, and crossed the shallows of the rill, And wearily she went upon her way, Nor any homestead passed upon that day, Nor any hamlet, and at night lay down Within a wood, far off from any town. There, waking at the dawn, did she behold, Through the green leaves, a glimmer as of gold, And, passing on, amidst an oak-grove found A pillared temple gold-adorned and round, Whose walls were hung with rich and precious things, Worthy to be the ransom of great kings; And in the midst of gold and ivory An image of Queen Juno did she see; Then her heart swelled within her, and she thought, "Surely the gods hereto my steps have brought, And they will yet be merciful and give Some little joy to me, that I may live Till my Love finds me." Then upon her knees She fell, and prayed, "O Crown of goddesses, I pray thee, give me shelter in this place, Nor turn away from me thy much-loved face, If ever I gave golden gifts to thee In happier times when my right hand was free." Then from the inmost shrine there came a voice That said, "It is so, well mayst thou rejoice That of thy gifts I yet have memory, Wherefore mayst thou depart forewarned and free; Since she that won the golden apple lives, And to her servants mighty gifts now gives To find thee out, in whatso land thou art, For thine undoing; loiter not, depart! For what immortal yet shall shelter thee From her that rose from out the unquiet sea?" Then Psyche moaned out in her grief and fear, "Alas! and is there shelter anywhere Upon the green flame-hiding earth?" said she, "Or yet beneath it is there peace for me? O Love, since in thine arms I cannot rest, Or lay my weary head upon thy breast, Have pity yet upon thy love forlorn, Make me as though I never had been born!" Then wearily she went upon her way, And so, about the middle of the day, She came before a green and flowery place, Walled round about in manner of a chase, Whereof the gates as now were open wide; Fair grassy glades and long she saw inside Betwixt great trees, down which the unscared deer Were playing; yet a pang of deadly fear, She knew not why, shot coldly through her heart, And thrice she turned as though she would depart, And thrice returned, and in the gateway stood With wavering feet: small flowers as red as blood Were growing up amid the soft green grass, And here and there a fallen rose there was, And on the trodden grass a silken lace, As though crowned revellers had passed by the place The restless sparrows chirped upon the wall And faint far music on her ears did fall, And from the trees within, the pink-foot doves Still told their weary tale unto their loves, And all seemed peaceful more than words could say. Then she, whose heart still whispered, "Keep away." Was drawn by strong desire unto the place, So toward the greenest glade she set her face, Murmuring, "Alas! and what a wretch am I, That I should fear the summer's greenery! Yea, and is death now any more an ill, When lonely through the world I wander still." But when she was amidst those ancient groves, Whose close green leaves and choirs of moaning doves Shut out the world, then so alone she seemed, So strange, her former life was but as dreamed; Beside the hopes and fears that drew her on, Till so far through that green place she had won, That she a rose-hedged garden could behold Before a house made beautiful with gold; Which, to her mind beset with that past dream, And dim foreshadowings of ill fate, did seem That very house, her joy and misery, Where that fair sight her longing eyes did see They should not see again; but now the sound Of pensive music echoing all around, Made all things like a picture, and from thence Bewildering odours floating, dulled her sense, And killed her fear, and, urged by strong desire To see how all should end, she drew yet nigher, And o'er the hedge beheld the heads of girls Embraced by garlands fresh and orient pearls, And heard sweet voices murmuring; then a thrill Of utmost joy all memory seemed to kill Of good or evil, and her eager hand Was on the wicket, then her feet did stand Upon new flowers, the while her dizzied eyes Gazed wildly round on half-seen mysteries, And wandered from unnoting face to face. For round a fountain midst the flowery place Did she behold full many a minstrel girl; While nigh them, on the grass in giddy whirl, Bright raiment and white limbs and sandalled feet Flew round in time unto the music sweet, Whose strains no more were pensive now nor sad, But rather a fresh sound of triumph had; And round the dance were gathered damsels fair, Clad in rich robes adorned with jewels rare; Or little hidden by some woven mist, That, hanging round them, here a bosom kissed And there a knee, or driven by the wind About some lily's bowing stem was twined. But when a little Psyche's eyes grew clear, A sight they saw that brought back all her fear A hundred-fold, though neither heaven nor earth To such a fair sight elsewhere could give birth; Because apart, upon a golden throne Of marvellous work, a woman sat alone, Watching the dancers with a smiling face, Whose beauty sole had lighted up the place. A crown there was upon her glorious head, A garland round about her girdlestead, Where matchless wonders of the hidden sea Were brought together and set wonderfully; Naked she was of all else, but her hair About her body rippled here and there, And lay in heaps upon the golden seat, And even touched the gold cloth where her feet Lay amid roses--ah, how kind she seemed! What depths of love from out her grey eyes beamed! Well might the birds leave singing on the trees To watch in peace that crown of goddesses, Yet well might Psyche sicken at the sight, And feel her feet wax heavy, her head light; For now at last her evil day was come, Since she had wandered to the very home Of her most bitter cruel enemy. Half-dead, yet must she turn about to flee, But as her eyes back o'er her shoulder gazed, And with weak hands her clinging gown she raised, And from her lips unwitting came a moan, She felt strong arms about her body thrown, And, blind with fear, was haled along till she Saw floating by her faint eyes dizzily That vision of the pearls and roses fresh, The golden carpet and the rosy flesh. Then, as in vain she strove to make some sound, A sweet voice seemed to pierce the air around With bitter words; her doom rang in her ears, She felt the misery that lacketh tears. "Come hither, damsels, and the pearl behold That hath no price? See now the thrice-tried gold, That all men worshipped, that a god would have To be his bride! how like a wretched slave She cowers down, and lacketh even voice To plead her cause! Come, damsels, and rejoice, That now once more the waiting world will move, Since she is found, the well-loved soul of love! "And thou poor wretch, what god hath led thee here? Art thou so lost in this abyss of fear, Thou canst not weep thy misery and shame? Canst thou not even speak thy shameful name?" But even then the flame of fervent love In Psyche's tortured heart began to move, And gave her utterance, and she said, "Alas! Surely the end of life has come to pass For me, who have been bride of very Love, Yet love still bides in me, O Seed of Jove, For such I know thee; slay me, nought is lost! For had I had the will to count the cost And buy my love with all this misery, Thus and no otherwise the thing should be. Would I were dead, my wretched beauty gone, No trouble now to thee or any one!" And with that last word did she hang her head, As one who hears not, whatsoe'er is said; But Venus rising with a dreadful cry Said, "O thou fool, I will not let thee die! But thou shalt reap the harvest thou hast sown And many a day thy wretched lot bemoan. Thou art my slave, and not a day shall be But I will find some fitting task for thee, Nor will I slay thee till thou hop'st again. What, thinkest thou that utterly in vain Jove is my sire, and in despite my will That thou canst mock me with thy beauty still? Come forth, O strong-armed, punish this new slave, That she henceforth a humble heart may have." All round about the damsels in a ring Were drawn to see the ending of the thing, And now as Psyche's eyes stared wildly round No help in any face of them she found As from the fair and dreadful face she turned In whose grey eyes such steadfast anger burned; Yet midst her agony she scarcely knew What thing it was the goddess bade them do, And all the pageant, like a dreadful dream Hopeless and long-enduring grew to seem; Yea, when the strong-armed through the crowd did break, Girls like to those, whose close-locked squadron shake The echoing surface of the Asian plain, And when she saw their threatening hands, in vain She strove to speak, so like a dream it was; So like a dream that this should come to pass, And 'neath her feet the green earth opened not. But when her breaking heart again waxed hot With dreadful thoughts and prayers unspeakable As all their bitter torment on her fell, When she her own voice heard, nor knew its sound, And like red flame she saw the trees and ground, Then first she seemed to know what misery To helpless folk upon the earth can be. But while beneath the many moving feet The small crushed flowers sent up their odour sweet, Above sat Venus, calm, and very fair, Her white limbs bared of all her golden hair, Into her heart all wrath cast back again, As on the terror and the helpless pain She gazed with gentle eyes, and unmoved smile; Such as in Cyprus, the fair blossomed isle, When on the altar in the summer night They pile the roses up for her delight, Men see within their hearts, and long that they Unto her very body there might pray. At last to them some dainty sign she made To hold their cruel hands, and therewith bade To bear her slave new gained from out her sight And keep her safely till the morrow's light: So her across the sunny sward they led With fainting limbs, and heavy downcast head, And into some nigh lightless prison cast To brood alone o'er happy days long past And all the dreadful times that yet should be. But she being gone, one moment pensively The goddess did the distant hills behold, Then bade her girls bind up her hair of gold, And veil her breast, the very forge of love, With raiment that no earthly shuttle wove, And 'gainst the hard earth arm her lovely feet: Then she went forth, some shepherd king to meet Deep in the hollow of a shaded vale, To make his woes a long-enduring tale. * * * * * But over Psyche, hapless and forlorn, Unseen the sun rose on the morrow morn, Nor knew she aught about the death of night Until her gaoler's torches filled with light The dreary place, blinding her unused eyes, And she their voices heard that bade her rise; She did their bidding, yet grown faint and pale She shrank away and strove her arms to veil In her gown's bosom, and to hide from them Her little feet within her garment's hem; But mocking her, they brought her thence away, And led her forth into the light of day, And brought her to a marble cloister fair Where sat the queen on her adornéd chair, But she, as down the sun-streaked place they came, Cried out, "Haste! ye, who lead my grief and shame." And when she stood before her trembling, said, "Although within a palace thou wast bred Yet dost thou carry but a slavish heart, And fitting is it thou shouldst learn thy part, And know the state whereunto thou art brought; Now, heed what yesterday thy folly taught, And set thyself to-day my will to do; Ho ye, bring that which I commanded you." Then forth came two, and each upon her back Bore up with pain a huge half-bursten sack, Which, setting down, they opened on the floor, And from their hempen mouths a stream did pour Of mingled seeds, and grain, peas, pulse, and wheat, Poppies and millet, and coriander sweet, And many another brought from far-off lands, Which mingling more with swift and ready hands They piled into a heap confused and great. And then said Venus, rising from her seat, "Slave, here I leave thee, but before the night These mingled seeds thy hands shall set aright, All laid in heaps, each after its own kind, And if in any heap I chance to find An alien seed; thou knowest since yesterday How disobedient slaves the forfeit pay." Therewith she turned and left the palace fair And from its outskirts rose into the air, And flew until beneath her lay the sea, Then, looking on its green waves lovingly, Somewhat she dropped, and low adown she flew Until she reached the temple that she knew Within a sunny bay of her fair isle. But Psyche sadly labouring all the while With hopeless heart felt the swift hours go by, And knowing well what bitter mockery Lay in that task, yet did she what she might That something should be finished ere the night, And she a little mercy yet might ask; But the first hours of that long feverish task Passed amid mocks; for oft the damsels came About her, and made merry with her shame, And laughed to see her trembling eagerness, And how, with some small lappet of her dress, She winnowed out the wheat, and how she bent Over the millet, hopelessly intent; And how she guarded well some tiny heap But just begun, from their long raiments' sweep; And how herself, with girt gown, carefully She went betwixt the heaps that 'gan to lie Along the floor; though they were small enow, When shadows lengthened and the sun was low; But at the last these left her labouring, Not daring now to weep, lest some small thing Should 'scape her blinded eyes, and soon far off She heard the echoes of their careless scoff. Longer the shades grew, quicker sank the sun, Until at last the day was well-nigh done, And every minute did she think to hear The fair Queen's dreaded footsteps drawing near; But Love, that moves the earth, and skies, and sea, Beheld his old love in her misery, And wrapped her heart in sudden gentle sleep; And meanwhile caused unnumbered ants to creep About her, and they wrought so busily That all, ere sundown, was as it should be, And homeward went again the kingless folk. Bewildered with her joy again she woke, But scarce had time the unseen hands to bless, That thus had helped her utter feebleness, Ere Venus came, fresh from the watery way, Panting with all the pleasure of the day; But when she saw the ordered heaps, her smile Faded away, she cried out, "Base and vile Thou art indeed, this labour fitteth thee; But now I know thy feigned simplicity, Thine inward cunning, therefore hope no more, Since thou art furnished well with hidden lore, To 'scape thy due reward, if any day Without some task accomplished, pass away!" So with a frown she passed on, muttering, "Nought have I done, to-morrow a new thing." So the next morning Psyche did they lead Unto a terrace o'er a flowery mead, Where Venus sat, hid from the young sun's rays, Upon the fairest of all summer days; She pointed o'er the meads as they drew nigh, And said, "See how that stream goes glittering by, And on its banks my golden sheep now pass, Cropping sweet mouthfuls of the flowery grass; If thou, O cunning slave, to-day art fain To save thyself from well-remembered pain, Put forth a little of thy hidden skill, And with their golden fleece thy bosom fill; Yet make no haste, but ere the sun is down Cast it before my feet from out thy gown; Surely thy labour is but light to-day." Then sadly went poor Psyche on her way, Wondering wherein the snare lay, for she knew No easy thing it was she had to do; Nor had she failed indeed to note the smile Wherewith the goddess praised her for the guile That she, unhappy, lacked so utterly. Amidst these thoughts she crossed the flowery lea, And came unto the glittering river's side; And, seeing it was neither deep nor wide, She drew her sandals off, and to the knee Girt up her gown, and by a willow-tree Went down into the water, and but sank Up to mid-leg therein; but from the bank She scarce had gone three steps, before a voice Called out to her, "Stay, Psyche, and rejoice That I am here to help thee, a poor reed, The soother of the loving hearts that bleed, The pourer forth of notes, that oft have made The weak man strong, and the rash man afraid. "Sweet child, when by me now thy dear foot trod, I knew thee for the loved one of our god; Then prithee take my counsel in good part; Go to the shore again, and rest thine heart In sleep awhile, until the sun get low, And then across the river shalt thou go And find these evil creatures sleeping fast, And on the bushes whereby they have passed Much golden wool; take what seems good to thee, And ere the sun sets go back easily. But if within that mead thou sett'st thy feet While yet they wake, an ill death shalt thou meet, For they are of a cursed man-hating race, Bred by a giant in a lightless place." But at these words soft tears filled Psyche's eyes As hope of love within her heart did rise; And when she saw she was not helpless yet Her old desire she would not quite forget; But turning back, upon the bank she lay In happy dreams till nigh the end of day; Then did she cross and gather of the wool, And with her bosom and her gown-skirt full Came back to Venus at the sun-setting; But she afar off saw it glistering And cried aloud, "Go, take the slave away, And keep her safe for yet another day, And on the morning will I think again Of some fresh task, since with so little pain She doeth what the gods find hard enow; For since the winds were pleased this waif to blow Unto my door, a fool I were indeed, If I should fail to use her for my need." So her they led away from that bright sun, Now scarce more hopeful that the task was done, Since by those bitter words she knew full well Another tale the coming day would tell. But the next morn upon a turret high, Where the wind kissed her raiment lovingly, Stood Venus waiting her; and when she came She said, "O slave, thy city's very shame, Lift up thy cunning eyes, and looking hence Shalt thou behold betwixt these battlements, A black and barren mountain set aloof From the green hills, shaped like a palace roof. Ten leagues from hence it lieth, toward the north, And from its rocks a fountain welleth forth, Black like itself, and floweth down its side, And in a while part into Styx doth glide, And part into Cocytus runs away, Now coming thither by the end of day, Fill me this ewer from out the awful stream; Such task a sorceress like thee will deem A little matter; bring it not to pass, And if thou be not made of steel or brass, To-morrow shalt thou find the bitterest day Thou yet hast known, and all be sport and play To what thy heart in that hour shall endure-- Behold, I swear it, and my word is sure!" She turned therewith to go down toward the sea, To meet her lover, who from Thessaly Was come from some well-foughten field of war. But Psyche, wandering wearily afar, Reached the bare foot of that black rock at last, And sat there grieving for the happy past, For surely now, she thought, no help could be, She had but reached the final misery, Nor had she any counsel but to weep. For not alone the place was very steep, And craggy beyond measure, but she knew What well it was that she was driven to, The dreadful water that the gods swear by, For there on either hand, as one draws nigh, Are long-necked dragons ready for the spring, And many another monstrous nameless thing, The very sight of which is well-nigh death; Then the black water as it goes crieth, "Fly, wretched one, before you come to die! Die, wretched man! I will not let you fly! How have you heart to come before me here? You have no heart, your life is turned to fear!" Till the wretch falls adown with whirling brain, And far below the sharp rocks end his pain. Well then might Psyche wail her wretched fate, And strive no more, but sitting weep and wait Alone in that black land for kindly death, With weary sobbing, wasting life and breath; But o'er her head there flew the bird of Jove, The bearer of his servant, friend of Love, Who, when he saw her, straightway towards her flew, And asked her why she wept, and when he knew, And who she was, he said, "Cease all thy fear, For to the black waves I thy ewer will bear, And fill it for thee; but, remember me, When thou art come unto thy majesty." Then straight he flew, and through the dragon's wings Went carelessly, nor feared their clatterings, But set the ewer, filled, in her right hand, And on that day saw many another land. Then Psyche through the night toiled back again, And as she went, she thought, "Ah! all is vain, For though once more I just escape indeed, Yet hath she many another wile at need; And to these days when I my life first learn, With unavailing longing shall I turn, When this that seemeth now so horrible Shall then seem but the threshold of her hell. Alas! what shall I do? for even now In sleep I see her pitiless white brow, And hear the dreadful sound of her commands, While with my helpless body and bound hands I tremble underneath the cruel whips; And oft for dread of her, with quivering lips I wake, and waking know the time draws nigh When nought shall wake me from that misery-- Behold, O Love, because of thee I live, Because of thee, with these things still I strive." * * * * * Now with the risen sun her weary feet The late-strewn roses of the floor did meet Upon the marble threshold of the place; But she being brought before the matchless face, Fresh with the new life of another day, Beheld her wondering, for the goddess lay With half-shut eyes upon her golden bed, And when she entered scarcely turned her head, But smiling spake, "The gods are good to thee, Nor shalt thou always be mine enemy; But one more task I charge thee with to-day, Now unto Proserpine take thou thy way, And give this golden casket to her hands, And pray the fair Queen of the gloomy lands To fill the void shell with that beauty rare That long ago as queen did set her there; Nor needest thou to fail in this new thing, Who hast to-day the heart and wit to bring This dreadful water, and return alive; And, that thou may'st the more in this thing strive, If thou returnest I will show at last My kindness unto thee, and all the past Shalt thou remember as an ugly dream." And now at first to Psyche did it seem Her heart was softening to her, and the thought Swelled her full heart to sobbing, and it brought Into her yearning eyes half-happy tears: But on her way cold thoughts and dreadful fears Rose in her heart, for who indeed could teach A living soul that dread abode to reach And yet return? and then once more it seemed The hope of mercy was but lightly dreamed, And she remembered that triumphant smile, And needs must think, "This is the final wile, Alas! what trouble must a goddess take So weak a thing as this poor heart to break. "See now this tower! from off its top will I Go quick to Proserpine--ah, good to die! Rather than hear those shameful words again, And bear that unimaginable pain Which she has hoarded for to-morrow morn; Now is the ending of my life forlorn! O Love, farewell, thou seest all hope is dead, Thou seest what torments on my wretched head Thy bitter mother doth not cease to heap; Farewell, O Love, for thee and life I weep. Alas, my foolish heart! alas, my sin! Alas, for all the love I could not win!" Now was this tower both old enough and grey, Built by some king forgotten many a day, And no man dwelt there, now that bitter war From that bright land had long been driven afar; There now she entered, trembling and afraid; But 'neath her doubtful steps the dust long laid In utter rest, rose up into the air, And wavered in the wind that down the stair Rushed to the door; then she drew back a pace, Moved by the coolness of the lonely place That for so long had seen no ray of sun. Then shuddering did she hear these words begun, Like a wind's moaning voice, "Have thou no fear The hollow words of one long slain to hear! Thou livest, and thy hope is not yet dead, And if thou heedest me, thou well may'st tread The road to hell, and yet return again. "For thou must go o'er many a hill and plain Until to Sparta thou art come at last, And when the ancient city thou hast passed A mountain shalt thou reach, that men now call Mount Tænarus, that riseth like a wall 'Twixt plain and upland, therein shalt thou find The wide mouth of a cavern huge and blind, Wherein there cometh never any sun, Whose dreadful darkness all things living shun; This shun thou not, but yet take care to have Three honey-cakes thy soul alive to save, And in thy mouth a piece of money set, Then through the dark go boldly, and forget The stories thou hast heard of death and hell, And heed my words, and then shall all be well. "For when thou hast passed through that cavern blind, A place of dim grey meadows shalt thou find, Wherethrough to inmost hell a path doth lead, Which follow thou, with diligence and heed; For as thou goest there, thou soon shalt see Two men like peasants loading painfully A fallen ass; these unto thee will call To help them, but give thou no heed at all, But pass them swiftly; and then soon again Within a shed three crones shalt thou see plain Busily weaving, who shall bid thee leave The road and fill their shuttles while they weave, But slacken not thy steps for all their prayers, For these are shadows only, and set snares. "At last thou comest to a water wan, And at the bank shall be the ferryman Surly and grey; and when he asketh thee Of money for thy passage, hastily Show him thy mouth, and straight from off thy lip The money he will take, and in his ship Embark thee and set forward; but beware, For on thy passage is another snare; From out the waves a grisly head shall come, Most like thy father thou hast left at home, And pray for passage long and piteously, But on thy life of him have no pity, Else art thou lost; also thy father lives, And in the temples of the high gods gives Great daily gifts for thy returning home. "When thou unto the other side art come, A palace shalt thou see of fiery gold, And by the door thereof shalt thou behold An ugly triple monster, that shall yell For thine undoing; now behold him well, And into each mouth of him cast a cake, And no more heed of thee then shall he take, And thou may'st pass into a glorious hall Where many a wonder hangs upon the wall; But far more wonderful than anything The fair slim consort of the gloomy King, Arrayed all royally shalt thou behold, Who sitting on a carven throne of gold, Whene'er thou enterest shall rise up to thee, And bid thee welcome there most lovingly, And pray thee on a royal bed to sit, And share her feast; yet eat thou not of it, But sitting on the ground eat bread alone, Then do thy message kneeling by her throne; And when thou hast the gift, return with speed; The sleepy dog of thee shall take no heed, The ferryman shall bear thee on thy way Without more words, and thou shalt see the day Unharmed if that dread box thou openest not; But if thou dost, then death shall be thy lot. "O beautiful, when safe thou com'st again, Remember me, who lie here in such pain Unburied; set me in some tomb of stone. When thou hast gathered every little bone; But never shalt thou set thereon a name, Because my ending was with grief and shame, Who was a Queen like thee long years agone, And in this tower so long have lain alone." Then, pale and full of trouble, Psyche went Bearing the casket, and her footsteps bent To Lacedæmon, and thence found her way To Tænarus, and there the golden day For that dark cavern did she leave behind; Then, going boldly through it, did she find The shadowy meads which that wide way ran through, Under a seeming sky 'twixt grey and blue; No wind blew there, there was no bird or tree, Or beast, and dim grey flowers she did but see That never faded in that changeless place, And if she had but seen a living face Most strange and bright she would have thought it there, Or if her own face, troubled yet so fair, The still pools by the road-side could have shown The dimness of that place she might have known; But their dull surface cast no image back, For all but dreams of light that land did lack. So on she passed, still noting every thing, Nor yet had she forgotten there to bring The honey-cakes and money: in a while She saw those shadows striving hard to pile The bales upon the ass, and heard them call, "O woman, help us! for our skill is small And we are feeble in this place indeed;" But swiftly did she pass, nor gave them heed, Though after her from far their cries they sent. Then a long way adown that road she went, Not seeing aught, till, as the Shade had said, She came upon three women in a shed Busily weaving, who cried, "Daughter, leave The beaten road a while, and as we weave Fill thou our shuttles with these endless threads, For here our eyes are sleepy, and our heads Are feeble in this miserable place." But for their words she did but mend her pace, Although her heart beat quick as she passed by. Then on she went, until she could espy The wan, grey river lap the leaden bank Wherefrom there sprouted sparsely sedges rank, And there the road had end in that sad boat Wherein the dead men unto Minos float; There stood the ferryman, who now, seeing her, said, "O living soul, that thus among the dead Hast come, on whatso errand, without fear, Know thou that penniless none passes here; Of all the coins that rich men have on earth To buy the dreadful folly they call mirth, But one they keep when they have passed the grave That o'er this stream a passage they may have; And thou, though living, art but dead to me, Who here, immortal, see mortality Pass, stripped of this last thing that men desire Unto the changeless meads or changeless fire." Speechless she shewed the money on her lip Which straight he took, and set her in the ship, And then the wretched, heavy oars he threw Into the rowlocks and the flood they drew; Silent, with eyes that looked beyond her face, He laboured, and they left the dreary place. But midmost of that water did arise A dead man, pale, with ghastly staring eyes That somewhat like her father still did seem, But in such wise as figures in a dream; Then with a lamentable voice it cried, "O daughter, I am dead, and in this tide For ever shall I drift, an unnamed thing, Who was thy father once, a mighty king, Unless thou take some pity on me now, And bid the ferryman turn here his prow, That I with thee to some abode may cross; And little unto thee will be the loss, And unto me the gain will be to come To such a place as I may call a home, Being now but dead and empty of delight, And set in this sad place 'twixt dark and light." Now at these words the tears ran down apace For memory of the once familiar face, And those old days, wherein, a little child 'Twixt awe and love beneath those eyes she smiled; False pity moved her very heart, although The guile of Venus she failed not to know, But tighter round the casket clasped her hands, And shut her eyes, remembering the commands Of that dead queen: so safe to land she came. And there in that grey country, like a flame Before her eyes rose up the house of gold, And at the gate she met the beast threefold, Who ran to meet her open-mouthed, but she Unto his jaws the cakes cast cunningly, But trembling much; then on the ground he lay Lolling his heads, and let her go her way; And so she came into the mighty hall, And saw those wonders hanging on the wall, That all with pomegranates was covered o'er In memory of the meal on that sad shore, Whereby fair Enna was bewept in vain, And this became a kingdom and a chain. But on a throne, the Queen of all the dead She saw therein with gold-embracéd head, In royal raiment, beautiful and pale; Then with slim hands her face did Psyche veil In worship of her, who said, "Welcome here, O messenger of Venus! thou art dear To me thyself indeed, for of thy grace And loveliness we know e'en in this place; Rest thee then, fair one, on this royal bed And with some dainty food shalt thou be fed; Ho, ye who wait, bring in the tables now!" Therewith were brought things glorious of show On cloths and tables royally beseen, By damsels each one fairer than a queen, The very latchets of whose shoes were worth The royal crown of any queen on earth; But when upon them Psyche looked, she saw That all these dainty matters without flaw Were strange of shape and of strange-blended hues So every cup and plate did she refuse Those lovely hands brought to her, and she said, "O Queen, to me amidst my awe and dread These things are nought, my message is not done, So let me rest upon this cold grey stone, And while my eyes no higher than thy feet Are lifted, eat the food that mortals eat." Therewith upon the floor she sat her down And from the folded bosom of her gown Drew forth her bread and ate, while with cold eyes Regarding her 'twixt anger and surprise, The Queen sat silent for awhile, then spoke, "Why art thou here, wisest of living folk? Depart in haste, lest thou shouldst come to be Thyself a helpless thing and shadowy! Give me the casket then, thou need'st not say Wherefore thou thus hast passed the awful way; Bide there, and for thy mistress shalt thou have The charm that beauty from all change can save." Then Psyche rose, and from her trembling hand Gave her the casket, and awhile did stand Alone within the hall, that changing light From burning streams, and shadowy waves of night Made strange and dread, till to her, standing there The world began to seem no longer fair, Life no more to be hoped for, but that place The peaceful goal of all the hurrying race, The house she must return to on some day. Then sighing scarcely could she turn away When with the casket came the Queen once more, And said, "Haste now to leave this shadowy shore Before thou changest; even now I see Thine eyes are growing strange, thou look'st on me E'en as the linnet looks upon the snake. Behold, thy wisely-guarded treasure take, And let thy breath of life no longer move The shadows with the memories of past love." But Psyche at that name, with quickened heart Turned eagerly, and hastened to depart Bearing that burden, hoping for the day; Harmless, asleep, the triple monster lay, The ferryman did set her in his boat Unquestioned, and together did they float Over the leaden water back again: Nor saw she more those women bent with pain Over their weaving, nor the fallen ass, But swiftly up the grey road did she pass And well-nigh now was come into the day By hollow Tænarus, but o'er the way The wings of Envy brooded all unseen; Because indeed the cruel and fair Queen Knew well how she had sped; so in her breast, Against the which the dreadful box was pressed, Grew up at last this foolish, harmful thought. "Behold how far this beauty I have brought To give unto my bitter enemy; Might I not still a very goddess be If this were mine which goddesses desire, Yea, what if this hold swift consuming fire, Why do I think it good for me to live, That I my body once again may give Into her cruel hands--come death! come life! And give me end to all the bitter strife!" Therewith down by the wayside did she sit And turned the box round, long regarding it; But at the last, with trembling hands, undid The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid; But what was there she saw not, for her head Fell back, and nothing she rememberéd Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had, The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad; For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress She would have cried, but in her helplessness Could open not her mouth, or frame a word; Although the threats of mocking things she heard, And seemed, amidst new forms of horror bound, To watch strange endless armies moving round, With all their sleepless eyes still fixed on her, Who from that changeless place should never stir. Moveless she lay, and in that dreadful sleep Scarce had the strength some few slow tears to weep. And there she would have lain for evermore, A marble image on the shadowy shore In outward seeming, but within oppressed With torments, knowing neither hope nor rest But as she lay the Phoenix flew along Going to Egypt, and knew all her wrong, And pitied her, beholding her sweet face, And flew to Love and told him of her case; And Love, in guerdon of the tale he told, Changed all the feathers of his neck to gold, And he flew on to Egypt glad at heart. But Love himself gat swiftly for his part To rocky Tænarus, and found her there Laid half a furlong from the outer air. But at that sight out burst the smothered flame Of love, when he remembered all her shame, The stripes, the labour, and the wretched fear, And kneeling down he whispered in her ear, "Rise, Psyche, and be mine for evermore, For evil is long tarrying on this shore." Then when she heard him, straightway she arose, And from her fell the burden of her woes; And yet her heart within her well-nigh broke, When she from grief to happiness awoke; And loud her sobbing was in that grey place, And with sweet shame she covered up her face. But her dear hands, all wet with tears, he kissed, And taking them about each dainty wrist Drew them away, and in a sweet voice said, "Raise up again, O Psyche, that dear head, And of thy simpleness have no more shame; Thou hast been tried, and cast away all blame Into the sea of woes that thou didst bear, The bitter pain, the hopelessness, the fear-- Holpen a little, loved with boundless love Amidst them all--but now the shadows move Fast toward the west, earth's day is well-nigh done, One toil thou hast yet; by to-morrow's sun Kneel the last time before my mother's feet, Thy task accomplished; and my heart, O sweet, Shall go with thee to ease thy toilsome way; Farewell awhile! but that so glorious day I promised thee of old, now cometh fast, When even hope thy soul aside shall cast, Amidst the joy that thou shalt surely win." So saying, all that sleep he shut within The dreadful casket, and aloft he flew, But slowly she unto the cavern drew Scarce knowing if she dreamed, and so she came Unto the earth where yet the sun did flame Low down between the pine-trunks, tall and red, And with its last beams kissed her golden head. * * * * * With what words Love unto the Father prayed I know not, nor what deeds the balance weighed; But this I know, that he prayed not in vain, And Psyche's life the heavenly crown shall gain; So round about the messenger was sent To tell immortals of their King's intent, And bid them gather to the Father's hall. But while they got them ready at his call, On through the night was Psyche toiling still, To whom no pain nor weariness seemed ill Since now once more she knew herself beloved; But when the unresting world again had moved Round into golden day, she came again To that fair place where she had borne such pain, And flushed and joyful in despite her fear, Unto the goddess did she draw anear, And knelt adown before her golden seat, Laying the fatal casket at her feet; Then at the first no word the Sea-born said, But looked afar over her golden head, Pondering upon the mighty deeds of fate; While Psyche still, as one who well may wait, Knelt, calm and motionless, nor said a word, But ever thought of her sweet lovesome lord. At last the Queen said, "Girl, I bid thee rise, For now hast thou found favour in mine eyes; And I repent me of the misery That in this place thou hast endured of me, Although because of it, thy joy indeed Shall now be more, that pleasure is thy meed." Then bending, on the forehead did she kiss Fair Psyche, who turned red for shame and bliss; But Venus smiled again on her, and said, "Go now, and bathe, and be as well arrayed As thou shouldst be, to sit beside my son; I think thy life on earth is well-nigh done." So thence once more was Psyche led away, And cast into no prison on that day, But brought unto a bath beset with flowers, Made dainty with a fount's sweet-smelling showers, And there being bathed, e'en in such fair attire As veils the glorious Mother of Desire Her limbs were veiled, then in the wavering shade, Amidst the sweetest garden was she laid, And while the damsels round her watch did keep, At last she closed her weary eyes in sleep, And woke no more to earth, for ere the day Had yet grown late, once more asleep she lay Within the West Wind's mighty arms, nor woke Until the light of heaven upon her broke, And on her trembling lips she felt the kiss Of very Love, and mortal yet, for bliss Must fall a-weeping. O for me! that I, Who late have told her woe and misery, Must leave untold the joy unspeakable That on her tender wounded spirit fell! Alas! I try to think of it in vain, My lyre is but attuned to tears and pain, How shall I sing the never-ending day? Led by the hand of Love she took her way Unto a vale beset with heavenly trees, Where all the gathered gods and goddesses Abode her coming; but when Psyche saw The Father's face, she fainting with her awe Had fallen, but that Love's arm held her up. Then brought the cup-bearer a golden cup, And gently set it in her slender hand, And while in dread and wonder she did stand, The Father's awful voice smote on her ear, "Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear! For with this draught shalt thou be born again. And live for ever free from care and pain." Then, pale as privet, took she heart to drink, And therewithal most strange new thoughts did think, And unknown feelings seized her, and there came Sudden remembrance, vivid as a flame, Of everything that she had done on earth, Although it all seemed changed in weight and worth, Small things becoming great, and great things small; And godlike pity touched her therewithal For her old self, for sons of men that die; And that sweet new-born immortality Now with full love her rested spirit fed. Then in that concourse did she lift her head, And stood at last a very goddess there, And all cried out at seeing her grown so fair. So while in heaven quick passed the time away, About the ending of that lovely day, Bright shone the low sun over all the earth For joy of such a wonderful new birth. * * * * * Or e'er his tale was done, night held the earth; Yea, the brown bird grown bold, as sounds of mirth Grew faint and scanty, now his tale had done, And by his mate abode the next day's sun; And in those old hearts did the story move Remembrance of the mighty deeds of love, And with these thoughts did hopes of life arise, Till tears unseen were in their ancient eyes, And in their yearning hearts unspoken prayers, And idle seemed the world with all its cares. Few words they said; the balmy odorous wind Wandered about, some resting-place to find; The young leaves rustled 'neath its gentle breath, And here and there some blossom burst his sheath, Adding unnoticed fragrance to the night; But, as they pondered, a new golden light Streamed over the green garden, and they heard Sweet voices sing some ancient poet's word In praise of May, and then in sight there came The minstrels' figures underneath the flame Of scented torches passing 'twixt the trees, And soon the dusky hall grew bright with these, And therewithal they put all thought away, And midst the tinkling harps drank deep to May. * * * * * Through many changes had the May-tide passed, The hope of summer oft had been o'ercast, Ere midst the gardens they once more were met; But now the full-leaved trees might well forget The changeful agony of doubtful spring, For summer pregnant with so many a thing Was at the door; right hot had been the day Which they amid the trees had passed away, And now betwixt the tulip beds they went Unto the hall, and thoughts of days long spent Gathered about them, as some blossom's smell Unto their hearts familiar tales did tell. But when they well were settled in the hall, And now behind the trees the sun 'gan fall, And they as yet no history had heard, Laurence, the Swabian priest, took up the word, And said, "Ye know from what has gone before, That in my youth I followed mystic lore, And many books I read in seeking it, And through my memory this same eve doth flit A certain tale I found in one of these, Long ere mine eyes had looked upon the seas; It made me shudder in the times gone by, When I believed in many a mystery I thought divine, that now I think, forsooth, Men's own fears made, to fill the place of truth Within their foolish hearts; short is the tale, And therefore will the better now avail To fill the space before the night comes on, And unto rest once more the world is won. THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE. ARGUMENT. How on an image that stood anciently in Rome were written certain words, which none understood, until a Scholar, coming there, knew their meaning, and thereby discovered great marvels, but withal died miserably. In half-forgotten days of old, As by our fathers we were told, Within the town of Rome there stood An image cut of cornel wood, And on the upraised hand of it Men might behold these letters writ: "PERCUTE HIC:" which is to say, In that tongue that we speak to-day, "_Strike here!_" nor yet did any know The cause why this was written so. Thus in the middle of the square, In the hot sun and summer air, The snow-drift and the driving rain, That image stood, with little pain, For twice a hundred years and ten; While many a band of striving men Were driven betwixt woe and mirth Swiftly across the weary earth, From nothing unto dark nothing: And many an emperor and king, Passing with glory or with shame, Left little record of his name, And no remembrance of the face Once watched with awe for gifts or grace Fear little, then, I counsel you, What any son of man can do; Because a log of wood will last While many a life of man goes past, And all is over in short space. Now so it chanced that to this place There came a man of Sicily, Who when the image he did see, Knew full well who, in days of yore, Had set it there; for much strange lore, In Egypt and in Babylon, This man with painful toil had won; And many secret things could do; So verily full well he knew That master of all sorcery Who wrought the thing in days gone by, And doubted not that some great spell It guarded, but could nowise tell What it might be. So, day by day, Still would he loiter on the way, And watch the image carefully, Well mocked of many a passer-by. And on a day he stood and gazed Upon the slender finger, raised Against a doubtful cloudy sky, Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly The master who made thee so fair By wondrous art, had not stopped there, But made thee speak, had he not thought That thereby evil might be brought Upon his spell." But as he spoke, From out a cloud the noon sun broke With watery light, and shadows cold: Then did the Scholar well behold How, from that finger carved to tell Those words, a short black shadow fell Upon a certain spot of ground, And thereon, looking all around And seeing none heeding, went straightway Whereas the finger's shadow lay, And with his knife about the place A little circle did he trace; Then home he turned with throbbing head, And forthright gat him to his bed, And slept until the night was late And few men stirred from gate to gate. So when at midnight he did wake, Pickaxe and shovel did he take, And, going to that now silent square, He found the mark his knife made there, And quietly with many a stroke The pavement of the place he broke: And so, the stones being set apart, He 'gan to dig with beating heart, And from the hole in haste he cast The marl and gravel; till at last, Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred, For suddenly his spade struck hard With clang against some metal thing: And soon he found a brazen ring, All green with rust, twisted, and great As a man's wrist, set in a plate Of copper, wrought all curiously With words unknown though plain to see, Spite of the rust; and flowering trees, And beasts, and wicked images, Whereat he shuddered: for he knew What ill things he might come to do, If he should still take part with these And that Great Master strive to please. But small time had he then to stand And think, so straight he set his hand Unto the ring, but where he thought That by main strength it must be brought From out its place, lo! easily It came away, and let him see A winding staircase wrought of stone, Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan. Then thought he, "If I come alive From out this place well shall I thrive, For I may look here certainly The treasures of a king to see, A mightier man than men are now. So in few days what man shall know The needy Scholar, seeing me Great in the place where great men be, The richest man in all the land? Beside the best then shall I stand, And some unheard-of palace have; And if my soul I may not save In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes Will I make some sweet paradise, With marble cloisters, and with trees And bubbling wells, and fantasies, And things all men deem strange and rare, And crowds of women kind and fair, That I may see, if so I please, Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees With half-clad bodies wandering. There, dwelling happier than the king, What lovely days may yet be mine! How shall I live with love and wine, And music, till I come to die! And then----Who knoweth certainly What haps to us when we are dead? Truly I think by likelihead Nought haps to us of good or bad; Therefore on earth will I be glad A short space, free from hope or fear; And fearless will I enter here And meet my fate, whatso it be." Now on his back a bag had he, To bear what treasure he might win, And therewith now did he begin To go adown the winding stair; And found the walls all painted fair With images of many a thing, Warrior and priest, and queen and king, But nothing knew what they might be. Which things full clearly could he see, For lamps were hung up here and there Of strange device, but wrought right fair, And pleasant savour came from them. At last a curtain, on whose hem Unknown words in red gold were writ, He reached, and softly raising it Stepped back, for now did he behold A goodly hall hung round with gold, And at the upper end could see Sitting, a glorious company: Therefore he trembled, thinking well They were no men, but fiends of hell. But while he waited, trembling sore, And doubtful of his late-earned lore, A cold blast of the outer air Blew out the lamps upon the stair And all was dark behind him; then Did he fear less to face those men Than, turning round, to leave them there While he went groping up the stair. Yea, since he heard no cry or call Or any speech from them at all, He doubted they were images Set there some dying king to please By that Great Master of the art; Therefore at last with stouter heart He raised the cloth and entered in In hope that happy life to win, And drawing nigher did behold That these were bodies dead and cold Attired in full royal guise, And wrought by art in such a wise That living they all seemed to be, Whose very eyes he well could see, That now beheld not foul or fair, Shining as though alive they were. And midmost of that company An ancient king that man could see, A mighty man, whose beard of grey A foot over his gold gown lay; And next beside him sat his queen Who in a flowery gown of green And golden mantle well was clad, And on her neck a collar had Too heavy for her dainty breast; Her loins by such a belt were prest That whoso in his treasury Held that alone, a king might be. On either side of these, a lord Stood heedfully before the board, And in their hands held bread and wine For service; behind these did shine The armour of the guards, and then The well-attiréd serving-men, The minstrels clad in raiment meet; And over against the royal seat Was hung a lamp, although no flame Was burning there, but there was set Within its open golden fret A huge carbuncle, red and bright; Wherefrom there shone forth such a light That great hall was as clear by it, As though by wax it had been lit, As some great church at Easter-tide. Now set a little way aside, Six paces from the daïs stood An image made of brass and wood, In likeness of a full-armed knight Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light A huge shaft ready in a bow. Pondering how he could come to know What all these marvellous matters meant, About the hall the Scholar went, Trembling, though nothing moved as yet; And for awhile did he forget The longings that had brought him there In wondering at these marvels fair; And still for fear he doubted much One jewel of their robes to touch. But as about the hall he passed He grew more used to them at last, And thought, "Swiftly the time goes by, And now no doubt the day draws nigh Folk will be stirring: by my head A fool I am to fear the dead, Who have seen living things enow, Whose very names no man can know, Whose shapes brave men might well affright More than the lion in the night Wandering for food;" therewith he drew Unto those royal corpses two, That on dead brows still wore the crown; And midst the golden cups set down The rugged wallet from his back, Patched of strong leather, brown and black. Then, opening wide its mouth, took up From off the board, a golden cup The King's dead hand was laid upon, Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone And recked no more of that last shame Than if he were the beggar lame, Who in old days was wont to wait For a dog's meal beside the gate. Of which shame nought our man did reck. But laid his hand upon the neck Of the slim Queen, and thence undid The jewelled collar, that straight slid Down her smooth bosom to the board. And when these matters he had stored Safe in his sack, with both their crowns, The jewelled parts of their rich gowns, Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings, And cleared the board of all rich things, He staggered with them down the hall. But as he went his eyes did fall Upon a wonderful green stone, Upon the hall-floor laid alone; He said, "Though thou art not so great To add by much unto the weight Of this my sack indeed, yet thou, Certes, would make me rich enow, That verily with thee I might Wage one-half of the world to fight The other half of it, and I The lord of all the world might die;-- I will not leave thee;" therewithal He knelt down midmost of the hall, Thinking it would come easily Into his hand; but when that he Gat hold of it, full fast it stack, So fuming, down he laid his sack, And with both hands pulled lustily, But as he strained, he cast his eye Back to the daïs; there he saw The bowman image 'gin to draw The mighty bowstring to his ear, So, shrieking out aloud for fear, Of that rich stone he loosed his hold And catching up his bag of gold, Gat to his feet: but ere he stood The evil thing of brass and wood Up to his ear the notches drew; And clanging, forth the arrow flew, And midmost of the carbuncle Clanging again, the forked barbs fell, And all was dark as pitch straightway. So there until the judgment day Shall come and find his bones laid low And raise them up for weal or woe, This man must bide; cast down he lay While all his past life day by day In one short moment he could see Drawn out before him, while that he In terror by that fatal stone Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan. But in a while his hope returned, And then, though nothing he discerned, He gat him up upon his feet, And all about the walls he beat To find some token of the door, But never could he find it more, For by some dreadful sorcery All was sealed close as it might be And midst the marvels of that hall This scholar found the end of all. But in the town on that same night, An hour before the dawn of light, Such storm upon the place there fell, That not the oldest man could tell Of such another: and thereby The image was burnt utterly, Being stricken from the clouds above; And folk deemed that same bolt did move The pavement where that wretched one Unto his foredoomed fate had gone, Because the plate was set again Into its place, and the great rain Washed the earth down, and sorcery Had hid the place where it did lie. So soon the stones were set all straight, But yet the folk, afraid of fate, Where once the man of cornel wood Through many a year of bad and good Had kept his place, set up alone Great Jove himself, cut in white stone, But thickly overlaid with gold. "Which," saith my tale, "you may behold Unto this day, although indeed Some Lord or other, being in need, Took every ounce of gold away." But now, this tale in some past day Being writ, I warrant all is gone, Both gold and weather-beaten stone. Be merry, masters, while ye may, For men much quicker pass away. * * * * * They praised the tale, and for awhile they talked Of other tales of treasure-seekers balked, And shame and loss for men insatiate stored, Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard, The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead; Then of how men would be rememberéd When they are gone; and more than one could tell Of what unhappy things therefrom befell; Or how by folly men have gained a name; A name indeed, not hallowed by the fame Of any deeds remembered: and some thought,-- "Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but nought To dead men! better it would be to give What things they may, while on the earth they live Unto the earth, and from the bounteous earth To take their pay of sorrow or of mirth, Hatred or love, and get them on their way; And let the teeming earth fresh troubles make For other men, and ever for their sake Use what they left, when they are gone from it." But while amid such musings they did sit, Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall, And the chief man for minstrelsy did call, And other talk their dull thoughts chased away, Nor did they part till night was mixed with day. JUNE. O June, O June, that we desired so, Wilt thou not make us happy on this day? Across the river thy soft breezes blow Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away, Above our heads rustle the aspens grey, Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset, No thought of storm the morning vexes yet. See, we have left our hopes and fears behind To give our very hearts up unto thee; What better place than this then could we find By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea, That guesses not the city's misery, This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names, This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames? Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take; And if indeed but pensive men we seem, What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake From out the arms of this rare happy dream And wish to leave the murmur of the stream, The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds, And all thy thousand peaceful happy words. * * * * * Now in the early June they deemed it good That they should go unto a house that stood On their chief river, so upon a day With favouring wind and tide they took their way Up the fair stream; most lovely was the time Even amidst the days of that fair clime, And still the wanderers thought about their lives, And that desire that rippling water gives To youthful hearts to wander anywhere. So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fair They came to, set upon the river side Where kindly folk their coming did abide; There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shade Beneath the trees they found the fair feast laid, And sat, well pleased; but when the water-hen Had got at last to think them harmless men, And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine, Began to feel immortal and divine, An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the day Amid such calm delight now slips away, And ye yourselves are grown so bright and glad I care not if I tell you something sad; Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by, Unstained by sordid strife or misery; Sad, because though a glorious end it tells, Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells, And striving through all things to reach the best Upon no midway happiness will rest." THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS. ARGUMENT Admetus, King of Pheræ in Thessaly, received unwittingly Apollo as his servant, by the help of whom he won to wife Alcestis, daughter of Pelias: afterwards too, as in other things, so principally in this, Apollo gave him help, that when he came to die, he obtained of the Fates for him, that if another would die willingly in his stead, then he should live still; and when to every one else this seemed impossible, Alcestis gave her life for her husband's. Midst sunny grass-clad meads that slope adown To lake Boebeis stands an ancient town, Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly, The son of Pheres and fair Clymene, Who had to name Admetus: long ago The dwellers by the lake have ceased to know His name, because the world grows old, but then He was accounted great among great men; Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at all Of gifts that unto royal men might fall In those old simple days, before men went To gather unseen harm and discontent, Along with all the alien merchandise That rich folk need, too restless to be wise. Now on the fairest of all autumn eves, When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leaves The black grapes showed, and every press and vat Was newly scoured, this King Admetus sat Among his people, wearied in such wise By hopeful toil as makes a paradise Of the rich earth; for light and far away Seemed all the labour of the coming day, And no man wished for more than then he had, Nor with another's mourning was made glad. There in the pillared porch, their supper done, They watched the fair departing of the sun; The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens poured The joy of life from out the jars long stored Deep in the earth, while little like a king, As we call kings, but glad with everything, The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life, So free from sickening fear and foolish strife. But midst the joy of this festivity, Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh, Along the dusty grey vine-bordered road That had its ending at his fair abode; He seemed e'en from afar to set his face Unto the King's adornéd reverend place, And like a traveller went he wearily, And yet as one who seems his rest to see. A staff he bore, but nowise was he bent With scrip or wallet; so withal he went Straight to the King's high seat, and standing near, Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear, But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad, And though the dust of that hot land he had Upon his limbs and face, as fair was he As any king's son you might lightly see, Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb, And no ill eye the women cast on him. But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand, He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land, Unto a banished man some shelter give, And help me with thy goods that I may live: Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I, Who kneel before thee now in misery, Give thee more gifts before the end shall come Than all thou hast laid safely in thine home." "Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said, "I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread, The land is wide, and bountiful enow. What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show, And be my man, perchance; but this night rest Not questioned more than any passing guest. Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt, Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt." Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeed Of thine awarded silence have I need, Nameless I am, nameless what I have done Must be through many circles of the sun. But for to-morrow--let me rather tell On this same eve what things I can do well, And let me put mine hand in thine and swear To serve thee faithfully a changing year; Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beast That of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast, Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bear Thy troubles easier when thou com'st to hear The music I can make. Let these thy men Witness against me if I fail thee, when War falls upon thy lovely land and thee." Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be, Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this, Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss: Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand, Be thou true man unto this guarded land. Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meet Wherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet, And bring him back beside my throne to feast." But to himself he said, "I am the least Of all Thessalians if this man was born In any earthly dwelling more forlorn Than a king's palace." Then a damsel slim Led him inside, nought loth to go with him, And when the cloud of steam had curled to meet Within the brass his wearied dusty feet, She from a carved press brought him linen fair, And a new-woven coat a king might wear, And so being clad he came unto the feast, But as he came again, all people ceased What talk they held soever, for they thought A very god among them had been brought; And doubly glad the king Admetus was At what that dying eve had brought to pass, And bade him sit by him and feast his fill. So there they sat till all the world was still, And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shine Held forth unto the night a joyous sign. * * * * * So henceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell, And what he set his hand to wrought right well, And won much praise and love in everything, And came to rule all herdsmen of the King; But for two things in chief his fame did grow; And first that he was better with the bow Than any 'twixt Olympus and the sea, And then that sweet, heart-piercing melody He drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre, And made the circle round the winter fire More like to heaven than gardens of the May. So many a heavy thought he chased away From the King's heart, and softened many a hate, And choked the spring of many a harsh debate; And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the wolds Lurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds. Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal, Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall; For morns there were when he the man would meet, His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet, Gazing distraught into the brightening east, Nor taking heed of either man or beast, Or anything that was upon the earth. Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth, Within the King's hall, would he seem to wake As from a dream, and his stringed tortoise take And strike the cords unbidden, till the hall Filled with the glorious sound from wall to wall, Trembled and seemed as it would melt away, And sunken down the faces weeping lay That erewhile laughed the loudest; only he Stood upright, looking forward steadily With sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep, Until the storm of music sank to sleep. But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of all Unto the King, that should there chance to fall A festal day, and folk did sacrifice Unto the gods, ever by some device The man would be away: yet with all this His presence doubled all Admetus' bliss, And happy in all things he seemed to live, And great gifts to his herdsman did he give. But now the year came round again to spring, And southward to Iolchos went the King; For there did Pelias hold a sacrifice Unto the gods, and put forth things of price For men to strive for in the people's sight; So on a morn of April, fresh and bright, Admetus shook the golden-studded reins, And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanes The south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel, Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steel Unto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhile Hearkening the echoes with a godlike smile, Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring, "Fair music for the wooing of a King." But in six days again Admetus came, With no lost labour or dishonoured name; A scarlet cloak upon his back he bare A gold crown on his head, a falchion fair Girt to his side; behind him four white steeds, Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads; All prizes that his valiant hands had won Within the guarded lists of Tyro's son. Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsy No joyous man in truth he seemed to be; So that folk looking on him said, "Behold, The wise King will not show himself too bold Amidst his greatness: the gods too are great, And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?" Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town, And midst their shouts at last he lighted down At his own house, and held high feast that night; And yet by seeming had but small delight In aught that any man could do or say: And on the morrow, just at dawn of day, Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear. And in the fresh and blossom-scented air Went wandering till he reach Boebeis' shore; Yet by his troubled face set little store By all the songs of birds and scent of flowers; Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hours Were grown but dull and empty of delight. So going, at the last he came in sight Of his new herdsman, who that morning lay Close by the white sand of a little bay The teeming ripple of Boebeis lapped; There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrapped Against the cold dew, free from trouble sang, The while the heifers' bells about him rang And mingled with the sweet soft-throated birds And bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these words Will tell the tale of his felicity, Halting and void of music though they be. SONG. O Dwellers on the lovely earth, Why will ye break your rest and mirth To weary us with fruitless prayer; Why will ye toil and take such care For children's children yet unborn, And garner store of strife and scorn To gain a scarce-remembered name, Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame? And if the gods care not for you, What is this folly ye must do To win some mortal's feeble heart? O fools! when each man plays his part, And heeds his fellow little more Than these blue waves that kiss the shore Take heed of how the daisies grow. O fools! and if ye could but know How fair a world to you is given. O brooder on the hills of heaven, When for my sin thou drav'st me forth, Hadst thou forgot what this was worth, Thine own hand had made? The tears of men, The death of threescore years and ten, The trembling of the timorous race-- Had these things so bedimmed the place Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know To what a heaven the earth might grow If fear beneath the earth were laid, If hope failed not, nor love decayed. He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord, Who, drawing near, heard little of his word, And noted less; for in that haggard mood Nought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood, Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh, He lifted up his drawn face suddenly, And as the singer gat him to his feet, His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet, As with some speech he now seemed labouring, Which from his heart his lips refused to bring. Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this, That thou, returned with honour to the bliss, The gods have given thee here, still makest show To be some wretch bent with the weight of woe? What wilt thou have? What help there is in me Is wholly thine, for in felicity Within thine house thou still hast let me live, Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give." "Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed, But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead. Yet listen: at Iolchos the first day Unto Diana's house I took my way, Where all men gathered ere the games began, There, at the right side of the royal man, Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand, Who with a suppliant bough in her right hand Headed the band of maidens; but to me More than a goddess did she seem to be, Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thought That we had all been thither called for nought But that her bridegroom Pelias might choose, And with that thought desire did I let loose, And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill, As one who will not fear the coming ill: All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart, To strive in such a marvel to have part! What god shall wed her rather? no more fear Than vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear, Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lips Unknown love trembled; the Phoenician ships Within their dark holds nought so precious bring As her soft golden hair, no daintiest thing I ever saw was half so wisely wrought As was her rosy ear; beyond all thought, All words to tell of, her veiled body showed, As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed, She laid her offering down; then I drawn near The murmuring of her gentle voice could hear, As waking one hears music in the morn, Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born; And sweeter than the roses fresh with dew Sweet odours floated round me, as she drew Some golden thing from out her balmy breast With her right hand, the while her left hand pressed The hidden wonders of her girdlestead; And when abashed I sank adown my head, Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meet The happy bands about her perfect feet. "What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is? Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss, None first a moment; but before that day No love I knew but what might pass away When hot desire was changed to certainty, Or not abide much longer; e'en such stings Had smitten me, as the first warm day brings When March is dying; but now half a god The crowded way unto the lists I trod, Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles, And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles, And idle talk about me on the way. "But none could stand before me on that day, I was as god-possessed, not knowing how The King had brought her forth but for a show, To make his glory greater through the land: Therefore at last victorious did I stand Among my peers, nor yet one well-known name Had gathered any honour from my shame. For there indeed both men of Thessaly, Oetolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea, And folk of Attica and Argolis, Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose bliss Is to be tossed about from wave to wave, All these at last to me the honour gave, Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said, A wise Thessalian with a snowy head, And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias, Surely to thee no evil thing it was That to thy house this rich Thessalian Should come, to prove himself a valiant man Amongst these heroes; for if I be wise By dint of many years, with wistful eyes Doth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid; And surely, if the matter were well weighed, Good were it both for thee and for the land That he should take the damsel by the hand And lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell; What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?' "With that must I, a fool, stand forth and ask If yet there lay before me some great task That I must do ere I the maid should wed, But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said, 'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too, O King Admetus, this may seem to you A little matter; yea, and for my part E'en such a marriage would make glad my heart; But we the blood of Salmoneus who share With godlike gifts great burdens also bear, Nor is this maid without them, for the day On which her maiden zone she puts away Shall be her death-day, if she wed with one By whom this marvellous thing may not be done, For in the traces neither must steeds paw Before my threshold, or white oxen draw The wain that comes my maid to take from me, Far other beasts that day her slaves must be: The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar, And by his side unscared, the forest boar Toil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto, O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to woo In such a chariot, and win endless fame, Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?' "What answered I? O herdsman, I was mad With sweet love and the triumph I had had. I took my father's ring from off my hand, And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land, Be witnesses that on my father's name For this man's promise, do I take the shame Of this deed undone, if I fail herein; Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall win This ring from thee, when I shall come again Through fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain. Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt have Pheræ my home, while on the tumbling wave A hollow ship my sad abode shall be.' "So driven by some hostile deity, Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won, But little valued now, set out upon My homeward way: but nearer as I drew To mine abode, and ever fainter grew In my weak heart the image of my love, In vain with fear my boastful folly strove; For I remembered that no god I was Though I had chanced my fellows to surpass; And I began to mind me in a while What murmur rose, with what a mocking smile Pelias stretched out his hand to take the ring. Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king: And when unto my palace-door I came I had awakened fully to my shame; For certainly no help is left to me, But I must get me down unto the sea And build a keel, and whatso things I may Set in her hold, and cross the watery way Whither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blow Unto a land where none my folly know, And there begin a weary life anew." Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grew The while this tale was told, and at the end He said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend, And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell; Wait for ten days, and then may all be well, And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go, And to the King thy team unheard-of show. And if not, then make ready for the sea Nor will I fail indeed to go with thee, And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oar Finish the service well begun ashore; But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best; And take another herdsman for the rest, For unto Ossa must I go alone To do a deed not easy to be done." Then springing up he took his spear and bow And northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go; But the King gazed upon him as he went, Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bent His lingering steps, and hope began to spring Within his heart, for some betokening He seemed about the herdsman now to see Of one from mortal cares and troubles free. And so midst hopes and fears day followed day, Until at last upon his bed he lay When the grey, creeping dawn had now begun To make the wide world ready for the sun On the tenth day: sleepless had been the night And now in that first hour of gathering light For weariness he slept, and dreamed that he Stood by the border of a fair, calm sea At point to go a-shipboard, and to leave Whatever from his sire he did receive Of land or kingship; and withal he dreamed That through the cordage a bright light there gleamed Far off within the east; and nowise sad He felt at leaving all he might have had, But rather as a man who goes to see Some heritage expected patiently. But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore, The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar, And from the gangway thrust the ship aside, Until he hung over a chasm wide Vocal with furious waves, yet had no fear For all the varied tumult he might hear, But slowly woke up to the morning light That to his eyes seemed past all memory bright, And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heart Woke up to joyous life with one glad start, And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand, Holding a long white staff in his right hand, Carved with strange figures; and withal he said, "Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed, But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride, For now an ivory chariot waits outside, Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring; Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing, If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod, Whereon are carved the names of every god That rules the fertile earth; but having come Unto King Pelias' well-adornéd home, Abide not long, but take the royal maid, And let her dowry in thy wain be laid, Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold, For this indeed will Pelias not withhold When he shall see thee like a very god. Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod, Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abide Before thou comest to the streamlet's side That feed its dykes; there, by the little wood Wherein unto Diana men shed blood, Will I await thee, and thou shalt descend And hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend; And yet I bid thee, this night let thy bride Apart among the womenfolk abide; That on the morrow thou with sacrifice For these strange deeds may pay a fitting price." But as he spoke with something like to awe, His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw, And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed; For rising up no more delay he made, But took the staff and gained the palace-door Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood, Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood, And all the joys of the food-hiding trees, But harmless as their painted images 'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook, And no delay the conquered beasts durst make But drew, not silent; and folk just awake When he went by, as though a god they saw, Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw Fresh water from the fount sank trembling down, And silence held the babbling wakened town. So 'twixt the dewy hedges did he wend, And still their noise afar the beasts did send, His strange victorious advent to proclaim, Till to Iolchos at the last he came, And drew anigh the gates, whence in affright The guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight; And through the town news of the coming spread Of some great god so that the scared priests led Pale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attire And hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fire Within their censers, in the market-place Awaited him with many an upturned face, Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god; But through the midst of them his lions trod With noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey, And the boars' hooves went pattering on the way, While from their churning tusks the white foam flew As raging, helpless, in the trace they drew. But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate, Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to wait The coming of the King; the while the maid In her fair marriage garments was arrayed, And from strong places of his treasury Men brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea, And works of brass, and ivory, and gold; But when the strange yoked beasts he did behold Come through the press of people terrified, Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried, "Hail, thou, who like a very god art come To bring great honour to my damsel's home;" And when Admetus tightened rein before The gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door. He cried to Pelias, "Hail, to thee, O King; Let me behold once more my father's ring, Let me behold the prize that I have won, Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon." "Fear not," he said, "the Fates are satisfied; Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide, Doing me honour till the next bright morn Has dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn, That we in turn may give the honour due To such a man that such a thing can do, And unto all the gods may sacrifice?" "Nay," said Admetus, "if thou call'st me wise, And like a very god thou dost me deem, Shall I abide the ending of the dream And so gain nothing? nay, let me be glad That I at least one godlike hour have had At whatsoever time I come to die, That I may mock the world that passes by, And yet forgets it." Saying this, indeed, Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed, But spoke as one unto himself may speak, And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek, Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came, Setting his over-strainéd heart a-flame, Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thought From place to place his love the maidens brought. Then Pelias said, "What can I give to thee Who fail'st so little of divinity? Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts within Thy chariot, while my daughter strives to win The favour of the spirits of this place, Since from their altars she must turn her face For ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear, From the last chapel doth she draw anear." Then by Admetus' feet the folk 'gan pile The precious things, but he no less the while Stared at the door ajar, and thought it long Ere with the flutes mingled the maidens' song, And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floor Was fluttering with white raiment, and the door By slender fingers was set open wide, And midst her damsels he beheld the bride Ungirt, with hair unbound and garlanded: Then Pelias took her slender hand and said, "Daughter, this is the man that takes from thee Thy curse midst women, think no more to be Childless, unloved, and knowing little bliss; But now behold how like a god he is, And yet with what prayers for the love of thee He must have wearied some divinity, And therefore in thine inmost heart be glad That thou 'mongst women such a man hast had." Then she with wondering eyes that strange team saw A moment, then as one with gathering awe Might turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove, So did she raise her grey eyes to her love, But to her brow the blood rose therewithal, And she must tremble, such a look did fall Upon her faithful eyes, that none the less Would falter aught, for all her shamefastness, But rather to her lover's hungry eyes Gave back a tender look of glad surprise, Wherein love's flame began to flicker now. Withal, her father kissed her on the brow, And said, "O daughter, take this royal ring, And set it on the finger of the King, And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pour This wine to Jove before my open door, And glad at heart take back thine own with thee." Then with that word Alcestis silently, And with no look cast back, and ring in hand, Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand, Nor on his finger failed to set the ring; And then a golden cup the city's King Gave to him, and he poured and said, "O thou, From whatsoever place thou lookest now, What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I give That we a little time with love may live? A little time of love, then fall asleep Together, while the crown of love we keep." So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about, And heeded not the people's wavering shout That from their old fear and new pleasure sprung, Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung, Or of the flowers that after them they cast, But like a dream the guarded city passed, And 'twixt the song of birds and blossoms' scent It seemed for many hundred years they went, Though short the way was unto Pheræ's gates; Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates, However nigh unto their hearts they were; The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fear No more seemed strange to them, but all the earth With all its changing sorrow and wild mirth In that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain, Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain, A picture painted, who knows where or when, With soulless images of restless men; For every thought but love was now gone by, And they forgot that they should ever die. But when they came anigh the sacred wood, There, biding them, Admetus' herdsman stood, At sight of whom those yoke-fellows unchecked Stopped dead and little of Admetus recked Who now, as one from dreams not yet awake, Drew back his love and did his wain forsake, And gave the carven rod and guiding bands Into the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands, But when he would have thanked him for the thing That he had done, his speechless tongue must cling Unto his mouth, and why he could not tell. But the man said, "No words! thou hast done well To me, as I to thee; the day may come When thou shalt ask me for a fitting home, Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now, And to thine house this royal maiden show, Then give her to thy women for this night. But when thou wakest up to thy delight To-morrow, do all things that should be done, Nor of the gods, forget thou any one, And on the next day will I come again To tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain. "But now depart, and from thine home send here Chariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bear Unto thine house, and going, look not back Lest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack." Then hand in hand together, up the road The lovers passed unto the King's abode, And as they went, the whining snort and roar From the yoked beasts they heard break out once more And then die off, as they were led away, But whether to some place lit up by day, Or, 'neath the earth, they knew not, for the twain Went hastening on, nor once looked back again. But soon the minstrels met them, and a band Of white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand, To bid them welcome to that pleasant place. Then they, rejoicing much, in no long space Came to the brazen-pillared porch, whereon From 'twixt the passes of the hills yet shone The dying sun; and there she stood awhile Without the threshold, a faint tender smile Trembling upon her lips 'twixt love and shame, Until each side of her a maiden came And raised her in their arms, that her fair feet The polished brazen threshold might not meet, And in Admetus' house she stood at last. But to the women's chamber straight she passed Bepraised of all,--and so the wakeful night Lonely the lovers passed e'en as they might. But the next day with many a sacrifice, Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize, A life so blest, the gods to satisfy, And many a matchless beast that day did die Upon the altars; nought unlucky seemed To be amid the joyous crowd that gleamed With gold and precious things, and only this Seemed wanting to the King of Pheræ's bliss, That all these pageants should be soon past by, And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie. * * * * * Yet on the morrow-morn Admetus came, A haggard man oppressed with grief and shame Unto the spot beside Boebeis' shore Whereby he met his herdsman once before, And there again he found him flushed and glad, And from the babbling water newly clad, Then he with downcast eyes these words began, "O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man, Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deed Some dread immortal taketh angry heed. "Last night the height of my desire seemed won, All day my weary eyes had watched the sun Rise up and sink, and now was come the night When I should be alone with my delight; Silent the house was now from floor to roof, And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof, The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky, The soft spring wind was wafting lovingly Across the gardens fresh scents to my sweet, As, troubled with the sound of my own feet, I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shade Black on the white red-veinéd floor was laid: So happy was I that the briar-rose, Rustling outside within the flowery close, Seemed but Love's odorous wing--too real all seemed For such a joy as I had never dreamed. "Why do I linger, as I lingered not In that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgot While my life lasts?--Upon the gilded door I laid my hand; I stood upon the floor Of the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride, Lovelier than any dream, stand by the side Of the gold bed, with hands that hid her face: One cry of joy I gave, and then the place Seemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream. "Still did the painted silver pillars gleam Betwixt the scented torches and the moon; Still did the garden shed its odorous boon Upon the night; still did the nightingale Unto his brooding mate tell all his tale: But, risen 'twixt my waiting love and me, As soundless as the dread eternity, Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes behold A huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolled In changing circles on the pavement fair. Then for the sword that was no longer there My hand sank to my side; around I gazed, And 'twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazed With sudden horror most unspeakable; And when mine own upon no weapon fell, For what should weapons do in such a place, Unto the dragon's head I set my face, And raised bare hands against him, but a cry Burst on mine ears of utmost agony That nailed me there, and she cried out to me, 'O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee! They coil about me now, my lips to kiss. O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?' "Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk, Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunk To whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw, And a long breath at first I heard her draw As one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come, And wailings for her new accurséd home. But there outside across the door I lay, Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day; And as her gentle breathing then I heard As though she slept, before the earliest bird Began his song, I wandered forth to seek Thee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weak With all the torment of the night, and shamed With such a shame as never shall be named To aught but thee--Yea, yea, and why to thee Perchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?-- What then, and have I not a cure for that? Lo, yonder is a rock where I have sat Full many an hour while yet my life was life, With hopes of all the coming wonder rife. No sword hangs by my side, no god will turn This cloudless hazy blue to black, and burn My useless body with his lightning flash; But the white waves above my bones may wash, And when old chronicles our house shall name They may leave out the letters and the shame, That make Admetus, once a king of men-- And how could I be worse or better then?" As one who notes a curious instrument Working against the maker's own intent, The herdsman eyed his wan face silently, And smiling for a while, and then said he,-- "Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said, Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head, Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curse Upon the maiden, so for fear of worse Go back again; for fair-limbed Artemis Now bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss; So taking heart, yet make no more delay But worship her upon this very day, Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble make No semblance unto any for her sake; And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floor Strew dittany, and on each side the door Hang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield; And for the rest, myself may be a shield Against her wrath--nay, be thou not too bold To ask me that which may not now be told. Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deep Within thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep, For surely thou shalt one day know my name, When the time comes again that autumn's flame Is dying off the vine-boughs, overturned, Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burned To her I told thee of, and in three days Shall I by many hard and rugged ways Have come to thee again to bring thee peace. Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease." Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back, Nor did the altars of the Huntress lack The fattest of the flocks upon that day. But when night came, in arms Admetus lay Across the threshold of the bride-chamber, And nought amiss that night he noted there, But durst not enter, though about the door Young poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor, Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey, Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay. But when the whole three days and nights were done, The herdsman came with rising of the sun, And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again, Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain, And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss; And if thou askest for a sign of this, Take thou this token; make good haste to rise, And get unto the garden-close that lies Below these windows sweet with greenery, And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see, Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming, Though this is but the middle of the spring." Nor was it otherwise than he had said, And on that day with joy the twain were wed, And 'gan to lead a life of great delight; But the strange woeful history of that night, The monstrous car, the promise to the King, All these through weary hours of chiselling Were wrought in stone, and in Diana's wall Set up, a joy and witness unto all. But neither so would wingéd time abide, The changing year came round to autumn-tide, Until at last the day was fully come When the strange guest first reached Admetus' home. Then, when the sun was reddening to its end, He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend, Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart, Then said he, "King, the time has come to part. Come forth, for I have that to give thine ear No man upon the earth but thou must hear." Then rose the King, and with a troubled look His well-steeled spear within his hand he took, And by his herdsman silently he went As to a peakéd hill his steps he bent, Nor did the parting servant speak one word, As up they climbed, unto his silent lord, Till from the top he turned about his head From all the glory of the gold light, shed Upon the hill-top by the setting sun, For now indeed the day was well-nigh done, And all the eastern vale was grey and cold; But when Admetus he did now behold, Panting beside him from the steep ascent, One much-changed godlike look on him he bent. And said, "O mortal, listen, for I see Thou deemest somewhat of what is in me; Fear not! I love thee, even as I can Who cannot feel the woes and ways of man In spite of this my seeming, for indeed Now thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed, And what my name is I would tell thee now, If men who dwell upon the earth as thou Could hear the name and live; but on the earth. With strange melodious stories of my birth, Phoebus men call me, and Latona's son. "And now my servitude with thee is done, And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth, This handful, that within its little girth Holds that which moves you so, O men that die; Behold, to-day thou hast felicity, But the times change, and I can see a day When all thine happiness shall fade away; And yet be merry, strive not with the end, Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend This year has won thee who shall never fail; But now indeed, for nought will it avail To say what I may have in store for thee, Of gifts that men desire; let these things be, And live thy life, till death itself shall come, And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home, Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold, That here have been the terror of the wold, Take these, and count them still the best of all Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall By any way the worst extremity, Call upon me before thou com'st to die, And lay these shafts with incense on a fire, That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire." He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still An odorous mist had stolen up the hill, And to Admetus first the god grew dim, And then was but a lovely voice to him, And then at last the sun had sunk to rest, And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west Over the hill-top, and no soul was there; But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair, Rustled dry leaves about the windy place, Where even now had been the godlike face, And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay. Then, going further westward, far away, He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan 'Neath the white sky, but never any man, Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went, Singing for labour done and sweet content Of coming rest; with that he turned again, And took the shafts up, never sped in vain, And came unto his house most deep in thought Of all the things the varied year had brought. * * * * * Thenceforth in bliss and honour day by day His measured span of sweet life wore away. A happy man he was; no vain desire Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire; No care he had the ancient bounds to change, Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range From place to place about the burdened land, Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand; For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war, Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are, That hardly can the man of single heart Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part; For him sufficed the changes of the year, The god-sent terror was enough of fear For him; enough the battle with the earth, The autumn triumph over drought and dearth. Better to him than wolf-moved battered shields, O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields Danced down beneath the moon, until the night Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight, And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought, And men in love's despite must grow distraught And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid, And as they wander to their dwellings, hid By the black shadowed trees, faint melody, Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be. Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din Of falling houses in war's waggon lies Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes; Or when the temple of the sea-born one With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone, Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound, But such as amorous arms might cast around Their lovely bodies, than the wretched band Who midst the shipmen by the gangway stand; Each lonely in her speechless misery, And thinking of the worse time that shall be, When midst of folk who scarce can speak her name, She bears the uttermost of toil and shame. Better to him seemed that victorious crown, That midst the reverent silence of the town He oft would set upon some singer's brow Than was the conqueror's diadem, blest now By lying priests, soon, bent and bloody, hung Within the thorn by linnets well besung, Who think but little of the corpse beneath, Though ancient lands have trembled at his breath. But to this King--fair Ceres' gifts, the days Whereon men sung in flushed Lyæus' praise Tales of old time, the bloodless sacrifice Unto the goddess of the downcast eyes And soft persuading lips, the ringing lyre Unto the bearer of the holy fire Who once had been amongst them--things like these Seemed meet to him men's yearning to appease, These were the triumphs of the peaceful king. And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting, With little fear his life must pass away; And for the rest, he, from the self-same day That the god left him, seemed to have some share In that same godhead he had harboured there: In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth, And folk beholding the fair state and health Wherein his land was, said, that now at last A fragment of the Golden Age was cast Over the place, for there was no debate, And men forgot the very name of hate. Nor failed the love of her he erst had won To hold his heart as still the years wore on, And she, no whit less fair than on the day When from Iolchos first she passed away, Did all his will as though he were a god, And loving still, the downward way she trod. Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had; Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad, That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest, That at the end perforce must bow his head. And yet--was death not much rememberéd, As still with happy men the manner is? Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss, As to be sorry when the time should come When but his name should hold his ancient home While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed, Will be enough for most men's daily need, And with calm faces they may watch the world, And note men's lives hither and thither hurled, As folk may watch the unfolding of a play-- Nor this, nor that was King Admetus' way, For neither midst the sweetness of his life Did he forget the ending of the strife, Nor yet for heavy thoughts of passing pain Did all his life seem lost to him or vain, A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream; Rather before him did a vague hope gleam, That made him a great-hearted man and wise, Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes, And dealt them pitying justice still, as though The inmost heart of each man he did know; This hope it was, and not his kingly place That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt That in their midst a son of man there dwelt Like and unlike them, and their friend through all; And still as time went on, the more would fall This glory on the King's belovéd head, And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed. Yet at the last his good days passed away, And sick upon his bed Admetus lay, 'Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail, Nor did bewildering fear torment him then, But still as ever, all the ways of men Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath Still held the gateway 'gainst the arms of death, Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed, Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead, And bade her put all folk from out the room, Then going to the treasury's rich gloom To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift. So she, amidst her blinding tears, made shift To find laid in the inmost treasury Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he, Beholding them, beheld therewith his life, Both that now past, with many marvels rife, And that which he had hoped he yet should see. Then spoke he faintly, "Love, 'twixt thee and me A film has come, and I am failing fast: And now our ancient happy life is past; For either this is death's dividing hand, And all is done, or if the shadowy land I yet escape, full surely if I live The god with life some other gift will give, And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide Like a dead man among you all I bide, Until I once again behold my guest, And he has given me either life or rest: Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart Nor with my life or death can have a part. O cruel words! yet death is cruel too: Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun." "O love, a little time we have been one, And if we now are twain weep not therefore; For many a man on earth desireth sore To have some mate upon the toilsome road, Some sharer of his still increasing load, And yet for all his longing and his pain His troubled heart must seek for love in vain, And till he dies still must he be alone-- But now, although our love indeed is gone, Yet to this land as thou art leal and true Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do, Because I may not die; rake up the brands Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay These shafts, the relics of a happier day, Then watch with me; perchance I may not die, Though the supremest hour now draws anigh Of life or death--O thou who madest me, The only thing on earth alike to thee, Why must I be unlike to thee in this? Consider, if thou dost not do amiss To slay the only thing that feareth death Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath Upon the earth: see now for no short hour, For no half-halting death, to reach me slower Than other men, I pray thee--what avail To add some trickling grains unto the tale Soon told, of minutes thou dost snatch away From out the midst of that unending day Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this To right me wherein thou hast done amiss, And give me life like thine for evermore." So murmured he, contending very sore Against the coming death; but she meanwhile Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last; Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept, And lay down by his side, and no more wept, Nay scarce could think of death for very love That in her faithful heart for ever strove 'Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud The old familiar chamber did enshroud, And on the very verge of death drawn close Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose, That through sweet sleep sent kindly images Of simple things; and in the midst of these, Whether it were but parcel of their dream, Or that they woke to it as some might deem, I know not, but the door was opened wide, And the King's name a voice long silent cried, And Phoebus on the very threshold trod, And yet in nothing liker to a god Than when he ruled Admetus' herds, for he Still wore the homespun coat men used to see Among the heifers in the summer morn, And round about him hung the herdsman's horn, And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear, Though empty of its shafts the quiver was. He to the middle of the room did pass, And said, "Admetus, neither all for nought My coming to thee is, nor have I brought Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live If any soul for thee sweet life will give Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice Alone the fates can deem a fitting price For thy redemption; in no battle-field, Maddened by hope of glory life to yield, To give it up to heal no city's shame In hope of gaining long-enduring fame; For whoso dieth for thee must believe That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive, And strive henceforward with forgetfulness The honied draught of thy new life to bless. Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart Who loves thee well enough with life to part But for thy love, with life must lose love too, Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe Is godlike life indeed to such an one. "And now behold, three days ere life is done Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I, Upon thy life have shed felicity And given thee love of men, that they in turn With fervent love of thy dear love might burn. The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast, Thine open doors have given thee better rest Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do. And even now in wakefulness and woe The city lies, calling to mind thy love Wearying with ceaseless prayers the gods above. But thou--thine heart is wise enough to know That they no whit from their decrees will go." So saying, swiftly from the room he passed; But on the world no look Admetus cast, But peacefully turned round unto the wall As one who knows that quick death must befall: For in his heart he thought, "Indeed too well I know what men are, this strange tale to tell To those that live with me: yea, they will weep, And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep, And in great chronicles will write my name, Telling to many an age my deeds and fame. For living men such things as this desire, And by such ways will they appease the fire Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare, How can we then have wish for anything, But unto life that gives us all to cling?" So said he, and with closed eyes did await, Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate. But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed She stood, with wild thoughts passing through her head. Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more. A strange look on the dying man she cast, Then covered up her face and said, "O past! Past the sweet times that I remember well! Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell! Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine! How sweet to feel his arms about me twine, And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss To hear his praises! all to come to this, That now I durst not look upon his face, Lest in my heart that other thing have place. That which I knew not, that which men call hate. "O me, the bitterness of God and fate! A little time ago we two were one; I had not lost him though his life was done, For still was he in me--but now alone Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan, For I must die: how can I live to bear An empty heart about, the nurse of fear? How can I live to die some other tide, And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried About the portals of that weary land Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand. "Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone, How hadst thou borne a living soul to love! Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove, To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to brass, That through this wondrous world thy soul might pass, Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be Can a god give a god's delights to thee? Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again, If for one moment only, that sweet pain The love I had while still I thought to live! Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give My life, my hope?--But thou--I come to thee. Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me In silence let my last hour pass away, And men forget my bitter feeble day." With that she laid her down upon the bed, And nestling to him, kissed his weary head, And laid his wasted hand upon her breast, Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest Fell on that chamber. The night wore away Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change On things unseen by night, by day not strange, But now half seen and strange; then came the sun, And therewithal the silent world and dun Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound, As men again their heap of troubles found, And woke up to their joy or misery. But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie, Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near Unto the open door, and full of fear Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead; Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread, She cried, "Admetus! art thou dead indeed? Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed? Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!" But with her piercing cry the King awoke, And round about him wildly 'gan to stare, As a bewildered man who knows not where He has awakened: but not thin or wan His face was now, as of a dying man, But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear, As of a man who much of life may bear. And at the first, but joy and great surprise Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes; But as for something more at last he yearned, Unto his love with troubled brow he turned, For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas! Her lonely shadow even now did pass Along the changeless fields, oft looking back, As though it yet had thought of some great lack. And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed. And even as the colour lit the day The colour from her lips had waned away; Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness Had come again her faithful heart to bless, Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow, But of her eyes no secrets might he know, For, hidden by the lids of ivory, Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh. Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung, Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue Refused to utter; yet the just-past night But dimly he remembered, and the sight Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword: Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew, That nought it was but her fond heart and true That all the marvel for his love had wrought, Whereby from death to life he had been brought; That dead, his life she was, as she had been His life's delight while still she lived a queen. And he fell wondering if his life were gain, So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain; Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes, For as a god he was. Then did he rise And gat him down unto the Council-place, And when the people saw his well-loved face Then cried aloud for joy to see him there. And earth again to them seemed blest and fair. And though indeed they did lament in turn, When of Alcestis' end they came to learn, Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least, The silence in the middle of a feast, When men have memory of their heroes slain. So passed the order of the world again, Victorious Summer crowning lusty Spring, Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting, And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain: And still and still the same the years went by. But Time, who slays so many a memory, Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries. For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these, The shouters round the throne upon that day. And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, Though if he died at all I cannot tell; But either on the earth he ceased to dwell, Or else, oft born again, had many a name. But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame Grew greater, and about her husband's twined Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined. See I have told her tale, though I know not What men are dwelling now on that green spot Anigh Boebeis, or if Pheræ still, With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill Still shows its white walls to the rising sun. --The gods at least remember what is done. * * * * * Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now Their old desires it seemed once more to show Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;-- --Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain Some space to try such deeds as now in vain They heard of amidst stories of the past; Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast From out their hands--they sighed to think of it, And how as deedless men they there must sit. Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, In spite of knowledge growing day by day Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more Than that dead Queen's beside Boebéis' shore; Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, Perchance, to have them told another way.-- So passed the sun from that fair summer day. * * * * * June drew unto its end, the hot bright days Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, As rainless still they passed, without a cloud, And growing grey at last, the barley bowed Before the south-east wind. On such a day These folk amid the trellised roses lay, And careless for a little while at least, Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast: Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; But through the thick trees wandered far and wide From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, Until they deemed the elders would be fain To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: Then round about the grave old men they drew, Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet Unto the elders, as they stood around. So through the calm air soon arose the sound Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke. "O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk, Would I could better tell a tale to-day; But hark to this, which while our good ship lay Within the Weser such a while agone, A Fleming told me, as we sat alone One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland, And all the other folk were gone a-land After their pleasure, like sea-faring men. Surely I deem it no great wonder then That I remember everything he said, Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led That keel and me on such a weary way-- Well, at the least it serveth you to-day." THE LADY OF THE LAND. ARGUMENT. A certain man having landed on an island in the Greek Sea found there a beautiful damsel, whom he would fain have delivered from a strange and dreadful doom, but failing herein, he died soon afterwards. It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, And much good fortune had they on the sea: Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story keepeth not the name. Now though but little was there left to gain, Because the richer folk had gone away, Yet since by this of water they were fain They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, Whence in a while some went ashore to play, Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, For midst that folk they feared no enemies. And of these fellows that thus went ashore, One was there who left all his friends behind; Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, A long-deserted ruined castle stood. The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade, With gardens overlooked by terraces, And marble-pavéd pools for pleasure made, Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees; And he who went there, with but little ease Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet For tender women's dainty wandering feet. The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear, The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry, Were all the sounds that mariner could hear, As through the wood he wandered painfully; But as unto the house he drew anigh, The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw, The once fair temple of a fallen law. No image was there left behind to tell Before whose face the knees of men had bowed; An altar of black stone, of old wrought well, Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd, Seeking for things forgotten long ago, Praying for heads long ages laid a-low. Close to the temple was the castle-gate, Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned, Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned To know the most of what might there be learned, And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, To light on such things as all men hold dear. Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war, But rather like the work of other days, When men, in better peace than now they are, Had leisure on the world around to gaze, And noted well the past times' changing ways; And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought. Now as he looked about on all these things, And strove to read the mouldering histories, Above the door an image with wide wings, Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, He dimly saw, although the western breeze, And years of biting frost and washing rain, Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain. But this, though perished sore, and worn away, He noted well, because it seemed to be, After the fashion of another day, Some great man's badge of war, or armoury, And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see; But taking note of these things, at the last The mariner beneath the gateway passed. And there a lovely cloistered court he found, A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry, And in the cloister briers twining round The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery Outworn by more than many years gone by, Because the country people, in their fear Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here; And piteously these fair things had been maimed; There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might; Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed; The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light Bound with the cable of some coasting ship; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip. Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass, And found them fair still, midst of their decay, Though in them now no sign of man there was, And everything but stone had passed away That made them lovely in that vanished day; Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone. But he, when all the place he had gone o'er. And with much trouble clomb the broken stair, And from the topmost turret seen the shore And his good ship drawn up at anchor there, Came down again, and found a crypt most fair Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall, And there he saw a door within the wall, Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place Another on its hinges, therefore he Stood there and pondered for a little space, And thought, "Perchance some marvel I shall see, For surely here some dweller there must be, Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound. While nought but ruin I can see around." So with that word, moved by a strong desire, He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, And in a strange place, lit as by a fire Unseen but near, he presently did stand; And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned, As though in some Arabian plain he stood, Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood. He moved not for awhile, but looking round, He wondered much to see the place so fair, Because, unlike the castle above ground, No pillager or wrecker had been there; It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere, Nor laid a finger on this hidden place, Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race. With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom, The walls were hung a space above the head, Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, And in one corner was a dainty bed, That seemed for some fair queen apparelléd; And marble was the worst stone of the floor, That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er. The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, Because he deemed by magic it was wrought; Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought, Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought That there perchance some devil lurked to slay The heedless wanderer from the light of day. Over against him was another door Set in the wall, so, casting fear aside, With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor, And there again the silver latch he tried And with no pain the door he opened wide, And entering the new chamber cautiously The glory of great heaps of gold could see. Upon the floor uncounted medals lay, Like things of little value; here and there Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware, And golden cups were set on tables fair, Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings. The walls and roof with gold were overlaid, And precious raiment from the wall hung down; The fall of kings that treasure might have stayed, Or gained some longing conqueror great renown, Or built again some god-destroyed old town; What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea Stood gazing at it long and dizzily? But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed He lifted from the glory of that gold, And then the image, that well-nigh erased Over the castle-gate he did behold, Above a door well wrought in coloured gold Again he saw; a naked girl with wings Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings. And even as his eyes were fixed on it A woman's voice came from the other side, And through his heart strange hopes began to flit That in some wondrous land he might abide Not dying, master of a deathless bride, So o'er the gold which now he scarce could see He went, and passed this last door eagerly. Then in a room he stood wherein there was A marble bath, whose brimming water yet Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass Half full of odorous ointment was there set Upon the topmost step that still was wet, And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear, Lay cast upon the varied pavement near. In one quick glance these things his eyes did see, But speedily they turned round to behold Another sight, for throned on ivory There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town. Naked she was, the kisses of her feet Upon the floor a dying path had made From the full bath unto her ivory seat; In her right hand, upon her bosom laid, She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay Dreaming awake of some long vanished day. Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep, Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low, Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow, And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow, As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame Across the web of many memories came. There stood the man, scarce daring to draw breath For fear the lovely sight should fade away; Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death, Trembling for fear lest something he should say Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray His presence there, for to his eager eyes Already did the tears begin to rise. But as he gazed she moved, and with a sigh Bent forward, dropping down her golden head; "Alas, alas! another day gone by, Another day and no soul come," she said; "Another year, and still I am not dead!" And with that word once more her head she raised, And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed. Then he imploring hands to her did reach, And toward her very slowly 'gan to move And with wet eyes her pity did beseech, And seeing her about to speak he strove From trembling lips to utter words of love; But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet, And made sweet music as their eyes did meet. For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear, Using the Greek tongue that he knew full well; "What man art thou, that thus hast wandered here. And found this lonely chamber where I dwell? Beware, beware! for I have many a spell; If greed of power and gold have led thee on, Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won. "But if thou com'st here, knowing of my tale, In hope to bear away my body fair, Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear; So once again I bid thee to beware, Because no base man things like this may see, And live thereafter long and happily." "Lady," he said, "in Florence is my home, And in my city noble is my name; Neither on peddling voyage am I come, But, like my fathers, bent to gather fame; And though thy face has set my heart a-flame Yet of thy story nothing do I know, But here have wandered heedlessly enow. "But since the sight of thee mine eyes did bless, What can I be but thine? what wouldst thou have? From those thy words, I deem from some distress By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save; O then, delay not! if one ever gave His life to any, mine I give to thee; Come, tell me what the price of love must be? "Swift death, to be with thee a day and night And with the earliest dawning to be slain? Or better, a long year of great delight, And many years of misery and pain? Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain? A sorry merchant am I on this day, E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey." She said, "What brave words! nought divine am I, But an unhappy and unheard-of maid Compelled by evil fate and destiny To live, who long ago should have been laid Under the earth within the cypress shade. Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know What deed I pray thee to accomplish now. "God grant indeed thy words are not for nought! Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day To such a dreadful life I have been brought: Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay What man soever takes my grief away; Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me But well enough my saviour now to be. "My father lived a many years agone Lord of this land, master of all cunning, Who ruddy gold could draw from out grey stone, And gather wealth from many an uncouth thing, He made the wilderness rejoice and sing, And such a leech he was that none could say Without his word what soul should pass away. "Unto Diana such a gift he gave, Goddess above, below, and on the earth, That I should be her virgin and her slave From the first hour of my most wretched birth; Therefore my life had known but little mirth When I had come unto my twentieth year And the last time of hallowing drew anear. "So in her temple had I lived and died And all would long ago have passed away, But ere that time came, did strange things betide, Whereby I am alive unto this day; Alas, the bitter words that I must say! Ah! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell How I was brought unto this fearful hell. "A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved, And nothing evil was there in my thought, And yet by love my wretched heart was moved Until to utter ruin I was brought! Alas! thou sayest our gods were vain and nought, Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine. Then shalt thou think them devilish or divine. "Hearken! in spite of father and of vow I loved a man; but for that sin I think Men had forgiven me--yea, yea, even thou; But from the gods the full cup must I drink, And into misery unheard of sink, Tormented when their own names are forgot, And men must doubt e'er if they lived or not. "Glorious my lover was unto my sight, Most beautiful,--of love we grew so fain That we at last agreed, that on a night We should be happy, but that he were slain Or shut in hold, and neither joy nor pain Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be; So came the night that made a wretch of me. "Ah I well do I remember all that night, When through the window shone the orb of June, And by the bed flickered the taper's light, Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon: Ah me! the meeting that we had, when soon Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell, And many a sorrow we began to tell. "Ah me I what parting on that night we had! I think the story of my great despair A little while might merry folk make sad; For, as he swept away my yellow hair To make my shoulder and my bosom bare, I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could behold A shadow cast upon the bed of gold: "Then suddenly was quenched my hot desire And he untwined his arms; the moon so pale A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire, And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail, And neither had I strength to cry or wail, But stood there helpless, bare, and shivering, With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing. "Because the shade that on the bed of gold The changed and dreadful moon was throwing down Was of Diana, whom I did behold, With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown, And on the high white brow, a deadly frown Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing breath, Striving to meet the horrible sure death. "No word at all the dreadful goddess said, But soon across my feet my lover lay, And well indeed I knew that he was dead; And would that I had died on that same day! For in a while the image turned away, And without words my doom I understood, And felt a horror change my human blood. "And there I fell, and on the floor I lay By the dead man, till daylight came on me, And not a word thenceforward could I say For three years, till of grief and misery, The lingering pest, the cruel enemy, My father and his folk were dead and gone, And in this castle I was left alone: "And then the doom foreseen upon me fell, For Queen Diana did my body change Into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell, And through the island nightly do I range, Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, When in the middle of the moonlit night The sleepy mariner I do affright. "But all day long upon this gold I lie Within this place, where never mason's hand Smote trowel on the marble noisily; Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command, Who once was called the Lady of the Land; Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss, Yea, half the world with such a sight as this." And therewithal, with rosy fingers light, Backward her heavy-hanging hair she threw, To give her naked beauty more to sight; But when, forgetting all the things he knew, Maddened with love unto the prize he drew, She cried, "Nay, wait! for wherefore wilt thou die, Why should we not be happy, thou and I? "Wilt thou not save me? once in every year This rightful form of mine that thou dost see By favour of the goddess have I here From sunrise unto sunset given me, That some brave man may end my misery. And thou--art thou not brave? can thy heart fail, Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale? "Then listen! when this day is overpast, A fearful monster shall I be again, And thou mayst be my saviour at the last, Unless, once more, thy words are nought and vain; If thou of love and sovereignty art fain, Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear, "But take the loathsome head up in thine hands, And kiss it, and be master presently Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands, From Cathay to the head of Italy; And master also, if it pleaseth thee, Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright, Of what thou callest crown of all delight. "Ah! with what joy then shall I see again The sunlight on the green grass and the trees, And hear the clatter of the summer rain, And see the joyous folk beyond the seas. Ah, me! to hold my child upon my knees, After the weeping of unkindly tears, And all the wrongs of these four hundred years. "Go now, go quick! leave this grey heap of stone; And from thy glad heart think upon thy way, How I shall love thee--yea, love thee alone, That bringest me from dark death unto day; For this shall be thy wages and thy pay; Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near, If thou hast heart a little dread to bear." Therewith she turned to go; but he cried out, "Ah! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss, To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt, That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss? Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this, The memory of some hopeful close embrace, Low whispered words within some lonely place?" But she, when his bright glittering eyes she saw, And burning cheeks, cried out, "Alas, alas! Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw A worse fate on me than the first one was? O haste thee from this fatal place to pass! Yet, ere thou goest, take this, lest thou shouldst deem Thou hast been fooled by some strange midday dream." So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid, From off her neck a little gem she drew, That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid, The secrets of her glorious beauty knew; And ere he well perceived what she would do, She touched his hand, the gem within it lay, And, turning, from his sight she fled away. Then at the doorway where her rosy heel Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare, And still upon his hand he seemed to feel The varying kisses of her fingers fair; Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and bare, And dizzily throughout the castle passed, Till by the ruined fane he stood at last. Then weighing still the gem within his hand, He stumbled backward through the cypress wood, Thinking the while of some strange lovely land, Where all his life should be most fair and good; Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood, And slowly thence passed down unto the bay Red with the death of that bewildering day. * * * * * The next day came, and he, who all the night Had ceaselessly been turning in his bed, Arose and clad himself in armour bright, And many a danger he rememberéd; Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread, That with renown his heart had borne him through, And this thing seemed a little thing to do. So on he went, and on the way he thought Of all the glorious things of yesterday, Nought of the price whereat they must be bought, But ever to himself did softly say, "No roaming now, my wars are passed away, No long dull days devoid of happiness, When such a love my yearning heart shall bless." Thus to the castle did he come at last, But when unto the gateway he drew near, And underneath its ruined archway passed Into the court, a strange noise did he hear, And through his heart there shot a pang of fear, Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand, And midmost of the cloisters took his stand. But for a while that unknown noise increased A rattling, that with strident roars did blend, And whining moans; but suddenly it ceased, A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end, And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend Adown the cloisters, and began again That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain. And as it came on towards him, with its teeth The body of a slain goat did it tear, The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair; Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there, Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran, "Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane of man." Yet he abode her still, although his blood Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat, And creeping on, came close to where he stood, And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat, Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face. But little things rough stones and tree-trunks seemed, And if he fell, he rose and ran on still; No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed, He made no stay for valley or steep hill, Heedless he dashed through many a foaming rill, Until he came unto the ship at last And with no word into the deep hold passed. Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone. Followed him not, but crying horribly, Caught up within her jaws a block of stone And ground it into powder, then turned she, With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, And reached the treasure set apart of old, To brood above the hidden heaps of gold. Yet was she seen again on many a day By some half-waking mariner, or herd, Playing amid the ripples of the bay, Or on the hills making all things afeard, Or in the wood, that did that castle gird, But never any man again durst go To seek her woman's form, and end her woe. As for the man, who knows what things he bore? What mournful faces peopled the sad night, What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore, What images of that nigh-gained delight! What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white, Turning to horrors ere they reached the best, What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest? No man he knew, three days he lay and raved, And cried for death, until a lethargy Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved; But on the third night he awoke to die; And at Byzantium doth his body lie Between two blossoming pomegranate trees, Within the churchyard of the Genoese. * * * * * A moment's silence as his tale had end, And then the wind of that June night did blend Their varied voices, as of that and this They fell to talk: of those fair islands' bliss They knew in other days, of hope they had To live there long an easy life and glad, With nought to vex them; and the younger men Began to nourish strange dreams even then Of sailing east, as these had once sailed west; Because the story of that luckless quest With hope, not fear, had filled their joyous hearts And made them dream of new and noble parts That they might act; of raising up the name Their fathers bore, and winning boundless fame. These too with little patience seemed to hear, That story end with shame and grief and fear; A little thing the man had had to do, They said, if longing burned within him so. But at their words the older men must bow Their heads, and, smiling, somewhat thoughtful grow, Remembering well how fear in days gone by Had dealt with them, and poisoned wretchedly Good days, good deeds, and longings for all good: Yet on the evil times they would not brood, But sighing, strove to raise the weight of years, And no more memory of their hopes and fears They nourished, but such gentle thoughts as fed The pensiveness which that sweet season bred. JULY. Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees With low vexed song from rose to lily went, A gentle wind was in the heavy trees, And thine eyes shone with joyous memories; Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou, And I was happy--Ah, be happy now! Peace and content without us, love within That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain, Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin, And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain; Ah, love! although the morn shall come again, And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile, Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile? E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat, But midst the lightning did the fair sun die-- --Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet, He cannot waste his life--but thou and I-- Who knows if next morn this felicity My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live This seal of love renewed once more to give? * * * * * Within a lovely valley, watered well With flowery streams, the July feast befell, And there within the Chief-priest's fair abode They cast aside their trouble's heavy load, Scarce made aweary by the sultry day. The earth no longer laboured; shaded lay The sweet-breathed kine, across the sunny vale, From hill to hill the wandering rook did sail, Lazily croaking, midst his dreams of spring, Nor more awake the pink-foot dove did cling Unto the beech-bough, murmuring now and then; All rested but the restless sons of men And the great sun that wrought this happiness, And all the vale with fruitful hopes did bless. So in a marble chamber bright with flowers, The old men feasted through the fresher hours, And at the hottest time of all the day When now the sun was on his downward way, Sat listening to a tale an elder told, New to his fathers while they yet did hold The cities of some far-off Grecian isle, Though in the heavens the cloud of force and guile Was gathering dark that sent them o'er the sea To win new lands for their posterity. THE SON OF CROESUS. ARGUMENT. Croesus, King of Lydia, dreamed that he saw his son slain by an iron weapon, and though by every means he strove to avert this doom from him, yet thus it happened, for his son was slain by the hand of the man who seemed least of all likely to do the deed. Of Croesus tells my tale, a king of old In Lydia, ere the Mede fell on the land, A man made mighty by great heaps of gold, Feared for the myriads strong of heart and hand That 'neath his banners wrought out his command, And though his latter ending happed on ill, Yet first of every joy he had his fill. Two sons he had, and one was dumb from birth; The other one, that Atys had to name, Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth, And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came From him should never get reproach or shame: But yet no stroke he struck before his death, In no war-shout he spent his latest breath. Now Croesus, lying on his bed anight Dreamed that he saw this dear son laid a-low, And folk lamenting he was slain outright, And that some iron thing had dealt the blow; By whose hand guided he could nowise know, Or if in peace by traitors it were done, Or in some open war not yet begun. Three times one night this vision broke his sleep, So that at last he rose up from his bed, That he might ponder how he best might keep The threatened danger from so dear a head; And, since he now was old enough to wed, The King sent men to search the lands around, Until some matchless maiden should be found; That in her arms this Atys might forget The praise of men, and fame of history, Whereby full many a field has been made wet With blood of men, and many a deep green sea Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be; That her sweet voice might drown the people's praise, Her eyes make bright the uneventful days. So when at last a wonder they had brought, From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim. Than whom no fairer could by man be thought, And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb, Had said that she was fair enough for him, To her was Atys married with much show, And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow. And in meantime afield he never went, Either to hunting or the frontier war, No dart was cast, nor any engine bent Anigh him, and the Lydian men afar Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms mar If they have any lust of tourney now, And in far meadows must they bend the bow. And also through the palace everywhere The swords and spears were taken from the wall That long with honour had been hanging there, And from the golden pillars of the hall; Lest by mischance some sacred blade should fall, And in its falling bring revenge at last For many a fatal battle overpast. And every day King Croesus wrought with care To save his dear son from that threatened end, And many a beast he offered up with prayer Unto the gods, and much of wealth did spend, That they so prayed might yet perchance defend That life, until at least that he were dead, With earth laid heavy on his unseeing head. But in the midst even of the wedding feast There came a man, who by the golden hall Sat down upon the steps, and man or beast He heeded not, but there against the wall He leaned his head, speaking no word at all, Till, with his son and son's wife, came the King, And then unto his gown the man did cling. "What man art thou?" the King said to him then, "That in such guise thou prayest on thy knee; Hast thou some fell foe here among my men? Or hast thou done an ill deed unto me? Or has thy wife been carried over sea? Or hast thou on this day great need of gold? Or say, why else thou now art grown so bold." "O King," he said, "I ask no gold to-day, And though indeed thy greatness drew me here, No wrong have I that thou couldst wipe away; And nought of mine the pirate folk did bear Across the sea; none of thy folk I fear: But all the gods are now mine enemies, Therefore I kneel before thee on my knees. "For as with mine own brother on a day Within the running place at home I played, Unwittingly I smote him such-a-way That dead upon the green grass he was laid; Half-dead myself I fled away dismayed, Wherefore I pray thee help me in my need, And purify my soul of this sad deed. "If of my name and country thou wouldst know, In Phrygia yet my father is a king, Gordius, the son of Midas, rich enow In corn and cattle, golden cup and ring; And mine own name before I did this thing Was called Adrastus, whom, in street and hall, The slayer of his brother men now call." "Friend," said the King, "have thou no fear of me; For though, indeed, I am right happy now, Yet well I know this may not always be, And I may chance some day to kneel full low, And to some happy man mine head to bow With prayers to do a greater thing than this, Dwell thou with us, and win again thy bliss. "For in this city men in sport and play Forget the trouble that the gods have sent; Who therewithal send wine, and many a may As fair as she for whom the Trojan went, And many a dear delight besides have lent, Which, whoso is well loved of them shall keep Till in forgetful death he falls asleep. "Therefore to-morrow shall those rites be done That kindred blood demands that thou hast shed, That if the mouth of thine own mother's son Did hap to curse thee ere he was quite dead, The curse may lie the lighter on thine head, Because the flower-crowned head of many a beast Has fallen voiceless in our glorious feast." Then did Adrastus rise and thank the King, And the next day when yet low was the sun, The sacrifice and every other thing That unto these dread rites belonged, was done; And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none, And loved of many, and the King loved him, For brave and wise he was and strong of limb. But chiefly amongst all did Atys love The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war The Lydian's heart abundantly did move, And much they talked of wandering out afar Some day, to lands where many marvels are, With still the Phrygian through all things to be The leader unto all felicity. Now at this time folk came unto the King Who on a forest's borders dwelling were, Wherein there roamed full many a dangerous thing, As wolf and wild bull, lion and brown bear; But chiefly in that forest was the lair Of a great boar that no man could withstand. And many a woe he wrought upon the land. Since long ago that men in Calydon Held chase, no beast like him had once been seen He ruined vineyards lying in the sun, After his harvesting the men must glean What he had left; right glad they had not been Among the tall stalks of the ripening wheat, The fell destroyer's fatal tusks to meet. For often would the lonely man entrapped In vain from his dire fury strive to hide In some thick hedge, and other whiles it happed Some careless stranger by his place would ride, And the tusks smote his fallen horse's side, And what help then to such a wretch could come With sword he could not draw, and far from home? Or else girls, sent their water-jars to fill, Would come back pale, too terrified to cry, Because they had but seen him from the hill; Or else again with side rent wretchedly, Some hapless damsel midst the brake would lie. Shortly to say, there neither man nor maid Was safe afield whether they wrought or played. Therefore were come these dwellers by the wood To pray the King brave men to them to send, That they might live; and if he deemed it good, That Atys with the other knights should wend, They thought their grief the easier should have end; For both by gods and men they knew him loved, And easily by hope of glory moved. "O Sire," they said, "thou know'st how Hercules Was not content to wait till folk asked aid, But sought the pests among their guarded trees; Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus made, And how the bull of Marathon was laid Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land, And how folk worshipped Atalanta's hand. "Fair would thy son's name look upon the roll Wherein such noble deeds as this are told; And great delight shall surely fill thy soul, Thinking upon his deeds when thou art old, And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold: Dost thou not know, O King, how men will strive That they, when dead, still in their sons may live?" He shuddered as they spoke, because he thought, Most certainly a winning tale is this To draw him from the net where he is caught, For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss; Nor is he one to be content with his, If he should hear the trumpet-blast of fame And far-off people calling on his name. "Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back again. And doubt not I will send you men to slay This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain If ye with any other speak to-day; And for my son, with me he needs must stay, For mighty cares oppress the Lydian land. Fear not, for ye shall have a noble band." And with that promise must they be content, And so departed, having feasted well. And yet some god or other ere they went, If they were silent, this their tale must tell To more than one man; therefore it befell, That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing, And came with angry eyes unto the King. "Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile Since when am I grown helpless of my hands? Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands I needs must stay within this slothful home, Whereto would God that I had never come? "What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed I sit among thy folk at end of day, She should be ever turning round her head To watch some man for war apparelled Because he wears a sword that he may use, Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse? "Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign, The people will do honour to my place, Or that the lords leal men will still remain, If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain? If on the wall his armour still hang up, While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?" "O Son!" quoth Croesus, "well I know thee brave And worthy of high deeds of chivalry; Therefore the more thy dear life would I save, Which now is threatened by the gods on high; Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die, Slain by some deadly iron-pointed thing, While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring." Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again, "Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee What day it was on which I should be slain? As may the gods grant I may one day be, And not from sickness die right wretchedly, Groaning with pain, my lords about my bed, Wishing to God that I were fairly dead; "But slain in battle, as the Lydian kings Have died ere now, in some great victory, While all about the Lydian shouting rings Death to the beaten foemen as they fly. What death but this, O father! should I die? But if my life by iron shall be done, What steel to-day shall glitter in the sun? "Yea, father, if to thee it seemeth good To keep me from the bright steel-bearing throng, Let me be brave at least within the wood; For surely, if thy dream be true, no wrong Can hap to me from this beast's tushes strong: Unless perchance the beast is grown so wise, He haunts the forest clad in Lydian guise." Then Croesus said: "O Son, I love thee so, That thou shalt do thy will upon this tide: But since unto this hunting thou must go, A trusty friend along with thee shall ride, Who not for anything shall leave thy side. I think, indeed, he loves thee well enow To thrust his heart 'twixt thee and any blow. "Go then, O Son, and if by some short span Thy life be measured, how shall it harm thee, If while life last thou art a happy man? And thou art happy; only unto me Is trembling left, and infelicity: The trembling of the man who loves on earth, But unto thee is hope and present mirth. "Nay, be thou not ashamed, for on this day I fear not much: thou read'st my dream aright, No teeth or claws shall take thy life away. And it may chance, ere thy last glorious fight, I shall be blinded by the endless night; And brave Adrastus on this day shall be Thy safeguard, and shall give good heart to me. "Go then, and send him hither, and depart; And as the heroes did so mayst thou do, Winning such fame as well may please thine heart." With that word from the King did Atys go, Who, left behind, sighed, saying, "May it be so, Even as I hope; and yet I would to God These men upon my threshold ne'er had trod." So when Adrastus to the King was come He said unto him, "O my Phrygian friend, We in this land have given thee a home, And 'gainst all foes your life will we defend: Wherefore for us that life thou shouldest spend, If any day there should be need therefor; And now a trusty friend I need right sore. "Doubtless ere now thou hast heard many say There is a doom that threatens my son's life; Therefore this place is stript of arms to-day, And therefore still bides Atys with his wife, And tempts not any god by raising strife; Yet none the less by no desire of his, To whom would war be most abundant bliss. "And since to-day some glory he may gain Against a monstrous bestial enemy And that the meaning of my dream is plain; That saith that he by steel alone shall die, His burning wish I may not well deny, Therefore afield to-morrow doth he wend And herein mayst thou show thyself my friend-- "For thou as captain of his band shalt ride, And keep a watchful eye of everything, Nor leave him whatsoever may betide: Lo, thou art brave, the son of a great king, And with thy praises doth this city ring, Why should I tell thee what a name those gain, Who dying for their friends, die not in vain?" Then said Adrastus, "Now were I grown base Beyond all words, if I should spare for aught In guarding him, so sit with smiling face, And of this matter take no further thought, Because with my life shall his life be bought, If ill should hap; and no ill fate it were, If I should die for what I hold so dear." Then went Adrastus, and next morn all things, That 'longed unto the hunting were well dight, And forth they went clad as the sons of kings, Fair was the morn, as through the sunshine bright They rode, the Prince half wild with great delight, The Phrygian smiling on him soberly, And ever looking round with watchful eye. So through the city all the rout rode fast, With many a great black-muzzled yellow hound; And then the teeming country-side they passed, Until they came to sour and rugged ground, And there rode up a little heathy mound, That overlooked the scrubby woods and low, That of the beast's lair somewhat they might know. And there a good man of the country-side Showed them the places where he mostly lay; And they, descending, through the wood did ride, And followed on his tracks for half the day. And at the last they brought him well to bay, Within an oozy space amidst the wood, About the which a ring of alders stood. So when the hounds' changed voices clear they heard With hearts aflame on towards him straight they drew Atys the first of all, of nought afeard, Except that folk should say some other slew The beast; and lustily his horn he blew, Going afoot; then, mighty spear in hand, Adrastus headed all the following band. Now when they came unto the plot of ground Where stood the boar, hounds dead about him lay Or sprawled about, bleeding from many a wound, But still the others held him well at bay, Nor had he been bestead thus ere that day. But yet, seeing Atys, straight he rushed at him, Speckled with foam, bleeding in flank and limb. Then Atys stood and cast his well-steeled spear With a great shout, and straight and well it flew; For now the broad blade cutting through the ear, A stream of blood from out the shoulder drew. And therewithal another, no less true, Adrastus cast, whereby the boar had died: But Atys drew the bright sword from his side, And to the tottering beast he drew anigh: But as the sun's rays ran adown the blade Adrastus threw a javelin hastily, For of the mighty beast was he afraid, Lest by his wounds he should not yet be stayed, But with a last rush cast his life away, And dying there, the son of Croesus slay. But even as the feathered dart he hurled, His strained, despairing eyes, beheld the end, And changed seemed all the fashion of the world, And past and future into one did blend, As he beheld the fixed eyes of his friend, That no reproach had in them, and no fear, For Death had seized him ere he thought him near. Adrastus shrieked, and running up he caught The falling man, and from his bleeding side Drew out the dart, and, seeing that death had brought Deliverance to him, he thereby had died; But ere his hand the luckless steel could guide, And he the refuge of poor souls could win, The horror-stricken huntsmen had rushed in. And these, with blows and cries he heeded nought His unresisting hands made haste to bind; Then of the alder-boughs a bier they wrought, And laid the corpse thereon, and 'gan to wind Homeward amidst the tangled wood and blind, And going slowly, at the eventide, Some leagues from Sardis did that day abide. Onward next morn the slaughtered man they bore, With him that slew him, and at end of day They reached the city, and with mourning sore Toward the King's palace did they take their way. He in an open western chamber lay Feasting, though inwardly his heart did burn Until that Atys should to him return. And when those wails first smote upon his ear He set the wine-cup down, and to his feet He rose, and bitter all-consuming fear Swallowed his joy, and nigh he went to meet That which was coming through the weeping street; But in the end he thought it good to wait, And stood there doubting all the ills of fate. But when at last up to that royal place Folk brought the thing he once had held so dear Still stood the King, staring with ghastly face As they brought forth Adrastus and the bier, But spoke at last, slowly without a tear, "O Phrygian man, that I did purify, Is it through thee that Atys came to die?" "O King," Adrastus said, "take now my life, With whatso torment seemeth good to thee, As my word went, for I would end this strife, And underneath the earth lie quietly; Nor is it my will here alive to be: For as my brother, so Prince Atys died, And this unlucky hand some god did guide." Then as a man constrained, the tale he told From end to end, nor spared himself one whit: And as he spoke, the wood did still behold, The trodden grass, and Atys dead on it; And many a change o'er the King's face did flit Of kingly rage, and hatred and despair, As on the slayer's face he still did stare. At last he said, "Thy death avails me nought. The gods themselves have done this bitter deed, That I was all too happy was their thought, Therefore thy heart is dead and mine doth bleed, And I am helpless as a trodden weed: Thou art but as the handle of the spear, The caster sits far off from any fear. "Yet, if thy hurt they meant, I can do this,-- --Loose him and let him go in peace from me-- I will not slay the slayer of all my bliss; Yet go, poor man, for when thy face I see I curse the gods for their felicity. Surely some other slayer they would have found, If thou hadst long ago been under ground. "Alas, Adrastus! in my inmost heart I knew the gods would one day do this thing, But deemed indeed that it would be thy part To comfort me amidst my sorrowing; Make haste to go, for I am still a King! Madness may take me, I have many hands Who will not spare to do my worst commands." With that Adrastus' bonds were done away, And forthwith to the city gates he ran, And on the road where they had been that day Rushed through the gathering night; and some lone man Beheld next day his visage wild and wan, Peering from out a thicket of the wood Where he had spilt that well-belovéd blood. And now the day of burial pomp must be, And to those rites all lords of Lydia came About the King, and that day, they and he Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame; But while they stood and wept, and called by name Upon the dead, amidst them came a man With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan: Who when the marshals would have thrust him out And men looked strange on him, began to say, "Surely the world is changed since ye have doubt Of who I am; nay, turn me not away, For ye have called me princely ere to-day-- Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king, Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing. "O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast Into this flame, but I myself will give A greater gift, since now I see at last The gods are wearied for that still I live, And with their will, why should I longer strive? Atys, O Atys, thus I give to thee A life that lived for thy felicity." And therewith from his side a knife he drew, And, crying out, upon the pile he leapt, And with one mighty stroke himself he slew. So there these princes both together slept, And their light ashes, gathered up, were kept Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er With histories of this hunting of the boar. * * * * * A gentle wind had risen midst his tale, That bore the sweet scents of the fertile vale In at the open windows; and these men The burden of their years scarce noted then, Soothed by the sweet luxurious summer time, And by the cadence of that ancient rhyme, Spite of its saddening import; nay, indeed, Of some such thoughts the Wanderers had need As that tale gave them--Yea, a man shall be A wonder for his glorious chivalry, First in all wisdom, of a prudent mind, Yet none the less him too his fate shall find Unfenced by these, a man 'mongst other men. Yea, and will Fortune pick out, now and then, The noblest for the anvil of her blows; Great names are few, and yet, indeed, who knows What greater souls have fallen 'neath the stroke Of careless fate? Purblind are most of folk, The happy are the masters of the earth Which ever give small heed to hapless worth; So goes the world, and this we needs must bear Like eld and death: yet there were some men there Who drank in silence to the memory Of those who failed on earth great men to be, Though better than the men who won the crown. But when the sun was fairly going down They left the house, and, following up the stream, In the low sun saw the kingfisher gleam 'Twixt bank and alder, and the grebe steal out From the high sedge, and, in his restless doubt, Dive down, and rise to see what men were there: They saw the swallow chase high up in air The circling gnats; the shaded dusky pool Broke by the splashing chub; the ripple cool, Rising and falling, of some distant weir They heard, till it oppressed the listening ear, As twilight grew: so back they turned again Glad of their rest, and pleasure after pain. * * * * * Within the gardens once again they met, That now the roses did well-nigh forget, For hot July was drawing to an end, And August came the fainting year to mend With fruit and grain; so 'neath the trellises, Nigh blossomless, did they lie well at ease, And watched the poppies burn across the grass, And o'er the bindweed's bells the brown bee pass Still murmuring of his gains: windless and bright The morn had been, to help their dear delight; But heavy clouds ere noon grew round the sun, And, halfway to the zenith, wild and dun The sky grew, and the thunder growled afar; But, ere the steely clouds began their war, A change there came, and, as by some great hand, The clouds that hung in threatening o'er the land Were drawn away; then a light wind arose That shook the light stems of that flowery close, And made men sigh for pleasure; therewithal Did mirth upon the feasting elders fall, And they no longer watched the lowering sky, But called aloud for some new history. Then spoke the Suabian, "Sirs, this tale is told Among our searchers for fine stones and gold, And though I tell it wrong be good to me; For I the written book did never see, Made by some Fleming, as I think, wherein Is told this tale of wilfulness and sin." THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON. ARGUMENT. The case of this falcon was such, that whoso watched it without sleeping for seven days and seven nights, had his first wish granted him by a fay lady, that appeared to him thereon; and some wished one thing, and some another. But a certain king, who watched the falcon daily, would wish for nought but the love of that fay; which wish being accomplished, was afterwards his ruin. Across the sea a land there is, Where, if fate will, may men have bliss, For it is fair as any land: There hath the reaper a full hand, While in the orchard hangs aloft The purple fig, a-growing soft; And fair the trellised vine-bunches Are swung across the high elm-trees; And in the rivers great fish play, While over them pass day by day The laden barges to their place. There maids are straight, and fair of face, And men are stout for husbandry, And all is well as it can be Upon this earth where all has end. For on them God is pleased to send The gift of Death down from above. That envy, hatred, and hot love, Knowledge with hunger by his side, And avarice and deadly pride, There may have end like everything Both to the shepherd and the king: Lest this green earth become but hell If folk for ever there should dwell. Full little most men think of this, But half in woe and half in bliss They pass their lives, and die at last Unwilling, though their lot be cast In wretched places of the earth, Where men have little joy from birth Until they die; in no such case Were those who tilled this pleasant place. There soothly men were loth to die, Though sometimes in his misery A man would say "Would I were dead!" Alas! full little likelihead That he should live for ever there. So folk within that country fair Lived on, nor from their memories drave The thought of what they could not have. And without need tormented still Each other with some bitter ill; Yea, and themselves too, growing grey With dread of some long-lingering day, That never came ere they were dead With green sods growing on the head; Nowise content with what they had, But falling still from good to bad While hard they sought the hopeless best And seldom happy or at rest Until at last with lessening blood One foot within the grave they stood. Now so it chanced that in this land There did a certain castle stand, Set all alone deep in the hills, Amid the sound of falling rills Within a valley of sweet grass, To which there went one narrow pass Through the dark hills, but seldom trod. Rarely did horse-hoof press the sod About the quiet weedy moat, Where unscared did the great fish float; Because men dreaded there to see The uncouth things of faërie; Nathless by some few fathers old These tales about the place were told That neither squire nor seneschal Or varlet came in bower or hall, Yet all things were in order due, Hangings of gold and red and blue, And tables with fair service set; Cups that had paid the Cæsar's debt Could he have laid his hands on them; Dorsars, with pearls in every hem, And fair embroidered gold-wrought things, Fit for a company of kings; And in the chambers dainty beds, With pillows dight for fair young heads; And horses in the stables were, And in the cellars wine full clear And strong, and casks of ale and mead; Yea, all things a great lord could need. For whom these things were ready there None knew; but if one chanced to fare Into that place at Easter-tide, There would he find a falcon tied Unto a pillar of the Hall; And such a fate to him would fall, That if unto the seventh night, He watched the bird from dark to light, And light to dark unceasingly, On the last evening he should see A lady beautiful past words; Then, were he come of clowns or lords, Son of a swineherd or a king, There must she grant him anything Perforce, that he might dare to ask, And do his very hardest task But if he slumbered, ne'er again The wretch would wake for he was slain Helpless, by hands he could not see, And torn and mangled wretchedly. Now said these elders--Ere this tide Full many folk this thing have tried, But few have got much good thereby; For first, a many came to die By slumbering ere their watch was done; Or else they saw that lovely one, And mazed, they knew not what to say; Or asked some toy for all their pay, That easily they might have won, Nor staked their lives and souls thereon; Or asking, asked for some great thing That was their bane; as to be king One asked, and died the morrow morn That he was crowned, of all forlorn. Yet thither came a certain man, Who from being poor great riches wan Past telling, whose grandsons now are Great lords thereby in peace and war. And in their coat-of-arms they bear, Upon a field of azure fair, A castle and a falcon, set Below a chief of golden fret. And in our day a certain knight Prayed to be worsted in no fight, And so it happed to him: yet he Died none the less most wretchedly. And all his prowess was in vain, For by a losel was he slain, As on the highway side he slept One summer night, of no man kept. Such tales as these the fathers old About that lonely castle told; And in their day the King must try Himself to prove that mystery, Although, unless the fay could give For ever on the earth to live, Nought could he ask that he had not: For boundless riches had he got, Fair children, and a faithful wife; And happily had passed his life, And all fulfilled of victory, Yet was he fain this thing to see. So towards the mountains he set out One noontide, with a gallant rout Of knights and lords, and as the day Began to fail came to the way Where he must enter all alone, Between the dreary walls of stone. Thereon to that fair company He bade farewell, who wistfully Looked backward oft as home they rode, But in the entry he abode Of that rough unknown narrowing pass, Where twilight at the high noon was. Then onward he began to ride: Smooth rose the rocks on every side, And seemed as they were cut by man; Adown them ever water ran, But they of living things were bare, Yea, not a blade of grass grew there; And underfoot rough was the way, For scattered all about there lay Great jagged pieces of black stone. Throughout the pass the wind did moan, With such wild noises, that the King Could almost think he heard something Spoken of men; as one might hear The voices of folk standing near One's chamber wall: yet saw he nought Except those high walls strangely wrought, And overhead the strip of sky. So, going onward painfully, He met therein no evil thing, But came about the sun-setting Unto the opening of the pass, And thence beheld a vale of grass Bright with the yellow daffodil; And all the vale the sun did fill With his last glory. Midmost there Rose up a stronghold, built four-square, Upon a flowery grassy mound, That moat and high wall ran around. Thereby he saw a walled pleasance, With walks and sward fit for the dance Of Arthur's court in its best time, That seemed to feel some magic clime; For though through all the vale outside Things were as in the April-tide, And daffodils and cowslips grew And hidden the March violets blew, Within the bounds of that sweet close Was trellised the bewildering rose; There was the lily over-sweet, And starry pinks for garlands meet; And apricots hung on the wall And midst the flowers did peaches fall, And nought had blemish there or spot. For in that place decay was not. Silent awhile the King abode Beholding all, then on he rode And to the castle-gate drew nigh, Till fell the drawbridge silently, And when across it he did ride He found the great gates open wide, And entered there, but as he passed The gates were shut behind him fast, But not before that he could see The drawbridge rise up silently. Then round he gazed oppressed with awe, And there no living thing he saw Except the sparrows in the eaves, As restless as light autumn leaves Blown by the fitful rainy wind. Thereon his final goal to find, He lighted off his war-horse good And let him wander as he would, When he had eased him of his gear; Then gathering heart against his fear. Just at the silent end of day Through the fair porch he took his way And found at last a goodly hall With glorious hangings on the wall, Inwrought with trees of every clime, And stories of the ancient time, But all of sorcery they were. For o'er the daïs Venus fair, Fluttered about by many a dove, Made hopeless men for hopeless love, Both sick and sorry; there they stood Wrought wonderfully in various mood, But wasted all by that hid fire Of measureless o'er-sweet desire, And let the hurrying world go by Forgetting all felicity. But down the hall the tale was wrought How Argo in old time was brought To Colchis for the fleece of gold. And on the other side was told How mariners for long years came To Circe, winning grief and shame. Until at last by hardihead And craft, Ulysses won her bed. Long upon these the King did look And of them all good heed he took; To see if they would tell him aught About the matter that he sought, But all were of the times long past; So going all about, at last When grown nigh weary of his search A falcon on a silver perch, Anigh the daïs did he see, And wondered, because certainly At his first coming 'twas not there; But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair, With golden letters on the white He saw, and in the dim twilight By diligence could he read this:-- _"Ye who have not enow of bliss,_ _And in this hard world labour sore,_ _By manhood here may get you more,_ _And be fulfilled of everything,_ _Till ye be masters of the King._ _And yet, since I who promise this_ _Am nowise God to give man bliss_ _Past ending, now in time beware,_ _And if you live in little care_ _Then turn aback and home again,_ _Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain_ _In wishing for a thing untried."_ A little while did he abide, When he had read this, deep in thought, Wondering indeed if there were aught He had not got, that a wise man Would wish; yet in his mind it ran That he might win a boundless realm, Yea, come to wear upon his helm The crown of the whole conquered earth; That all who lived thereon, from birth To death should call him King and Lord, And great kings tremble at his word, Until in turn he came to die. Therewith a little did he sigh, But thought, "Of Alexander yet Men talk, nor would they e'er forget My name, if this should come to be, Whoever should come after me: But while I lay wrapped round with gold Should tales and histories manifold Be written of me, false and true; And as the time still onward drew Almost a god would folk count me, Saying, 'In our time none such be.'" But therewith did he sigh again, And said, "Ah, vain, and worse than vain! For though the world forget me nought, Yet by that time should I be brought Where all the world I should forget, And bitterly should I regret That I, from godlike great renown, To helpless death must fall adown: How could I bear to leave it all?" Then straight upon his mind did fall Thoughts of old longings half forgot, Matters for which his heart was hot A while ago: whereof no more He cared for some, and some right sore Had vexed him, being fulfilled at last. And when the thought of these had passed Still something was there left behind, That by no torturing of his mind Could he in any language name, Or into form of wishing frame. At last he thought, "What matters it, Before these seven days shall flit Some great thing surely shall I find, That gained will not leave grief behind, Nor turn to deadly injury. So now will I let these things be And think of some unknown delight." Now, therewithal, was come the night And thus his watch was well begun; And till the rising of the sun, Waking, he paced about the hall, And saw the hangings on the wall Fade into nought, and then grow white In patches by the pale moonlight, And then again fade utterly As still the moonbeams passed them by; Then in a while, with hope of day, Begin a little to grow grey, Until familiar things they grew, As up at last the great sun drew, And lit them with his yellow light At ending of another night Then right glad was he of the day, That passed with him in such-like way; For neither man nor beast came near, Nor any voices did he hear. And when again it drew to night Silent it passed, till first twilight Of morning came, and then he heard The feeble twittering of some bird, That, in that utter silence drear, Smote harsh and startling on his ear. Therewith came on that lonely day That passed him in no other way; And thus six days and nights went by And nothing strange had come anigh. And on that day he well-nigh deemed That all that story had been dreamed. Daylight and dark, and night and day, Passed ever in their wonted way; The wind played in the trees outside, The rooks from out the high trees cried; And all seemed natural, frank, and fair, With little signs of magic there. Yet neither could he quite forget That close with summer blossoms set, And fruit hung on trees blossoming, When all about was early spring. Yea, if all this by man were made, Strange was it that yet undecayed The food lay on the tables still Unchanged by man, that wine did fill The golden cups, yet bright and red. And all was so apparelléd For guests that came not, yet was all As though that servants filled the hall. So waxed and waned his hopes, and still He formed no wish for good or ill. And while he thought of this and that Upon his perch the falcon sat Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes Beholders of the hard-earned prize, Glancing around him restlessly, As though he knew the time drew nigh When this long watching should be done. So little by little fell the sun, From high noon unto sun-setting; And in that lapse of time the King, Though still he woke, yet none the less Was dreaming in his sleeplessness Of this and that which he had done Before this watch he had begun; Till, with a start, he looked at last About him, and all dreams were past; For now, though it was past twilight Without, within all grew as bright As when the noon-sun smote the wall, Though no lamp shone within the hall. Then rose the King upon his feet, And well-nigh heard his own heart beat, And grew all pale for hope and fear, As sound of footsteps caught his ear But soft, and as some fair lady, Going as gently as might be, Stopped now and then awhile, distraught By pleasant wanderings of sweet thought. Nigher the sound came, and more nigh, Until the King unwittingly Trembled, and felt his hair arise, But on the door still kept his eyes. That opened soon, and in the light There stepped alone a lady bright, And made straight toward him up the hall. In golden garments was she clad And round her waist a belt she had Of emeralds fair, and from her feet, That shod with gold the floor did meet, She held the raiment daintily, And on her golden head had she A rose-wreath round a pearl-wrought crown, Softly she walked with eyes cast down, Nor looked she any other than An earthly lady, though no man Has seen so fair a thing as she. So when her face the King could see Still more he trembled, and he thought, "Surely my wish is hither brought, And this will be a goodly day If for mine own I win this may." And therewithal she drew anear Until the trembling King could hear Her very breathing, and she raised Her head and on the King's face gazed With serious eyes, and stopping there, Swept from her shoulders her long hair, And let her gown fall on her feet, Then spoke in a clear voice and sweet: "Well hast thou watched, so now, O King, Be bold, and wish for some good thing; And yet, I counsel thee, be wise. Behold, spite of these lips and eyes, Hundreds of years old now am I And have seen joy and misery. And thou, who yet hast lived in bliss. I bid thee well consider this; Better it were that men should live As beasts, and take what earth can give, The air, the warm sun and the grass Until unto the earth they pass, And gain perchance nought worse than rest Than that not knowing what is best For sons of men, they needs must thirst For what shall make their lives accurst. "Therefore I bid thee now beware, Lest getting something seeming fair, Thou com'st in vain to long for more Or lest the thing thou wishest for Make thee unhappy till thou diest, Or lest with speedy death thou buyest A little hour of happiness Or lazy joy with sharp distress. "Alas, why say I this to thee, For now I see full certainly, That thou wilt ask for such a thing, It had been best for thee to fling Thy body from a mountain-top, Or in a white hot fire to drop, Or ever thou hadst seen me here, Nay then be speedy and speak clear." Then the King cried out eagerly, Grown fearless, "Ah, be kind to me! Thou knowest what I long for then! Thou know'st that I, a king of men, Will ask for nothing else than thee! Thou didst not say this could not be, And I have had enough of bliss, If I may end my life with this." "Hearken," she said, "what men will say When they are mad; before to-day I knew that words such things could mean, And wondered that it could have been. "Think well, because this wished-for joy, That surely will thy bliss destroy, Will let thee live, until thy life Is wrapped in such bewildering strife That all thy days will seem but ill-- Now wilt thou wish for this thing still?" "Wilt thou then grant it?" cried the King; "Surely thou art an earthly thing, And all this is but mockery, And thou canst tell no more than I What ending to my life shall be." "Nay, then," she said, "I grant it thee Perforce; come nigh, for I am thine Until the morning sun doth shine, And only coming time can prove What thing I am." Dizzy with love, And with surprise struck motionless That this divine thing, with far less Of striving than a village maid, Had yielded, there he stood afraid, Spite of hot words and passionate, And strove to think upon his fate. But as he stood there, presently With smiling face she drew anigh, And on his face he felt her breath. "O love," she said, "dost thou fear death? Not till next morning shalt thou die, Or fall into thy misery." Then on his hand her hand did fall, And forth she led him down the hall, Going full softly by his side. "O love," she said, "now well betide The day whereon thou cam'st to me. I would this night a year might be, Yea, life-long; such life as we have, A thousand years from womb to grave." And then that clinging hand seemed worth Whatever joy was left on earth, And every trouble he forgot, And time and death remembered not: Kinder she grew, she clung to him With loving arms, her eyes did swim With love and pity, as he strove To show the wisdom of his love; With trembling lips she praised his choice, And said, "Ah, well may'st thou rejoice, Well may'st thou think this one short night Worth years of other men's delight. If thy heart as mine own heart is, Sunk in a boundless sea of bliss; O love, rejoice with me! rejoice!" But as she spoke, her honied voice Trembled, and midst of sobs she said, "O love, and art thou still afraid? Return, then, to thine happiness, Nor will I love thee any less; But watch thee as a mother might Her child at play." With strange delight He stammered out, "Nay, keep thy tears for me, and for my ruined years Weep love, that I may love thee more, My little hour will soon be o'er." "Ah, love," she said, "and thou art wise As men are, with long miseries Buying these idle words and vain, My foolish love, with lasting pain; And yet, thou wouldst have died at last If in all wisdom thou hadst passed Thy weary life: forgive me then, In pitying the sad life of men." Then in such bliss his soul did swim, But tender music unto him Her words were; death and misery But empty names were grown to be, As from that place his steps she drew, And dark the hall behind them grew. * * * * * But end comes to all earthly bliss, And by his choice full short was his; And in the morning, grey and cold, Beside the daïs did she hold His trembling hand, and wistfully He, doubting what his fate should be, Gazed at her solemn eyes, that now, Beneath her calm, untroubled brow, Were fixed on his wild face and wan; At last she said, "Oh, hapless man, Depart! thy full wish hast thou had; A little time thou hast been glad, Thou shalt be sorry till thou die. "And though, indeed, full fain am I This might not be; nathless, as day Night follows, colourless and grey, So this shall follow thy delight, Your joy hath ending with last night-- Nay, peace, and hearken to thy fate. "Strife without peace, early and late, Lasting long after thou art dead, And laid with earth upon thine head; War without victory shalt thou have, Defeat, nor honour shalt thou save; Thy fair land shall be rent and torn, Thy people be of all forlorn, And all men curse thee for this thing." She loosed his hand, but yet the King Said, "Yea, and I may go with thee? Why should we part? then let things be E'en as they will!" "Poor man," she said, "Thou ravest; our hot love is dead, If ever it had any life: Go, make thee ready for the strife Wherein thy days shall soon be wrapped; And of the things that here have happed Make thou such joy as thou may'st do; But I from this place needs must go, Nor shalt thou ever see me more Until thy troubled life is o'er: Alas I to say 'farewell' to thee Were nought but bitter mockery. Fare as thou may'st, and with good heart Play to the end thy wretched part." Therewith she turned and went from him, And with such pain his eyes did swim He scarce could see her leave the place; And then, with troubled and pale face, He gat him thence: and soon he found His good horse in the base-court bound; So, loosing him, forth did he ride, For the great gates were open wide, And flat the heavy drawbridge lay. So by the middle of the day, That murky pass had he gone through, And come to country that he knew; And homeward turned his horse's head. And passing village and homestead Nigh to his palace came at last; And still the further that he passed From that strange castle of the fays, More dreamlike seemed those seven days, And dreamlike the delicious night; And like a dream the shoulders white, And clinging arms and yellow hair, And dreamlike the sad morning there. Until at last he 'gan to deem That all might well have been a dream-- Yet why was life a weariness? What meant this sting of sharp distress? This longing for a hopeless love, No sighing from his heart could move? Or else, 'She did not come and go As fays might do, but soft and slow Her lovely feet fell on the floor; She set her fair hand to the door As any dainty maid might do; And though, indeed, there are but few Beneath the sun as fair as she, She seemed a fleshly thing to be. Perchance a merry mock this is, And I may some day have the bliss To see her lovely face again, As smiling she makes all things plain. And then as I am still a king, With me may she make tarrying Full long, yea, till I come to die." Therewith at last being come anigh Unto his very palace gate, He saw his knights and squires wait His coming, therefore on the ground He lighted, and they flocked around Till he should tell them of his fare. Then mocking said he, "Ye may dare, The worst man of you all, to go And watch as I was bold to do; For nought I heard except the wind, And nought I saw to call to mind." So said he, but they noted well That something more he had to tell If it had pleased him; one old man, Beholding his changed face and wan, Muttered, "Would God it might be so! Alas! I fear what fate may do; Too much good fortune hast thou had By anything to be more glad Than thou hast been, I fear thee then Lest thou becom'st a curse to men." But to his place the doomed King passed, And all remembrance strove to cast From out his mind of that past day, And spent his life in sport and play. * * * * * Great among other kings, I said He was before he first was led Unto that castle of the fays, But soon he lost his happy days And all his goodly life was done. And first indeed his best-loved son, The very apple of his eye, Waged war against him bitterly; And when this son was overcome And taken, and folk led him home, And him the King had gone to meet, Meaning with gentle words and sweet To win him to his love again, By his own hand he found him slain. I know not if the doomed King yet Remembered the fay lady's threat, But troubles upon troubles came: His daughter next was brought to shame, Who unto all eyes seemed to be The image of all purity, And fleeing from the royal place The King no more beheld her face. Then next a folk that came from far Sent to the King great threats of war, But he, full-fed of victory, Deemed this a little thing to be, And thought the troubles of his home Thereby he well might overcome Amid the hurry of the fight. His foemen seemed of little might, Although they thronged like summer bees About the outlying villages, And on the land great ruin brought. Well, he this barbarous people sought With such an army as seemed meet To put the world beneath his feet; The day of battle came, and he, Flushed with the hope of victory, Grew happy, as he had not been Since he those glorious eyes had seen. They met,--his solid ranks of steel There scarcely more the darts could feel Of those new foemen, than if they Had been a hundred miles away:-- They met,--a storied folk were his To whom sharp war had long been bliss, A thousand years of memories Were flashing in their shielded eyes; And grave philosophers they had To bid them ever to be glad To meet their death and get life done Midst glorious deeds from sire to son. And those they met were beasts, or worse, To whom life seemed a jest, a curse; Of fame and name they had not heard; Honour to them was but a word, A word spoke in another tongue; No memories round their banners clung, No walls they knew, no art of war, By hunger were they driven afar Unto the place whereon they stood, Ravening for bestial joys and blood. No wonder if these barbarous men Were slain by hundreds to each ten Of the King's brave well-armoured folk, No wonder if their charges broke To nothing, on the walls of steel, And back the baffled hordes must reel. So stood throughout a summer day Scarce touched the King's most fair array, Yet as it drew to even-tide The foe still surged on every side, As hopeless hunger-bitten men, About his folk grown wearied then. Therewith the King beheld that crowd Howling and dusk, and cried aloud, "What do ye, warriors? and how long Shall weak folk hold in check the strong? Nay, forward banners! end the day And show these folk how brave men play." The young knights shouted at his word, But the old folk in terror heard The shouting run adown the line, And saw men flush as if with wine-- "O Sire," they said, "the day is sure, Nor will these folk the night endure Beset with misery and fears." Alas I they spoke to heedless ears; For scarce one look on them he cast But forward through the ranks he passed, And cried out, "Who will follow me To win a fruitful victory?" And toward the foe in haste he spurred, And at his back their shouts he heard, Such shouts as he ne'er heard again. They met--ere moonrise all the plain Was filled by men in hurrying flight The relics of that shameful fight; The close array, the full-armed men, The ancient fame availed not then, The dark night only was a friend To bring that slaughter to an end; And surely there the King had died. But driven by that back-rushing tide Against his will he needs must flee; And as he pondered bitterly On all that wreck that he had wrought, From time to time indeed he thought Of the fay woman's dreadful threat. "But everything was not lost yet; Next day he said, great was the rout And shameful beyond any doubt, But since indeed at eventide The flight began, not many died, And gathering all the stragglers now His troops still made a gallant show-- Alas! it was a show indeed; Himself desponding, did he lead His beaten men against the foe, Thinking at least to lie alow Before the final rout should be But scarce upon the enemy Could these, whose shaken banners shook The frightened world, now dare to look; Nor yet could the doomed King die there A death he once had held most fair; Amid unwounded men he came Back to his city, bent with shame, Unkingly, midst his great distress, Yea, weeping at the bitterness Of women's curses that did greet His passage down the troubled street But sight of all the things they loved, The memory of their manhood moved Within the folk, and aged men And boys must think of battle then. And men that had not seen the foe Must clamour to the war to go. So a great army poured once more From out the city, and before The very gates they fought again, But their late valour was in vain; They died indeed, and that was good, But nought they gained for all the blood Poured out like water; for the foe, Men might have stayed a while ago, A match for very gods were grown, So like the field in June-tide mown The King's men fell, and but in vain The remnant strove the town to gain; Whose battlements were nought to stay An untaught foe upon that day, Though many a tale the annals told Of sieges in the days of old, When all the world then knew of war From that fair place was driven afar. As for the King, a charmed life He seemed to bear; from out that strife He came unhurt, and he could see, As down the valley he did flee With his most wretched company, His palace flaming to the sky. Then in the very midst of woe His yearning thoughts would backward go Unto the castle of the fay; He muttered, "Shall I curse that day, The last delight that I have had, For certainly I then was glad? And who knows if what men call bliss Had been much better now than this When I am hastening to the end." That fearful rest, that dreaded friend, That Death, he did not gain as yet; A band of men he soon did get, A ruined rout of bad and good, With whom within the tangled wood, The rugged mountain, he abode, And thenceforth oftentimes they rode Into the fair land once called his, And yet but little came of this, Except more woe for Heaven to see Some little added misery Unto that miserable realm: The barbarous foe did overwhelm The cities and the fertile plain, And many a peaceful man was slain, And many a maiden brought to shame. And yielded towns were set aflame; For all the land was masterless. Long dwelt the King in great distress, From wood to mountain ever tost, Mourning for all that he had lost, Until it chanced upon a day, Asleep in early morn he lay, And in a vision there did see Clad all in black, that fay lady Whereby all this had come to pass, But dim as in a misty glass: She said, "I come thy death to tell Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,' For in a short space wilt thou be Within an endless dim country Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss," Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss And vanished straightway from his sight. So waking there he sat upright And looked around, but nought could see And heard but song-birds' melody, For that was the first break of day. Then with a sigh adown he lay And slept, nor ever woke again, For in that hour was he slain By stealthy traitors as he slept. He of a few was much bewept, But of most men was well forgot While the town's ashes still were hot The foeman on that day did burn. As for the land, great Time did turn The bloody fields to deep green grass, And from the minds of men did pass The memory of that time of woe, And at this day all things are so As first I said; a land it is Where men may dwell in rest and bliss If so they will--Who yet will not, Because their hasty hearts are hot With foolish hate, and longing vain The sire and dam of grief and pain. * * * * * Neath the bright sky cool grew the weary earth, And many a bud in that fair hour had birth Upon the garden bushes; in the west The sky got ready for the great sun's rest, And all was fresh and lovely; none the less Although those old men shared the happiness Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories Of how they might in old times have been wise, Not casting by for very wilfulness What wealth might come their changing life to bless; Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold Of bitter times, that so they might behold Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long. That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong, They still might watch the changing world go by, Content to live, content at last to die. Alas! if they had reached content at last It was perforce when all their strength was past; And after loss of many days once bright, With foolish hopes of unattained delight. AUGUST. Across the gap made by our English hinds, Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds The withy round the hurdles of his fold; Down in the foss the river fed of old, That through long lapse of time has grown to be The little grassy valley that you see. Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear The barley mowers on the trenchéd hill, The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, All little sounds made musical and clear Beneath the sky that burning August gives. While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives. Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these, Must we still waste them, craving for the best, Like lovers o'er the painted images Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed? Have we been happy on our day of rest? Thine eyes say "yes,"--but if it came again, Perchance its ending would not seem so vain. * * * * * Now came fulfilment of the year's desire, The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay, And blacker grew the elm-trees day by day. About the edges of the yellow corn, And o'er the gardens grown somewhat outworn The bees went hurrying to fill up their store; The apple-boughs bent over more and more; With peach and apricot the garden wall, Was odorous, and the pears began to fall From off the high tree with each freshening breeze. So in a house bordered about with trees, A little raised above the waving gold The Wanderers heard this marvellous story told, While 'twixt the gleaming flasks of ancient wine, They watched the reapers' slow advancing line. PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE. ARGUMENT. A man of Cyprus, a sculptor named Pygmalion, made an image of a woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the image alive indeed, and a woman, and Pygmalion wedded her. At Amathus, that from the southern side Of Cyprus, looks across the Syrian sea, There did in ancient time a man abide Known to the island-dwellers, for that he Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, And day by day still greater honour won, Which man our old books call Pygmalion. Yet in the praise of men small joy he had, But walked abroad with downcast brooding face. Nor yet by any damsel was made glad; For, sooth to say, the women of that place Must seem to all men an accursed race, Who with the Turner of all Hearts once strove And now their hearts must carry lust for love. Upon a day it chanced that he had been About the streets, and on the crowded quays, Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen The dark-eyed merchants of the southern seas In chaffer with the base Propoetides, And heavy-hearted gat him home again, His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain. And there upon his images he cast His weary eyes, yet little noted them, As still from name to name his swift thought passed. For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem, Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem? What help could Hermes' rod unto him give, Until with shadowy things he came to live? Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun, The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring May chide his useless labour never done, For all his murmurs, with no other thing He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting, And thus in thought's despite the world goes on; And so it was with this Pygmalion. Unto the chisel must he set his hand, And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace, About a work begun, that there doth stand, And still returning to the self-same place, Unto the image now must set his face, And with a sigh his wonted toil begin, Half-loathed, half-loved, a little rest to win. The lessening marble that he worked upon, A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, And in such guise the work had he begun, Because when he the untouched block did see In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, "O lady Venus, make this presage good! "And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, And, not without rich golden ornament, Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." So spoke he, but the goddess, well content, Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, That like the first artificer he wrought, Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. And yet, but such as he was wont to do, At first indeed that work divine he deemed, And as the white chips from the chisel flew Of other matters languidly he dreamed, For easy to his hand that labour seemed, And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought. And yet, again, at last there came a day When smoother and more shapely grew the stone And he, grown eager, put all thought away But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, And he would gaze at what his hands had done, Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well. Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, And with the pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see, Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name. The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed, A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed, And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were, That thence he could behold the marble hair; Nought was enough, until with steel in hand He came before the wondrous stone to stand. No song could charm him, and no histories Of men's misdoings could avail him now, Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes, If men had said, "The fierce Tyrrhenians row Up through the bay, rise up and strike a blow For life and goods;" for nought to him seemed dear But to his well-loved work to be anear. Then vexed he grew, and knowing not his heart, Unto himself he said, "Ah, what is this, That I who oft was happy to depart, And wander where the boughs each other kiss 'Neath the west wind, now have no other bliss But in vain smoothing of this marble maid, Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed? "Lo I will get me to the woods and try If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite, And then, returning, lay this folly by, And eat my fill, and sleep my sleep anight, And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed The Theban will be good to me at need." With that he took his quiver and his bow, And through the gates of Amathus he went, And toward the mountain slopes began to go, Within the woods to work out his intent. Fair was the day, the honied beanfield's scent The west wind bore unto him, o'er the way The glittering noisy poplar leaves did play. All things were moving; as his hurried feet Passed by, within the flowery swathe he heard The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred, Or murmured in the clover flowers below. But he with bowed-down head failed not to go. At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said, "Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by, The day is getting ready to be dead; No rest, and on the border of the sky Already the great banks of dark haze lie; No rest--what do I midst this stir and noise? What part have I in these unthinking joys?" With that he turned, and toward the city-gate Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came, And cast his heart into the hands of fate; Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame That strange and strong desire without a name; Till panting, thinking of nought else, once more His hand was on the latch of his own door. One moment there he lingered, as he said, "Alas! what should I do if she were gone?" But even with that word his brow waxed red To hear his own lips name a thing of stone, As though the gods some marvel there had done, And made his work alive; and therewithal In turn great pallor on his face did fall. But with a sigh he passed into the house, Yet even then his chamber-door must hold, And listen there, half blind and timorous, Until his heart should wax a little bold; Then entering, motionless and white and cold, He saw the image stand amidst the floor All whitened now by labour done before. Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, E'en as he used to pass the long days by; But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, And on the floor the useless steel he flung, And, weeping loud, about the image clung. "Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then, That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed That many such as thou are loved of men, Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead Into their net, and smile to see them bleed; But these the god's made, and this hand made thee Who wilt not speak one little word to me." Then from the image did he draw aback To gaze on it through tears: and you had said, Regarding it, that little did it lack To be a living and most lovely maid; Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand, The other held a fair rose over-blown; No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes Seemed as if even now great love had shown Unto them, something of its sweet surprise, Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries, And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed, As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed. Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide; And thus a weary while did he abide, With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire. But when again he turned his visage round His eyes were brighter and no more he wept, As if some little solace he had found, Although his folly none the more had slept, Rather some new-born god-sent madness kept His other madness from destroying him, And made the hope of death wax faint and dim; For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet Unto the chamber where he used to lie, So in a fair niche to his bed anigh, Unwitting of his woe, they set it down, Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown. Then to his treasury he went, and sought Fair gems for its adornment, but all there Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and nought, Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair. So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare, And from the merchants at a mighty cost Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost. These then he hung her senseless neck around, Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone, Then cast himself before her on the ground, Praying for grace for all that he had done In leaving her untended and alone; And still with every hour his madness grew Though all his folly in his heart he knew. At last asleep before her feet he lay, Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain Returned on him, when with the light of day He woke and wept before her feet again; Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain, Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore New spoil of flowers his love to lay before. A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid, Was in his house, that he a while ago At some great man's command had deftly made, And this he now must take and set below Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow About sweet wood, and he must send her thence The odour of Arabian frankincense. Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said, "Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak, But I perchance shall know when I am dead, If this has been some goddess' sport, to seek A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak To set her glorious image, so that he, Loving the form of immortality, "May make much laughter for the gods above: Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee Then take my life away, for I will love Till death unfeared at last shall come to me, And give me rest, if he of might may be To slay the love of that which cannot die, The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by." No word indeed the moveless image said, But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head, Yet his own words some solace to him brought, Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught With something like to hope, and all that day Some tender words he ever found to say; And still he felt as something heard him speak; Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes, Wherein were writ the tales of many climes, And read aloud the sweetness hid therein Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin. And when the sun went down, the frankincense Again upon the altar-flame he cast That through the open window floating thence O'er the fresh odours of the garden passed; And so another day was gone at last, And he no more his love-lorn watch could keep, But now for utter weariness must sleep. But in the night he dreamed that she was gone, And knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake And could not, but forsaken and alone He seemed to weep as though his heart would break, And when the night her sleepy veil did take From off the world, waking, his tears he found Still wet upon the pillow all around. Then at the first, bewildered by those tears, He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept, But suddenly remembering all his fears, Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt, But still its wonted place the image kept, Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh. Then came the morning offering and the day, Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet From morn, through noon, to evening passed away, And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet He saw the sun descend the sea to meet; And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept. * * * * * But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke At sun-rising curled round about her head, Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke Down in the street, and he by something led, He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid, And through the freshness of the morn must see The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy; Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, And in their midst upon a car of gold An image of the Mother of Desire, Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold, Coloured like flame, enwrought with precious things, Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. Then he remembered that the manner was That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take Thrice in the year, and through the city pass, And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake; And through the clouds a light there seemed to break When he remembered all the tales well told About her glorious kindly deeds of old. So his unfinished prayer he finished not, But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet, And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot, He clad himself with fresh attire and meet For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head, And followed after as the goddess led. But long and vain unto him seemed the way Until they came unto her house again; Long years, the while they went about to lay The honey-hiding dwellers on the plain, The sweet companions of the yellowing grain Upon her golden altar; long and long Before, at end of their delicious song, They stripped her of her weed with reverend hands And showed the ivory limbs his hand had wrought; Yea, and too long e'en then ere those fair bands, Dispersing here and there, the shadow sought Of Indian spice-trees o'er the warm sea brought And toward the splashing of the fountain turned, Mocked the noon sun that o'er the cloisters burned. But when the crowd of worshippers was gone And through the golden dimness of the place The goddess' very servants paced alone, Or some lone damsel murmured of her case Apart from prying eyes, he turned his face Unto that image made with toil and care, In days when unto him it seemed most fair. Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold, The house of Venus was; high in the dome The burning sun-light you could now behold, From nowhere else the light of day might come, To shame the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home; A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze, Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees. The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there, Lighting the painted tales of many a land, And carven heroes, with their unused glare; But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were And on the altar a thin, flickering flame Just showed the golden letters of her name. Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud, And still its perfume lingered all around; And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd, Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground, And now from far-off halls uprose the sound Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry, As though some door were opened suddenly. So there he stood, some help from her to gain, Bewildered by that twilight midst of day; Downcast with listening to the joyous strain He had no part in, hopeless with delay Of all the fair things he had meant to say; Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast, From stammering lips and pale these words there passed,-- "O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know What thing it is I need, when even I, Bent down before thee in this shame and woe, Can frame no set of words to tell thee why I needs must pray, O help me or I die! Or slay me, and in slaying take from me Even a dead man's feeble memory. "Say not thine help I have been slow to seek; Here have I been from the first hour of morn, Who stand before thy presence faint and weak, Of my one poor delight left all forlorn; Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn I had when first I left my love, my shame, To call upon thine oft-sung glorious name." He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly, Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb And gather force, and then shot up on high A steady spike of light, that drew anigh The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more Into a feeble flicker as before. But at that sight the nameless hope he had That kept him living midst unhappiness, Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad Unto the image forward must he press With words of praise his first word to redress, But then it was as though a thick black cloud Altar, and fire, and ivory limbs did shroud. He staggered back, amazed and full of awe, But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around, About him still the worshippers he saw Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise At what to him seemed awful mysteries; Therewith he sighed and said, "This, too, I dream, No better day upon my life shall beam." And yet for long upon the place he gazed Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen; And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised, And every thing was as it erst had been; And then he said, "Such marvels I have seen As some sick man may see from off his bed: Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!" Therewith, not questioning his heart at all, He turned away and left the holy place, When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall, And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase; But coming out, at first he hid his face Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood, Nor wished to move, or change his dreary mood. Yet in a while the freshness of the eve Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh He raised his head, and slowly 'gan to leave The high carved pillars; and so presently Had passed the grove of whispering myrtles by, And, mid the many noises of the street, Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet. Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire, Nursing the end of that festivity; Girls fit to move the moody man's desire Brushed past him, and soft dainty minstrelsy He heard amid the laughter, and might see, Through open doors, the garden's green delight, Where pensive lovers waited for the night; Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn, With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round, Or wandering o'er the fragrant trodden lawn, Took up their fallen garlands from the ground, Or languidly their scattered tresses bound, Or let their gathered raiment fall adown, With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown. What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he First left the pillars of the dreamy place, Amid such sights had vanished utterly. He turned his weary eyes from face to face, Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace He gat towards home, and still was murmuring, "Ah life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!" And as he went, though longing to be there Whereas his sole desire awaited him, Yet did he loath to see the image fair, White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb, And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim That unto some strange region he might come, Nor ever reach again his loveless home. Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, And, as a man awaking from a dream, Seemed waked from his old folly; nought seemed good In all the things that he before had deemed At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed Cold light of day--he found himself alone, Reft of desire, all love and madness gone. And yet for that past folly must he weep, As one might mourn the parted happiness That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep; And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless The hard life left of toil and loneliness, Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet Emmeshed for ever in the memory's net. Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen, I thank thee that my prayer was not for nought, Truly a present helper hast thou been To those who faithfully thy throne have sought! Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought, Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me, That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?" * * * * * Thus to his chamber at the last he came, And, pushing through the still half-opened door, He stood within; but there, for very shame Of all the things that he had done before, Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, Thinking of all that he had done and said Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid. Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air So gaining courage, did he raise his face Unto the work his hands had made so fair, And cried aloud to see the niche all bare Of that sweet form, while through his heart again There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, A shaft of new desire now pierced him through, And therewithal a soft voice called his name, And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame, He saw betwixt him and the setting sun The lively image of his lovéd one. He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, Her very lips, were such as he had made, And though her tresses fell but in such guise As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed In that fair garment that the priests had laid Upon the goddess on that very morn, Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn. Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear, Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, And all at once her silver voice rang clear, Filling his soul with great felicity, And thus she spoke, "Pygmalion, come to me, O dear companion of my new-found life, For I am called thy lover and thy wife. "Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say That was with me e'en now, _Pygmalion,_ _My new-made soul I give to thee to-day,_ _Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won,_ _And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon!_ _Come love, and walk with me between the trees,_ _And feel the freshness of the evening breeze._ _"Sweep mine hair round thy neck; behold my feet,_ _The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move,_ _Press down the daisies! draw me to thee, sweet,_ _And feel the warm heart of thy living love_ _Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of Jove_ _Whose loving tender heart hath wrought all this,_ _And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss._ "Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean! Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen: But this I know, I would we were more nigh, I have not heard thy voice but in the cry Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone." She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes Gazed into his; but he the fingers caught And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies Passing all words, yea, well-nigh passing thought, Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought, Felt the warm life within her heaving breast As in his arms his living love he pressed. But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, "Wilt thou not speak, O love? why dost thou weep? Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day, Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep This that thou holdest, but in dreamy sleep? Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, And hand in hand walk through thy garden green; "Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me, Full many things whereof I wish to know, And as we walk from whispering tree to tree Still more familiar to thee shall I grow, And such things shalt thou say unto me now As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, A madman, kneeling to a thing of stone." But at that word a smile lit up his eyes And therewithal he spake some loving word, And she at first looked up in grave surprise When his deep voice and musical she heard, And clung to him as grown somewhat afeard; Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one! What joy with thee to look upon the sun." Then into that fair garden did they pass And all the story of his love he told, And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass, Beneath the risen moon could he behold The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold, He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth this? Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?" Then both her white arms round his neck she threw And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me? When first the sweetness of my life I knew, Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee A little pain and great felicity Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow?" "O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love, Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear, But yet escape not; nay, to gods above, Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near. But let my happy ears I pray thee hear Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth." "My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise, Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell, But listen: when I opened first mine eyes I stood within the niche thou knowest well, And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear, And but a strange confusèd noise could hear. "At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, But awful as this round white moon o'erhead. So that I trembled when I saw her there, For with my life was born some touch of dread, And therewithal I heard her voice that said, 'Come down, and learn to love and be alive, For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.' "Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all, Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch, And when her fingers thereupon did fall, Thought came unto my life, and therewithal I knew her for a goddess, and began To murmur in some tongue unknown to man. "And then indeed not in this guise was I, No sandals had I, and no saffron gown, But naked as thou knowest utterly, E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown, And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground, And round her loins a glittering belt was bound. "But when the stammering of my tongue she heard Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid, And spoke again, 'Nay, say not any word, All that thine heart would say I know unsaid, Who even now thine heart and voice have made; But listen rather, for thou knowest now What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow. "'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life, A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought I give thee to him as his love and wife, With all thy dowry of desire and thought, Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought; Now from my temple is he on the way, Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday; "'Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there, And when thou seest him set his eyes upon Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care, Then call him by his name, Pygmalion, And certainly thy lover hast thou won; But when he stands before thee silently, Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.' "With that she said what first I told thee, love And then went on, 'Moreover thou shalt say That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, Have wrought for him this long-desired day; In sign whereof, these things that pass away, Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid.' "Therewith her raiment she put off from her. And laid bare all her perfect loveliness, And, smiling on me, came yet more anear, And on my mortal lips her lips did press, And said, 'Now herewith shalt thou love no less Than Psyche loved my son in days of old; Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.' "And even with that last word was she gone, How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed In her fair gift, and waited thee alone-- Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said, For now I love thee so, I grow afraid Of what the gods upon our heads may send-- I love thee so, I think upon the end." What words he said? How can I tell again What words they said beneath the glimmering light, Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men As each to each they told their great delight, Until for stillness of the growing night Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed growing loud And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. * * * * * Such was the ending of his ancient rhyme, That seemed to fit that soft and golden time, When men were happy, they could scarce tell why, Although they felt the rich year slipping by. The sun went down, the harvest-moon arose, And 'twixt the slim trees of that fruitful close They saw the corn still falling 'neath its light, While through the soft air of the windless night The voices of the reapers' mates rang clear In measured song, as of the fruitful year They told, and its delights, and now and then The rougher voices of the toiling men Joined in the song, as one by one released From that hard toil, they sauntered towards the feast That waited them upon the strip of grass That through the golden-glimmering sea did pass. But those old men, glad to have lived so long, Sat listening through the twilight to the song, And when the night grew and all things were still Throughout the wide vale from green hill to hill Unto a happy harvesting they drank Till once more o'er the hills the white moon sank. * * * * * August had not gone by, though now was stored In the sweet-smelling granaries all the hoard Of golden corn; the land had made her gain, And winter should howl round her doors in vain. But o'er the same fields grey now and forlorn The old men sat and heard the swineherd's horn, Far off across the stubble, when the day At end of harvest-tide was sad and grey; And rain was in the wind's voice as it swept Along the hedges where the lone quail crept, Beneath the chattering of the restless pie. The fruit-hung branches moved, and suddenly The trembling apples smote the dewless grass, And all the year to autumn-tide did pass. E'en such a day it was as young men love When swiftly through the veins the blood doth move, And they, whose eyes can see not death at all, To thoughts of stirring deeds and pleasure fall, Because it seems to them to tell of life After the dreamy days devoid of strife, When every day with sunshine is begun, And cloudless skies receive the setting sun. On such a day the older folk were fain Of something new somewhat to dull the pain Of sad, importunate old memories That to their weary hearts must needs arise. Alas! what new things on that day could come From hearts that now so long had been the home Of such dull thoughts, nay, rather let them tell Some tale that fits their ancient longings well. Rolf was the speaker, who said, "Friends, behold This is e'en such a tale as those once told Unto my greedy ears by Nicholas, Before our quest for nothing came to pass." OGIER THE DANE. ARGUMENT. When Ogier was born, six fay ladies came to the cradle where he lay, and gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and the like; but the sixth gave him to be her love when he should have lived long in the world: so Ogier grew up and became the greatest of knights, and at last, after many years, fell into the hands of that fay, and with her, as the story tells, he lives now, though he returned once to the world, as is shown in the process of this tale. Within some Danish city by the sea, Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me, Great mourning was there one fair summer eve, Because the angels, bidden to receive The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise, Had done their bidding, and in royal guise Her helpless body, once the prize of love, Unable now for fear or hope to move, Lay underneath the golden canopy; And bowed down by unkingly misery The King sat by it, and not far away, Within the chamber a fair man-child lay, His mother's bane, the king that was to be, Not witting yet of any royalty, Harmless and loved, although so new to life. Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun, Unhappy that his day of bliss was done; Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred, 'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail, No more of woe there seemed within her song Than such as doth to lovers' words belong, Because their love is still unsatisfied. But to the King, on that sweet eventide, No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone; No help, no God! but lonely pain alone; And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit Himself the very heart and soul of it. But round the cradle of the new-born child The nurses now the weary time beguiled With stories of the just departed Queen; And how, amid the heathen folk first seen, She had been won to love and godliness; And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress, An eager whisper now and then did smite Upon the King's ear, of some past delight, Some once familiar name, and he would raise His weary head, and on the speaker gaze Like one about to speak, but soon again Would drop his head and be alone with pain, Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn, Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night, Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light, The fresh earth lay in colourless repose. So passed the night, and now and then one rose From out her place to do what might avail To still the new-born infant's fretful wail; Or through the softly-opened door there came Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name Of her whose turn was come, would take her place; Then toward the King would turn about her face And to her fellows whisper of the day, And tell again of her just past away. So waned the hours, the moon arose and grew, From off the sea a little west-wind blew, Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain; And ere the moon began to fall again The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky, And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh: Then from her place a nurse arose to light Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night, The tapers round about the dead Queen were; But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide About the floor, that in the stillness cried Beneath her careful feet; and now as she Had lit the second candle carefully, And on its silver spike another one Was setting, through her body did there run A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed That on the dainty painted wax was laid; Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep, And o'er the staring King began to creep Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe That drew his weary face did softer grow, His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side; And moveless in their places did abide The nursing women, held by some strong spell, E'en as they were, and utter silence fell Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair. But now light footsteps coming up the stair, Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground; And heavenly odours through the chamber passed, Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast Upon the freshness of the dying night; Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light Until the door swung open noiselessly-- A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be Within the doorway, and but pale and wan The flame showed now that serveth mortal man, As one by one six seeming ladies passed Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering, That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring; Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad, As yet no merchant of the world has had Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair Only because they kissed their odorous hair, And all that flowery raiment was but blessed By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed. Now to the cradle from that glorious band, A woman passed, and laid a tender hand Upon the babe, and gently drew aside The swathings soft that did his body hide; And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled, And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child, Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day; For to the time when life shall pass away From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame, No weariness of good shall foul thy name." So saying, to her sisters she returned; And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed; She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said, "This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid At rest for ever, to thine honoured life There never shall be lacking war and strife, That thou a long-enduring name mayst win, And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin." With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile, "And this forgotten gift to thee I give, That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live, Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee Defeat and shame but idle words shall be." Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy The first of men: a little gift this is, After these promises of fame and bliss." Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went; Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent Down on the floor, parted her red lips were, And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair Oft would the colour spread full suddenly; Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she, For some green summer of the fay-land dight, Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light Upon the child, and said, "O little one, As long as thou shalt look upon the sun Shall women long for thee; take heed to this And give them what thou canst of love and bliss." Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past, And by the cradle stood the sixth and last, The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed Down on the child, and then her hand she raised, And made the one side of her bosom bare; "Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife Have yielded thee whatever joy they may, Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay; And then, despite of knowledge or of God, Will we be glad upon the flowery sod Within the happy country where I dwell: Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!" She turned, and even as they came they passed From out the place, and reached the gate at last That oped before their feet, and speedily They gained the edges of the murmuring sea, And as they stood in silence, gazing there Out to the west, they vanished into air, I know not how, nor whereto they returned. But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned The flickering candles, and those dreary folk, Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke, But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew Through the half-opened casements now there blew A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea Mingled together, smelt deliciously, And from the unseen sun the spreading light Began to make the fair June blossoms bright, And midst their weary woe uprose the sun, And thus has Ogier's noble life begun. * * * * * Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear; Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear, Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope, But forasmuch as we with life must cope, Struggling with this and that, who knoweth why? Hope will not give us up to certainty, But still must bide with us: and with this man, Whose life amid such promises began Great things she wrought; but now the time has come When he no more on earth may have his home. Great things he suffered, great delights he had, Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad; He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more Is had in memory, and on many a shore He left his sweat and blood to win a name Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame. A love he won and lost, a well-loved son Whose little day of promise soon was done: A tender wife he had, that he must leave Before his heart her love could well receive; Those promised gifts, that on his careless head In those first hours of his fair life were shed He took unwitting, and unwitting spent, Nor gave himself to grief and discontent Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh. Where is he now? in what land must he die, To leave an empty name to us on earth? A tale half true, to cast across our mirth Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been; Where is he now, that all this life has seen? Behold, another eve upon the earth Than that calm evening of the warrior's birth; The sun is setting in the west, the sky Is bright and clear and hard, and no clouds lie About the golden circle of the sun; But East, aloof from him, heavy and dun Steel-grey they pack with edges red as blood, And underneath them is the weltering flood Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they Turn restless sides about, are black or grey, Or green, or glittering with the golden flame; The wind has fallen now, but still the same The mighty army moves, as if to drown This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray. Alas! what ships upon an evil day Bent over to the wind in this ill sea? What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was, A fearful storm to bring such things to pass. This is the loadstone rock; no armament Of warring nations, in their madness bent Their course this way; no merchant wittingly Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea; Upon no shipman's card its name is writ, Though worn-out mariners will speak of it Within the ingle on the winter's night, When all within is warm and safe and bright, And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will Are some folk driven here, and then all skill Against this evil rock is vain and nought, And unto death the shipmen soon are brought; For then the keel, as by a giant's hand, Is drawn unto that mockery of a land, And presently unto its sides doth cleave; When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave The narrow limits of that barren isle, And thus are slain by famine in a while Mocked, as they say, by night with images Of noble castles among groves of trees, By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy. The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea, The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright; The moon is rising o'er the growing night, And by its shine may ye behold the bones Of generations of these luckless ones Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old, Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold, But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air; Huge is he, of a noble face and fair, As for an ancient man, though toil and eld Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld With melting hearts--Nay, listen, for he speaks! "God, Thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks Have passed since from the wreck we haled our store, And five long days well told, have now passed o'er Since my last fellow died, with my last bread Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead. Yea, but for this I had been strong enow In some last bloody field my sword to show. What matter? soon will all be past and done, Where'er I died I must have died alone: Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been Dying, thy face above me to have seen, And heard my banner flapping in the wind, Then, though my memory had not left thy mind, Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more When thou hadst known that everything was o'er; But now thou waitest, still expecting me, Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea. "And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call, To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall, But never shall they tell true tales of me: Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town, No more on my sails shall they look adown. "Get thee another leader, Charlemaine, For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain, When in the fair fields of the Frankish land, Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand. "What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives; Husbands and children, other friends and wives, Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean, And all shall be as I had never been. "And now, O God, am I alone with Thee; A little thing indeed it seems to be To give this life up, since it needs must go Some time or other; now at last I know How foolishly men play upon the earth, When unto them a year of life seems worth Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet That like real things my dying heart do greet, Unreal while living on the earth I trod, And but myself I knew no other god. Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus This end, that I had thought most piteous, If of another I had heard it told." What man is this, who weak and worn and old Gives up his life within that dreadful isle, And on the fearful coming death can smile? Alas! this man, so battered and outworn, Is none but he, who, on that summer morn, Received such promises of glorious life: Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood, To whom all life, however hard, was good: This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb, Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim For all the years that he on earth has dwelt; Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt, Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane, The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane. * * * * * Bright had the moon grown as his words were done, And no more was there memory of the sun Within the west, and he grew drowsy now. And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep, And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep, Hiding the image of swift-coming death; Until as peacefully he drew his breath As on that day, past for a hundred years, When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears, He fell asleep to his first lullaby. The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high Began about the lonely moon to close; And from the dark west a new wind arose, And with the sound of heavy-falling waves Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves; But when the twinkling stars were hid away, And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day, The moon upon that dreary country shed, Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again; Rather some pleasure new, some other pain, Unthought of both, some other form of strife;" For he had waked from dreams of his old life, And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state Of that triumphant king; and still, though all Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call Faces he knew of old, yet none the less He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness, Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst For coming glory, as of old, when first He stood before the face of Charlemaine, A helpless hostage with all life to gain. But now, awake, his worn face once more sank Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank The draught of death that must that thirst allay. But while he sat and waited for the day A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, Which at the first he noted not, but deemed The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; But ruddier indeed this new light grew Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death. An easy thing like this to yield my breath, Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word It seemed to him that he his own name heard Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; With that he gat unto his feet at last, But still awhile he stood, with sunken head, And in a low and trembling voice he said, "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go? I pray Thee unto me some token show." And, as he said this, round about he turned, And in the east beheld a light that burned As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear The coming change that he believed so near, Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought Unto the very heaven to be brought: And though he felt alive, deemed it might be That he in sleep had died full easily. Then toward that light did he begin to go, And still those strains he heard, far off and low, That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, But like the light of some unseen bright flame Shone round about, until at last he came Unto the dreary islet's other shore, And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, And softer seemed the strange light unto him, But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, Beneath its waning light could he behold A mighty palace set about with gold, Above green meads and groves of summer trees Far-off across the welter of the seas; But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight, And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light, Which soothly was but darkness to him now, His sea-girt island prison did but show. But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, And said, "Alas! and when will this go by And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream Of life that once so dear a thing did seem, That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be? Here will I sit until he come to me, And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin, That so a little calm I yet may win Before I stand within the awful place." Then down he sat and covered up his face. Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, Nor waiting thus for death could he abide, For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain Of hope of life had touched his soul again-- If he could live awhile, if he could live! The mighty being, who once was wont to give The gift of life to many a trembling man; Who did his own will since his life began; Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free Still cast aside the thought of what might be; Must all this then be lost, and with no will, Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, Nor know what he is doing any more? Soon he arose and paced along the shore, And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; But nought he saw except the old sad sight, The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, The white upspringing of the spurts of spray Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones Once cast like him upon this deadly isle. He stopped his pacing in a little while, And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, And gazing at the ruin underneath, He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, Not caring aught if thus his life should end; But safely amidst all this did he descend The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily. But now, amid the clamour of the waves, And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves, Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, And all those days of fear and loneliness, The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, And yet his footing somehow did he keep Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee. So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed, And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, And there a moment stood unsteadily, Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, And poised himself to meet the coming death, Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain Over the washing waves he heard again, And from the dimness something bright he saw Across the waste of waters towards him draw; And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last Unto his very feet a boat was cast, Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, Than struggle with that huge confuséd sea; But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, "What tales are these about the newly dead The heathen told? what matter, let all pass; This moment as one dead indeed I was, And this must be what I have got to do, I yet perchance may light on something new Before I die; though yet perchance this keel Unto the wondrous mass of charméd steel Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair Made wet by any dashing of the sea. Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, He clean forgot his death and where he was. At last he woke up to a sunny day, And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, Where in the green waves did the low bank dip Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip; But Ogier looking thence no more could see That sad abode of death and misery, Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; Then from the golden cushions did he rise, And wondering still if this were Paradise He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword And muttered therewithal a holy word. Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, For with their quivering song the air was sweet; Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, And on his head the blossoms down did rain, Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail For lamentations o'er his changéd lot; Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, For what then seemed to him a weary way, Whereon his steps he needs must often stay And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord Had small respect in glorious days long past. But still he crept along, and at the last Came to a gilded wicket, and through this Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, If that might last which needs must soon go by: There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh He said, "O God, a sinner I have been, And good it is that I these things have seen Before I meet what Thou hast set apart To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart; But who within this garden now can dwell Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?" A little further yet he staggered on, Till to a fountain-side at last he won, O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed. There he sank down, and laid his weary head Beside the mossy roots, and in a while He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; That splashing fount the weary sea did seem, And in his dream the fair place but a dream; But when again to feebleness he woke Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, Not faint or far as in the isle it was, But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; And yet his straining gaze was but in vain, Death stole so fast upon him, and no more Could he behold the blossoms as before, No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, A heavy mist seemed gathering all around, And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, And round his head there breathed deliciously Sweet odours, and that music never ceased. But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice Sent from the world he loved so well of old, And all his life was as a story told, And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile E'en as a child asleep, but in a while It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, As though from some sweet face and golden hair, And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair, And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears, Broken as if with flow of joyous tears; "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long? Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!" Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, Too long, too long; and yet one little word Right many a year agone had brought me here." Then to his face that face was drawn anear, He felt his head raised up and gently laid On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend! Who knoweth when our linkéd life shall end, Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, And all the turmoil of the world is past? Why do I linger ere I see thy face As I desired it in that mourning place So many years ago--so many years, Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?" "Alas!" he said, "what mockery then is this That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss? No longer can I think upon the earth, Have I not done with all its grief and mirth? Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love Should come once more my dying heart to move, Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls Outside St. Omer's--art thou she? her name Which I remembered once mid death and fame Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: Baldwin the fair--what hast thou done with him Since Charlot slew him? All, mine eyes wax dim; Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die? Did I forget thee in the days gone by? Then let me die, that we may meet again!" He tried to move from her, but all in vain, For life had well-nigh left him, but withal He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall, And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak. * * * * * But, ah! what land was this he woke unto? What joy was this that filled his heart anew? Had he then gained the very Paradise? Trembling, he durst not at the first arise, Although no more he felt the pain of eld, Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld Beside him the white flowers and blades of grass; He durst not speak, lest he some monster was. But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still, Apart from every earthly fear and ill; Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this, That I like thee may live in double bliss?" Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun, But as he might have risen in old days To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze; But, looking round, he saw no change there was In the fair place wherethrough he first did pass, Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes, Now looked no worse than very Paradise; Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair Still sent its glittering stream forth into air, And by its basin a fair woman stood, And as their eyes met his new-healéd blood Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat. The fairest of all creatures did she seem; So fresh and delicate you well might deem That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest, Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt A child before her had the wise man felt, And with the pleasure of a thousand years Her lips were fashioned to move joy or tears Among the longing folk where she might dwell, To give at last the kiss unspeakable. In such wise was she clad as folk may be, Who, for no shame of their humanity, For no sad changes of the imperfect year, Rather for added beauty, raiment wear; For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days, Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet That bound the sandals to her dainty feet, Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head, And on her breast there lay a ruby red. So with a supplicating look she turned To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned, And held out both her white arms lovingly, As though to greet him as he drew anigh. Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I So cured of all my evils suddenly, That certainly I felt no mightier, when, Amid the backward rush of beaten men, About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme? Alas! I fear that in some dream I am." "Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is That such a name God gives unto our bliss; I know not, but if thou art such an one As I must deem, all days beneath the sun That thou hadst had, shall be but dreams indeed To those that I have given thee at thy need. For many years ago beside the sea When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee: Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes, That thou mayst see what these my mysteries Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years, Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears, Nor while thou art with me, and on this shore Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more. Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand, The hope and fear of many a warring land, And I will show thee wherein lies the spell, Whereby this happy change upon thee fell." Like a shy youth before some royal love, Close up to that fair woman did he move, And their hands met; yet to his changéd voice He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel, And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal As her light raiment, driven by the wind, Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind His lips the treasure of her lips did press, And round him clung her perfect loveliness. For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then She drew herself from out his arms again, And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand, And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,-- "O Ogier, when thou camest here to-day, I feared indeed, that in my play with fate, I might have seen thee e'en one day too late, Before this ring thy finger should embrace; Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold; My father dying gave it me, nor told The manner of its making, but I know That it can make thee e'en as thou art now Despite the laws of God--shrink not from me Because I give an impious gift to thee-- Has not God made me also, who do this? But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss, Am of the fays, and live their changeless life, And, like the gods of old, I see the strife That moves the world, unmoved if so I will; For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill, Have never touched like you of Adam's race; And while thou dwellest with me in this place Thus shalt thou be--ah, and thou deem'st, indeed, That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand How thou art come into a happy land?-- Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing, And tell thee of it many a joyous thing; But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain, Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again Thou wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss; And so with us no otherwise it is, Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away Even as yet, though that shall be to-day. "But for the love and country thou hast won, Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon, That is both thine and mine; and as for me, Morgan le Fay men call me commonly Within the world, but fairer names than this I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss." Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain, That she had brought him here this life to gain? For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind He watched the kisses of the wandering wind Within her raiment, or as some one sees The very best of well-wrought images When he is blind with grief, did he behold The wandering tresses of her locks of gold Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed The hand that in his own hand lay at rest: His eyes, grown dull with changing memories, Could make no answer to her glorious eyes: Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught, With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought, Unfinished in the old days; and withal He needs must think of what might chance to fall In this life new-begun; and good and bad Tormented him, because as yet he had A worldly heart within his frame made new, And to the deeds that he was wont to do Did his desires still turn. But she a while Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile, And let his hand fall down; and suddenly Sounded sweet music from some close nearby, And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me, That thou thy new life and delights mayst see." And gently with that word she led him thence, And though upon him now there fell a sense Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment, As hand in hand through that green place they went, Yet therewithal a strain of tender love A little yet his restless heart did move. So through the whispering trees they came at last To where a wondrous house a shadow cast Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied grass Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pass, Playing about in carelessness and mirth, Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth; And from the midst a band of fair girls came, With flowers and music, greeting him by name, And praising him; but ever like a dream He could not break, did all to Ogier seem. And he his old world did the more desire, For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire, That through the world of old so bright did burn: Yet was he fain that kindness to return, And from the depth of his full heart he sighed. Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught, But still with kind love lighting up her face She led him through the door of that fair place, While round about them did the damsels press; And he was moved by all that loveliness As one might be, who, lying half asleep In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep Over the tulip-beds: no more to him Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim, Amidst that dream, although the first surprise Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir. And so at last he came, led on by her Into a hall wherein a fair throne was, And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass; And there she bade him sit, and when alone He took his place upon the double throne, She cast herself before him on her knees, Embracing his, and greatly did increase The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart: But now a line of girls the crowd did part, Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold One in their midst who bore a crown of gold Within her slender hands and delicate; She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait Until the Queen arose and took the crown, Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth Thy miserable days of strife on earth, That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?" Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned With sudden memories, and thereto had he Made answer, but she raised up suddenly The crown she held and set it on his head, "Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead; Thou wert dead with them also, but for me; Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!" Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave Did really hold his body; from his seat He rose to cast himself before her feet; But she clung round him, and in close embrace The twain were locked amidst that thronging place. Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won, And in the happy land of Avallon Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head; There saw he many men the world thought dead, Living like him in sweet forgetfulness Of all the troubles that did once oppress Their vainly-struggling lives--ah, how can I Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh? Suffice it that no fear of death they knew, That there no talk there was of false or true, Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there; That everything was bright and soft and fair, And yet they wearied not for any change, Nor unto them did constancy seem strange. Love knew they, but its pain they never had, But with each other's joy were they made glad; Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire, Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire That turns to ashes all the joys of earth, Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on, Nor dreamed of discontent when all was won; Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame; Still was the calm flow of their lives the same, And yet, I say, they wearied not of it-- So did the promised days by Ogier flit. * * * * * Think that a hundred years have now passed by, Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die Beside the fountain; think that now ye are In France, made dangerous with wasting war; In Paris, where about each guarded gate, Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait, And press around each new-come man to learn If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn, Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain, Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine? Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants? That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes? When will they come? or rather is it true That a great band the Constable o'erthrew Upon the marshes of the lower Seine, And that their long-ships, turning back again, Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore Were driven here and there and cast ashore? Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again, And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant, Still got new lies, or tidings very scant. But now amidst these men at last came one, A little ere the setting of the sun, With two stout men behind him, armed right well, Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell, With doubtful eyes upon their master stared, Or looked about like troubled men and scared. And he they served was noteworthy indeed; Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed, Rich past the wont of men in those sad times; His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes, But lovely as the image of a god Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod; But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass, And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was: A mighty man he was, and taller far Than those who on that day must bear the war The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed And showed his pass; then, asked about his name And from what city of the world he came, Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight, That he was come midst the king's men to fight From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed Down on the thronging street as one amazed, And answered no more to the questioning Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing; But, ere he passed on, turned about at last And on the wondering guard a strange look cast, And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye Fight with the wasters from across the sea? Then, certes, are ye lost, however good Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone." So said he, and as his fair armour shone With beauty of a time long passed away, So with the music of another day His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk. Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke, That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought, Surely good succour to our side is brought; For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb To save his faithful city from its doom." "Yea," said another, "this is certain news, Surely ye know how all the carvers use To carve the dead man's image at the best, That guards the place where he may lie at rest; Wherefore this living image looks indeed, Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed, To have but thirty summers." At the name Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow, And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how; So with a half-sigh soon sank back again Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein, And silently went on upon his way. And this was Ogier: on what evil day Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come, Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home Of his desires? did he grow weary then, And wish to strive once more with foolish men For worthless things? or is fair Avallon Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone? Nay, thus it happed--One day she came to him And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxing dim Upon the world that thou rememberest not; The heathen men are thick on many a spot Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore; And God will give His wonted help no more. Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind To give thy banner once more to the wind? Since greater glory thou shalt win for this Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss: For men are dwindled both in heart and frame, Nor holds the fair land any such a name As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers; The world is worser for these hundred years." From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire, And in his voice was something of desire, To see the land where he was used to be, As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me, Thou art the wisest; it is more than well Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell: Nor ill perchance in that old land to die, If, dying, I keep not the memory Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she, "As to thy dying, that shall never be, Whiles that thou keep'st my ring--and now, behold, I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold, And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast: Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still, And I will guard thy life from every ill." So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well, Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell, And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew That great delight forgotten was his due, That all which there might hap was of small worth. So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth Did his attire move the country-folk, But oftener when strange speeches from him broke Concerning men and things for long years dead, He filled the listeners with great awe and dread; For in such wild times as these people were Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear. Now through the streets of Paris did he ride, And at a certain hostel did abide Throughout that night, and ere he went next day He saw a book that on a table lay, And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood: But long before it in that place he stood, Noting nought else; for it did chronicle The deeds of men whom once he knew right well, When they were living in the flesh with him: Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim Already, and true stories mixed with lies, Until, with many thronging memories Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed, He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest, Forgetting all things: for indeed by this Little remembrance had he of the bliss That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon. But his changed life he needs must carry on; For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men To send unto the good King, who as then In Rouen lay, beset by many a band Of those who carried terror through the land, And still by messengers for help he prayed: Therefore a mighty muster was being made, Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous, Before the Queen anigh her royal house. So thither on this morn did Ogier turn, Some certain news about the war to learn; And when he came at last into the square, And saw the ancient palace great and fair Rise up before him as in other days, And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays Glittering on gathered helms and moving spears, He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years, And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen Came from within, right royally beseen, And took her seat beneath a canopy, With lords and captains of the war anigh; And as she came a mighty shout arose, And round about began the knights to close, Their oath of fealty to swear anew, And learn what service they had got to do. But so it was, that some their shouts must stay To gaze at Ogier as he took his way Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat Unto the place whereas the Lady sat, For men gave place unto him, fearing him: For not alone was he most huge of limb, And dangerous, but something in his face, As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place, Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days, When men might hope alive on gods to gaze, They would have thought, "The gods yet love our town And from the heavens have sent a great one down." Withal unto the throne he came so near, That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear; And swiftly now within him wrought the change That first he felt amid those faces strange; And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life With such desires, such changing sweetness rife. And yet, indeed, how should he live alone, Who in the old past days such friends had known? Then he began to think of Caraheu, Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew The bitter pain of rent and ended love. But while with hope and vain regret he strove, He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat, And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet And took her hand to swear, as was the way Of doing fealty in that ancient day, And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she As any woman of the world might be Full-limbed and tall, dark-haired, from her deep eyes, The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise, Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand, The well-knit holder of the golden wand, Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown, And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown, As he, the taker of such oaths of yore, Now unto her all due obedience swore, Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen, Awed by his voice as other folk had been, Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name Thou tellest not, nor what land of thy fame Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad, That in its bounds her house thy mother had." "Lady," he said, "from what far land I come I well might tell thee, but another home Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I Forgotten now, forgotten utterly Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did; Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid And my first country; call me on this day The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way." He rose withal, for she her fingers fair Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare As one afeard; for something terrible Was in his speech, and that she knew right well, Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she, Shut out by some strange deadly mystery, Should never gain from him an equal love; Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move, She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently, When we have done this muster, unto me, And thou shalt have thy charge and due command For freeing from our foes this wretched land!" Then Ogier made his reverence and went, And somewhat could perceive of her intent; For in his heart life grew, and love with life Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife. But, as he slowly gat him from the square, Gazing at all the people gathered there, A squire of the Queen's behind him came, And breathless, called him by his new-coined name, And bade him turn because the Queen now bade, Since by the muster long she might be stayed, That to the palace he should bring him straight, Midst sport and play her coming back to wait; Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went, And to a postern-gate his steps he bent, That Ogier knew right well in days of old; Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold Upon the shields above, with lapse of days, Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze Upon the garden where he walked of yore, Holding the hands that he should see no more; For all was changed except the palace fair, That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed Of all the things that by the way he said, For all his thoughts were on the days long dead. There in the painted hall he sat again, And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream; And midst his growing longings yet might deem That he from sleep should wake up presently In some fair city on the Syrian sea, Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle. But fain to be alone, within a while He gat him to the garden, and there passed By wondering squires and damsels, till at last, Far from the merry folk who needs must play, If on the world were coming its last day, He sat him down, and through his mind there ran Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan, He lay down by the fountain-side to die. But when he strove to gain clear memory Of what had happed since on the isle he lay Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway, Thought, failing him, would rather bring again His life among the peers of Charlemaine, And vex his soul with hapless memories; Until at last, worn out by thought of these, And hopeless striving to find what was true, And pondering on the deeds he had to do Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell, Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell. And on the afternoon of that fair day, Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay. Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done, Went through the gardens with one dame alone Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground. Dreaming, I know not what, of other days. Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze, Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight, Then to her fellow turned, "The Ancient Knight-- What means he by this word of his?" she said; "He were well mated with some lovely maid Just pondering on the late-heard name of love." "Softly, my lady, he begins to move," Her fellow said, a woman old and grey; "Look now, his arms are of another day; None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said He asked about the state of men long dead; I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not That ring that on one finger he has got, Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought: God grant that he from hell has not been brought For our confusion, in this doleful war, Who surely in enough of trouble are Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide, For lurking dread this speech within her stirred; But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word, This man is come against our enemies To fight for us." Then down upon her knees Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight, And from his hand she drew with fingers light The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes The change began; his golden hair turned white, His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath, And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death; And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen And longed for, but a little while ago, Yet with her terror still her love did grow, And she began to weep as though she saw Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw. And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes, And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs His lips could utter; then he tried to reach His hand to them, as though he would beseech The gift of what was his: but all the while The crone gazed on them with an evil smile, Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring, She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing, Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast, May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past, Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand And took the ring, and there awhile did stand And strove to think of it, but still in her Such all-absorbing longings love did stir, So young she was, of death she could not think, Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink; Yet on her finger had she set the ring When now the life that hitherto did cling To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away, And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay. Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously, "Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee, And thou grow'st young again? what should I do If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred, Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh, And therewith on his finger hastily She set the ring, then rose and stood apart A little way, and in her doubtful heart With love and fear was mixed desire of life. But standing so, a look with great scorn rife The elder woman, turning, cast on her, Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir; She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem To have been nothing but a hideous dream, As fair and young he rose from off the ground And cast a dazed and puzzled look around, Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place; But soon his grave eyes rested on her face, And turned yet graver seeing her so pale, And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile, And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then? While through this poor land range the heathen men Unmet of any but my King and Lord: Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword." "Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work, And certes I behind no wall would lurk, Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk Still followed after me to break the yoke: I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain That I might rather never sleep again Then have such wretched dreams as I e'en now Have waked from." Lovelier she seemed to grow Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came Into her face, as though for some sweet shame, While she with tearful eyes beheld him so, That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow, His heart beat faster. But again she said, "Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head? Then may I too have pardon for a dream: Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem To be the King of France; and thou and I Were sitting at some great festivity Within the many-peopled gold-hung place." The blush of shame was gone as on his face She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear And knew that no cold words she had to fear, But rather that for softer speech he yearned. Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned; Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss, She trembled at the near approaching bliss; Nathless, she checked her love a little while, Because she felt the old dame's curious smile Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight, If I then read my last night's dream aright, Thou art come here our very help to be, Perchance to give my husband back to me; Come then, if thou this land art fain to save, And show the wisdom thou must surely have Unto my council; I will give thee then What charge I may among my valiant men; And certes thou wilt do so well herein, That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win: Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land, And let me touch for once thy mighty hand With these weak fingers." As she spoke, she met His eager hand, and all things did forget But for one moment, for too wise were they To cast the coming years of joy away; Then with her other hand her gown she raised And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed At her old follower with a doubtful smile, As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!" But slowly she behind the lovers walked, Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise, Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise For any other than myself; and thou May'st even happen to have had enow Of this new love, before I get the ring, And I may work for thee no evil thing." Now ye shall know that the old chronicle, Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did, There may ye read them; nor let me be chid If I therefore say little of these things, Because the thought of Avallon still clings Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear To think of that long, dragging, useless year, Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory, Ogier was grown content to live and die Like other men; but this I have to say, That in the council chamber on that day The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow, While fainter still with love the Queen did grow Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes Flashing with fire of warlike memories; Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed That she could give him now the charge, to lead One wing of the great army that set out From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout, Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears, And slender hopes and unresisted fears. Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay, Newly awakened at the dawn of day, Gathering perplexéd thoughts of many a thing, When, midst the carol that the birds did sing Unto the coming of the hopeful sun, He heard a sudden lovesome song begun 'Twixt two young voices in the garden green, That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen. SONG. HÆC. _In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,_ _Love, be merry for my sake;_ _Twine the blossoms in my hair,_ _Kiss me where I am most fair--_ _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ _What thing cometh after death?_ ILLE. _Nay, the garlanded gold hair_ _Hides thee where thou art most fair;_ _Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow--_ _Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!_ _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ _What thing cometh after death?_ HÆC _Shall we weep for a dead day,_ _Or set Sorrow in our way?_ _Hidden by my golden hair,_ _Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?_ _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ _What thing cometh after death?_ ILLE. _Weep, O Love, the days that flit,_ _Now, while I can feel thy breath,_ _Then may I remember it_ _Sad and old, and near my death._ _Kiss me, love! for who knoweth_ _What thing cometh after death?_ Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought Of happiness it seemed to promise him, He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim, And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep Till in the growing light he lay asleep, Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast Had summoned him all thought away to cast: Yet one more joy of love indeed he had Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad; For, as on that May morning forth they rode And passed before the Queen's most fair abode, There at a window was she waiting them In fair attire with gold in every hem, And as the Ancient Knight beneath her passed A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast, And looked farewell to him, and forth he set Thinking of all the pleasure he should get From love and war, forgetting Avallon And all that lovely life so lightly won; Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned. And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame, Forgat the letters of his ancient name As one waked fully shall forget a dream, That once to him a wondrous tale did seem. Now I, though writing here no chronicle E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain By a broad arrow had the King been slain, And helpless now the wretched country lay Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day When Ogier fell at last upon the foe, And scattered them as helplessly as though They had been beaten men without a name: So when to Paris town once more he came Few folk the memory of the King did keep Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed That such a man had risen at their need To work for them so great deliverance, And loud they called on him for King of France. But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame For all that she had heard of his great fame, I know not; rather with some hidden dread Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead, And her false dream seemed coming true at last, For the clear sky of love seemed overcast With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear Of hate and final parting drawing near. So now when he before her throne did stand Amidst the throng as saviour of the land, And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise, And there before all her own love must praise; Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said, "See, how she sorrows for the newly dead! Amidst our joy she needs must think of him; Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim And she shall wed again." So passed the year, While Ogier set himself the land to clear Of broken remnants of the heathen men, And at the last, when May-time came again, Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land, And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand And wed her for his own. And now by this Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss Of his old life, and still was he made glad As other men; and hopes and fears he had As others, and bethought him not at all Of what strange days upon him yet should fall When he should live and these again be dead. Now drew the time round when he should be wed, And in his palace on his bed he lay Upon the dawning of the very day: 'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear, The hammering of the folk who toiled to make Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake, Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun To twitter o'er the coming of the sun, Nor through the palace did a creature move. There in the sweet entanglement of love Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay, Remembering no more of that other day Than the hot noon remembereth of the night, Than summer thinketh of the winter white. In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried, "Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide, And rising on his elbow, gazed around, And strange to him and empty was the sound Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said "For I, the man who lie upon this bed, Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day, But in a year that now is passed away The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this, Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his? And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh, As of one grieved, came from some place anigh His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again, "This Ogier once was great amongst great men; To Italy a helpless hostage led; He saved the King when the false Lombard fled, Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day; Charlot he brought back, whom men led away, And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu. The ravager of Rome his right hand slew; Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine, Who for a dreary year beset in vain His lonely castle; yet at last caught then, And shut in hold, needs must he come again To give an unhoped great deliverance Unto the burdened helpless land of France: Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore The crown of England drawn from trouble sore; At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon With mighty deeds he from the foemen won; And when scarce aught could give him greater fame, He left the world still thinking on his name. "These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou, Nor will I call thee by a new name now Since I have spoken words of love to thee-- Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me, E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time Before thou camest to our happy clime?" As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed A lovely woman clad in dainty weed Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred Within his heart by that last plaintive word, Though nought he said, but waited what should come "Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home; Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do, And if thou bidest here, for something new Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame Shall then avail thee but for greater blame; Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth Thou lovest now shall be of little worth While still thou keepest life, abhorring it Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee, Who some faint image of eternity Hast gained through me?--alas, thou heedest not! On all these changing things thine heart is hot-- Take then this gift that I have brought from far, And then may'st thou remember what we are; The lover and the loved from long ago." He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow Within his heart as he beheld her stand, Holding a glittering crown in her right hand: "Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee The emblems of thy worldly sovereignty, For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn." He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook Over the people's heads in days of old; Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold. And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair, And set the gold crown on his golden hair: Then on the royal chair he sat him down, As though he deemed the elders of the town Should come to audience; and in all he seemed To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed. And now adown the Seine the golden sun Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one And took from off his head the royal crown, And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine, Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain, Because he died, and all the things he did Were changed before his face by earth was hid; A better crown I have for my love's head, Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead His hand has helped." Then on his head she set The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget! Forget these weary things, for thou hast much Of happiness to think of." At that touch He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes; And smitten by the rush of memories, He stammered out, "O love! how came we here? What do we in this land of Death and Fear? Have I not been from thee a weary while? Let us return--I dreamed about the isle; I dreamed of other years of strife and pain, Of new years full of struggles long and vain." She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love, I am not changed;" and therewith did they move Unto the door, and through the sleeping place Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his Except the dear returning of his bliss. But at the threshold of the palace-gate That opened to them, she awhile did wait, And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine And said, "O love, behold it once again!" He turned, and gazed upon the city grey Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May; He heard faint noises as of wakening folk As on their heads his day of glory broke; He heard the changing rush of the swift stream Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream His work was over, his reward was come, Why should he loiter longer from his home? A little while she watched him silently, Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh, And, raising up the raiment from her feet, Across the threshold stepped into the street; One moment on the twain the low sun shone, And then the place was void, and they were gone How I know not; but this I know indeed, That in whatso great trouble or sore need The land of France since that fair day has been, No more the sword of Ogier has she seen. * * * * * Such was the tale he told of Avallon. E'en such an one as in days past had won His youthful heart to think upon the quest; But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest, Not much to be desired now it seemed-- Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed Had found no words in this death-laden tongue We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; Perchance the changing years that changed his heart E'en in the words of that old tale had part, Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair The foolish hope that once had glittered there-- Or think, that in some bay of that far home They then had sat, and watched the green waves come Up to their feet with many promises; Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred Long dead for ever. Howsoe'er that be Among strange folk they now sat quietly, As though that tale with them had nought to do, As though its hopes and fears were something new But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band Had no tears left for that once longed-for land, The very wind must moan for their decay, And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves. Yet, since a little life at least was left, They were not yet of every joy bereft, For long ago was past the agony, Midst which they found that they indeed must die; And now well-nigh as much their pain was past As though death's veil already had been cast Over their heads--so, midst some little mirth, They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth. Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO Edinburgh & London Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. Page "118" has been corrected to "112" in the Contents. Some quotes are opened with marks but are not closed and, since they require interpretation, have been left open as presented in the original text. 
22381	----	_A HAND-BOOK OF MYTHOLOGY._ * * * * * THE MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF ANCIENT GREECE AND ROME. BY E. M. BERENS. _ILLUSTRATED FROM ANTIQUE SCULPTURES._ [Illustration] NEW YORK: MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO., 43, 45 AND 47 EAST TENTH STREET. * * * * * {i} PREFACE. * * * * * The want of an interesting work on Greek and Roman mythology, suitable for the requirements of both boys and girls, has long been recognized by the principals of our advanced schools. The study of the classics themselves, even where the attainments of the pupil have rendered this feasible, has not been found altogether successful in giving to the student a clear and succinct idea of the religious beliefs of the ancients, and it has been suggested that a work which would so deal with the subject as to render it at once interesting and instructive would be hailed as a valuable introduction to the study of classic authors, and would be found to assist materially the labours of both master and pupil. In endeavouring to supply this want I have sought to place before the reader a lifelike picture of the deities of classical times as they were conceived and worshipped by the ancients themselves, and thereby to awaken in the minds of young students a desire to become more intimately acquainted with the noble productions of classical antiquity. It has been my aim to render the Legends, which form the second portion of the work, a picture, as it were, of old Greek life; its customs, its superstitions, and its princely hospitalities, for which reason they are given at somewhat greater length than is usual in works of the kind. In a chapter devoted to the purpose some interesting particulars have been collected respecting the public worship of the ancient Greeks and Romans (more especially of the former), to which is subjoined an account of their principal festivals. I may add that no pains have been spared in order that, without passing over details the omission of which would have {ii} marred the completeness of the work, not a single passage should be found which could possibly offend the most scrupulous delicacy; and also that I have purposely treated the subject with that reverence which I consider due to every religious system, however erroneous. It is hardly necessary to dwell upon the importance of the study of Mythology: our poems, our novels, and even our daily journals teem with classical allusions; nor can a visit to our art galleries and museums be fully enjoyed without something more than a mere superficial knowledge of a subject which has in all ages inspired painters, sculptors, and poets. It therefore only remains for me to express a hope that my little work may prove useful, not only to teachers and scholars, but also to a large class of general readers, who, in whiling away a leisure hour, may derive some pleasure and profit from its perusal. E. M. BERENS. * * * * * {iii} CONTENTS. PART I.--MYTHS. Page Introduction, 7 FIRST DYNASTY. ORIGIN OF THE WORLD-- URANUS AND GÆA (Coelus and Terra), 11 SECOND DYNASTY. CRONUS (Saturn), 14 RHEA (Ops), 18 DIVISION OF THE WORLD, 19 THEORIES AS TO THE ORIGIN OF MAN, 21 THIRD DYNASTY. OLYMPIAN DIVINITIES-- ZEUS (Jupiter), 26 HERA (Juno), 38 PALLAS-ATHENE (Minerva), 43 THEMIS, 48 HESTIA (Vesta), 48 DEMETER (Ceres), 50 APHRODITE (Venus), 58 HELIOS (Sol), 61 EOS (Aurora), 67 PHOEBUS-APOLLO, 68 HECATE, 85 SELENE (Luna), 86 ARTEMIS (Diana), 87 HEPHÆSTUS (Vulcan), 97 POSEIDON (Neptune), 101 {iv} SEA DIVINITIES-- OCEANUS, 107 NEREUS, 108 PROTEUS, 108 TRITON AND THE TRITONS, 109 GLAUCUS, 109 THETIS, 110 THAUMAS, PHORCYS, AND CETO, 111 LEUCOTHEA, 111 THE SIRENS, 112 ARES (Mars), 112 NIKE (Victoria), 117 HERMES (Mercury), 117 DIONYSUS (Bacchus or Liber), 124 AÏDES (Pluto), 130 PLUTUS, 137 MINOR DIVINITIES-- THE HARPIES, 137 ERINYES, EUMENIDES (Furiæ, Diræ), 138 MOIRÆ OR FATES (Parcæ), 139 NEMESIS, 141 NIGHT AND HER CHILDREN-- NYX (Nox), 142 THANATOS (Mors), HYPNUS (Somnus), 142 MORPHEUS, 143 THE GORGONS, 144 GRÆÆ, 145 SPHINX, 146 TYCHE (Fortuna) and ANANKE (Necessitas), 147 KER, 149 ATE, 149 MOMUS, 149 EROS (Cupid, Amor) and PSYCHE, 150 HYMEN, 154 IRIS, 155 HEBE (Juventas), 156 GANYMEDES, 157 {v} THE MUSES, 157 PEGASUS, 162 THE HESPERIDES, 162 CHARITES OR GRACES, 163 HORÆ (Seasons), 164 THE NYMPHS, 165 THE WINDS, 170 PAN (Faunus), 171 THE SATYRS, 174 PRIAPUS, 175 ASCLEPIAS (Æsculapius), 176 ROMAN DIVINITIES-- JANUS, 178 FLORA, 180 ROBIGUS, 180 POMONA, 180 VERTUMNUS, 181 PALES, 181 PICUS, 182 PICUMNUS AND PILUMNUS, 182 SILVANUS, 182 TERMINUS, 182 CONSUS, 183 LIBITINA, 183 LAVERNA, 184 COMUS, 184 CAMENÆ, 184 GENII, 185 MANES, 185 PENATES, 187 PUBLIC WORSHIP OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS AND ROMANS-- TEMPLES, 188 STATUES, 190 ALTARS, 191 PRIESTS, 191 SACRIFICES, 192 ORACLES, 194 SOOTHSAYERS, 195 {vi} AUGURS, 196 FESTIVALS, 196 GREEK FESTIVALS-- ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES, 196 THESMOPHORIA, 197 DIONYSIA, 197 PANATHENÆA, 199 DAPHNEPHORIA, 200 ROMAN FESTIVALS-- SATURNALIA, 200 CEREALIA, 201 VESTALIA, 201 PART II.--LEGENDS. CADMUS, 203 PERSEUS, 205 ION, 210 DÆDALUS AND ICARUS, 211 THE ARGONAUTS, 213 PELOPS, 232 HERACLES, 234 BELLEROPHON, 256 THESEUS, 259 OEDIPUS, 269 THE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES, 272 THE EPIGONI, 276 ALCMÆON AND THE NECKLACE, 277 THE HERACLIDÆ, 280 THE SIEGE OF TROY, 283 RETURN OF THE GREEKS FROM TROY, 304 * * * * * {7} MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF ANCIENT GREECE AND ROME. * * * * * PART I.--MYTHS. * * * * * INTRODUCTION. Before entering upon the many strange beliefs of the ancient Greeks, and the extraordinary number of gods they worshipped, we must first consider what kind of beings these divinities were. In appearance, the gods were supposed to resemble mortals, whom, however, they far surpassed in beauty, grandeur, and strength; they were also more commanding in stature, height being considered by the Greeks an attribute of beauty in man or woman. They resembled human beings in their feelings and habits, intermarrying and having children, and requiring daily nourishment to recruit their strength, and refreshing sleep to restore their energies. Their blood, a bright ethereal fluid called Ichor, never engendered disease, and, when shed, had the power of producing new life. The Greeks believed that the mental qualifications of their gods were of a much higher order than those of men, but nevertheless, as we shall see, they were not considered to be exempt from human passions, and we frequently behold them actuated by revenge, deceit, and jealousy. They, however, always punish the evil-doer, and visit with dire calamities any impious mortal who dares to neglect their worship or despise their rites. We often hear of them visiting mankind and partaking of their hospitality, and not unfrequently both gods and goddesses {8} become attached to mortals, with whom they unite themselves, the offspring of these unions being called heroes or demi-gods, who were usually renowned for their great strength and courage. But although there were so many points of resemblance between gods and men, there remained the one great characteristic distinction, viz., that the gods enjoyed immortality. Still, they were not invulnerable, and we often hear of them being wounded, and suffering in consequence such exquisite torture that they have earnestly prayed to be deprived of their privilege of immortality. The gods knew no limitation of time or space, being able to transport themselves to incredible distances with the speed of thought. They possessed the power of rendering themselves invisible at will, and could assume the forms of men or animals as it suited their convenience. They could also transform human beings into trees, stones, animals, &c., either as a punishment for their misdeeds, or as a means of protecting the individual, thus transformed, from impending danger. Their robes were like those worn by mortals, but were perfect in form and much finer in texture. Their weapons also resembled those used by mankind; we hear of spears, shields, helmets, bows and arrows, &c., being employed by the gods. Each deity possessed a beautiful chariot, which, drawn by horses or other animals of celestial breed, conveyed them rapidly over land and sea according to their pleasure. Most of these divinities lived on the summit of Mount Olympus, each possessing his or her individual habitation, and all meeting together on festive occasions in the council-chamber of the gods, where their banquets were enlivened by the sweet strains of Apollo's lyre, whilst the beautiful voices of the Muses poured forth their rich melodies to his harmonious accompaniment. Magnificent temples were erected to their honour, where they were worshipped with the greatest solemnity; rich gifts were presented to them, and animals, and indeed sometimes human beings, were sacrificed on their altars. In the study of Grecian mythology we meet with some {9} curious, and what may at first sight appear unaccountable notions. Thus we hear of terrible giants hurling rocks, upheaving mountains, and raising earthquakes which engulf whole armies; these ideas, however, may be accounted for by the awful convulsions of nature, which were in operation in pre-historic times. Again, the daily recurring phenomena, which to us, who know them to be the result of certain well-ascertained laws of nature, are so familiar as to excite no remark, were, to the early Greeks, matter of grave speculation, and not unfrequently of alarm. For instance, when they heard the awful roar of thunder, and saw vivid flashes of lightning, accompanied by black clouds and torrents of rain, they believed that the great god of heaven was angry, and they trembled at his wrath. If the calm and tranquil sea became suddenly agitated, and the crested billows rose mountains high, dashing furiously against the rocks, and threatening destruction to all within their reach, the sea-god was supposed to be in a furious rage. When they beheld the sky glowing with the hues of coming day they thought that the goddess of the dawn, with rosy fingers, was drawing aside the dark veil of night, to allow her brother, the sun-god, to enter upon his brilliant career. Thus personifying all the powers of nature, this very imaginative and highly poetical nation beheld a divinity in every tree that grew, in every stream that flowed, in the bright beams of the glorious sun, and the clear, cold rays of the silvery moon; for them the whole universe lived and breathed, peopled by a thousand forms of grace and beauty. The most important of these divinities may have been something more than the mere creations of an active and poetical imagination. They were possibly human beings who had so distinguished themselves in life by their preeminence over their fellow-mortals that after death they were deified by the people among whom they lived, and the poets touched with their magic wand the details of lives, which, in more prosaic times, would simply have been recorded as illustrious. {10} It is highly probable that the reputed actions of these deified beings were commemorated by bards, who, travelling from one state to another, celebrated their praise in song; it therefore becomes exceedingly difficult, nay almost impossible, to separate bare facts from the exaggerations which never fail to accompany oral traditions. In order to exemplify this, let us suppose that Orpheus, the son of Apollo, so renowned for his extraordinary musical powers, had existed at the present day. We should no doubt have ranked him among the greatest of our musicians, and honoured him as such; but the Greeks, with their vivid imagination and poetic license, exaggerated his remarkable gifts, and attributed to his music supernatural influence over animate and inanimate nature. Thus we hear of wild beasts tamed, of mighty rivers arrested in their course, and of mountains being moved by the sweet tones of his voice. The theory here advanced may possibly prove useful in the future, in suggesting to the reader the probable basis of many of the extraordinary accounts we meet with in the study of classical mythology. And now a few words will be necessary concerning the religious beliefs of the Romans. When the Greeks first settled in Italy they found in the country they colonized a mythology belonging to the Celtic inhabitants, which, according to the Greek custom of paying reverence to all gods, known or unknown, they readily adopted, selecting and appropriating those divinities which had the greatest affinity to their own, and thus they formed a religious belief which naturally bore the impress of its ancient Greek source. As the primitive Celts, however, were a less civilized people than the Greeks, their mythology was of a more barbarous character, and this circumstance, combined with the fact that the Romans were not gifted with the vivid imagination of their Greek neighbours, leaves its mark on the Roman mythology, which is far less fertile in fanciful conceits, and deficient in all those fairy-like stories and wonderfully poetic ideas which so strongly characterize that of the Greeks. * * * * * {11} ORIGIN OF THE WORLD.--FIRST DYNASTY. URANUS AND GÆA. (COELUS AND TERRA.) The ancient Greeks had several different theories with regard to the origin of the world, but the generally accepted notion was that before this world came into existence, there was in its place a confused mass of shapeless elements called Chaos. These elements becoming at length consolidated (by what means does not appear), resolved themselves into two widely different substances, the lighter portion of which, soaring on high, formed the sky or firmament, and constituted itself into a vast, overarching vault, which protected the firm and solid mass beneath. Thus came into being the two first great primeval deities of the Greeks, Uranus and Ge or Gæa. Uranus, the more refined deity, represented the light and air of heaven, possessing the distinguishing qualities of light, heat, purity, and omnipresence, whilst Gæa, the firm, flat,[1] life-sustaining earth, was worshipped as the great all-nourishing mother. Her many titles refer to her more or less in this character, and she appears to have been universally revered among the Greeks, there being scarcely a city in Greece which did not contain a temple erected in her honour; indeed Gæa was held in such veneration that her name was always invoked whenever the gods took a solemn oath, made an emphatic declaration, or implored assistance. Uranus, the heaven, was believed to have united himself in marriage with Gæa, the earth; and a moment's reflection will show what a truly poetical, and also what a logical idea this was; for, taken in a figurative sense, {12} this union actually does exist. The smiles of heaven produce the flowers of earth, whereas his long-continued frowns exercise so depressing an influence upon his loving partner, that she no longer decks herself in bright and festive robes, but responds with ready sympathy to his melancholy mood. The first-born child of Uranus and Gæa was Oceanus,[2] the ocean stream, that vast expanse of ever-flowing water which encircled the earth. Here we meet with another logical though fanciful conclusion, which a very slight knowledge of the workings of nature proves to have been just and true. The ocean is formed from the rains which descend from heaven and the streams which flow from earth. By making Oceanus therefore the offspring of Uranus and Gæa, the ancients, if we take this notion in its literal sense, merely assert that the ocean is produced by the combined influence of heaven and earth, whilst at the same time their fervid and poetical imagination led them to see in this, as in all manifestations of the powers of nature, an actual, tangible divinity. But Uranus, the heaven, the embodiment of light, heat, and the breath of life, produced offspring who were of a much less material nature than his son Oceanus. These other children of his were supposed to occupy the intermediate space which divided him from Gæa. Nearest to Uranus, and just beneath him, came Aether (Ether), a bright creation representing that highly rarified atmosphere which immortals alone could breathe. Then followed Aër (Air), which was in close proximity to Gæa, and represented, as its name implies, the grosser atmosphere surrounding the earth which mortals could freely breathe, and without which they would perish. Aether and Aër were separated from each other by divinities called Nephelae. These were their restless and wandering sisters, who existed in the form of clouds, ever {13} floating between Aether and Aër. Gæa also produced the mountains, and Pontus (the sea). She united herself with the latter, and their offspring were the sea-deities Nereus, Thaumas, Phorcys, Ceto, and Eurybia. Co-existent with Uranus and Gæa were two mighty powers who were also the offspring of Chaos. These were Erebus (Darkness) and Nyx (Night), who formed a striking contrast to the cheerful light of heaven and the bright smiles of earth. Erebus reigned in that mysterious world below where no ray of sunshine, no gleam of daylight, nor vestige of health-giving terrestrial life ever appeared. Nyx, the sister of Erebus, represented Night, and was worshipped by the ancients with the greatest solemnity. Uranus was also supposed to have been united to Nyx, but only in his capacity as god of light, he being considered the source and fountain of all light, and their children were Eos (Aurora), the Dawn, and Hemera, the Daylight. Nyx again, on her side was also doubly united, having been married at some indefinite period to Erebus. In addition to those children of heaven and earth already enumerated, Uranus and Gæa produced two distinctly different races of beings called Giants and Titans. The Giants personified brute strength alone, but the Titans united to their great physical power intellectual qualifications variously developed. There were three Giants, Briareus, Cottus, and Gyges, who each possessed a hundred hands and fifty heads, and were known collectively by the name of the Hecatoncheires, which signified hundred-handed. These mighty Giants could shake the universe and produce earthquakes; it is therefore evident that they represented those active subterranean forces to which allusion has been made in the opening chapter. The Titans were twelve in number; their names were: Oceanus, Ceos, Crios, Hyperion, Iapetus, Cronus, Theia, Rhea, Themis, Mnemosyne, Phoebe, and Tethys. Now Uranus, the chaste light of heaven, the essence of all that is bright and pleasing, held in abhorrence his {14} crude, rough, and turbulent offspring, the Giants, and moreover feared that their great power might eventually prove hurtful to himself. He therefore hurled them into Tartarus, that portion of the lower world which served as the subterranean dungeon of the gods. In order to avenge the oppression of her children, the Giants, Gæa instigated a conspiracy on the part of the Titans against Uranus, which was carried to a successful issue by her son Cronus. He wounded his father, and from the blood of the wound which fell upon the earth sprang a race of monstrous beings also called Giants. Assisted by his brother-Titans, Cronus succeeded in dethroning his father, who, enraged at his defeat, cursed his rebellious son, and foretold to him a similar fate. Cronus now became invested with supreme power, and assigned to his brothers offices of distinction, subordinate only to himself. Subsequently, however, when, secure of his position, he no longer needed their assistance, he basely repaid their former services with treachery, made war upon his brothers and faithful allies, and, assisted by the Giants, completely defeated them, sending such as resisted his all-conquering arm down into the lowest depths of Tartarus. * * * * * SECOND DYNASTY. CRONUS (SATURN). Cronus was the god of time in its sense of eternal duration. He married Rhea, daughter of Uranus and Gæa, a very important divinity, to whom a special chapter will be devoted hereafter. Their children were, three sons: Aïdes (Pluto), Poseidon (Neptune), Zeus (Jupiter), and three daughters: Hestia (Vesta), Demeter (Ceres), and Hera (Juno). Cronus, having an uneasy conscience, was afraid that his children might one day rise up against his authority, and thus verify the prediction of his father {15} Uranus. In order, therefore, to render the prophecy impossible of fulfilment, Cronus swallowed each child as soon as it was born,[3] greatly to the sorrow and indignation of his wife Rhea. When it came to Zeus, the sixth and last, Rhea resolved to try and save this one child at least, to love and cherish, and appealed to her parents, Uranus and Gæa, for counsel and assistance. By their advice she wrapped a stone in baby-clothes, and Cronus, in eager haste, swallowed it, without noticing the deception. The child thus saved, eventually, as we shall see, dethroned his father Cronus, became supreme god in his stead, and was universally venerated as the great national god of the Greeks. [Illustration] Anxious to preserve the secret of his existence from Cronus, Rhea sent the infant Zeus secretly to Crete, where he was nourished, protected, and educated. A sacred goat, called Amalthea, supplied the place of his mother, by providing him with milk; nymphs, called Melissae, fed him with honey, and eagles and doves brought him nectar and ambrosia.[4] He was kept concealed in a cave in the heart of Mount Ida, and the Curetes, or priests of Rhea, by beating their shields together, kept up a constant noise at the entrance, which drowned the cries of the child and frightened away all intruders. Under the watchful care of the Nymphs the infant Zeus throve rapidly, developing great physical powers, combined with {16} extraordinary wisdom and intelligence. Grown to manhood, he determined to compel his father to restore his brothers and sisters to the light of day, and is said to have been assisted in this difficult task by the goddess Metis, who artfully persuaded Cronus to drink a potion, which caused him to give back the children he had swallowed. The stone which had counterfeited Zeus was placed at Delphi, where it was long exhibited as a sacred relic. Cronus was so enraged at being circumvented that war between the father and son became inevitable. The rival forces ranged themselves on two separate high mountains in Thessaly; Zeus, with his brothers and sisters, took his stand on Mount Olympus, where he was joined by Oceanus, and others of the Titans, who had forsaken Cronus on account of his oppressions. Cronus and his brother-Titans took possession of Mount Othrys, and prepared for battle. The struggle was long and fierce, and at length Zeus, finding that he was no nearer victory than before, bethought himself of the existence of the imprisoned Giants, and knowing that they would be able to render him most powerful assistance, he hastened to liberate them. He also called to his aid the Cyclops (sons of Poseidon and Amphitrite),[5] who had only one eye each in the middle of their foreheads, and were called Brontes (Thunder), Steropes (Lightning), and Pyracmon (Fire-anvil). They promptly responded to his summons for help, and brought with them tremendous thunderbolts which the Hecatoncheires, with their hundred hands, hurled down upon the enemy, at the same time raising mighty earthquakes, which swallowed up and destroyed all who opposed them. Aided by these new and powerful allies, Zeus now made a furious onslaught on his enemies, and so tremendous was the encounter that all nature is said to have throbbed in accord with this mighty effort of the celestial deities. The sea rose mountains high, and its angry billows {17} hissed and foamed; the earth shook to its foundations, the heavens sent forth rolling thunder, and flash after flash of death-bringing lightning, whilst a blinding mist enveloped Cronus and his allies. And now the fortunes of war began to turn, and victory smiled on Zeus. Cronus and his army were completely overthrown, his brothers despatched to the gloomy depths of the lower world, and Cronus himself was banished from his kingdom and deprived for ever of the supreme power, which now became vested in his son Zeus. This war was called the Titanomachia, and is most graphically described by the old classic poets. [Illustration] With the defeat of Cronus and his banishment from his dominions, his career as a ruling Greek divinity entirely ceases. But being, like all the gods, immortal, he was supposed to be still in existence, though possessing no longer either influence or authority, his place being filled to a certain extent by his descendant and successor, Zeus. Cronus is often represented as an old man leaning on a scythe, with an hour-glass in his hand. The hour-glass symbolizes the fast-fleeting moments as they succeed each other unceasingly; the scythe is emblematical of time, which mows down all before it. SATURN. The Romans, according to their custom of identifying their deities with those of the Greek gods whose attributes were similar to their own, declared Cronus to be identical with their old agricultural divinity Saturn. They believed that after his defeat in the {18} Titanomachia and his banishment from his dominions by Zeus, he took refuge with Janus, king of Italy, who received the exiled deity with great kindness, and even shared his throne with him. Their united reign became so thoroughly peaceful and happy, and was distinguished by such uninterrupted prosperity, that it was called the Golden Age. Saturn is usually represented bearing a sickle in the one hand and a wheat-sheaf in the other. A temple was erected to him at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, in which were deposited the public treasury and the laws of the state. RHEA (OPS). Rhea, the wife of Cronus, and mother of Zeus and the other great gods of Olympus, personified the earth, and was regarded as the Great Mother and unceasing producer of all plant-life. She was also believed to exercise unbounded sway over the animal creation, more especially over the lion, the noble king of beasts. Rhea is generally represented wearing a crown of turrets or towers and seated on a throne, with lions crouching at her feet. She is sometimes depicted sitting in a chariot, drawn by lions. The principal seat of her worship, which was always of a very riotous character, was at Crete. At her festivals, which took place at night, the wildest music of flutes, cymbals, and drums resounded, whilst joyful shouts and cries, accompanied by dancing and loud stamping of feet, filled the air. This divinity was introduced into Crete by its first colonists from Phrygia, in Asia Minor, in which country she was worshipped under the name of Cybele. The people of Crete adored her as the Great Mother, more especially in her signification as the sustainer of the vegetable world. Seeing, however, that year by year, as winter appears, all her glory vanishes, her flowers fade, and her trees become leafless, they poetically expressed this process of nature under the figure of a lost love. She {19} was said to have been tenderly attached to a youth of remarkable beauty, named Atys, who, to her grief and indignation, proved faithless to her. He was about to unite himself to a nymph called Sagaris, when, in the midst of the wedding feast, the rage of the incensed goddess suddenly burst forth upon all present. A panic seized the assembled guests, and Atys, becoming afflicted with temporary madness, fled to the mountains and destroyed himself. Cybele, moved with sorrow and regret, instituted a yearly mourning for his loss, when her priests, the Corybantes, with their usual noisy accompaniments, marched into the mountains to seek the lost youth. Having discovered him[6] they gave full vent to their ecstatic delight by indulging in the most violent gesticulations, dancing, shouting, and, at the same time, wounding and gashing themselves in a frightful manner. OPS. In Rome the Greek Rhea was identified with Ops, the goddess of plenty, the wife of Saturn, who had a variety of appellations. She was called Magna-Mater, Mater-Deorum, Berecynthia-Idea, and also Dindymene. This latter title she acquired from three high mountains in Phrygia, whence she was brought to Rome as Cybele during the second Punic war, B.C. 205, in obedience to an injunction contained in the Sybilline books. She was represented as a matron crowned with towers, seated in a chariot drawn by lions. * * * * * DIVISION OF THE WORLD. We will now return to Zeus and his brothers, who, having gained a complete victory over their enemies, began to consider how the world, which they had {20} conquered, should be divided between them. At last it was settled by lot that Zeus should reign supreme in Heaven, whilst Aïdes governed the Lower World, and Poseidon had full command over the Sea, but the supremacy of Zeus was recognized in all three kingdoms, in heaven, on earth (in which of course the sea was included), and under the earth. Zeus held his court on the top of Mount Olympus, whose summit was beyond the clouds; the dominions of Aïdes were the gloomy unknown regions below the earth; and Poseidon reigned over the sea. It will be seen that the realm of each of these gods was enveloped in mystery. Olympus was shrouded in mists, Hades was wrapt in gloomy darkness, and the sea was, and indeed still is, a source of wonder and deep interest. Hence we see that what to other nations were merely strange phenomena, served this poetical and imaginative people as a foundation upon which to build the wonderful stories of their mythology. The division of the world being now satisfactorily arranged, it would seem that all things ought to have gone on smoothly, but such was not the case. Trouble arose in an unlooked-for quarter. The Giants, those hideous monsters (some with legs formed of serpents) who had sprung from the earth and the blood of Uranus, declared war against the triumphant deities of Olympus, and a struggle ensued, which, in consequence of Gæa having made these children of hers invincible as long as they kept their feet on the ground, was wearisome and protracted. Their mother's precaution, however, was rendered unavailing by pieces of rock being hurled upon them, which threw them down, and their feet being no longer placed firmly on their mother-earth, they were overcome, and this tedious war (which was called the Gigantomachia) at last came to an end. Among the most daring of these earth-born giants were Enceladus, Rhoetus, and the valiant Mimas, who, with youthful fire and energy, hurled against heaven great masses of rock and burning oak-trees, and defied the lightnings of Zeus. One of the most powerful monsters who opposed Zeus in this {21} war was called Typhon or Typhoeus. He was the youngest son of Tartarus and Gæa, and had a hundred heads, with eyes which struck terror to the beholders, and awe-inspiring voices frightful to hear. This dreadful monster resolved to conquer both gods and men, but his plans were at length defeated by Zeus, who, after a violent encounter, succeeded in destroying him with a thunderbolt, but not before he had so terrified the gods that they had fled for refuge to Egypt, where they metamorphosed themselves into different animals and thus escaped. * * * * * THEORIES AS TO THE ORIGIN OF MAN. Just as there were several theories concerning the origin of the world, so there were various accounts of the creation of man. The first natural belief of the Greek people was that man had sprung from the earth. They saw the tender plants and flowers force their way through the ground in the early spring of the year after the frost of winter had disappeared, and so they naturally concluded that man must also have issued from the earth in a similar manner. Like the wild plants and flowers, he was supposed to have had no cultivation, and resembled in his habits the untamed beasts of the field, having no habitation except that which nature had provided in the holes of the rocks, and in the dense forests whose overarching boughs protected him from the inclemency of the weather. In the course of time these primitive human beings became tamed and civilized by the gods and heroes, who taught them to work in metals, to build houses, and other useful arts of civilization. But the human race became in the course of time so degenerate that the gods resolved to destroy all mankind by means of a flood; Deucalion {22} (son of Prometheus) and his wife Pyrrha, being, on account of their piety, the only mortals saved. By the command of his father, Deucalion built a ship, in which he and his wife took refuge during the deluge, which lasted for nine days. When the waters abated the ship rested on Mount Othrys in Thessaly, or according to some on Mount Parnassus. Deucalion and his wife now consulted the oracle of Themis as to how the human race might be restored. The answer was, that they were to cover their heads, and throw the bones of their mother behind them. For some time they were perplexed as to the meaning of the oracular command, but at length both agreed that by the bones of their mother were meant the stones of the earth. They accordingly took up stones from the mountain side and cast them over their shoulders. From those thrown by Deucalion there sprang up men, and from those thrown by Pyrrha, women. After the lapse of time the theory of Autochthony (from _autos_, self, and _chthon_, earth) was laid aside. When this belief existed there were no religious teachers whatever; but in course of time temples were raised in honour of the different gods, and priests appointed to offer sacrifices to them and conduct their worship. These priests were looked upon as authorities in all religious matters, and the doctrine they taught was, that man had been created by the gods, and that there had been several successive ages of men, which were called the Golden, Silver, Brazen, and Iron Ages. Life in the Golden Age was one unceasing round of ever-recurring pleasures unmarred by sorrow or care. The favoured mortals living at this happy time led pure and joyous lives, thinking no evil, and doing no wrong. The earth brought forth fruits and flowers without toil or labour in plentiful luxuriance, and war was unknown. This delightful and god-like existence lasted for hundreds of years, and when at length life on earth was ended, death laid his hand so gently upon them that they passed painlessly away in a happy dream, and continued their existence as ministering spirits in Hades, watching over and {23} protecting those they had loved and left behind on earth. The men of the Silver Age[7] were a long time growing up, and during their childhood, which lasted a hundred years, they suffered from ill-health and extreme debility. When they at last became men they lived but a short time, for they would not abstain from mutual injury, nor pay the service due to the gods, and were therefore banished to Hades. There, unlike the beings of the Golden Age, they exercised no beneficent supervision over the dear ones left behind, but wandered about as restless spirits, always sighing for the lost pleasures they had enjoyed in life. The men of the Brazen Age were quite a different race of beings, being as strong and powerful as those of the Silver Age were weak and enervated. Everything which surrounded them was of brass; their arms, their tools, their dwellings, and all that they made. Their characters seem to have resembled the metal in which they delighted; their minds and hearts were hard, obdurate, and cruel. They led a life of strife and contention, introduced into the world, which had hitherto known nothing but peace and tranquillity, the scourge of war, and were in fact only happy when fighting and quarrelling with each other. Hitherto Themis, the goddess of Justice, had been living among mankind, but becoming disheartened at their evil doings, she abandoned the earth, and winged her flight back to heaven. At last the gods became so tired of their evil deeds and continual dissensions, that they removed them from the face of the earth, and sent them down to Hades to share the fate of their predecessors. We now come to the men of the Iron Age. The earth, no longer teeming with fruitfulness, only yielded her increase after much toil and labour. The goddess of Justice having abandoned mankind, no influence remained sufficiently powerful to preserve them from every kind of wickedness and sin. This condition grew worse as time went on, until at last Zeus in his anger let loose the water-courses from above, and drowned every {24} individual of this evil race, except Deucalion and Pyrrha. The theory of Hesiod,[8] the oldest of all the Greek poets, was that the Titan Prometheus, the son of Iapetus, had formed man out of clay, and that Athene had breathed a soul into him. Full of love for the beings he had called into existence, Prometheus determined to elevate their minds and improve their condition in every way; he therefore taught them astronomy, mathematics, the alphabet, how to cure diseases, and the art of divination. He created this race in such great numbers that the gods began to see the necessity of instituting certain fixed laws with regard to the sacrifices due to them, and the worship to which they considered themselves entitled from mankind in return for the protection which they accorded them. An assembly was therefore convened at Mecone in order to settle these points. It was decided that Prometheus, as the advocate of man, should slay an ox, which should be divided into two equal parts, and that the gods should select one portion which should henceforth, in all future sacrifices, be set apart for them. Prometheus so divided the ox that one part consisted of the bones (which formed of course the least valuable portion of the animal), artfully concealed by the white fat; whilst the other contained all the edible parts, which he covered with the skin, and on the top of all he laid the stomach. Zeus, pretending to be deceived, chose the heap of bones, but he saw through the stratagem, and was so angry at the deception practised on him by Prometheus that he avenged himself by refusing to mortals the gift of fire. {25} Prometheus, however, resolved to brave the anger of the great ruler of Olympus, and to obtain from heaven the vital spark so necessary for the further progress and comfort of the human race. He accordingly contrived to steal some sparks from the chariot of the sun, which he conveyed to earth hidden in a hollow tube. Furious at being again outwitted, Zeus determined to be revenged first on mankind, and then on Prometheus. To punish the former he commanded Hephæstus (Vulcan) to mould a beautiful woman out of clay, and determined that through her instrumentality trouble and misery should be brought into the world. The gods were so charmed with the graceful and artistic creation of Hephæstus, that they all determined to endow her with some special gift. Hermes (Mercury) bestowed on her a smooth persuasive tongue, Aphrodite gave her beauty and the art of pleasing; the Graces made her fascinating, and Athene (Minerva) gifted her with the possession of feminine accomplishments. She was called Pandora, which means all-gifted, having received every attribute necessary to make her charming and irresistible. Thus beautifully formed and endowed, this exquisite creature, attired by the Graces, and crowned with flowers by the Seasons, was conducted to the house of Epimetheus[9] by Hermes the messenger of the gods. Now Epimetheus had been warned by his brother not to accept any gift whatever from the gods; but he was so fascinated by the beautiful being who suddenly appeared before him, that he welcomed her to his home, and made her his wife. It was not long, however, before he had cause to regret his weakness. He had in his possession a jar of rare workmanship, containing all the blessings reserved by the gods for mankind, which he had been expressly forbidden to open. But woman's proverbial curiosity could not withstand so great a temptation, and Pandora determined to solve the mystery at any cost. Watching her opportunity she raised the lid, and immediately all the blessings which {26} the gods had thus reserved for mankind took wing and flew away. But all was not lost. Just as Hope (which lay at the bottom) was about to escape, Pandora hastily closed the lid of the jar, and thus preserved to man that never-failing solace which helps him to bear with courage the many ills which assail him.[10] Having punished mankind, Zeus determined to execute vengeance on Prometheus. He accordingly chained him to a rock in Mount Caucasus, and sent an eagle every day to gnaw away his liver, which grew again every night ready for fresh torments. For thirty years Prometheus endured this fearful punishment; but at length Zeus relented, and permitted his son Heracles (Hercules) to kill the eagle, and the sufferer was released. * * * * * THIRD DYNASTY--OLYMPIAN DIVINITIES. ZEUS[11] (JUPITER). Zeus, the great presiding deity of the universe, the ruler of heaven and earth, was regarded by the Greeks, first, as the god of all aërial phenomena; secondly, as the personification of the laws of nature; thirdly, as lord of state-life; and fourthly, as the father of gods and men. As the god of aërial phenomena he could, by shaking his ægis,[12] produce storms, tempests, and intense darkness. At his command the mighty thunder rolls, the lightning flashes, and the clouds open and pour forth their refreshing streams to fructify the earth. As the personification of the operations of nature, he represents those grand laws of unchanging and harmonious order, by which not only the physical but also {27} the moral world is governed. Hence he is the god of regulated time as marked by the changing seasons, and by the regular succession of day and night, in contradistinction to his father Cronus, who represents time absolutely, _i.e._ eternity. As the lord of state-life, he is the founder of kingly power, the upholder of all institutions connected with the state, and the special friend and patron of princes, whom he guards and assists with his advice and counsel. He protects the assembly of the people, and, in fact, watches over the welfare of the whole community. As the father of the gods, Zeus sees that each deity performs his or her individual duty, punishes their misdeeds, settles their disputes, and acts towards them on all occasions as their all-knowing counsellor and mighty friend. As the father of men, he takes a paternal interest in the actions and well-being of mortals. He watches over them with tender solicitude, rewarding truth, charity, and uprightness, but severely punishing perjury, cruelty, and want of hospitality. Even the poorest and most forlorn wanderer finds in him a powerful advocate, for he, by a wise and merciful dispensation, ordains that the mighty ones of the earth should succour their distressed and needy brethren. The Greeks believed that the home of this their mighty and all-powerful deity was on the top of Mount Olympus, that high and lofty mountain between Thessaly and Macedon, whose summit, wrapt in clouds and mist, was hidden from mortal view. It was supposed that this mysterious region, which even a bird could not reach, extended beyond the clouds right into Aether, the realm of the immortal gods. The poets describe this ethereal atmosphere as bright, glistening, and refreshing, exercising a peculiar, gladdening influence over the minds and hearts of those privileged beings permitted to share its delights. Here youth never ages, and the passing years leave no traces on its favoured inhabitants. On the cloud-capped summit of Olympus was the palace of {28} Zeus and Hera, of burnished gold, chased silver, and gleaming ivory. Lower down were the homes of the other gods, which, though less commanding in position and size, were yet similar to that of Zeus in design and workmanship, all being the work of the divine artist Hephæstus. Below these were other palaces of silver, ebony, ivory, or burnished brass, where the Heroes, or Demi-gods, resided. As the worship of Zeus formed so important a feature in the religion of the Greeks, his statues were necessarily both numerous and magnificent. He is usually represented as a man of noble and imposing mien, his countenance expressing all the lofty majesty of the omnipotent ruler of the universe, combined with the gracious, yet serious, benignity of the father and friend of mankind. He may be recognized by his rich flowing beard, and the thick masses of hair, which rise straight from the high and intellectual forehead and fall to his shoulders in clustering locks. The nose is large and finely formed, and the slightly-opened lips impart an air of sympathetic kindliness which invites confidence. He is always accompanied by an eagle, which either surmounts his sceptre, or sits at his feet; he generally bears in his uplifted hand a sheaf of thunder-bolts, just ready to be hurled, whilst in the other he holds the lightning. The head is frequently encircled with a wreath of oak-leaves. [Illustration] The most celebrated statue of the Olympian Zeus was that by the famous Athenian sculptor Phidias, which was forty feet high, and stood in the temple of Zeus at Olympia. It was formed of ivory and gold, and was {29} such a masterpiece of art, that it was reckoned among the seven wonders of the world. It represented the god, seated on a throne, holding in his right hand a life-sized image of Nike (the goddess of Victory), and in his left a royal sceptre, surmounted by an eagle. It is said that the great sculptor had concentrated all the marvellous powers of his genius on this sublime conception, and earnestly entreated Zeus to give him a decided proof that his labours were approved. An answer to his prayer came through the open roof of the temple in the shape of a flash of lightning, which Phidias interpreted as a sign that the god of heaven was pleased with his work. Zeus was first worshipped at Dodona in Epirus, where, at the foot of Mount Tomarus, on the woody shore of Lake Joanina, was his famous oracle, the most ancient in Greece. Here the voice of the eternal and invisible god was supposed to be heard in the rustling leaves of a giant oak, announcing to mankind the will of heaven and the destiny of mortals; these revelations being interpreted to the people by the priests of Zeus, who were called Selli. Recent excavations which have been made at this spot have brought to light the ruins of the ancient temple of Zeus, and also, among other interesting relics, some plates of lead, on which are engraved inquiries which were evidently made by certain individuals who consulted the oracle. These little leaden plates speak to us, as it were, in a curiously homely manner of a by-gone time in the buried past. One person inquires what god he should apply to for health and fortune; another asks for advice concerning his child; and a third, evidently a shepherd, promises a gift to the oracle should a speculation in sheep turn out successfully. Had these little memorials been of gold instead of lead, they would doubtless have shared the fate of the numerous treasures which adorned this and other temples, in the universal pillage which took place when Greece fell into the hands of barbarians. Though Dodona was the most ancient of his shrines, the great national seat of the worship of Zeus was at Olympia in Elis, where there was a magnificent temple {30} dedicated to him, containing the famous colossal statue by Phidias above described. Crowds of devout worshippers flocked to this world-renowned fane from all parts of Greece, not only to pay homage to their supreme deity, but also to join in the celebrated games which were held there at intervals of four years. The Olympic games were such a thoroughly national institution, that even Greeks who had left their native country made a point of returning on these occasions, if possible, in order to contend with their fellow-countrymen in the various athletic sports which took place at these festivals. It will be seen on reflection that in a country like Greece, which contained so many petty states, often at variance with each other, these national gatherings must have been most valuable as a means of uniting the Greeks in one great bond of brotherhood. On these festive occasions the whole nation met together, forgetting for the moment all past differences, and uniting in the enjoyment of the same festivities. It will doubtless have been remarked that in the representations of Zeus he is always accompanied by an eagle. This royal bird was sacred to him, probably from the fact of its being the only creature capable of gazing at the sun without being dazzled, which may have suggested the idea that it was able to contemplate the splendour of divine majesty unshrinkingly. The oak-tree, and also the summits of mountains, were sacred to Zeus. His sacrifices consisted of white bulls, cows, and goats. Zeus had seven immortal wives, whose names were Metis, Themis, Eurynome, Demeter, Mnemosyne, Leto, and Hera. METIS, his first wife, was one of the Oceanides or sea-nymphs. She was the personification of prudence and wisdom, a convincing proof of which she displayed in her successful administration of the potion which caused Cronus to yield up his children. She was endowed with the gift of prophecy, and foretold to Zeus that one of their children would gain ascendency over {31} him. In order, therefore, to avert the possibility of the prediction being fulfilled he swallowed her before any children were born to them. Feeling afterwards violent pains in his head, he sent for Hephæstus, and ordered him to open it with an axe. His command was obeyed, and out sprang, with a loud and martial shout, a beautiful being, clad in armour from head to foot. This was Athene (Minerva), goddess of Armed Resistance and Wisdom. THEMIS was the goddess of Justice, Law, and Order. EURYNOME was one of the Oceanides, and the mother of the Charites or Graces. DEMETER,[13] the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, was the goddess of Agriculture. MNEMOSYNE, the daughter of Uranus and Gæa, was the goddess of Memory and the mother of the nine Muses. LETO (Latona) was the daughter of Coeus and Phoebe. She was gifted with wonderful beauty, and was tenderly loved by Zeus, but her lot was far from being a happy one, for Hera, being extremely jealous of her, persecuted her with inveterate cruelty, and sent the dreadful serpent Python[14] to terrify and torment her wherever she went. But Zeus, who had observed with the deepest compassion her weary wanderings and agonized fears, resolved to create for her some place of refuge, however humble, where she might feel herself safe from the venomous attacks of the serpent. He therefore brought her to Delos, a floating island in the Ægean Sea, which he made stationary by attaching it with chains of adamant to the bottom of the sea. Here she gave birth to her twin-children, Apollo and Artemis (Diana), two of the most beautiful of the immortals. According to some versions of the story of Leto, Zeus transformed her into a quail, in order that she might thus elude the vigilance of Hera, and she is said to have {32} resumed her true form when she arrived at the island of Delos. HERA, being the principal wife of Zeus and queen of heaven, a detailed account will be given of her in a special chapter. In the union of Zeus with most of his immortal wives we shall find that an allegorical meaning is conveyed. His marriage with Metis, who is said to have surpassed both gods and men in knowledge, represents supreme power allied to wisdom and prudence. His union with Themis typifies the bond which exists between divine majesty and justice, law, and order. Eurynome, as the mother of the Charites or Graces, supplied the refining and harmonizing influences of grace and beauty, whilst the marriage of Zeus with Mnemosyne typifies the union of genius with memory. * * * * * In addition to the seven immortal wives of Zeus, he was also allied to a number of mortal maidens whom he visited under various disguises, as it was supposed that if he revealed himself in his true form as king of heaven the splendour of his glory would cause instant destruction to mortals. The mortal consorts of Zeus have been such a favourite theme with poets, painters, and sculptors, that it is necessary to give some account of their individual history. Those best known are Antiope, Leda, Europa, Callisto, Alcmene, Semele, Io, and Danae. ANTIOPE, to whom Zeus appeared under the form of a satyr, was the daughter of Nicteus, king of Thebes. To escape the anger of her father she fled to Sicyon, where king Epopeus, enraptured with her wonderful beauty, made her his wife without asking her father's consent. This so enraged Nicteus that he declared war against Epopeus, in order to compel him to restore Antiope. At his death, which took place before he could succeed in his purpose, Nicteus left his kingdom to his brother Lycus, commanding him, at the same time, to carry on the war, and execute his vengeance. Lycus invaded Sicyon, defeated and killed Epopeus, and brought back {33} Antiope as a prisoner. On the way to Thebes she gave birth to her twin-sons, Amphion and Zethus, who, by the orders of Lycus, were at once exposed on Mount Cithaeron, and would have perished but for the kindness of a shepherd, who took pity on them and preserved their lives. Antiope was, for many years, held captive by her uncle Lycus, and compelled to suffer the utmost cruelty at the hands of his wife Dirce. But one day her bonds were miraculously loosened, and she flew for shelter and protection to the humble dwelling of her sons on Mount Cithaeron. During the long period of their mother's captivity the babes had grown into sturdy youths, and, as they listened angrily to the story of her wrongs, they became all impatience to avenge them. Setting off at once to Thebes they succeeded in possessing themselves of the town, and after slaying the cruel Lycus they bound Dirce by the hair to the horns of a wild bull, which dragged her hither and thither until she expired. Her mangled body was cast into the fount near Thebes, which still bears her name. Amphion became king of Thebes in his uncle's stead. He was a friend of the Muses, and devoted to music and poetry. His brother, Zethus, was famous for his skill in archery, and was passionately fond of the chase. It is said that when Amphion wished to inclose the town of Thebes with walls and towers, he had but to play a sweet melody on the lyre, given to him by Hermes, and the huge stones began to move, and obediently fitted themselves together. The punishment of Dirce at the hands of Amphion and Zethus forms the subject of the world-renowned marble group in the museum at Naples, known by the name of the Farnese Bull. In sculpture Amphion is always represented with a lyre; Zethus with a club. LEDA, whose affections Zeus won under the form of a swan, was the daughter of Thestius, king of Ætolia. Her twin-sons, Castor and (Polydeuces or) Pollux,[15] were {34} renowned for their tender attachment to each other. They were also famous for their physical accomplishments, Castor being the most expert charioteer of his day, and Pollux the first of pugilists. Their names appear both among the hunters of the Calydonian boar-hunt and the heroes of the Argonautic expedition. The brothers became attached to the daughters of Leucippus, prince of the Messenians, who had been betrothed by their father to Idas and Lynceus, sons of Aphareus. Having persuaded Leucippus to break his promise, the twins carried off the maidens as their brides. Idas and Lynceus, naturally furious at this proceeding, challenged the Dioscuri to mortal combat, in which Castor perished by the hand of Idas, and Lynceus by that of Pollux. Zeus wished to confer the gift of immortality upon Pollux, but he refused to accept it unless allowed to share it with Castor. Zeus gave the desired permission, and the faithful brothers were both allowed to live, but only on alternate days. The Dioscuri received divine honours throughout Greece, and were worshipped with special reverence at Sparta. EUROPA was the beautiful daughter of Agenor, king of Phoenicia. She was one day gathering flowers with her companions in a meadow near the sea-shore, when Zeus, charmed with her great beauty, and wishing to win her love, transformed himself into a beautiful white bull, and trotted quietly up to the princess, so as not to alarm her. Surprised at the gentleness of the animal, and admiring its beauty, as it lay placidly on the grass, she caressed it, crowned it with flowers, and, at last, playfully seated herself on its back. Hardly had she done so than the disguised god bounded away with his lovely burden, and swam across the sea with her to the island of Crete. Europa was the mother of Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanthus. Minos, who became king of Crete, was celebrated for his justice and moderation, and after death he was created one of the judges of the lower world, which office he held in conjunction with his brothers. {35} CALLISTO, the daughter of Lycaon, king of Arcadia, was a huntress in the train of Artemis, devoted to the pleasures of the chase, who had made a vow never to marry; but Zeus, under the form of the huntress-goddess, succeeded in obtaining her affections. Hera, being extremely jealous of her, changed her into a bear, and caused Artemis (who failed to recognize her attendant under this form) to hunt her in the chase, and put an end to her existence. After her death she was placed by Zeus among the stars as a constellation, under the name of Arctos, or the bear. ALCMENE, the daughter of Electryon, king of Mycenae, was betrothed to her cousin Amphytrion; but, during his absence on a perilous undertaking, Zeus assumed his form, and obtained her affections. Heracles (whose world-renowned exploits will be related among the legends) was the son of Alcmene and Zeus. SEMELE, a beautiful princess, the daughter of Cadmus, king of Phoenicia, was greatly beloved by Zeus. Like the unfortunate Callisto, she was hated by Hera with jealous malignity, and the haughty queen of heaven determined to effect her destruction. Disguising herself, therefore, as Beroe, Semele's faithful old nurse, she artfully persuaded her to insist upon Zeus visiting her, as he appeared to Hera, in all his power and glory, well knowing that this would cause her instant death. Semele, suspecting no treachery, followed the advice of her supposed nurse; and the next time Zeus came to her, she earnestly entreated him to grant the favour she was about to ask. Zeus swore by the Styx (which was to the gods an irrevocable oath) to accede to her request whatsoever it might be. Semele, therefore, secure of gaining her petition, begged of Zeus to appear to her in all the glory of his divine power and majesty. As he had sworn to grant whatever she asked of him, he was compelled to comply with her wish; he therefore revealed himself as the mighty lord of the universe, accompanied by thunder and lightning, and she was instantly consumed in the flames. {36} IO, daughter of Inachus, king of Argos, was a priestess of Hera. She was very beautiful, and Zeus, who was much attached to her, transformed her into a white cow, in order to defeat the jealous intrigues of Hera, who, however, was not to be deceived. Aware of the stratagem, she contrived to obtain the animal from Zeus, and placed her under the watchful care of a man called Argus-Panoptes, who fastened her to an olive-tree in the grove of Hera. He had a hundred eyes, of which, when asleep, he never closed more than two at a time; being thus always on the watch, Hera found him extremely useful in keeping guard over Io. Hermes, however, by the command of Zeus, succeeded in putting all his eyes to sleep with the sound of his magic lyre, and then, taking advantage of his helpless condition, slew him. The story goes, that in commemoration of the services which Argus had rendered her, Hera placed his eyes on the tail of a peacock, as a lasting memorial of her gratitude. Ever fertile in resource, Hera now sent a gadfly to worry and torment the unfortunate Io incessantly, and she wandered all over the world in hopes of escaping from her tormentor. At length she reached Egypt, where she found rest and freedom from the persecutions of her enemy. On the banks of the Nile she resumed her original form and gave birth to a son called Epaphus, who afterwards became king of Egypt, and built the famous city of Memphis. DANAE.--Zeus appeared to Danae under the form of a shower of gold. (Further details concerning her will be found in the legend of Perseus.) * * * * * The Greeks supposed that the divine ruler of the Universe occasionally assumed a human form, and descended from his celestial abode, in order to visit mankind and observe their proceedings, his aim being generally either to punish the guilty, or to reward the deserving. On one occasion Zeus, accompanied by Hermes, made a journey through Phrygia, seeking hospitality and shelter wherever they went. But nowhere did they receive a {37} kindly welcome till they came to the humble cottage of an old man and his wife called Philemon and Baucis, who entertained them with the greatest kindness, setting before them what frugal fare their humble means permitted, and bidding them welcome with unaffected cordiality. Observing in the course of their simple repast that the wine bowl was miraculously replenished, the aged couple became convinced of the divine nature of their guests. The gods now informed them that on account of its wickedness their native place was doomed to destruction, and told them to climb the neighbouring hill with them, which overlooked the village where they dwelt. What was their dismay on beholding at their feet, in place of the spot where they had passed so many happy years together, nothing but a watery plain, the only house to be seen being their own little cottage, which suddenly changed itself into a temple before their eyes. Zeus now asked the worthy pair to name any wish they particularly desired and it should be granted. They accordingly begged that they might serve the gods in the temple below, and end life together. Their wish was granted, for, after spending the remainder of their lives in the worship of the gods, they both died at the same instant, and were transformed by Zeus into trees, remaining for ever side by side. Upon another occasion Zeus, wishing to ascertain for himself the truth of the reports concerning the atrocious wickedness of mankind, made a journey through Arcadia. Being recognized by the Arcadians as king of heaven, he was received by them with becoming respect and veneration; but Lycaon, their king, who had rendered himself infamous by the gross impiety of himself and his sons, doubted the divinity of Zeus, ridiculed his people for being so easily duped, and, according to his custom of killing all strangers who ventured to trust his hospitality, resolved to murder him. Before executing this wicked design, however, he decided to put Zeus to the test, and having killed a boy for the purpose, placed before him a dish containing human flesh. But Zeus was {38} not to be deceived. He beheld the revolting dish with horror and loathing, and angrily upsetting the table upon which it was placed, turned Lycaon into a wolf, and destroyed all his fifty sons by lightning, except Nyctimus, who was saved by the intervention of Gæa. JUPITER. The Roman Jupiter, who is so frequently confounded with the Greek Zeus, is identical with him only as being the head of the Olympic gods, and the presiding deity over Life, Light, and Aërial Phenomena. Jupiter is lord of life in its widest and most comprehensive signification, having absolute power over life and death, in which respect he differed from the Greek Zeus, who was to a certain extent controlled by the all-potent sway of the Moiræ or Fates. Zeus, as we have seen, often condescends to visit mankind, either as a mortal, or under various disguises, whereas Jupiter always remains essentially the supreme god of heaven, and never appears upon earth. The most celebrated temple of Jupiter was that on the Capitoline Hill in the city of Rome, where he was worshipped under the names of Jupiter-Optimus-Maximus, Capitolinus, and Tarpeius. The Romans represented him seated on a throne of ivory, holding in his right hand a sheaf of thunderbolts, and in his left a sceptre, whilst an eagle stands beside his throne. HERA (JUNO). Hera, the eldest daughter of Cronus and Rhea, was born at Samos, or, according to some accounts, at Argos, and was reared by the sea-divinities Oceanus and Tethys, who were models of conjugal fidelity.[16] She was the {39} principal wife of Zeus, and, as queen of heaven, participated in the honours paid to him, but her dominion only extended over the air (the lower aërial regions). Hera appears to be the sublime embodiment of strict matronly virtue, and is on that account the protectress of purity and married women. Faultless herself in her fidelity as a wife, she is essentially the type of the sanctity of the marriage tie, and holds in abhorrence any violation of its obligations. So strongly was she imbued with this hatred of any immorality, that, finding herself so often called upon to punish the failings of both gods and men in this respect, she became jealous, harsh, and vindictive. Her exalted position as the wife of the supreme deity, combined with her extreme beauty, caused her to become exceedingly vain, and she consequently resented with great severity any infringement on her rights as queen of heaven, or any apparent slight on her personal appearance. The following story will signally illustrate how ready she was to resent any slight offered to her. At the marriage of the sea-nymph Thetis with a mortal called Peleus, all the gods and goddesses were present, except Eris (the goddess of Discord). Indignant at not being invited, she determined to cause dissension in the assembly, and for this purpose threw into the midst of the guests a golden apple with the inscription on it "For the Fairest." Now, as all the goddesses were extremely beautiful, each claimed the apple; but at length, the rest having relinquished their pretensions, the number of candidates was reduced to three, Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite, who agreed to appeal to Paris for a settlement of this delicate question, he being noted for the wisdom he had displayed in his judgment upon several occasions. Paris was the son of Priam, king of Troy, who, ignorant of his noble birth, was at this time feeding his flocks on Mount Ida, in Phrygia. Hermes, as messenger of the gods, conducted the three rival beauties to the young shepherd, and with breathless anxiety they awaited his decision. Each fair candidate endeavoured {40} to secure his favour by the most tempting offers. Hera promised him extensive dominions; Athene, martial fame and glory; and Aphrodite, the loveliest woman in the world. But whether he really considered Aphrodite the fairest of the three, or preferred a beautiful wife to fame and power, we cannot tell; all we know is that to her he awarded the golden apple, and she became ever after universally acknowledged as the goddess of beauty. Hera, having fully expected that Paris would give her the preference, was so indignant that she never forgave him, and not only persecuted him, but all the family of Priam, whose dreadful sufferings and misfortunes during the Trojan war were attributed to her influence. In fact, she carried her animosity to such an extent that it was often the cause of domestic disagreements between herself and Zeus, who espoused the cause of the Trojans. Among the many stories of these frequent quarrels there is one connected with Heracles, the favourite son of Zeus, which is as follows:--Hera having raised a storm at sea in order to drive him out of his course, Zeus became so angry that he hung her in the clouds by a golden chain, and attached heavy anvils to her feet. Her son Hephæstus tried to release his mother from her humiliating position, for which Zeus threw him out of heaven, and his leg was broken by the fall. Hera, being deeply offended with Zeus, determined to separate herself from him for ever, and she accordingly left him and took up her abode in Euboea. Surprised and grieved at this unlooked-for desertion, Zeus resolved to leave no means untried to win her back again. In this emergency he consulted Cithaeron, king of Platea, who was famed for his great wisdom and subtlety. Cithaeron advised him to dress up an image in bridal attire and place it in a chariot, announcing that this was Platea, his future wife. The artifice succeeded. Hera, incensed at the idea of a rival, flew to meet the procession in great anger, and seizing the supposed bride, she furiously attacked her and dragged off her nuptial attire. Her delight on discovering the deception was so great that a {41} reconciliation took place, and, committing the image to the flames, with joyful laughter she seated herself in its place and returned to Olympus. Hera was the mother of Ares (Mars), Hephæstus, Hebe, and Eileithyia. Ares was the god of War; Hephæstus, of Fire; Hebe, of Youth; and Eileithyia presided over the birth of mortals. Hera dearly loved Greece, and indeed always watched over and protected Greek interests, her beloved and favourite cities being Argos, Samos, Sparta, and Mycenæ. [Illustration] Her principal temples were at Argos and Samos. From a remote period she was greatly venerated at Olympia, and her temple there, which stood in the Altis or sacred grove, was five hundred years older than that of Zeus on the same spot. Some interesting excavations which are now going on there have brought to light the remains of the ancient edifice, which contains among other treasures of antiquity several beautiful statues, the work of the famous sculptors of ancient Greece. At first this temple was built of wood, then of stone, and the one lately discovered was formed of conglomerate of shells. In the Altis races were run by young maidens in honour of Hera, and the fleetest of foot received in token of her victory an olive-wreath and a piece of the flesh of the sacrifices. These races, like the Olympic Games, were celebrated at intervals of four years, and were called Heræ. A beautiful robe, woven by sixteen women chosen from the sixteen cities of Elis, was always offered to Hera on these {42} occasions, and choral songs and sacred dances formed part of the ceremonies. Hera is usually represented seated on a throne, holding a pomegranate in one hand and a sceptre surmounted by a cuckoo in the other. She appears as a calm, dignified matron of majestic beauty, robed in a tunic and mantle, her forehead is broad and intellectual, her eyes large and fully opened, and her arms dazzlingly white and finely moulded. The finest statue of this divinity was that by Polycletus at Argos. Her attributes are the diadem, veil, sceptre, and peacock. The first day of every month a ewe-lamb and sow were sacrificed to Hera. The hawk, goose, and more particularly the peacock[17] were sacred to her. Flocks of these beautiful birds generally surround her throne and draw her chariot, Iris, the Rainbow, being seated behind her. Her favourite flowers were the dittany, poppy, and lily. JUNO. Juno, the Roman divinity supposed to be identical with the Greek Hera, differed from her in the most salient points, for whereas Hera invariably appears as the haughty, unbending queen of heaven, Juno, on the other hand, is revered and beloved as the type of a matron and housewife. She was worshipped in Rome under various titles, most of which point to her vocation as the protectress of married women. Juno was believed to watch over and guard the life of every woman from her birth to her death. The principal temples dedicated to her were in Rome, one being erected on the Aventine, and the other on the Capitoline Hill. She had also a temple on the Arx, in which she was worshipped as Juno Moneta, or the {43} warning goddess. Adjacent to this shrine was the public mint.[18] On the 1st of March a grand annual festival, called the Matronalia, was celebrated in her honour by all the married women of Rome, and this religious institution was accompanied with much solemnity.[19] PALLAS-ATHENE (MINERVA). Pallas-Athene, goddess of Wisdom and Armed Resistance, was a purely Greek divinity; that is to say, no other nation possessed a corresponding conception. She was supposed, as already related, to have issued from the head of Zeus himself, clad in armour from head to foot. The miraculous advent of this maiden goddess is beautifully described by Homer in one of his hymns: snow-capped Olympus shook to its foundation; the glad earth re-echoed her martial shout; the billowy sea became agitated; and Helios, the sun-god, arrested his fiery steeds in their headlong course to welcome this wonderful emanation from the godhead. Athene was at once admitted into the assembly of the gods, and henceforth took her place as the most faithful and sagacious of all her father's counsellors. This brave, dauntless maiden, so exactly the essence of all that is noble in the character of "the father of gods and men," remained throughout chaste in word and deed, and kind at heart, without exhibiting any of those failings which somewhat mar the nobler features in the character of Zeus. This direct emanation from his own self, justly his favourite child, his better and purer counterpart, received from him several important prerogatives. She was permitted to hurl the thunderbolts, to prolong the life of man, and to bestow the gift of prophecy; in fact Athene was the only divinity whose authority was equal to that of Zeus himself, and when he had ceased to visit the earth in person {44} she was empowered by him to act as his deputy. It was her especial duty to protect the state and all peaceful associations of mankind, which she possessed the power of defending when occasion required. She encouraged the maintenance of law and order, and defended the right on all occasions, for which reason, in the Trojan war she espouses the cause of the Greeks and exerts all her influence on their behalf. The Areopagus, a court of justice where religious causes and murders were tried, was believed to have been instituted by her, and when both sides happened to have an equal number of votes she gave the casting-vote in favour of the accused. She was the patroness of learning, science, and art, more particularly where these contributed directly towards the welfare of nations. She presided over all inventions connected with agriculture, invented the plough, and taught mankind how to use oxen for farming purposes. She also instructed mankind in the use of numbers, trumpets, chariots, &c., and presided over the building of the Argo,[20] thereby encouraging the useful art of navigation. She also taught the Greeks how to build the wooden horse by means of which the destruction of Troy was effected. The safety of cities depended on her care, for which reason her temples were generally built on the citadels, and she was supposed to watch over the defence of the walls, fortifications, harbours, &c. A divinity who so faithfully guarded the best interests of the state, by not only protecting it from the attacks of enemies, but also by developing its chief resources of wealth and prosperity, was worthily chosen as the presiding deity of the state, and in this character as an essentially political goddess she was called Athene-Polias. The fact of Athene having been born clad in armour, which merely signified that her virtue and purity were unassailable, has given rise to the erroneous supposition that she was the presiding goddess of war; but a deeper {45} study of her character in all its bearings proves that, in contradistinction to her brother Ares, the god of war, who loved strife for its own sake, she only takes up arms to protect the innocent and deserving against tyrannical oppression. It is true that in the Iliad we frequently see her on the battlefield fighting valiantly, and protecting her favourite heroes; but this is always at the command of Zeus, who even supplies her with arms for the purpose, as it is supposed that she possessed none of her own. A marked feature in the representations of this deity is the ægis, that wonderful shield given to her by her father as a further means of defence, which, when in danger, she swung so swiftly round and round that it kept at a distance all antagonistic influences; hence her name Pallas, from _pallo_, I swing. In the centre of this shield, which was covered with dragon's scales, bordered with serpents, and which she sometimes wore as a breastplate, was the awe-inspiring head of the Medusa, which had the effect of turning to stone all beholders. In addition to the many functions which she exercised in connection with the state, Athene presided over the two chief departments of feminine industry, spinning and weaving. In the latter art she herself displayed unrivalled ability and exquisite taste. She wove her own robe and that of Hera, which last she is said to have embroidered very richly; she also gave Jason a cloak wrought by herself, when he set forth in quest of the Golden Fleece. Being on one occasion challenged to a contest in this accomplishment by a mortal maiden named Arachne, whom she had instructed in the art of weaving, she accepted the challenge and was completely vanquished by her pupil. Angry at her defeat, she struck the unfortunate maiden on the forehead with the shuttle which she held in her hand; and Arachne, being of a sensitive nature, was so hurt by this indignity that she hung herself in despair, and was changed by Athene into a spider. This goddess is said to have invented the flute,[21] upon {46} which she played with considerable talent, until one day, being laughed at by the assembled gods and goddesses for the contortions which her countenance assumed during these musical efforts, she hastily ran to a fountain in order to convince herself whether she deserved their ridicule. Finding to her intense disgust that such was indeed the fact, she threw the flute away, and never raised it to her lips again. [Illustration] Athene is usually represented fully draped; she has a serious and thoughtful aspect, as though replete with earnestness and wisdom; the beautiful oval contour of her countenance is adorned by the luxuriance of her wealth of hair, which is drawn back from the temples and hangs down in careless grace; she looks the embodiment of strength, grandeur, and majesty; whilst her broad shoulders and small hips give her a slightly masculine appearance. When represented as the war-goddess she appears clad in armour, with a helmet on her head, from which waves a large plume; she carries the ægis on her arm, and in her hand a golden staff, which possessed the property of endowing her chosen favourites with youth and dignity. Athene was universally worshipped throughout Greece, but was regarded with special veneration by the Athenians, she being the guardian deity of Athens. Her most celebrated temple was the Parthenon, which stood on the {47} Acropolis at Athens, and contained her world-renowned statue by Phidias, which ranks second only to that of Zeus by the same great artist. This colossal statue was 39 feet high, and was composed of ivory and gold; its majestic beauty formed the chief attraction of the temple. It represented her standing erect, bearing her spear and shield; in her hand she held an image of Nike, and at her feet there lay a serpent. The tree sacred to her was the olive, which she herself produced in a contest with Poseidon. The olive-tree thus called into existence was preserved in the temple of Erectheus, on the Acropolis, and is said to have possessed such marvellous vitality, that when the Persians burned it after sacking the town it immediately burst forth into new shoots. The principal festival held in honour of this divinity was the Panathenæa. The owl, cock, and serpent were the animals sacred to her, and her sacrifices were rams, bulls, and cows. [Illustration] MINERVA. The Minerva of the Romans was identified with the Pallas-Athene of the Greeks. Like her she presides over learning and all useful arts, and is the patroness of the feminine accomplishments of sewing, spinning, weaving, &c. Schools were under her especial care, and schoolboys, therefore, had holidays during her festivals (the Greater Quinquatria), when they always brought a gift to their master, called the Minerval. It is worthy of notice that the only three divinities {48} worshipped in the Capitol were Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, and in their joint honour the Ludi Maximi or great games were held. THEMIS. Themis, who has already been alluded to as the wife of Zeus, was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, and personified those divine laws of justice and order by means of which the well-being and morality of communities are regulated. She presided over the assemblies of the people and the laws of hospitality. To her was intrusted the office of convoking the assembly of the gods, and she was also mistress of ritual and ceremony. On account of her great wisdom Zeus himself frequently sought her counsel and acted upon her advice. Themis was a prophetic divinity, and had an oracle near the river Cephissus in Boeotia. She is usually represented as being in the full maturity of womanhood, of fair aspect, and wearing a flowing garment, which drapes her noble, majestic form; in her right hand she holds the sword of justice, and in her left the scales, which indicate the impartiality with which every cause is carefully weighed by her, her eyes being bandaged so that the personality of the individual should carry no weight with respect to the verdict. This divinity is sometimes identified with Tyche, sometimes with Ananke. Themis, like so many other Greek divinities, takes the place of a more ancient deity of the same name who was a daughter of Uranus and Gæa. This elder Themis inherited from her mother the gift of prophecy, and when she became merged into her younger representative she transmitted to her this prophetic power. HESTIA (Vesta). Hestia was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea. She was the goddess of Fire in its first application to the wants of mankind, hence she was essentially the presiding deity {49} of the domestic hearth and the guardian spirit of man, and it was her pure and benign influence which was supposed to protect the sanctity of domestic life. Now in these early ages the hearth was regarded as the most important and most sacred portion of the dwelling, probably because the protection of the fire was an important consideration, for if once permitted to become extinct, re-ignition was attended with extreme difficulty. In fact, the hearth was held so sacred that it constituted the sanctum of the family, for which reason it was always erected in the centre of every house. It was a few feet in height and was built of stone; the fire was placed on the top of it, and served the double purpose of preparing the daily meals, and consuming the family sacrifices. Round this domestic hearth or altar were gathered the various members of the family, the head of the house occupying the place of honour nearest the hearth. Here prayers were said and sacrifices offered, and here also every kind and loving feeling was fostered, which even extended to the hunted and guilty stranger, who, if he once succeeded in touching this sacred altar, was safe from pursuit and punishment, and was henceforth placed under the protection of the family. Any crime committed within the sacred precincts of the domestic hearth was invariably visited by death. [Illustration] In Grecian cities there was a common hall, called the Prytaneum, in which the members of the government had their meals at the expense of the state, and here too was the Hestia, or public hearth, with its fire, by means of which those meals were prepared. It was customary for emigrants to take with them a portion of this sacred fire, which they jealously guarded and brought with them to their new home, where it served as a connecting link between the young Greek colony and the mother country. Hestia is generally represented standing, and in accordance with the dignity and sanctity of her character, always appears fully draped. Her countenance is distinguished by a serene gravity of expression. {50} VESTA. Vesta occupies a distinguished place among the earlier divinities of the Romans. Her temple in Rome, containing as it were the hearthstone of the nation, stood close beside the palace of Numa Pompilius. On her altar burned the never-ceasing fire, which was tended by her priestesses, the Vestal Virgins.[22] The temple of Vesta was circular in form, and contained that sacred and highly prized treasure the Palladium of Troy.[23] The great festival in honour of Vesta, called the Vestalia, was celebrated on the 9th of June. DEMETER (Ceres). Demeter (from _Ge-meter_, earth-mother) was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea.[24] She represented that portion of Gæa (the whole solid earth) which we call the earth's crust, and which produces all vegetation. As goddess of agriculture, field-fruits, plenty, and productiveness, she was the sustainer of material life, and was therefore a divinity of great importance. When ancient Gæa lost, with Uranus, her position as a ruling divinity, she abdicated her sway in favour of her daughter Rhea, who henceforth inherited the powers which her mother had previously possessed, receiving in her place the honour and worship of mankind. In a very old poem Gæa is accordingly described as retiring to a cavern in the bowels {51} of the earth, where she sits in the lap of her daughter, slumbering, moaning, and nodding for ever and ever. It is necessary to keep clearly in view the distinctive difference between the three great earth-goddesses Gæa, Rhea, and Demeter. Gæa represents the earth as a whole, with its mighty subterranean forces; Rhea is that productive power which causes vegetation to spring forth, thus sustaining men and animals; Demeter, by presiding over agriculture, directs and utilizes Rhea's productive powers. But in later times, when Rhea, like other ancient divinities, loses her importance as a ruling deity, Demeter assumes all her functions and attributes, and then becomes the goddess of the life-producing and life-maintaining earth-crust. We must bear in mind the fact that man in his primitive state knew neither how to sow nor how to till the ground; when, therefore, he had exhausted the pastures which surrounded him he was compelled to seek others which were as yet unreaped; thus, roaming constantly from one place to another, settled habitations, and consequently civilizing influences, were impossible. Demeter, however, by introducing a knowledge of agriculture, put an end, at once and for ever, to that nomadic life which was now no longer necessary. [Illustration] The favour of Demeter was believed to bring mankind rich harvests and fruitful crops, whereas her displeasure caused blight, drought, and famine. The island of Sicily was supposed to be under her especial protection, and there she was regarded with particular veneration, the Sicilians naturally attributing the wonderful fertility of their country to the partiality of the goddess. Demeter is usually represented as a woman of noble {52} bearing and majestic appearance, tall, matronly, and dignified, with beautiful golden hair, which falls in rippling curls over her stately shoulders, the yellow locks being emblematical of the ripened ears of corn. Sometimes she appears seated in a chariot drawn by winged dragons, at others she stands erect, her figure drawn up to its full height, and always fully draped; she bears a sheaf of wheat-ears in one hand and a lighted torch in the other. The wheat-ears are not unfrequently replaced by a bunch of poppies, with which her brows are also garlanded, though sometimes she merely wears a simple riband in her hair. Demeter, as the wife of Zeus, became the mother of Persephone (Proserpine), to whom she was so tenderly attached that her whole life was bound up in her, and she knew no happiness except in her society. One day, however, whilst Persephone was gathering flowers in a meadow, attended by the ocean-nymphs, she saw to her surprise a beautiful narcissus, from the stem of which sprang forth a hundred blossoms. Drawing near to examine this lovely flower, whose exquisite scent perfumed the air, she stooped down to gather it, suspecting no evil, when a yawning abyss opened at her feet, and Aïdes, the grim ruler of the lower world, appeared from its depths, seated in his dazzling chariot drawn by four black horses. Regardless of her tears and the shrieks of her female attendants, Aïdes seized the terrified maiden, and bore her away to the gloomy realms over which he reigned in melancholy grandeur. Helios, the all-seeing sun-god, and Hecate, a mysterious and very ancient divinity, alone heard her cries for aid, but were powerless to help her. When Demeter became conscious of her loss her grief was intense, and she refused to be comforted. She knew not where to seek for her child, but feeling that repose and inaction were impossible, she set out on her weary search, taking with her two torches which she lighted in the flames of Mount Etna to guide her on her way. For nine long days and nights she wandered on, inquiring of every one she met for tidings of her child. {53} But all was in vain! Neither gods nor men could give her the comfort which her soul so hungered for. At last, on the tenth day, the disconsolate mother met Hecate, who informed her that she had heard her daughter's cries, but knew not who it was that had borne her away. By Hecate's advice Demeter consulted Helios, whose all-seeing eye nothing escapes, and from him she learnt that it was Zeus himself who had permitted Aïdes to seize Persephone, and transport her to the lower world in order that she might become his wife. Indignant with Zeus for having given his sanction to the abduction of his daughter, and filled with the bitterest sorrow, she abandoned her home in Olympus, and refused all heavenly food. Disguising herself as an old woman, she descended upon earth, and commenced a weary pilgrimage among mankind. One evening she arrived at a place called Eleusis, in Attica, and sat down to rest herself near a well beneath the shade of an olive-tree. The youthful daughters of Celeus, the king of the country, came with their pails of brass to draw water from this well, and seeing that the tired wayfarer appeared faint and dispirited, they spoke kindly to her, asking who she was, and whence she came. Demeter replied that she had made her escape from pirates, who had captured her, and added that she would feel grateful for a home with any worthy family, whom she would be willing to serve in a menial capacity. The princesses, on hearing this, begged Demeter to have a moment's patience while they returned home and consulted their mother, Metaneira. They soon brought the joyful intelligence that she was desirous of securing her services as nurse to her infant son Demophoon, or Triptolemus. When Demeter arrived at the house a radiant light suddenly illumined her, which circumstance so overawed Metaneira that she treated the unknown stranger with the greatest respect, and hospitably offered her food and drink. But Demeter, still grief-worn and dejected, refused her friendly offers, and held herself apart from the social board. At length, however, the maid-servant Iambe succeeded, by means {54} of playful jests and merriment, in somewhat dispelling the grief of the sorrowing mother, causing her at times to smile in spite of herself, and even inducing her to partake of a mixture of barley-meal, mint, and water, which was prepared according to the directions of the goddess herself. Time passed on, and the young child throve amazingly under the care of his kind and judicious nurse, who, however, gave him no food, but anointed him daily with ambrosia, and every night laid him secretly in the fire in order to render him immortal and exempt from old age. But, unfortunately, this benevolent design on the part of Demeter was frustrated by Metaneira herself, whose curiosity, one night, impelled her to watch the proceedings of the mysterious being who nursed her child. When to her horror she beheld her son placed in the flames, she shrieked aloud. Demeter, incensed at this untimely interruption, instantly withdrew the child, and throwing him on the ground, revealed herself in her true character. The bent and aged form had vanished, and in its place there stood a bright and beauteous being, whose golden locks streamed over her shoulders in richest luxuriance, her whole aspect bespeaking dignity and majesty. She told the awe-struck Metaneira that she was the goddess Demeter, and had intended to make her son immortal, but that her fatal curiosity had rendered this impossible, adding, however, that the child, having slept in her arms, and been nursed on her lap, should ever command the respect and esteem of mankind. She then desired that a temple and altar should be erected to her on a neighbouring hill by the people of Eleusis, promising that she herself would direct them how to perform the sacred rites and ceremonies, which should be observed in her honour. With these words she took her departure never to return. Obedient to her commands, Celeus called together a meeting of his people, and built the temple on the spot which the goddess had indicated. It was soon completed, and Demeter took up her abode in it, but her heart was still sad for the loss of her daughter, and the whole world felt the influence of her grief and dejection. This was {55} indeed a terrible year for mankind. Demeter no longer smiled on the earth she was wont to bless, and though the husbandman sowed the grain, and the groaning oxen ploughed the fields, no harvest rewarded their labour. All was barren, dreary desolation. The world was threatened with famine, and the gods with the loss of their accustomed honours and sacrifices; it became evident, therefore, to Zeus himself that some measures must be adopted to appease the anger of the goddess. He accordingly despatched Iris and many of the other gods and goddesses to implore Demeter to return to Olympus; but all their prayers were fruitless. The incensed goddess swore that until her daughter was restored to her she would not allow the grain to spring forth from the earth. At length Zeus sent Hermes, his faithful messenger, to the lower world with a petition to Aïdes, urgently entreating him to restore Persephone to the arms of her disconsolate mother. When he arrived in the gloomy realms of Aïdes, Hermes found him seated on a throne with the beautiful Persephone beside him, sorrowfully bewailing her unhappy fate. On learning his errand, Aïdes consented to resign Persephone, who joyfully prepared to follow the messenger of the gods to the abode of life and light. Before taking leave of her husband, he presented to her a few seeds of pomegranate, which in her excitement she thoughtlessly swallowed, and this simple act, as the sequel will show, materially affected her whole future life. The meeting between mother and child was one of unmixed rapture, and for the moment all the past was forgotten. The loving mother's happiness would now have been complete had not Aïdes asserted his rights. These were, that if any immortal had tasted food in his realms they were bound to remain there for ever. Of course the ruler of the lower world had to prove this assertion. This, however, he found no difficulty in doing, as Ascalaphus, the son of Acheron and Orphne, was his witness to the fact.[25] Zeus, pitying the disappointment of Demeter at finding {56} her hopes thus blighted, succeeded in effecting a compromise by inducing his brother Aïdes to allow Persephone to spend six months of the year with the gods above, whilst during the other six she was to be the joyless companion of her grim lord below. Accompanied by her daughter, the beautiful Persephone, Demeter now resumed her long-abandoned dwelling in Olympus; the sympathetic earth responded gaily to her bright smiles, the corn at once sprang forth from the ground in fullest plenty, the trees, which late were sered and bare, now donned their brightest emerald robes, and the flowers, so long imprisoned in the hard, dry soil, filled the whole air with their fragrant perfume. Thus ends this charming story, which was a favourite theme with all the classic authors. It is very possible that the poets who first created this graceful myth merely intended it as an allegory to illustrate the change of seasons; in the course of time, however, a literal meaning became attached to this and similar poetical fancies, and thus the people of Greece came to regard as an article of religious belief what, in the first instance, was nothing more than a poetic simile. In the temple erected to Demeter at Eleusis, the famous Eleusinian Mysteries were instituted by the goddess herself. It is exceedingly difficult, as in the case of all secret societies, to discover anything with certainty concerning these sacred rites. The most plausible supposition is that the doctrines taught by the priests to the favoured few whom they initiated, were religious truths which were deemed unfit for the uninstructed mind of the multitude. For instance, it is supposed that the myth of Demeter and Persephone was explained by the teachers of the Mysteries to signify the temporary loss which mother earth sustains every year when the icy breath of winter robs her of her flowers and fruits and grain. It is believed that in later times a still deeper meaning was conveyed by this beautiful myth, viz., the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. The grain, which, as it were, remains dead for a time in the dark earth, only {57} to rise one day dressed in a newer and lovelier garb, was supposed to symbolize the soul, which, after death, frees itself from corruption, to live again under a better and purer form. When Demeter instituted the Eleusinian Mysteries, Celeus and his family were the first to be initiated, Celeus himself being appointed high-priest. His son Triptolemus and his daughters, who acted as priestesses, assisted him in the duties of his sacred office. The Mysteries were celebrated by the Athenians every five years, and were, for a long time, their exclusive privilege. They took place by torchlight, and were conducted with the greatest solemnity. In order to spread abroad the blessings which agriculture confers, Demeter presented Triptolemus with her chariot drawn by winged dragons, and, giving him some grains of corn, desired him to journey through the world, teaching mankind the arts of agriculture and husbandry. [Illustration] Demeter exercised great severity towards those who incurred her displeasure. We find examples of this in the stories of Stellio and Eresicthon. Stellio was a youth who ridiculed the goddess for the eagerness with which she was eating a bowl of porridge, when weary and faint in the vain search for her daughter. Resolved that he should never again have an opportunity of thus offending, she angrily threw into his face the remainder of the food, and changed him into a spotted lizard. Eresicthon, son of Triopas, had drawn upon himself the anger of Demeter by cutting down her sacred groves, for which she punished him with a constant and insatiable hunger. He sold all his possessions in order to satisfy his cravings, and was forced at last to devour his own limbs. His daughter Metra, who was devotedly attached to him, possessed the power of transforming herself into a variety of different animals. By this means she contrived to support her father, who sold her again and again each time she assumed a different form, and thus he dragged on a pitiful existence. {58} CERES. The Roman Ceres is actually the Greek Demeter under another name, her attributes, worship, festivals, &c., being precisely identical. The Romans were indebted to Sicily for this divinity, her worship having been introduced by the Greek colonists who settled there. The Cerealia, or festivals in honour of Ceres, commenced on the 12th of April, and lasted several days. APHRODITE (VENUS). Aphrodite (from _aphros_, sea-foam, and _dite_, issued), the daughter of Zeus and a sea-nymph called Dione, was the goddess of Love and Beauty. Dione, being a sea-nymph, gave birth to her daughter beneath the waves; but the child of the heaven-inhabiting Zeus was forced to ascend from the ocean-depths and mount to the snow-capped summits of Olympus, in order to breathe that ethereal and most refined atmosphere which pertains to the celestial gods. Aphrodite was the mother of Eros (Cupid), the god of Love, also of Æneas, the great Trojan hero and the head of that Greek colony which settled in Italy, and from which arose the city of Rome. As a mother Aphrodite claims our sympathy for the tenderness she exhibits towards her children. Homer tells us in his Iliad, how, when Æneas was wounded in battle, she came to his assistance, regardless of personal danger, and was herself severely wounded in attempting to save his life. {59} Aphrodite was tenderly attached to a lovely youth, called Adonis, whose exquisite beauty has become proverbial. He was a motherless babe, and Aphrodite, taking pity on him, placed him in a chest and intrusted him to the care of Persephone, who became so fond of the beautiful youth that she refused to part with him. Zeus, being appealed to by the rival foster-mothers, decided that Adonis should spend four months of every year with Persephone, four with Aphrodite, whilst during the remaining four months he should be left to his own devices. He became, however, so attached to Aphrodite that he voluntarily devoted to her the time at his own disposal. Adonis was killed, during the chase, by a wild boar, to the great grief of Aphrodite, who bemoaned his loss so persistently that Aïdes, moved with pity, permitted him to pass six months of every year with her, whilst the remaining half of the year was spent by him in the lower world. Aphrodite possessed a magic girdle (the famous _cestus_) which she frequently lent to unhappy maidens suffering from the pangs of unrequited love, as it was endowed with the power of inspiring affection for the wearer, whom it invested with every attribute of grace, beauty, and fascination. Her usual attendants are the Charites or Graces (Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Thalia), who are represented undraped and intertwined in a loving embrace. In Hesiod's _Theogony_ she is supposed to belong to the more ancient divinities, and, whilst those of later date are represented as having descended one from another, and all more or less from Zeus, Aphrodite has a variously-accounted-for, yet independent origin. The most poetical version of her birth is that when Uranus was wounded by his son Cronus, his blood mingled with the foam of the sea, whereupon the bubbling waters at once assumed a rosy tint, and from their depths arose, in all the surpassing glory of her loveliness, Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty! Shaking her long, fair tresses, the water-drops rolled down into the beautiful {60} sea-shell in which she stood, and became transformed into pure glistening pearls. Wafted by the soft and balmy breezes, she floated on to Cythera, and was thence transported to the island of Cyprus. Lightly she stepped on shore, and under the gentle pressure of her delicate foot the dry and rigid sand became transformed into a verdant meadow, where every varied shade of colour and every sweet odour charmed the senses. The whole island of Cyprus became clothed with verdure, and greeted this fairest of all created beings with a glad smile of friendly welcome. Here she was received by the Seasons, who decked her with garments of immortal fabric, encircling her fair brow with a wreath of purest gold, whilst from her ears depended costly rings, and a glittering chain embraced her swan-like throat. And now, arrayed in all the panoply of her irresistible charms, the nymphs escort her to the dazzling halls of Olympus, where she is received with ecstatic enthusiasm by the admiring gods and goddesses. The gods all vied with each other in aspiring to the honour of her hand, but Hephæstus became the envied possessor of this lovely being, who, however, proved as faithless as she was beautiful, and caused her husband much unhappiness, owing to the preference she showed at various times for some of the other gods and also for mortal men. [Illustration] The celebrated Venus of Milo, now in the Louvre, is an exquisite statue of this divinity. The head is beautifully formed; the rich waves of hair descend on her rather low but broad forehead and are caught up gracefully in a small knot at the back of the head; the expression of the face is most bewitching, and bespeaks the perfect {61} joyousness of a happy nature combined with the dignity of a goddess; the drapery falls in careless folds from the waist downwards, and her whole attitude is the embodiment of all that is graceful and lovely in womanhood. She is of medium height, and the form is perfect in its symmetry and faultless proportions. Aphrodite is also frequently represented in the act of confining her dripping locks in a knot, whilst her attendant nymphs envelop her in a gauzy veil. The animals sacred to her were the dove, swan, swallow, and sparrow. Her favourite plants were the myrtle, apple-tree, rose, and poppy. The worship of Aphrodite is supposed to have been introduced into Greece from Central Asia. There is no doubt that she was originally identical with the famous Astarté, the Ashtoreth of the Bible, against whose idolatrous worship and infamous rites the prophets of old hurled forth their sublime and powerful anathemas. VENUS. The Venus of the Romans was identified with the Aphrodite of the Greeks. The worship of this divinity was only established in Rome in comparatively later times. Annual festivals, called Veneralia, were held in her honour, and the month of April, when flowers and plants spring forth afresh, was sacred to her. She was worshipped as Venus Cloacina (or the Purifier), and as Venus Myrtea (or the myrtle goddess), an epithet derived from the myrtle, the emblem of Love. HELIOS (SOL). The worship of Helios was introduced into Greece from Asia. According to the earliest conceptions of the Greeks he was not only the sun-god, but also the personification of life and all life-giving power, for light is well known to be an indispensable condition of all healthy terrestrial life. The worship of the sun was originally very widely spread, {62} not only among the early Greeks themselves, but also among other primitive nations. To us the sun is simply the orb of light, which, high above our heads, performs each day the functions assigned to it by a mighty and invisible Power; we can, therefore, form but a faint idea of the impression which it produced upon the spirit of a people whose intellect was still in its infancy, and who believed, with child-like simplicity, that every power of nature was a divinity, which, according as its character was baleful or beneficent, worked for the destruction or benefit of the human race. Helios, who was the son of the Titans Hyperion and Theia, is described as rising every morning in the east, preceded by his sister Eos (the Dawn), who, with her rosy fingers, paints the tips of the mountains, and draws aside that misty veil through which her brother is about to appear. When he has burst forth in all the glorious light of day, Eos disappears, and Helios now drives his flame-darting chariot along the accustomed track. This chariot, which is of burnished gold, is drawn by four fire-breathing steeds, behind which the young god stands erect with flashing eyes, his head surrounded with rays, holding in one hand the reins of those fiery coursers which in all hands save his are unmanageable. When towards evening he descends the curve[26] in order to cool his burning forehead in the waters of the deep sea, he is followed closely by his sister Selene (the Moon), who is now prepared to take charge of the world, and illumine with her silver crescent the dusky night. Helios meanwhile rests from his labours, and, reclining softly on the cool fragrant couch prepared for him by the sea-nymphs, recruits himself for another life-giving, joy-inspiring, and beauteous day. It may appear strange that, although the Greeks considered the earth to be a flat circle, no explanation is given of the fact that Helios sinks down in the far {63} west regularly every evening, and yet reappears as regularly every morning in the east. Whether he was supposed to pass through Tartarus, and thus regain the opposite extremity through the bowels of the earth, or whether they thought he possessed any other means of making this transit, there is not a line in either Homer or Hesiod to prove. In later times, however, the poets invented the graceful fiction, that when Helios had finished his course, and reached the western side of the curve, a winged-boat, or cup, which had been made for him by Hephæstus, awaited him there, and conveyed him rapidly, with his glorious equipage, to the east, where he recommenced his bright and glowing career. This divinity was invoked as a witness when a solemn oath was taken, as it was believed that nothing escaped his all-seeing eye, and it was this fact which enabled him to inform Demeter of the fate of her daughter, as already related. He was supposed to possess flocks and herds in various localities, which may possibly be intended to represent the days and nights of the year, or the stars of heaven. Helios is said to have loved Clytie, a daughter of Oceanus, who ardently returned his affection; but in the course of time the fickle sun-god transferred his devotion to Leucothea, the daughter of Orchamus, king of the eastern countries, which so angered the forsaken Clytie that she informed Orchamus of his daughter's attachment, and he punished her by inhumanly burying her alive. Helios, overcome with grief, endeavoured, by every means in his power, to recall her to life. At last, finding all his efforts unavailing, he sprinkled her grave with heavenly nectar, and immediately there sprang forth from the spot a shoot of frankincense, which spread around its aromatic perfume. The jealous Clytie gained nothing by her cruel conduct, for the sun-god came to her no more. Inconsolable at his loss, she threw herself upon the ground, and refused all sustenance. For nine long days she turned her face towards the glorious god of day, as he moved along the {64} heavens, till at length her limbs became rooted in the ground, and she was transformed into a flower, which ever turns towards the sun. Helios married Perse, daughter of Oceanus, and their children were, Aëtes, king of Colchis (celebrated in the legend of the Argonauts as the possessor of the Golden Fleece), and Circe, the renowned sorceress. Helios had another son named Phaethon, whose mother was Clymene, one of the Oceanides. The youth was very beautiful, and a great favourite with Aphrodite, who intrusted him with the care of one of her temples, which flattering proof of her regard caused him to become vain and presumptuous. His friend Epaphus, son of Zeus and Io, endeavoured to check his youthful vanity by pretending to disbelieve his assertion that the sun-god was his father. Phaethon, full of resentment, and eager to be able to refute the calumny, hastened to his mother Clymene, and besought her to tell him whether Helios was really his father. Moved by his entreaties, and at the same time angry at the reproach of Epaphus, Clymene pointed to the glorious sun, then shining down upon them, and assured her son that in that bright orb he beheld the author of his being, adding that if he had still any doubt, he might visit the radiant dwelling of the great god of light and inquire for himself. Overjoyed at his mother's reassuring words, and following the directions she gave him, Phaethon quickly wended his way to his father's palace. As he entered the palace of the sun-god the dazzling rays almost blinded him, and prevented him from approaching the throne on which his father was seated, surrounded by the Hours, Days, Months, Years, and Seasons. Helios, who with his all-seeing eye had watched him from afar, removed his crown of glittering rays, and bade him not to be afraid, but to draw near to his father. Encouraged by this kind reception, Phaethon entreated him to bestow upon him such a proof of his love, that all the world might be convinced that he was indeed his son; whereupon Helios desired him to ask any favour he pleased, {65} and swore by the Styx that it should be granted. The impetuous youth immediately requested permission to drive the chariot of the sun for one whole day. His father listened horror-struck to this presumptuous demand, and by representing the many dangers which would beset his path, endeavoured to dissuade him from so perilous an undertaking; but his son, deaf to all advice, pressed his point with such pertinacity, that Helios was reluctantly compelled to lead him to the chariot. Phaethon paused for a moment to admire the beauty of the glittering equipage, the gift of the god of fire, who had formed it of gold, and ornamented it with precious stones, which reflected the rays of the sun. And now Helios, seeing his sister, the Dawn, opening her doors in the rosy east, ordered the Hours to yoke the horses. The goddesses speedily obeyed the command, and the father then anointed the face of his son with a sacred balm, to enable him to endure the burning flames which issued from the nostrils of the steeds, and sorrowfully placing his crown of rays upon his head, desired him to ascend the chariot. The eager youth joyfully took his place and grasped the coveted reins, but no sooner did the fiery coursers of the sun feel the inexperienced hand which attempted to guide them, than they became restive and unmanageable. Wildly they rushed out of their accustomed track, now soaring so high as to threaten the heavens with destruction, now descending so low as nearly to set the earth on fire. At last the unfortunate charioteer, blinded with the glare, and terrified at the awful devastation he had caused, dropped the reins from his trembling hands. Mountains and forests were in flames, rivers and streams were dried up, and a general conflagration was imminent. The scorched earth now called on Zeus for help, who hurled his thunderbolt at Phaethon, and with a flash of lightning brought the fiery steeds to a standstill. The lifeless body of the youth fell headlong into the river Eridanus,[27] where it was received and buried by the {66} nymphs of the stream. His sisters mourned so long for him that they were transformed by Zeus into poplars, and the tears they shed, falling into the waters, became drops of clear, transparent amber. Cycnus, the faithful friend of the unhappy Phaethon, felt such overwhelming grief at his terrible fate, that he pined and wasted away. The gods, moved with compassion, transformed him into a swan, which for ever brooded over the fatal spot where the waters had closed over the head of his unfortunate friend. [Illustration] The chief seat of the worship of Helios was the island of Rhodes, which according to the following myth was his especial territory. At the time of the Titanomachia, when the gods were dividing the world by lot, Helios happened to be absent, and consequently received no share. He, therefore, complained to Zeus, who proposed to have a new allotment, but this Helios would not allow, saying, that as he pursued his daily journey, his penetrating eye had beheld a lovely, fertile island lying beneath the waves of the ocean, and that if the immortals would swear to give him the undisturbed possession of this spot, he would be content to accept it as his share of the universe. The gods took the oath, whereupon the island of Rhodes immediately raised itself above the surface of the waters. The famous Colossus of Rhodes, which was one of the seven wonders of the world, was erected in honour of Helios. This wonderful statue was 105 feet high, and was formed entirely of brass; it formed the entrance to the harbour at Rhodes, and the largest vessel could easily sail between the legs, which stood on moles, each side of the harbour. Though so gigantic, it was perfectly proportioned in every part. Some idea of {67} its size may be gained from the fact that very few people were able to span the thumb of this statue with their arms. In the interior of the Colossus was a winding staircase leading to the top, from the summit of which, by means of a telescope, the coast of Syria, and also the shores of Egypt, are said to have been visible.[28] EOS (AURORA). Eos, the Dawn, like her brother Helios, whose advent she always announced, was also deified by the early Greeks. She too had her own chariot, which she drove across the vast horizon both morning and night, before and after the sun-god. Hence she is not merely the personification of the rosy morn, but also of twilight, for which reason her palace is placed in the west, on the island Ææa. The abode of Eos is a magnificent structure, surrounded by flowery meads and velvety lawns, where nymphs and other immortal beings, wind in and out in the mazy figures of the dance, whilst the music of a sweetly-tuned melody accompanies their graceful, gliding movements. Eos is described by the poets as a beautiful maiden with rosy arms and fingers, and large wings, whose plumage is of an ever-changing hue; she bears a star on her forehead, and a torch in her hand. Wrapping round her the rich folds of her violet-tinged mantle, she leaves her couch before the break of day, and herself yokes her two horses, Lampetus and Phaethon, to her glorious chariot. She then hastens with active cheerfulness to open the gates of heaven, in order to herald the approach of her brother, the god of day, whilst the tender plants and flowers, revived by the morning dew, lift their heads to welcome her as she passes. {68} Eos first married the Titan Astræus,[29] and their children were Heosphorus (Hesperus), the evening star, and the winds. She afterwards became united to Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy, who had won her affection by his unrivalled beauty; and Eos, unhappy at the thought of their being ever separated by death, obtained for him from Zeus the gift of immortality, forgetting, however, to add to it that of eternal youth. The consequence was that when, in the course of time, Tithonus grew old and decrepid, and lost all the beauty which had won her admiration, Eos became disgusted with his infirmities, and at last shut him up in a chamber, where soon little else was left of him but his voice, which had now sunk into a weak, feeble quaver. According to some of the later poets, he became so weary of his cheerless and miserable existence, that he entreated to be allowed to die. This was, however, impossible; but Eos, pitying his unhappy condition, exerted her divine power, and changed him into a grasshopper, which is, as it were, all voice, and whose monotonous, ceaseless chirpings may not inaptly be compared to the meaningless babble of extreme old age. PHOEBUS-APOLLO. Phoebus-Apollo, the god of Light, Prophecy, Music, Poetry, and the Arts and Sciences, is by far the noblest conception within the whole range of Greek mythology, and his worship, which not only extended to all the states of Greece, but also to Asia Minor and to every Greek colony throughout the world, stands out among the most ancient and strongly-marked features of Grecian history, and exerted a more decided influence over the Greek nation, than that of any other deity, not excepting Zeus himself. Apollo was the son of Zeus and Leto, and was born beneath the shade of a palm tree which grew at the foot {69} of Mount Cynthus, on the barren and rocky island of Delos. The poets tell us that the earth smiled when the young god first beheld the light of day, and that Delos became so proud and exultant at the honour thus conferred upon her, that she covered herself with golden flowers; swans surrounded the island, and the Delian nymphs celebrated his birth with songs of joy. [Illustration] The unhappy Leto, driven to Delos by the relentless persecutions of Hera, was not long permitted to enjoy her haven of refuge. Being still tormented by her enemy, the young mother was once more obliged to fly; she therefore resigned the charge of her new-born babe to the goddess Themis, who carefully wrapped the helpless infant in swaddling-clothes, and fed him with nectar and ambrosia; but he had no sooner partaken of the heavenly food than, to the amazement of the goddess, he burst asunder the bands which confined his infant limbs, and springing to his feet, appeared before her as a full-grown youth of divine strength and beauty. He now demanded a lyre and a bow, declaring that henceforth he would announce to mankind the will of his father Zeus. "The golden lyre," said he, "shall be my friend, the bent bow my delight, and in oracles will I foretell the dark future." With these words he ascended to Olympus, where he was received with joyful acclamations into the assembly of the celestial gods, who acknowledged him as the most beautiful and glorious of all the sons of Zeus. Phoebus-Apollo was the god of light in a twofold {70} signification: first, as representing the great orb of day which illumines the world; and secondly, as the heavenly light which animates the soul of man. He inherited his function as sun-god from Helios, with whom, in later times, he was so completely identified, that the personality of the one became gradually merged in that of the other. We, accordingly, find Helios frequently confounded with Apollo, myths belonging to the former attributed to the latter; and with some tribes--the Ionic, for instance--so complete is this identification, that Apollo is called by them Helios-Apollo. As the divinity whose power is developed in the broad light of day, he brings joy and delight to nature, and health and prosperity to man. By the influence of his warm and gentle rays he disperses the noxious vapours of the night, assists the grain to ripen and the flowers to bloom. But although, as god of the sun, he is a life-giving and life-preserving power, who, by his genial influence, dispels the cold of winter, he is, at the same time, the god who, by means of his fiercely darting rays, could spread disease and send sudden death to men and animals; and it is to this phase of his character that we must look for the explanation of his being considered, in conjunction with his twin-sister, Artemis (as moon-goddess), a divinity of death. The brother and sister share this function between them, he taking man and she woman as her aim, and those especially who died in the bloom of youth, or at an advanced age, were believed to have been killed by their gentle arrows. But Apollo did not always send an easy death. We see in the _Iliad_ how, when angry with the Greeks, the "god of the silver bow" strode down from Olympus, with his quiver full of death-bringing darts, and sent a raging pestilence into their camp. For nine days he let fly his fatal arrows, first on animals and then on men, till the air became darkened with the smoke from the funeral pyres. In his character as god of light, Phoebus-Apollo is the protecting deity of shepherds, because it is he who warms {71} the fields and meadows, and gives rich pastures to the flocks, thereby gladdening the heart of the herdsman. As the temperate heat of the sun exercises so invigorating an effect on man and animals, and promotes the growth of those medicinal herbs and vegetable productions necessary for the cure of diseases, Phoebus-Apollo was supposed to possess the power of restoring life and health; hence he was regarded as the god of healing; but this feature in his character we shall find more particularly developed in his son Asclepius (Æsculapius), the veritable god of the healing art. Pursuing our analysis of the various phases in the character of Phoebus-Apollo, we find that with the first beams of his genial light, all nature awakens to renewed life, and the woods re-echo with the jubilant sound of the untaught lays, warbled by thousands of feathered choristers. Hence, by a natural inference, he is the god of music, and as, according to the belief of the ancients, the inspirations of genius were inseparably connected with the glorious light of heaven, he is also the god of poetry, and acts as the special patron of the arts and sciences. Apollo is himself the heavenly musician among the Olympic gods, whose banquets are gladdened by the wondrous strains which he produces from his favourite instrument, the seven-stringed lyre. In the cultus of Apollo, music formed a distinguishing feature. All sacred dances, and even the sacrifices in his honour, were performed to the sound of musical instruments; and it is, in a great measure, owing to the influence which the music in his worship exercised on the Greek nation, that Apollo came to be regarded as the leader of the nine Muses, the legitimate divinities of poetry and song. In this character he is called Musagetes, and is always represented robed in a long flowing garment; his lyre, to the tones of which he appears to be singing, is suspended by a band across the chest; his head is encircled by a wreath of laurel, and his long hair, streaming down over his shoulders, gives him a somewhat effeminate appearance. And now we must view the glorious god of light under {72} another, and (as far as regards his influence over the Greek nation) a much more important aspect; for, in historical times, all the other functions and attributes of Apollo sink into comparative insignificance before the great power which he exercised as god of prophecy. It is true that all Greek gods were endowed, to a certain extent, with the faculty of foretelling future events; but Apollo, as sun-god, was the concentration of all prophetic power, as it was supposed that nothing escaped his all-seeing eye, which penetrated the most hidden recesses, and laid bare the secrets which lay concealed behind the dark veil of the future. We have seen that when Apollo assumed his god-like form, he took his place among the immortals; but he had not long enjoyed the rapturous delights of Olympus, before he felt within him an ardent desire to fulfil his great mission of interpreting to mankind the will of his mighty father. He accordingly descended to earth, and travelled through many countries, seeking a fitting site upon which to establish an oracle. At length he reached the southern side of the rocky heights of Parnassus, beneath which lay the harbour of Crissa. Here, under the overhanging cliff, he found a secluded spot, where, from the most ancient times, there had existed an oracle, in which Gæa herself had revealed the future to man, and which, in Deucalion's time, she had resigned to Themis. It was guarded by the huge serpent Python, the scourge of the surrounding neighbourhood, and the terror alike of men and cattle. The young god, full of confidence in his unerring aim, attacked and slew the monster with his arrows, thus freeing land and people from their mighty enemy. The grateful inhabitants, anxious to do honour to their deliverer, flocked round Apollo, who proceeded to mark out a plan for a temple, and, with the assistance of numbers of eager volunteers, a suitable edifice was soon erected. It now became necessary to choose ministers, who would offer up sacrifices, interpret his prophecies to the people, and take charge of the temple. Looking round, he saw in the far distance a vessel bound from Crete to the {73} Peloponnesus, and determined to avail himself of her crew for his service. Assuming the shape of an enormous dolphin, he agitated the waters to such a degree, that the ship was tossed violently to and fro, to the great alarm of the mariners; at the same time he raised a mighty wind, which drove the ship into the harbour of Crissa, where she ran aground. The terrified sailors dared not set foot on shore; but Apollo, under the form of a vigorous youth, stepped down to the vessel, revealed himself in his true character, and informed them that it was he who had driven them to Crissa, in order that they might become his priests, and serve him in his temple. Arrived at the sacred fane, he instructed them how to perform the services in his honour, and desired them to worship him under the name of Apollo-Delphinios, because he had first appeared to them under the form of a dolphin. Thus was established the far-famed oracle of Delphi, the only institution of the kind which was not exclusively national, for it was consulted by Lydians, Phrygians, Etruscans, Romans, &c., and, in fact, was held in the highest repute all over the world. In obedience to its decrees, the laws of Lycurgus were introduced, and the earliest Greek colonies founded. No cities were built without first consulting the Delphic oracle, for it was believed that Apollo took special delight in the founding of cities, the first stone of which he laid in person; nor was any enterprise ever undertaken, without inquiring at this sacred fane as to its probable success. But that which brought Apollo more closely home to the hearts of the people, and raised the whole moral tone of the Greek nation, was the belief, gradually developed with the intelligence of the people, that he was the god who accepted repentance as an atonement for sin, who pardoned the contrite sinner, and who acted as the special protector of those, who, like Orestes, had committed a crime, which required long years of expiation. Apollo is represented by the poets as being eternally young; his countenance, glowing with joyous life, is the embodiment of immortal beauty; his eyes are of a deep {74} blue; his forehead low, but broad and intellectual; his hair, which falls over his shoulders in long waving locks, is of a golden, or warm chestnut hue. He is crowned with laurel, and wears a purple robe; in his hand he bears his silver bow, which is unbent when he smiles, but ready for use when he menaces evil-doers. But Apollo, the eternally beautiful youth, the perfection of all that is graceful and refined, rarely seems to have been happy in his love; either his advances met with a repulse, or his union with the object of his affection was attended with fatal consequences. His first love was Daphne (daughter of Peneus, the river-god), who was so averse to marriage that she entreated her father to allow her to lead a life of celibacy, and devote herself to the chase, which she loved to the exclusion of all other pursuits. But one day, soon after his victory over the Python, Apollo happened to see Eros bending his bow, and proud of his own superior strength and skill, he laughed at the efforts of the little archer, saying that such a weapon was more suited to the one who had just killed the terrible serpent. Eros angrily replied that his arrow should pierce the heart of the mocker himself, and flying off to the summit of Mount Parnassus, he drew from his quiver two darts of different workmanship--one of gold, which had the effect of inspiring love; the other of lead, which created aversion. Taking aim at Apollo, he pierced his breast with the golden shaft, whilst the leaden one he discharged into the bosom of the beautiful Daphne. The son of Leto instantly felt the most ardent affection for the nymph, who, on her part, evinced the greatest dislike towards her divine lover, and, at his approach, fled from him like a hunted deer. He called upon her in the most endearing accents to stay, but she still sped on, until at length, becoming faint with fatigue, and fearing that she was about to succumb, she called upon the gods to come to her aid. Hardly had she uttered her prayer before a heavy torpor seized her limbs, and just as Apollo threw out his arms to embrace her, she became transformed {75} into a laurel-bush. He sorrowfully crowned his head with its leaves, and declared, that in memory of his love, it should henceforth remain evergreen, and be held sacred to him. He next sought the love of Marpessa, the daughter of Evenus; but though her father approved his suit, the maiden preferred a youth named Idas, who contrived to carry her off in a winged chariot which he had procured from Poseidon. Apollo pursued the fugitives, whom he quickly overtook, and forcibly seizing the bride, refused to resign her. Zeus then interfered, and declared that Marpessa herself must decide which of her lovers should claim her as his wife. After due reflection she accepted Idas as her husband, judiciously concluding that although the attractions of the divine Apollo were superior to those of her lover, it would be wiser to unite herself to a mortal, who, growing old with herself, would be less likely to forsake her, when advancing years should rob her of her charms. Cassandra, daughter of Priam, king of Troy, was another object of the love of Apollo. She feigned to return his affection, and promised to marry him, provided he would confer upon her the gift of prophecy; but having received the boon she desired, the treacherous maiden refused to comply with the conditions upon which it had been granted. Incensed at her breach of faith, Apollo, unable to recall the gift he had bestowed, rendered it useless by causing her predictions to fail in obtaining credence. Cassandra became famous in history for her prophetic powers, but her prophecies were never believed. For instance, she warned her brother Paris that if he brought back a wife from Greece he would cause the destruction of his father's house and kingdom; she also warned the Trojans not to admit the wooden horse within the walls of the city, and foretold to Agamemnon all the disasters which afterwards befell him. Apollo afterwards married Coronis, a nymph of Larissa, and thought himself happy in the possession of her faithful love; but once more he was doomed to {76} disappointment, for one day his favourite bird, the crow, flew to him with the intelligence that his wife had transferred her affections to a youth of Haemonia. Apollo, burning with rage, instantly destroyed her with one of his death-bringing darts. Too late he repented of his rashness, for she had been tenderly beloved by him, and he would fain have recalled her to life; but, although he exerted all his healing powers, his efforts were in vain. He punished the crow for its garrulity by changing the colour of its plumage from pure white to intense black, and forbade it to fly any longer among the other birds. Coronis left an infant son named Asclepius, who afterwards became god of medicine. His powers were so extraordinary that he could not only cure the sick, but could even restore the dead to life. At last Aïdes complained to Zeus that the number of shades conducted to his dominions was daily decreasing, and the great ruler of Olympus, fearing that mankind, thus protected against sickness and death, would be able to defy the gods themselves, killed Asclepius with one of his thunderbolts. The loss of his highly gifted son so exasperated Apollo that, being unable to vent his anger on Zeus, he destroyed the Cyclops, who had forged the fatal thunderbolts. For this offence, Apollo would have been banished by Zeus to Tartarus, but at the earnest intercession of Leto he partially relented, and contented himself with depriving him of all power and dignity, and imposing on him a temporary servitude in the house of Admetus, king of Thessaly. Apollo faithfully served his royal master for nine years in the humble capacity of a shepherd, and was treated by him with every kindness and consideration. During the period of his service the king sought the hand of Alcestis, the beautiful daughter of Pelias, son of Poseidon; but her father declared that he would only resign her to the suitor who should succeed in yoking a lion and a wild boar to his chariot. By the aid of his divine herdsman, Admetus accomplished this difficult task, and gained his bride. Nor was this the only favour which the king received from the exiled god, for Apollo obtained from {77} the Fates the gift of immortality for his benefactor, on condition that when his last hour approached, some member of his own family should be willing to die in his stead. When the fatal hour arrived, and Admetus felt that he was at the point of death, he implored his aged parents to yield to him their few remaining days. But "life is sweet" even to old age, and they both refused to make the sacrifice demanded of them. Alcestis, however, who had secretly devoted herself to death for her husband, was seized with a mortal sickness, which kept pace with his rapid recovery. The devoted wife breathed her last in the arms of Admetus, and he had just consigned her to the tomb, when Heracles chanced to come to the palace. Admetus held the rites of hospitality so sacred, that he at first kept silence with regard to his great bereavement; but as soon as his friend heard what had occurred, he bravely descended into the tomb, and when death came to claim his prey, he exerted his marvellous strength, and held him in his arms, until he promised to restore the beautiful and heroic queen to the bosom of her family. Whilst pursuing the peaceful life of a shepherd, Apollo formed a strong friendship with two youths named Hyacinthus and Cyparissus, but the great favour shown to them by the god did not suffice to shield them from misfortune. The former was one day throwing the discus with Apollo, when, running too eagerly to take up the one thrown by the god, he was struck on the head with it and killed on the spot. Apollo was overcome with grief at the sad end of his young favourite, but being unable to restore him to life, he changed him into the flower called after him the Hyacinth. Cyparissus had the misfortune to kill by accident one of Apollo's favourite stags, which so preyed on his mind that he gradually pined away, and died of a broken heart. He was transformed by the god into a cypress-tree, which owes its name to this story. After these sad occurrences Apollo quitted Thessaly and repaired to Phrygia, in Asia Minor, where he met Poseidon, who, like himself, was in exile, and condemned {78} to a temporary servitude on earth. The two gods now entered the service of Laomedon, king of Troy, Apollo undertaking to tend his flocks, and Poseidon to build the walls of the city. But Apollo also contributed his assistance in the erection of those wonderful walls, and, by the aid of his marvellous musical powers, the labours of his fellow-worker, Poseidon, were rendered so light and easy that his otherwise arduous task advanced with astonishing celerity; for, as the master-hand of the god of music grasped the chords of his lyre,[30] the huge blocks of stone moved of their own accord, adjusting themselves with the utmost nicety into the places designed for them. But though Apollo was so renowned in the art of music, there were two individuals who had the effrontery to consider themselves equal to him in this respect, and, accordingly, each challenged him to compete with them in a musical contest. These were Marsyas and Pan. Marsyas was a satyr, who, having picked up the flute which Athene had thrown away in disgust, discovered, to his great delight and astonishment, that, in consequence of its having touched the lips of a goddess, it played of itself in the most charming manner. Marsyas, who was a great lover of music, and much beloved on this account by all the elf-like denizens of the woods and glens, was so intoxicated with joy at this discovery, that he foolishly challenged Apollo to compete with him in a musical contest. The challenge being accepted, the Muses were chosen umpires, and it was decided that the unsuccessful candidate should suffer the punishment of being flayed alive. For a long time the merits of both claimants remained so equally balanced, that it was impossible to award the palm of victory to either, seeing which, Apollo, resolved to conquer, added the sweet tones of his melodious voice to the strains of his lyre, {79} and this at once turned the scale in his favour. The unhappy Marsyas being defeated, had to undergo the terrible penalty, and his untimely fate was universally lamented; indeed the Satyrs and Dryads, his companions, wept so incessantly at his fate, that their tears, uniting together, formed a river in Phrygia which is still known by the name of Marsyas. The result of the contest with Pan was by no means of so serious a character. The god of shepherds having affirmed that he could play more skilfully on his flute of seven reeds (the syrinx or Pan's pipe), than Apollo on his world-renowned lyre, a contest ensued, in which Apollo was pronounced the victor by all the judges appointed to decide between the rival candidates. Midas, king of Phrygia, alone demurred at this decision, having the bad taste to prefer the uncouth tones of the Pan's pipe to the refined melodies of Apollo's lyre. Incensed at the obstinacy and stupidity of the Phrygian king, Apollo punished him by giving him the ears of an ass. Midas, horrified at being thus disfigured, determined to hide his disgrace from his subjects by means of a cap; his barber, however, could not be kept in ignorance of the fact, and was therefore bribed with rich gifts never to reveal it. Finding, however, that he could not keep the secret any longer, he dug a hole in the ground into which he whispered it; then closing up the aperture he returned home, feeling greatly relieved at having thus eased his mind of its burden. But after all, this very humiliating secret was revealed to the world, for some reeds which sprung up from the spot murmured incessantly, as they waved to and fro in the wind: "King Midas has the ears of an ass." In the sad and beautiful story of Niobe, daughter of Tantalus, and wife of Amphion, king of Thebes, we have another instance of the severe punishments meted out by Apollo to those who in any way incurred his displeasure. Niobe was the proud mother of seven sons and seven daughters, and exulting in the number of her children, she, upon one occasion, ridiculed the worship of Leto, {80} because she had but one son and daughter, and desired the Thebans, for the future, to give to her the honours and sacrifices which they had hitherto offered to the mother of Apollo and Artemis. The sacrilegious words had scarcely passed her lips before Apollo called upon his sister Artemis to assist him in avenging the insult offered to their mother, and soon their invisible arrows sped through the air. Apollo slew all the sons, and Artemis had already slain all the daughters save one, the youngest and best beloved, whom Niobe clasped in her arms, when the agonized mother implored the enraged deities to leave her, at least, one out of all her beautiful children; but, even as she prayed, the deadly arrow reached the heart of this child also. Meanwhile the unhappy father, unable to bear the loss of his children, had destroyed himself, and his dead body lay beside the lifeless corpse of his favourite son. Widowed and childless, the heart-broken mother sat among her dead, and the gods, in pity for her unutterable woe, turned her into a stone, which they transferred to Siphylus, her native Phrygian mountain, where it still continues to shed tears. [Illustration] The punishment of Niobe forms the subject of a magnificent marble group, which was found at Rome in the year 1553, and is now in the gallery of Uffizi, at Florence. The renowned singer Orpheus was the son of Apollo and Calliope, the muse of epic poetry, and, as might be expected with parents so highly gifted, was endowed with most distinguished intellectual qualifications. He was a poet, a teacher of the religious doctrines known as the Orphic mysteries, and a great musician, having inherited from his father an extraordinary genius for music. {81} When he sang to the sweet tones of his lyre, he charmed all nature, and summoned round him the wild beasts of the forests, who, under the influence of his music, became tame and gentle as lambs. The madly rushing torrents stopped their rapid course, and the very mountains and trees moved from their places at the sound of his entrancing melodies. Orpheus became united to a lovely nymph named Eurydice, the daughter of the sea-god Nereus, whom he fondly loved. She was no less attached to him, and their married life was full of joy and happiness. But it was only short-lived; for Aristæus,[31] the half-brother of Orpheus, having fallen in love with the beautiful Eurydice, forcibly endeavoured to take her from her husband, and as she fled across some fields to elude his pursuit, she was bitten in the foot by a venomous snake, which lay concealed in the long grass. Eurydice died of the wound, and her sorrowing husband filled the groves and valleys with his piteous and unceasing lamentations. His longing to behold her once more became at last so unconquerable, that he determined to brave the horrors of the lower world, in order to entreat Aïdes to restore to him his beloved wife. Armed only with his golden lyre, the gift of Apollo, he descended into the gloomy depths of Hades, where his heavenly music arrested for a while the torments of the unhappy sufferers. The stone of Sisyphus remained motionless; Tantalus forgot his perpetual thirst; the wheel of Ixion ceased to revolve; and even the Furies shed tears, and withheld for a time their persecutions. Undismayed at the scenes of horror and suffering which met his view on every side, he pursued his way until he arrived at the palace of Aïdes. Presenting himself before the throne on which sat the stony-hearted king and his consort Persephone, Orpheus recounted his woes to the sound of his lyre. Moved to pity by his sweet strains, they listened to his {82} melancholy story, and consented to release Eurydice on condition that he should not look upon her until they reached the upper world. Orpheus gladly promised to comply with this injunction, and, followed by Eurydice, ascended the steep and gloomy path which led to the realms of life and light. All went well until he was just about to pass the extreme limits of Hades, when, forgetting for the moment the hard condition, he turned to convince himself that his beloved wife was really behind him. The glance was fatal, and destroyed all his hopes of happiness; for, as he yearningly stretched out his arms to embrace her, she was caught back, and vanished from his sight for ever. The grief of Orpheus at this second loss was even more intense than before, and he now avoided all human society. In vain did the nymphs, his once chosen companions, endeavour to win him back to his accustomed haunts; their power to charm was gone, and music was now his sole consolation. He wandered forth alone, choosing the wildest and most secluded paths, and the hills and vales resounded with his pathetic melodies. At last he happened to cross the path of some Thracian women, who were performing the wild rites of Dionysus (Bacchus), and in their mad fury at his refusing to join them, they furiously attacked him, and tore him in pieces. In pity for his unhappy fate, the Muses collected his remains, which they buried at the foot of Mount Olympus, and the nightingale warbled a funeral dirge over his grave. His head was thrown into the river Hebrus, and as it floated down the stream, the lips still continued to murmur the beloved name of Eurydice. The chief seat of the worship of Apollo was at Delphi, and here was the most magnificent of all his temples, the foundation of which reaches far beyond all historical knowledge, and which contained immense riches, the offerings of kings and private persons, who had received favourable replies from the oracle. The Greeks believed Delphi to be the central point of the earth, because two eagles sent forth by Zeus, one from the east, the other {83} from the west, were said to have arrived there at the same moment. The Pythian games, celebrated in honour of the victory of Apollo over the Python, took place at Delphi every four years. At the first celebration of these games, gods, goddesses, and heroes contended for the prizes, which were at first of gold or silver, but consisted, in later times, of simple laurel wreaths. On account of its being the place of his birth, the whole island of Delos was consecrated to Apollo, where he was worshipped with great solemnity; the greatest care was taken to preserve the sanctity of the spot, for which reason no one was suffered to be buried there. At the foot of Mount Cynthus was a splendid temple of Apollo which possessed an oracle, and was enriched with magnificent offerings from all parts of Greece. Even foreign nations held this island sacred, for when the Persians passed it on their way to attack Greece, they not only sailed by, leaving it uninjured, but sent rich presents to the temple. Games, called Delia, instituted by Theseus, were celebrated at Delos every four years. A festival termed the Gymnopedæa was held at Sparta in honour of Apollo, in which boys sang the praises of the gods, and of the three hundred Lacedæmonians who fell at the battle of Thermopylæ. Wolves and hawks were sacrificed to Apollo, and the birds sacred to him were the hawk, raven, and swan. ROMAN APOLLO. The worship of Apollo never occupied the all-important position in Rome which it held in Greece, nor was it introduced till a comparatively late period. There was no sanctuary erected to this divinity until B.C. 430, when the Romans, in order to avert a plague, built a temple in his honour; but we do not find the worship of Apollo becoming in any way prominent until the time of Augustus, who, having called upon this god for aid before the famous battle of Actium, ascribed the victory which he {84} gained, to his influence, and accordingly erected a temple there, which he enriched with a portion of the spoil. Augustus afterwards built another temple in honour of Apollo, on the Palatine Hill, in which at the foot of his statue, were deposited two gilt chests, containing the Sibylline oracles. These oracles were collected to replace the Sibylline books originally preserved in the temple of Jupiter, which were destroyed when that edifice was burned. [Illustration] The Sibyls were maidens who had received the gift of prophecy, and the privilege of living to an incredible age. One of these Sibyls (known as the Cumæan) appeared to Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome, offering for sale nine books, which she informed him had been written by herself. Not knowing who she was, Tarquin refused to buy them, upon which she burned three, and returned with six, demanding the same price as before. Being again driven away as an impostor, she again retired and burned three more, returning with the remaining three, for which she still asked the same price as at first. Tarquin, amazed at her inconsistency, now consulted the Augurs, who blamed him for not having bought the nine books when they were first offered to him, and desired him to secure the remaining three, at whatever price they were to be had. He, accordingly, purchased the volumes, which were found to contain predictions of great importance to the Romans. After the disposal of the books, the Sibyl vanished, and was seen no more. The most beautiful and renowned of all the statues of Apollo now in existence, is that known as the Apollo Belvedere, which was found in 1503 among the ruins of {85} ancient Antium. It was purchased by Pope Julius II., who removed it to the Belvedere of the Vatican, from whence it takes its name, and where it has been, for more than three hundred years, the admiration of the world. When Rome was taken, and plundered by the French, this celebrated statue was transported to Paris, and placed in the museum there, but in 1815 it was restored to its former place in the Vatican. The attitude of the figure, which is more than seven feet high, is inimitable in its freedom, grace, and majesty. The forehead is noble and intellectual, and the whole countenance so exquisite in its beauty, that one pauses spell-bound to gaze on so perfect a conception. The god has a very youthful appearance, as is usual in all his representations, and with the exception of a short mantle which falls from his shoulders, is unclothed. He stands against the trunk of a tree, up which a serpent is creeping, and his left arm is outstretched, as though about to punish. HECATE. Hecate would appear to have been originally a moon-goddess worshipped by the Thracians. She became confounded, and eventually identified with Selene and Persephone, and is one of those divinities of whom the ancients had various conflicting accounts. Hecate was the daughter of Perses and "gold-wreathed" Astræa (the starry night[32]), and her sway extended over earth, heaven, and hell, for which reason she is represented in works of art as a triple divinity, having three female bodies, all young and beautiful, and united together. In later times, when this divinity becomes identified with Persephone, she is supposed to inhabit the lower world as a malignant deity, and henceforward it is the gloomy, awe-inspiring side of her character which alone {86} develops itself. She now presides over all practices connected with witchcraft and enchantments, haunts sepulchres, and the point where two roads cross, and lonely spots where murders have been committed. She was supposed to be connected with the appearance of ghosts and spectres, to possess unlimited influence over the powers of the lower world, and to be able to lay to rest unearthly apparitions by her magic spells and incantations. Hecate appears as a gigantic woman, bearing a torch and a sword. Her feet and hair are formed of snakes, and her passage is accompanied by voices of thunder, weird shrieks and yells, and the deep baying and howling of dogs. Her favour was propitiated by offerings and sacrifices, principally consisting of black lambs. Her festivals were celebrated at night, by torchlight, when these animals were offered to her, accompanied by many peculiar ceremonies. These ceremonies were carried out with the minutest attention to details, as it was believed that the omission of the slightest particular would afford to her ministers, the evil spirits of the lower world, who hovered round the worshippers, an opportunity for entering among them, and exerting their baneful influence. At the end of every month food was placed wherever two roads met, in readiness for her and other malignant divinities. In studying the peculiar characteristics which Hecate assumes when she usurps the place of Persephone, the rightful mistress of the lower world, we are reminded of the various superstitions with regard to spectres, witchcraft, &c., which have, even down to our own times, exerted so powerful an influence over the minds of the ignorant, and which would appear to owe their origin to a remote pagan source. SELENE (LUNA). Just as Helios personified the sun, so his sister Selene represented the moon, and was supposed to drive her {87} chariot across the sky whilst her brother was reposing after the toils of the day. When the shades of evening began to enfold the earth, the two milk-white steeds of Selene rose out of the mysterious depths of Oceanus. Seated in a silvery chariot, and accompanied by her daughter Herse, the goddess of the dew, appeared the mild and gentle queen of the night, with a crescent on her fair brow, a gauzy veil flowing behind, and a lighted torch in her hand. Selene greatly admired a beautiful young shepherd named Endymion, to whom Zeus had accorded the privilege of eternal youth, combined with the faculty of sleeping whenever he desired, and as long as he wished. Seeing this lovely youth fast asleep on Mount Latmus, Selene was so struck with his beauty, that she came down every night from heaven to watch over and protect him. ARTEMIS (DIANA). Artemis was worshipped by the Greeks under various appellations, to each of which belonged special characteristics. Thus she is known as the Arcadian, Ephesian and Brauronian Artemis, and also as Selene-Artemis, and in order fully to comprehend the worship of this divinity, we must consider her under each aspect. ARCADIAN ARTEMIS. The Arcadian Artemis (the real Artemis of the Greeks) was the daughter of Zeus and Leto, and twin-sister of Apollo. She was the goddess of Hunting and Chastity, and having obtained from her father permission to lead a life of celibacy, she ever remained a maiden-divinity. Artemis is the feminine counterpart of her brother, the glorious god of Light, and, like him, though she deals out destruction and sudden death to men and animals, she is also able to alleviate suffering and cure diseases. Like Apollo also, she is skilled in the use of the bow, but in a far more eminent degree, for in the character of Artemis, who devoted herself to the chase with passionate {88} ardour, this becomes an all-distinguishing feature. Armed with her bow and quiver, and attended by her train of huntresses, who were nymphs of the woods and springs, she roamed over the mountains in pursuit of her favourite exercise, destroying in her course the wild animals of the forest. When the chase was ended, Artemis and her maidens loved to assemble in a shady grove, or on the banks of a favourite stream, where they joined in the merry song, or graceful dance, and made the hills resound with their joyous shouts. As the type of purity and chastity, Artemis was especially venerated by young maidens, who, before marrying, sacrificed their hair to her. She was also the patroness of those vowed to celibacy, and punished severely any infringement of their obligation. The huntress-goddess is represented as being a head taller than her attendant nymphs, and always appears as a youthful and slender maiden. Her features are beautiful, but wanting in gentleness of expression; her hair is gathered negligently into a knot at the back of her well-shaped head; and her figure, though somewhat masculine, is most graceful in its attitude and proportions. The short robe she wears, leaves her limbs free for the exercise of the chase, her devotion to which is indicated by the quiver which is slung over her shoulder, and the bow which she bears in her hand. There are many famous statues of this divinity; but the most celebrated is that known as the Diana of Versailles, now in the Louvre, which forms a not unworthy companion to the Apollo-Belvedere of the Vatican. In this statue, the goddess appears in the act of rescuing a hunted deer from its pursuers, on whom she is turning with angry mien. One hand is laid protectingly on the head of the stag, whilst with the other she draws an arrow from the quiver which hangs over her shoulder. Her attributes are the bow, quiver, and spear. The animals sacred to her are the hind, dog, bear, and wild boar. Artemis promptly resented any disregard or neglect of {89} her worship; a remarkable instance of this is shown in the story of the Calydonian boar-hunt, which is as follows:-- [Illustration] Oeneus, king of Calydon in Ætolia, had incurred the displeasure of Artemis by neglecting to include her in a general sacrifice to the gods which he had offered up, out of gratitude for a bountiful harvest. The goddess, enraged at this neglect, sent a wild boar of extraordinary size and prodigious strength, which destroyed the sprouting grain, laid waste the fields, and threatened the inhabitants with famine and death. At this juncture, Meleager, the brave son of Oeneus, returned from the Argonautic expedition, and finding his country ravaged by this dreadful scourge, entreated the assistance of all the celebrated heroes of the age to join him in hunting the ferocious monster. Among the most famous of those who responded to his call were Jason, Castor and Pollux, Idas and Lynceus, Peleus, Telamon, Admetus, Perithous, and Theseus. The brothers of Althea, wife of Oeneus, joined the hunters, and Meleager also enlisted into his service the fleet-footed huntress Atalanta. The father of this maiden was Schoeneus, an Arcadian, who, disappointed at the birth of a daughter when he had particularly desired a son, had exposed her on the Parthenian Hill, where he left her to perish. Here she was nursed by a she-bear, and at last found by some hunters, who reared her, and gave her the name of Atalanta. As the maiden grew up, she became an ardent {90} lover of the chase, and was alike distinguished for her beauty and courage. Though often wooed, she led a life of strict celibacy, an oracle having predicted that inevitable misfortune awaited her, should she give herself in marriage to any of her numerous suitors. Many of the heroes objected to hunt in company with a maiden; but Meleager, who loved Atalanta, overcame their opposition, and the valiant band set out on their expedition. Atalanta was the first to wound the boar with her spear, but not before two of the heroes had met their death from his fierce tusks. After a long and desperate encounter, Meleager succeeded in killing the monster, and presented the head and hide to Atalanta, as trophies of the victory. The uncles of Meleager, however, forcibly took the hide from the maiden, claiming their right to the spoil as next of kin, if Meleager resigned it. Artemis, whose anger was still unappeased, caused a violent quarrel to arise between uncles and nephew, and, in the struggle which ensued, Meleager killed his mother's brothers, and then restored the hide to Atalanta. When Althea beheld the dead bodies of the slain heroes, her grief and anger knew no bounds. She swore to revenge the death of her brothers on her own son, and unfortunately for him, the instrument of vengeance lay ready to her hand. At the birth of Meleager, the Moirae, or Fates, entered the house of Oeneus, and pointing to a piece of wood then burning on the hearth, declared that as soon as it was consumed the babe would surely die. On hearing this, Althea seized the brand, laid it up carefully in a chest, and henceforth preserved it as her most precious possession. But now, love for her son giving place to the resentment she felt against the murderer of her brothers, she threw the fatal brand into the devouring flames. As it consumed, the vigour of Meleager wasted away, and when it was reduced to ashes, he expired. Repenting too late the terrible effects of her rash deed, Althea, in remorse and despair, took away her own life. The news of the courage and intrepidity displayed by {91} Atalanta in the famous boar-hunt, being carried to the ears of her father, caused him to acknowledge his long-lost child. Urged by him to choose one of her numerous suitors, she consented to do so, but made it a condition that he alone, who could outstrip her in the race, should become her husband, whilst those she defeated should be put to death by her, with the lance which she bore in her hand. Thus many suitors had perished, for the maiden was unequalled for swiftness of foot, but at last a beautiful youth, named Hippomenes, who had vainly endeavoured to win her love by his assiduous attentions in the chase, ventured to enter the fatal lists. Knowing that only by stratagem could he hope to be successful, he obtained, by the help of Aphrodite, three golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, which he threw down at intervals during his course. Atalanta, secure of victory, stooped to pick up the tempting fruit, and, in the meantime, Hippomenes arrived at the goal. He became the husband of the lovely Atalanta, but forgot, in his newly found happiness, the gratitude which he owed to Aphrodite, and the goddess withdrew her favour from the pair. Not long after, the prediction which foretold misfortune to Atalanta, in the event of her marriage, was verified, for she and her husband, having strayed unsanctioned into a sacred grove of Zeus, were both transformed into lions. The trophies of the ever-memorable boar-hunt had been carried by Atalanta into Arcadia, and, for many centuries, the identical hide and enormous tusks of the Calydonian boar hung in the temple of Athene at Tegea. The tusks were afterwards conveyed to Rome, and shown there among other curiosities. A forcible instance of the manner in which Artemis resented any intrusion on her retirement, is seen in the fate which befell the famous hunter Actaeon, who happening one day to see Artemis and her attendants bathing, imprudently ventured to approach the spot. The goddess, incensed at his audacity, sprinkled him with water, and transformed him into a stag, whereupon he was torn in pieces and devoured by his own dogs. {92} EPHESIAN ARTEMIS. The Ephesian Artemis, known to us as "Diana of the Ephesians," was a very ancient Asiatic divinity of Persian origin called Metra,[33] whose worship the Greek colonists found already established, when they first settled in Asia Minor, and whom they identified with their own Greek Artemis, though she really possessed but one single attribute in common with their home deity. Metra was a twofold divinity, and represented, in one phase of her character, all-pervading love; in the other she was the light of heaven; and as Artemis, in her character as Selene, was the only Greek female divinity who represented celestial light, the Greek settlers, according to their custom of fusing foreign deities into their own, seized at once upon this point of resemblance, and decided that Metra should henceforth be regarded as identical with Artemis. In her character as the love which pervades all nature, and penetrates everywhere, they believed her also to be present in the mysterious Realm of Shades, where she exercised her benign sway, replacing to a certain extent that ancient divinity Hecate, and partly usurping also the place of Persephone, as mistress of the lower world. Thus they believed that it was she who permitted the spirits of the departed to revisit the earth, in order to communicate with those they loved, and to give them timely warning of coming evil. In fact, this great, mighty, and omnipresent power of love, as embodied in the Ephesian Artemis, was believed by the great thinkers of old, to be the ruling spirit of the universe, and it was to her influence, that all the mysterious and beneficent workings of nature were ascribed. There was a magnificent temple erected to this divinity at Ephesus (a city of Asia Minor), which was ranked among the seven wonders of the world, and was unequalled in beauty and grandeur. The interior of this {93} edifice was adorned with statues and paintings, and contained one hundred and twenty-seven columns, sixty feet in height, each column having been placed there by a different king. The wealth deposited in this temple was enormous, and the goddess was here worshipped with particular awe and solemnity. In the interior of the edifice stood a statue of her, formed of ebony, with lions on her arms and turrets on her head, whilst a number of breasts indicated the fruitfulness of the earth and of nature. Ctesiphon was the principal architect of this world-renowned structure, which, however, was not entirely completed till two hundred and twenty years after the foundation-stone was laid. But the labour of centuries was destroyed in a single night; for a man called Herostratus, seized with the insane desire of making his name famous to all succeeding generations, set fire to it and completely destroyed it.[34] So great was the indignation and sorrow of the Ephesians at this calamity, that they enacted a law, forbidding the incendiary's name to be mentioned, thereby however, defeating their own object, for thus the name of Herostratus has been handed down to posterity, and will live as long as the memory of the famous temple of Ephesus. BRAURONIAN ARTEMIS. In ancient times, the country which we now call the Crimea, was known by the name of the Taurica Chersonnesus. It was colonized by Greek settlers, who, finding that the Scythian inhabitants had a native divinity somewhat resembling their own Artemis, identified her with the huntress-goddess of the mother-country. The worship of this Taurian Artemis was attended with the most barbarous practices, for, in accordance with a law which she had enacted, all strangers, whether male or female, landing, or shipwrecked on her shores, were sacrificed upon her altars. It is supposed that this decree was {94} issued by the Taurian goddess of Chastity, to protect the purity of her followers, by keeping them apart from foreign influences. The interesting story of Iphigenia, a priestess in the temple of Artemis at Tauris, forms the subject of one of Schiller's most beautiful plays. The circumstances occurred at the commencement of the Trojan war, and are as follows:--The fleet, collected by the Greeks for the siege of Troy, had assembled at Aulis, in Boeotia, and was about to set sail, when Agamemnon, the commander-in-chief, had the misfortune to kill accidentally a stag which was grazing in a grove, sacred to Artemis. The offended goddess sent continuous calms that delayed the departure of the fleet, and Calchas, the soothsayer, who had accompanied the expedition, declared that nothing less than the sacrifice of Agamemnon's favorite daughter, Iphigenia, would appease the wrath of the goddess. At these words, the heroic heart of the brave leader sank within him, and he declared that rather than consent to so fearful an alternative, he would give up his share in the expedition and return to Argos. In this dilemma Odysseus and other great generals called a council to discuss the matter, and, after much deliberation, it was decided that private feeling must yield to the welfare of the state. For a long time the unhappy Agamemnon turned a deaf ear to their arguments, but at last they succeeded in persuading him that it was his duty to make the sacrifice. He, accordingly, despatched a messenger to his wife, Clytemnæstra, begging her to send Iphigenia to him, alleging as a pretext that the great hero Achilles desired to make her his wife. Rejoicing at the brilliant destiny which awaited her beautiful daughter, the fond mother at once obeyed the command, and sent her to Aulis. When the maiden arrived at her destination, and discovered, to her horror, the dreadful fate which awaited her, she threw herself in an agony of grief at her father's feet, and with sobs and tears entreated him to have mercy on her, and to spare her young life. But alas! her doom was sealed, and her now repentant and {95} heart-broken father was powerless to avert it. The unfortunate victim was bound to the altar, and already the fatal knife was raised to deal the death-blow, when suddenly Iphigenia disappeared from view, and in her place on the altar, lay a beautiful deer ready to be sacrificed. It was Artemis herself, who, pitying the youth and beauty of her victim, caused her to be conveyed in a cloud to Taurica, where she became one of her priestesses, and intrusted with the charge of her temple; a dignity, however, which necessitated the offering of those human sacrifices presented to Artemis. Many years passed away, during which time the long and wearisome siege of Troy had come to an end, and the brave Agamemnon had returned home to meet death at the hands of his wife and Aegisthus. But his daughter, Iphigenia, was still an exile from her native country, and continued to perform the terrible duties which her office involved. She had long given up all hopes of ever being restored to her friends, when one day two Greek strangers landed on Taurica's inhospitable shores. These were Orestes and Pylades, whose romantic attachment to each other has made their names synonymous for devoted self-sacrificing friendship. Orestes was Iphigenia's brother, and Pylades her cousin, and their object in undertaking an expedition fraught with so much peril, was to obtain the statue of the Taurian Artemis. Orestes, having incurred the anger of the Furies for avenging the murder of his father Agamemnon, was pursued by them wherever he went, until at last he was informed by the oracle of Delphi that, in order to pacify them, he must convey the image of the Taurian Artemis from Tauris to Attica. This he at once resolved to do, and accompanied by his faithful friend Pylades, who insisted on sharing the dangers of the undertaking, he set out for Taurica. But the unfortunate youths had hardly stepped on shore before they were seized by the natives, who, as usual, conveyed them for sacrifice to the temple of Artemis. Iphigenia, discovering that they were Greeks, though unaware of their near relationship to herself, thought the {96} opportunity a favourable one for sending tidings of her existence to her native country, and, accordingly, requested one of the strangers to be the bearer of a letter from her to her family. A magnanimous dispute now arose between the friends, and each besought the other to accept the precious privilege of life and freedom. Pylades, at length overcome by the urgent entreaties of Orestes, agreed to be the bearer of the missive, but on looking more closely at the superscription, he observed, to his intense surprise, that it was addressed to Orestes. Hereupon an explanation followed; the brother and sister recognized each other, amid joyful tears and loving embraces, and assisted by her friends and kinsmen, Iphigenia escaped with them from a country where she had spent so many unhappy days, and witnessed so many scenes of horror and anguish. The fugitives, having contrived to obtain the image of the Taurian Artemis, carried it with them to Brauron in Attica. This divinity was henceforth known as the Brauronian Artemis, and the rites which had rendered her worship so infamous in Taurica were now introduced into Greece, and human victims bled freely under the sacrificial knife, both in Athens and Sparta. The revolting practice of offering human sacrifices to her, was continued until the time of Lycurgus, the great Spartan lawgiver, who put an end to it by substituting in its place one, which was hardly less barbarous, namely, the scourging of youths, who were whipped on the altars of the Brauronian Artemis in the most cruel manner; sometimes indeed they expired under the lash, in which case their mothers, far from lamenting their fate, are said to have rejoiced, considering this an honourable death for their sons. SELENE-ARTEMIS. Hitherto we have seen Artemis only in the various phases of her terrestrial character; but just as her brother Apollo drew into himself by degrees the attributes of that more ancient divinity Helios, the sun-god, so, in like manner, she came to be identified in later times {97} with Selene, the moon-goddess, in which character she is always represented as wearing on her forehead a glittering crescent, whilst a flowing veil, bespangled with stars, reaches to her feet, and a long robe completely envelops her. DIANA. The Diana of the Romans was identified with the Greek Artemis, with whom she shares that peculiar tripartite character, which so strongly marks the individuality of the Greek goddess. In heaven she was Luna (the moon), on earth Diana (the huntress-goddess), and in the lower world Proserpine; but, unlike the Ephesian Artemis, Diana, in her character as Proserpine, carries with her into the lower world no element of love or sympathy; she is, on the contrary, characterized by practices altogether hostile to man, such as the exercise of witchcraft, evil charms, and other antagonistic influences, and is, in fact, the Greek Hecate, in her later development. The statues of Diana were generally erected at a point where three roads met, for which reason she is called Trivia (from _tri_, three, and _via_, way). A temple was dedicated to her on the Aventine hill by Servius Tullius, who is said to have first introduced the worship of this divinity into Rome. The Nemoralia, or Grove Festivals, were celebrated in her honour on the 13th of August, on the Lacus Nemorensis, or forest-buried lake, near Aricia. The priest who officiated in her temple on this spot, was always a fugitive slave, who had gained his office by murdering his predecessor, and hence was constantly armed, in order that he might thus be prepared to encounter a new aspirant. HEPHÆSTUS (VULCAN). Hephæstus, the son of Zeus and Hera, was the god of fire in its beneficial aspect, and the presiding deity over all workmanship accomplished by means of this useful element. He was universally honoured, not only as the {98} god of all mechanical arts, but also as a house and hearth divinity, who exercised a beneficial influence on civilized society in general. Unlike the other Greek divinities, he was ugly and deformed, being awkward in his movements, and limping in his gait. This latter defect originated, as we have already seen, in the wrath of his father Zeus, who hurled him down from heaven[35] in consequence of his taking the part of Hera, in one of the domestic disagreements, which so frequently arose between this royal pair. Hephæstus was a whole day falling from Olympus to the earth, where he at length alighted on the island of Lemnos. The inhabitants of the country, seeing him descending through the air, received him in their arms; but in spite of their care, his leg was broken by the fall, and he remained ever afterwards lame in one foot. Grateful for the kindness of the Lemnians, he henceforth took up his abode in their island, and there built for himself a superb palace, and forges for the pursuit of his avocation. He instructed the people how to work in metals, and also taught them other valuable and useful arts. It is said that the first work of Hephæstus was a most ingenious throne of gold, with secret springs, which he presented to Hera. It was arranged in such a manner that, once seated, she found herself unable to move, and though all the gods endeavoured to extricate her, their efforts were unavailing. Hephæstus thus revenged himself on his mother for the cruelty she had always displayed towards him, on account of his want of comeliness and grace. Dionysus, the wine god, contrived, however, to intoxicate Hephæstus, and then induced him to return to Olympus, where, after having released the {99} queen of heaven from her very undignified position, he became reconciled to his parents. He now built for himself a glorious palace on Olympus, of shining gold, and made for the other deities those magnificent edifices which they inhabited. He was assisted in his various and exquisitely skilful works of art, by two female statues of pure gold, formed by his own hand, which possessed the power of motion, and always accompanied him wherever he went. With the assistance of the Cyclops, he forged for Zeus his wonderful thunderbolts, thus investing his mighty father with a new power of terrible import. Zeus testified his appreciation of this precious gift, by bestowing upon Hephæstus the beautiful Aphrodite in marriage,[36] but this was a questionable boon; for the lovely Aphrodite, who was the personification of all grace and beauty, felt no affection for her ungainly and unattractive spouse, and amused herself by ridiculing his awkward movements and unsightly person. On one occasion especially, when Hephæstus good-naturedly took upon himself the office of cup-bearer to the gods, his hobbling gait and extreme awkwardness created the greatest mirth amongst the celestials, in which his disloyal partner was the first to join, with unconcealed merriment. Aphrodite greatly preferred Ares to her husband, and this preference naturally gave rise to much jealousy on the part of Hephæstus, and caused them great unhappiness. Hephæstus appears to have been an indispensable member of the Olympic Assembly, where he plays the part of smith, armourer, chariot-builder, &c. As already mentioned, he constructed the palaces where the gods resided, fashioned the golden shoes with which they trod the air or water, built for them their wonderful chariots, and shod with brass the horses of celestial breed, which conveyed these glittering equipages over land and sea. He also made the tripods which moved of themselves in and out of the celestial halls, formed for Zeus the {100} far-famed ægis, and erected the magnificent palace of the sun. He also created the brazen-footed bulls of Aetes, which breathed flames from their nostrils, sent forth clouds of smoke, and filled the air with their roaring. Among his most renowned works of art for the use of mortals were: the armour of Achilles and Æneas, the beautiful necklace of Harmonia, and the crown of Ariadne; but his masterpiece was Pandora, of whom a detailed account has already been given. [Illustration] There was a temple on Mount Etna erected in his honour, which none but the pure and virtuous were permitted to enter. The entrance to this temple was guarded by dogs, which possessed the extraordinary faculty of being able to discriminate between the righteous and the unrighteous, fawning upon and caressing the good, whilst they rushed upon all evil-doers and drove them away. Hephæstus is usually represented as a powerful, brawny, and very muscular man of middle height and mature age; his strong uplifted arm is raised in the act of striking the anvil with a hammer, which he holds in one hand, whilst with the other he is turning a thunderbolt, which an eagle beside him is waiting to carry to Zeus. The principal seat of his worship was the island of Lemnos, where he was regarded with peculiar veneration. VULCAN. The Roman Vulcan was merely an importation from Greece, which never at any time took firm root in Rome, nor entered largely into the actual life and sympathies of the nation, his worship being unattended by the devotional feeling and enthusiasm which characterized the religious rites of the other deities. He still, however, retained in Rome his {101} Greek attributes as god of fire, and unrivalled master of the art of working in metals, and was ranked among the twelve great gods of Olympus, whose gilded statues were arranged consecutively along the Forum. His Roman name, Vulcan, would seem to indicate a connection with the first great metal-working artificer of Biblical history, Tubal-Cain. POSEIDON (NEPTUNE). Poseidon was the son of Kronos and Rhea, and the brother of Zeus. He was god of the sea, more particularly of the Mediterranean, and, like the element over which he presided, was of a variable disposition, now violently agitated, and now calm and placid, for which reason he is sometimes represented by the poets as quiet and composed, and at others as disturbed and angry. [Illustration] In the earliest ages of Greek mythology, he merely symbolized the watery element; but in later times, as navigation and intercourse with other nations engendered greater traffic by sea, Poseidon gained in importance, and came to be regarded as a distinct divinity, holding indisputable dominion over the sea, and over all sea-divinities, who acknowledged him as their sovereign ruler. He possessed the power of causing at will, mighty and destructive tempests, in which the billows rise mountains high, the wind becomes a hurricane, land and sea being enveloped in thick mists, whilst destruction assails the unfortunate mariners exposed to their fury. On the other hand, his alone was the power of stilling the angry {102} waves, of soothing the troubled waters, and granting safe voyages to mariners. For this reason, Poseidon was always invoked and propitiated by a libation before a voyage was undertaken, and sacrifices and thanksgivings were gratefully offered to him after a safe and prosperous journey by sea. The symbol of his power was the fisherman's fork or trident,[37] by means of which he produced earthquakes, raised up islands from the bottom of the sea, and caused wells to spring forth out of the earth. Poseidon was essentially the presiding deity over fishermen, and was on that account, more particularly worshipped and revered in countries bordering on the sea-coast, where fish naturally formed a staple commodity of trade. He was supposed to vent his displeasure by sending disastrous inundations, which completely destroyed whole countries, and were usually accompanied by terrible marine monsters, who swallowed up and devoured those whom the floods had spared. It is probable that these sea-monsters are the poetical figures which represent the demons of hunger and famine, necessarily accompanying a general inundation. Poseidon is generally represented as resembling his brother Zeus in features, height, and general aspect; but we miss in the countenance of the sea-god the kindness and benignity which so pleasingly distinguish his mighty brother. The eyes are bright and piercing, and the contour of the face somewhat sharper in its outline than that of Zeus, thus corresponding, as it were, with his more angry and violent nature. His hair waves in dark, disorderly masses over his shoulders; his chest is broad, and his frame powerful and stalwart; he wears a short, curling beard, and a band round his head. He usually appears standing erect in a graceful shell-chariot, drawn by hippocamps, or sea-horses, with golden manes and brazen hoofs, who bound over the dancing waves with such wonderful swiftness, that the chariot scarcely touches {103} the water. The monsters of the deep, acknowledging their mighty lord, gambol playfully around him, whilst the sea joyfully smooths a path for the passage of its all-powerful ruler. [Illustration] He inhabited a beautiful palace at the bottom of the sea at Ægea in Euboea, and also possessed a royal residence on Mount Olympus, which, however, he only visited when his presence was required at the council of the gods. His wonderful palace beneath the waters was of vast extent; in its lofty and capacious halls thousands of his followers could assemble. The exterior of the building was of bright gold, which the continual wash of the waters preserved untarnished; in the interior, lofty and graceful columns supported the gleaming dome. Everywhere fountains of glistening, silvery water played; everywhere groves and arbours of feathery-leaved sea-plants appeared, whilst rocks of pure crystal glistened with all the varied colours of the rainbow. Some of the paths were strewn with white sparkling sand, interspersed with jewels, pearls, and amber. This delightful abode was surrounded on all sides by wide fields, where there were whole groves of dark purple coralline, and tufts of beautiful scarlet-leaved plants, and sea-anemones of every tint. Here grew bright, pinky sea-weeds, mosses of all hues and shades, and tall grasses, which, growing upwards, formed emerald caves and grottoes such as the Nereides love, whilst fish of various kinds playfully darted in and out, in the full enjoyment of their native element. Nor was illumination wanting in this fairy-like region, which at night was lit up by the glow-worms of the deep. But although Poseidon ruled with absolute power over the ocean and its inhabitants, he nevertheless bowed submissively to the will of the great ruler of Olympus, and appeared at all times desirous of conciliating him. We {104} find him coming to his aid when emergency demanded, and frequently rendering him valuable assistance against his opponents. At the time when Zeus was harassed by the attacks of the Giants, he proved himself a most powerful ally, engaging in single combat with a hideous giant named Polybotes, whom he followed over the sea, and at last succeeded in destroying, by hurling upon him the island of Cos. These amicable relations between the brothers were, however, sometimes interrupted. Thus, for instance, upon one occasion Poseidon joined Hera and Athene in a secret conspiracy to seize upon the ruler of heaven, place him in fetters, and deprive him of the sovereign power. The conspiracy being discovered, Hera, as the chief instigator of this sacrilegious attempt on the divine person of Zeus, was severely chastised, and even beaten, by her enraged spouse, as a punishment for her rebellion and treachery, whilst Poseidon was condemned, for the space of a whole year, to forego his dominion over the sea, and it was at this time that, in conjunction with Apollo, he built for Laomedon the walls of Troy. Poseidon married a sea-nymph named Amphitrite, whom he wooed under the form of a dolphin. She afterwards became jealous of a beautiful maiden called Scylla, who was beloved by Poseidon, and in order to revenge herself she threw some herbs into a well where Scylla was bathing, which had the effect of metamorphosing her into a monster of terrible aspect, having twelve feet, six heads with six long necks, and a voice which resembled the bark of a dog. This awful monster is said to have inhabited a cave at a very great height in the famous rock which still bears her name,[38] and was supposed to swoop down from her rocky eminence upon every ship that passed, and with each of her six heads to secure a victim. Amphitrite is often represented assisting Poseidon in attaching the sea-horses to his chariot. {105} The Cyclops, who have been already alluded to in the history of Cronus, were the sons of Poseidon and Amphitrite. They were a wild race of gigantic growth, similar in their nature to the earth-born Giants, and had only one eye each in the middle of their foreheads. They led a lawless life, possessing neither social manners nor fear of the gods, and were the workmen of Hephæstus, whose workshop was supposed to be in the heart of the volcanic mountain Ætna. Here we have another striking instance of the manner in which the Greeks personified the powers of nature, which they saw in active operation around them. They beheld with awe, mingled with astonishment, the fire, stones, and ashes which poured forth from the summit of this and other volcanic mountains, and, with their vivacity of imagination, found a solution of the mystery in the supposition, that the god of Fire must be busy at work with his men in the depths of the earth, and that the mighty flames which they beheld, issued in this manner from his subterranean forge. The chief representative of the Cyclops was the man-eating monster Polyphemus, described by Homer as having been blinded and outwitted at last by Odysseus. This monster fell in love with a beautiful nymph called Galatea; but, as may be supposed, his addresses were not acceptable to the fair maiden, who rejected them in favour of a youth named Acis, upon which Polyphemus, with his usual barbarity, destroyed the life of his rival by throwing upon him a gigantic rock. The blood of the murdered Acis, gushing out of the rock, formed a stream which still bears his name. Triton, Rhoda,[39] and Benthesicyme were also children of Poseidon and Amphitrite. The sea-god was the father of two giant sons called Otus and Ephialtes.[40] When only nine years old they {106} were said to be twenty-seven cubits[41] in height and nine in breadth. These youthful giants were as rebellious as they were powerful, even presuming to threaten the gods themselves with hostilities. During the war of the Gigantomachia, they endeavoured to scale heaven by piling mighty mountains one upon another. Already had they succeeded in placing Mount Ossa on Olympus and Pelion on Ossa, when this impious project was frustrated by Apollo, who destroyed them with his arrows. It was supposed that had not their lives been thus cut off before reaching maturity, their sacrilegious designs would have been carried into effect. Pelias and Neleus were also sons of Poseidon. Their mother Tyro was attached to the river-god Enipeus, whose form Poseidon assumed, and thus won her love. Pelias became afterwards famous in the story of the Argonauts, and Neleus was the father of Nestor, who was distinguished in the Trojan War. The Greeks believed that it was to Poseidon they were indebted for the existence of the horse, which he is said to have produced in the following manner: Athene and Poseidon both claiming the right to name Cecropia (the ancient name of Athens), a violent dispute arose, which was finally settled by an assembly of the Olympian gods, who decided that whichever of the contending parties presented mankind with the most useful gift, should obtain the privilege of naming the city. Upon this Poseidon struck the ground with his trident, and the horse sprang forth in all his untamed strength and graceful beauty. From the spot which Athene touched with her wand, issued the olive-tree, whereupon the gods unanimously awarded to her the victory, declaring her gift to be the emblem of peace and plenty, whilst that of Poseidon was thought to be the symbol of war and {107} bloodshed. Athene accordingly called the city Athens, after herself, and it has ever since retained this name. Poseidon tamed the horse for the use of mankind, and was believed to have taught men the art of managing horses by the bridle. The Isthmian games (so named because they were held on the Isthmus of Corinth), in which horse and chariot races were a distinguishing feature, were instituted in honour of Poseidon. He was more especially worshipped in the Peloponnesus, though universally revered throughout Greece and in the south of Italy. His sacrifices were generally black and white bulls, also wild boars and rams. His usual attributes are the trident, horse, and dolphin. In some parts of Greece this divinity was identified with the sea-god Nereus, for which reason the Nereides, or daughters of Nereus, are represented as accompanying him. NEPTUNE. The Romans worshipped Poseidon under the name of Neptune, and invested him with all the attributes which belong to the Greek divinity. The Roman commanders never undertook any naval expedition without propitiating Neptune by a sacrifice. His temple at Rome was in the Campus Martius, and the festivals commemorated in his honour were called Neptunalia. * * * * * SEA DIVINITIES. OCEANUS. Oceanus was the son of Uranus and Gæa. He was the personification of the ever-flowing stream, which, according to the primitive notions of the early Greeks, encircled the world, and from which sprang all the rivers and streams that watered the earth. He was married to Tethys, one of the Titans, and was the father of a {108} numerous progeny called the Oceanides, who are said to have been three thousand in number. He alone, of all the Titans, refrained from taking part against Zeus in the Titanomachia, and was, on that account, the only one of the primeval divinities permitted to retain his dominion under the new dynasty. NEREUS. Nereus appears to have been the personification of the sea in its calm and placid moods, and was, after Poseidon, the most important of the sea-deities. He is represented as a kind and benevolent old man, possessing the gift of prophecy, and presiding more particularly over the Ægean Sea, of which he was considered to be the protecting spirit. There he dwelt with his wife Doris and their fifty blooming daughters, the Nereides, beneath the waves in a beautiful grotto-palace, and was ever ready to assist distressed mariners in the hour of danger. PROTEUS. Proteus, more familiarly known as "The Old Man of the Sea," was a son of Poseidon, and gifted with prophetic power. But he had an invincible objection to being consulted in his capacity as seer, and those who wished him to foretell events, watched for the hour of noon, when he was in the habit of coming up to the island of Pharos,[42] with Poseidon's flock of seals, which he tended at the bottom of the sea. Surrounded by these creatures of the deep, he used to slumber beneath the grateful shade of the rocks. This was the favourable moment to seize the prophet, who, in order to avoid importunities, would change himself into an infinite variety of forms. But patience gained the day; for if he were only held long enough, he became wearied at last, and, resuming his true form, gave the information desired, after which he dived down again to the bottom of the sea, accompanied by the animals he tended. {109} [Illustration] TRITON and the TRITONS. Triton was the only son of Poseidon and Amphitrite, but he possessed little influence, being altogether a minor divinity. He is usually represented as preceding his father and acting as his trumpeter, using a conch-shell for this purpose. He lived with his parents in their beautiful golden palace beneath the sea at Ægea, and his favourite pastime was to ride over the billows on horses or sea-monsters. Triton is always represented as half man, half fish, the body below the waist terminating in the tail of a dolphin. We frequently find mention of Tritons who are either the offspring or kindred of Triton. GLAUCUS. Glaucus is said to have become a sea-divinity in the following manner. While angling one day, he observed that the fish he caught and threw on the bank, at once nibbled at the grass and then leaped back into the water. His curiosity was naturally excited, and he proceeded to gratify it by taking up a few blades and tasting them. No sooner was this done than, obeying an irresistible impulse, he precipitated himself into the deep, and became a sea-god. Like most sea-divinities he was gifted with prophetic power, and each year visited all the islands and coasts with a train of marine monsters, foretelling all kinds of evil. Hence fishermen dreaded his approach, and endeavoured, by prayer and fasting, to avert the misfortunes which he prophesied. He is often represented floating on the billows, his body covered with mussels, sea-weed, and shells, wearing a full beard and long flowing hair, and bitterly bewailing his immortality. {110} THETIS. The silver-footed, fair-haired Thetis, who plays an important part in the mythology of Greece, was the daughter of Nereus, or, as some assert, of Poseidon. Her grace and beauty were so remarkable that Zeus and Poseidon both sought an alliance with her; but, as it had been foretold that a son of hers would gain supremacy over his father, they relinquished their intentions, and she became the wife of Peleus, son of Æacus. Like Proteus, Thetis possessed the power of transforming herself into a variety of different shapes, and when wooed by Peleus she exerted this power in order to elude him. But, knowing that persistence would eventually succeed, he held her fast until she assumed her true form. Their nuptials were celebrated with the utmost pomp and magnificence, and were honoured by the presence of all the gods and goddesses, with the exception of Eris. How the goddess of discord resented her exclusion from the marriage festivities has already been shown. Thetis ever retained great influence over the mighty lord of heaven, which, as we shall see hereafter, she used in favour of her renowned son, Achilles, in the Trojan War. When Halcyone plunged into the sea in despair after the shipwreck and death of her husband King Ceyx, Thetis transformed both husband and wife into the birds called kingfishers (halcyones), which, with the tender affection which characterized the unfortunate couple, always fly in pairs. The idea of the ancients was that these birds brought forth their young in nests, which float on the surface of the sea in calm weather, before and after the shortest day, when Thetis was said to keep the waters smooth and tranquil for their especial benefit; hence the term "halcyon-days," which signifies a period of rest and untroubled felicity. {111} THAUMAS, PHORCYS, and CETO. The early Greeks, with their extraordinary power of personifying all and every attribute of Nature, gave a distinct personality to those mighty wonders of the deep, which, in all ages, have afforded matter of speculation to educated and uneducated alike. Among these personifications we find Thaumas, Phorcys, and their sister Ceto, who were the offspring of Pontus. Thaumas (whose name signifies Wonder) typifies that peculiar, translucent condition of the surface of the sea when it reflects, mirror-like, various images, and appears to hold in its transparent embrace the flaming stars and illuminated cities, which are so frequently reflected on its glassy bosom. Thaumas married the lovely Electra (whose name signifies the sparkling light produced by electricity), daughter of Oceanus. Her amber-coloured hair was of such rare beauty that none of her fair-haired sisters could compare with her, and when she wept, her tears, being too precious to be lost, formed drops of shining amber. Phorcys and Ceto personified more especially the hidden perils and terrors of the ocean. They were the parents of the Gorgons, the Græa, and the Dragon which guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. [Illustration] LEUCOTHEA. Leucothea was originally a mortal named Ino, daughter of Cadmus, king of Thebes. She married Athamas, king of Orchomenus, who, incensed at her unnatural conduct to her step-children,[43] pursued her and her son to the sea-shore, when, seeing no hope of escape, she flung herself with her child into the deep. They were kindly received by the Nereides, and became sea-divinities under the name of Leucothea and Palæmon. {112} THE SIRENS. The Sirens would appear to have been personifications of those numerous rocks and unseen dangers, which abound on the S.W. coast of Italy. They were sea-nymphs, with the upper part of the body that of a maiden and the lower that of a sea-bird, having wings attached to their shoulders, and were endowed with such wonderful voices, that their sweet songs are said to have lured mariners to destruction. ARES (MARS). Ares, the son of Zeus and Hera, was the god of war, who gloried in strife for its own sake; he loved the tumult and havoc of the battlefield, and delighted in slaughter and extermination; in fact he presents no benevolent aspect which could possibly react favourably upon human life. Epic poets, in particular, represent the god of battles as a wild ungovernable warrior, who passes through the armies like a whirlwind, hurling to the ground the brave and cowardly alike; destroying chariots and helmets, and triumphing over the terrible desolation which he produces. In all the myths concerning Ares, his sister Athene ever appears in opposition to him, endeavouring by every means in her power to defeat his bloodthirsty designs. Thus she assists the divine hero Diomedes at the siege of Troy, to overcome Ares in battle, and so well does he profit by her timely aid, that he succeeds in wounding the sanguinary war-god, who makes his exit from the field, roaring like ten thousand bulls. {113} Ares appears to have been an object of aversion to all the gods of Olympus, Aphrodite alone excepted. As the son of Hera, he had inherited from his mother the strongest feelings of independence and contradiction, and as he took delight in upsetting that peaceful course of state-life which it was pre-eminently the care of Zeus to establish, he was naturally disliked and even hated by him. When wounded by Diomedes, as above related, he complains to his father, but receives no sympathy from the otherwise kindly and beneficent ruler of Olympus, who thus angrily addresses him: "Do not trouble me with thy complaints, thou who art of all the gods of Olympus most hateful to me, for thou delightest in nought save war and strife. The very spirit of thy mother lives in thee, and wert thou not my son, long ago wouldst thou have lain deeper down in the bowels of the earth than the son of Uranus." [Illustration] Ares, upon one occasion, incurred the anger of Poseidon by slaying his son Halirrhothios, who had insulted Alcippe, the daughter of the war-god. For this deed, Poseidon summoned Ares to appear before the tribunal of the Olympic gods, which was held upon a hill in Athens. Ares was acquitted, and this event is supposed to have given rise to the name Areopagus (or Hill of Ares), which afterwards became so famous as a court of justice. In the Gigantomachia, Ares was defeated by the Aloidæ, the two giant-sons of Poseidon, who put him in chains, and kept him in prison for thirteen months. Ares is represented as a man of youthful appearance; his tall muscular form combines great strength with wonderful agility. In his right hand he bears a sword or a mighty lance, while on the left arm he carries his round shield (see next page). His demoniacal surroundings are Terror and Fear;[44] Enyo, the goddess of the war-cry; Keidomos, the demon of the noise of battles; and Eris (Contention), his twin-sister and companion, who always {114} precedes his chariot when he rushes to the fight, the latter being evidently a simile of the poets to express the fact that war follows contention. Eris is represented as a woman of florid complexion, with dishevelled hair, and her whole appearance angry and menacing. In one hand she brandishes a poniard and a hissing adder, whilst in the other she carries a burning torch. Her dress is torn and disorderly, and her hair intertwined with venomous snakes. This divinity was never invoked by mortals, except when they desired her assistance for the accomplishment of evil purposes. MARS. The Roman divinity most closely resembling the Greek Ares, and identified with him, was called Mars, Mamers, and Marspiter or Father Mars. The earliest Italian tribes, who were mostly engaged in the pursuit of husbandry, regarded this deity more especially as the god of spring, who vanquished the powers of winter, and encouraged the peaceful arts of agriculture. But with the Romans, who were an essentially warlike nation, Mars gradually loses his peaceful character, and, as god of war, attains, after Jupiter, the highest position among the Olympic gods. The Romans looked upon him as their special protector, and declared him to have been the father of Romulus and Remus, the founders of their city. But although he was especially {115} worshipped in Rome as god of war, he still continued to preside over agriculture, and was also the protecting deity who watched over the welfare of the state. As the god who strode with warlike step to the battlefield, he was called Gradivus (from _gradus_, a step), it being popularly believed by the Romans that he himself marched before them to battle, and acted as their invisible protector. As the presiding deity over agriculture, he was styled Sylvanus, whilst in his character as guardian of the state, he bore the name of Quirinus.[45] The priests of Mars were twelve in number, and were called Salii, or the dancers, from the fact that sacred dances, in full armour, formed an important item in their peculiar ceremonial. This religious order, the members of which were always chosen from the noblest families in Rome, was first instituted by Numa Pompilius, who intrusted to their special charge the Anciliæ, or sacred shields. It is said that one morning, when Numa was imploring the protection of Jupiter for the newly-founded city of Rome, the god of heaven, as though in answer to his prayer, sent down an oblong brazen shield, and, as it fell at the feet of the king, a voice was heard announcing that on its preservation depended the future safety and prosperity of Rome. In order, therefore, to lessen the chances of this sacred treasure being abstracted, Numa caused eleven more to be made exactly like it, which were then given into the care of the Salii. The assistance and protection of the god of war was always solemnly invoked before the departure of a Roman army for the field of battle, and any reverses of fortune were invariably ascribed to his anger, which was accordingly propitiated by means of extraordinary sin-offerings and prayers. In Rome a field, called the Campus Martius, was dedicated to Mars. It was a large, open space, in which armies were collected and reviewed, general assemblies of {116} the people held, and the young nobility trained to martial exercises. The most celebrated and magnificent of the numerous temples built by the Romans in honour of this deity was the one erected by Augustus in the Forum, to commemorate the overthrow of the murderers of Cæsar. Of all existing statues of Mars the most renowned is that in the Villa Ludovisi at Rome, in which he is represented as a powerful, muscular man in the full vigour of youth. The attitude is that of thoughtful repose, but the short, curly hair, dilated nostrils, and strongly marked features leave no doubt as to the force and turbulence of his character. At his feet, the sculptor has placed the little god of love, who looks up all undaunted at the mighty war-god, as though mischievously conscious that this unusually quiet mood is attributable to his influence. Religious festivals in honour of Mars were generally held in the month of March; but he had also a festival on the Ides of October, when chariot-races took place, after which, the right-hand horse of the team which had drawn the victorious chariot, was sacrificed to him. In ancient times, human sacrifices, more especially prisoners of war, were offered to him; but, at a later period, this cruel practice was discontinued. The attributes of this divinity are the helmet, shield, and spear. The animals consecrated to him were the wolf, horse, vulture, and woodpecker. Intimately associated with Mars in his character as god of war, was a goddess called BELLONA, who was evidently the female divinity of battle with one or other of the primitive nations of Italy (most probably the Sabines), and is usually seen accompanying Mars, whose war-chariot she guides. Bellona appears on the battle-field, inspired with mad rage, cruelty, and the love of extermination. She is in full armour, her hair is dishevelled, and she bears a scourge in one hand, and a lance in the other. A temple was erected to her on the Campus Martius. Before the entrance to this edifice stood a pillar, over which a spear was thrown when war was publicly declared. {117} NIKE (VICTORIA). Nike, the goddess of victory, was the daughter of the Titan Pallas, and of Styx, the presiding nymph of the river of that name in the lower world. In her statues, Nike somewhat resembles Athene, but may easily be recognized by her large, graceful wings and flowing drapery, which is negligently fastened on the right shoulder, and only partially conceals her lovely form. In her left hand, she holds aloft a crown of laurel, and in the right, a palm-branch. In ancient sculpture, Nike is usually represented in connection with colossal statues of Zeus or Pallas-Athene, in which case she is life-sized, and stands on a ball, held in the open palm of the deity she accompanies. Sometimes she is represented engaged in inscribing the victory of a conqueror on his shield, her right foot being slightly raised and placed on a ball. A celebrated temple was erected to this divinity on the Acropolis at Athens, which is still to be seen, and is in excellent preservation. VICTORIA. Under the name of Victoria, Nike was highly honoured by the Romans, with whom love of conquest was an all-absorbing characteristic. There were several sanctuaries in Rome dedicated to her, the principal of which was on the Capitol, where it was the custom of generals, after success had attended their arms, to erect statues of the goddess in commemoration of their victories. The most magnificent of these statues, was that raised by Augustus after the battle of Actium. A festival was celebrated in honour of Nike on the 12th of April. HERMES (MERCURY). Hermes was the swift-footed messenger, and trusted ambassador of all the gods, and conductor of shades to Hades. He presided over the rearing and education of {118} the young, and encouraged gymnastic exercises and athletic pursuits, for which reason, all gymnasiums and wrestling schools throughout Greece were adorned with his statues. He is said to have invented the alphabet, and to have taught the art of interpreting foreign languages, and his versatility, sagacity, and cunning were so extraordinary, that Zeus invariably chose him as his attendant, when, disguised as a mortal, he journeyed on earth. Hermes was worshipped as god of eloquence, most probably from the fact that, in his office as ambassador, this faculty was indispensable to the successful issue of the negotiations with which he was intrusted. He was regarded as the god who granted increase and prosperity to flocks and herds, and, on this account, was worshipped with special veneration by herdsmen. In ancient times, trade was conducted chiefly by means of the exchange of cattle. Hermes, therefore, as god of herdsmen, came to be regarded as the protector of merchants, and, as ready wit and adroitness are valuable qualities both in buying and selling, he was also looked upon as the patron of artifice and cunning. Indeed, so deeply was this notion rooted in the minds of the Greek people, that he was popularly believed to be also god of thieves, and of all persons who live by their wits. [Illustration] As the patron of commerce, Hermes was naturally supposed to be the promoter of intercourse among nations; hence, he is essentially the god of travellers, over whose safety he presided, and he severely punished those who refused assistance to the lost or weary wayfarer. He was also guardian of streets and roads, and his statues, called Hermæ (which were pillars of stone surmounted by a head of Hermes), were placed at cross-roads, and frequently in streets and public squares. Being the god of all undertakings in which gain was a feature, he was worshipped as the giver of wealth and {119} good luck, and any unexpected stroke of fortune was attributed to his influence. He also presided over the game of dice, in which he is said to have been instructed by Apollo. Hermes was the son of Zeus and Maia, the eldest and most beautiful of the seven Pleiades (daughters of Atlas), and was born in a cave of Mount Cyllene in Arcadia. As a mere babe, he exhibited an extraordinary faculty for cunning and dissimulation; in fact, he was a thief from his cradle, for, not many hours after his birth, we find him creeping stealthily out of the cave in which he was born, in order to steal some oxen belonging to his brother Apollo, who was at this time feeding the flocks of Admetus. But he had not proceeded very far on his expedition before he found a tortoise, which he killed, and, stretching seven strings across the empty shell, invented a lyre, upon which he at once began to play with exquisite skill. When he had sufficiently amused himself with the instrument, he placed it in his cradle, and then resumed his journey to Pieria, where the cattle of Admetus were grazing. Arriving at sunset at his destination, he succeeded in separating fifty oxen from his brother's herd, which he now drove before him, taking the precaution to cover his feet with sandals made of twigs of myrtle, in order to escape detection. But the little rogue was not unobserved, for the theft had been witnessed by an old shepherd named Battus, who was tending the flocks of Neleus, king of Pylos (father of Nestor). Hermes, frightened at being discovered, bribed him with the finest cow in the herd not to betray him, and Battus promised to keep the secret. But Hermes, astute as he was dishonest, determined to test the shepherd's integrity. Feigning to go away, he assumed the form of Admetus, and then returning to the spot offered the old man two of his best oxen if he would disclose the author of the theft. The ruse succeeded, for the avaricious shepherd, unable to resist the tempting bait, gave the desired information, upon which Hermes, exerting his divine power, changed him into a lump of touchstone, as a {120} punishment for his treachery and avarice. Hermes now killed two of the oxen, which he sacrificed to himself and the other gods, concealing the remainder in the cave. He then carefully extinguished the fire, and, after throwing his twig shoes into the river Alpheus, returned to Cyllene. Apollo, by means of his all-seeing power, soon discovered who it was that had robbed him, and hastening to Cyllene, demanded restitution of his property. On his complaining to Maia of her son's conduct, she pointed to the innocent babe then lying, apparently fast asleep, in his cradle, whereupon, Apollo angrily aroused the pretended sleeper, and charged him with the theft; but the child stoutly denied all knowledge of it, and so cleverly did he play his part, that he even inquired in the most naive manner what sort of animals cows were. Apollo threatened to throw him into Tartarus if he would not confess the truth, but all to no purpose. At last, he seized the babe in his arms, and brought him into the presence of his august father, who was seated in the council chamber of the gods. Zeus listened to the charge made by Apollo, and then sternly desired Hermes to say where he had hidden the cattle. The child, who was still in swaddling-clothes, looked up bravely into his father's face and said, "Now, do I look capable of driving away a herd of cattle; I, who was only born yesterday, and whose feet are much too soft and tender to tread in rough places? Until this moment, I lay in sweet sleep on my mother's bosom, and have never even crossed the threshold of our dwelling. You know well that I am not guilty; but, if you wish, I will affirm it by the most solemn oaths." As the child stood before him, looking the picture of innocence, Zeus could not refrain from smiling at his cleverness and cunning, but, being perfectly aware of his guilt, he commanded him to conduct Apollo to the cave where he had concealed the herd, and Hermes, seeing that further subterfuge was useless, unhesitatingly obeyed. But when the divine shepherd was about to drive his cattle back into Pieria, Hermes, as though by chance, touched the chords of his {121} lyre. Hitherto Apollo had heard nothing but the music of his own three-stringed lyre and the syrinx, or Pan's pipe, and, as he listened entranced to the delightful strains of this new instrument, his longing to possess it became so great, that he gladly offered the oxen in exchange, promising at the same time, to give Hermes full dominion over flocks and herds, as well as over horses, and all the wild animals of the woods and forests. The offer was accepted, and, a reconciliation being thus effected between the brothers, Hermes became henceforth god of herdsmen, whilst Apollo devoted himself enthusiastically to the art of music. [Illustration] They now proceeded together to Olympus, where Apollo introduced Hermes as his chosen friend and companion, and, having made him swear by the Styx, that he would never steal his lyre or bow, nor invade his sanctuary at Delphi, he presented him with the Caduceus, or golden wand. This wand was surmounted by wings, and on presenting it to Hermes, Apollo informed him that it possessed the faculty of uniting in love, all beings divided by hate. Wishing to prove the truth of this assertion, Hermes threw it down between two snakes which were fighting, whereupon the angry combatants clasped each other in a loving embrace, and curling round the staff, remained ever after permanently attached to it. The wand itself typified power; the serpents, wisdom; and the wings, despatch--all qualities characteristic of a trustworthy ambassador. The young god was now presented by his father with a winged silver cap (Petasus), and also with silver wings for his feet (Talaria), and was forthwith appointed herald of the gods, and conductor of shades to Hades, which office had hitherto been filled by Aïdes. As messenger of the gods, we find him employed on all occasions requiring special skill, tact, or despatch. Thus he conducts Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite to Paris, leads Priam to Achilles to demand the body of Hector, {122} binds Prometheus to Mount Caucasus, secures Ixion to the eternally revolving wheel, destroys Argus, the hundred-eyed guardian of Io, &c. &c. As conductor of shades, Hermes was always invoked by the dying to grant them a safe and speedy passage across the Styx. He also possessed the power of bringing back departed spirits to the upper world, and was, therefore, the mediator between the living and the dead. The poets relate many amusing stories of the youthful tricks played by this mischief-loving god upon the other immortals. For instance, he had the audacity to extract the Medusa's head from the shield of Athene, which he playfully attached to the back of Hephæstus; he also stole the girdle of Aphrodite; deprived Artemis of her arrows, and Ares of his spear, but these acts were always performed with such graceful dexterity, combined with such perfect good humour, that even the gods and goddesses he thus provoked, were fain to pardon him, and he became a universal favourite with them all. It is said that Hermes was one day flying over Athens, when, looking down into the city, he beheld a number of maidens returning in solemn procession from the temple of Pallas-Athene. Foremost among them was Herse, the beautiful daughter of king Cecrops, and Hermes was so struck with her exceeding loveliness that he determined to seek an interview with her. He accordingly presented himself at the royal palace, and begged her sister Agraulos to favour his suit; but, being of an avaricious turn of mind, she refused to do so without the payment of an enormous sum of money. It did not take the messenger of the gods long to obtain the means of fulfilling this condition, and he soon returned with a well-filled purse. But meanwhile Athene, to punish the cupidity of Agraulos, had caused the demon of envy to take possession of her, and the consequence was, that, being unable to contemplate the happiness of her sister, she sat down before the door, and resolutely refused to allow Hermes to enter. He tried every persuasion and blandishment in his power, but she still remained obstinate. At last, his patience {123} being exhausted, he changed her into a mass of black stone, and, the obstacle to his wishes being removed, he succeeded in persuading Herse to become his wife. [Illustration] In his statues, Hermes is represented as a beardless youth, with broad chest and graceful but muscular limbs; the face is handsome and intelligent, and a genial smile of kindly benevolence plays round the delicately chiselled lips. As messenger of the gods he wears the Petasus and Talaria, and bears in his hand the Caduceus or herald's staff. As god of eloquence, he is often represented with chains of gold hanging from his lips, whilst, as the patron of merchants, he bears a purse in his hand. The wonderful excavations in Olympia, to which allusion has already been made, have brought to light an exquisite marble group of Hermes and the infant Bacchus, by Praxiteles. In this great work of art, Hermes is represented as a young and handsome man, who is looking down kindly and affectionately at the child resting on his arm, but unfortunately nothing remains of the infant save the right hand, which is laid lovingly on the shoulder of his protector. The sacrifices to Hermes consisted of incense, honey, cakes, pigs, and especially lambs and young goats. As god of eloquence, the tongues of animals were sacrificed to him. MERCURY. Mercury was the Roman god of commerce and gain. We find mention of a temple having been erected to him {124} near the Circus Maximus as early as B.C. 495; and he had also a temple and a sacred fount near the Porta Capena. Magic powers were ascribed to the latter, and on the festival of Mercury, which took place on the 25th of May, it was the custom for merchants to sprinkle themselves and their merchandise with this holy water, in order to insure large profits from their wares. The Fetiales (Roman priests whose duty it was to act as guardians of the public faith) refused to recognize the identity of Mercury with Hermes, and ordered him to be represented with a sacred branch as the emblem of peace, instead of the Caduceus. In later times, however, he was completely identified with the Greek Hermes. DIONYSUS (BACCHUS). Dionysus, also called Bacchus (from _bacca_, berry), was the god of wine, and the personification of the blessings of Nature in general. [Illustration] The worship of this divinity, which is supposed to have been introduced into Greece from Asia (in all probability from India), first took root in Thrace, whence it gradually spread into other parts of Greece. Dionysus was the son of Zeus and Semele, and was snatched by Zeus from the devouring flames in which his mother perished, when he appeared to her in all the splendour of his divine glory. The motherless child was intrusted to the charge of Hermes, who conveyed him to Semele's sister, Ino. But Hera, still implacable in her vengeance, visited Athamas, the husband of Ino, with madness, {125} and the child's life being no longer safe, he was transferred to the fostering care of the nymphs of Mount Nysa. An aged satyr named Silenus, the son of Pan, took upon himself the office of guardian and preceptor to the young god, who, in his turn, became much attached to his kind tutor; hence we see Silenus always figuring as one of the chief personages in the various expeditions of the wine-god. Dionysus passed an innocent and uneventful childhood, roaming through the woods and forests, surrounded by nymphs, satyrs, and shepherds. During one of these rambles, he found a fruit growing wild, of a most refreshing and cooling nature. This was the vine, from which he subsequently learnt to extract a juice which formed a most exhilarating beverage. After his companions had partaken freely of it, they felt their whole being pervaded by an unwonted sense of pleasurable excitement, and gave full vent to their overflowing exuberance, by shouting, singing, and dancing. Their numbers were soon swelled by a crowd, eager to taste a beverage productive of such extraordinary results, and anxious to join in the worship of a divinity to whom they were indebted for this new enjoyment. Dionysus, on his part, seeing how agreeably his discovery had affected his immediate followers, resolved to extend the boon to mankind in general. He saw that wine, used in moderation, would enable man to enjoy a happier, and more sociable existence, and that, under its invigorating influence, the sorrowful might, for a while, forget their grief and the sick their pain. He accordingly gathered round him his zealous followers, and they set forth on their travels, planting the vine and teaching its cultivation wherever they went. We now behold Dionysus at the head of a large army composed of men, women, fauns, and satyrs, all bearing in their hands the Thyrsus (a staff entwined with vine-branches surmounted by a fir-cone), and clashing together cymbals and other musical instruments. Seated in a chariot drawn by panthers, and accompanied by thousands of enthusiastic followers, Dionysus made a triumphal {126} progress through Syria, Egypt, Arabia, India, &c., conquering all before him, founding cities, and establishing on every side a more civilized and sociable mode of life among the inhabitants of the various countries through which he passed. When Dionysus returned to Greece from his Eastern expedition, he encountered great opposition from Lycurgus, king of Thrace, and Pentheus, king of Thebes. The former, highly disapproving of the wild revels which attended the worship of the wine-god, drove away his attendants, the nymphs of Nysa, from that sacred mountain, and so effectually intimidated Dionysus, that he precipitated himself into the sea, where he was received into the arms of the ocean-nymph, Thetis. But the impious king bitterly expiated his sacrilegious conduct. He was punished with the loss of his reason, and, during one of his mad paroxysms, killed his own son Dryas, whom he mistook for a vine. Pentheus, king of Thebes, seeing his subjects so completely infatuated by the riotous worship of this new divinity, and fearing the demoralizing effects of the unseemly nocturnal orgies held in honour of the wine-god, strictly prohibited his people from taking any part in the wild Bacchanalian revels. Anxious to save him from the consequences of his impiety, Dionysus appeared to him under the form of a youth in the king's train, and earnestly warned him to desist from his denunciations. But the well-meant admonition failed in its purpose, for Pentheus only became more incensed at this interference, and, commanding Dionysus to be cast into prison, caused the most cruel preparations to be made for his immediate execution. But the god soon freed himself from his ignoble confinement, for scarcely had his jailers departed, ere the prison-doors opened of themselves, and, bursting asunder his iron chains, he escaped to rejoin his devoted followers. Meanwhile, the mother of the king and her sisters, inspired with Bacchanalian fury, had repaired to Mount Cithæron, in order to join the worshippers of the {127} wine-god in those dreadful orgies which were solemnized exclusively by women, and at which no man was allowed to be present. Enraged at finding his commands thus openly disregarded by the members of his own family, Pentheus resolved to witness for himself the excesses of which he had heard such terrible reports, and for this purpose, concealed himself behind a tree on Mount Cithæron; but his hiding-place being discovered, he was dragged out by the half-maddened crew of Bacchantes and, horrible to relate, he was torn in pieces by his own mother Agave and her two sisters. An incident which occurred to Dionysus on one of his travels has been a favourite subject with the classic poets. One day, as some Tyrrhenian pirates approached the shores of Greece, they beheld Dionysus, in the form of a beautiful youth, attired in radiant garments. Thinking to secure a rich prize, they seized him, bound him, and conveyed him on board their vessel, resolved to carry him with them to Asia and there sell him as a slave. But the fetters dropped from his limbs, and the pilot, who was the first to perceive the miracle, called upon his companions to restore the youth carefully to the spot whence they had taken him, assuring them that he was a god, and that adverse winds and storms would, in all probability, result from their impious conduct. But, refusing to part with their prisoner, they set sail for the open sea. Suddenly, to the alarm of all on board, the ship stood still, masts and sails were covered with clustering vines and wreaths of ivy-leaves, streams of fragrant wine inundated the vessel, and heavenly strains of music were heard around. The terrified crew, too late repentant, crowded round the pilot for protection, and entreated him to steer for the shore. But the hour of retribution had arrived. Dionysus assumed the form of a lion, whilst beside him appeared a bear, which, with a terrific roar, rushed upon the captain and tore him in pieces; the sailors, in an agony of terror, leaped overboard, and were changed into dolphins. The discreet and pious steersman was alone permitted to escape the fate of his companions, {128} and to him Dionysus, who had resumed his true form, addressed words of kind and affectionate encouragement, and announced his name and dignity. They now set sail, and Dionysus desired the pilot to land him at the island of Naxos, where he found the lovely Ariadne, daughter of Minos, king of Crete. She had been abandoned by Theseus on this lonely spot, and, when Dionysus now beheld her, was lying fast asleep on a rock, worn out with sorrow and weeping. Wrapt in admiration, the god stood gazing at the beautiful vision before him, and when she at length unclosed her eyes, he revealed himself to her, and, in gentle tones, sought to banish her grief. Grateful for his kind sympathy, coming as it did at a moment when she had deemed herself forsaken and friendless, she gradually regained her former serenity, and, yielding to his entreaties, consented to become his wife. Dionysus, having established his worship in various parts of the world, descended to the realm of shades in search of his ill-fated mother, whom he conducted to Olympus, where, under the name of Thyone, she was admitted into the assembly of the immortal gods. Among the most noted worshippers of Dionysus was Midas,[46] the wealthy king of Phrygia, the same who, as already related, gave judgment against Apollo. Upon one occasion Silenus, the preceptor and friend of Dionysus, being in an intoxicated condition, strayed into the rose-gardens of this monarch, where he was found by some of the king's attendants, who bound him with roses and conducted him to the presence of their royal master. Midas treated the aged satyr with the greatest consideration, and, after entertaining him hospitably for ten days, led him back to Dionysus, who was so grateful for the kind attention shown to his old friend, that he offered to grant Midas any favour he chose to demand; whereupon the avaricious monarch, not content with his boundless wealth, and still thirsting for more, desired that everything he touched might turn to gold. The request was {129} complied with in so literal a sense, that the now wretched Midas bitterly repented his folly and cupidity, for, when the pangs of hunger assailed him, and he essayed to appease his cravings, the food became gold ere he could swallow it; as he raised the cup of wine to his parched lips, the sparkling draught was changed into the metal he had so coveted, and when at length, wearied and faint, he stretched his aching frame on his hitherto luxurious couch, this also was transformed into the substance which had now become the curse of his existence. The despairing king at last implored the god to take back the fatal gift, and Dionysus, pitying his unhappy plight, desired him to bathe in the river Pactolus, a small stream in Lydia, in order to lose the power which had become the bane of his life. Midas joyfully obeying the injunction, was at once freed from the consequences of his avaricious demand, and from this time forth the sands of the river Pactolus have ever contained grains of gold. Representations of Dionysus are of two kinds. According to the earliest conceptions, he appears as a grave and dignified man in the prime of life; his countenance is earnest, thoughtful, and benevolent; he wears a full beard, and is draped from head to foot in the garb of an Eastern monarch. But the sculptors of a later period represent him as a youth of singular beauty, though of somewhat effeminate appearance; the expression of the countenance is gentle and winning; the limbs are supple and gracefully moulded; and the hair, which is adorned by a wreath of vine or ivy leaves, falls over the shoulders in long curls. In one hand he bears the Thyrsus, and in the other a drinking-cup with two handles, these being his distinguishing attributes. He is often represented riding on a panther, or seated in a chariot drawn by lions, tigers, panthers, or lynxes. Being the god of wine, which is calculated to promote sociability, he rarely appears alone, but is usually accompanied by Bacchantes, satyrs, and mountain-nymphs. The finest modern representation of Ariadne is that by Danneker, at Frankfort-on-the-Maine. In this statue she {130} appears riding on a panther; the beautiful upturned face inclines slightly over the left shoulder; the features are regular and finely cut, and a wreath of ivy-leaves encircles the well-shaped head. With her right hand she gracefully clasps the folds of drapery which fall away negligently from her rounded form, whilst the other rests lightly and caressingly on the head of the animal. Dionysus was regarded as the patron of the drama, and at the state festival of the Dionysia, which was celebrated with great pomp in the city of Athens, dramatic entertainments took place in his honour, for which all the renowned Greek dramatists of antiquity composed their immortal tragedies and comedies. He was also a prophetic divinity, and possessed oracles, the principal of which was that on Mount Rhodope in Thrace. The tiger, lynx, panther, dolphin, serpent, and ass were sacred to this god. His favourite plants were the vine, ivy, laurel, and asphodel. His sacrifices consisted of goats, probably on account of their being destructive to vineyards. BACCHUS OR LIBER. The Romans had a divinity called Liber who presided over vegetation, and was, on this account, identified with the Greek Dionysus, and worshipped under the name of Bacchus. The festival of Liber, called the Liberalia, was celebrated on the 17th of March. AÏDES (PLUTO). Aïdes, Aïdoneus, or Hades, was the son of Cronus and Rhea, and the youngest brother of Zeus and Poseidon. He was the ruler of that subterranean region called Erebus, which was inhabited by the shades or spirits of the dead, and also by those dethroned and exiled deities who had been vanquished by Zeus and his allies. Aïdes, the grim and gloomy monarch of this lower world, was the {131} successor of Erebus, that ancient primeval divinity after whom these realms were called. The early Greeks regarded Aïdes in the light of their greatest foe, and Homer tells us that he was "of all the gods the most detested," being in their eyes the grim robber who stole from them their nearest and dearest, and eventually deprived each of them of their share in terrestrial existence. His name was so feared that it was never mentioned by mortals, who, when they invoked him, struck the earth with their hands, and in sacrificing to him turned away their faces. The belief of the people with regard to a future state was, in the Homeric age, a sad and cheerless one. It was supposed that when a mortal ceased to exist, his spirit tenanted the shadowy outline of the human form it had quitted. These shadows, or shades as they were called, were driven by Aïdes into his dominions, where they passed their time, some in brooding over the vicissitudes of fortune which they had experienced on earth, others in regretting the lost pleasures they had enjoyed in life, but all in a condition of semi-consciousness, from which the intellect could only be roused to full activity by drinking of the blood of the sacrifices offered to their shades by living friends, which, for a time, endowed them with their former mental vigour. The only beings supposed to enjoy any happiness in a future state were the heroes, whose acts of daring and deeds of prowess had, during their life, reflected honour on the land of their birth; and even these, according to Homer, pined after their career of earthly activity. He tells us that when Odysseus visited the lower world at the command of Circe, and held communion with the shades of the heroes of the Trojan war, Achilles assured him that he would rather be the poorest day-labourer on earth than reign supreme over the realm of shades. The early Greek poets offer but scanty allusions to Erebus. Homer appears purposely to envelop these realms in vagueness and mystery, in order, probably, to heighten the sensation of awe inseparably connected with {132} the lower world. In the Odyssey he describes the entrance to Erebus as being beyond the furthermost edge of Oceanus, in the far west, where dwelt the Cimmerians, enveloped in eternal mists and darkness. In later times, however, in consequence of extended intercourse with foreign nations, new ideas became gradually introduced, and we find Egyptian theories with regard to a future state taking root in Greece, which become eventually the religious belief of the whole nation. It is now that the poets and philosophers, and more especially the teachers of the Eleusinian Mysteries, begin to inculcate the doctrine of the future reward and punishment of good and bad deeds. Aïdes, who had hitherto been regarded as the dread enemy of mankind, who delights in his grim office, and keeps the shades imprisoned in his dominions after withdrawing them from the joys of existence, now receives them with hospitality and friendship, and Hermes replaces him as conductor of shades to Hades. Under this new aspect Aïdes usurps the functions of a totally different divinity called Plutus (the god of riches), and is henceforth regarded as the giver of wealth to mankind, in the shape of those precious metals which lie concealed in the bowels of the earth. The later poets mention various entrances to Erebus, which were for the most part caves and fissures. There was one in the mountain of Taenarum, another in Thesprotia, and a third, the most celebrated of all, in Italy, near the pestiferous Lake Avernus, over which it is said no bird could fly, so noxious were its exhalations. In the dominions of Aïdes there were four great rivers, three of which had to be crossed by all the shades. These three were Acheron (sorrow), Cocytus (lamentation), and Styx (intense darkness), the sacred stream which flowed nine times round these realms. The shades were ferried over the Styx by the grim, unshaven old boatman Charon, who, however, only took those whose bodies had received funereal rites on earth, and who had brought with them his indispensable toll, which was a small coin or obolus, usually placed under the {133} tongue of a dead person for this purpose. If these conditions had not been fulfilled, the unhappy shades were left behind to wander up and down the banks for a hundred years as restless spirits. On the opposite bank of the Styx was the tribunal of Minos, the supreme judge, before whom all shades had to appear, and who, after hearing full confession of their actions whilst on earth, pronounced the sentence of happiness or misery to which their deeds had entitled them. This tribunal was guarded by the terrible triple-headed dog Cerberus, who, with his three necks bristling with snakes, lay at full length on the ground;--a formidable sentinel, who permitted all shades to enter, but none to return. The happy spirits, destined to enjoy the delights of Elysium, passed out on the right, and proceeded to the golden palace where Aïdes and Persephone held their royal court, from whom they received a kindly greeting, ere they set out for the Elysian Fields which lay beyond.[47] This blissful region was replete with all that could charm the senses or please the imagination; the air was balmy and fragrant, rippling brooks flowed peacefully through the smiling meadows, which glowed with the varied hues of a thousand flowers, whilst the groves resounded with the joyous songs of birds. The occupations and amusements of the happy shades were of the same nature as those which they had delighted in whilst on earth. Here the warrior found his horses, chariots, and arms, the musician his lyre, and the hunter his quiver and bow. In a secluded vale of Elysium there flowed a gentle, silent stream, called Lethe (oblivion), whose waters had the effect of dispelling care, and producing utter forgetfulness of former events. According to the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmigration of souls, it was supposed that after the shades had inhabited Elysium for a thousand years they were destined to animate other bodies on {134} earth, and before leaving Elysium they drank of the river Lethe, in order that they might enter upon their new career without any remembrance of the past. The guilty souls, after leaving the presence of Minos, were conducted to the great judgment-hall of Hades, whose massive walls of solid adamant were surrounded by the river Phlegethon, the waves of which rolled flames of fire, and lit up, with their lurid glare, these awful realms. In the interior sat the dread judge Rhadamanthus, who declared to each comer the precise torments which awaited him in Tartarus. The wretched sinners were then seized by the Furies, who scourged them with their whips, and dragged them along to the great gate, which closed the opening to Tartarus, into whose awful depths they were hurled, to suffer endless torture. Tartarus was a vast and gloomy expanse, as far below Hades as the earth is distant from the skies. There the Titans, fallen from their high estate, dragged out a dreary and monotonous existence; there also were Otus and Ephialtes, those giant sons of Poseidon, who, with impious hands, had attempted to scale Olympus and dethrone its mighty ruler. Principal among the sufferers in this abode of gloom were Tityus, Tantalus, Sisyphus, Ixion, and the Danaïdes. TITYUS, one of the earth-born giants, had insulted Hera on her way to Peitho, for which offence Zeus flung him into Tartarus, where he suffered dreadful torture, inflicted by two vultures, which perpetually gnawed his liver. TANTALUS was a wise and wealthy king of Lydia, with whom the gods themselves condescended to associate; he was even permitted to sit at table with Zeus, who delighted in his conversation, and listened with interest to the wisdom of his observations. Tantalus, however, elated at these distinguished marks of divine favour, presumed upon his position, and used unbecoming language to Zeus himself; he also stole nectar and ambrosia from the table of the gods, with which he regaled his friends; but his greatest crime consisted in killing his own son, {135} Pelops, and serving him up at one of the banquets to the gods, in order to test their omniscience. For these heinous offences he was condemned by Zeus to eternal punishment in Tartarus, where, tortured with an ever-burning thirst, he was plunged up to the chin in water, which, as he stooped to drink, always receded from his parched lips. Tall trees, with spreading branches laden with delicious fruits, hung temptingly over his head; but no sooner did he raise himself to grasp them, than a wind arose, and carried them beyond his reach. SISYPHUS was a great tyrant who, according to some accounts, barbarously murdered all travellers who came into his dominions, by hurling upon them enormous pieces of rock. In punishment for his crimes he was condemned to roll incessantly a huge block of stone up a steep hill, which, as soon as it reached the summit, always rolled back again to the plain below. IXION was a king of Thessaly to whom Zeus accorded the privilege of joining the festive banquets of the gods; but, taking advantage of his exalted position, he presumed to aspire to the favour of Hera, which so greatly incensed Zeus, that he struck him with his thunderbolts, and commanded Hermes to throw him into Tartarus, and bind him to an ever-revolving wheel. The DANAÏDES were the fifty daughters of Danaus, king of Argos, who had married their fifty cousins, the sons of Ægyptus. By the command of their father, who had been warned by an oracle that his son-in-law would cause his death, they all killed their husbands in one night, Hypermnestra alone excepted. Their punishment in the lower world was to fill with water a vessel full of holes,--a never-ending and useless task. [Illustration] Aïdes is usually represented as a man of mature years and stern majestic mien, bearing a striking resemblance to his brother Zeus; but the gloomy and inexorable expression of the face contrasts forcibly with that peculiar benignity which so characterizes the countenance of the mighty ruler of heaven. He is seated on a throne of ebony, with his queen, the grave and sad Persephone, {136} beside him, and wears a full beard, and long flowing black hair, which hangs straight down over his forehead; in his hand he either bears a two-pronged fork or the keys of the lower world, and at his feet sits Cerberus. He is sometimes seen in a chariot of gold, drawn by four black horses, and wearing on his head a helmet made for him by the Cyclops, which rendered the wearer invisible. This helmet he frequently lent to mortals and immortals. Aïdes, who was universally worshipped throughout Greece, had temples erected to his honour in Elis, Olympia, and also at Athens. His sacrifices, which took place at night, consisted of black sheep, and the blood, instead of being sprinkled on the altars or received in vessels, as at other sacrifices, was permitted to run down into a trench, dug for this purpose. The officiating priests wore black robes, and were crowned with cypress. The narcissus, maiden-hair, and cypress were sacred to this divinity. PLUTO. Before the introduction into Rome of the religion and literature of Greece, the Romans had no belief in a realm of future happiness or misery, corresponding to the Greek Hades; hence they had no god of the lower world identical with Aïdes. They supposed that there was, in the centre of the earth, a vast, gloomy, and impenetrably dark cavity called Orcus, which formed a place of eternal rest for the dead. But with the introduction of Greek mythology, the Roman Orcus became the Greek Hades, and {137} all the Greek notions with regard to a future state now obtained with the Romans, who worshipped Aïdes under the name of Pluto, his other appellations being Dis (from _dives_, rich) and Orcus from the dominions over which he ruled. In Rome there were no temples erected to this divinity. PLUTUS. Plutus, the son of Demeter and a mortal called Iasion, was the god of wealth, and is represented as being lame when he makes his appearance, and winged when he takes his departure. He was supposed to be both blind and foolish, because he bestows his gifts without discrimination, and frequently upon the most unworthy objects. Plutus was believed to have his abode in the bowels of the earth, which was probably the reason why, in later times, Aïdes became confounded with this divinity. * * * * * MINOR DIVINITIES. THE HARPIES. [Illustration] The Harpies, who, like the Furies, were employed by the gods as instruments for the punishment of the guilty, were three female divinities, daughters of Thaumas and Electra, called Aello, Ocypete, and Celæno. They were represented with the head of a fair-haired maiden and the body of a vulture, and were perpetually devoured by the pangs of insatiable hunger, which caused them to torment their victims by robbing them of their food; this they either devoured with great {138} gluttony, or defiled in such a manner as to render it unfit to be eaten. Their wonderfully rapid flight far surpassed that of birds, or even of the winds themselves. If any mortal suddenly and unaccountably disappeared, the Harpies were believed to have carried him off. Thus they were supposed to have borne away the daughters of King Pandareos to act as servants to the Erinyes. The Harpies would appear to be personifications of sudden tempests, which, with ruthless violence, sweep over whole districts, carrying off or injuring all before them. ERINYES, EUMENIDES (FURIÆ, DIRÆ). The Erinyes or Furies were female divinities who personified the torturing pangs of an evil conscience, and the remorse which inevitably follows wrong-doing. Their names were Alecto, Megæra, and Tisiphone, and their origin was variously accounted for. According to Hesiod, they sprang from the blood of Uranus, when wounded by Cronus, and were hence supposed to be the embodiment of all the terrible imprecations, which the defeated deity called down upon the head of his rebellious son. According to other accounts they were the daughters of Night. Their place of abode was the lower world, where they were employed by Aïdes and Persephone to chastise and torment those shades who, during their earthly career, had committed crimes, and had not been reconciled to the gods before descending to Hades. But their sphere of action was not confined to the realm of shades, for they appeared upon earth as the avenging deities who relentlessly pursued and punished murderers, perjurers, those who had failed in duty to their parents, in hospitality to strangers, or in the respect due to old age. Nothing escaped the piercing glance of these terrible divinities, from whom flight was unavailing, for no corner of the earth was so remote as {139} to be beyond their reach, nor did any mortal dare to offer to their victims an asylum from their persecutions. The Furies are frequently represented with wings; their bodies are black, blood drips from their eyes, and snakes twine in their hair. In their hands they bear either a dagger, scourge, torch, or serpent. When they pursued Orestes they constantly held up a mirror to his horrified gaze, in which he beheld the face of his murdered mother. These divinities were also called Eumenides, which signifies the "well-meaning" or "soothed goddesses;" This appellation was given to them because they were so feared and dreaded that people dared not call them by their proper title, and hoped by this means to propitiate their wrath. In later times the Furies came to be regarded as salutary agencies, who, by severely punishing sin, upheld the cause of morality and social order, and thus contributed to the welfare of mankind. They now lose their awe-inspiring aspect, and are represented, more especially in Athens, as earnest maidens, dressed, like Artemis, in short tunics suitable for the chase, but still retaining, in their hands, the wand of office in the form of a snake. Their sacrifices consisted of black sheep and a libation composed of a mixture of honey and water, called Nephalia. A celebrated temple was erected to the Eumenides at Athens, near the Areopagus. MOIRÆ OR FATES (PARCÆ). The ancients believed that the duration of human existence and the destinies of mortals were regulated by three sister-goddesses, called Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, who were the daughters of Zeus and Themis. The power which they wielded over the fate of man was significantly indicated under the figure of a thread, which they spun out for the life of each human being from his birth to the grave. This occupation they divided between them. Clotho wound the flax round the distaff, {140} ready for her sister Lachesis, who span out the thread of life, which Atropos, with her scissors, relentlessly snapt asunder, when the career of an individual was about to terminate. Homer speaks of one Moira only, the daughter of Night, who represents the moral force by which the universe is governed, and to whom both mortals and immortals were forced to submit, Zeus himself being powerless to avert her decrees; but in later times this conception of one inexorable, all-conquering fate became amplified by the poets into that above described, and the Moiræ are henceforth the special presiding deities over the life and death of mortals. The Moiræ are represented by the poets as stern, inexorable female divinities, aged, hideous, and also lame, which is evidently meant to indicate the slow and halting march of destiny, which they controlled. Painters and sculptors, on the other hand, depicted them as beautiful maidens of a grave but kindly aspect. There is a charming representation of Lachesis, which depicts her in all the grace of youth and beauty. She is sitting spinning, and at her feet lie two masks, one comic, the other tragic, as though to convey the idea, that, to a divinity of fate, the brightest and saddest scenes of earthly existence are alike indifferent, and that she quietly and steadily pursues her occupation, regardless of human weal or woe. When represented at the feet of Aïdes in the lower world they are clad in dark robes; but when they appear in Olympus they wear bright garments, bespangled with stars, and are seated on radiant thrones, with crowns on their heads. It was considered the function of the Moiræ to indicate to the Furies the precise torture which the wicked should undergo for their crimes. They were regarded as prophetic divinities, and had sanctuaries in many parts of Greece. The Moiræ are mentioned as assisting the Charites to conduct Persephone to the upper world at her periodical {141} reunion with her mother Demeter. They also appear in company with Eileithyia, goddess of birth. NEMESIS. Nemesis, the daughter of Nyx, represents that power which adjusts the balance of human affairs, by awarding to each individual the fate which his actions deserve. She rewards, humble, unacknowledged merit, punishes crime, deprives the worthless of undeserved good fortune, humiliates the proud and overbearing, and visits all evil on the wrong-doer; thus maintaining that proper balance of things, which the Greeks recognized as a necessary condition of all civilized life. But though Nemesis, in her original character, was the distributor of rewards as well as punishments, the world was so full of sin, that she found but little occupation in her first capacity, and hence became finally regarded as the avenging goddess only. We have seen a striking instance of the manner in which this divinity punishes the proud and arrogant in the history of Niobe. Apollo and Artemis were merely the instruments for avenging the insult offered to their mother; but it was Nemesis who prompted the deed, and presided over its execution. Homer makes no mention of Nemesis; it is therefore evident that she was a conception of later times, when higher views of morality had obtained among the Greek nation. Nemesis is represented as a beautiful woman of thoughtful and benign aspect and regal bearing; a diadem crowns her majestic brow, and she bears in her hand a rudder, balance, and cubit;--fitting emblems of the manner in which she guides, weighs, and measures all human events. She is also sometimes seen with a wheel, to symbolize the rapidity with which she executes justice. As the avenger of evil she appears winged, bearing in her hand either a scourge or a sword, and seated in a chariot drawn by griffins. {142} Nemesis is frequently called Adrastia, and also Rhamnusia, from Rhamnus in Attica, the chief seat of her worship, which contained a celebrated statue of the goddess. Nemesis was worshipped by the Romans, (who invoked her on the Capitol), as a divinity who possessed the power of averting the pernicious consequences of envy. NIGHT AND HER CHILDREN. DEATH, SLEEP, AND DREAMS. NYX (NOX). Nyx, the daughter of Chaos, being the personification of Night, was, according to the poetic ideas of the Greeks, considered to be the mother of everything mysterious and inexplicable, such as death, sleep, dreams, &c. She became united to Erebus, and their children were Aether and Hemera (Air and Daylight), evidently a simile of the poets, to indicate that darkness always precedes light. Nyx inhabited a palace in the dark regions of the lower world, and is represented as a beautiful woman, seated in a chariot, drawn by two black horses. She is clothed in dark robes, wears a long veil, and is accompanied by the stars, which follow in her train. THANATOS (MORS) AND HYPNUS (SOMNUS). Thanatos (Death) and his twin-brother Hypnus (Sleep) were the children of Nyx. Their dwelling was in the realm of shades, and when they appear among mortals, Thanatos is feared and hated as the enemy of mankind, whose hard heart knows no pity, whilst his brother Hypnus is universally loved and welcomed as their kindest and most beneficent friend. But though the ancients regarded Thanatos as a gloomy and mournful divinity, they did not represent him with any exterior repulsiveness. On the contrary, he appears as a beautiful youth, who holds in his hand an inverted {143} torch, emblematical of the light of life being extinguished, whilst his disengaged arm is thrown lovingly round the shoulder of his brother Hypnus. Hypnus is sometimes depicted standing erect with closed eyes; at others he is in a recumbent position beside his brother Thanatos, and usually bears a poppy-stalk in his hand. A most interesting description of the abode of Hypnus is given by Ovid in his Metamorphoses. He tells us how the god of Sleep dwelt in a mountain-cave near the realm of the Cimmerians, which the sun never pierced with his rays. No sound disturbed the stillness, no song of birds, not a branch moved, and no human voice broke the profound silence which reigned everywhere. From the lowermost rocks of the cave issued the river Lethe, and one might almost have supposed that its course was arrested, were it not for the low, monotonous hum of the water, which invited slumber. The entrance was partially hidden by numberless white and red poppies, which Mother Night had gathered and planted there, and from the juice of which she extracts drowsiness, which she scatters in liquid drops all over the earth, as soon as the sun-god has sunk to rest. In the centre of the cave stands a couch of blackest ebony, with a bed of down, over which is laid a coverlet of sable hue. Here the god himself reposes, surrounded by innumerable forms. These are idle dreams, more numerous than the sands of the sea. Chief among them is Morpheus, that changeful god, who may assume any shape or form he pleases. Nor can the god of Sleep resist his own power; for though he may rouse himself for a while, he soon succumbs to the drowsy influences which surround him. MORPHEUS. Morpheus, the son of Hypnus, was the god of Dreams. He is always represented winged, and appears sometimes as a youth, sometimes as an old man. In his hand he bears a cluster of poppies, and as he steps with {144} noiseless footsteps over the earth, he gently scatters the seeds of this sleep-producing plant over the eyes of weary mortals. Homer describes the House of Dreams as having two gates: one, whence issue all deceptive and flattering visions, being formed of ivory; the other, through which proceed those dreams which are fulfilled, of horn. THE GORGONS. The Gorgons, Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa, were the three daughters of Phorcys and Ceto, and were the personification of those benumbing, and, as it were, petrifying sensations, which result from sudden and extreme fear. They were frightful winged monsters, whose bodies were covered with scales; hissing, wriggling snakes clustered round their heads instead of hair; their hands were of brass; their teeth resembled the tusks of a wild boar; and their whole aspect was so appalling, that they are said to have turned into stone all who beheld them. These terrible sisters were supposed to dwell in that remote and mysterious region in the far West, beyond the sacred stream of Oceanus. The Gorgons were the servants of Aïdes, who made use of them to terrify and overawe those shades, doomed to be kept in a constant state of unrest as a punishment for their misdeeds, whilst the Furies, on their part, scourged them with their whips and tortured them incessantly. The most celebrated of the three sisters was Medusa, who alone was mortal. She was originally a golden-haired and very beautiful maiden, who, as a priestess of Athene, was devoted to a life of celibacy; but, being wooed by Poseidon, whom she loved in return, she forgot her vows, and became united to him in marriage. For this offence she was punished by the goddess in a most terrible manner. Each wavy lock of the beautiful hair which had so charmed her husband, was changed into a {145} venomous snake; her once gentle, love-inspiring eyes now became blood-shot, furious orbs, which excited fear and disgust in the mind of the beholder; whilst her former roseate hue and milk-white skin assumed a loathsome greenish tinge. Seeing herself thus transformed into so repulsive an object, Medusa fled from her home, never to return. Wandering about, abhorred, dreaded, and shunned by all the world, she now developed into a character, worthy of her outward appearance. In her despair she fled to Africa, where, as she passed restlessly from place to place, infant snakes dropped from her hair, and thus, according to the belief of the ancients, that country became the hotbed of these venomous reptiles. With the curse of Athene upon her, she turned into stone whomsoever she gazed upon, till at last, after a life of nameless misery, deliverance came to her in the shape of death, at the hands of Perseus. It is well to observe that when the Gorgons are spoken of in the singular, it is Medusa who is alluded to. Medusa was the mother of Pegasus and Chrysaor, father of the three-headed, winged giant Geryones, who was slain by Heracles. GRÆÆ. The Grææ, who acted as servants to their sisters the Gorgons, were also three in number; their names were Pephredo, Enyo, and Dino. In their original conception they were merely personifications of kindly and venerable old age, possessing all its benevolent attributes without its natural infirmities. They were old and gray from their birth, and so they ever remained. In later times, however, they came to be regarded as misshapen females, decrepid, and hideously ugly, having only one eye, one tooth, and one gray wig between them, which they lent to each other, when one of them wished to appear before the world. When Perseus entered upon his expedition to slay the Medusa, he repaired to the abode of the Grææ, in the far {146} west, to inquire the way to the Gorgons, and on their refusing to give any information, he deprived them of their one eye, tooth, and wig, and did not restore them until he received the necessary directions. SPHINX. The Sphinx was an ancient Egyptian divinity, who personified wisdom, and the fertility of nature. She is represented as a lion-couchant, with the head and bust of a woman, and wears a peculiar sort of hood, which completely envelops her head, and falls down on either side of the face. Transplanted into Greece, this sublime and mysterious Egyptian deity degenerates into an insignificant, and yet malignant power, and though she also deals in mysteries, they are, as we shall see, of a totally different character, and altogether inimical to human life. [Illustration] The Sphinx is represented, according to Greek genealogy, as the offspring of Typhon and Echidna.[48] Hera, being upon one occasion displeased with the Thebans, sent them this awful monster, as a punishment for their offences. Taking her seat on a rocky eminence near the city of Thebes, commanding a pass which the Thebans were compelled to traverse in their usual way of business, she propounded to all comers a riddle, and if they failed to solve it, she tore them in pieces. During the reign of King Creon, so many people had fallen a sacrifice to this monster, that he determined to use every effort to rid the country of so terrible a scourge. On consulting the oracle of Delphi, he was informed that the only way to destroy the Sphinx was to solve one of her riddles, when she would immediately precipitate herself from the rock on which she was seated. Creon, accordingly, made a public declaration to the effect, that whoever could give the true interpretation of a riddle propounded by the monster, should obtain the crown, and the hand of his sister Jocaste. Oedipus offered {147} himself as a candidate, and proceeding to the spot where she kept guard, received from her the following riddle for solution: "What creature goes in the morning on four legs, at noon on two, and in the evening on three?" Oedipus replied, that it must be man, who during his infancy creeps on all fours, in his prime walks erect on two legs, and when old age has enfeebled his powers, calls a staff to his assistance, and thus has, as it were, three legs. The Sphinx no sooner heard this reply, which was the correct solution of her riddle, than she flung herself over the precipice, and perished in the abyss below. The Greek Sphinx may be recognized by having wings and by being of smaller dimensions than the Egyptian Sphinx. TYCHE (FORTUNA) AND ANANKE (NECESSITAS). TYCHE (FORTUNA). Tyche personified that peculiar combination of circumstances which we call luck or fortune, and was considered to be the source of all unexpected events in human life, whether good or evil. If a person succeeded in all he undertook without possessing any special merit of his own, Tyche was supposed to have smiled on his birth. If, on the other hand, undeserved ill-luck followed him through life, and all his efforts resulted in failure, it was ascribed to her adverse influence. This goddess of Fortune is variously represented. Sometimes she is depicted bearing in her hand two rudders, with one of which she steers the bark of the fortunate, and with the other that of the unfortunate among mortals. In later times she appears blindfolded, and stands on a ball or wheel, indicative of the fickleness and ever-revolving {148} changes of fortune. She frequently bears the sceptre and cornucopia[49] or horn of plenty, and is usually winged. In her temple at Thebes, she is represented holding the infant Plutus in her arms, to symbolize her power over riches and prosperity. Tyche was worshipped in various parts of Greece, but more particularly by the Athenians, who believed in her special predilection for their city. FORTUNA. Tyche was worshipped in Rome under the name of Fortuna, and held a position of much greater importance among the Romans than the Greeks. In later times Fortuna is never represented either winged or standing on a ball; she merely bears the cornucopia. It is evident, therefore, that she had come to be regarded as the goddess of good luck only, who brings blessings to man, and not, as with the Greeks, as the personification of the fluctuations of fortune. In addition to Fortuna, the Romans worshipped Felicitas as the giver of positive good fortune. ANANKE (NECESSITAS). As Ananke, Tyche assumes quite another character, and becomes the embodiment of those immutable laws of nature, by which certain causes produce certain inevitable results. In a statue of this divinity at Athens she was represented with hands of bronze, and surrounded with nails and hammers. The hands of bronze probably indicated the irresistible power of the inevitable, and the hammer and chains the fetters which she forged for man. Ananke was worshipped in Rome under the name of Necessitas. {149} KER. In addition to the Moiræ, who presided over the life of mortals, there was another divinity, called Ker, appointed for each human being at the moment of his birth. The Ker belonging to an individual was believed to develop with his growth, either for good or evil; and when the ultimate fate of a mortal was about to be decided, his Ker was weighed in the balance, and, according to the preponderance of its worth or worthlessness, life or death was awarded to the human being in question. It becomes evident, therefore, that according to the belief of the early Greeks, each individual had it in his power, to a certain extent, to shorten or prolong his own existence. The Keres, who are frequently mentioned by Homer, were the goddesses who delighted in the slaughter of the battle-field. ATE. Ate, the daughter of Zeus and Eris, was a divinity who delighted in evil. Having instigated Hera to deprive Heracles of his birthright, her father seized her by the hair of her head, and hurled her from Olympus, forbidding her, under the most solemn imprecations, ever to return. Henceforth she wandered among mankind, sowing dissension, working mischief, and luring men to all actions inimical to their welfare and happiness. Hence, when a reconciliation took place between friends who had quarrelled, Ate was blamed as the original cause of disagreement. MOMUS. Momus, the son of Nyx, was the god of raillery and ridicule, who delighted to criticise, with bitter sarcasm, the actions of gods and men, and contrived to discover in all things some defect or blemish. Thus when Prometheus created the first man, Momus considered his work incomplete because there was no aperture in the breast through which his inmost thoughts might be read. He {150} also found fault with a house built by Athene because, being unprovided with the means of locomotion, it could never be removed from an unhealthy locality. Aphrodite alone defied his criticism, for, to his great chagrin, he could find no fault with her perfect form.[50] In what manner the ancients represented this god is unknown. In modern art he is depicted like a king's jester, with a fool's cap and bells. EROS (CUPID, AMOR) AND PSYCHE. According to Hesiod's Theogony, Eros, the divine spirit of Love, sprang forth from Chaos, while all was still in confusion, and by his beneficent power reduced to order and harmony the shapeless, conflicting elements, which, under his influence, began to assume distinct forms. This ancient Eros is represented as a full-grown and very beautiful youth, crowned with flowers, and leaning on a shepherd's crook. In the course of time, this beautiful conception gradually faded away, and though occasional mention still continues to be made of the Eros of Chaos, he is replaced by the son of Aphrodite, the popular, mischief-loving little god of Love, so familiar to us all. In one of the myths concerning Eros, Aphrodite is described as complaining to Themis, that her son, though so beautiful, did not appear to increase in stature; whereupon Themis suggested that his small proportions were probably attributable to the fact of his being always alone, and advised his mother to let him have a companion. Aphrodite accordingly gave him, as a playfellow, his younger brother Anteros (requited love), and soon had the gratification of seeing the little Eros begin to grow and thrive; but, curious to relate, this desirable result only continued as long as the brothers remained together, for the moment they were separated, Eros shrank once more to his original size. {151} By degrees the conception of Eros became multiplied and we hear of little love-gods (Amors), who appear under the most charming and diversified forms. These love-gods, who afforded to artists inexhaustible subjects for the exercise of their imagination, are represented as being engaged in various occupations, such as hunting, fishing, rowing, driving chariots, and even busying themselves in mechanical labour. [Illustration] Perhaps no myth is more charming and interesting than that of Eros and Psyche, which is as follows:--Psyche, the youngest of three princesses, was so transcendently beautiful that Aphrodite herself became jealous of her, and no mortal dared to aspire to the honour of her hand. As her sisters, who were by no means equal to her in attractions, were married, and Psyche still remained unwedded, her father consulted the oracle of Delphi, and, in obedience to the divine response, caused her to be dressed as though for the grave, and conducted to the edge of a yawning precipice. No sooner was she alone than she felt herself lifted up, and wafted away by the gentle west wind Zephyrus, who transported her to a verdant meadow, in the midst of which stood a stately palace, surrounded by groves and fountains. Here dwelt Eros, the god of Love, in whose arms Zephyrus deposited his lovely burden. Eros, himself unseen, wooed her in the softest accents of affection; but warned her, as she valued his love, not to endeavour to behold his form. For some time Psyche was obedient to the injunction of her immortal spouse, and made no effort to gratify her natural curiosity; but, unfortunately, in the midst of her happiness she was seized with an unconquerable longing for the society of her {152} sisters, and, in accordance with her desire, they were conducted by Zephyrus to her fairy-like abode. Filled with envy at the sight of her felicity, they poisoned her mind against her husband, and telling her that her unseen lover was a frightful monster, they gave her a sharp dagger, which they persuaded her to use for the purpose of delivering herself from his power. After the departure of her sisters, Psyche resolved to take the first opportunity of following their malicious counsel. She accordingly rose in the dead of night, and taking a lamp in one hand and a dagger in the other, stealthily approached the couch where Eros was reposing, when, instead of the frightful monster she had expected to see, the beauteous form of the god of Love greeted her view. Overcome with surprise and admiration, Psyche stooped down to gaze more closely on his lovely features, when, from the lamp which she held in her trembling hand, there fell a drop of burning oil upon the shoulder of the sleeping god, who instantly awoke, and seeing Psyche standing over him with the instrument of death in her hand, sorrowfully reproached her for her treacherous designs, and, spreading out his wings, flew away. In despair at having lost her lover, the unhappy Psyche endeavoured to put an end to her existence by throwing herself into the nearest river; but instead of closing over her, the waters bore her gently to the opposite bank, where Pan (the god of shepherds) received her, and consoled her with the hope of becoming eventually reconciled to her husband. Meanwhile her wicked sisters, in expectation of meeting with the same good fortune which had befallen Psyche, placed themselves on the edge of the rock, but were both precipitated into the chasm below. Psyche herself, filled with a restless yearning for her lost love, wandered all over the world in search of him. At length she appealed to Aphrodite to take compassion on her; but the goddess of Beauty, still jealous of her charms, imposed upon her the hardest tasks, the accomplishment of which often appeared impossible. In these {153} she was always assisted by invisible, beneficent beings, sent to her by Eros, who still loved her, and continued to watch over her welfare. [Illustration] Psyche had to undergo a long and severe penance before she became worthy to regain the happiness, which she had so foolishly trifled away. At last Aphrodite commanded her to descend into the under world, and obtain from Persephone a box containing all the charms of beauty. Psyche's courage now failed her, for she concluded that death must of necessity precede her entrance into the realm of shades. About to abandon herself to despair, she heard a voice which warned her of every danger to be avoided on her perilous journey, and instructed her with regard to certain precautions to be observed. These were as follows:--not to omit to provide herself with the ferryman's toll for Charon, and the cake to pacify Cerberus, also to refrain from taking any part in the banquets of Aïdes and Persephone, and, above all things, to bring the box of beauty charms unopened to Aphrodite. In conclusion, the voice assured her, that compliance with the above conditions would insure for her a safe return to the realms of light. But, alas, Psyche, who had implicitly followed all injunctions, could not withstand the temptation of the last condition; and, hardly had she quitted the lower world, when, unable to resist the curiosity which devoured her, she raised the lid of the box with eager expectation. But, instead of the wondrous charms of beauty which she expected to behold, there issued from the casket a dense black vapour, which had the effect of throwing her into a death-like sleep, out of which Eros, who had long hovered round her unseen, at length awoke her with the point of one of his golden arrows. He gently reproached her with this second proof of her curiosity and folly, and then, having persuaded Aphrodite to be reconciled to his beloved, he induced Zeus to admit her among the immortal gods. Their reunion was celebrated amidst the rejoicings of all the Olympian deities. The Graces shed perfume on {154} their path, the Hours sprinkled roses over the sky, Apollo added the music of his lyre, and the Muses united their voices in a glad chorus of delight. This myth would appear to be an allegory, which signifies that the soul, before it can be reunited to its original divine essence, must be purified by the chastening sorrows and sufferings of its earthly career.[51] Eros is represented as a lovely boy, with rounded limbs, and a merry, roguish expression. He has golden wings, and a quiver slung over his shoulder, which contained his magical and unerring arrows; in one hand he bears his golden bow, and in the other a torch. He is also frequently depicted riding on a lion, dolphin, or eagle, or seated in a chariot drawn by stags or wild boars, undoubtedly emblematical of the power of love as the subduer of all nature, even of the wild animals. In Rome, Eros was worshipped under the name of Amor or Cupid. HYMEN. Hymen or Hymenæus, the son of Apollo and the muse Urania, was the god who presided over marriage and nuptial solemnities, and was hence invoked at all marriage festivities. There is a myth concerning this divinity, which tells us that Hymen was a beautiful youth of very poor parents, who fell in love with a wealthy maiden, so far above him in rank, that he dared not cherish the hope of ever becoming united to her. Still he missed no opportunity of seeing her, and, upon one occasion, disguised himself as {155} a girl, and joined a troop of maidens, who, in company with his beloved, were proceeding from Athens to Eleusis, in order to attend a festival of Demeter. On their way thither they were surprised by pirates, who carried them off to a desert island, where the ruffians, after drinking deeply, fell into a heavy sleep. Hymen, seizing the opportunity, slew them all, and then set sail for Athens, where he found the parents of the maidens in the greatest distress at their unaccountable disappearance. He comforted them with the assurance that their children should be restored to them, provided they would promise to give him in marriage the maiden he loved. The condition being gladly complied with, he at once returned to the island, and brought back the maidens in safety to Athens, whereupon he became united to the object of his love; and their union proved so remarkably happy, that henceforth the name of Hymen became synonymous with conjugal felicity. IRIS (THE RAINBOW). Iris, the daughter of Thaumas and Electra, personified the rainbow, and was the special attendant and messenger of the queen of heaven, whose commands she executed with singular tact, intelligence, and swiftness. Most primitive nations have regarded the rainbow as a bridge of communication between heaven and earth, and this is doubtless the reason why Iris, who represented that beautiful phenomenon of nature, should have been invested by the Greeks with the office of communicating between gods and men. Iris is usually represented seated behind the chariot of Hera, ready to do the bidding of her royal mistress. She appears under the form of a slender maiden of great beauty, robed in an airy fabric of variegated hues, resembling mother-of-pearl; her sandals are bright as burnished silver, she has golden wings, and wherever she appears, a radiance of light, and a sweet odour, as of delicate spring flowers, pervades the air. {156} [Illustration] HEBE (JUVENTAS). Hebe was the personification of eternal youth under its most attractive and joyous aspect. She was the daughter of Zeus and Hera, and though of such distinguished rank, is nevertheless represented as cup-bearer to the gods; a forcible exemplification of the old patriarchal custom, in accordance with which the daughters of the house, even when of the highest lineage, personally assisted in serving the guests. Hebe is represented as a comely, modest maiden, small, of a beautifully rounded contour, with nut-brown tresses and sparkling eyes. She is often depicted pouring out nectar from an upraised vessel, or bearing in her hand a shallow dish, supposed to contain ambrosia, the ever youth-renewing food of the immortals. In consequence of an act of awkwardness, which caused her to slip while serving the gods, Hebe was deprived of her office, which was henceforth delegated to Ganymedes, son of Tros. Hebe afterwards became the bride of Heracles, when, after his apotheosis, he was received among the immortals. JUVENTAS. Juventas was the Roman divinity identified with Hebe, whose attributes, however, were regarded by the Romans as applying more particularly to the imperishable vigour and immortal glory of the state. In Rome, several temples were erected in honour of this goddess. {157} GANYMEDES. Ganymedes, the youngest son of Tros, king of Troy, was one day drawing water from a well on Mount Ida, when he was observed by Zeus, who, struck with his wonderful beauty, sent his eagle to transport him to Olympus, where he was endowed with immortality, and appointed cup-bearer to the gods. Ganymedes is represented as a youth of exquisite beauty, with short golden locks, delicately chiselled features, beaming blue eyes, and pouting lips. THE MUSES. Of all the Olympic deities, none occupy a more distinguished position than the Muses, the nine beautiful daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. In their original signification, they presided merely over music, song, and dance; but with the progress of civilization the arts and sciences claimed their special presiding divinities, and we see these graceful creations, in later times, sharing among them various functions, such as poetry, astronomy, &c. The Muses were honoured alike by mortals and immortals. In Olympus, where Apollo acted as their leader, no banquet or festivity was considered complete without their joy-inspiring presence, and on earth no social gathering was celebrated without libations being poured out to them; nor was any task involving intellectual effort ever undertaken, without earnestly supplicating their assistance. They endowed their chosen favourites with knowledge, wisdom, and understanding; they bestowed upon the orator the gift of eloquence, inspired the poet with his noblest thoughts, and the musician with his sweetest harmonies. Like so many of the Greek divinities, however, the refined conception of the Muses is somewhat marred by the acerbity with which they punished any effort on the part {158} of mortals to rival them in their divine powers. An instance of this is seen in the case of Thamyris, a Thracian bard, who presumed to invite them to a trial of skill in music. Having vanquished him, they not only afflicted him with blindness, but deprived him also of the power of song. Another example of the manner in which the gods punished presumption and vanity is seen in the story of the daughters of King Pierus. Proud of the perfection to which they had brought their skill in music, they presumed to challenge the Muses themselves in the art over which they specially presided. The contest took place on Mount Helicon, and it is said that when the mortal maidens commenced their song, the sky became dark and misty, whereas when the Muses raised their heavenly voices, all nature seemed to rejoice, and Mount Helicon itself moved with exultation. The Pierides were signally defeated, and were transformed by the Muses into singing birds, as a punishment for having dared to challenge comparison with the immortals. Undeterred by the above example, the Sirens also entered into a similar contest. The songs of the Muses were loyal and true, whilst those of the Sirens were the false and deceptive strains with which so many unfortunate mariners had been lured to their death. The Sirens were defeated by the Muses, and as a mark of humiliation, were deprived of the feathers with which their bodies were adorned. The oldest seat of the worship of the Muses was Pieria in Thrace, where they were supposed to have first seen the light of day. Pieria is a district on one of the sloping declivities of Mount Olympus, whence a number of rivulets, as they flow towards the plains beneath, produce those sweet, soothing sounds, which may possibly have suggested this spot as a fitting home for the presiding divinities of song. They dwelt on the summits of Mounts Helicon, Parnassus, and Pindus, and loved to haunt the springs and fountains which gushed forth amidst these rocky {159} heights, all of which were sacred to them and to poetic inspiration. Aganippe and Hippocrene on Mount Helicon, and the Castalian spring on Mount Parnassus, were sacred to the Muses. The latter flowed between two lofty rocks above the city of Delphi, and in ancient times its waters were introduced into a square stone basin, where they were retained for the use of the Pythia and the priests of Apollo. [Illustration: CALLIOPE.] The libations to these divinities consisted of water, milk, and honey, but never of wine. Their names and functions are as follows:-- CALLIOPE, the most honoured of the Muses, presided over heroic song and epic poetry, and is represented with a pencil in her hand, and a slate upon her knee. CLIO, the muse of History, holds in her hand a roll of parchment, and wears a wreath of laurel. MELPOMENE, the muse of Tragedy, bears a tragic mask. THALIA, the muse of Comedy, carries in her right hand a shepherd's crook, and has a comic mask beside her. POLYHYMNIA, the muse of Sacred Hymns, is crowned with a wreath of laurel. She is always represented in a thoughtful attitude, and entirely enveloped in rich folds of drapery. TERPSICHORE, the muse of Dance and Roundelay, is represented in the act of playing on a seven-stringed lyre. URANIA, the muse of Astronomy, stands erect, and bears in her left hand a celestial globe. EUTERPE, the muse of Harmony, is represented bearing a musical instrument, usually a flute. ERATO, the muse of Love and hymeneal songs, wears a wreath of laurel, and is striking the chords of a lyre. {160} [Illustration: CLIO.] [Illustration: TERPSICHORE.] [Illustration: EUTERPE.] [Illustration: ERATO.] With regard to the origin of the Muses, it is said that they were created by Zeus in answer to a request on the part of the victorious deities, after the war with the {161} Titans, that some special divinities should be called into existence, in order to commemorate in song the glorious deeds of the Olympian gods. [Illustration: URANIA.] [Illustration: MELPOMENE.] [Illustration: THALIA.] [Illustration: POLYHYMNIA.] {162} PEGASUS. Pegasus was a beautiful winged horse who sprang from the body of Medusa when she was slain by the hero Perseus, the son of Zeus and Danaë. Spreading out his wings he immediately flew to the top of Mount Olympus, where he was received with delight and admiration by all the immortals. A place in his palace was assigned to him by Zeus, who employed him to carry his thunder and lightning. Pegasus permitted none but the gods to mount him, except in the case of Bellerophon, whom, at the command of Athene, he carried aloft, in order that he might slay the Chimæra with his arrows. The later poets represent Pegasus as being at the service of the Muses, and for this reason he is more celebrated in modern times than in antiquity. He would appear to represent that poetical inspiration, which tends to develop man's higher nature, and causes the mind to soar heavenwards. The only mention by the ancients of Pegasus in connection with the Muses, is the story of his having produced with his hoofs, the famous fountain Hippocrene. It is said that during their contest with the Pierides, the Muses played and sang on the summit of Mount Helicon with such extraordinary power and sweetness, that heaven and earth stood still to listen, whilst the mountain raised itself in joyous ecstasy towards the abode of the celestial gods. Poseidon, seeing his special function thus interfered with, sent Pegasus to check the boldness of the mountain, in daring to move without his permission. When Pegasus reached the summit, he stamped the ground with his hoofs, and out gushed the waters of Hippocrene, afterwards so renowned as the sacred fount, whence the Muses quaffed their richest draughts of inspiration. THE HESPERIDES. The Hesperides, the daughters of Atlas, dwelt in an island in the far west, whence they derived their name. {163} They were appointed by Hera to act as guardians to a tree bearing golden apples, which had been presented to her by Gæa on the occasion of her marriage with Zeus. It is said that the Hesperides, being unable to withstand the temptation of tasting the golden fruit confided to their care, were deprived of their office, which was henceforth delegated to the terrible dragon Ladon, who now became the ever-watchful sentinel of these precious treasures. The names of the Hesperides were Aegle, Arethusa, and Hesperia. CHARITES (GRATIÆ) GRACES. All those gentler attributes which beautify and refine human existence were personified by the Greeks under the form of three lovely sisters, Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Thalia, the daughters of Zeus and Eurynome (or, according to later writers, of Dionysus and Aphrodite). They are represented as beautiful, slender maidens in the full bloom of youth, with hands and arms lovingly intertwined, and are either undraped, or wear a fleecy, transparent garment of an ethereal fabric. They portray every gentle emotion of the heart, which vents itself in friendship and benevolence, and were believed to preside over those qualities which constitute grace, modesty, unconscious beauty, gentleness, kindliness, innocent joy, purity of mind and body, and eternal youth. They not only possessed the most perfect beauty themselves, but also conferred this gift upon others. All the enjoyments of life were enhanced by their presence, and were deemed incomplete without them; and wherever joy or pleasure, grace and gaiety reigned, there they were supposed to be present. Temples and altars were everywhere erected in their honour, and people of all ages and of every rank in life entreated their favour. Incense was burnt daily upon their altars, and at every banquet they were invoked, {164} and a libation poured out to them, as they not only heightened all enjoyment, but also by their refining influence moderated the exciting effects of wine. Music, eloquence, poetry, and art, though the direct work of the Muses, received at the hands of the Graces an additional touch of refinement and beauty; for which reason they are always regarded as the friends of the Muses, with whom they lived on Mount Olympus. Their special function was to act, in conjunction with the Seasons, as attendants upon Aphrodite, whom they adorned with wreaths of flowers, and she emerges from their hands like the Queen of Spring, perfumed with the odour of roses and violets, and all sweet-scented blossoms. The Graces are frequently seen in attendance on other divinities; thus they carry music for Apollo, myrtles for Aphrodite, &c., and frequently accompany the Muses, Eros, or Dionysus. HORÆ (SEASONS). Closely allied to the Graces were the Horæ, or Seasons, who were also represented as three beautiful maidens, daughters of Zeus and Themis. Their names were Eunomia, Dice, and Irene. It may appear strange that these divinities, presiding over the seasons, should be but three in number, but this is quite in accordance with the notions of the ancient Greeks, who only recognized spring, summer, and autumn as seasons; nature being supposed to be wrapt in death or slumber, during that cheerless and unproductive portion of the year which we call winter. In some parts of Greece there were but two Horæ, Thallo, goddess of the bloom, and Carpo, of the corn and fruit-bearing season. The Horæ are always regarded as friendly towards mankind, and totally devoid of guile or subtlety; they are represented as joyous, but gentle maidens, crowned with flowers, and holding each other by the hand in a round dance. When they are depicted separately as personifications of the different seasons, the Hora {165} representing spring appears laden with flowers, that of summer bears a sheaf of corn, whilst the personification of autumn has her hands filled with clusters of grapes and other fruits. They also appear in company with the Graces in the train of Aphrodite, and are seen with Apollo and the Muses. They are inseparably connected with all that is good and beautiful in nature, and as the regular alternation of the seasons, like all her other operations, demands the most perfect order and regularity, the Horæ, being the daughters of Themis, came to be regarded as the representatives of order, and the just administration of human affairs in civilized communities. Each of these graceful maidens took upon herself a separate function: Eunomia presided more especially over state life, Dice guarded the interests of individuals, whilst Irene, the gayest and brightest of the three sisters, was the light-hearted companion of Dionysus. The Horæ were also the deities of the fast-fleeting hours, and thus presided over the smaller, as well as the larger divisions of time. In this capacity they assist every morning in yoking the celestial horses to the glorious chariot of the sun, which they again help to unyoke when he sinks to rest. In their original conception they were personifications of the clouds, and are described as opening and closing the gates of heaven, and causing fruits and flowers to spring forth, when they pour down upon them their refreshing and life-giving streams. THE NYMPHS. The graceful beings called the Nymphs were the presiding deities of the woods, grottoes, streams, meadows, &c. These divinities were supposed to be beautiful maidens of fairy-like form, and robed in more or less shadowy garments. They were held in the greatest veneration, though, being minor divinities, they had no temples {166} dedicated to them, but were worshipped in caves or grottoes, with libations of milk, honey, oil, &c. They may be divided into three distinct classes, viz., water, mountain, and tree or wood nymphs. WATER NYMPHS. OCEANIDES, NEREIDES, AND NAIADES. The worship of water-deities is common to most primitive nations. The streams, springs, and fountains of a country bear the same relation to it which the blood, coursing through the numberless arteries of a human being, bears to the body; both represent the living, moving, life-awakening element, without which existence would be impossible. Hence we find among most nations a deep feeling of attachment to the streams and waters of their native land, the remembrance of which, when absent in foreign climes, is always treasured with peculiar fondness. Thus among the early Greeks, each tribe came to regard the rivers and springs of its individual state as beneficent powers, which brought blessing and prosperity to the country. It is probable also that the charm which ever accompanies the sound of running water exercised its power over their imagination. They heard with delight the gentle whisper of the fountain, lulling the senses with its low, rippling tones; the soft purling of the brook as it rushes over the pebbles, or the mighty voice of the waterfall as it dashes on in its headlong course; and the beings which they pictured to themselves as presiding over all these charming sights and sounds of nature, corresponded, in their graceful appearance, with the scenes with which they were associated. OCEANIDES. The OCEANIDES, or Ocean Nymphs, were the daughters of Oceanus and Tethys, and, like most sea divinities, were endowed with the gift of prophecy. They are personifications of those delicate vapour-like {167} exhalations, which, in warm climates, are emitted from the surface of the sea, more especially at sunset, and are impelled forwards by the evening breeze. They are accordingly represented as misty, shadowy beings, with graceful swaying forms, and robed in pale blue, gauze-like fabrics. THE NEREIDES. The NEREIDES were the daughters of Nereus and Doris, and were nymphs of the Mediterranean Sea. They are similar in appearance to the Oceanides, but their beauty is of a less shadowy order, and is more like that of mortals. They wear a flowing, pale green robe; their liquid eyes resemble, in their clear depths, the lucid waters of the sea they inhabit; their hair floats carelessly over their shoulders, and assumes the greenish tint of the water itself, which, far from deteriorating from their beauty, greatly adds to its effect. The Nereides either accompany the chariot of the mighty ruler of the sea, or follow in his train. We are told by the poets that the lonely mariner watches the Nereides with silent awe and wondering delight, as they rise from their grotto-palaces in the deep, and dance, in joyful groups, over the sleeping waves. Some, with arms entwined, follow with their movements the melodies which seem to hover over the sea, whilst others scatter liquid gems around, these being emblematical of the phosphorescent light, so frequently observed at night by the traveller in southern waters. The best known of the Nereides were Thetis, the wife of Peleus, Amphitrite, the spouse of Poseidon, and Galatea, the beloved of Acis. THE NAIADES. The NAIADES were the nymphs of fresh-water springs, lakes, brooks, rivers, &c. As the trees, plants, and flowers owed their nourishment to their genial, fostering care, these divinities were {168} regarded by the Greeks as special benefactors to mankind. Like all the nymphs, they possessed the gift of prophecy, for which reason many of the springs and fountains over which they presided were believed to inspire mortals who drank of their waters with the power of foretelling future events. The Naiades are intimately connected in idea with those flowers which are called after them Nymphæ, or water-lilies, whose broad, green leaves and yellow cups float upon the surface of the water, as though proudly conscious of their own grace and beauty. We often hear of the Naiades forming alliances with mortals, and also of their being wooed by the sylvan deities of the woods and dales. DRYADES, OR TREE NYMPHS. The tree nymphs partook of the distinguishing characteristics of the particular tree to whose life they were wedded, and were known collectively by the name of the Dryades. The HAMADRYADES, or oak nymphs, represent in their peculiar individuality the quiet, self-reliant power which appears to belong essentially to the grand and lordly king of the forest. The BIRCH NYMPH is a melancholy maiden with floating hair, resembling the branches of the pale and fragile-looking tree which she inhabits. The BEECH NYMPH is strong and sturdy, full of life and joyousness, and appears to give promise of faithful love and undisturbed repose, whilst her rosy cheeks, deep brown eyes, and graceful form bespeak health, vigour, and vitality. The nymph of the LINDEN TREE is represented as a little coy maiden, whose short silver-gray dress reaches a little below the knee, and displays to advantage her delicately formed limbs. The sweet face, which is partly averted, reveals a pair of large blue eyes, which appear to look at you with wondering surprise and shy mistrust; {169} her pale, golden hair is bound by the faintest streak of rose-coloured ribbon. The tree nymph, being wedded to the life of the tree she inhabited, ceased to exist when it was either felled, or so injured as to wither away and die. NYMPHS OF THE VALLEYS AND MOUNTAINS. NAPÆÆ AND OREADES. The Napææ were the kind and gentle nymphs of the valleys and glens who appear in the train of Artemis. They are represented as lovely maidens with short tunics, which, reaching only to the knee, do not impede their swift and graceful movements in the exercise of the chase. Their pale brown tresses are fastened in a knot at the back of the head, whence a few stray curls escape over their shoulders. The Napææ are shy as the fawns, and quite as frolicsome. The OREADES, or mountain nymphs, who are the principal and constant companions of Artemis, are tall, graceful maidens, attired as huntresses. They are ardent followers of the chase, and spare neither the gentle deer nor the timid hare, nor indeed any animal they meet with in their rapid course. Wherever their wild hunt goes the shy Napææ are represented as hiding behind the leaves, whilst their favourites, the fawns, kneel tremblingly beside them, looking up beseechingly for protection from the wild huntresses; and even the bold Satyrs dart away at their approach, and seek safety in flight. There is a myth connected with one of these mountain nymphs, the unfortunate Echo. She became enamoured of a beautiful youth named Narcissus, son of the river-god Cephissus, who, however, failed to return her love, which so grieved her that she gradually pined away, becoming a mere shadow of her former self, till, at length, nothing remained of her except her voice, which henceforth gave back, with unerring fidelity, every sound that was uttered in the hills and dales. Narcissus himself {170} also met with an unhappy fate, for Aphrodite punished him by causing him to fall in love with his own image, which he beheld in a neighbouring fountain, whereupon, consumed with unrequited love, he wasted away, and was changed into the flower which bears his name. The LIMONIADES, or meadow nymphs, resemble the Naiades, and are usually represented dancing hand in hand in a circle. The HYADES, who in appearance are somewhat similar to the Oceanides, are cloudy divinities, and, from the fact of their being invariably accompanied by rain, are represented as incessantly weeping. The MELIADES were the nymphs who presided over fruit-trees. Before concluding this subject, attention should be drawn to the fact that, in more modern times, this beautiful idea of animating all nature in detail reappears under the various local traditions extant in different countries. Thus do the Oceanides and Nereides live again in the mermaids, whose existence is still believed in by mariners, whilst the flower and meadow nymphs assume the shape of those tiny elves and fairies, who were formerly believed to hold their midnight revels in every wood and on every common; indeed, even at the present day, the Irish peasantry, especially in the west, firmly believe in the existence of the fairies, or "good people," as they are called. THE WINDS. According to the oldest accounts, Æolus was a king of the Æolian Islands, to whom Zeus gave the command of the winds, which he kept shut up in a deep cave, and which he freed at his pleasure, or at the command of the gods. In later times the above belief underwent a change, and the winds came to be regarded as distinct divinities, whose aspect accorded with the respective winds with which they were identified. They were depicted as {171} winged youths in full vigour in the act of flying through the air. The principal winds were: Boreas (the north wind), Eurus (the east wind), Zephyrus (the west wind), and Notus (the south wind), who were said to be the children of Eos and Astræus. There are no myths of interest connected with these divinities. Zephyrus was united to Chloris (Flora), the goddess of flowers. Of Boreas it is related that while flying over the river Ilissus, he beheld on the banks Oreithyia, the charming daughter of Erechtheus, king of Athens, whom he carried off to his native Thrace, and there made her his bride. Boreas and Oreithyia were the parents of Zetes and Calais, afterwards famous in the expedition of the Argonauts. There was an altar erected at Athens in honour of Boreas, in commemoration of his having destroyed the Persian fleet sent to attack the Greeks. On the Acropolis at Athens there was a celebrated octagonal temple, built by Pericles, which was dedicated to the winds, and on its sides were their various representations. The ruins of this temple are still to be seen. PAN (FAUNUS). [Illustration] Pan was the god of fertility, and the special patron of shepherds and huntsmen; he presided over all rural occupations, was chief of the Satyrs, and head of all rural divinities. According to the common belief, he was the son of Hermes and a wood nymph, and came into the world with horns sprouting from his forehead, a goat's beard and a crooked nose, pointed ears, and the tail and feet of a goat, and presented altogether so repulsive {172} an appearance that, at the sight of him, his mother fled in dismay. Hermes, however, took up his curious little offspring, wrapt him in a hare skin, and carried him in his arms to Olympus. The grotesque form and merry antics of the little stranger made him a great favourite with all the immortals, especially Dionysus; and they bestowed upon him the name of Pan (all), because he had delighted them _all_. His favourite haunts were grottoes, and his delight was to wander in uncontrolled freedom over rocks and mountains, following his various pursuits, ever cheerful, and usually very noisy. He was a great lover of music, singing, dancing, and all pursuits which enhance the pleasures of life; and hence, in spite of his repulsive appearance, we see him surrounded with nymphs of the forests and dales, who love to dance round him to the cheerful music of his pipe, the syrinx. The myth concerning the origin of Pan's pipe is as follows:--Pan became enamoured of a beautiful nymph, called Syrinx, who, appalled at his terrible appearance, fled from the pertinacious attentions of her unwelcome suitor. He pursued her to the banks of the river Ladon, when, seeing his near approach, and feeling escape impossible, she called on the gods for assistance, who, in answer to her prayer, transformed her into a reed, just as Pan was about to seize her. Whilst the love-sick Pan was sighing and lamenting his unfortunate fate, the winds gently swayed the reeds, and produced a murmuring sound as of one complaining. Charmed with the soothing tones, he endeavoured to reproduce them himself, and after cutting seven of the reeds of unequal length, he joined them together, and succeeded in producing the pipe, which he called the syrinx, in memory of his lost love. Pan was regarded by shepherds as their most valiant protector, who defended their flocks from the attacks of wolves. The shepherds of these early times, having no penfolds, were in the habit of gathering together their flocks in mountain caves, to protect them against the {173} inclemency of the weather, and also to secure them at night against the attacks of wild animals; these caves, therefore, which were very numerous in the mountain districts of Arcadia, Boeotia, &c., were all consecrated to Pan. As it is customary in all tropical climates to repose during the heat of the day, Pan is represented as greatly enjoying his afternoon sleep in the cool shelter of a tree or cave, and also as being highly displeased at any sound which disturbed his slumbers, for which reason the shepherds were always particularly careful to keep unbroken silence during these hours, whilst they themselves indulged in a quiet siesta. Pan was equally beloved by huntsmen, being himself a great lover of the woods, which afforded to his cheerful and active disposition full scope, and in which he loved to range at will. He was regarded as the patron of the chase, and the rural sportsmen, returning from an unsuccessful day's sport, beat, in token of their displeasure, the wooden image of Pan, which always occupied a prominent place in their dwellings. All sudden and unaccountable sounds which startle travellers in lonely spots, were attributed to Pan, who possessed a frightful and most discordant voice; hence the term _pan_ic terror, to indicate sudden fear. The Athenians ascribed their victory at Marathon to the alarm which he created among the Persians by his terrible voice. Pan was gifted with the power of prophecy, which he is said to have imparted to Apollo, and he possessed a well-known and very ancient oracle in Arcadia, in which state he was more especially worshipped. The artists of later times have somewhat toned down the original very unattractive conception of Pan, as above described, and merely represent him as a young man, hardened by the exposure to all weathers which a rural life involves, and bearing in his hand the shepherd's crook and syrinx--these being his usual attributes--whilst small horns project from his forehead. He is either undraped, or wears merely the light cloak called the chlamys. The usual offerings to Pan were milk and honey in {174} shepherds' bowls. Cows, lambs, and rams were also sacrificed to him. After the introduction of Pan into the worship of Dionysus, we hear of a number of little Pans (Panisci), who are sometimes confounded with the Satyrs. FAUNUS. The Romans had an old Italian divinity called Faunus, who, as the god of shepherds, was identified with the Greek Pan, and represented in a similar manner. Faunus is frequently called Inuus or the fertilizer, and Lupercus or the one who wards off wolves. Like Pan, he possessed the gift of prophecy, and was the presiding spirit of the woods and fields; he also shared with his Greek prototype the faculty of alarming travellers in solitary places. Bad dreams and evil apparitions were attributed to Faunus, and he was believed to enter houses stealthily at night for this purpose. Fauna was the wife of Faunus, and participated in his functions. THE SATYRS. [Illustration] The Satyrs were a race of woodland spirits, who evidently personified the free, wild, and untrammelled life of the forest. Their appearance was both grotesque and repulsive; they had flat broad noses, pointed ears, and little horns sprouting from their foreheads, a rough shaggy skin, and small goat's tails. They led a life of pleasure and self-indulgence, followed the chase, revelled in every description of wild music and dancing, were terrible wine-bibbers, and addicted to the deep slumbers which follow heavy potations. They were no less dreaded by mortals than by the gentle woodland nymphs, who always avoided their coarse rough sports. The Satyrs were conspicuous figures in the train of Dionysus, and, as we have seen, Silenus their chief was tutor to the wine god. The older Satyrs were called Silens, and are represented in antique sculpture, as more nearly approaching the human form. {175} In addition to the ordinary Satyrs, artists delighted in depicting little Satyrs, young imps, frolicking about the woods in a marvellous variety of droll attitudes. These little fellows greatly resemble their friends and companions, the Panisci. In rural districts it was customary for the shepherds and peasants who attended the festivals of Dionysus, to dress themselves in the skins of goats and other animals, and, under this disguise, they permitted themselves all kinds of playful tricks and excesses, to which circumstance the conception of the Satyrs is by some authorities attributed. In Rome the old Italian wood-divinities, the FAUNS, who had goats' feet and all other characteristics of the Satyrs greatly exaggerated, were identified with them. PRIAPUS. Priapus, the son of Dionysus and Aphrodite, was regarded as the god of fruitfulness, the protector of flocks, sheep, goats, bees, the fruit of the vine, and all garden produce. His statues, which were set up in gardens and vineyards, acted not only as objects of worship, but also as scarecrows, the appearance of this god being especially repulsive and unsightly. These statues were formed of wood or stone, and from the hips downwards were merely rude columns. They represent him as having a red and very ugly face; he bears in his hand a pruning knife, and his head is crowned with a wreath of vine and laurel. He usually carries fruit in his garments or a cornucopia in his hand, always, however, retaining his singularly revolting aspect. It is said that Hera, wishing {176} to punish Aphrodite, sent her this misshapen and unsightly son, and that when he was born, his mother was so horrified at the sight of him, that she ordered him to be exposed on the mountains, where he was found by some shepherds, who, taking pity on him, saved his life. This divinity was chiefly worshipped at Lampsacus, his birthplace. Asses were sacrificed to him, and he received the first-fruits of the fields and gardens, with a libation of milk and honey. The worship of Priapus was introduced into Rome at the same time as that of Aphrodite, and was identified with a native Italian divinity named Mutunus. ASCLEPIAS (ÆSCULAPIUS). Asclepias, the god of the healing art, was the son of Apollo and the nymph Coronis. He was educated by the noble Centaur Chiron, who instructed him in all knowledge, but more especially in that of the properties of herbs. Asclepias searched out the hidden powers of plants, and discovered cures for the various diseases which afflict the human body. He brought his art to such perfection, that he not only succeeded in warding off death, but also restored the dead to life. It was popularly believed that he was materially assisted in his wonderful cures by the blood of the Medusa, given to him by Pallas-Athene. [Illustration] It is well to observe that the shrines of this divinity, which were usually built in healthy places, on hills outside the town, or near wells which were believed to have healing powers, offered at the same time means of cure for the sick and suffering, thus combining religious with sanitary influences. It was the custom for the sufferer to sleep in the temple, when, if he had been earnest in his devotions, Asclepias appeared to him in a dream, and revealed the means to be employed for the cure of his malady. On the walls of these temples were hung tablets, inscribed by the different pilgrims with the particulars of their maladies, the remedies practised, and the cures {177} worked by the god:--a custom undoubtedly productive of most beneficial results. Groves, temples, and altars were dedicated to Asclepias in many parts of Greece, but Epidaurus, the chief seat of his worship,--where, indeed, it is said to have originated,--contained his principal temple, which served at the same time as a hospital. The statue of Asclepias in the temple at Epidaurus was formed of ivory and gold, and represented him as an old man with a full beard, leaning on a staff round which a serpent is climbing. The serpent was the distinguishing symbol of this divinity, partly because these reptiles were greatly used by the ancients in the cure of diseases, and partly also because all the prudence and wisdom of the serpent were deemed indispensable to the judicious physician. His usual attributes are a staff, a bowl, a bunch of herbs, a pineapple, a dog, and a serpent. His children inherited, for the most part, the distinguished talents of their father. Two of his sons, Machaon and Podalirius, accompanied Agamemnon to the Trojan war, in which expedition they became renowned, not only as military heroes, but also as skilful physicians. Their sisters, HYGEIA (health), and PANACEA (all-healing), had temples dedicated to them, and received divine honours. The function of Hygeia was to maintain the health of the community, which great blessing was supposed to be brought by her as a direct and beneficent gift from the gods. ÆSCULAPIUS. The worship of Æsculapius was introduced into Rome from Epidaurus, whence the statue of the god of healing {178} was brought at the time of a great pestilence. Grateful for their deliverance from this plague, the Romans erected a temple in his honour, on an island near the mouth of the Tiber. * * * * * ROMAN DIVINITIES. JANUS. From the earliest ages Janus was regarded by the Romans with the utmost affection and veneration, as a divinity who ranked only second to Jupiter himself, and through whom all prayers and petitions were transmitted to the other gods. He was believed to preside over the beginnings of all things, hence it was he who inaugurated the years, months, and seasons, and in course of time came to be considered as specially protecting the beginnings of all human enterprises. The great importance which the Romans attached to an auspicious commencement, as contributing to the ultimate success of an enterprise, accounts for the high estimation in which Janus was held as the god of beginnings. This divinity would appear to have been the ancient sun-god of the Italian tribes, in which capacity he opens and closes the gates of heaven every morning and evening. Hence he was regarded as the door-keeper of heaven, and also as the presiding deity over all gates, entrances, &c., on earth. The fact of his being the god of city gates, which were called Jani after him, is ascribed, however, to the following myth:--After the abduction of their women by the Romans, the Sabines, in revenge, invaded the Roman state, and were already about to enter the gates of the city, when suddenly a hot sulphur spring, which was believed to have been sent by Janus for their special preservation, gushed forth from the earth, and arrested the progress of the enemy. {179} In his character as guardian of gates and doors, he was also regarded as a protecting deity of the home, for which reason little shrines were erected to him over the doors of houses, which contained an image of the god, having two faces. Janus possessed no temples in the ordinary acceptation of the word, but all the gates of cities were dedicated to him. Close to the Forum of Rome stood the so-called temple of Janus, which, however, was merely an arched passage, closed by massive gates. This temple was open only in time of war, as it was supposed that the god had then taken his departure with the Roman army, over whose welfare he personally presided. It is worthy of notice, as an evidence of the many wars in which the Romans were engaged, that the gates of this sanctuary were only closed three times during 700 years. As the god who ushers in the new year, the first month was called after him, and on the 1st of January his most important festival was celebrated, on which occasion all entrances of public and private buildings were decorated with laurel branches and garlands of flowers. His sacrifices, consisting of cakes, wine, and barley, were offered to him at the beginning of every month; and before sacrificing to the other gods his name was always invoked, and a libation poured out to him. Janus is usually represented with two faces; in his special function as door-keeper of heaven he stands erect, bearing a key in one hand, and a rod or sceptre in the other. It is supposed that Janus was the most ancient king of Italy, who, during his life, governed his subjects with such wisdom and moderation that, in gratitude for the benefits conferred upon them, his people deified him after death and placed him in the foremost rank among their divinities. We have already seen in the history of Cronus that Saturn, who was identified with the Greek Cronus (god of time), was the friend and colleague of Janus. Anxious to prove his gratitude to his benefactor, Cronus endowed him with the knowledge of past and future {180} events, which enabled him to adopt the wisest measures for the welfare of his subjects, and it is on this account that Janus is represented with two faces looking in opposite directions, the one to the past, the other to the future. FLORA. Flora was the goddess of flowers, and was regarded as a beneficent power, who watched over and protected the early blossoms. She was held in the highest estimation by the Romans, and a festival, called the Floralia, was celebrated in her honour from the 28th of April to the 1st of May. This festival was a season of universal merriment, in which flowers were used profusely in adorning houses, streets, &c., and were worn by young girls in their hair. Flora, who typified the season of Spring, is generally represented as a lovely maiden, garlanded with flowers. ROBIGUS. In opposition to Flora we find an antagonistic divinity, called Robigus, a worker of evil, who delighted in the destruction of the tender herbs by mildew, and whose wrath could only be averted by prayers and sacrifices, when he was invoked under the title of Averuncus, or the Avertor. The festival of Robigus (the Robigalia) was celebrated on the 25th of April. POMONA. Pomona was the goddess of orchards and fruit-trees, who, according to Ovid, cares not for woods or streams, but loves her gardens and the boughs that bear the thriving fruit. Pomona, who typifies Autumn, is represented as a lovely maiden, laden with branches of fruit-trees. {181} VERTUMNUS. Vertumnus was the god of garden and field produce. He personifies the change of seasons, and that process of transformation in nature by means of which the leaf-buds become developed into blossoms, and the blossoms into fruit. The change of seasons is symbolized in a myth which represents Vertumnus as metamorphosing himself into a variety of different forms in order to gain the affection of Pomona, who so loved her vocation that she abjured all thoughts of marriage. He first appears to her as a ploughman, typifying Spring; then as a reaper, to represent Summer; afterwards as a vine-gatherer, to indicate Autumn; and finally as a gray-haired old woman, symbolical of the snows of Winter; but it was not until he assumed his true form, that of a beautiful youth, that he succeeded in his suit. Vertumnus is generally represented crowned with wheat-sheaves, and bearing in his hand a cornucopia. PALES. Pales, a very ancient Italian divinity, is represented sometimes as a male, sometimes as a female power. As a male divinity he is more particularly the god of shepherds and flocks. As a female deity, Pales presides over husbandry and the fruitfulness of herds. Her festivals, the Palilia, were celebrated on the 21st of April, the day on which the city of Rome was founded. During this festival it was customary for shepherds to ignite a mass of straw, through which they rushed with their flocks, believing that this ordeal would purify them from sin. The name Palatine, which originally signified a pastoral colony, is derived from this divinity. Her offerings were cakes and milk. {182} PICUS. Picus, the son of Saturn and father of Faunus, was a woodland divinity, gifted with prophetic powers. An ancient myth relates that Picus was a beautiful youth, united to a nymph called Canens. The sorceress Circe, infatuated by his beauty, endeavoured to secure his love, but he rejected her advances, and she, in revenge, changed him into a woodpecker, under which form he still retained his powers of prophecy. Picus is represented as a youth, with a woodpecker perched upon his head, which bird became henceforth regarded as possessed of the power of prophecy. PICUMNUS AND PILUMNUS. Picumnus and Pilumnus were two household divinities of the Romans, who were the special presiding deities of new-born infants. SILVANUS. Silvanus was a woodland divinity, who, like Faunus, greatly resembled the Greek Pan. He was the presiding deity of plantations and forests, and specially protected the boundaries of fields. Silvanus is represented as a hale old man, carrying a cypress-tree, for, according to Roman mythology, the transformation of the youth Cyparissus into the tree which bears his name was attributed to him. His sacrifices consisted of milk, meat, wine, grapes, wheat-ears, and pigs. TERMINUS. Terminus was the god who presided over all boundaries and landmarks. He was originally represented by a simple block of stone, which in later times became surmounted by a {183} head of this divinity. Numa Pompilius, the great benefactor of his people, anxious to inculcate respect for the rights of property, specially enjoined the erection of these blocks of stone, as a durable monument to mark the line dividing one property from another. He also caused altars to be raised to Terminus, and instituted his festival (the Terminalia), which was celebrated on the 23rd of February. Upon one occasion, when Tarquin wished to remove the altars of several deities, in order to build a new temple, it is said that Terminus and Juventas alone objected to being displaced. This obstinate refusal on their part was interpreted as a good omen, signifying that the city of Rome would never lose her boundaries, and would remain ever young and vigorous. CONSUS. Consus was the god of secret counsel. The Romans believed that when an idea developed itself spontaneously within the mind of an individual, it was Consus who had prompted the suggestion. This applied, however, more particularly to plans which resulted satisfactorily. An altar was erected to this divinity on the Circus Maximus, which was kept always covered, except during his festival, the Consualia, which was celebrated on the 18th of August. LIBITINA. Libitina was the goddess who presided over funerals. This divinity was identified with Venus, possibly because the ancients considered that the power of love extended even to the realms of death. Her temple in Rome, which was erected by Servius Tullius, contained all the requisites for funerals, and these could either be bought or hired there. A register of all deaths which occurred in the city of Rome was kept in {184} this temple, and in order to ascertain the rate of mortality, a piece of money was paid by command of Servius Tullius, on the demise of each person. LAVERNA. Laverna was the presiding goddess of thieves, and of all artifice and fraud. There was an altar erected to her near the Porta Lavernalis, which was called after her, and she possessed a sacred grove on the Via Salavia. COMUS. Comus was the presiding genius of banquets, festive scenes, revelry, and all joyous pleasures and reckless gaiety. He is represented as a young man crowned with flowers, his face heated and flushed with wine, leaning against a post in a half-sleepy and drunken attitude, with a torch falling from his hand. THE CAMENÆ. The Camenæ were prophetic nymphs held in high veneration by the ancient Italians. They were four in number, the best known of whom are Carmenta and Egeria. Carmenta was celebrated as being the mother of Evander, who led an Arcadian colony into Italy, and founded a town on the river Tiber, which became afterwards incorporated with the city of Rome. Evander is said to have been the first who introduced Greek art and civilization into Italy, and also the worship of Greek divinities. A temple was erected to Carmenta on the Capitoline Hill, and a festival, called the Carmentalia, was celebrated in her honour on the 11th of January. Egeria is said to have initiated Numa Pompilius in the forms of religious worship, which he introduced among his people. She was regarded as the giver of {185} life, and was therefore invoked by women before the birth of their children. The Camenæ are frequently identified by Roman writers with the Muses. GENII. A comforting and assuring belief existed among the Romans, that each individual was accompanied through life, from the hour of his birth to that of his death, by a protecting spirit, called his genius, who prompted him to good and noble deeds, and acted towards him as a guardian angel, comforting him in sorrow, and guiding him throughout his earthly career. In the course of time a second genius was believed to exist, of an evil nature, who, as the instigator of all wrong-doing, was ever at war with the beneficent genius; and on the issue of the conflict between these antagonistic influences, depended the fate of the individual. The genii were depicted as winged beings, greatly resembling our modern representations of guardian angels. Every state, town, or city, (as well as every man), possessed its special genius. The sacrifices to the genii consisted of wine, cakes, and incense, which were offered to them on birthdays. The genius which guided a woman was called, after the queen of heaven, Juno. Among the Greeks, beings called Dæmons were regarded as exercising similar functions to those of the Roman genii. They were believed to be the spirits of the righteous race which existed in the Golden Age, who watched over mankind, carrying their prayers to the gods, and the gifts of the gods to them. MANES. LEMURES (LARVÆ) AND LARES. The Manes were the spirits of the departed, and were of two kinds, viz., Lemures (or Larvæ) and Lares. {186} The Lemures were those Manes who haunted their former abodes on earth as evil spirits, appearing at night under awful forms and hideous shapes, greatly to the alarm of their friends and relatives. They were so feared that a festival, called the Lemuralia, was celebrated in order to propitiate them. It appears extremely probable that the superstitions with regard to ghosts, haunted houses, &c., which exist even at the present day, owe their origin to this very ancient pagan source. The Lares Familiares were a much more pleasing conception. They were the spirits of the ancestors of each family, who exercised after death a protecting power over the well-being and prosperity of the family to which they had in life belonged. The place of honour beside the hearth was occupied by the statue of the Lar of the house, who was supposed to have been the founder of the family. This statue was the object of profound veneration, and was honoured on all occasions by every member of the family; a portion of each meal was laid before it, and it was believed to take an active part in all family affairs and domestic events, whether of a sad or joyful nature. Before starting on any expedition the master of the house saluted the statue of the Lar, and, on his return, a solemn thanksgiving was offered to this, the presiding deity of his hearth and home, in grateful acknowledgment of his protection; whereupon the statue was crowned with garlands of flowers, these being the favourite offerings to the Lares on all occasions of especial family rejoicing. The first act of a bride on entering her new abode was to do homage to the Lar, in the belief that he would exercise over her a protecting influence and shield her from evil. In addition to those above enumerated there were also public Lares, who were guardians of the state, highroads, country, and sea. Their temples were always open for any pious worshipper to enter, and on their altars public sacrifices were offered for the welfare of the state or city. {187} PENATES. The Penates were deities selected by each family, and frequently by its individual members, as a special protector. Various causes led to this selection. If, for instance, a child were born on the festival of Vesta, it was thought that that deity would henceforward act as its special guardian. If a youth possessed great business talents he adopted Mercury as his tutelary deity; should he, on the other hand, develop a passion for music, Apollo was selected as his patron god, and so forth. These became regarded as the special divinities of the household, small images of them adorned the surroundings of the hearth, and honours similar to those paid to the Lares were accorded to them. Just as there were public Lares so there were public Penates, which were worshipped by the Roman people under the form of two youthful warriors, who, in later times, were regarded as identical with Castor and Pollux. They are generally represented on horseback, with conical caps on their heads, and bearing long spears in their hands. {188} [Illustration] PUBLIC WORSHIP OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS AND ROMANS. TEMPLES. In very remote times the Greeks had no shrines or sanctuaries devoted to public worship, but performed their devotions beneath the vast and boundless canopy of heaven, in the great temple of nature itself. Believing that their divinities throned above the clouds, pious worshippers naturally sought the highest available points, in order to place themselves in the closest communion possible with their gods; hence the summits of high mountains were selected for devotional purposes, and the more exalted the rank and importance of the divinity invoked, the more elevated was the site selected for his or her worship. But the inconvenience attending this mode of worship gradually suggested the idea of erecting edifices which would afford means of shelter from the inclemency of the weather. These structures were, in the first instance, of the most simple form, and without decoration; but when, with the progress of civilization, the Greeks became a {189} wealthy and powerful people, temples were built and adorned with the greatest splendour and magnificence, talent, labour, and wealth being lavished unsparingly on their erection and decoration; indeed so massively were they constructed, that some of them have, to a certain extent, withstood the ravages of time. The city of Athens especially contains numerous remains of these buildings of antiquity. On the Acropolis we may still behold, among other monuments of ancient art, the temple of Athene-Polias, and that of Theseus, the latter of which is the most entire ancient edifice in the world. In the island of Delos, also, are to be seen the ruins of the temples of Apollo and Artemis, both of which are in a wonderful state of preservation. These ruins are most valuable, being sufficiently complete to enable us to study, by their aid, the plan and character of the original structure. Among the Lacedæmonians, however, we find no vestiges of these stately temples, for they were specially enjoined by a law of Lycurgus to serve the gods with as little outlay as possible. When the great lawgiver was asked the reason of this injunction, he replied that the Lacedæmonians, being a poor nation, might otherwise abstain altogether from the observance of their religious duties, and wisely added that magnificent edifices and costly sacrifices were not so pleasing to the gods, as the true piety and unfeigned devotion of their worshippers. The most ancient temples known to us served a double purpose: they were not only consecrated to the service of the gods, but were at the same time venerable monuments in honour of the dead. Thus, for instance, the temple of Pallas-Athene, in the tower of the city of Larissa, served as the sepulchre of Acrisius, and the Acropolis at Athens received the ashes of Cecrops, founder of the city. A temple was frequently dedicated to two or more gods, and was always built after the manner considered most acceptable to the particular divinities to whom it was consecrated; for just as trees, birds, and animals of {190} every description were held to be sacred to certain deities, so almost every god had a form of building peculiar to himself, which was deemed more acceptable to him than any other. Thus the Doric style of architecture was sacred to Zeus, Ares, and Heracles; the Ionic to Apollo, Artemis, and Dionysus; and the Corinthian to Hestia. In the porch of the temple stood a vessel of stone or brass, containing holy water (which had been consecrated by putting into it a burning torch, taken from the altar), with which all those admitted to take part in the sacrifices were besprinkled. In the inmost recess of the sanctuary was the most holy place, into which none but the priests were suffered to enter. Temples in the country were usually surrounded with groves of trees. The solitude of these shady retreats naturally tended to inspire the worshipper with awe and reverence, added to which the delightful shade and coolness afforded by tall leafy trees is peculiarly grateful in hot countries. Indeed so general did this custom of building temples in groves become, that all places devoted to sacred purposes, even where no trees existed, were called groves. That this practice must be of very remote antiquity is proved by the Biblical injunction, having for its object the separation of the Jews from all idolatrous practices: "Thou shalt not plant thee a grove of trees near unto the altar of the Lord thy God." STATUES. The Greeks worshipped their gods without any visible representations of them until the time of Cecrops. The most ancient of these representations consisted of square blocks of stone, upon which the name of the deity intended to be represented was engraved. The first attempts at sculpture were rude stocks, with a head at one end and a shapeless trunk at the other, tapering slightly down to the feet, which, however, were not divided, the limbs being in no way defined. But the artists of later times devoted all their genius to the {191} successful production of the highest ideals of their gods, some of which are preserved to this day, and are regarded as examples of purest art. On a pedestal in the centre of the edifice stood the statue of the divinity to whom the temple was dedicated, surrounded by images of other gods, all of which were fenced off by rails. ALTARS. The altar in a Greek temple, which stood in the centre of the building and in front of the statue of the presiding deity, was generally of a circular form, and constructed of stone. It was customary to engrave upon it the name or distinguishing symbol of the divinity to whom it was dedicated; and it was held so sacred that if any malefactor fled to it his life was safe from his pursuers, and it was considered one of the greatest acts of sacrilege to force him from this asylum. The most ancient altars were adorned with horns, which in former times were emblems of power and dignity, as wealth, and consequently importance, consisted among most primitive nations in flocks and herds. In addition to those erected in places of public worship, altars were frequently raised in groves, on highways, or in the market-places of cities. The gods of the lower world had no altars whatever, ditches or trenches being dug for the reception of the blood of the sacrifices offered to them. PRIESTS. In ancient times the priests were recognized as a special social caste, and were distinguished not only by their sacerdotal vestments, but also by their piety, wisdom, and blameless life. They were the chosen mediators between gods and men, and offered prayers and sacrifices in the name of the people, whom they also instructed as to what vows, gifts, and offerings would be most acceptable to the gods. {192} Every deity had a different order of priests consecrated to his worship, and in every place a high-priest was appointed, whose duty it was to superintend the rest of his order, and also to carry out the more sacred rites and religious observances. Priests and priestesses were permitted to marry, but not a second time; some, however, voluntarily adopted a life of celibacy. SACRIFICES. There is no doubt that a feeling of gratitude to the gods for their protecting care, and the abundance with which they were believed to bless mankind, has induced men of all nations and in all countries to feel a desire to sacrifice to their divinities some portion of the gifts so generously lavished upon them. Among the Greeks, sacrifices were of various kinds. They consisted of _free-will offerings_, _propitiatory offerings_, &c. _Free-will offerings_ were grateful acknowledgments for benefits received, and usually consisted of the first-fruits of the field, or the finest of the flocks and herds, which were required to be without spot or blemish. _Propitiatory offerings_ were brought with the object of appeasing the anger of the gods. In addition to those above enumerated, sacrifices were made, either with a view of obtaining success in an enterprise about to be undertaken, or in fulfilment of a vow, or at the command of an oracle. Every sacrifice was accompanied by salt and also by a libation, which usually consisted of wine, the cup being always filled to the brim, indicating that the offering was made without stint. When sacrificing to the infernal gods the cup containing the libation was filled with blood. The animals offered to the Olympian divinities were white, whilst those to the gods of the lower world were black. When a man offered a special sacrifice for himself or his family it partook of the nature of his {193} occupation; thus a shepherd brought a sheep, a vine-grower his grapes, and so forth. But in the case of public sacrifices, the supposed individuality of the deity was always consulted. For instance, to Demeter a sow was offered, because that animal is apt to root up the seed-corn; to Dionysus a goat, on account of its being destructive to vineyards, &c. The value of offerings depended greatly upon the position of the individual; it being regarded as a contempt of the gods for a rich man to bring a sordid offering, whilst from a poor man the smallest oblation was considered acceptable. Hecatombs consisted of a hundred animals, and were offered by entire communities, or by wealthy individuals who either desired, or had obtained some special favour from the gods. When a sacrifice was to be offered, a fire was kindled on the altar, into which wine and frankincense were poured, in order to increase the flame. In very ancient times, the victim was laid upon the altar and burned whole; but after the time of Prometheus portions only of the shoulders, thighs, entrails, &c., were sacrificed, the remainder becoming the perquisites of the priests. The officiating priests wore a crown composed of the leaves of the tree sacred to the deity they invoked. Thus when sacrificing to Apollo the crowns were of laurel; when to Heracles, of poplar. This practice of wearing crowns was, at a later period, adopted by the general public at banquets and other festivities. On occasions of special solemnity the horns of the victim were overlaid with gold, and the altars decked with flowers and sacred herbs. The mode of conducting the sacrifices was as follows:--All things being prepared, a salt cake, the sacrificial knife, and the crowns, were placed in a small basket, and carried to the sanctuary by a young maiden, whereupon the victim was conducted into the temple, frequently to the accompaniment of music. If a small animal, it was driven loose to the altar; if a large one, it was led by a {194} long trailing rope, in order to indicate that it was not an unwilling sacrifice. When all were assembled, the priest, after walking in solemn state round the altar, besprinkled it with a mixture of meal and holy water, after which he also besprinkled the assembled worshippers, and exhorted them to join with him in prayer. The service being ended, the priest first tasted the libation, and after causing the congregation to do the like, poured the remainder between the horns of the victim, after which frankincense was strewn upon the altar, and a portion of the meal and water poured upon the animal, which was then killed. If by any chance the victim escaped the stroke, or became in any way restless, it was regarded as an evil omen; if, on the contrary, it expired without a struggle, it was considered auspicious. At the sacrifices to the aërial divinities music was added, whilst dances were performed round the altar, and sacred hymns sung. These hymns were generally composed in honour of the gods, and contained an account of their famous actions, their clemency and beneficence, and the gifts conferred by them on mankind. In conclusion, the gods were invoked for a continuance of their favour, and when the service was ended a feast was held. ORACLES. The desire to penetrate the dark veil of futurity, and thereby to avert, if possible, threatened danger, has animated mankind in all ages of the world. Prophetic knowledge was sought by the Greeks at the mouth of oracles, whose predictions were interpreted to the people by priests, specially appointed for the purpose. The most famous of these institutions was the oracle of Apollo at Delphi, which was held in general repute all over the world. People flocked from far and near to consult this wonderful mouth-piece of the gods, one month in the year being specially set apart for the purpose. {195} The priestess who delivered the oracles was called the Pythia, after the serpent Python, which was killed by Apollo. Having first bathed in the waters of the Castalian spring, she was conducted into the temple by the priests, and was seated on a sort of three-legged stool or table, called a tripod, which was placed over the mouth of a cave whence issued sulphurous vapours. Here she gradually became affected in a remarkable manner, and fell into an ecstatic condition, in which she uttered wild and extraordinary phrases, which were held to be the utterance of Apollo himself; these the priests interpreted to the people, but in most cases in so ambiguous a manner that the fulfilment of the prediction could not easily be disputed. During the ceremony, clouds of incense filled the temple, and hid the priestess from the view of the uninitiated, and at its conclusion she was reconducted, in a fainting condition, to her cell. The following is a striking instance of the ambiguity of oracular predictions:--Croesus, the rich king of Lydia, before going to war with Cyrus, king of Persia, consulted an oracle as to the probable success of the expedition. The reply he received was, that if he crossed a certain river he would destroy a great empire. Interpreting the response as being favourable to his design, Croesus crossed the river, and encountered the Persian king, by whom he was entirely defeated; and his own empire being destroyed, the prediction of the oracle was said to have been fulfilled. SOOTHSAYERS (AUGURS). In addition to the manifestation of the will of the gods by means of oracles, the Greeks also believed that certain men, called soothsayers, were gifted with the power of foretelling future events from dreams, from observing the flight of birds, the entrails of sacrificed animals, and even the direction of the flames and smoke from the altar, &c. {196} AUGURS. The Roman soothsayers were called augurs, and played an important part in the history of the Romans, as no enterprise was ever undertaken without first consulting them with regard to its ultimate success. FESTIVALS. Festivals were instituted as seasons of rest, rejoicing, and thanksgiving, and also as anniversaries to commemorate events of national importance. The most ancient festivals were those held after the ingathering of the harvest or vintage, and were celebrated with rejoicings and merry-makings, which lasted many days, during which time the first-fruits of the fields were offered to the gods, accompanied by prayers and thanksgiving. The festivals held in cities in honour of special divinities, or in commemoration of particular events, were conducted with an elaborate ceremonial. Gorgeous processions, games, chariot races, &c., were conspicuous features on these occasions, and dramatic performances, representing particular episodes in the lives of the gods and heroes, frequently took place. We subjoin a few of the most interesting of the Greek and Roman festivals. * * * * * GREEK FESTIVALS. ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES. One of the most ancient and important among the festivals observed by the Greeks was that of the Eleusinian Mysteries, which was celebrated in honour of Demeter and Persephone. The name was derived from Eleusis, a town in Attica, where the Mysteries were first introduced by the goddess herself. They were divided into the {197} Greater and Lesser Mysteries, and, according to the general account, were held every five years. The Greater, which were celebrated in honour of Demeter, and lasted nine days, were held in autumn; the Lesser, dedicated to Persephone (who at these festivals was affectionately called Cora, or the maiden), were held in spring. It is supposed that the secrets taught to the initiated by the priests--the expounders of the Mysteries--were moral meanings, elucidated from the myths concerning Demeter and Persephone; but the most important belief inculcated was the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. That the lessons taught were of the highest moral character is universally admitted. "The souls of those who participated in them were filled with the sweetest hopes both as to this and the future world;" and it was a common saying among the Athenians: "In the Mysteries no one is sad." The initiation into these solemn rites (which was originally the exclusive privilege of the Athenians) was accompanied with awe-inspiring ceremonies; and secrecy was so strictly enjoined that its violation was punished by death. At the conclusion of the initiation great rejoicings took place, chariot-races, wrestling matches, &c., were held, and solemn sacrifices offered. The initiation into the Lesser Mysteries served as a preparation for the Greater. THESMOPHORIA. The Thesmophoria was another festival held in honour of Demeter, in her character as presiding over marriage and social institutions resulting from the spread of agriculture. This festival was celebrated exclusively by women. DIONYSIA. A joyous spring festival was held in honour of Dionysus, in the month of March, and lasted several days. {198} This festival, which was called the Greater Dionysia, was celebrated with particular splendour at Athens, when strangers flocked from all parts of the world to take part in the ceremonies. The city was gaily decorated, the houses were garlanded with ivy-leaves, crowds perambulated the streets, everything wore its holiday garb, and wine was freely indulged in. [Illustration] In the processions which took place during these festivities, the statue of Dionysus was carried, and men and women, crowned with ivy and bearing the thyrsus, were dressed in every description of grotesque costume, and played on drums, pipes, flutes, cymbals, &c. Some representing Silenus rode on asses, others wearing fawn-skins appeared as Pan or the Satyrs, and the whole multitude sang pæans in honour of the wine-god. Public shows, games, and sports took place, and the entire city was full of revelry. What lent additional interest to these festivals was the custom of introducing new comedies and tragedies to the public, representations of which were given, and prizes awarded to those which elicited the greatest admiration. [Illustration] The Lesser Dionysia were vintage festivals, celebrated in rural districts in the month of November, and were characterized by drinking, feasting, and joviality of all kinds. In connection with some of the festivals in honour of Dionysus were certain mystic observances, into which only women, called Menades or Bacchantes, were initiated. Clad in fawn-skins, they assembled by night on the mountain sides, {199} some carrying blazing torches, others thyrsi, and all animated with religious enthusiasm and frenzy. They shouted, clapped their hands, danced wildly, and worked themselves up to such a pitch of excitement and fury that in their mad frenzy they tore in pieces the animal brought as a sacrifice to Dionysus. Under the name of Bacchanalia, these mystic rites were introduced into Rome, where men also were allowed to participate in them; but they were attended with such frightful excesses that the state authorities at length interfered and prohibited them. PANATHENÆA. The Panathenæa was a famous festival celebrated in Athens in honour of Athene-Polias, the guardian of the state. There were two festivals of this name, the Lesser and the Greater Panathenæa. The former was held annually, and the latter, which lasted several days, was celebrated every fourth year. For the Greater Panathenæa a garment, embroidered with gold, called the Peplus, was specially woven by Athenian maidens, on which was represented the victory gained by Athene over the Giants. This garment was suspended to the mast of a ship which stood outside the city; and during the festival, which was characterized by a grand procession, the ship (with the Peplus on its mast) was impelled forward by means of invisible machinery, and formed the most conspicuous feature of the pageant. The whole population, bearing olive branches in their hands, took part in the procession; and amidst music and rejoicings this imposing pageant wended its way to the temple of Athene-Polias, where the Peplus was deposited on the statue of the goddess. At this festival, Homer's poems were declaimed aloud, and poets also introduced their own works to the public. Musical contests, foot and horse races, and wrestling matches were held, and dances were performed by boys in armour. {200} Men who had deserved well of their country were presented at the festival with a crown of gold, and the name of the person so distinguished was announced publicly by a herald. The victors in the races and athletic games received, as a prize, a vase of oil, supposed to have been extracted from the fruit of the sacred olive-tree of Athene. DAPHNEPHORIA. The Daphnephoria was celebrated at Thebes in honour of Apollo every ninth year. The distinguishing feature of this festival was a procession to the temple of Apollo, in which a young priest (the Daphnephorus) of noble descent, splendidly attired and wearing a crown of gold, was preceded by a youth, carrying an emblematical representation of the sun, moon, stars, and days of the year, and followed by beautiful maidens bearing laurel branches, and singing hymns in honour of the god. * * * * * ROMAN FESTIVALS. SATURNALIA. The Saturnalia, a national festival held in December in honour of Saturn, was celebrated after the ingathering of the harvest, and lasted several days. It was a time of universal rejoicing, cessation from labour, and merry-making. School children had holidays, friends sent presents to each other, the law-courts were closed, and no business was transacted. Crowds of people from the surrounding country flocked to Rome for this festival attired in every variety of masquerade dress; practical jokes were given and received with the utmost good humour, shouts of exultation filled {201} the air, all classes abandoned themselves to enjoyment, and unrestrained hilarity reigned supreme. Social distinctions were for a time suspended, or even reversed; and so heartily was the spirit of this festival entered into, that masters waited upon their slaves at banquets which they provided for them; the slaves being dressed upon these occasions in the garments of their masters. There appears little doubt that the modern Carnival is a survival of the ancient Saturnalia. CEREALIA. This festival was celebrated in honour of Ceres. It was solemnized exclusively by women, who, dressed in white garments, wandered about with torches in their hands, to represent the search of the goddess for her daughter Proserpine. During this festival, games were celebrated in the Circus Maximus, to which none were admitted unless clothed in white. VESTALIA. The Vestalia was a festival held in honour of Vesta on the 9th of June, and was celebrated exclusively by women, who walked barefooted in procession to the temple of the goddess. The priestesses of Vesta, called Vestales or Vestal Virgins, played a conspicuous part in these festivals. They were six in number, and were chosen--between the ages of six and ten--from the noblest families in Rome. Their term of office was thirty years. During the first ten years, they were initiated in their religious duties, during the second ten they performed them, and during the third they instructed novices. Their chief duty was to watch and feed the ever-burning flame on the altar of Vesta, the extinction of which was regarded as a national calamity of ominous import. {202} Great honours and privileges were accorded to them; the best seats were reserved for their use at all public spectacles, and even the consuls and prætors made way for them to pass. If they met a criminal on his way to execution they had the power to pardon him, provided it could be proved that the meeting was accidental. The Vestales were vowed to chastity, a violation of which was visited by the frightful punishment of being buried alive. * * * * * {203} PART II.--LEGENDS. CADMUS. The following is the legendary account of the founding of Thebes:-- After the abduction of his daughter Europa by Zeus, Agenor, king of Phoenicia, unable to reconcile himself to her loss, despatched his son Cadmus in search of her, desiring him not to return without his sister. For many years Cadmus pursued his search through various countries, but without success. Not daring to return home without her, he consulted the oracle of Apollo at Delphi; and the reply was that he must desist from his task, and take upon himself a new duty, _i.e._ that of founding a city, the site of which would be indicated to him by a heifer which had never borne the yoke, and which would lie down on the spot whereon the city was to be built. Scarcely had Cadmus left the sacred fane, when he observed a heifer who bore no marks of servitude on her neck, walking slowly in front of him. He followed the animal for a considerable distance, until at length, on the site where Thebes afterwards stood, she looked towards heaven and, gently lowing, lay down in the long grass. Grateful for this mark of divine favour, Cadmus resolved to offer up the animal as a sacrifice, and accordingly sent his followers to fetch water for the libation from a neighbouring spring. This spring, which was sacred to Ares, was situated in a wood, and guarded by a fierce dragon, who, at the approach of the retainers of Cadmus, suddenly pounced upon them and killed them. After waiting some time for the return of his servants {204} Cadmus grew impatient, and hastily arming himself with his lance and spear, set out to seek them. On reaching the spot, the mangled remains of his unfortunate followers met his view, and near them he beheld the frightful monster, dripping with the blood of his victims. Seizing a huge rock, the hero hurled it with all his might upon the dragon; but protected by his tough black skin and steely scales as by a coat of mail, he remained unhurt. Cadmus now tried his lance, and with more success, for it pierced the side of the beast, who, furious with pain, sprang at his adversary, when Cadmus, leaping aside, succeeded in fixing the point of his spear within his jaws, which final stroke put an end to the encounter. While Cadmus stood surveying his vanquished foe Pallas-Athene appeared to him, and commanded him to sow the teeth of the dead dragon in the ground. He obeyed; and out of the furrows there arose a band of armed men, who at once commenced to fight with each other, until all except five were killed. These last surviving warriors made peace with each other, and it was with their assistance that Cadmus now built the famous city of Thebes. In later times the noblest Theban families proudly claimed their descent from these mighty earth-born warriors. Ares was furious with rage when he discovered that Cadmus had slain his dragon, and would have killed him had not Zeus interfered, and induced him to mitigate his punishment to that of servitude for the term of eight years. At the end of that time the god of war became reconciled to Cadmus, and, in token of his forgiveness, bestowed upon him the hand of his daughter Harmonia in marriage. Their nuptials were almost as celebrated as those of Peleus and Thetis. All the gods honoured them with their presence, and offered rich gifts and congratulations. Cadmus himself presented his lovely bride with a splendid necklace fashioned by Hephæstus, which, however, after the death of Harmonia, always proved fatal to its possessor. The children of Cadmus and Harmonia were one son, {205} Polydorus, and four daughters, Autonoe, Ino, Semele, and Agave. For many years the founder of Thebes reigned happily, but at length a conspiracy was formed against him, and he was deprived of his throne by his grandson Pentheus. Accompanied by his faithful wife Harmonia, he retired into Illyria, and after death they were both changed by Zeus into serpents, and transferred to Elysium. PERSEUS. Perseus, one of the most renowned of the legendary heroes of antiquity, was the son of Zeus and Danaë, daughter of Acrisius, king of Argos. An oracle having foretold to Acrisius that a son of Danaë would be the cause of his death, he imprisoned her in a tower of brass in order to keep her secluded from the world. Zeus, however, descended through the roof of the tower in the form of a shower of gold, and the lovely Danaë became his bride. For four years Acrisius remained in ignorance of this union, but one evening as he chanced to pass by the brazen chamber, he heard the cry of a young child proceeding from within, which led to the discovery of his daughter's marriage with Zeus. Enraged at finding all his precautions unavailing, Acrisius commanded the mother and child to be placed in a chest and thrown into the sea. But it was not the will of Zeus that they should perish. He directed Poseidon to calm the troubled waters, and caused the chest to float safely to the island of Seriphus. Dictys, brother of Polydectes, king of the island, was fishing on the sea-shore when he saw the chest stranded on the beach; and pitying the helpless condition of its unhappy occupants, he conducted them to the palace of the king, where they were treated with the greatest kindness. Polydectes eventually became united to Danaë, and {206} bestowed upon Perseus an education befitting a hero. When he saw his stepson develop into a noble and manly youth he endeavoured to instil into his mind a desire to signalize himself by the achievement of some great and heroic deed, and after mature deliberation it was decided that the slaying of the Gorgon, Medusa, would bring him the greatest renown. For the successful accomplishment of his object it was necessary for him to be provided with a pair of winged sandals, a magic wallet, and the helmet of Aïdes, which rendered the wearer invisible, all of which were in the keeping of the Nymphs, the place of whose abode was known only to the Grææ. Perseus started on his expedition, and, guided by Hermes and Pallas-Athene, arrived, after a long journey, in the far-off region, on the borders of Oceanus, where dwelt the Grææ, daughters of Phorcys and Ceto. He at once applied to them for the necessary information, and on their refusing to grant it he deprived them of their single eye and tooth, which he only restored to them when they gave him full directions with regard to his route. He then proceeded to the abode of the Nymphs, from whom he obtained the objects indispensable for his purpose. Equipped with the magic helmet and wallet, and armed with a sickle, the gift of Hermes, he attached to his feet the winged sandals, and flew to the abode of the Gorgons, whom he found fast asleep. Now as Perseus had been warned by his celestial guides that whoever looked upon these weird sisters would be transformed into stone, he stood with averted face before the sleepers, and caught on his bright metal shield their triple image. Then, guided by Pallas-Athene, he cut off the head of the Medusa, which he placed in his wallet. No sooner had he done so than from the headless trunk there sprang forth the winged steed Pegasus, and Chrysaor, the father of the winged giant Geryon. He now hastened to elude the pursuit of the two surviving sisters, who, aroused from their slumbers, eagerly rushed to avenge the death of their sister. {207} His invisible helmet and winged sandals here stood him in good stead; for the former concealed him from the view of the Gorgons, whilst the latter bore him swiftly over land and sea, far beyond the reach of pursuit. In passing over the burning plains of Libya the drops of blood from the head of the Medusa oozed through the wallet, and falling on the hot sands below produced a brood of many-coloured snakes, which spread all over the country. Perseus continued his flight until he reached the kingdom of Atlas, of whom he begged rest and shelter. But as this king possessed a valuable orchard, in which every tree bore golden fruit, he was fearful lest the slayer of the Medusa might destroy the dragon which guarded it, and then rob him of his treasures. He therefore refused to grant the hospitality which the hero demanded, whereupon Perseus, exasperated at the churlish repulse, produced from his wallet the head of the Medusa, and holding it towards the king, transformed him into a stony mountain. Beard and hair erected themselves into forests; shoulders, hands, and limbs became huge rocks, and the head grew up into a craggy peak which reached into the clouds. Perseus then resumed his travels. His winged sandals bore him over deserts and mountains, until he arrived at Æthiopia, the kingdom of King Cepheus. Here he found the country inundated with disastrous floods, towns and villages destroyed, and everywhere signs of desolation and ruin. On a projecting cliff close to the shore he beheld a lovely maiden chained to a rock. This was Andromeda, the king's daughter. Her mother Cassiopea, having boasted that her beauty surpassed that of the Nereides, the angry sea-nymphs appealed to Poseidon to avenge their wrongs, whereupon the sea-god devastated the country with a terrible inundation, which brought with it a huge monster who devoured all that came in his way. In their distress the unfortunate Æthiopians applied to the oracle of Jupiter-Ammon, in the Libyan desert, {208} and obtained the response, that only by the sacrifice of the king's daughter to the monster could the country and people be saved. Cepheus, who was tenderly attached to his child, at first refused to listen to this dreadful proposal; but overcome at length by the prayers and solicitations of his unhappy subjects, the heart-broken father gave up his child for the welfare of his country. Andromeda was accordingly chained to a rock on the sea-shore to serve as a prey to the monster, whilst her unhappy parents bewailed her sad fate on the beach below. On being informed of the meaning of this tragic scene, Perseus proposed to Cepheus to slay the dragon, on condition that the lovely victim should become his bride. Overjoyed at the prospect of Andromeda's release, the king gladly acceded to the stipulation, and Perseus hastened to the rock, to breathe words of hope and comfort to the trembling maiden. Then assuming once more the helmet of Aïdes, he mounted into the air, and awaited the approach of the monster. Presently the sea opened, and the shark's head of the gigantic beast of the deep raised itself above the waves. Lashing his tail furiously from side to side, he leaped forward to seize his victim; but the gallant hero, watching his opportunity, suddenly darted down, and producing the head of the Medusa from his wallet, held it before the eyes of the dragon, whose hideous body became gradually transformed into a huge black rock, which remained for ever a silent witness of the miraculous deliverance of Andromeda. Perseus then led the maiden to her now happy parents, who, anxious to evince their gratitude to her deliverer ordered immediate preparations to be made for the nuptial feast. But the young hero was not to bear away his lovely bride uncontested; for in the midst of the banquet, Phineus, the king's brother, to whom Andromeda had previously been betrothed, returned to claim his bride. Followed by a band of armed warriors he forced his way into the hall, and a desperate encounter took place between the rivals, {209} which might have terminated fatally for Perseus, had he not suddenly bethought himself of the Medusa's head. Calling to his friends to avert their faces, he drew it from his wallet, and held it before Phineus and his formidable body-guard, whereupon they all stiffened into stone. [Illustration] Perseus now took leave of the Æthiopian king, and, accompanied by his beautiful bride, returned to Seriphus, where a joyful meeting took place between Danaë and her son. He then sent a messenger to his grandfather, informing him that he intended returning to Argos; but Acrisius, fearing the fulfilment of the oracular prediction, fled for protection to his friend Teutemias, king of Larissa. Anxious to induce the aged monarch to return to Argos, Perseus followed him thither. But here a strange fatality occurred. Whilst taking part in some funereal games, celebrated in honour of the king's father, Perseus, by an unfortunate throw of the discus, accidentally struck his grandfather, and thereby was the innocent cause of his death. After celebrating the funereal rites of Acrisius with due solemnity, Perseus returned to Argos; but feeling loath to occupy the throne of one whose death he had caused, he exchanged kingdoms with Megapenthes, king of Tiryns, and in course of time founded the cities of Mycenæ and Midea. The head of the Medusa he presented to his divine patroness, Pallas-Athene, who placed it in the centre of her shield. Many great heroes were descended from Perseus and Andromeda, foremost among whom was Heracles, whose mother, Alcmene, was their granddaughter. Heroic honours were paid to Perseus, not only {210} throughout Argos, but also at Athens and in the island of Seriphus. ION. Ion was the son of Crëusa (the beauteous daughter of Erechtheus, king of Athens) and the sun-god Phoebus-Apollo, to whom she was united without the knowledge of her father. Fearing the anger of Erechtheus, Crëusa placed her new-born babe in a little wicker basket, and hanging some golden charms round his neck, invoked for him the protection of the gods, and concealed him in a lonely cave. Apollo, pitying his deserted child, sent Hermes to convey him to Delphi, where he deposited his charge on the steps of the temple. Next morning the Delphic priestess discovered the infant, and was so charmed by his engaging appearance that she adopted him as her own son. The young child was carefully tended and reared by his kind foster-mother, and was brought up in the service of the temple, where he was intrusted with some of the minor duties of the holy edifice. And now to return to Crëusa. During a war with the Euboeans, in which the latter were signally defeated, Xuthus, son of Æolus, greatly distinguished himself on the side of the Athenians, and as a reward for his valuable services, the hand of Crëusa, the king's daughter, was bestowed upon him in marriage. Their union, however, was not blest with children, and as this was a source of great grief to both of them, they repaired to Delphi in order to consult the oracle. The response was, that Xuthus should regard the first person who met him on leaving the sanctuary as his son. Now it happened that Ion, the young guardian of the temple, was the first to greet his view, and when Xuthus beheld the beautiful youth, he gladly welcomed him as his son, declaring that the gods had sent him to be a blessing and comfort to his old age. Crëusa, however, who concluded that the youth was the offspring of a secret marriage on the part of her husband, was filled with suspicion and jealousy; {211} when an old servant, observing her grief, begged her to be comforted, assuring her that the cause of her distress should be speedily removed. When, upon the occasion of the public adoption of his son, Xuthus gave a grand banquet, the old servant of Crëusa contrived to mix a strong poison in the wine of the unsuspecting Ion. But the youth--according to the pious custom of the ancients, of offering a libation to the gods before partaking of any repast--poured upon the ground a portion of the wine before putting it to his lips, when suddenly, as if by a miracle, a dove flew into the banquet-hall, and sipped of the wine of the libation; whereupon the poor little creature began to quiver in every limb, and in a few moments expired. Ion's suspicions at once fell upon the obsequious servant of Crëusa, who with such officious attention had filled his cup. He violently seized the old man, and accused him of his murderous intentions. Unprepared for this sudden attack he admitted his guilt, but pointed to the wife of Xuthus as the instigator of the crime. Ion was about to avenge himself upon Crëusa, when, by means of the divine intervention of Apollo, his foster-mother, the Delphic priestess appeared on the scene, and explained the true relationship which existed between Crëusa and Ion. In order to set all doubts at rest, she produced the charms which she had found round the neck of the infant, and also the wicker basket in which he had been conveyed to Delphi. Mother and son now became reconciled to each other, and Crëusa revealed to Ion the secret of his divine origin. The priestess of Delphi foretold that he would become the father of a great nation, called after him the Ionians, and also that Xuthus and Crëusa would have a son called Dorus, who would be the progenitor of the Dorian people, both of which predictions were in due time verified. DÆDALUS and ICARUS. Dædalus, a descendant of Erechtheus, was an Athenian architect, sculptor, and mechanician. He was the first {212} to introduce the art of sculpture in its higher development, for before his time statues were merely rude representations, having the limbs altogether undefined. But great as was his genius, still greater was his vanity, and he could brook no rival. Now his nephew and pupil, Talus, exhibited great talent, having invented both the saw and the compass, and Dædalus, fearing lest he might overshadow his own fame, secretly killed him by throwing him down from the citadel of Pallas-Athene. The murder being discovered, Dædalus was summoned before the court of the Areopagus and condemned to death; but he made his escape to the island of Crete, where he was received by king Minos in a manner worthy of his great reputation. Dædalus constructed for the king the world-renowned labyrinth, which was an immense building, full of intricate passages, intersecting each other in such a manner, that even Dædalus himself is said, upon one occasion, to have nearly lost his way in it; and it was in this building the king placed the Minotaur, a monster with the head and shoulders of a bull and the body of a man. In the course of time the great artist became weary of his long exile, more especially as the king, under the guise of friendship, kept him almost a prisoner. He therefore resolved to make his escape, and for this purpose ingeniously contrived wings for himself and his young son Icarus, whom he diligently trained how to use them. Having awaited a favourable opportunity, father and son commenced their flight, and were well on their way when Icarus, pleased with the novel sensation, forgot altogether his father's oft-repeated injunction not to approach too near the sun. The consequence was that the wax, by means of which his wings were attached, melted, and he fell into the sea and was drowned. The body of the unfortunate Icarus was washed up by the tide, and was buried by the bereaved father on an island which he called after his son, Icaria. After this sad event, Dædalus winged his flight to the island of Sicily, where he met with a kind welcome from {213} king Cocalus, for whom he constructed several important public works. But no sooner did Minos receive the intelligence that his great architect had found an asylum with Cocalus than he sailed over to Sicily with a large army, and sent messengers to the Sicilian king demanding the surrender of his guest. Cocalus feigned compliance and invited Minos to his palace, where he was treacherously put to death in a warm bath. The body of their king was brought to Agrigent by the Cretans, where it was buried with great pomp, and over his tomb a temple to Aphrodite was erected. Dædalus passed the remainder of his life tranquilly in the island of Sicily, where he occupied himself in the construction of various beautiful works of art. THE ARGONAUTS. Aeson, king of Iolcus, was forced to fly from his dominions, which had been usurped by his younger brother, Pelias, and with difficulty succeeded in saving the life of his young son, Jason, who was at that time only ten years of age. He intrusted him to the care of the Centaur Chiron, by whom he was carefully trained in company with other noble youths, who, like himself, afterwards signalized themselves by their bravery and heroic exploits. For ten years Jason remained in the cave of the Centaur, by whom he was instructed in all useful and warlike arts. But as he approached manhood he became filled with an unconquerable desire to regain his paternal inheritance. He therefore took leave of his kind friend and preceptor, and set out for Iolcus to demand from his uncle Pelias the kingdom which he had so unjustly usurped. In the course of his journey he came to a broad and foaming river, on the banks of which he perceived an old woman, who implored him to help her across. At first he hesitated, knowing that even alone he would find some difficulty in stemming the fierce torrent; but, {214} pitying her forlorn condition, he raised her in his arms, and succeeded, with a great effort, in reaching the opposite shore. But as soon as her feet had touched the earth she became transformed into a beautiful woman, who, looking kindly at the bewildered youth, informed him that she was the goddess Hera, and that she would henceforth guide and protect him throughout his career. She then disappeared, and, full of hope and courage at this divine manifestation, Jason pursued his journey. He now perceived that in crossing the river he had lost one of his sandals, but as it could not be recovered he was obliged to proceed without it. On his arrival at Iolcus he found his uncle in the market-place, offering up a public sacrifice to Poseidon. When the king had concluded his offering, his eye fell upon the distinguished stranger, whose manly beauty and heroic bearing had already attracted the attention of his people. Observing that one foot was unshod, he was reminded of an oracular prediction which foretold to him the loss of his kingdom by a man wearing only one sandal. He, however, disguised his fears, conversed kindly with the youth, and drew from him his name and errand. Then pretending to be highly pleased with his nephew, Pelias entertained him sumptuously for five days, during which time all was festivity and rejoicing. On the sixth, Jason appeared before his uncle, and with manly firmness demanded from him the throne and kingdom which were his by right. Pelias, dissembling his true feelings, smilingly consented to grant his request, provided that, in return, Jason would undertake an expedition for him, which his advanced age prevented him from accomplishing himself. He informed his nephew that the shade of Phryxus had appeared to him in his dreams, and entreated him to bring back from Colchis his mortal remains and the Golden Fleece; and added that if Jason succeeded in obtaining for him these sacred relics, throne, kingdom, and sceptre should be his. {215} STORY OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE. Athamas, king of Boeotia, had married Nephele, a cloud-nymph, and their children were Helle and Phryxus. The restless and wandering nature of Nephele, however, soon wearied her husband, who, being a mortal, had little sympathy with his ethereal consort; so he divorced her, and married the beautiful but wicked Ino (sister of Semele), who hated her step-children, and even planned their destruction. But the watchful Nephele contrived to circumvent her cruel designs, and succeeded in getting the children out of the palace. She then placed them both on the back of a winged ram, with a fleece of pure gold, which had been given to her by Hermes; and on this wonderful animal brother and sister rode through the air over land and sea; but on the way Helle, becoming seized with giddiness, fell into the sea (called after her the Hellespont) and was drowned. Phryxus arrived safely at Colchis, where he was hospitably received by king Aëtes, who gave him one of his daughters in marriage. In gratitude to Zeus for the protection accorded him during his flight, Phryxus sacrificed to him the golden ram, whilst the fleece he presented to Aëtes, who nailed it up in the Grove of Ares, and dedicated it to the god of War. An oracle having declared that the life of Aëtes depended on the safe-keeping of the fleece, he carefully guarded the entrance to the grove by placing before it an immense dragon, which never slept. BUILDING AND LAUNCH OF THE ARGO.--We will now return to Jason, who eagerly undertook the perilous expedition proposed to him by his uncle, who, well aware of the dangers attending such an enterprise, hoped by this means to rid himself for ever of the unwelcome intruder. Jason accordingly began to arrange his plans without delay, and invited the young heroes whose friendship he {216} had formed whilst under the care of Chiron, to join him in the perilous expedition. None refused the invitation, all feeling honoured at being allowed the privilege of taking part in so noble and heroic an undertaking. Jason now applied to Argos, one of the cleverest ship-builders of his time, who, under the guidance of Pallas-Athene, built for him a splendid fifty-oared galley, which was called the Argo, after the builder. In the upper deck of the vessel the goddess had imbedded a board from the speaking oak of the oracle of Zeus at Dodona, which ever retained its powers of prophecy. The exterior of the ship was ornamented with magnificent carvings, and the whole vessel was so strongly built that it defied the power of the winds and waves, and was, nevertheless, so light that the heroes, when necessary, were able to carry it on their shoulders. When the vessel was completed, the Argonauts (so called after their ship) assembled, and their places were distributed by lot. Jason was appointed commander-in-chief of the expedition, Tiphys acted as steersman, Lynceus as pilot. In the bow of the vessel sat the renowned hero Heracles; in the stern, Peleus (father of Achilles) and Telamon (the father of Ajax the Great). In the inner space were Castor and Pollux, Neleus (the father of Nestor), Admetus (the husband of Alcestes), Meleager (the slayer of the Calydonian boar), Orpheus (the renowned singer), Menoctius (the father of Patroclus), Theseus (afterwards king of Athens) and his friend Pirithöus (the son of Ixion), Hylas (the adopted son of Heracles), Euphemus (the son of Poseidon), Oileus (father of Ajax the Lesser), Zetes and Calais (the winged sons of Boreas), Idmon the Seer (the son of Apollo), Mopsus (the Thessalian prophet), &c. &c. Before their departure Jason offered a solemn sacrifice to Poseidon and all the other sea-deities; he also invoked the protection of Zeus and the Fates, and then, Mopsus having taken the auguries, and found them auspicious, the heroes stepped on board. And now a favourable breeze having sprung up, they take their allotted places, {217} the anchor is weighed, and the ship glides like a bird out of the harbour into the waters of the great sea. ARRIVAL AT LEMNOS.--The Argo, with her brave crew of fifty heroes, was soon out of sight, and the sea-breeze only wafted to the shore a faint echo of the sweet strains of Orpheus. For a time all went smoothly, but the vessel was soon driven, by stress of weather, to take refuge in a harbour in the island of Lemnos. This island was inhabited by women only, who, the year before, in a fit of mad jealousy, had killed all the male population of the island, with the exception of the father of their queen, Hypsipyle. As the protection of their island now devolved upon themselves they were always on the look-out for danger. When, therefore, they sighted the Argo from afar they armed themselves and rushed to the shore, determined to repel any invasion of their territory. On arriving in port the Argonauts, astonished at beholding an armed crowd of women, despatched a herald in one of their boats, bearing the staff of peace and friendship. Hypsipyle, the queen, proposed that food and presents should be sent to the strangers, in order to prevent their landing; but her old nurse, who stood beside her, suggested that this would be a good opportunity to provide themselves with noble husbands, who would act as their defenders, and thus put an end to their constant fears. Hypsipyle listened attentively to the advice of her nurse, and after some consultation, decided to invite the strangers into the city. Robed in his purple mantle, the gift of Pallas-Athene, Jason, accompanied by some of his companions, stepped on shore, where he was met by a deputation consisting of the most beautiful of the Lemnian women, and, as commander of the expedition, was invited into the palace of the queen. When he appeared before Hypsipyle, she was so struck with his godlike and heroic presence that she presented him with her father's sceptre, and invited him to seat himself on the throne beside her. Jason thereupon {218} took up his residence in the royal castle, whilst his companions scattered themselves through the town, spending their time in feasting and pleasure. Heracles, with a few chosen comrades, alone remained on board. From day to day their departure was delayed, and the Argonauts, in their new life of dissipation, had almost forgotten the object of the expedition, when Heracles suddenly appeared amongst them, and at last recalled them to a sense of their duty. GIANTS AND DOLIONES.--The Argonauts now pursued their voyage, till contrary winds drove them towards an island, inhabited by the Doliones, whose king Cyzicus received them with great kindness and hospitality. The Doliones were descendants of Poseidon, who protected them against the frequent attacks of their fierce and formidable neighbours, the earth-born Giants--monsters with six arms. Whilst his companions were attending a banquet given by king Cyzicus, Heracles, who, as usual, had remained behind to guard the ship, observed that these Giants were busy blocking up the harbour with huge rocks. He at once realized the danger, and, attacking them with his arrows, succeeded in considerably thinning their numbers; then, assisted by the heroes, who at length came to his aid, he effectually destroyed the remainder. The Argo now steered out of the harbour and set sail; but in consequence of a severe storm which arose at night, was driven back once more to the shores of the kindly Doliones. Unfortunately, however, owing to the darkness of the night, the inhabitants failed to recognize their former guests, and, mistaking them for enemies, commenced to attack them. Those who had so recently parted as friends were now engaged in mortal combat, and in the battle which ensued, Jason himself pierced to the heart his friend king Cyzicus; whereupon the Doliones, being deprived of their leader, fled to their city and closed the gates. When morning dawned, and both sides perceived their error, they were filled with {219} the deepest sorrow and remorse; and for three days the heroes remained with the Doliones, celebrating the funereal rites of the slain, with every demonstration of mourning and solemnity. HERACLES LEFT BEHIND.--The Argonauts once more set sail, and after a stormy voyage arrived at Mysia, where they were hospitably received by the inhabitants, who spread before them plentiful banquets and sumptuously regaled them. While his friends were feasting, Heracles, who had declined to join them, went into the forest to seek a fir-tree which he required for an oar, and was missed by his adopted son Hylas, who set out to seek him. When the youth arrived at a spring, in the most secluded part of the forest, the nymph of the fountain was so struck by his beauty that she drew him down beneath the waters, and he was seen no more. Polyphemus, one of the heroes, who happened to be also in the forest, heard his cry for help, and on meeting Heracles informed him of the circumstance. They at once set out in search of the missing youth, no traces of whom were to be found, and whilst they were engaged looking for him, the Argo set sail and left them behind. The ship had proceeded some distance before the absence of Heracles was observed. Some of the heroes were in favour of returning for him, others wished to proceed on their journey, when, in the midst of the dispute, the sea-god Glaucus arose from the waves, and informed them that it was the will of Zeus that Heracles, having another mission to perform, should remain behind. The Argonauts continued their voyage without their companions; Heracles returned to Argos, whilst Polyphemus remained with the Mysians, where he founded a city and became its king. CONTEST WITH AMYCUS.--Next morning the Argo touched at the country of the Bebrycians, whose king Amycus was a famous pugilist, and permitted no strangers to leave his shores without matching their {220} strength with his. When the heroes, therefore, demanded permission to land, they were informed that they could only do so provided that one of their number should engage in a boxing-match with the king. Pollux, who was the best pugilist in Greece, was selected as their champion, and a contest took place, which, after a tremendous struggle, proved fatal to Amycus, who had hitherto been victorious in all similar encounters. PHINEUS AND THE HARPIES.--They now proceeded towards Bithynia, where reigned the blind old prophet-king Phineus, son of Agenor. Phineus had been punished by the gods with premature old age and blindness for having abused the gift of prophecy. He was also tormented by the Harpies, who swooped down upon his food, which they either devoured or so defiled as to render it unfit to be eaten. This poor old man, trembling with the weakness of age, and faint with hunger, appeared before the Argonauts, and implored their assistance against his fiendish tormentors, whereupon Zetes and Calais, the winged sons of Boreas, recognizing in him the husband of their sister Cleopatra, affectionately embraced him, and promised to rescue him from his painful position. The heroes prepared a banquet on the sea-shore, to which they invited Phineus; but no sooner had he taken his place, than the Harpies appeared and devoured all the viands. Zetes and Calais now rose up into the air, drove the Harpies away, and were pursuing them with drawn swords, when Iris, the swift-footed messenger of the gods, appeared, and desired them to desist from their work of vengeance, promising that Phineus should be no longer molested. Freed at length from his tormentors the old man sat down and enjoyed a plentiful repast with his kind friends the Argonauts, who now informed him of the object of their voyage. In gratitude for his deliverance Phineus gave them much useful information concerning their journey, and not only warned them of the manifold {221} dangers awaiting them, but also instructed them how they might be overcome. PASSAGE OF THE SYMPLEGADES.--After a fortnight's sojourn in Bithynia the Argonauts once more set sail, but had not proceeded far on their course, when they heard a fearful and tremendous crash. This was caused by the meeting of two great rocky islands, called the Symplegades, which floated about in the sea, and constantly met and separated. Before leaving Bithynia, the blind old seer, Phineus, had informed them that they would be compelled to pass between these terrible rocks, and he instructed them how to do so with safety. As they now approached the scene of danger they remembered his advice, and acted upon it. Typhus, the steersman, stood at the helm, whilst Euphemus held in his hand a dove ready to be let loose; for Phineus had told them that if the dove ventured to fly through, they might safely follow. Euphemus now despatched the bird, which passed swiftly through the islands, yet not without losing some of the feathers of her tail, so speedily did they reunite. Seizing the moment when the rocks once more separated, the Argonauts worked at their oars with all their might, and achieved the perilous passage in safety. After the miraculous passage of the Argo, the Symplegades became permanently united, and attached to the bottom of the sea. THE STYMPHALIDES.--The Argo pursued her course along the southern coast of the Pontus, and arrived at the island of Aretias, which was inhabited by birds, who, as they flew through the air, discharged from their wings feathers sharp as arrows. As the ship was gliding along, Oileus was wounded by one of these birds, whereupon the Argonauts held a council, and by the advice of Amphidamas, an experienced hero, all put on their helmets, and held up their glittering shields, uttering, at the same time, such fearful cries that {222} the birds flew away in terror, and the Argonauts were enabled to land with safety on the island. Here they found four shipwrecked youths, who proved to be the sons of Phryxus, and were greeted by Jason as his cousins. On ascertaining the object of the expedition they volunteered to accompany the Argo, and to show the heroes the way to Colchis. They also informed them that the Golden Fleece was guarded by a fearful dragon, that king Aëtes was extremely cruel, and, as the son of Apollo, was possessed of superhuman strength. ARRIVAL AT COLCHIS.--Taking with them the four new-comers they journeyed on, and soon came in sight of the snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus, when, towards evening, the loud flapping of wings was heard overhead. It was the giant eagle of Prometheus on his way to torture the noble and long-suffering Titan, whose fearful groans soon afterwards fell upon their ears. That night they reached their journey's end, and anchored in the smooth waters of the river Phases. On the left bank of this river they beheld Ceuta, the capital of Colchis; and on their right a wide field, and the sacred grove of Ares, where the Golden Fleece, suspended from a magnificent oak-tree, was glittering in the sun. Jason now filled a golden cup with wine, and offered a libation to mother-earth, the gods of the country, and the shades of those of the heroes who had died on the voyage. Next morning a council was held, in which it was decided, that before resorting to forcible measures kind and conciliatory overtures should first be made to king Aëtes in order to induce him to resign the Golden Fleece. It was arranged that Jason, with a few chosen companions, should proceed to the royal castle, leaving the remainder of the crew to guard the Argo. Accompanied, therefore, by Telamon and Augeas, and the four sons of Phryxus, he set out for the palace. When they arrived in sight of the castle they were struck by the vastness and massiveness of the building, at the entrance to which sparkling fountains played in {223} the midst of luxuriant and park-like gardens. Here the king's daughters, Chalciope and Medea, who were walking in the grounds of the palace, met them. The former, to her great joy, recognized in the youths who accompanied the hero her own long-lost sons, whom she had mourned as dead, whilst the young and lovely Medea was struck with the noble and manly form of Jason. The news of the return of the sons of Phryxus soon spread through the palace, and brought Aëtes himself to the scene, whereupon the strangers were presented to him, and were invited to a banquet which the king ordered to be prepared in their honour. All the most beautiful ladies of the court were present at this entertainment; but in the eyes of Jason none could compare with the king's daughter, the young and lovely Medea. When the banquet was ended, Jason related to the king his various adventures, and also the object of his expedition, with the circumstances which had led to his undertaking it. Aëtes listened, in silent indignation, to this recital, and then burst out into a torrent of invectives against the Argonauts and his grand-children, declaring that the Fleece was his rightful property, and that on no consideration would he consent to relinquish it. Jason, however, with mild and persuasive words, contrived so far to conciliate him, that he was induced to promise that if the heroes could succeed in demonstrating their divine origin by the performance of some task requiring superhuman power, the Fleece should be theirs. The task proposed by Aëtes to Jason was that he should yoke the two brazen-footed, fire-breathing oxen of the king (which had been made for him by Hephæstus) to his ponderous iron plough. Having done this he must till with them the stony field of Ares, and then sow in the furrows the poisonous teeth of a dragon, from which armed men would arise. These he must destroy to a man, or he himself would perish at their hands. When Jason heard what was expected of him, his heart for a moment sank within him; but he determined, nevertheless, not to flinch from his task, but to trust to the {224} assistance of the gods, and to his own courage and energy. JASON PLOUGHS THE FIELD OF ARES.--Accompanied by his two friends, Telamon and Augeas, and also by Argus, the son of Chalciope, Jason returned to the vessel for the purpose of holding a consultation as to the best means of accomplishing these perilous feats. Argus explained to Jason all the difficulties of the superhuman task which lay before him, and pronounced it as his opinion that the only means by which success was possible was to enlist the assistance of the Princess Medea, who was a priestess of Hecate, and a great enchantress. His suggestion meeting with approval, he returned to the palace, and by the aid of his mother an interview was arranged between Jason and Medea, which took place, at an early hour next morning, in the temple of Hecate. A confession of mutual attachment took place, and Medea, trembling for her lover's safety, presented him with a magic salve, which possessed the property of rendering any person anointed with it invulnerable for the space of one day against fire and steel, and invincible against any adversary however powerful. With this salve she instructed him to anoint his spear and shield on the day of his great undertaking. She further added that when, after having ploughed the field and sown the teeth, armed men should arise from the furrows, he must on no account lose heart, but remember to throw among them a huge rock, over the possession of which they would fight among themselves, and their attention being thus diverted he would find it an easy task to destroy them. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Jason thanked her, in the most earnest manner, for her wise counsel and timely aid; at the same time he offered her his hand, and promised her he would not return to Greece without taking her with him as his wife. Next morning Aëtes, in all the pomp of state, surrounded by his family and the members of his court, {225} repaired to a spot whence a full view of the approaching spectacle could be obtained. Soon Jason appeared in the field of Ares, looking as noble and majestic as the god of war himself. In a distant part of the field the brazen yokes and the massive plough met his view, but as yet the dread animals themselves were nowhere to be seen. He was about to go in quest of them, when they suddenly rushed out from a subterranean cave, breathing flames of fire, and enveloped in a thick smoke. The friends of Jason trembled; but the undaunted hero, relying on the magic powers with which he was imbued by Medea, seized the oxen, one after the other, by the horns, and forced them to the yoke. Near the plough was a helmet full of dragon's teeth, which he sowed as he ploughed the field, whilst with sharp pricks from his lance he compelled the monstrous creatures to draw the plough over the stony ground, which was thus speedily tilled. While Jason was engaged sowing the dragon's teeth in the deep furrows of the field, he kept a cautious look-out lest the germinating giant brood might grow too quickly for him, and as soon as the four acres of land had been tilled he unyoked the oxen, and succeeded in frightening them so effectually with his weapons, that they rushed back in terror to their subterranean stables. Meanwhile armed men had sprung up out of the furrows, and the whole field now bristled with lances; but Jason, remembering the instructions of Medea, seized an immense rock and hurled it into the midst of these earth-born warriors, who immediately began to attack each other. Jason then rushed furiously upon them, and after a terrible struggle not one of the giants remained alive. Furious at seeing his murderous schemes thus defeated, Aëtes not only perfidiously refused to give Jason the Fleece which he had so bravely earned, but, in his anger, determined to destroy all the Argonauts, and to burn their vessel. JASON SECURES THE GOLDEN FLEECE.--Becoming aware of the treacherous designs of her father, Medea at {226} once took measures to baffle them. In the darkness of night she went on board the Argo, and warned the heroes of their approaching danger. She then advised Jason to accompany her without loss of time to the sacred grove, in order to possess himself of the long-coveted treasure. They set out together, and Medea, followed by Jason, led the way, and advanced boldly into the grove. The tall oak-tree was soon discovered, from the topmost boughs of which hung the beautiful Golden Fleece. At the foot of this tree, keeping his ever-wakeful watch, lay the dreadful, sleepless dragon, who at sight of them bounded forward, opening his huge jaws. Medea now called into play her magic powers, and quietly approaching the monster, threw over him a few drops of a potion, which soon took effect, and sent him into a deep sleep; whereupon Jason, seizing the opportunity, climbed the tree and secured the Fleece. Their perilous task being now accomplished, Jason and Medea quitted the grove, and hastened on board the Argo, which immediately put to sea. MURDER OF ABSYRTUS.--Meanwhile Aëtes, having discovered the loss of his daughter and the Golden Fleece, despatched a large fleet, under the command of his son Absyrtus, in pursuit of the fugitives. After some days' sail they arrived at an island at the mouth of the river Ister, where they found the Argo at anchor, and surrounded her with their numerous ships. They then despatched a herald on board of her, demanding the surrender of Medea and the Fleece. Medea now consulted Jason, and, with his consent, carried out the following stratagem. She sent a message to her brother Absyrtus, to the effect that she had been carried off against her will, and promised that if he would meet her, in the darkness of night, in the temple of Artemis, she would assist him in regaining possession of the Golden Fleece. Relying on the good faith of his sister, Absyrtus fell into the snare, and duly appeared at the appointed trysting-place; and whilst Medea kept her {227} brother engaged in conversation, Jason rushed forward and slew him. Then, according to a preconcerted signal, he held aloft a lighted torch, whereupon the Argonauts attacked the Colchians, put them to flight, and entirely defeated them. The Argonauts now returned to their ship, when the prophetic board from the Dodonean oak thus addressed them: "The cruel murder of Absyrtus was witnessed by the Erinyes, and you will not escape the wrath of Zeus until the goddess Circe has purified you from your crime. Let Castor and Pollux pray to the gods that you may be enabled to find the abode of the sorceress." In obedience to the voice, the twin-brothers invoked divine assistance, and the heroes set out in search of the isle of Circe. THEY ARRIVE AT THE ISLAND OF CIRCE.--The good ship Argo sped on her way, and, after passing safely through the foaming waters of the river Eridanus, at length arrived in the harbour of the island of Circe, where she cast anchor. Commanding his companions to remain on board, Jason landed with Medea, and conducted her to the palace of the sorceress. The goddess of charms and magic arts received them kindly, and invited them to be seated; but instead of doing so they assumed a supplicating attitude, and humbly besought her protection. They then informed her of the dreadful crime which they had committed, and implored her to purify them from it. This Circe promised to do. She forthwith commanded her attendant Naiads to kindle the fire on the altar, and to prepare everything necessary for the performance of the mystic rites, after which a dog was sacrificed, and the sacred cakes were burned. Having thus duly purified the criminals, she severely reprimanded them for the horrible murder of which they had been guilty; whereupon Medea, with veiled head, and weeping bitterly, was reconducted by Jason to the Argo. FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE ARGONAUTS.--Having left the island of Circe they were wafted by gentle {228} zephyrs towards the abode of the Sirens, whose enticing strains soon fell upon their ears. The Argonauts, powerfully affected by the melody, were making ready to land, when Orpheus perceived the danger, and, to the accompaniment of his magic lyre, commenced one of his enchanting songs, which so completely absorbed his listeners that they passed the island in safety; but not before Butes, one of their number, lured by the seductive music of the Sirens, had sprung from the vessel into the waves below. Aphrodite, however, in pity for his youth, landed him gently on the island of Libibaon before the Sirens could reach him, and there he remained for many years. And now the Argonauts approached new dangers, for on one side of them seethed and foamed the whirlpool of Charybdis, whilst on the other towered the mighty rock whence the monster Scylla swooped down upon unfortunate mariners; but here the goddess Hera came to their assistance, and sent to them the sea-nymph Thetis, who guided them safely through these dangerous straits. The Argo next arrived at the island of the Phæaces, where they were hospitably entertained by King Alcinous and his queen Arete. But the banquet prepared for them by their kind host was unexpectedly interrupted by the appearance of a large army of Colchians, sent by Aëtes to demand the restoration of his daughter. Medea threw herself at the feet of the queen, and implored her to save her from the anger of her father, and Arete, in her kindness of heart, promised her her protection. Next morning, in an assembly of the people at which the Colchians were invited to be present, the latter were informed that as Medea was the lawful wife of Jason they could not consent to deliver her up; whereupon the Colchians, seeing that the resolution of the king was not to be shaken, and fearing to face the anger of Aëtes should they return to Colchis without her, sought permission of Alcinous to settle in his kingdom, which request was accorded them. {229} After these events the Argonauts once more set sail, and steered for Iolcus; but, in the course of a terrible and fearful night, a mighty storm arose, and in the morning they found themselves stranded on the treacherous quicksands of Syrtes, on the shores of Libya. Here all was a waste and barren desert, untenanted by any living creature, save the venomous snakes which had sprung from the blood of the Medusa when borne by Perseus over these arid plains. They had already passed several days in this abode of desolation, beneath the rays of the scorching sun, and had abandoned themselves to the deepest despair, when the Libyan queen, who was a prophetess of divine origin, appeared to Jason, and informed him that a sea-horse would be sent by the gods to act as his guide. Scarcely had she departed when a gigantic hippocamp was seen in the distance, making its way towards the Argo. Jason now related to his companions the particulars of his interview with the Libyan prophetess, and after some deliberation it was decided to carry the Argo on their shoulders, and to follow wherever the sea-horse should lead them. They then commenced a long and weary journey through the desert, and at last, after twelve days of severe toil and terrible suffering, the welcome sight of the sea greeted their view. In gratitude for having been saved from their manifold dangers they offered up sacrifices to the gods, and launched their ship once more into the deep waters of the ocean. ARRIVAL AT CRETE.--With heartfelt joy and gladness they proceeded on their homeward voyage, and after some days arrived at the island of Crete, where they purposed to furnish themselves with fresh provisions and water. Their landing, however, was opposed by a terrible giant who guarded the island against all intruders. This giant, whose name was Talus, was the last of the Brazen race, and being formed of brass, was invulnerable, except in his right ankle, where there was a sinew of flesh and a vein of blood. As he saw the Argo {230} nearing the coast, he hurled huge rocks at her, which would inevitably have sunk the vessel had not the crew beat a hasty retreat. Although sadly in want of food and water, the Argonauts had decided to proceed on their journey rather than face so powerful an opponent, when Medea came forward and assured them that if they would trust to her she would destroy the giant. Enveloped in the folds of a rich purple mantle, she stepped on deck, and after invoking the aid of the Fates, uttered a magic incantation, which had the effect of throwing Talus into a deep sleep. He stretched himself at full length upon the ground, and in doing so grazed his vulnerable ankle against the point of a sharp rock, whereupon a mighty stream of blood gushed forth from the wound. Awakened by the pain, he tried to rise, but in vain, and with a mighty groan of anguish the giant fell dead, and his enormous body rolled heavily over into the deep. The heroes being now able to land, provisioned their vessel, after which they resumed their homeward voyage. ARRIVAL AT IOLCUS.--After a terrible night of storm and darkness they passed the island of Ægina, and at length reached in safety the port of Iolcus, where the recital of their numerous adventures and hair-breadth escapes was listened to with wondering admiration by their fellow-countrymen. The Argo was consecrated to Poseidon, and was carefully preserved for many generations till no vestige of it remained, when it was placed in the heavens as a brilliant constellation. On his arrival at Iolcus, Jason conducted his beautiful bride to the palace of his uncle Pelias, taking with him the Golden Fleece, for the sake of which this perilous expedition had been undertaken. But the old king, who had never expected that Jason would return alive, basely refused to fulfil his part of the compact, and declined to abdicate the throne. {231} Indignant at the wrongs of her husband, Medea avenged them in a most shocking manner. She made friends with the daughters of the king, and feigned great interest in all their concerns. Having gained their confidence, she informed them, that among her numerous magic arts, she possessed the power of restoring to the aged all the vigour and strength of youth, and in order to give them a convincing proof of the truth of her assertion, she cut up an old ram, which she boiled in a cauldron, whereupon, after uttering various mystic incantations, there came forth from the vessel a beautiful young lamb. She then assured them, that in a similar manner they could restore to their old father his former youthful frame and vigour. The fond and credulous daughters of Pelias lent an all too willing ear to the wicked sorceress, and thus the old king perished at the hands of his innocent children. DEATH OF JASON.--Medea and Jason now fled to Corinth, where at length they found, for a time, peace and tranquillity, their happiness being completed by the birth of three children. As time passed on, however, and Medea began to lose the beauty which had won the love of her husband, he grew weary of her, and became attracted by the youthful charms of Glauce, the beautiful daughter of Creon, king of Corinth. Jason had obtained her father's consent to their union, and the wedding-day was already fixed, before he disclosed to Medea the treachery which he meditated against her. He used all his persuasive powers in order to induce her to consent to his union with Glauce, assuring her that his affection had in no way diminished, but that for the sake of the advantages which would thereby accrue to their children, he had decided on forming this alliance with the royal house. Though justly enraged at his deceitful conduct, Medea dissembled her wrath, and, feigning to be satisfied with this explanation, sent, as a wedding-gift to her rival, a magnificent robe of cloth-of-gold. This robe was imbued with a deadly {232} poison which penetrated to the flesh and bone of the wearer, and burned them as though with a consuming fire. Pleased with the beauty and costliness of the garment, the unsuspecting Glauce lost no time in donning it; but no sooner had she done so than the fell poison began to take effect. In vain she tried to tear the robe away; it defied all efforts to be removed, and after horrible and protracted sufferings, she expired. Maddened at the loss of her husband's love Medea next put to death her three sons, and when Jason, thirsting for revenge, left the chamber of his dead bride, and flew to his own house in search of Medea, the ghastly spectacle of his murdered children met his view. He rushed frantically to seek the murderess, but nowhere could she be found. At length, hearing a sound above his head, he looked up, and beheld Medea gliding through the air in a golden chariot drawn by dragons. In a fit of despair Jason threw himself on his own sword, and perished on the threshold of his desolate and deserted home. PELOPS. Pelops, the son of the cruel Tantalus, was a pious and virtuous prince. After his father was banished into Tartarus, a war ensued between Pelops and the king of Troy, in which the former was vanquished and forced to fly from his dominions in Phrygia. He emigrated into Greece, where, at the court of Oenomaus, king of Elis, he beheld Hippodamia, the king's daughter, whose beauty won his heart. But an oracle having foretold to Oenomaus that he would die on the day of his daughter's marriage, he threw every obstacle in the way of her suitors, and declared that he would only give her to him who succeeded in vanquishing him in a chariot race, but that all unsuccessful competitors should suffer death at his hands. The conditions of the contest were as follows:--The race was to be run from a given point at Pisa to the altar of Poseidon at Corinth; the suitor was allowed to start {233} on his course whilst Oenomaus performed his sacrifice to Zeus, and only on its completion did the king mount his chariot, guided by the skilful Myrtilus, and drawn by his two famous horses, Phylla and Harpinna, who surpassed in swiftness the winds themselves. In this manner many a gallant young prince had perished; for although a considerable start was given to all competitors, still Oenomaus, with his swift team, always overtook them before they reached the goal, and killed them with his spear. But the love of Pelops for Hippodamia overcame all fears, and, undeterred by the terrible fate of his predecessors, he announced himself to Oenomaus as a suitor for the hand of his daughter. On the eve of the race, Pelops repaired to the sea-shore and earnestly implored Poseidon to assist him in his perilous undertaking. The sea-god heard his prayer, and sent him out of the deep a chariot drawn by two winged horses. When Pelops appeared on the course, the king at once recognized the horses of Poseidon; but, nothing daunted, he relied on his own supernatural team, and the contest was allowed to proceed. Whilst the king was offering his sacrifice to Zeus Pelops set out on the race, and had nearly reached the goal, when, turning round, he beheld Oenomaus, spear in hand, who, with his magic steeds, had nearly overtaken him. But in this emergency Poseidon came to the aid of the son of Tantalus. He caused the wheels of the royal chariot to fly off, whereupon the king was thrown out violently, and killed on the spot, just as Pelops arrived at the altar of Poseidon. As the hero was about to return to Pisa to claim his bride, he beheld, in the distance, flames issuing from the royal castle, which at that instant had been struck by lightning. With his winged horses he flew to rescue his lovely bride, and succeeded in extricating her uninjured from the burning building. They soon afterwards became united, and Pelops reigned in Pisa for many years in great splendour. {234} HERACLES (HERCULES). Heracles, the most renowned hero of antiquity, was the son of Zeus and Alcmene, and the great grandson of Perseus. At the time of his birth Alcmene was living at Thebes with her husband Amphitryon, and thus the infant Heracles was born in the palace of his stepfather. Aware of the animosity with which Hera persecuted all those who rivalled her in the affections of Zeus, Alcmene, fearful lest this hatred should be visited on her innocent child, intrusted him, soon after his birth, to the care of a faithful servant, with instructions to expose him in a certain field, and there leave him, feeling assured that the divine offspring of Zeus would not long remain without the protection of the gods. Soon after the child had been thus abandoned, Hera and Pallas-Athene happened to pass by the field, and were attracted by its cries. Athene pityingly took up the infant in her arms, and prevailed upon the queen of heaven to put it to her breast; but no sooner had she done so, than the child, causing her pain, she angrily threw him to the ground, and left the spot. Athene, moved with compassion, carried him to Alcmene, and entreated her kind offices on behalf of the poor little foundling. Alcmene at once recognized her child, and joyfully accepted the charge. Soon afterwards Hera, to her extreme annoyance, discovered whom she had nursed, and became filled with jealous rage. She now sent two venomous snakes into the chamber of Alcmene, which crept, unperceived by the nurses, to the cradle of the sleeping child. He awoke with a cry, and grasping a snake in each hand, strangled them both. Alcmene and her attendants, whom the cry of the child had awakened, rushed to the cradle, where, to their astonishment and terror, they beheld the two reptiles dead in the hands of the infant Heracles. Amphitryon was also attracted to the chamber by the {235} commotion, and when he beheld this astounding proof of supernatural strength, he declared that the child must have been sent to him as a special gift from Zeus. He accordingly consulted the famous seer Tiresias, who now informed him of the divine origin of his stepson, and prognosticated for him a great and distinguished future. When Amphitryon heard the noble destiny which awaited the child intrusted to his care, he resolved to educate him in a manner worthy of his future career. At a suitable age he himself taught him how to guide a chariot; Eurytus, how to handle the bow; Autolycus, dexterity in wrestling and boxing; and Castor, the art of armed warfare; whilst Linus, the son of Apollo, instructed him in music and letters. Heracles was an apt pupil; but undue harshness was intolerable to his high spirit, and old Linus, who was not the gentlest of teachers, one day corrected him with blows, whereupon the boy angrily took up his lyre, and, with one stroke of his powerful arm, killed his tutor on the spot. Apprehensive lest the ungovernable temper of the youth might again involve him in similar acts of violence, Amphitryon sent him into the country, where he placed him under the charge of one of his most trusted herdsmen. Here, as he grew up to manhood, his extraordinary stature and strength became the wonder and admiration of all beholders. His aim, whether with spear, lance, or bow, was unerring, and at the age of eighteen he was considered to be the strongest as well as the most beautiful youth in all Greece. THE CHOICE OF HERACLES.--Heracles felt that the time had now arrived when it became necessary to decide for himself how to make use of the extraordinary powers with which he had been endowed by the gods; and in order to meditate in solitude on this all-important subject, he repaired to a lonely and secluded spot in the heart of the forest. Here two females of great beauty appeared to him. {236} One was Vice, the other Virtue. The former was full of artificial wiles and fascinating arts, her face painted and her dress gaudy and attractive; whilst the latter was of noble bearing and modest mien, her robes of spotless purity. Vice stepped forward and thus addressed him: "If you will walk in my paths, and make me your friend, your life shall be one round of pleasure and enjoyment. You shall taste of every delight which can be procured on earth; the choicest viands, the most delicious wines, the most luxuriant of couches shall be ever at your disposal; and all this without any exertion on your part, either physical or mental." Virtue now spoke in her turn: "If you will follow me and be my friend, I promise you the reward of a good conscience, and the love and respect of your fellowmen. I cannot undertake to smooth your path with roses, or to give you a life of idleness and pleasure; for you must know that the gods grant no good and desirable thing that is not earned by labour; and as you sow, so must you reap." Heracles listened patiently and attentively to both speakers, and then, after mature deliberation, decided to follow in the paths of virtue, and henceforth to honour the gods, and to devote his life to the service of his country. Full of these noble resolves he sought once more his rural home, where he was informed that on Mount Cithæron, at the foot of which the herds of Amphitryon were grazing, a ferocious lion had fixed his lair, and was committing such frightful ravages among the flocks and herds that he had become the scourge and terror of the whole neighbourhood. Heracles at once armed himself and ascended the mountain, where he soon caught sight of the lion, and rushing at him with his sword succeeded in killing him. The hide of the animal he wore ever afterwards over his shoulders, and the head served him as a helmet. As he was returning from this, his first exploit, he met {237} the heralds of Erginus, king of the Minyans, who were proceeding to Thebes to demand their annual tribute of 100 oxen. Indignant at this humiliation of his native city, Heracles mutilated the heralds, and sent them back, with ropes round their necks, to their royal master. Erginus was so incensed at the ill-treatment of his messengers that he collected an army and appeared before the gates of Thebes, demanding the surrender of Heracles. Creon, who was at this time king of Thebes, fearing the consequences of a refusal, was about to yield, when the hero, with the assistance of Amphitryon and a band of brave youths, advanced against the Minyans. Heracles took possession of a narrow defile through which the enemy were compelled to pass, and as they entered the pass the Thebans fell upon them, killed their king Erginus, and completely routed them. In this engagement Amphitryon, the kind friend and foster-father of Heracles, lost his life. The hero now advanced upon Orchomenus, the capital of the Minyans, where he burned the royal castle and sacked the town. After this signal victory all Greece rang with the fame of the young hero, and Creon, in gratitude for his great services, bestowed upon him his daughter Megara in marriage. The Olympian gods testified their appreciation of his valour by sending him presents; Hermes gave him a sword, Phoebus-Apollo a bundle of arrows, Hephæstus a golden quiver, and Athene a coat of leather. HERACLES AND EURYSTHEUS.--And now it will be necessary to retrace our steps. Just before the birth of Heracles, Zeus, in an assembly of the gods, exultingly declared that the child who should be born on that day to the house of Perseus should rule over all his race. When Hera heard her lord's boastful announcement she knew well that it was for the child of the hated Alcmene that this brilliant destiny was designed; and in order to rob the son of her rival of his rights, she called to her aid the goddess Eilithyia, who retarded the birth of {238} Heracles, and caused his cousin Eurystheus (another grandson of Perseus) to precede him into the world. And thus, as the word of the mighty Zeus was irrevocable, Heracles became the subject and servant of his cousin Eurystheus. When, after his splendid victory over Erginus, the fame of Heracles spread throughout Greece, Eurystheus (who had become king of Mycenæ), jealous of the reputation of the young hero, asserted his rights, and commanded him to undertake for him various difficult tasks. But the proud spirit of the hero rebelled against this humiliation, and he was about to refuse compliance, when Zeus appeared to him and desired him not to rebel against the Fates. Heracles now repaired to Delphi in order to consult the oracle, and received the answer that after performing ten tasks for his cousin Eurystheus his servitude would be at an end. Soon afterwards Heracles fell into a state of the deepest melancholy, and through the influence of his inveterate enemy, the goddess Hera, this despondency developed into raving madness, in which condition he killed his own children. When he at length regained his reason he was so horrified and grieved at what he had done, that he shut himself up in his chamber and avoided all intercourse with men. But in his loneliness and seclusion the conviction that work would be the best means of procuring oblivion of the past decided him to enter, without delay, upon the tasks appointed him by Eurystheus. 1. THE NEMEAN LION.--His first task was to bring to Eurystheus the skin of the much-dreaded Nemean lion, which ravaged the territory between Cleone and Nemea, and whose hide was invulnerable against any mortal weapon. Heracles proceeded to the forest of Nemea, where, having discovered the lion's lair, he attempted to pierce him with his arrows; but finding these of no avail he felled him to the ground with his club, and before the animal had time to recover from the terrible blow, {239} Heracles seized him by the neck and, with a mighty effort, succeeded in strangling him. He then made himself a coat of mail of the skin, and a new helmet of the head of the animal. Thus attired, he so alarmed Eurystheus by appearing suddenly before him, that the king concealed himself in his palace, and henceforth forbade Heracles to enter his presence, but commanded him to receive his behests, for the future, through his messenger Copreus. 2. THE HYDRA.--His second task was to slay the Hydra, a monster serpent (the offspring of Typhon and Echidna), bristling with nine heads, one of which was immortal. This monster infested the neighbourhood of Lerna, where she committed great depredations among the herds. [Illustration] Heracles, accompanied by his nephew Iolaus, set out in a chariot for the marsh of Lerna, in the slimy waters of which he found her. He commenced the attack by assailing her with his fierce arrows, in order to force her to leave her lair, from which she at length emerged, and sought refuge in a wood on a neighbouring hill. Heracles now rushed forward and endeavoured to crush her heads by means of well-directed blows from his tremendous club; but no sooner was one head destroyed than it was immediately replaced by two others. He next seized the monster in his powerful grasp; but at this juncture a giant crab came to the assistance of the Hydra and commenced biting the feet of her assailant. Heracles destroyed this new adversary with his club, and now called upon his nephew to come to his aid. At his command Iolaus set fire to the neighbouring trees, {240} and, with a burning branch, seared the necks of the monster as Heracles cut them off, thus effectually preventing the growth of more. Heracles next struck off the immortal head, which he buried by the road-side, and placed over it a heavy stone. Into the poisonous blood of the monster he then dipped his arrows, which ever afterwards rendered wounds inflicted by them incurable. 3. THE HORNED HIND.--The third labour of Heracles was to bring the horned hind Cerunitis alive to Mycenæ. This animal, which was sacred to Artemis, had golden antlers and hoofs of brass. Not wishing to wound the hind Heracles patiently pursued her through many countries for a whole year, and overtook her at last on the banks of the river Ladon; but even there he was compelled, in order to secure her, to wound her with one of his arrows, after which he lifted her on his shoulders and carried her through Arcadia. On his way he met Artemis with her brother Phoebus-Apollo, when the goddess angrily reproved him for wounding her favourite hind; but Heracles succeeded in appeasing her displeasure, whereupon she permitted him to take the animal alive to Mycenæ. [Illustration] 4. THE ERYMANTIAN BOAR.--The fourth task imposed upon Heracles by Eurystheus was to bring alive to Mycenæ the Erymantian boar, which had laid waste the region of Erymantia, and was the scourge of the surrounding neighbourhood. On his way thither he craved food and shelter of a Centaur named Pholus, who received him with generous hospitality, setting before him a good and plentiful repast. When Heracles expressed his surprise that at such a well-furnished board {241} wine should be wanting, his host explained that the wine-cellar was the common property of all the Centaurs, and that it was against the rules for a cask to be broached, except all were present to partake of it. By dint of persuasion, however, Heracles prevailed on his kind host to make an exception in his favour; but the powerful, luscious odour of the good old wine soon spread over the mountains, and brought large numbers of Centaurs to the spot, all armed with huge rocks and fir-trees. Heracles drove them back with fire-brands, and then, following up his victory, pursued them with his arrows as far as Malea, where they took refuge in the cave of the kind old Centaur Chiron. Unfortunately, however, as Heracles was shooting at them with his poisoned darts, one of these pierced the knee of Chiron. When Heracles discovered that it was the friend of his early days that he had wounded, he was overcome with sorrow and regret. He at once extracted the arrow, and anointed the wound with a salve, the virtue of which had been taught him by Chiron himself. But all his efforts were unavailing. The wound, imbued with the deadly poison of the Hydra, was incurable, and so great was the agony of Chiron that, at the intercession of Heracles, death was sent him by the gods; for otherwise, being immortal, he would have been doomed to endless suffering. Pholus, who had so kindly entertained Heracles, also perished by means of one of these arrows, which he had extracted from the body of a dead Centaur. While he was quietly examining it, astonished that so small and insignificant an object should be productive of such serious results, the arrow fell upon his foot and fatally wounded him. Full of grief at this untoward event, Heracles buried him with due honours, and then set out to chase the boar. With loud shouts and terrible cries he first drove him out of the thickets into the deep snow-drifts which covered the summit of the mountain, and then, having at length wearied him with his incessant pursuit, he captured the exhausted animal, bound him with a rope, and brought him alive to Mycenæ. {242} 5. CLEANSING THE STABLES OF AUGEAS.--After slaying the Erymantian boar Eurystheus commanded Heracles to cleanse in one day the stables of Augeas. Augeas was a king of Elis who was very rich in herds. Three thousand of his cattle he kept near the royal palace in an inclosure where the refuse had accumulated for many years. When Heracles presented himself before the king, and offered to cleanse his stables in one day, provided he should receive in return a tenth part of the herds, Augeas, thinking the feat impossible, accepted his offer in the presence of his son Phyleus. Near the palace were the two rivers Peneus and Alpheus, the streams of which Heracles conducted into the stables by means of a trench which he dug for this purpose, and as the waters rushed through the shed, they swept away with them the whole mass of accumulated filth. But when Augeas heard that this was one of the labours imposed by Eurystheus, he refused the promised guerdon. Heracles brought the matter before a court, and called Phyleus as a witness to the justice of his claim, whereupon Augeas, without waiting for the delivery of the verdict, angrily banished Heracles and his son from his dominions. 6. THE STYMPHALIDES.--The sixth task was to chase away the Stymphalides, which were immense birds of prey who, as we have seen (in the legend of the Argonauts), shot from their wings feathers sharp as arrows. The home of these birds was on the shore of the lake Stymphalis, in Arcadia (after which they were called), where they caused great destruction among men and cattle. On approaching the lake, Heracles observed great numbers of them; and, while hesitating how to commence the attack, he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking round he beheld the majestic form of Pallas-Athene, who held in her hand a gigantic pair of brazen clappers made by Hephæstus, with which she {243} presented him; whereupon he ascended to the summit of a neighbouring hill, and commenced to rattle them violently. The shrill noise of these instruments was so intolerable to the birds that they rose into the air in terror, upon which he aimed at them with his arrows, destroying them in great numbers, whilst such as escaped his darts flew away, never to return. 7. THE CRETAN BULL.--The seventh labour of Heracles was to capture the Cretan bull. Minos, king of Crete, having vowed to sacrifice to Poseidon any animal which should first appear out of the sea, the god caused a magnificent bull to emerge from the waves in order to test the sincerity of the Cretan king, who, in making this vow, had alleged that he possessed no animal, among his own herds, worthy the acceptance of the mighty sea-god. Charmed with the splendid animal sent by Poseidon, and eager to possess it, Minos placed it among his herds, and substituted as a sacrifice one of his own bulls. Hereupon Poseidon, in order to punish the cupidity of Minos, caused the animal to become mad, and commit such great havoc in the island as to endanger the safety of the inhabitants. When Heracles, therefore, arrived in Crete for the purpose of capturing the bull, Minos, far from opposing his design, gladly gave him permission to do so. The hero not only succeeded in securing the animal, but tamed him so effectually that he rode on his back right across the sea as far as the Peloponnesus. He now delivered him up to Eurystheus, who at once set him at liberty, after which he became as ferocious and wild as before, roamed all over Greece into Arcadia, and was eventually killed by Theseus on the plains of Marathon. 8. THE MARES OF DIOMEDES.--The eighth labour of Heracles was to bring to Eurystheus the mares of Diomedes, a son of Ares, and king of the Bistonians, a warlike Thracian tribe. This king possessed a breed of wild horses of tremendous size and strength, whose food consisted of human flesh, and all strangers who had the {244} misfortune to enter the country were made prisoners and flung before the horses, who devoured them. When Heracles arrived he first captured the cruel Diomedes himself, and then threw him before his own mares, who, after devouring their master, became perfectly tame and tractable. They were then led by Heracles to the sea-shore, when the Bistonians, enraged at the loss of their king, rushed after the hero and attacked him. He now gave the animals in charge of his friend Abderus, and made such a furious onslaught on his assailants that they turned and fled. But on his return from this encounter he found, to his great grief, that the mares had torn his friend in pieces and devoured him. After celebrating due funereal rites to the unfortunate Abderus, Heracles built a city in his honour, which he named after him. He then returned to Tiryns, where he delivered up the mares to Eurystheus, who set them loose on Mount Olympus, where they became the prey of wild beasts. It was after the performance of this task that Heracles joined the Argonauts in their expedition to gain possession of the Golden Fleece, and was left behind at Chios, as already narrated. During his wanderings he undertook his ninth labour, which was to bring to Eurystheus the girdle of Hippolyte, queen of the Amazons. 9. THE GIRDLE OF HIPPOLYTE.--The Amazons, who dwelt on the shores of the Black Sea, near the river Thermodon, were a nation of warlike women, renowned for their strength, courage, and great skill in horsemanship. Their queen, Hippolyte, had received from her father, Ares, a beautiful girdle, which she always wore as a sign of her royal power and authority, and it was this girdle which Heracles was required to place in the hands of Eurystheus, who designed it as a gift for his daughter Admete. Foreseeing that this would be a task of no ordinary difficulty the hero called to his aid a select band of brave companions, with whom he embarked for the Amazonian {245} town Themiscyra. Here they were met by queen Hippolyte, who was so impressed by the extraordinary stature and noble bearing of Heracles that, on learning his errand, she at once consented to present him with the coveted girdle. But Hera, his implacable enemy, assuming the form of an Amazon, spread the report in the town that a stranger was about to carry off their queen. The Amazons at once flew to arms and mounted their horses, whereupon a battle ensued, in which many of their bravest warriors were killed or wounded. Among the latter was their most skilful leader, Melanippe, whom Heracles afterwards restored to Hippolyte, receiving the girdle in exchange. On his voyage home the hero stopped at Troy, where a new adventure awaited him. During the time that Apollo and Poseidon were condemned by Zeus to a temporary servitude on earth, they built for king Laomedon the famous walls of Troy, afterwards so renowned in history; but when their work was completed the king treacherously refused to give them the reward due to them. The incensed deities now combined to punish the offender. Apollo sent a pestilence which decimated the people, and Poseidon a flood, which bore with it a marine monster, who swallowed in his huge jaws all that came within his reach. In his distress Laomedon consulted an oracle, and was informed that only by the sacrifice of his own daughter Hesione could the anger of the gods be appeased. Yielding at length to the urgent appeals of his people he consented to make the sacrifice, and on the arrival of Heracles the maiden was already chained to a rock in readiness to be devoured by the monster. When Laomedon beheld the renowned hero, whose marvellous feats of strength and courage had become the wonder and admiration of all mankind, he earnestly implored him to save his daughter from her impending fate, and to rid the country of the monster, holding out to him as a reward the horses which Zeus had presented to {246} his grandfather Tros in compensation for robbing him of his son Ganymede. Heracles unhesitatingly accepted the offer, and when the monster appeared, opening his terrible jaws to receive his prey, the hero, sword in hand, attacked and slew him. But the perfidious monarch once more broke faith, and Heracles, vowing future vengeance, departed for Mycenæ, where he presented the girdle to Eurystheus. 10. THE OXEN OF GERYONES.--The tenth labour of Heracles was the capture of the magnificent oxen belonging to the giant Geryon or Geryones, who dwelt on the island of Erythia in the bay of Gadria (Cadiz). This giant, who was the son of Chrysaor, had three bodies with three heads, six hands, and six feet. He possessed a herd of splendid cattle, which were famous for their size, beauty, and rich red colour. They were guarded by another giant named Eurytion, and a two-headed dog called Orthrus, the offspring of Typhon and Echidna. In choosing for him a task so replete with danger, Eurystheus was in hopes that he might rid himself for ever of his hated cousin. But the indomitable courage of the hero rose with the prospect of this difficult and dangerous undertaking. After a long and wearisome journey he at last arrived at the western coast of Africa, where, as a monument of his perilous expedition, he erected the famous "Pillars of Hercules," one of which he placed on each side of the Straits of Gibraltar. Here he found the intense heat so insufferable that he angrily raised his bow towards heaven, and threatened to shoot the sun-god. But Helios, far from being incensed at his audacity, was so struck with admiration at his daring that he lent to him the golden boat with which he accomplished his nocturnal transit from West to East, and thus Heracles crossed over safely to the island of Erythia. No sooner had he landed than Eurytion, accompanied by his savage dog Orthrus, fiercely attacked him; but Heracles, with a superhuman effort, slew the dog and {247} then his master. Hereupon he collected the herd, and was proceeding to the sea-shore when Geryones himself met him, and a desperate encounter took place, in which the giant perished. Heracles then drove the cattle into the sea, and seizing one of the oxen by the horns, swam with them over to the opposite coast of Iberia (Spain). Then driving his magnificent prize before him through Gaul, Italy, Illyria, and Thrace, he at length arrived, after many perilous adventures and hair-breadth escapes, at Mycenæ, where he delivered them up to Eurystheus, who sacrificed them to Hera. Heracles had now executed his ten tasks, which had been accomplished in the space of eight years; but Eurystheus refused to include the slaying of the Hydra and the cleansing of the stables of Augeas among the number, alleging as a reason that the one had been performed by the assistance of Iolaus, and that the other had been executed for hire. He therefore insisted on Heracles substituting two more labours in their place. 11. THE APPLES OF THE HESPERIDES.--The eleventh task imposed by Eurystheus was to bring him the golden apples of the Hesperides, which grew on a tree presented by Gæa to Hera, on the occasion of her marriage with Zeus. This sacred tree was guarded by four maidens, daughters of Night, called the Hesperides, who were assisted in their task by a terrible hundred-headed dragon. This dragon never slept, and out of its hundred throats came a constant hissing sound, which effectually warned off all intruders. But what rendered the undertaking still more difficult was the complete ignorance of the hero as to the locality of the garden, and he was forced, in consequence, to make many fruitless journeys and to undergo many trials before he could find it. He first travelled through Thessaly and arrived at the river Echedorus, where he met the giant Cycnus, the son of Ares and Pyrene, who challenged him to single combat. In this encounter Heracles completely vanquished {248} his opponent, who was killed in the contest; but now a mightier adversary appeared on the scene, for the war-god himself came to avenge his son. A terrible struggle ensued, which had lasted some time, when Zeus interfered between the brothers, and put an end to the strife by hurling a thunderbolt between them. Heracles proceeded on his journey, and reached the banks of the river Eridanus, where dwelt the Nymphs, daughters of Zeus and Themis. On seeking advice from them as to his route, they directed him to the old sea-god Nereus, who alone knew the way to the Garden of the Hesperides. Heracles found him asleep, and seizing the opportunity, held him so firmly in his powerful grasp that he could not possibly escape, so that notwithstanding his various metamorphoses he was at last compelled to give the information required. The hero then crossed over to Libya, where he engaged in a wrestling-match with king Anteos, son of Poseidon and Gæa, which terminated fatally for his antagonist. From thence he proceeded to Egypt, where reigned Busiris, another son of Poseidon, who (acting on the advice given by an oracle during a time of great scarcity) sacrificed all strangers to Zeus. When Heracles arrived he was seized and dragged to the altar; but the powerful demi-god burst asunder his bonds, and then slew Busiris and his son. Resuming his journey he now wandered on through Arabia until he arrived at Mount Caucasus, where Prometheus groaned in unceasing agony. It was at this time that Heracles (as already related) shot the eagle which had so long tortured the noble and devoted friend of mankind. Full of gratitude for his deliverance, Prometheus instructed him how to find his way to that remote region in the far West where Atlas supported the heavens on his shoulders, near which lay the Garden of the Hesperides. He also warned Heracles not to attempt to secure the precious fruit himself, but to assume for a time the duties of Atlas, and to despatch him for the apples. {249} On arriving at his destination Heracles followed the advice of Prometheus. Atlas, who willingly entered into the arrangement, contrived to put the dragon to sleep, and then, having cunningly outwitted the Hesperides, carried off three of the golden apples, which he now brought to Heracles. But when the latter was prepared to relinquish his burden, Atlas, having once tasted the delights of freedom, declined to resume his post, and announced his intention of being himself the bearer of the apples to Eurystheus, leaving Heracles to fill his place. To this proposal the hero feigned assent, merely begging that Atlas would be kind enough to support the heavens for a few moments whilst he contrived a pad for his head. Atlas good-naturedly threw down the apples and once more resumed his load, upon which Heracles bade him adieu, and departed. When Heracles conveyed the golden apples to Eurystheus the latter presented them to the hero, whereupon Heracles placed the sacred fruit on the altar of Pallas-Athene, who restored them to the garden of the Hesperides. 12. CERBERUS.--The twelfth and last labour which Eurystheus imposed on Heracles was to bring up Cerberus from the lower world, believing that all his heroic powers would be unavailing in the Realm of Shades, and that in this, his last and most perilous undertaking, the hero must at length succumb and perish. [Illustration] Cerberus was a monster dog with three heads, out of whose awful jaws dripped poison; the hair of his head and back was formed of venomous snakes, and his body terminated in the tail of a dragon. After being initiated into the Eleusinian Mysteries, and {250} obtaining from the priests certain information necessary for the accomplishment of his task, Heracles set out for Tænarum in Lacolia, where there was an opening which led to the under-world. Conducted by Hermes, he commenced his descent into the awful gulf, where myriads of shades soon began to appear, all of whom fled in terror at his approach, Meleager and Medusa alone excepted. About to strike the latter with his sword, Hermes interfered and stayed his hand, reminding him that she was but a shadow, and that consequently no weapon could avail against her. Arrived before the gates of Hades he found Theseus and Pirithöus, who had been fixed to an enchanted rock by Aïdes for their presumption in endeavouring to carry off Persephone. When they saw Heracles they implored him to set them free. The hero succeeded in delivering Theseus, but when he endeavoured to liberate Pirithöus, the earth shook so violently beneath him that he was compelled to relinquish his task. Proceeding further Heracles recognized Ascalaphus, who, as we have seen in the history of Demeter, had revealed the fact that Persephone had swallowed the seeds of a pomegranate offered to her by her husband, which bound her to Aïdes for ever. Ascalaphus was groaning beneath a huge rock which Demeter in her anger had hurled upon him, and which Heracles now removed, releasing the sufferer. Before the gates of his palace stood Aïdes the mighty ruler of the lower world, and barred his entrance; but Heracles, aiming at him with one of his unerring darts, shot him in the shoulder, so that for the first time the god experienced the agony of mortal suffering. Heracles then demanded of him permission to take Cerberus to the upper-world, and to this Aïdes consented on condition that he should secure him unarmed. Protected by his breastplate and lion's skin Heracles went in search of the monster, whom he found at the mouth of the river Acheron. Undismayed by the hideous barking which proceeded from his three heads, he seized the {251} throat with one hand and the legs with the other, and although the dragon which served him as a tail bit him severely, he did not relinquish his grasp. In this manner he conducted him to the upper-world, through an opening near Troezen in Argolia. When Eurystheus beheld Cerberus he stood aghast, and despairing of ever getting rid of his hated rival, he returned the hell-hound to the hero, who restored him to Aïdes, and with this last task the subjection of Heracles to Eurystheus terminated. MURDER OF IPHITUS.--Free at last Heracles now returned to Thebes; and it being impossible for him to live happily with Megara in consequence of his having murdered her children he, with her own consent, gave her in marriage to his nephew Iolaus. Heracles himself sought the hand of Iole, daughter of Eurytus, king of Oechalia, who had instructed him when a boy in the use of the bow. Hearing that this king had promised to give his daughter to him who could surpass himself and his three sons in shooting with the bow, Heracles lost no time in presenting himself as a competitor. He soon proved that he was no unworthy pupil of Eurytus, for he signally defeated all his opponents. But although the king treated him with marked respect and honour he refused, nevertheless, to give him the hand of his daughter, fearing for her a similar fate to that which had befallen Megara. Iphitus, the eldest son of Eurytus, alone espoused the cause of Heracles, and essayed to induce his father to give his consent to the marriage; but all to no purpose, and at length, stung to the quick at his rejection, the hero angrily took his departure. Soon afterwards the oxen of the king were stolen by the notorious thief Autolycus, and Heracles was suspected by Eurytus of having committed the theft. But Iphitus loyally defended his absent friend, and proposed to seek out Heracles, and with his assistance to go in search of the missing cattle. {252} The hero warmly welcomed his staunch young friend, and entered cordially into his plan. They at once set out on their expedition; but their search proved altogether unsuccessful. When they approached the city of Tiryns they mounted a tower in hopes of discovering the missing herd in the surrounding country; but as they stood on the topmost summit of the building, Heracles became suddenly seized with one of his former attacks of madness, and mistaking his friend Iphitus for an enemy, hurled him down into the plain below, and he was killed on the spot. Heracles now set forth on a weary pilgrimage, begging in vain that some one would purify him from the murder of Iphitus. It was during these wanderings that he arrived at the palace of his friend Admetus, whose beautiful and heroic wife (Alcestes) he restored to her husband after a terrible struggle with Death, as already related. Soon after this event Heracles was struck with a fearful disease, and betook himself to the temple of Delphi, hoping to obtain from the oracle the means of relief. The priestess, however, refused him a response on the ground of his having murdered Iphitus, whereupon the angry hero seized upon the tripod, which he carried off, declaring that he would construct an oracle for himself. Apollo, who witnessed the sacrilege, came down to defend his sanctuary, and a violent struggle ensued. Zeus once more interfered, and, flashing his lightnings between his two favourite sons, ended the combat. The Pythia now vouchsafed an answer to the prayer of the hero, and commanded him, in expiation of his crime, to allow himself to be sold by Hermes for three years as a slave, the purchase-money to be given to Eurytus in compensation for the loss of his son. HERACLES BECOMES THE SLAVE OF OMPHALE.--Heracles bowed in submission to the divine will, and was conducted by Hermes to Omphale, queen of Lydia. The three talents which she paid for him were given {253} to Eurytus, who, however, declined to accept the money, which was handed over to the children of Iphitus. Heracles now regained his former vigour. He rid the territory of Omphale of the robbers which infested it and performed for her various other services requiring strength and courage. It was about this time that he took part in the Calydonian boar-hunt, details of which have already been given. When Omphale learned that her slave was none other than the renowned Heracles himself she at once gave him his liberty, and offered him her hand and kingdom. In her palace Heracles abandoned himself to all the enervating luxuries of an oriental life, and so completely was the great hero enthralled by the fascination which his mistress exercised over him, that whilst she playfully donned his lion's skin and helmet, he, attired in female garments, sat at her feet spinning wool, and beguiling the time by the relation of his past adventures. But when at length, his term of bondage having expired, he became master of his own actions, the manly and energetic spirit of the hero reasserted itself, and tearing himself away from the palace of the Mæonian queen, he determined to carry out the revenge he had so long meditated against the treacherous Laomedon and the faithless Augeas. HERACLES EXECUTES VENGEANCE ON LAOMEDON AND AUGEAS.--Gathering round him some of his old brave companions-in-arms, Heracles collected a fleet of vessels and set sail for Troy, where he landed, took the city by storm, and killed Laomedon, who thus met at length the retribution he had so richly deserved. To Telamon, one of his bravest followers, he gave Hesione, the daughter of the king, in marriage. When Heracles gave her permission to release one of the prisoners of war she chose her own brother Podarces, whereupon she was informed that as he was already a prisoner of war she would be compelled to ransom him. {254} On hearing this Hesione took off her golden diadem, which she joyfully handed to the hero. Owing to this circumstance Podarces henceforth bore the name of Priamus (or Priam), which signifies the "ransomed one." Heracles now marched against Augeas to execute his vengeance on him also for his perfidious conduct. He stormed the city of Elis and put to death Augeas and his sons, sparing only his brave advocate and staunch defender Phyleus, on whom he bestowed the vacant throne of his father. HERACLES AND DEIANEIRA.--Heracles now proceeded to Calydon, where he wooed the beautiful Deianeira, daughter of Oeneus, king of Ætolia; but he encountered a formidable rival in Achelous, the river-god, and it was agreed that their claims should be decided by single combat. Trusting to his power of assuming various forms at will, Achelous felt confident of success; but this availed him nothing, for having at last transformed himself into a bull, his mighty adversary broke off one of his horns, and compelled him to acknowledge himself defeated. After passing three happy years with Deianeira an unfortunate accident occurred, which for a time marred their felicity. Heracles was one day present at a banquet given by Oeneus, when, by a sudden swing of his hand, he had the misfortune to strike on the head a youth of noble birth, who, according to the custom of the ancients, was serving the guests at table, and so violent was the blow that it caused his death. The father of the unfortunate youth, who had witnessed the occurrence, saw that it was the result of accident, and therefore absolved the hero from blame. But Heracles resolved to act according to the law of the land, banished himself from the country, and bidding farewell to his father-in-law, set out for Trachin to visit his friend King Ceyx, taking with him his wife Deianeira, and his young son Hyllus. In the course of their journey they arrived at the river Evenus, over which the Centaur Nessus was in the habit {255} of carrying travellers for hire. Heracles, with his little son in his arms, forded the stream unaided, intrusting his wife to the care of the Centaur, who, charmed with the beauty of his fair burden, attempted to carry her off. But her cries were heard by her husband, who without hesitation shot Nessus through the heart with one of his poisoned arrows. Now the dying Centaur was thirsting for revenge. He called Deianeira to his side, and directed her to secure some of the blood which flowed from his wound, assuring her that if, when in danger of losing her husband's affection, she used it in the manner indicated by him, it would act as a charm, and prevent her from being supplanted by a rival. Heracles and Deianeira now pursued their journey, and after several adventures at length arrived at their destination. DEATH OF HERACLES.--The last expedition undertaken by the great hero was against Eurytus, king of Oechalia, to revenge himself upon this king and his sons for having refused to bestow upon him the hand of Iole, after having fairly won the maiden. Having collected a large army Heracles set out for Euboea in order to besiege Oechalia, its capital. Success crowned his arms. He stormed the citadel, slew the king and his three sons, reduced the town to ashes, and carried away captive the young and beautiful Iole. Returning from his victorious expedition, Heracles halted at Cenoeus in order to offer a sacrifice to Zeus, and sent to Deianeira to Trachin for a sacrificial robe. Deianeira having been informed that the fair Iole was in the train of Heracles was fearful lest her youthful charms might supplant her in the affection of her husband, and calling to mind the advice of the dying Centaur, she determined to test the efficacy of the love-charm which he had given to her. Taking out the phial which she had carefully preserved, she imbued the robe with a portion of the liquid which it contained, and then sent it to Heracles. The victorious hero clothed himself with the garment, {256} and was about to perform the sacrifice, when the hot flames rising from the altar heated the poison with which it was imbued, and soon every fibre of his body was penetrated by the deadly venom. The unfortunate hero, suffering the most fearful tortures, endeavoured to tear off the robe, but it adhered so closely to the skin that all his efforts to remove it only increased his agonies. In this pitiable condition he was conveyed to Trachin, where Deianeira, on beholding the terrible suffering of which she was the innocent cause, was overcome with grief and remorse, and hanged herself in despair. The dying hero called his son Hyllus to his side, and desired him to make Iole his wife, and then ordering his followers to erect a funeral pyre, he mounted it and implored the by-standers to set fire to it, and thus in mercy to terminate his insufferable torments. But no one had the courage to obey him, until at last his friend and companion Philoctetes, yielding to his piteous appeal, lighted the pile, and received in return the bow and arrows of the hero. Soon flames on flames ascended, and amidst vivid flashes of lightning, accompanied by awful peals of thunder, Pallas-Athene descended in a cloud, and bore her favourite hero in a chariot to Olympus. Heracles became admitted among the immortals; and Hera, in token of her reconciliation, bestowed upon him the hand of her beautiful daughter Hebe, the goddess of eternal youth. BELLEROPHON. Bellerophon, or Bellerophontes, was the son of Glaucus, king of Corinth, and grandson of Sisyphus. In consequence of an unpremeditated murder Bellerophon fled to Tiryns, where he was kindly received by King Proetus, who purified him from his crime. Antea, the wife of Proetus, was so charmed with the comely youth that she fell in love with him; but Bellerophon did not return her affection, and she, in revenge, slandered him to the king by a gross misrepresentation of the facts. {257} The first impulse of Proetus, when informed of the conduct of Bellerophon, was to kill him; but the youth, with his gentle and winning manners, had so endeared himself to his host that he felt it impossible to take his life with his own hands. He therefore sent him to his father-in-law, Iobates, king of Lycia, with a kind of letter or tablet which contained mysterious signs, indicating his desire that the bearer of the missive should be put to death. But the gods watched over the true and loyal youth, and inclined the heart of Iobates, who was an amiable prince, towards his guest. Judging by his appearance that he was of noble birth, he entertained him, according to the hospitable custom of the Greeks, in the most princely manner for nine days, and not until the morning of the tenth did he inquire his name and errand. Bellerophon now presented to him the letter intrusted to him by Proetus. Iobates, who had become greatly attached to the youth, was horror-struck at its contents. Nevertheless he concluded that Proetus must have good reasons for his conduct, and that probably Bellerophon had committed a crime which deserved death. But as he could not make up his mind to murder the guest he had grown to esteem, he decided to despatch him upon dangerous enterprises, in which he would in all probability lose his life. [Illustration] He first sent him to kill the Chimæra, a monster which was at this time devastating the country. The fore part of its body was that of a lion, the centre of a goat, and the hind part of a dragon; whilst out of its jaws issued flames of fire. Before starting on this difficult task Bellerophon invoked the protection of the gods, and in answer to his prayer they despatched to his aid the immortal-winged horse Pegasus, the offspring of Poseidon and Medusa. But the divine animal would not suffer himself to be {258} caught, and at last, worn out with his fruitless exertions, Bellerophon fell into a deep sleep beside the sacred spring Pirene. Here Pallas-Athene appeared to him in a dream, and presented him with a magic bridle for the purpose of capturing the divine steed. On awaking Bellerophon instinctively put out his hand to grasp it, when, to his amazement, there lay beside him the bridle of his dream, whilst Pegasus was quietly drinking at the fountain close by. Seizing him by the mane Bellerophon threw the bridle over his head, and succeeded in mounting him without further difficulty; then rising with him into the air he slew the Chimæra with his arrows. [Illustration] Iobates next sent him on an expedition against the Solymans, a fierce neighbouring tribe with whom he was at enmity. Bellerophon succeeded in vanquishing them, and was then despatched against the much-dreaded Amazons; but greatly to the astonishment of Iobates the hero again returned victorious. Finally, Iobates placed a number of the bravest Lycians in ambush for the purpose of destroying him, but not one returned alive, for Bellerophon bravely defended himself and slew them all. Convinced at length that Bellerophon, far from deserving death, was the special favourite of the gods, who had evidently protected him throughout his perilous exploits, the king now ceased his persecutions. Iobates admitted him to a share in the government, and gave him his daughter in marriage. But Bellerophon having attained the summit of earthly prosperity became intoxicated with pride and vanity, and incurred the displeasure of the gods by endeavouring to mount to heaven on his winged horse, for the purpose of gratifying his idle curiosity. Zeus punished him for his impiety by sending {259} a gadfly to sting the horse, who became so restive that he threw his rider, who was precipitated to the earth. Filled with remorse at having offended the gods Bellerophon fell a prey to the deepest melancholy, and wandered about for the remainder of his life in the loneliest and most desolate places. After death he was honoured in Corinth as a hero, and an altar was erected to him in the grove of Poseidon. THESEUS. Aegeus, king of Athens, being twice married, and having no children, was so desirous of an heir to his throne that he made a pilgrimage to Delphi in order to consult the oracle. But the response being ambiguous, he repaired to Troezen to consult his wise friend Pittheus, who reigned over that city, by whose advice he contracted a secret marriage with his friend's daughter Aethra. After passing some time with his bride, Aegeus prepared to take his departure for his own dominions; but before doing so he led Aethra to the sea-shore, where, after depositing his sword and sandals under a huge rock, he thus addressed her: "Should the gods bless our union with a son, do not reveal to him the name and rank of his father until he is old enough to possess the strength requisite for moving this stone. Then send him to my palace at Athens bearing these tokens of his identity." A son was born to Aethra, whom she called Theseus, and who was carefully trained and educated by his grandfather Pittheus. When he had developed into a strong and manly youth his mother conducted him to the spot where the rock had been placed by Aegeus, and at her command he rolled away the stone, and took possession of the sword and sandals which had lain there for sixteen years, and which she now desired him to convey to his father Aegeus, king of Athens. His mother and grandfather were anxious that the youth should travel by the safe sea route, the road between Troezen and Athens being at this time infested {260} with robbers of great ferocity and enormous strength. But feeling within himself the spirit of a hero, Theseus resolved to emulate the deeds of Heracles, with whose fame all Greece resounded, and therefore chose the more dangerous journey by land, as calculated to afford him an opportunity of distinguishing himself by feats of valour. His first adventure occurred at Epidaurus, where he met Periphetes, a son of Hephæstus, who was armed with an iron club, with which he killed all travellers. Having received from his grandfather a full description of this savage, Theseus at once recognized him, and rushing upon him with his sword, succeeded after a desperate encounter in killing him. He appropriated the club as a trophy of his victory, and proceeded on his journey without hinderance until he arrived at the Isthmus of Corinth. Here the people warned him to beware of Sinnis the robber, who forced all travellers to bend with him one of the branches of a tall pine-tree. Having dragged it to the ground, the cruel Sinnis suddenly released his hold, whereupon the bough rebounding high up into the air, the unfortunate victim was dashed to the ground and killed. When Theseus beheld Sinnis advancing towards him he steadily awaited his approach; then seizing his powerful club, he killed the inhuman wretch with one blow. Passing through the woody district of Crommyon Theseus next slew a wild and dangerous sow which had long ravaged the country. He then continued his journey and approached the borders of Megara, where, on a narrow path overhanging the sea, dwelt the wicked Scyron, another terror to travellers. It was his custom to compel all strangers who passed his abode to wash his feet, during which operation he kicked them over the rock into the sea. Theseus boldly attacked the giant, overcame him, and then flung his body over the cliff where so many of his victims had perished. Theseus now journeyed on to Eleusis, where he found {261} another adversary in the person of King Cercyon, who forced all comers to wrestle with him, and killed those whom he vanquished; but Theseus overcame the mighty wrestler and slew him. Near Eleusis, on the banks of the river Cephissus, Theseus met with a new adventure. Here lived the giant Damastes, called Procrustes or the Stretcher, who had two iron beds, one being long and the other short, into which he forced all strangers; In the short one he placed the tall men, whose limbs he cut to the size of the bed, whilst to the short ones he assigned the large bed, stretching them out to fit it; and thus he left his victims to expire in the most cruel torments. Theseus freed the country from this inhuman monster by serving him as he had done his unfortunate victims. The hero now continued his journey, and at length reached Athens without meeting with any further adventures. When he arrived at his destination he found his father a helpless tool in the hands of the sorceress Medea, whom he had married after her departure from Corinth. Knowing, by means of her supernatural powers, that Theseus was the king's son, and fearing that her influence might be weakened by his presence, she poisoned the mind of the old king against the stranger, whom she represented as being a spy. It was accordingly arranged that Theseus should be invited to a banquet, and a strong poison mixed with his wine. Now Theseus had resolved to reveal himself at this feast to the father whom he yearned to embrace. Before tasting the wine he put his plan into execution, and drew out his sword so that the eyes of the king might rest upon it. When Aegeus beheld once more the well-known weapon which he had so often wielded, he knew that it was his son who stood before him. He warmly embraced him, presented him as his heir to his courtiers and subjects, and then, no longer able to endure the sight of Medea, he banished her for ever from his dominions. When Theseus was acknowledged as the rightful heir to the throne he was opposed by the fifty sons of Pallas, {262} the king's brother, who had confidently expected that on the demise of the old king the government of the country would devolve upon them. They therefore resolved to put Theseus to death; but their plans becoming known to him, he surprised them as they lay in ambush awaiting his approach, and destroyed them all. Fearing, however, lest the Athenians might entertain a prejudice against him on account of his extermination of their fellow-citizens, the Pallantids, Theseus resolved to perform some signal service for the state, which should gain for him the hearts of the people. He accordingly decided to rid the country of the famous bull of Marathon, which had become a terror to the cultivators of the land. He captured the animal and brought him in chains to Athens, where, after publicly exhibiting him to the astonished multitude, he solemnly sacrificed him to Apollo. The next enterprise undertaken by Theseus far surpassed all his other feats of heroic daring, and secured to him the universal admiration and gratitude of his fellow-citizens. This was the slaying of the Minotaur, which put an end for ever to the shameful tribute of seven youths and seven maidens which was exacted from the Athenians every nine years. The origin of this barbarous tribute was as follows: Androgeos, the youthful son of Minos, king of Crete, having been treacherously murdered by the Athenians, his father, anxious to avenge the death of his son, declared war against their king Aegeus, and conquered Athens and the villages in its vicinity. The conqueror henceforth compelled the Athenians to send to him every nine years a tribute of seven youths and seven maidens of the noblest families of the land, who became the prey of the Minotaur, a monster, half-man, half-bull, whose lair was in the wonderful labyrinth, constructed by Dædalus for the Cretan king. When Theseus informed his father of his heroic determination, he was overwhelmed with grief, and endeavoured, by every means in his power, to shake his son's resolution, but, confident of success, Theseus assured his {263} father that he would slay the Minotaur and return home victorious. It was customary for the vessel bearing its unhappy freight of human victims to use on this voyage black sails only; but Theseus promised his father that, should he return in safety, he would hoist white ones in their place. Before leaving Athens Theseus, by the advice of an oracle, chose Aphrodite as his guardian and protectress, and accordingly offered up a sacrifice to her. When he arrived in the presence of king Minos, the goddess of Love inspired Ariadne, the beautiful daughter of the king, with an ardent attachment for the noble young hero. During a secret interview, in which a mutual confession of affection took place, Ariadne furnished him with a sharp sword and a clue of thread, the end of which she desired him to fasten at the entrance to the labyrinth and to continue to unwind it till he reached the lair of the Minotaur. Full of hope as to the successful issue of his undertaking, Theseus took leave of the kind maiden, after expressing his gratitude for her timely aid. At the head of his companions he was now conducted by Minos to the entrance of the labyrinth. Strictly adhering to the injunctions of the fair Ariadne he succeeded in finding the Minotaur, whom, after a fierce and violent struggle, he defeated and killed; then carefully feeling his way, by means of the clue of thread, he led his companions safely out of the labyrinth. They then fled to their ship, taking with them the lovely maiden to whose affection for their deliverer they owed their safety. Arrived at the island of Naxos, Theseus had a dream, in which Dionysus, the wine-god, appeared to him, and informed him that the Fates had decreed that Ariadne should be his bride, at the same time menacing the hero with all kinds of misfortunes should he refuse to resign her. Now Theseus, having been taught from his youth to reverence the gods, feared to disobey the wishes of Dionysus. He accordingly took a sad farewell of the {264} beautiful maiden who so tenderly loved him, and left her on the lonely island, where she was found and wooed by the wine-god. Theseus and his companions felt keenly the loss of their benefactress, and in their grief at parting with her, forgot that the ship still bore the black sails with which she had left the Attic coast. As she neared the port of Athens, Aegeus, who was anxiously awaiting the return of his son on the beach, caught sight of the vessel with its black sails, and concluding that his gallant son had perished, threw himself in despair into the sea. With the unanimous approval of the Athenians, Theseus now ascended the vacant throne, and soon proved himself to be not only a valiant hero but also a wise prince and prudent legislator. Athens was at this time but a small city surrounded by a number of villages, each of which possessed its own separate form of government; but by means of kind and conciliatory measures Theseus induced the heads of these different communities to resign their sovereignty, and to intrust the administration of public affairs to a court which should sit constantly at Athens, and exercise jurisdiction over all the inhabitants of Attica. The result of these judicious measures was, that the Athenians became a united and powerful people, and that numbers of strangers and foreigners flocked to Athens, which became a flourishing maritime port and a commercial centre of great importance. Theseus renewed the Isthmian Games, and also instituted numerous festivals, the principal of which was the Panathenæa, held in honour of Athene-Polias. It is related that Theseus upon one occasion arrived during a voyage at the Amazonian coast. Anxious to ascertain the object of his visit, the Amazons sent Hippolyte, one of their number, with presents to the stranger; but no sooner did the fair herald set foot on board his vessel than Theseus set sail and carried her off to Athens, where he made her his queen. Enraged at this indignity the Amazons determined to be revenged. Some time afterwards, when the whole affair would {265} appear to have been forgotten, they seized the opportunity when the city of Athens was in a defenceless condition and landed an army in Attica. So sudden was their attack that they had penetrated into the very heart of the city before the Athenians could organize their forces; but Theseus expeditiously collected his troops and commenced such a furious onslaught upon the invaders that, after a desperate encounter, they were driven from the city. Peace was then concluded, whereupon the Amazons evacuated the country. During this engagement Hippolyte, forgetful of her origin, fought valiantly by the side of her husband against her own kinsfolk, and perished on the field of battle. [Illustration] It was soon after this sad event that Theseus joined the world-renowned Calydonian Boar-hunt, in which he took a leading part. He also formed one of the brave band who shared in the perils of the Argonautic expedition. The remarkable friendship which existed between Theseus and Pirithöus originated under such peculiar circumstances that it is worthy of mention. Hearing upon one occasion that his herds, pasturing in the plains of Marathon, had been carried off by Pirithöus, Theseus collected together an armed force and sallied forth to punish the plunderer. But, when the two heroes met face to face, both were seized with an impulse of sympathetic admiration for each other. Pirithöus, holding out his hand in token of peace, exclaimed, "What satisfaction shall I render thee, oh Theseus? Be thou thyself the judge." Theseus seized the proffered hand and replied, "I ask nought save thy {266} friendship;" whereupon the heroes embraced each other and swore eternal fidelity. When, soon afterwards, Pirithöus became united to Hippodamia, a Thessalian princess, he invited Theseus to the wedding-feast, which was also attended, among other guests, by a large number of Centaurs, who were friends of Pirithöus. Towards the end of the banquet Eurytion, a young Centaur, heated and flushed with wine, seized the lovely bride and sought by force to carry her off. The other Centaurs, following his example, each endeavoured to capture a maiden. Pirithöus and his followers, aided by Theseus, who rendered most valuable assistance, attacked the Centaurs, and after a violent hand-to-hand struggle in which many perished, forced them to relinquish their prey. After the death of Hippolyte Theseus sought the hand of Phædra, the sister of his former bride Ariadne, to whom he became united. For some years they lived happily together, and their union was blessed by the birth of two sons. During this time Hippolytus, the son of the Amazonian queen, had been absent from home, having been placed under the care of the king's uncles in order to be educated. When, having grown to manhood, he now returned to his father's palace, his young stepmother, Phædra, fell violently in love with him; but Hippolytus failed to return her affection, and treated her with contempt and indifference. Filled with rage and despair at his coldness Phædra put an end to her existence; and when she was discovered by her husband she held in her hand a letter, accusing Hippolytus of being the cause of her death, and of having conspired against the honour of the king. Now Poseidon had upon one occasion promised to grant Theseus whatever request he should demand; he therefore called upon the sea-god to destroy Hippolytus, whom he cursed in the most solemn manner. The father's awful malediction fell but too soon upon his innocent son; for, as the latter was driving his chariot along the sea-shore, between Troezen and Athens, a {267} monster, sent by Poseidon, rose out of the deep, and so frightened the horses that they became altogether unmanageable. As they rushed on in their mad career the chariot was dashed to pieces, and the unfortunate youth, whose feet had become entangled in the reins, was dragged along until life was nearly extinct. In this condition he was found by the unhappy Theseus, who, having ascertained the true facts of the case from an old servant of Phædra, had hastened to prevent the catastrophe. But he arrived too late, and was only able to soothe the last moments of his dying son by acknowledging the sad mistake which he had committed, and declaring his firm belief in his honour and innocence. After these events Theseus was persuaded by his friend Pirithöus, who had also about this time lost his young wife, Hippodamia, to join him in a journey through Greece, with the object of carrying off by force the most beautiful maidens whom they should chance to meet. Arrived at Sparta they beheld, in the temple of Artemis, Helen, the daughter of Zeus and Leda, who was engaged in performing sacred dances in honour of the goddess. Although the maiden was only nine years old the fame of her beauty, which was destined to play so important a part in the history of Greece, had already spread far and wide. Theseus and Pirithöus forcibly abducted her, and then having cast lots for her, she fell to Theseus, who placed her under the charge of his mother Æthra. Pirithöus now requested Theseus to assist him in his ambitious scheme of descending to the lower world and carrying off Persephone, the queen of Hades. Though fully alive to the perils of the undertaking Theseus would not forsake his friend, and together they sought the gloomy realm of Shades. But Aïdes had been forewarned of their approach, and scarcely had the two friends set foot within his dominions when, by his orders, they were seized, bound with chains, and secured to an enchanted rock at the entrance of Hades. Here the two {268} friends languished for many years, until Heracles passed by in his search for Cerberus, when he released Theseus; but in obedience to an injunction of the gods, left Pirithöus to endure for ever the punishment of his too daring ambition. While Theseus was imprisoned in the under world Castor and Pollux, the brothers of Helen, invaded Athens, and demanded the restoration of their young sister. Seeing his country threatened with the horrors of warfare, an Athenian citizen named Academus, who knew of Helen's place of concealment, repaired to the camp of the Dioscuri, and informed them where they would find her. Æthra at once resigned her charge, whereupon the brothers took leave of Athens, and, accompanied by Helen, returned to their native country. But the prolonged absence of Theseus gave rise to other troubles of a more serious character. Thinking the opportunity favourable for a revolt, a faction, headed by Menesthius, a descendant of Erechtheus, arrogated to themselves supreme power, and seized the reins of government. Returned to Athens, Theseus at once took active measures to quell the insubordination which existed on all sides. He expelled Menesthius from office, rigorously punished the ringleaders of the revolt, and placed himself once more upon the throne. But his hold upon the people was gone. His former services were all forgotten, and, finding at length that dissensions and revolts were rife, he voluntarily abdicated the throne, and retired to his estates in the island of Scyros. Here Lycomedes, king of the island, feigned to receive him with the utmost friendship; but being, as it is supposed, in league with Menesthius, he led the old king to the summit of a high rock, under pretence of showing him his estates, and treacherously killed him by pushing him over the cliff. Many centuries after his death, by the command of the oracle of Delphi, Cimon, the father of Miltiades, at the conclusion of the Persian war, brought the remains of Theseus, the great benefactor of Athens, to that city, {269} and in his honour a temple was erected, which exists to the present day, and serves as a museum of art. OEDIPUS. Laius, king of Thebes, the son of Labdacus, and a direct descendant of Cadmus, was married to Jocaste, the daughter of a noble Theban. An oracle having foretold that he would perish by the hand of his own son, he determined to destroy the infant to whom Jocaste had just given birth. With the consent of his wife, whose affection for her husband overcame her love for her child, he pierced the feet of the babe, bound them together, and handed the infant over to a servant, with instructions to expose him on Mount Cithæron to perish. But instead of obeying this cruel command, the servant intrusted him to a shepherd who was tending the flocks of Polybus, king of Corinth, and then returned to Laius and Jocaste, and informed them that their orders had been obeyed. The parents were satisfied with the intelligence, and quieted their conscience by the reflection that they had thus prevented their son from committing the crime of parricide. Meanwhile the shepherd of king Polybus had unbound the feet of the infant, and in consequence of their being much swollen he called him Oedipus, or Swollen-foot. He then carried him to the king, his master, who, pitying the poor little waif, enlisted for him the kind offices of his wife, Merope. Oedipus was adopted by the king and queen as their own son, and grew up in the belief that they were his parents, until one day a Corinthian noble taunted him at a banquet with not being the son of the king. Stung at this reproach the youth appealed to Merope, but receiving an equivocal, though kindly answer, he repaired to Delphi to consult the oracle. The Pythia vouchsafed no reply to his inquiry, but informed him, to his horror, that he was fated to kill his father and to marry his own mother. Filled with dismay, for he was tenderly attached to Polybus and Merope, Oedipus determined not to return {270} to Corinth, and took instead the road leading to Boeotia. On his way a chariot passed him, in which sat an old man with two servants, who rudely pushed the pedestrian out of the path. In the scuffle which ensued Oedipus struck the old man with his heavy stick, and he fell back dead on the seat of the chariot. Struck with dismay at the unpremeditated murder which he had committed, the youth fled, and left the spot without learning that the old man whom he had killed was his father, Laius, king of Thebes. Not long after this occurrence the Sphinx (full details of whom have already been given) was sent by the goddess Hera as a punishment to the Thebans. Stationed on a rocky height just outside the city, she propounded to the passers by riddles which she had been taught by the Muses, and whoever failed to solve them was torn in pieces and devoured by the monster, and in this manner great numbers of the inhabitants of Thebes had perished. Now on the death of the old king Laius, Creon, the brother of the widowed queen, had seized the reins of government and mounted the vacant throne; and when at length his own son fell a victim to the Sphinx, he resolved at all costs to rid the country of this fearful scourge. He accordingly issued a proclamation, that the kingdom and the hand of his sister Jocaste should be awarded to him who should succeed in solving one of the riddles of the Sphinx, it having been foretold by an oracle that only then would the country be freed from the monster. Just as this proclamation was being made in the streets of Thebes Oedipus, with his pilgrim's staff in his hand, entered the city. Tempted by the prospect of so magnificent a reward he repaired to the rock, and boldly requested the Sphinx to propound to him one of her riddles. She proposed to him one which she deemed impossible of solution, but Oedipus at once solved it; whereupon the Sphinx, full of rage and despair, precipitated herself into the abyss and perished. Oedipus {271} received the promised reward. He became king of Thebes and the husband of Jocaste, the widow of his father, king Laius. For many years Oedipus enjoyed the greatest happiness and tranquillity. Four children were born to him--two sons, Eteocles and Polynices, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. But at last the gods afflicted the country with a grievous pestilence, which made terrible havoc among the people. In their distress they entreated the help of the king, who was regarded by his subjects as a special favourite of the gods. Oedipus consulted an oracle, and the response was that the pestilence would continue to rage until the land was purified of the blood of king Laius, whose murderer was living unpunished at Thebes. The king now invoked the most solemn imprecations on the head of the murderer, and offered a reward for any information concerning him. He then sent for the blind old seer Tiresias, and implored him, by means of his prophetic powers, to reveal to him the author of the crime. Tiresias at first hesitated, but yielding to the earnest solicitations of the king, the old prophet thus addressed him: "Thou thyself art the murderer of the old king Laius, who was thy father; and thou art wedded to his widow, thine own mother." In order to convince Oedipus of the truth of his words, he brought forward the old servant who had exposed him as a babe on Mount Cithæron, and the shepherd who had conveyed him to king Polybus. Horrified at this awful revelation Oedipus, in a fit of despair, deprived himself of sight, and the unfortunate Jocaste, unable to survive her disgrace, hanged herself. Accompanied by his faithful and devoted daughter Antigone, Oedipus quitted Thebes and became a miserable and homeless outcast, begging his bread from place to place. At length, after a long and painful pilgrimage, he found a place of refuge in the grove of the Eumenides (at Colonus, near Athens), where his last moments were soothed and tended by the care and devotion of the faithful Antigone. {272} THE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES. After the voluntary abdication of Oedipus, his two sons, Eteocles and Polynices, took possession of the crown and reigned over the city of Thebes. But Eteocles, being an ambitious prince, soon seized the reins of government himself, and expelled his brother from the throne. Polynices now repaired to Argos, where he arrived in the dead of night. Outside the gates of the royal palace he encountered Tydeus, the son of Oeneus, king of Calydon. Having accidentally killed a relative in the chase, Tydeus was also a fugitive; but being mistaken by Polynices in the darkness for an enemy, a quarrel ensued, which might have ended fatally, had not king Adrastus, aroused by the clamour, appeared on the scene and parted the combatants. By the light of the torches borne by his attendants Adrastus observed, to his surprise, that on the shield of Polynices a lion was depicted, and on that of Tydeus a boar. The former bore this insignia in honour of the renowned hero Heracles, the latter in memory of the famous Calydonian boar-hunt. This circumstance reminded the king of an extraordinary oracular prediction concerning his two beautiful daughters, Argia and Deipyle, which was to the effect that he would give them in marriage to a lion and a boar. Hailing with delight what he regarded as an auspicious solution of the mysterious prophecy, he invited the strangers into his palace; and when he heard their history, and had convinced himself that they were of noble birth, he bestowed upon Polynices his beautiful daughter Argia, and upon Tydeus the fair Deipyle, promising at the same time that he would assist both his sons-in-law to regain their rightful patrimony. The first care of Adrastus was to aid Polynices in regaining possession of his lawful share in the government of Thebes. He accordingly invited the most powerful chiefs in his kingdom to join in the expedition, {273} all of whom readily obeyed the call with the exception of the king's brother-in-law, Amphiaraus, the seer. As he foresaw a disastrous termination to the enterprise, and knew that not one of the heroes, save Adrastus himself, would return alive, he earnestly dissuaded the king from carrying out his project, and declined to take any part in the undertaking. But Adrastus, seconded by Polynices and Tydeus, was obstinately bent on the achievement of his purpose, and Amphiaraus, in order to escape from their importunities, concealed himself in a hiding-place known only to his wife Eriphyle. Now on the occasion of the marriage of Amphiaraus it had been agreed, that if he ever differed in opinion with the king, his wife should decide the question. As the presence of Amphiaraus was indispensable to the success of the undertaking, and, moreover, as Adrastus would not enter upon it without "the eye of the army," as he called his brother-in-law, Polynices, bent on securing his services, determined to bribe Eriphyle to use her influence with her husband and to decide the question in accordance with his wishes. He bethought himself of the beautiful necklace of Harmonia, wife of Cadmus, which he had brought with him in his flight from Thebes. Without loss of time he presented himself before the wife of Amphiaraus, and held up to her admiring gaze the glittering bauble, promising that if she revealed the hiding-place of her husband and induced him to join the expedition, the necklace should be hers. Eriphyle, unable to withstand the tempting bait, accepted the bribe, and thus Amphiaraus was compelled to join the army. But before leaving his home he extorted a solemn promise from his son Alcmæon that, should he perish on the field of battle, he would avenge his death on his mother, the perfidious Eriphyle. Seven leaders were now chosen, each at the head of a separate detachment of troops. These were Adrastus the king, his two brothers Hippomedon and Parthenopæus, Capaneus his nephew, Polynices and Tydeus, and Amphiaraus. {274} When the army was collected they set out for Nemea, which was at this time governed by king Lycurgus. Here the Argives, being short of water, halted on the outskirts of a forest in order to search for a spring, when they saw a majestic and beautiful woman seated on the trunk of a tree, nursing an infant. They concluded from her noble and queenly appearance that she must be a goddess, but were informed by her that she was Hypsipile, queen of the Lemnians, who had been carried away captive by pirates, and sold as a slave to king Lycurgus, and that she was now acting as nurse to his infant son. When the warriors told her that they were in search of water, she laid the child down in the grass, and led them to a secret spring in the forest, with which she alone was acquainted. But on their return they found, to their grief, that the unfortunate babe had been killed during their absence, by a serpent. They slew the reptile, and then collecting the remains of the infant, they buried them with funereal honours and proceeded on their way. The warlike host now appeared before the walls of Thebes, and each leader placed himself before one of the seven gates of the city in readiness for the attack. Eteocles, in conjunction with Creon, had made due preparations to repel the invaders, and had stationed troops, under the command of trusty leaders, to guard each of the gates. Then, according to the practice of the ancients of consulting soothsayers before entering upon any undertaking, the blind old seer Tiresias was sent for, who, after carefully taking the auguries from the flight of birds, declared that all efforts to defend the city would prove unavailing, unless the youngest descendant of the house of Cadmus would offer himself as a voluntary sacrifice for the good of the state. When Creon heard the words of the seer his first thought was of his favourite son Menoeceus, the youngest scion of the royal house, who was present at the interview. He therefore earnestly implored him to leave the city, and to repair for safety to Delphi. But the gallant youth heroically resolved to sacrifice his life for the {275} benefit of his country, and after taking leave of his old father, mounted the city walls, and plunging a dagger into his heart, perished in the sight of the contending hosts. Adrastus now gave his troops the word of command to storm the city, and they rushed forward to the attack with great valour. The battle raged long and furiously, and after heavy losses on both sides the Argives were routed and put to flight. After the lapse of some days they reorganized their forces, and again appeared before the gates of Thebes, when Eteocles, grieved to think that there should be such a terrible loss of life on his account, sent a herald into the opposite camp, with a proposition that the fate of the campaign should be decided by single combat between himself and his brother Polynices. The challenge was readily accepted, and in the duel which took place outside the city walls, in the sight of the rival forces, Eteocles and Polynices were both fatally wounded and expired on the field of battle. Both sides now claimed the day, and the result was that hostilities recommenced, and soon the battle raged with greater fury than ever. But victory at last declared itself for the Thebans. In their flight the Argives lost all their leaders, Adrastus excepted, who owed his safety to the fleetness of his horse Arion. By the death of the brothers, Creon became once more king of Thebes, and in order to show his abhorrence of the conduct of Polynices in fighting against his country, he strictly forbade any one to bury either his remains or those of his allies. But the faithful Antigone, who had returned to Thebes on the death of her father, could not endure that the body of her brother should remain unburied. She therefore bravely disregarded the orders of the king, and endeavoured to give sepulture to the remains of Polynices. When Creon discovered that his commands had been set at defiance, he inhumanly condemned the devoted maiden to be entombed alive in a subterranean vault. {276} But retribution was at hand. His son, Hæmon, who was betrothed to Antigone, having contrived to effect an entrance into the vault, was horrified to find that Antigone had hanged herself by her veil. Feeling that life without her would be intolerable, he threw himself in despair on his own sword, and after solemnly invoking the malediction of the gods on the head of his father, expired beside the dead body of his betrothed. Hardly had the news of the tragic fate of his son reached the king, before another messenger appeared, bearing the tidings that his wife Eurydice, on hearing of the death of Hæmon, had put an end to her existence, and thus the king found himself in his old age both widowed and childless. Nor did he succeed in the execution of his vindictive designs; for Adrastus, who, after his flight from Thebes, had taken refuge at Athens, induced Theseus to lead an army against the Thebans, to compel them to restore the dead bodies of the Argive warriors to their friends, in order that they might perform due funereal rites in honour of the slain. This undertaking was successfully accomplished, and the remains of the fallen heroes were interred with due honours. THE EPIGONI. Ten years after these events the sons of the slain heroes, who were called Epigoni, or descendants, resolved to avenge the death of their fathers, and with this object entered upon a new expedition against the city of Thebes. By the advice of the Delphic oracle the command was intrusted to Alcmæon, the son of Amphiaraus; but remembering the injunction of his father he hesitated to accept this post before executing vengeance on his mother Eriphyle. Thersander, however, the son of Polynices, adopting similar tactics to those of his father, bribed Eriphyle with the beautiful veil of Harmonia, bequeathed to him by Polynices, to induce her son {277} Alcmæon and his brother Amphilochus to join in this second war against Thebes. Now the mother of Alcmæon was gifted with that rare fascination which renders its possessor irresistible to all who may chance to come within its influence; nor was her own son able to withstand her blandishments. Yielding therefore to her wily representations he accepted the command of the troops, and at the head of a large and powerful army advanced upon Thebes. Before the gates of the city Alcmæon encountered the Thebans under the command of Laodamas, the son of Eteocles. A fierce battle ensued, in which the Theban leader, after performing prodigies of valour, perished by the hand of Alcmæon. After losing their chief and the flower of their army, the Thebans retreated behind the city walls, and the enemy now pressed them hard on every side. In their distress they appealed to the blind old seer Tiresias, who was over a hundred years old. With trembling lips and in broken accents, he informed them that they could only save their lives by abandoning their native city with their wives and families. Upon this they despatched ambassadors into the enemy's camp; and whilst these were protracting negotiations during the night, the Thebans, with their wives and children, evacuated the city. Next morning the Argives entered Thebes and plundered it, placing Thersander, the son of Polynices (who was a descendant of Cadmus), on the throne which his father had so vainly contested. ALCMÆON AND THE NECKLACE. When Alcmæon returned from his expedition against the Thebans he determined to fulfil the last injunction of his father Amphiaraus, who had desired him to be revenged on his mother Eriphyle for her perfidy in accepting a bribe to betray him. This resolution was further strengthened by the discovery that his unprincipled mother had urged him also to join the expedition {278} in return for the much-coveted veil of Harmonia. He therefore put her to death; and taking with him the ill-fated necklace and veil, abandoned for ever the home of his fathers. But the gods, who could not suffer so unnatural a crime to go unpunished, afflicted him with madness, and sent one of the Furies to pursue him unceasingly. In this unhappy condition he wandered about from place to place, until at last having reached Psophis in Arcadia, Phegeus, king of the country, not only purified him of his crime, but also bestowed upon him the hand of his daughter Arsinoë, to whom Alcmæon presented the necklace and veil, which had already been the cause of so much unhappiness. Though now released from his mental affliction, the curse which hung over him was not entirely removed, and on his account the country of his adoption was visited with a severe drought. On consulting the oracle of Delphi he was informed that any land which offered him shelter would be cursed by the gods, and that the malediction would continue to follow him till he came to a country which was not in existence at the time he had murdered his mother. Bereft of hope, and resolved no longer to cast the shadow of his dark fate over those he loved, Alcmæon took a tender leave of his wife and little son, and became once more an outcast and wanderer. Arrived after a long and painful pilgrimage at the river Achelous, he discovered, to his unspeakable joy, a beautiful and fertile island, which had but lately emerged from beneath the water. Here he took up his abode; and in this haven of rest he was at length freed from his sufferings, and finally purified of his crime by the river-god Achelous. But in his new-found home where prosperity smiled upon him, Alcmæon soon forgot the loving wife and child he had left behind, and wooed Calirrhoë, the beautiful daughter of the river-god, who became united to him in marriage. For many years Alcmæon and Calirrhoë lived happily together, and two sons were born to them. But {279} unfortunately for the peace of her husband, the daughter of Achelous had heard of the celebrated necklace and veil of Harmonia, and became seized with a violent desire to become the possessor of these precious treasures. Now the necklace and veil were in the safe-keeping of Arsinoë; but as Alcmæon had carefully concealed the fact of his former marriage from his young wife, he informed her, when no longer able to combat her importunities, that he had concealed them in a cave in his native country, and promised to hasten thither and procure them for her. He accordingly took leave of Calirrhoë and his children, and proceeded to Psophis, where he presented himself before his deserted wife and her father, king Phegeus. To them he excused his absence by the fact of his having suffered from a fresh attack of madness, and added that an oracle had foretold to him that his malady would only be cured when he had deposited the necklace and veil of Harmonia in the temple of Apollo at Delphi. Arsinoë, deceived by his artful representations, unhesitatingly restored to him his bridal gifts, whereupon Alcmæon set out on his homeward journey, well satisfied with the successful issue of his expedition. But the fatal necklace and veil were doomed to bring ruin and disaster to all who possessed them. During his sojourn at the court of king Phegeus, one of the servants who had accompanied Alcmæon betrayed the secret of his union with the daughter of the river-god; and when the king informed his sons of his treacherous conduct, they determined to avenge the wrongs of their sister Arsinoë. They accordingly concealed themselves at a point of the road which Alcmæon was compelled to pass, and as he neared the spot they suddenly emerged from their place of ambush, fell upon him and despatched him. When Arsinoë, who still loved her faithless husband, heard of the murder, she bitterly reproached her brothers for the crime which they had perpetrated, at which they were so incensed, that they placed her in a chest, and conveyed her to Agapenor, son of Ancæus, at Tegea. {280} Here they accused her of the murder of which they themselves were guilty, and she suffered a painful death. Calirrhoë, on learning the sad fate of Alcmæon, implored Zeus that her infant sons might grow at once to manhood, and avenge the death of their father. The ruler of Olympus heard the petition of the bereaved wife, and, in answer to her prayer, the children of yesterday became transformed into bearded men, full of strength and courage, and thirsting for revenge. Hastening to Tegea, they there encountered the sons of Phegeus, who were about to repair to Delphi, in order to deposit the necklace and veil in the sanctuary of Apollo; and before the brothers had time to defend themselves, the stalwart sons of Calirrhoë rushed upon them and slew them. They then proceeded to Psophis, where they killed king Phegeus and his wife, after which they returned to their mother with the necklace and veil, which, by the command of her father Achelous, were deposited as sacred offerings in the temple of Apollo at Delphi. THE HERACLIDÆ. After the apotheosis of Heracles, his children were so cruelly persecuted by Eurystheus, that they fled for protection to king Ceyx at Trachin, accompanied by the aged Iolaus, the nephew and life-long friend of their father, who constituted himself their guide and protector. But on Eurystheus demanding the surrender of the fugitives, the Heraclidæ, knowing that the small force at the disposal of king Ceyx would be altogether inadequate to protect them against the powerful king of Argos, abandoned his territory, and sought refuge at Athens, where they were hospitably received by king Demophoon, the son of the great hero Theseus. He warmly espoused their cause, and determined to protect them at all costs against Eurystheus, who had despatched a numerous force in pursuit of them. When the Athenians had made all necessary preparations to repel the invaders, an oracle announced that the {281} sacrifice of a maiden of noble birth was necessary to ensure to them victory; whereupon Macaria, the beautiful daughter of Heracles and Deianira, magnanimously offered herself as a sacrifice, and, surrounded by the noblest matrons and maidens of Athens, voluntarily devoted herself to death. While these events were transpiring in Athens, Hyllus, the eldest son of Heracles and Deianira, had advanced with a large army to the assistance of his brothers, and having sent a messenger to the king announcing his arrival, Demophoon, with his army, joined his forces. In the thick of the battle which ensued, Iolaus, following a sudden impulse, borrowed the chariot of Hyllus, and earnestly entreated Zeus and Hebe to restore to him, for this one day only, the vigour and strength of his youth. His prayer was heard. A thick cloud descended from heaven and enveloped the chariot, and when it disappeared, Iolaus, in the full plenitude of manly vigour, stood revealed before the astonished gaze of the combatants. He then led on his valiant band of warriors, and soon the enemy was in headlong flight; and Eurystheus, who was taken prisoner, was put to death by the command of king Demophoon. After gratefully acknowledging the timely aid of the Athenians, Hyllus, accompanied by the faithful Iolaus and his brothers, took leave of king Demophoon, and proceeded to invade the Peloponnesus, which they regarded as their lawful patrimony; for, according to the will of Zeus, it should have been the rightful possession of their father, the great hero Heracles, had not Hera maliciously defeated his plans by causing his cousin Eurystheus to precede him into the world. For the space of twelve months the Heraclidæ contrived to maintain themselves in the Peloponnesus; but at the expiration of that time a pestilence broke out, which spread over the entire peninsula, and compelled the Heraclidæ to evacuate the country and return to Attica, where for a time they settled. After the lapse of three years Hyllus resolved on {282} making another effort to obtain his paternal inheritance. Before setting out on the expedition, however, he consulted the oracle of Delphi, and the response was, that he must wait for the third fruit before the enterprise would prove successful. Interpreting this ambiguous reply to signify the third summer, Hyllus controlled his impatience for three years, when, having collected a powerful army, he once more entered the Peloponnesus. At the isthmus of Corinth he was opposed by Atreus, the son of Pelops, who at the death of Eurystheus had inherited the kingdom. In order to save bloodshed, Hyllus offered to decide his claims by single combat, the conditions being, that if he were victorious, he and his brothers should obtain undisputed possession of their rights; but if defeated, the Heraclidæ were to desist for fifty years from attempting to press their claim. The challenge was accepted by Echemon, king of Tegea, and Hyllus lost his life in the encounter, whereupon the sons of Heracles, in virtue of their agreement, abandoned the Peloponnesus and retired to Marathon. Hyllus was succeeded by his son Cleodæus, who, at the expiration of the appointed time, collected a large army and invaded the Peloponnesus; but he was not more successful than his father had been, and perished there with all his forces. Twenty years later his son Aristomachus consulted an oracle, which promised him victory if he went by way of the defile. The Heraclidæ once more set out, but were again defeated, and Aristomachus shared the fate of his father and grandfather, and fell on the field of battle. When, at the expiration of thirty years, the sons of Aristomachus, Temenus, Cresphontes, and Aristodemus again consulted the oracle, the answer was still the same; but this time the following explanation accompanied the response: the third fruit signified the third generation, to which they themselves belonged, and not the third fruit of the earth; and by the defile was indicated, not the isthmus of Corinth, but the straits on the right of the isthmus. {283} Temenus lost no time in collecting an army and building ships of war; but just as all was ready and the fleet about to sail, Aristodemus, the youngest of the brothers, was struck by lightning. To add to their misfortunes, Hippolytes, a descendant of Heracles, who had joined in the expedition, killed a soothsayer whom he mistook for a spy, and the gods, in their displeasure, sent violent tempests, by means of which the entire fleet was destroyed, whilst famine and pestilence decimated the ranks of the army. The oracle, on being again consulted, advised that Hippolytes, being the offender, should be banished from the country for ten years, and that the command of the troops should be delegated to a man having three eyes. A search was at once instituted by the Heraclidæ for a man answering to this description, who was found at length in the person of Oxylus, a descendant of the Ætolian race of kings. In obedience to the command of the oracle, Hippolytes was banished, an army and fleet once more equipped, and Oxylus elected commander-in-chief. And now success at length crowned the efforts of the long-suffering descendants of the great hero. They obtained possession of the Peloponnesus, which was divided among them by lot. Argos fell to Temenus, Lacedæmon to Aristodemus, and Messene to Cresphontes. In gratitude for the services of their able leader, Oxylus, the kingdom of Elis, was conferred upon him by the Heraclidæ. THE SIEGE OF TROY. Troy or Ilion was the capital of a kingdom in Asia Minor, situated near the Hellespont, and founded by Ilus, son of Tros. At the time of the famous Trojan war this city was under the government of Priam, a direct descendant of Ilus. Priam was married to Hecuba, daughter of Dymas, king of Thrace; and among the most celebrated of their children were the renowned and {284} valiant Hector, the prophetess Cassandra, and Paris, the cause of the Trojan war. Before the birth of her second son Paris, Hecuba dreamt that she had given birth to a flaming brand, which was interpreted by Æsacus the seer (a son of Priam by a former marriage) to signify that she would bear a son who would cause the destruction of the city of Troy. Anxious to prevent the fulfilment of the prophecy, Hecuba caused her new-born babe to be exposed on Mount Ida to perish; but being found by some kind-hearted shepherds, the child was reared by them, and grew up unconscious of his noble birth. As the boy approached manhood he became remarkable, not only for his wonderful beauty of form and feature, but also for his strength and courage, which he exercised in defending the flocks from the attacks of robbers and wild beasts; hence he was called Alexander, or helper of men. It was about this time that he settled the famous dispute concerning the golden apple, thrown by the goddess of Discord into the assembly of the gods. As we have already seen, he gave his decision in favour of Aphrodite; thus creating for himself two implacable enemies, for Hera and Athene never forgave the slight. Paris became united to a beautiful nymph named Oenone, with whom he lived happily in the seclusion and tranquillity of a pastoral life; but to her deep grief this peaceful existence was not fated to be of long duration. Hearing that some funereal games were about to be held in Troy in honour of a departed relative of the king, Paris resolved to visit the capital and take part in them himself. There he so greatly distinguished himself in a contest with his unknown brothers, Hector and Deiphobus, that the proud young princes, enraged that an obscure shepherd should snatch from them the prize of victory, were about to create a disturbance, when Cassandra, who had been a spectator of the proceedings, stepped forward, and announced to them that the humble peasant who had so signally defeated them was their own {285} brother Paris. He was then conducted to the presence of his parents, who joyfully acknowledged him as their child; and amidst the festivities and rejoicings in honour of their new-found son the ominous prediction of the past was forgotten. As a proof of his confidence, the king now intrusted Paris with a somewhat delicate mission. As we have already seen in the Legend of Heracles, that great hero conquered Troy, and after killing king Laomedon, carried away captive his beautiful daughter Hesione, whom he bestowed in marriage on his friend Telamon. But although she became princess of Salamis, and lived happily with her husband, her brother Priam never ceased to regret her loss, and the indignity which had been passed upon his house; and it was now proposed that Paris should be equipped with a numerous fleet, and proceed to Greece in order to demand the restoration of the king's sister. Before setting out on this expedition, Paris was warned by Cassandra against bringing home a wife from Greece, and she predicted that if he disregarded her injunction he would bring inevitable ruin upon the city of Troy, and destruction to the house of Priam. Under the command of Paris the fleet set sail, and arrived safely in Greece. Here the young Trojan prince first beheld Helen, the daughter of Zeus and Leda, and sister of the Dioscuri, who was the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta, and the loveliest woman of her time. The most renowned heroes in Greece had sought the honour of her hand; but her stepfather, Tyndareus, king of Sparta, fearing that if he bestowed her in marriage on one of her numerous lovers he would make enemies of the rest, made it a stipulation that all suitors should solemnly swear to assist and defend the successful candidate, with all the means at their command, in any feud which might hereafter arise in connection with the marriage. He at length conferred the hand of Helen upon Menelaus, a warlike prince, devoted to martial exercises and the pleasures of the chase, to whom he resigned his throne and kingdom. {286} When Paris arrived at Sparta, and sought hospitality at the royal palace, he was kindly received by king Menelaus. At the banquet given in his honour, he charmed both host and hostess by his graceful manner and varied accomplishments, and specially ingratiated himself with the fair Helen, to whom he presented some rare and chaste trinkets of Asiatic manufacture. Whilst Paris was still a guest at the court of the king of Sparta, the latter received an invitation from his friend Idomeneus, king of Crete, to join him in a hunting expedition; and Menelaus, being of an unsuspicious and easy temperament, accepted the invitation, leaving to Helen the duty of entertaining the distinguished stranger. Captivated by her surpassing loveliness, the Trojan prince forgot every sense of honour and duty, and resolved to rob his absent host of his beautiful wife. He accordingly collected his followers, and with their assistance stormed the royal castle, possessed himself of the rich treasures which it contained, and succeeded in carrying off its beautiful, and not altogether unwilling mistress. They at once set sail, but were driven by stress of weather to the island of Crania, where they cast anchor; and it was not until some years had elapsed, during which time home and country were forgotten, that Paris and Helen proceeded to Troy. PREPARATIONS FOR THE WAR.--When Menelaus heard of the violation of his hearth and home he proceeded to Pylos, accompanied by his brother Agamemnon, in order to consult the wise old king Nestor, who was renowned for his great experience and state-craft. On hearing the facts of the case Nestor expressed it as his opinion that only by means of the combined efforts of all the states of Greece could Menelaus hope to regain Helen in defiance of so powerful a kingdom as that of Troy. Menelaus and Agamemnon now raised the war-cry, which was unanimously responded to from one end of Greece to the other. Many of those who volunteered {287} their services were former suitors of the fair Helen, and were therefore bound by their oath to support the cause of Menelaus; others joined from pure love of adventure, but one and all were deeply impressed with the disgrace which would attach to their country should such a crime be suffered to go unpunished. Thus a powerful army was collected in which few names of note were missing. Only in the case of two great heroes, Odysseus (Ulysses) and Achilles, did Menelaus experience any difficulty. Odysseus, famed for his wisdom and great astuteness, was at this time living happily in Ithaca with his fair young wife Penelope and his little son Telemachus, and was loath to leave his happy home for a perilous foreign expedition of uncertain duration. When therefore his services were solicited he feigned madness; but the shrewd Palamedes, a distinguished hero in the suite of Menelaus, detected and exposed the ruse, and thus Odysseus was forced to join in the war. But he never forgave the interference of Palamedes, and, as we shall see, eventually revenged himself upon him in a most cruel manner. Achilles was the son of Peleus and the sea-goddess Thetis, who is said to have dipped her son, when a babe, in the river Styx, and thereby rendered him invulnerable, except in the right heel, by which she held him. When the boy was nine years old it was foretold to Thetis that he would either enjoy a long life of inglorious ease and inactivity, or that after a brief career of victory he would die the death of a hero. Naturally desirous of prolonging the life of her son, the fond mother devoutly hoped that the former fate might be allotted to him. With this view she conveyed him to the island of Scyros, in the Ægean Sea, where, disguised as a girl, he was brought up among the daughters of Lycomedes, king of the country. Now that the presence of Achilles was required, owing to an oracular prediction that Troy could not be taken without him, Menelaus consulted Calchas the soothsayer, who revealed to him the place of his concealment. Odysseus was accordingly despatched to Scyros, where, by {288} means of a clever device, he soon discovered which among the maidens was the object of his search. Disguising himself as a merchant, Odysseus obtained an introduction to the royal palace, where he offered to the king's daughters various trinkets for sale. The girls, with one exception, all examined his wares with unfeigned interest. Observing this circumstance Odysseus shrewdly concluded that the one who held aloof must be none other than the young Achilles himself. But in order further to test the correctness of his deduction, he now exhibited a beautiful set of warlike accoutrements, whilst, at a given signal, stirring strains of martial music were heard outside; whereupon Achilles, fired with warlike ardour, seized the weapons, and thus revealed his identity. He now joined the cause of the Greeks, accompanied at the request of his father by his kinsman Patroclus, and contributed to the expedition a large force of Thessalian troops, or Myrmidons, as they were called, and also fifty ships. For ten long years Agamemnon and the other chiefs devoted all their energy and means in preparing for the expedition against Troy. But during these warlike preparations an attempt at a peaceful solution of the difficulty was not neglected. An embassy consisting of Menelaus, Odysseus, &c., was despatched to king Priam demanding the surrender of Helen; but though the embassy was received with the utmost pomp and ceremony, the demand was nevertheless rejected; upon which the ambassadors returned to Greece, and the order was given for the fleet to assemble at Aulis, in Boeotia. Never before in the annals of Greece had so large an army been collected. A hundred thousand warriors were assembled at Aulis, and in its bay floated over a thousand ships, ready to convey them to the Trojan coast. The command of this mighty host was intrusted to Agamemnon, king of Argos, the most powerful of all the Greek princes. Before the fleet set sail solemn sacrifices were offered to the gods on the sea-shore, when suddenly a serpent was seen to ascend a plane-tree, in which was a sparrow's {289} nest containing nine young ones. The reptile first devoured the young birds and then their mother, after which it was turned by Zeus into stone. Calchas the soothsayer, on being consulted, interpreted the miracle to signify that the war with Troy would last for nine years, and that only in the tenth would the city be taken. DEPARTURE OF THE GREEK FLEET.--The fleet then set sail; but mistaking the Mysian coast for that of Troy, they landed troops and commenced to ravage the country. Telephus, king of the Mysians, who was a son of the great hero Heracles, opposed them with a large army, and succeeded in driving them back to their ships, but was himself wounded in the engagement by the spear of Achilles. Patroclus, who fought valiantly by the side of his kinsman, was also wounded in this battle; but Achilles, who was a pupil of Chiron, carefully bound up the wound, which he succeeded in healing; and from this incident dates the celebrated friendship which ever after existed between the two heroes, who even in death remained united. The Greeks now returned to Aulis. Meanwhile, the wound of Telephus proving incurable, he consulted an oracle, and the response was, that he alone who had inflicted the wound possessed the power of curing it. Telephus accordingly proceeded to the Greek camp, where he was healed by Achilles, and, at the solicitation of Odysseus, consented to act as guide in the voyage to Troy. Just as the expedition was about to start for the second time, Agamemnon had the misfortune to kill a hind sacred to Artemis, who, in her anger, sent continuous calms, which prevented the fleet from setting sail. Calchas on being consulted announced that the sacrifice of Iphigenia, the daughter of Agamemnon, would alone appease the incensed goddess. How Agamemnon at length overcame his feelings as a father, and how Iphigenia was saved by Artemis herself, has been already related in a previous chapter. A fair wind having at length sprung up, the fleet {290} once more set sail. They first stopped at the island of Tenedos, where the famous archer Philoctetes--who possessed the bow and arrows of Heracles, given to him by the dying hero--was bitten in the foot by a venomous snake. So unbearable was the odour emitted by the wound, that, at the suggestion of Odysseus, Philoctetes was conveyed to the island of Lesbos, where, to his great chagrin, he was abandoned to his fate, and the fleet proceeded on their journey to Troy. COMMENCEMENT OF HOSTILITIES.--Having received early intelligence of the impending invasion of their country, the Trojans sought the assistance of the neighbouring states, who all gallantly responded to their call for help, and thus ample preparations were made to receive the enemy. King Priam being himself too advanced in years for active service, the command of the army devolved upon his eldest son, the brave and valiant Hector. At the approach of the Greek fleet the Trojans appeared on the coast in order to prevent their landing. But great hesitation prevailed among the troops as to who should be the first to set foot on the enemy's soil, it having been predicted that whoever did so would fall a sacrifice to the Fates. Protesilaus of Phylace, however, nobly disregarding the ominous prediction, leaped on shore, and fell by the hand of Hector. The Greeks then succeeded in effecting a landing, and in the engagement which ensued the Trojans were signally defeated, and driven to seek safety behind the walls of their city. With Achilles at their head the Greeks now made a desperate attempt to take the city by storm, but were repulsed with terrible losses. After this defeat the invaders, foreseeing a long and wearisome campaign, drew up their ships on land, erected tents, huts, &c., and formed an intrenched camp on the coast. Between the Greek camp and the city of Troy was a plain watered by the rivers Scamander and Simois, and it was on this plain, afterwards so renowned in history, {291} that the ever memorable battles between the Greeks and Trojans were fought. The impossibility of taking the city by storm was now recognized by the leaders of the Greek forces. The Trojans, on their side, being less numerous than the enemy, dared not venture on a great battle in the open field; hence the war dragged on for many weary years without any decisive engagement taking place. It was about this time that Odysseus carried out his long meditated revenge against Palamedes. Palamedes was one of the wisest, most energetic, and most upright of all the Greek heroes, and it was in consequence of his unflagging zeal and wonderful eloquence that most of the chiefs had been induced to join the expedition. But the very qualities which endeared him to the hearts of his countrymen rendered him hateful in the eyes of his implacable enemy, Odysseus, who never forgave his having detected his scheme to avoid joining the army. In order to effect the ruin of Palamedes, Odysseus concealed in his tent a vast sum of money. He next wrote a letter, purporting to be from king Priam to Palamedes, in which the former thanked the Greek hero effusively for the valuable information received from him, referring at the same time to a large sum of money which he had sent to him as a reward. This letter, which was found upon the person of a Phrygian prisoner, was read aloud in a council of the Greek princes. Palamedes was arraigned before the chiefs of the army and accused of betraying his country to the enemy, whereupon a search was instituted, and a large sum of money being found in his tent, he was pronounced guilty and sentenced to be stoned to death. Though fully aware of the base treachery practised against him, Palamedes offered not a word in self-defence, knowing but too well that, in the face of such damning evidence, the attempt to prove his innocence would be vain. DEFECTION OF ACHILLES.--During the first year of the campaign the Greeks ravaged the surrounding country, {292} and pillaged the neighbouring villages. Upon one of these foraging expeditions the city of Pedasus was sacked, and Agamemnon, as commander-in-chief, received as his share of the spoil the beautiful Chrysëis, daughter of Chryses, the priest of Apollo; whilst to Achilles was allotted another captive, the fair Brisëis. The following day Chryses, anxious to ransom his daughter, repaired to the Greek camp; but Agamemnon refused to accede to his proposal, and with rude and insulting words drove the old man away. Full of grief at the loss of his child Chryses called upon Apollo for vengeance on her captor. His prayer was heard, and the god sent a dreadful pestilence which raged for ten days in the camp of the Greeks. Achilles at length called together a council, and inquired of Calchas the soothsayer how to arrest this terrible visitation of the gods. The seer replied that Apollo, incensed at the insult offered to his priest, had sent the plague, and that only by the surrender of Chrysëis could his anger be appeased. On hearing this Agamemnon agreed to resign the maiden; but being already embittered against Calchas for his prediction with regard to his own daughter Iphigenia, he now heaped insults upon the soothsayer and accused him of plotting against his interests. Achilles espoused the cause of Calchas, and a violent dispute arose, in which the son of Thetis would have killed his chief but for the timely interference of Pallas-Athene, who suddenly appeared beside him, unseen by the rest, and recalled him to a sense of the duty he owed to his commander. Agamemnon revenged himself on Achilles by depriving him of his beautiful captive, the fair Brisëis, who had become so attached to her kind and noble captor that she wept bitterly on being removed from his charge. Achilles, now fairly disgusted with the ungenerous conduct of his chief, withdrew himself to his tent, and obstinately declined to take further part in the war. Heart-sore and dejected he repaired to the sea-shore, and there invoked the presence of his divine mother. In answer to his prayer Thetis emerged from beneath {293} the waves, and comforted her gallant son with the assurance that she would entreat the mighty Zeus to avenge his wrongs by giving victory to the Trojans, so that the Greeks might learn to realize the great loss which they had sustained by his withdrawal from the army. The Trojans being informed by one of their spies of the defection of Achilles, became emboldened by the absence of this brave and intrepid leader, whom they feared above all the other Greek heroes; they accordingly sallied forth, and made a bold and eminently successful attack upon the Greeks, who, although they most bravely and obstinately defended their position, were completely routed, and driven back to their intrenchments, Agamemnon and most of the other Greek leaders being wounded in the engagement. Encouraged by this marked and signal success the Trojans now commenced to besiege the Greeks in their own camp. At this juncture Agamemnon, seeing the danger which threatened the army, sunk for the moment all personal grievances, and despatched an embassy to Achilles consisting of many noble and distinguished chiefs, urgently entreating him to come to the assistance of his countrymen in this their hour of peril; promising that not only should the fair Brisëis be restored to him, but also that the hand of his own daughter should be bestowed on him in marriage, with seven towns as her dowry. But the obstinate determination of the proud hero was not to be moved; and though he listened courteously to the arguments and representations of the messengers of Agamemnon, his resolution to take no further part in the war remained unshaken. In one of the engagements which took place soon afterwards, the Trojans, under the command of Hector, penetrated into the heart of the Greek camp, and had already commenced to burn their ships, when Patroclus, seeing the distress of his countrymen, earnestly besought Achilles to send him to the rescue at the head of the Myrmidons. The better nature of the hero prevailed, and he not only intrusted to his friend the command of {294} his brave band of warriors, but lent him also his own suit of armour. Patroclus having mounted the war-chariot of the hero, Achilles lifted on high a golden goblet and poured out a libation of wine to the gods, accompanied by an earnest petition for victory, and the safe return of his beloved comrade. As a parting injunction he warned Patroclus against advancing too far into the territory of the enemy, and entreated him to be content with rescuing the galleys. At the head of the Myrmidons Patroclus now made a desperate attack upon the enemy, who, thinking that the invincible Achilles was himself in command of his battalions, became disheartened, and were put to flight. Patroclus followed up his victory and pursued the Trojans as far as the walls of their city, altogether forgetting in the excitement of battle the injunction of his friend Achilles. But his temerity cost the young hero his life, for he now encountered the mighty Hector himself, and fell by his hands. Hector stripped the armour from his dead foe, and would have dragged the body into the city had not Menelaus and Ajax the Greater rushed forward, and after a long and fierce struggle succeeded in rescuing it from desecration. DEATH OF HECTOR.--And now came the mournful task of informing Achilles of the fate of his friend. He wept bitterly over the dead body of his comrade, and solemnly vowed that the funereal rites should not be solemnized in his honour until he had slain Hector with his own hands, and captured twelve Trojans to be immolated on his funeral pyre. All other considerations vanished before the burning desire to avenge the death of his friend; and Achilles, now thoroughly aroused from his apathy, became reconciled to Agamemnon, and rejoined the Greek army. At the request of the goddess Thetis, Hephæstus forged for him a new suit of armour, which far surpassed in magnificence that of all the other heroes. Thus gloriously arrayed he was soon seen striding {295} along, calling the Greeks to arms. He now led the troops against the enemy, who were defeated and put to flight until, near the gates of the city, Achilles and Hector encountered each other. But here, for the first time throughout his whole career, the courage of the Trojan hero deserted him. At the near approach of his redoubtable antagonist he turned and fled for his life. Achilles pursued him; and thrice round the walls of the city was the terrible race run, in sight of the old king and queen, who had mounted the walls to watch the battle. Hector endeavoured, during each course, to reach the city gates, so that his comrades might open them to admit him or cover him with their missiles; but his adversary, seeing his design, forced him into the open plain, at the same time calling to his friends to hurl no spear upon his foe, but to leave to him the vengeance he had so long panted for. At length, wearied with the hot pursuit, Hector made a stand and challenged his foe to single combat. A desperate encounter took place, in which Hector succumbed to his powerful adversary at the Scæan gate; and with his last dying breath the Trojan hero foretold to his conqueror that he himself would soon perish on the same spot. The infuriated victor bound the lifeless corse of his fallen foe to his chariot, and dragged it three times round the city walls and thence to the Greek camp. Overwhelmed with horror at this terrible scene the aged parents of Hector uttered such heart-rending cries of anguish that they reached the ears of Andromache, his faithful wife, who, rushing to the walls, beheld the dead body of her husband, bound to the conqueror's car. Achilles now solemnized the funereal rites in honour of his friend Patroclus. The dead body of the hero was borne to the funeral pile by the Myrmidons in full panoply. His dogs and horses were then slain to accompany him, in case he should need them in the realm of shades; after which Achilles, in fulfilment of his savage vow, slaughtered twelve brave Trojan captives, who were {296} laid on the funeral pyre, which was now lighted. When all was consumed the bones of Patroclus were carefully collected and inclosed in a golden urn. Then followed the funereal games, which consisted of chariot-races, fighting with the cestus (a sort of boxing-glove), wrestling matches, foot-races, and single combats with shield and spear, in all of which the most distinguished heroes took part, and contended for the prizes. PENTHESILEA.--After the death of Hector, their great hope and bulwark, the Trojans did not venture beyond the walls of their city. But soon their hopes were revived by the appearance of a powerful army of Amazons under the command of their queen Penthesilea, a daughter of Ares, whose great ambition was to measure swords with the renowned Achilles himself, and to avenge the death of the valiant Hector. Hostilities now recommenced in the open plain. Penthesilea led the Trojan host; the Greeks on their side being under the command of Achilles and Ajax. Whilst the latter succeeded in putting the enemy to flight, Achilles was challenged by Penthesilea to single combat. With heroic courage she went forth to the fight; but even the strongest men failed before the power of the great Achilles, and though a daughter of Ares, Penthesilea was but a woman. With generous chivalry the hero endeavoured to spare the brave and beautiful maiden-warrior, and only when his own life was in imminent danger did he make a serious effort to vanquish his enemy, when Penthesilea shared the fate of all who ventured to oppose the spear of Achilles, and fell by his hand. Feeling herself fatally wounded, she remembered the desecration of the dead body of Hector, and earnestly entreated the forbearance of the hero. But the petition was hardly necessary, for Achilles, full of compassion for his brave but unfortunate adversary, lifted her gently from the ground, and she expired in his arms. On beholding the dead body of their leader in the {297} possession of Achilles, the Amazons and Trojans prepared for a fresh attack in order to wrest it from his hands; but observing their purpose, Achilles stepped forward and loudly called upon them to halt. Then in a few well-chosen words he praised the great valour and intrepidity of the fallen queen, and expressed his willingness to resign the body at once. The chivalrous conduct of Achilles was fully appreciated by both Greeks and Trojans. Thersites alone, a base and cowardly wretch, attributed unworthy motives to the gracious proceedings of the hero; and, not content with these insinuations, he savagely pierced with his lance the dead body of the Amazonian queen; whereupon Achilles, with one blow of his powerful arm, felled him to the ground, and killed him on the spot. The well-merited death of Thersites excited no commiseration, but his kinsman Diomedes came forward and claimed compensation for the murder of his relative; and as Agamemnon, who, as commander-in-chief, might easily have settled the difficulty, refrained from interfering, the proud nature of Achilles resented the implied condemnation of his conduct, and he once more abandoned the Greek army and took ship for Lesbos. Odysseus, however, followed him to the island, and, with his usual tact, succeeded in inducing the hero to return to the camp. DEATH OF ACHILLES.--A new ally of the Trojans now appeared on the field in the person of Memnon, the Æthiopian, a son of Eos and Tithonus, who brought with him a powerful reinforcement of negroes. Memnon was the first opponent who had yet encountered Achilles on an equal footing; for like the great hero himself he was the son of a goddess, and possessed also, like Achilles, a suit of armour made for him by Hephæstus. Before the heroes encountered each other in single combat, the two goddesses, Thetis and Eos, hastened to Olympus to intercede with its mighty ruler for the life of their sons. Resolved even in this instance not to act in opposition to the Moiræ, Zeus seized the golden scales {298} in which he weighed the lot of mortals, and placed in it the respective fates of the two heroes, whereupon that of Memnon weighed down the balance, thus portending his death. Eos abandoned Olympus in despair. Arrived on the battlefield she beheld the lifeless body of her son, who, after a long and brave defence, had at length succumbed to the all-conquering arm of Achilles. At her command her children, the Winds, flew down to the plain, and seizing the body of the slain hero conveyed it through the air safe from the desecration of the enemy. The triumph of Achilles was not of long duration. Intoxicated with success he attempted, at the head of the Greek army, to storm the city of Troy, when Paris, by the aid of Phoebus-Apollo, aimed a well-directed dart at the hero, which pierced his vulnerable heel, and he fell to the ground fatally wounded before the Scæan gate. But though face to face with death, the intrepid hero, raising himself from the ground, still performed prodigies of valour, and not until his tottering limbs refused their office was the enemy aware that the wound was mortal. By the combined efforts of Ajax and Odysseus the body of Achilles was wrested from the enemy after a long and terrible fight, and conveyed to the Greek camp. Weeping bitterly over the untimely fate of her gallant son, Thetis came to embrace him for the last time, and mingled her regrets and lamentations with those of the whole Greek army. The funeral pyre was then lighted, and the voices of the Muses were heard chanting his funeral dirge. When, according to the custom of the ancients, the body had been burned on the pyre, the bones of the hero were collected, inclosed in a golden urn, and deposited beside the remains of his beloved friend Patroclus. In the funereal games celebrated in honour of the fallen hero, the property of her son was offered by Thetis as the prize of victory. But it was unanimously agreed that the beautiful suit of armour made by Hephæstus should be awarded to him who had contributed the most to the {299} rescue of the body from the hands of the enemy. Popular opinion unanimously decided in favour of Odysseus, which verdict was confirmed by the Trojan prisoners who were present at the engagement. Unable to endure the slight, the unfortunate Ajax lost his reason, and in this condition put an end to his existence. FINAL MEASURES.--Thus were the Greeks deprived at one and the same time of their bravest and most powerful leader, and of him also who approached the nearest to this distinction. For a time operations were at a standstill, until Odysseus at length, contrived by means of a cleverly-arranged ambush to capture Helenus, the son of Priam. Like his sister Cassandra, Helenus possessed the gift of prophecy, and the unfortunate youth was now coerced by Odysseus into using this gift against the welfare of his native city. The Greeks learned from the Trojan prince that three conditions were indispensable to the conquest of Troy:--In the first place the son of Achilles must fight in their ranks; secondly, the arrows of Heracles must be used against the enemy; and thirdly, they must obtain possession of the wooden image of Pallas-Athene, the famous Palladium of Troy. The first condition was easily fulfilled. Ever ready to serve the interests of the community, Odysseus repaired to the island of Scyros, where he found Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles. Having succeeded in arousing the ambition of the fiery youth, he generously resigned to him the magnificent armour of his father, and then conveyed him to the Greek camp, where he immediately distinguished himself in single combat with Eurypylus, the son of Telephus, who had come to the aid of the Trojans. To procure the poison-dipped arrows of Heracles was a matter of greater difficulty. They were still in the possession of the much-aggrieved Philoctetes, who had remained in the island of Lemnos, his wound still unhealed, suffering the most abject misery. But the {300} judicious zeal of the indefatigable and ever-active Odysseus, who was accompanied in this undertaking by Diomedes, at length gained the day, and he induced Philoctetes to accompany him to the camp, where the skilful leech Machaon, the son of Asclepias, healed him of his wound. Philoctetes became reconciled to Agamemnon, and in an engagement which took place soon after, he mortally wounded Paris, the son of Priam. But though pierced by the fatal arrow of the demi-god, death did not immediately ensue; and Paris, calling to mind the prediction of an oracle, that his deserted wife Oenone could alone cure him if wounded, caused himself to be transported to her abode on Mount Ida, where he implored her by the memory of their past love to save his life. But mindful only of her wrongs, Oenone crushed out of her heart every womanly feeling of pity and compassion, and sternly bade him depart. Soon, however, all her former affection for her husband awoke within her. With frantic haste she followed him; but on her arrival in the city she found the dead body of Paris already laid on the lighted funeral pile, and, in her remorse and despair, Oenone threw herself on the lifeless form of her husband and perished in the flames. The Trojans were now shut up within their walls and closely besieged; but the third and most difficult condition being still unfulfilled, all efforts to take the city were unavailing. In this emergency the wise and devoted Odysseus came once more to the aid of his comrades. Having disfigured himself with self-inflicted wounds, he assumed the disguise of a wretched old mendicant, and then crept stealthily into the city in order to discover where the Palladium was preserved. He succeeded in his object, and was recognized by no one save the fair Helen, who after the death of Paris had been given in marriage to his brother Deiphobus. But since death had robbed her of her lover, the heart of the Greek princess had turned yearningly towards her native country and her husband Menelaus, and Odysseus now found in her a most unlooked-for ally. On his return to the camp {301} Odysseus called to his aid the valiant Diomedes, and with his assistance the perilous task of abstracting the Palladium from its sacred precincts was, after some difficulty, effected. The conditions of conquest being now fulfilled, a council was called to decide on final proceedings. Epeios, a Greek sculptor, who had accompanied the expedition, was desired to construct a colossal wooden horse large enough to contain a number of able and distinguished heroes. On its completion a band of warriors concealed themselves within, whereupon the Greek army broke up their camp, and then set fire to it, as though, wearied of the long and tedious ten years' siege, they had abandoned the enterprise as hopeless. Accompanied by Agamemnon and the sage Nestor, the fleet set sail for the island of Tenedos, where they cast anchor, anxiously awaiting the torch signal to hasten back to the Trojan coast. DESTRUCTION OF TROY.--When the Trojans saw the enemy depart, and the Greek camp in flames, they believed themselves safe at last, and streamed in great numbers out of the town in order to view the site where the Greeks had so long encamped. Here they found the gigantic wooden horse, which they examined with wondering curiosity, various opinions being expressed with regard to its utility. Some supposed it to be an engine of war, and were in favour of destroying it, others regarded it as a sacred idol, and proposed that it should be brought into the city. Two circumstances which now occurred induced the Trojans to incline towards the latter opinion. Chief among those who suspected a treacherous design in this huge contrivance was Laocoon, a priest of Apollo, who, in company with his two young sons, had issued from the city with the Trojans in order to offer a sacrifice to the gods. With all the eloquence at his command he urged his countrymen not to place confidence in any gift of the Greeks, and even went so far as to pierce the {302} side of the horse with a spear which he took from a warrior beside him, whereupon the arms of the heroes were heard to rattle. The hearts of the brave men concealed inside the horse quailed within them, and they had already given themselves up for lost, when Pallas-Athene, who ever watched over the cause of the Greeks, now came to their aid, and a miracle occurred in order to blind and deceive the devoted Trojans;--for the fall of Troy was decreed by the gods. [Illustration] Whilst Laocoon with his two sons stood prepared to perform the sacrifice, two enormous serpents suddenly rose out of the sea, and made direct for the altar. They entwined themselves first round the tender limbs of the helpless youths, and then encircled their father who rushed to their assistance, and thus all three were destroyed in sight of the horrified multitude. The Trojans naturally interpreted the fate of Laocoon and his sons to be a punishment sent by Zeus for his sacrilege against the wooden horse, and were now fully convinced that it must be consecrated to the gods. The crafty Odysseus had left behind his trusty friend Sinon with full instructions as to his course of action. Assuming the rôle assigned to him, he now approached king Priam with fettered hands and piteous entreaties, alleging that the Greeks, in obedience to the command of an oracle, had attempted to immolate him as a sacrifice; but that he had contrived to escape from their hands, and now sought protection from the king. The kind-hearted monarch, believing his story, released {303} his bonds, assured him of his favour, and then begged him to explain the true meaning of the wooden horse. Sinon willingly complied. He informed the king that Pallas-Athene, who had hitherto been the hope and stay of the Greeks throughout the war, was so deeply offended at the removal of her sacred image, the Palladium, from her temple in Troy, that she had withdrawn her protection from the Greeks, and refused all further aid till it was restored to its rightful place. Hence the Greeks had returned home in order to seek fresh instructions from an oracle. But before leaving, Calchas the seer had advised their building this gigantic wooden horse as a tribute to the offended goddess, hoping thereby to appease her just anger. He further explained that it had been constructed of such colossal proportions in order to prevent its being brought into the city, so that the favour of Pallas-Athene might not be transferred to the Trojans. Hardly had the crafty Sinon ceased speaking when the Trojans, with one accord, urged that the wooden horse should be brought into their city without delay. The gates being too low to admit its entrance, a breach was made in the walls, and the horse was conveyed in triumph into the very heart of Troy; whereupon the Trojans, overjoyed at what they deemed the successful issue of the campaign, abandoned themselves to feasting and rioting. Amidst the universal rejoicing the unhappy Cassandra, foreseeing the result of the admission of the wooden horse into the city, was seen rushing through the streets with wild gestures and dishevelled hair, warning her people against the dangers which awaited them. But her eloquent words fell on deaf ears; for it was ever the fate of the unfortunate prophetess that her predictions should find no credence. When, after the day's excitement, the Trojans had retired to rest, and all was hushed and silent, Sinon, in the dead of night, released the heroes from their voluntary imprisonment. The signal was then given to the Greek fleet lying off Tenedos, and the whole army in unbroken silence once more landed on the Trojan coast. {304} To enter the city was now an easy matter, and a fearful slaughter ensued. Aroused from their slumbers, the Trojans, under the command of their bravest leaders, made a gallant defence, but were easily overcome. All their most valiant heroes fell in the fight, and soon the whole city was wrapt in flames. Priam fell by the hand of Neoptolemus, who killed him as he lay prostrate before the altar of Zeus, praying for divine assistance in this awful hour of peril. The unfortunate Andromache with her young son Astyanax had taken refuge on the summit of a tower, where she was discovered by the victors, who, fearing lest the son of Hector might one day rise against them to avenge the death of his father, tore him from her arms and hurled him over the battlements. Æneas alone, the son of Aphrodite, the beloved of gods and men, escaped the universal carnage with his son and his old father Anchises, whom he carried on his shoulders out of the city. He first sought refuge on Mount Ida, and afterwards fled to Italy, where he became the ancestral hero of the Roman people. Menelaus now sought Helen in the royal palace, who, being immortal, still retained all her former beauty and fascination. A reconciliation took place, and she accompanied her husband on his homeward voyage. Andromache, the widow of the brave Hector, was given in marriage to Neoptolemus, Cassandra fell to the share of Agamemnon, and Hecuba, the gray-haired and widowed queen, was made prisoner by Odysseus. The boundless treasures of the wealthy Trojan king fell into the hands of the Greek heroes, who, after having levelled the city of Troy to the ground, prepared for their homeward voyage. RETURN OF THE GREEKS FROM TROY. During the sacking of the city of Troy the Greeks, in the hour of victory, committed many acts of desecration and cruelty, which called down upon them the wrath of the {305} gods, for which reason their homeward voyage was beset with manifold dangers and disasters, and many perished before they reached their native land. Nestor, Diomedes, Philoctetes, and Neoptolemus were among those who arrived safely in Greece after a prosperous voyage. The vessel which carried Menelaus and Helen was driven by violent tempests to the coast of Egypt, and only after many years of weary wanderings and vicissitudes did they succeed in reaching their home at Sparta. Ajax the Lesser having offended Pallas-Athene by desecrating her temple on the night of the destruction of Troy, was shipwrecked off Cape Caphareus. He succeeded, however, in clinging to a rock, and his life might have been spared but for his impious boast that he needed not the help of the gods. No sooner had he uttered the sacrilegious words than Poseidon, enraged at his audacity, split with his trident the rock to which the hero was clinging, and the unfortunate Ajax was overwhelmed by the waves. FATE OF AGAMEMNON.--The homeward voyage of Agamemnon was tolerably uneventful and prosperous; but on his arrival at Mycenæ misfortune and ruin awaited him. His wife Clytemnestra, in revenge for the sacrifice of her beloved daughter Iphigenia, had formed a secret alliance during his absence with Ægisthus, the son of Thyestes, and on the return of Agamemnon they both conspired to compass his destruction. Clytemnestra feigned the greatest joy on beholding her husband, and in spite of the urgent warnings of Cassandra, who was now a captive in his train, he received her protestations of affection with the most trusting confidence. In her well-assumed anxiety for the comfort of the weary traveller, she prepared a warm bath for his refreshment, and at a given signal from the treacherous queen, Ægisthus, who was concealed in an adjoining chamber, rushed upon the defenceless hero and slew him. {306} During the massacre of the retainers of Agamemnon which followed, his daughter Electra, with great presence of mind, contrived to save her young brother Orestes. He fled for refuge to his uncle Strophius, king of Phocis, who educated him with his own son Pylades, and an ardent friendship sprung up between the youths, which, from its constancy and disinterestedness, has become proverbial. As Orestes grew up to manhood, his one great all-absorbing desire was to avenge the death of his father. Accompanied by his faithful friend Pylades, he repaired in disguise to Mycenæ, where Ægisthus and Clytemnestra reigned conjointly over the kingdom of Argos. In order to disarm suspicion he had taken the precaution to despatch a messenger to Clytemnestra, purporting to be sent by king Strophius, to announce to her the untimely death of her son Orestes through an accident during a chariot-race at Delphi. Arrived at Mycenæ, he found his sister Electra so overwhelmed with grief at the news of her brother's death that to her he revealed his identity. When he heard from her lips how cruelly she had been treated by her mother, and how joyfully the news of his demise had been received, his long pent-up passion completely overpowered him, and rushing into the presence of the king and queen, he first pierced Clytemnestra to the heart, and afterwards her guilty partner. But the crime of murdering his own mother was not long unavenged by the gods. Hardly was the fatal act committed when the Furies appeared and unceasingly pursued the unfortunate Orestes wherever he went. In this wretched plight he sought refuge in the temple of Delphi, where he earnestly besought Apollo to release him from his cruel tormentors. The god commanded him, in expiation of his crime, to repair to Taurica-Chersonnesus and convey the statue of Artemis from thence to the kingdom of Attica, an expedition fraught with extreme peril. We have already seen in a former chapter how Orestes escaped the fate which befell all strangers {307} who landed on the Taurian coast, and how, with the aid of his sister Iphigenia, the priestess of the temple, he succeeded in conveying the statue of the goddess to his native country. But the Furies did not so easily relinquish their prey, and only by means of the interposition of the just and powerful goddess Pallas-Athene was Orestes finally liberated from their persecution. His peace of mind being at length restored, Orestes assumed the government of the kingdom of Argos, and became united to the beautiful Hermione, daughter of Helen and Menelaus. On his faithful friend Pylades he bestowed the hand of his beloved sister, the good and faithful Electra. HOMEWARD VOYAGE OF ODYSSEUS.--With his twelve ships laden with enormous treasures, captured during the sacking of Troy, Odysseus set sail with a light heart for his rocky island home of Ithaca. At length the happy hour had arrived which for ten long years the hero had so anxiously awaited, and he little dreamt that ten more must elapse before he would be permitted by the Fates to clasp to his heart his beloved wife and child. During his homeward voyage his little fleet was driven by stress of weather to a land whose inhabitants subsisted entirely on a curious plant called the lotus, which was sweet as honey to the taste, but had the effect of causing utter oblivion of home and country, and of creating an irresistible longing to remain for ever in the land of the lotus-eaters. Odysseus and his companions were hospitably received by the inhabitants, who regaled them freely with their peculiar and very delicious food; after partaking of which, however, the comrades of the hero refused to leave the country, and it was only by sheer force that he at length succeeded in bringing them back to their ships. POLYPHEMUS.--Continuing their journey, they next arrived at the country of the Cyclops, a race of giants remarkable for having only one eye, which was placed in the centre of their foreheads. Here Odysseus, whose love of adventure overcame more prudent considerations, {308} left his fleet safely anchored in the bay of a neighbouring island, and with twelve chosen companions set out to explore the country. Near the shore they found a vast cave, into which they boldly entered. In the interior they saw to their surprise huge piles of cheese and great pails of milk ranged round the walls. After partaking freely of these provisions his companions endeavoured to persuade Odysseus to return to the ship; but the hero being curious to make the acquaintance of the owner of this extraordinary abode, ordered them to remain and await his pleasure. Towards evening a fierce giant made his appearance, bearing an enormous load of wood upon his shoulders, and driving before him a large flock of sheep. This was Polyphemus, the son of Poseidon, the owner of the cave. After all his sheep had entered, the giant rolled before the entrance to the cave an enormous rock, which the combined strength of a hundred men would have been powerless to move. Having kindled a fire of great logs of pine-wood he was about to prepare his supper when the flames revealed to him, in a corner of the cavern, its new occupants, who now came forward and informed him that they were shipwrecked mariners, and claimed his hospitality in the name of Zeus. But the fierce monster railed at the great ruler of Olympus--for the lawless Cyclops knew no fear of the gods--and hardly vouchsafed a reply to the demand of the hero. To the consternation of Odysseus the giant seized two of his companions, and, after dashing them to the ground, consumed their remains, washing down the ghastly meal with huge draughts of milk. He then stretched his gigantic limbs on the ground, and soon fell fast asleep beside the fire. Thinking the opportunity a favourable one to rid himself and his companions of their terrible enemy, Odysseus drew his sword, and, creeping stealthily forward, was about to slay the giant when he suddenly remembered that the aperture of the cave was effectually closed by the immense rock, which rendered egress impossible. He {309} therefore wisely determined to wait until the following day, and set his wits to work in the meantime to devise a scheme by which he and his companions might make their escape. When, early next morning, the giant awoke, two more unfortunate companions of the hero were seized by him and devoured; after which Polyphemus leisurely drove out his flock, taking care to secure the entrance of the cave as before. Next evening the giant devoured two more of his victims, and when he had finished his revolting meal Odysseus stepped forward and presented him with a large measure of wine which he had brought with him from his ship in a goat's skin. Delighted with the delicious beverage the giant inquired the name of the donor. Odysseus replied that his name was Noman, whereupon Polyphemus, graciously announced that he would evince his gratitude by eating him the last. The monster, thoroughly overcome with the powerful old liquor, soon fell into a heavy sleep, and Odysseus lost no time in putting his plans into execution. He had cut during the day a large piece of the giant's own olive-staff, which he now heated in the fire, and, aided by his companions, thrust it into the eye-ball of Polyphemus, and in this manner effectually blinded him. The giant made the cave resound with his howls of pain and rage. His cries being heard by his brother Cyclops, who lived in caves not far distant from his own, they soon came trooping over the hills from all sides, and assailed the door of the cave with inquiries concerning the cause of his cries and groans. But as his only reply was, "Noman has injured me," they concluded that he had been playing them a trick, and therefore abandoned him to his fate. The blinded giant now groped vainly round his cave in hopes of laying hands on some of his tormentors; but wearied at length of these fruitless exertions he rolled away the rock which closed the aperture, thinking that his victims would rush out with the sheep, when it would {310} be an easy matter to capture them. But in the meantime Odysseus had not been idle, and the subtlety of the hero was now brought into play, and proved more than a match for the giant's strength. The sheep were very large, and Odysseus, with bands of willow taken from the bed of Polyphemus, had cleverly linked them together three abreast, and under each centre one had secured one of his comrades. After providing for the safety of his companions, Odysseus himself selected the finest ram of the flock, and, by clinging to the wool of the animal, made his escape. As the sheep passed out of the cave the giant felt carefully among them for his victims, but not finding them on the backs of the animals he let them pass, and thus they all escaped. They now hastened on board their vessel, and Odysseus, thinking himself at a safe distance, shouted out his real name and mockingly defied the giant; whereupon Polyphemus seized a huge rock, and, following the direction of the voice, hurled it towards the ship, which narrowly escaped destruction. He then called upon his father Poseidon to avenge him, entreating him to curse Odysseus with a long and tedious voyage, to destroy all his ships and all his companions, and to make his return as late, as unhappy, and as desolate as possible. FURTHER ADVENTURES.--After sailing about over unknown seas for some time the hero and his followers cast anchor at the island of Æolus, king of the Winds, who welcomed them cordially, and sumptuously entertained them for a whole month. When they took their leave he gave Odysseus the skin of an ox, into which he had placed all the contrary winds in order to insure to them a safe and speedy voyage, and then, having cautioned him on no account to open it, caused the gentle Zephyrus to blow so that he might waft them to the shores of Greece. On the evening of the tenth day after their departure they arrived in sight of the watch-fires of Ithaca. But here, unfortunately, Odysseus, being completely wearied {311} out, fell asleep, and his comrades, thinking Æolus had given him a treasure in the bag which he so sedulously guarded, seized this opportunity of opening it, whereupon all the adverse winds rushed out, and drove them back to the Æolian island. This time, however, Æolus did not welcome them as before, but dismissed them with bitter reproaches and upbraidings for their disregard of his injunctions. After a six days' voyage they at length sighted land. Observing what appeared to be the smoke from a large town, Odysseus despatched a herald, accompanied by two of his comrades, in order to procure provisions. When they arrived in the city they discovered to their consternation that they had set foot in the land of the Læstrygones, a race of fierce and gigantic cannibals, governed by their king Antiphates. The unfortunate herald was seized and killed by the king; but his two companions, who took to flight, succeeded in reaching their ship in safety, and urgently entreated their chief to put to sea without delay. But Antiphates and his fellow-giants pursued the fugitives to the sea-shore, where they now appeared in large numbers. They seized huge rocks, which they hurled upon the fleet, sinking eleven of the ships with all hands, on board; the vessel under the immediate command of Odysseus being the only one which escaped destruction. In this ship, with his few remaining followers, Odysseus now set sail, but was driven by adverse winds to an island called Ææa. CIRCE.--The hero and his companions were in sore need of provisions, but, warned by previous disasters, Odysseus resolved that only a certain number of the ship's crew should be despatched to reconnoitre the country; and on lots being drawn by Odysseus and Eurylochus, it fell to the share of the latter to fill the office of conductor to the little band selected for this purpose. They soon came to a magnificent marble palace, which was situated in a charming and fertile valley. Here {312} dwelt a beautiful enchantress called Circe, daughter of the sun-god and the sea-nymph Perse. The entrance to her abode was guarded by wolves and lions, who, however, to the great surprise of the strangers, were tame and harmless as lambs. These were, in fact, human beings who, by the wicked arts of the sorceress, had been thus transformed. From within they heard the enchanting voice of the goddess, who was singing a sweet melody as she sat at her work, weaving a web such as immortals alone could produce. She graciously invited them to enter, and all save the prudent and cautious Eurylochus accepted the invitation. As they trod the wide and spacious halls of tesselated marble objects of wealth and beauty met their view on all sides. The soft and luxuriant couches on which she bade them be seated were studded with silver, and the banquet which she provided for their refreshment was served in vessels of pure gold. But while her unsuspecting guests were abandoning themselves to the pleasures of the table the wicked enchantress was secretly working their ruin; for the wine-cup which was presented to them was drugged with a potent draught, after partaking of which the sorceress touched them with her magic wand, and they were immediately transformed into swine, still, however, retaining their human senses. When Odysseus heard from Eurylochus of the terrible fate which had befallen his companions he set out, regardless of personal danger, resolved to make an effort to rescue them. On his way to the palace of the sorceress he met a fair youth bearing a wand of gold, who revealed himself to him as Hermes, the divine messenger of the gods. He gently reproached the hero for his temerity in venturing to enter the abode of Circe unprovided with an antidote against her spells, and presented him with a peculiar herb called Moly, assuring him that it would inevitably counteract the baneful arts of the fell enchantress. Hermes warned Odysseus that Circe would offer him a draught of drugged wine with the intention of transforming him as she had done his companions. He bade him drink the wine, the effect of {313} which would be completely nullified by the herb which he had given him, and then rush boldly at the sorceress as though he would take her life, whereupon her power over him would cease, she would recognize her master, and grant him whatever he might desire. Circe received the hero with all the grace and fascination at her command, and presented him with a draught of wine in a golden goblet. This he readily accepted, trusting to the efficacy of the antidote. Then, in obedience to the injunction of Hermes, he drew his sword from its scabbard and rushed upon the sorceress as though he would slay her. When Circe found that her fell purpose was for the first time frustrated, and that a mortal had dared to attack her, she knew that it must be the great Odysseus who stood before her, whose visit to her abode had been foretold to her by Hermes. At his solicitation she restored to his companions their human form, promising at the same time that henceforth the hero and his comrades should be free from her enchantments. But all warnings and past experience were forgotten by Odysseus when Circe commenced to exercise upon him her fascinations and blandishments. At her request his companions took up their abode in the island, and he himself became the guest and slave of the enchantress for a whole year; and it was only at the earnest admonition of his friends that he was at length induced to free himself from her toils. Circe had become so attached to the gallant hero that it cost her a great effort to part with him, but having vowed not to exercise her magic spells against him she was powerless to detain him further. The goddess now warned him that his future would be beset with many dangers, and commanded him to consult the blind old seer Tiresias,[52] in the realm of Hades, concerning his future destiny. She then loaded his ship with provisions for the voyage, and reluctantly bade him farewell. {314} THE REALM OF SHADES.--Though somewhat appalled at the prospect of seeking the weird and gloomy realms inhabited by the spirits of the dead, Odysseus nevertheless obeyed the command of the goddess, who gave him full directions with regard to his course, and also certain injunctions which it was important that he should carry out with strict attention to detail. He accordingly set sail with his companions for the dark and gloomy land of the Cimmerians, which lay at the furthermost end of the world, beyond the great stream Oceanus. Favoured by gentle breezes they soon reached their destination in the far west. On arriving at the spot indicated by Circe, where the turbid waters of the rivers Acheron and Cocytus mingled at the entrance to the lower world, Odysseus landed, unattended by his companions. Having dug a trench to receive the blood of the sacrifices he now offered a black ram and ewe to the powers of darkness, whereupon crowds of shades rose up from the yawning gulf, clustering round him, eager to quaff the blood of the sacrifice, which would restore to them for a time their mental vigour. But mindful of the injunction of Circe, Odysseus brandished his sword, and suffered none to approach until Tiresias had appeared. The great prophet now came slowly forward leaning on his golden staff, and after drinking of the sacrifice proceeded to impart to Odysseus the hidden secrets of his future fate. Tiresias also warned him of the numerous perils which would assail him, not only during his homeward voyage but also on his return to Ithaca, and then instructed him how to avoid them. Meanwhile numbers of other shades had quaffed the sense-awakening draught of the sacrifice, among whom Odysseus recognized to his dismay his tenderly-loved mother Anticlea. From her he learned that she had died of grief at her son's protracted absence, and that his aged father Laertes was wearing his life away in vain and anxious longings for his return. He also conversed with the ill-fated Agamemnon, Patroclus, and Achilles. The latter {315} bemoaned his shadowy and unreal existence, and plaintively assured his former companion-in-arms that rather would he be the poorest day-labourer on earth than reign supreme as king over the realm of shades. Ajax alone, who still brooded over his wrongs, held aloof, refusing to converse with Odysseus, and sullenly retired when the hero addressed him. But at last so many shades came swarming round him that the courage of Odysseus failed him, and he fled in terror back to his ship. Having rejoined his companions they once more put to sea, and proceeded on their homeward voyage. THE SIRENS.--After some days' sail their course led them past the island of the Sirens. Now Circe had warned Odysseus on no account to listen to the seductive melodies of these treacherous nymphs; for that all who gave ear to their enticing strains felt an unconquerable desire to leap overboard and join them, when they either perished at their hands, or were engulfed by the waves. In order that his crew should not hear the song of the Sirens, Odysseus had filled their ears with melted wax; but the hero himself so dearly loved adventure that he could not resist the temptation of braving this new danger. By his own desire, therefore, he was lashed to the mast, and his comrades had strict orders on no account to release him until they were out of sight of the island, no matter how he might implore them to set him free. As they neared the fatal shore they beheld the Sirens seated side by side on the verdant slopes of their island; and as their sweet and alluring strains fell upon his ear the hero became so powerfully affected by them, that, forgetful of all danger, he entreated his comrades to release him; but the sailors, obedient to their orders, refused to unbind him until the enchanted island had disappeared from view. The danger past, the hero gratefully acknowledged the firmness of his followers, which had been the means of saving his life. {316} THE ISLAND OF HELIOS.--They now approached the terrible dangers of Scylla and Charybdis, between which Circe had desired them to pass. As Odysseus steered the vessel beneath the great rock, Scylla swooped down and seized six of his crew from the deck, and the cries of her wretched victims long rang in his ears. At length they reached the island of Trinacria (Sicily), whereon the sun-god pastured his flocks and herds, and Odysseus, calling to mind the warning of Tiresias to avoid this sacred island, would fain have steered the vessel past and left the country unexplored. But his crew became mutinous, and insisted on landing. Odysseus was therefore obliged to yield, but before allowing them to set foot on shore he made them take an oath not to touch the sacred herds of Helios, and to be ready to sail again on the following morning. It happened, unfortunately, however, that stress of weather compelled them to remain a whole month at Trinacria, and the store of wine and food given to them by Circe at parting being completely exhausted, they were obliged to subsist on what fish and birds the island afforded. Frequently there was not sufficient to satisfy their hunger, and one evening when Odysseus, worn out with anxiety and fatigue, had fallen asleep, Eurylochus persuaded the hungry men to break their vows and kill some of the sacred oxen. Dreadful was the anger of Helios, who caused the hides of the slaughtered animals to creep and the joints on the spits to bellow like living cattle, and threatened that unless Zeus punished the impious crew he would withdraw his light from the heavens and shine only in Hades. Anxious to appease the enraged deity Zeus assured him that his cause should be avenged. When, therefore, after feasting for seven days Odysseus and his companions again set sail, the ruler of Olympus caused a terrible storm to overtake them, during which the ship was struck with lightning and went to pieces. All the crew were drowned except Odysseus, who, clinging to a mast, floated about in the open sea for nine days, when, after once more {317} escaping being sucked in by the whirlpool of Charybdis, he was cast ashore on the island of Ogygia. CALYPSO.--Ogygia was an island covered with dense forests, where, in the midst of a grove of cypress and poplar, stood the charming grotto-palace of the nymph Calypso, daughter of the Titan Atlas. The entrance to the grotto was entwined with a leafy trellis-work of vine-branches, from which depended clusters of purple and golden grapes; the plashing of fountains gave a delicious sense of coolness to the air, which was filled with the songs of birds, and the ground was carpeted with violets and mosses. Calypso cordially welcomed the forlorn and shipwrecked hero, and hospitably ministered to his wants. In the course of time she became so greatly attached to him that she offered him immortality and eternal youth if he would consent to remain with her for ever. But the heart of Odysseus turned yearningly towards his beloved wife Penelope and his young son. He therefore refused the boon, and earnestly entreated the gods to permit him to revisit his home. But the curse of Poseidon still followed the unfortunate hero, and for seven long years he was detained on the island by Calypso, sorely against his will. At length Pallas-Athene interceded with her mighty father on his behalf, and Zeus, yielding to her request, forthwith despatched the fleet-footed Hermes to Calypso, commanding her to permit Odysseus to depart and to provide him with the means of transport. The goddess, though loath to part with her guest, dared not disobey the commands of the mighty Zeus. She therefore instructed the hero how to construct a raft, for which she herself wove the sails. Odysseus now bade her farewell, and alone and unaided embarked on the frail little craft for his native land. NAUSICAA.--For seventeen days Odysseus contrived to pilot the raft skilfully through all the perils of the deep, directing his course according to the directions {318} of Calypso, and guided by the stars of heaven. On the eighteenth day he joyfully hailed the distant outline of the Phæacian coast, and began to look forward hopefully to temporary rest and shelter. But Poseidon, still enraged with the hero who had blinded and insulted his son, caused an awful tempest to arise, during which the raft was swamped by the waves, and Odysseus only saved himself by clinging for bare life to a portion of the wreck. For two days and nights he floated about, drifted hither and thither by the angry billows, till at last, after many a narrow escape of his life, the sea-goddess Leucothea came to his aid, and he was cast ashore on the coast of Scheria, the island of the luxurious Phæaces. Worn out with the hardships and dangers he had passed through he crept into a thicket for security, and, lying down on a bed of dried leaves, soon fell fast asleep. It chanced that Nausicaa, the beautiful daughter of king Alcinous and his queen Arete, had come down to the shore, accompanied by her maidens, to wash the linen which was destined to form part of her marriage portion. When they had finished their task they bathed and sat down to a repast, after which they amused themselves with singing and playing at ball. Their joyous shouts at last awoke Odysseus, who, rising from his hiding place, suddenly found himself in the midst of the happy group. Alarmed at his wild aspect the attendants of Nausicaa fled in terror; but the princess, pitying the forlorn condition of the stranger, addressed him with kind and sympathetic words. After hearing from him the account of his shipwreck and the terrible hardships he had undergone, Nausicaa called back her attendants, reproached them for their want of courtesy, and bade them supply the wanderer with food, drink, and suitable raiment. Odysseus then left the maidens to resume their games, whilst he bathed and clothed himself with the garments with which they had furnished him. Athene now appeared to the hero and endowed him with a commanding and magnificent stature, and with more than mortal beauty. When he reappeared, the young {319} princess was struck with admiration, and requested the hero to visit the palace of her father. She then desired her attendants to yoke the mules to the wagons and prepare to return home. Odysseus was cordially received by the king and queen, who entertained him with magnificent hospitality, and in return for their kindness the hero related to them the history of his long and eventful voyage, and the many extraordinary adventures and miraculous escapes which had befallen him since his departure from the coast of Ilion. When he at last took leave of his royal entertainers Alcinous loaded him with rich gifts, and ordered him to be conveyed in one of his own ships to Ithaca. ARRIVAL AT ITHACA.--The voyage was a short and prosperous one. By the direction of king Alcinous rich furs had been laid on deck for the comfort of his guest, on which the hero, leaving the guidance of the ship to the Phæacian sailors, soon fell into a deep sleep. When next morning the vessel arrived in the harbour of Ithaca the sailors, concluding that so unusually profound a slumber must be sent by the gods, conveyed him on shore without disturbing him, where they gently placed him beneath the cool shade of an olive-tree. When Odysseus awoke he knew not where he was, for his ever-watchful protectress Pallas-Athene had enveloped him in a thick cloud in order to conceal him from view. She now appeared to him in the disguise of a shepherd, and informed him that he was in his native land; that his father Laertes, bent with sorrow and old age, had withdrawn from the court; that his son Telemachus had grown to manhood, and was gone to seek for tidings of his father; and that his wife Penelope was harassed by the importunities of numerous suitors, who had taken possession of his home and devoured his substance. In order to gain time Penelope had promised to marry one of her lovers as soon as she had finished weaving a robe for the aged Laertes; but by secretly undoing at night {320} what she had done in the day she effectually retarded the completion of the work, and thus deferred her final reply. Just as Odysseus had set foot in Ithaca the angry suitors had discovered her stratagem, and had become in consequence more clamorous than ever. When the hero heard that this was indeed his native land, which, after an absence of twenty years, the gods had at length permitted him to behold once more, he threw himself on the ground, and kissed it in an ecstacy of joy. The goddess, who had meanwhile revealed her identity to Odysseus, now assisted him to conceal in a neighbouring cave the valuable gifts of the Phæacian king. Then seating herself beside him she consulted with him as to the best means of ridding his palace of its shameless occupants. In order to prevent his being recognized she caused him to assume the form of an aged mendicant. His limbs became decrepid, his brown locks vanished, his eyes grew dim and bleared, and the regal robes given to him by king Alcinous were replaced by a tattered garb of dingy hue, which hung loosely round his shrunken form. Athene then desired him to seek shelter in the hut of Eumæus his own swine-herd. Eumæus received the old beggar hospitably, kindly ministered to his wants, and even confided to him his distress at the long continued absence of his beloved old master, and his regrets at being compelled by the unruly invaders of his house, to slaughter for their use all the finest and fattest of the herd. It chanced that the following morning Telemachus returned from his long and fruitless search for his father, and going first to the hut of Eumæus, heard from him the story of the seeming beggar whom he promised to befriend. Athene now urged Odysseus to make himself known to his son; and at her touch his beggar's rags disappeared, and he stood before Telemachus arrayed in royal robes and in the full strength and vigour of manhood. So imposing was the appearance of the hero that at first the young prince thought he must be a god; but when {321} he was convinced that it was indeed his beloved father, whose prolonged absence had caused him so much grief, he fell upon his neck and embraced him with every expression of dutiful affection. Odysseus charged Telemachus to keep his return a secret, and concerted with him a plan whereby they might rid themselves of the detested suitors. In order to carry it into effect Telemachus was to induce his mother to promise her hand to the one who could conquer in shooting with the famous bow of Odysseus, which the hero had left behind when he went to Troy, deeming it too precious a treasure to be taken with him. Odysseus now resumed his beggar's dress and appearance and accompanied his son to the palace, before the door of which lay his faithful dog Argo, who, though worn and feeble with age and neglect, instantly recognized his master. In his delight the poor animal made a last effort to welcome him; but his strength was exhausted, and he expired at his feet. When Odysseus entered his ancestral halls he was mocked and reviled by the riotous suitors, and Antinous, the most shameless of them all, ridiculed his abject appearance, and insolently bade him depart; but Penelope hearing of their cruel conduct, was touched with compassion, and desired her maidens to bring the poor mendicant into her presence. She spoke kindly to him, inquiring who he was and whence he came. He told her that he was the brother of the king of Crete, in whose palace he had seen Odysseus, who was about starting for Ithaca, and had declared his intention of arriving there before the year was out. The queen, overjoyed at the happy tidings, ordered her maidens to prepare a bed for the stranger, and to treat him as an honoured guest. She then desired the old nurse Euryclea to provide him with suitable raiment and to attend to all his wants. As the old servant was bathing his feet her eyes fell upon a scar which Odysseus had received in his youth from the tusks of a wild boar; and instantly recognizing the beloved master whom she had nursed as a babe, she {322} would have cried aloud in her joy, but the hero placing his hand upon her mouth, implored her not to betray him. The next day was a festival of Apollo, and the suitors in honour of the occasion feasted with more than their accustomed revelry. After the banquet was over Penelope, taking down the great bow of Odysseus from its place, entered the hall and declared that whosoever of her lovers could bend it and send an arrow through twelve rings (a feat which she had often seen Odysseus perform) should be chosen by her as her husband. All the suitors tried their skill, but in vain; not one possessed the strength required to draw the bow. Odysseus now stepped forward and asked permission to be allowed to try, but the haughty nobles mocked at his audacity, and would not have permitted it had not Telemachus interfered. The pretended beggar took up the bow, and with the greatest ease sent an arrow whizzing through the rings; then turning to Antinous, who was just raising a goblet of wine to his lips, he pierced him to the heart. At this the suitors sprang to their feet and looked round for their arms; but in obedience to the instructions of Odysseus Telemachus had previously removed them. He and his father now attacked the riotous revellers, and after a desperate encounter not one of the whole crew remained alive. The joyful intelligence of the return of Odysseus being conveyed to Penelope she descended to the hall, but refused to recognize, in the aged beggar, her gallant husband; whereupon he retired to the bath, from which he emerged in all the vigour and beauty with which Athene had endowed him at the court of Alcinous. But Penelope, still incredulous, determined to put him to a sure test. She therefore commanded in his hearing that his own bed should be brought from his chamber. Now the foot of this bed had been fashioned by Odysseus himself out of the stem of an olive-tree which was still rooted in the ground, and round it he had built the walls of the chamber. Knowing therefore that the bed could not be moved, he exclaimed that the errand was useless, for that no {323} mortal could stir it from its place. Then Penelope knew that it must be Odysseus himself who stood before her, and a most touching and affectionate meeting took place between the long-separated husband and wife. The following day the hero set out to seek his old father Laertes, whom he found on one of his estates in the country engaged in digging up a young olive-tree. The poor old man, who was dressed in the humble garb of a labourer, bore the traces of deep grief on his furrowed countenance, and so shocked was his son at the change in his appearance that for a moment he turned aside to conceal his tears. When Odysseus revealed himself to his father as the son whom he had so long mourned as lost, the joy of the poor old man was almost greater than he could bear. With loving care Odysseus led him into the house, where at length, for the first time since the departure of his son, Laertes once more resumed his regal robes, and piously thanked the gods for this great and unlooked-for happiness. But not yet was the hero permitted to enjoy his well-earned repose, for the friends and relatives of the suitors now rose in rebellion against him and pursued him to the abode of his father. The struggle, however, was but a short one. After a brief contest negotiations of a peaceful nature were entered into between Odysseus and his subjects. Recognizing the justice of his cause, they became reconciled to their chief, who for many years continued to reign over them. * * * * * {325} PRONOUNCING INDEX. * * * * * [_Note._--The system of pronunciation here followed is the English system, because it is the one at present most used among English-speaking peoples. In it the letters have substantially their English sound. Upon the continent of Europe the pronunciation of Latin and Greek is in like manner made to correspond in each nation to the pronunciation of its own language, and thus there is much diversity among the continental systems, though they resemble each other more closely than they do the English. In England and America also the continental methods of pronunciation have been extensively used. Thus Æneas may be pronounced A-na´-ahss; Aïdes ah-ee´-daze. Since the true, the ancient, pronunciation has been lost, and, as many contend, cannot be even substantially recovered, it is a matter of individual preference what system shall be followed.] A. Abderus (ab-dee´-rus), 244. Absyrtus (ab-sir´-tus), 226. Academus (ak-[)a]-dee´-mus), 268. Achelous (ak-e-lo´-us), 254, 278. Acheron (ak´-e-ron), 132, 250. Achilles ([)a]-kil´-leez), 131, 291, 287, 297. Acis ([=a]´-sis), 105, 167. Acrisius ([)a]-crish´-e-us), 189, 205, 209. Acropolis ([)a]-crop´-o-lis), 189. Actæon (ak-tee´-on), 91. Admete (ad-mee´-te), 244. Admetus (ad-mee´-tus), 76, 119, 216. Adonis ([)a]-don´-iss), 59. Adrastia (ad-ras-ti´-ah), 142. Adrastus ([)a]-dras´-tus), 272. Æacus (ee´-[)a]-cus), 34. Ææa (ee-ee´-ah), island of, 67. Ægean Sea (ee-gee´-an), 287. [53]Ægeus (ee´-juce), 259, 262, 264. Ægina (ee-ji´-nah), island of, 230. Ægis (ee´-jiss), 26. Ægisthus (ee-jiss´-thus, _th_ as in _both_), 305. Ægle (egg´-le), 163. Ægyptus (ee-jip´-tus), 135. Aello ([)a]-el´-lo), 137. Æneas (ee-nee´-ass), 304. Æolus (ee´-o-lus), 170, 210. Aër ([=a]´-er), 12. Æsacus (es´-a-cus), 284. Æsculapius (es-cu-la´-pe-us), 177. Æson (ee´-son), 213. Æetes (ee-ee´-teez), 215, 222. Æther (ee´-ther), 12. Æthiopia (e-thi-o´-pe-ah), 207. Æthra (ee´-thrah), 259, 267, 288. Ætna, Mount (et´-nah), 100. Agamemnon (ag-[)a]-mem´-non), 94, 286, 305. Agave ([)a]-ga´-ve), 127, 205. Agenor ([)a]-jee´-nor), 203. Ages, 22. Aglaia (ag-lay´-yah), 163. Agraulos ([)a]-graw´-l[)o]s), 122. Agrigent (ag´-ri-jent), 213. Aïdes (a-i´-deez), 52, 130, 250. --helmet of 206, 208. Aïdoneus (a-i-do´-nuce), 130. Air, 12. Ajax ([=a]´-jax) the Greater, 298. --the Lesser, 305. Alcestis (al-ses´-tiss), 76. Alcinous (al-sin´-o-us), 228, 318. Alcippe (al-sip´-pe), 113 Alcmæon (alk-mee´-on), 273, 277. Alcmene (alk-mee´-ne), 35, 234. Alecto (a-leck´-to), 138. Alexander (al-ex-an´-der), 284. Aloidæ (al-o-i´-de), 113. Alpheus (al´-fuce), 242. Altars, 191. Althea (al-thee´-ah, _th_ as in _both_), 90. Altis (al´-tis) the, 41. Amalthea (am-al-thee´-ah), 15. Amazons (am´-a-zons), 244, 258, 264. Ambrosia (am-bro´-zhah), 15. {326} Amor ([=a]´-mor), 150. Amphiaraus (am´-fe-a-ray´-us), 273. Amphidamas (am-fid´-a-mass), 221. Amphilochus (am-fil´-o-cus), 277. Amphion (am-fi´-on), 33. Amphitrite (am-fe-tri´-te), 104, 167. Amphitrion (am-fit´-re-on), 35, 234. Amycus (am´-i-cus), 219. Anaitis-Aphroditis (an-a-i´-tis-af-ro-di´-tis), 92. Ananke (an-ang´-ke), 147. Anciliæ (an-sil´-e-e), 115. Androgeos (an-dro´-je-oss), 262. Andromache (an-drom´-a-ke), 295, 304. Andromeda (an-drom´-e-dah), 207. Antea (an-tee´-ah), 256. Anteos (an-tee´-[)o]s), 248. Anteros (an´-te-ross), 150. Antigone (an-tig´-o-ne), 271, 275. Antinous (an-tin´-o-us), 321. Antiope (an-ti´-o-pe), 32. Antiphates (an-tif´-a-teez), 311. Aphareus (af´-a-ruce), 34. Aphrodite (af-ro-di´-te), 58, 99, 152. Apollo ([)a]-pol´-lo), 68. --(Roman), 83. Apple of Discord, 39. Arachne (a-rak´-ne), 45. Arcadia (ar-ca´-de-ah), 240. Arctos (ark´-t[)o]s), 35. Areopagus (a-re-op´-a-gus), 44, 113, 212. Ares ([=a]´-reez), 99, 112. --grove of, 215. --field of, 223, 225. Arete (a-ree´-te _or_ ar´-e-te), 228, 318. Arethusa (ar-e-thu´-sah), 163. Aretias ([)a]-ree´-she-ass), 221. Argia (ar-ji´-ah), 272. Argives (ar-jives), 274. Argo, 215, 230, 321. Argonauts (ar´-go-nawts), 213. Argos (ar´-g[)o]s), 209, 216, 283. Argus, 224. Argus-Panoptes (pan-op´-teez), 36. Ariadne (a-re-ad´-ne), 128, 263. Aricia (a-rish´-e-ah), 97. Arion (a-ri´-on), 275. Aristæus (ar-iss-tee´-us), 81. Aristodemus (a-ris´-to-de´-mus), 282. Aristomachus (ar-is-tom´-a-cus), 282. Arsinoë (ar-sin´-o-e), 278. Artemis (ar´-te-miss), 87. Ascalaphus (ass-cal´-a-fuss), 55, 250. Asclepius (ass-clee´-pe-us), 71, 76, 176. Ashtoreth (ash´-to-reth), 61. Asphodel meadows (ass-fo-del), 133. Astarte (ass-tar´-te), 61. Astræa (ass-tree´-ah), 85. Astræus (ass-tree´-us), 68. Astyanax (ass-ti´-a-nax), 304. Atalanta (at-a-lan´-tah), 89. Ate ([=a]´-te), 149. Athamas (ath´-a-mass), 111, 215. Athene (a-thee´-ne, _th_ as in _both_), 43. Athene-Polias (po´-le-ass), 44, 189, 199, 264. Athens, 264. Atlas, 207, 248. Atreus, ([)a]´-truce), 282. Atropos (at´-ro-p[)o]s), 139. Atys ([=a]´-tiss), 19. Augeas (aw´-je-ass), 242, 254. Augurs, 196. Aulis (aw´-lis), 97. Aurora (aw-ro´-rah), 13, 67. Autochthony (aw-tok´-tho-ny), 22. Autolycus (aw-tol´-i-cus), 235, 251. Autonoe, (aw-ton´-o-e), 205. Avernus (a-ver´-nus), 132. Avertor ([=a]-ver´-tor), 180. Averuncus (av-e-run´-cus), 180. B. Bacchanalia (bac-ca-na´-le-ah), 199. Bacchantes (bac-can´-teez), 198. Bacchus (bac´-cus), 130. Battus (bat´-tus), 119. Baucis (baw´-sis), 37. Bebricians (be-brish´-e-anz), 219. Beech-nymph, 168. Bellerophon (bel-ler´-o-fon), 256. Bellerophontes (bel-ler´-o-fon´-teez), 256. Bellona (bel-lo´-nah), 116. Belvedere (bel´-vi-deer), 85. Benthesicyme, (ben-the-siss´-i-me), 105. Berecynthia-Idea (ber´-e-sin´-the-ah-i-dee´-ah), 19. Beroe (ber´-o-e, first _e_ like ei in _their_), 35. Birch-nymph, 168. Bistonians (bis-to´-ne-anz), 243. Bithynia (bi-thin´-e-ah), 220. Boreas (bo´-re-ass), 171. Brauron (braw´-ron), 96. Brazen Age, 23. Briareus (bri´-a-ruce), 13. Brisëis (bri-see´-iss), 292. Brontes (bron´-teez), 16. Busiris (bu-si´-ris), 248. Butes (bu´-teez), 228. C. Cadmus, 203. Caduceus (ca-du´-she-us), 121. Calais (cal´-a-iss), 171, 220. Calchas (cal´-kas), 94, 287, 289, 292. Calirrhoë (cal-lir´-ro-e), 278. Calliope (cal-li´-o-pe), 80, 159. Callisto (cal-lis´-to), 35. {327} Calydonian Boar-hunt, 89. Calypso (ca-lip´-so), 317. Camenæ (ca-mee´-nee), 184. Campus Martius (mar´-she-us), 115. Canens (ca´-nenz), 182. Capaneus (cap´-a-nuce), 273. Caphareus, Cape (ca-fa´-ruce), 305. Carmenta (car-men´-tah), 184. Carmentalia (car-men-ta´-le-ah), 184. Carnival, 201. Carpo, 164. Cassandra (cas-san´-drah), 284, 303, 305. Cassiopea (cas´-se-o-pee´-ah), 207. Castalian Spring, 159, 195. Castor, 33, 187, 268. Caucasus (caw´-c[)a]-sus), Mount, 222. Cecrops (see´-crops), 189. Celæno (se-lee´-no), 137. Celeus (see´-le-us), 53. Celts, 10. Cenæus (se-nee´-us), 255. Centaurs (sen´-tawrs), 266. Ceos (see´-[)o]s), 13. Cepheus (see´-fuce), 207. Cephissus (se-fiss´-us), 169. Cerberus (ser´-be-rus), 133, 153, 249. Cercyon (ser´-se-on), 261. Cerealia (se-re-a´-le-ah), 201. Ceres (see´-reez), 58, 201. Cerunitis (ser-u-ni´-tis), 240. Cestus (ses´-tus), 59. Ceto (see´-to), 111. Ceuta (su´-tah), 222. Ceyx (see´-ix), 110, 254, 280. Chalciope (cal-si´-o-pe), 223. Chaos (ka´-oss), 11. Chares (ca´-reez), 99. Charites (car´-i-teez), 163. Charon (ca´-ron), 132, 153. Charybdis (ca-rib´-dis), 228, 316. Chimæra (ki-mee´-rah), 257, 162. Chiron (ki´-ron), 289. Chloris (clo´-ris), 171. Chrysaor (cris-[=a]´-or), 145. Chrysëis (cri-see´-iss), 292. Chryses (cri´-seez), 292. Cimmerians (sim-me´-ri-anz), 132, 314. Cimon (si´-mon), 268. Circe (sir´-se), 64, 182, 227, 311. Cithæron (si-thee´-ron, _th_ as in _both_), 40. --Mount, 236. Cleodæus (cle-o-dee´-us), 282. Cleopatra (cle-o-pat´-rah), 220. Clio (cli´-o), 159. Cloacina (clo-a-si´-nah), 61. Clotho (clo´-tho), 139. Clymene (clim´-e-ne), 64. Clytæmnestra (clit-em-nes´-trah), 94, 305, 306. Clytie (cli´-ti-e), 63. Cocalus (coc´-a-lus), 213. Cocytus (co-si´-tus), 132, 314. Coelus (see´-lus), 11. Colchis (col´-kis), 215, 222. Colonus (co-lo´-nus), 271. Colossus of Rhodes (co-l[)o]s´-sus), 66. Comus (co´-mus), 184. Consualia (con-su-a´-le-ah), 183. Consus (con´-sus), 183. Copreus (co´-pruce), 239. Cora, 197. Cornucopia (cor-noo-co´-pe-ah), 148. Coronis (co-ro´-nis), 75. Corybantes (cor-i-ban´-teez), 19. Cos, island of (coss), 104. Cottos (cot´-t[)o]s), 13. Crania, island of (cra-ni´-ah), 286. Creon (cree´-on), 237, 275. Cresphontes (cres-fon´-teez), 282. Cretan Bull, 243. Crete (creet), 229. Crëusa (cre-yu´-sah), 210. Crios (cri´-[)o]s), 13. Croesus (cree´-sus), 195. Crommyon (crom´-me-on), 260. Cronus (cro´-nus), 14, 179. Ctesiphon (tes´-i-fon), 93. Cumæan Sibyl, the (cu-mee´-an), 84. Cupid (cu´-pid), 150. Curetes (cu-ree´-teez), 15. Cybele (sib´-i-le), 18, 128. Cyclops (si´-clops), 105, 307. Cycnus (sik´-nus), 66, 247. Cyllene, Mount (sil-lee´-ne), 119. Cyparissus (sip-a-ris´-sus), 77, 182. Cyprus, island of (si´-prus), 60. Cyrus (si´-rus), 195. Cythera (sith-ee´-rah), 60. Cyzicus (siz´-i-cus), 218. D. Dædalus (ded´-a-lus), 211. Dæmons (de´-mons), 185. Damastes (da-mas´-teez), 261. Danaë (dan´-a-e), 205, 209. Danaïdes (dan-a´-[)i]-deez), 135. Danaus (dan´-a-us), 135. Danneker (dan´-ek-ker), 129. Daphne (daf´-ne), 74. Daphnephoria (daf-ne-fo´-re-ah), 200. Daphnephorus (daf-nef´-o-rus), 200. Deianeira (de-i´-a-ni´-rah), 254. Deiphobus (de-if´-o-bus), 300. Deipyle (de-ip´-i-le), 272. Delia (dee´-le-ah), 83. Delos, island of (dee´-l[)o]s), 69, 83. Delphi (del´-fi), 82. Delphic Oracle, 194. Demeter (de-mee´-ter), 50, 197. Demi-gods, 8. Demophoon (de-mof´-o-on), 53, 280. Deucalion (du-ca´-le-on), 21. Diana (di-an´-nah), 87. --of Versailles, 88. {328} Dice (di´-se), 164. Dictys (dic´-tiss), 205. Dindymene (din-di-mee´-ne), 19. Dino (di´-no), 145. Diomedes (di-o-mee´-deez), 112, 243, 297, 305. Dione (di-o´-ne), 58. Dionysia (di-o-nish´-e-ah), 180, 197. Dionysus (di-o-ni´-sus), 124, 193, 198, 263. Dioscuri (di-[)o]s-cu´-ri), 33. Diræ (di´-ree), 138. Dirce (dir´-se), 33. Dis (diss), 137. Discord, goddess of, 284. Dodona (do-do´-nah), 29, 216. Doliones (do-li´-o-neez), 218. Dorians (do´-re-anz), 211. Doris (do´-ris), 108. Dorus (do´-rus), 211. Dryades (dri´-a-deez), 168. Dryas (dri´-ass), 126. Dymas (di´-mass), 283. E. Echedorus (ek-e-do´-rus), 247. Echemon (ek-kee´-mon), 282. Echidna, (ek-kid´-nah), 146. Echo (ek´-o), 169. Egeria (e-gee´-re-ah), 184. Eilithyia (i-lith-i´-yah), 41, 237. Electra (e-lek´-trah), 111, 306. Electryon (e-lek´-tre-on), 35. Eleusinian Mysteries (el-u-sin´-e-an), 56, 132, 196. Eleusis (e-lu´-sis), 54. Elis (ee´-lis), 254, 283. Elysian Fields (e-lizh´-e-an), 133. Elysium (e-lizh´-e-um), 133. Enceladus (en-sel´-a-dus), 20. Endymion (en-dim´-e-on), 87. Enipeus (e-ni´-puce), 106. Enyo (e-ni´-o), 113. Eos (ee´-[)o]s), 67, 297. Epaphus (ep´-a-fus), 36, 64. Epeios (ep-i´-[)o]s), 301. Ephesus, temple of (ef´-e-sus), 92. Ephialtes (ef-e-[=a]l´-teez), 105. Epidaurus (ep-e-daw´-rus), 260. Epigoni (e-pig´-o-ni), 276. Epimetheus (ep-e-me´-thuce), 25. Epopeus (e-po´-puce), 32. Erato (er´-a-to), 159. Erebus (er´-e-buss), 13. Erechtheus (e-rek´-thuce), 210. Eresichthon (er-e-sik´-thon), 57. Erginus (er-ji´-nus), 237. Eridanus, river, the (e-rid´-a-nus), 65, 227, 248. Erinnyes (e-rin´-ne-eez), 138. Eriphyle (er-i-fi´-le), 273. Eris (ee´-ris), 39. Eros (ee´-r[)o]s), 74, 150. Erymantian Boar (er-e-man´-shun), 240. Erythia (er-e-thi´-ah), 246. Eteocles (e-tee´-o-cleez), 272, 275. Ether (ee´-ther), 12. Euboeans (u-bee´-anz), 210. Eumæus (u-mee´-us), 320. Eumenides (u-men´-i-deez), 138, 271. Eunomia (u-no´-me-ah), 164. Euphemus (u-fee´-mus), 221. Euphrosyne (u-fros´-i-ne), 163. Europa (u-ro´-pah), 34. Eurus (u´-rus), 171. Euryale (u-ri´-a-le), 144. Eurybia (u-rib´-e-ah), 13. Euryclea (u-ri-clee´-ah), 321. Eurydice (u-rid´-i-se), 81. Eurylochus (u-ril´-o-kus), 311. Eurynome (u-rin´-o-me), 98. Eurypylus (u-rip´-i-lus), 299. Eurystheus (u-riss´-thuce), 237, 280. Eurytion (u-rit´-e-on), 246, 266. Eurytus (u´-ri-tus), 235. Euterpe (u-ter´-pe), 159. Evander (e-van´-der), 184. Evenus (e-ve´-nus), 254. F. Farnese Bull, the (far´-neez), 33. Fates, 139. Fauns (fawns), 175. Faunus (faw´-nus), 174. Festivals, 196. Fetiales (fe-she-a´-leez), 124. Flora, 180. Floralia (flo-ra´-le-ah), 180. Fortuna (for-tu´-nah), 147. Furies, 278, 306. G. Gadria (gad´-re-ah), 246. Gæa (je´-ah), 11. Galatea (gal-a-tee´-ah), 167. Ganymede (gan-i-mee´-de), 156, 246. Ganymedes (gan-i-mee´-deez), 156, 246. Ge, 11. Genii (jee´-ne-i), 185. Geryon (jee´-re-on), 246. Geryones (je-ri´-o-neez), 246. Giants, 13, 199, 218. Gigantomachia (ji-gan´-to-ma´-ke-ah), 20. Glauce (glaw´-se), 231. Glaucus (glaw´-cus), 109, 219. Golden Age, 22, 185. Golden Fleece, 215, 223, 226, 230. Gordius (gor´-de-us), 128. Gorgons, 144, 206. Graces, 163. {329} Gradivus (gra-di´-vus), 115. Grææ (gree´-ee), 145, 206. Gratiæ (gra´-she-ee), 163. Gyges (ji´-jeez), 13. H. Hades (ha´-deez), 250. Hæmon (hee´-mon), 276. Halcyone (hal-si´-o-ne), 110. Halirrothius (hal-ir-ro´-the-us), 113. Hamadryades (ham-a-dry´-a-deez), 168. Harmonia (har-mo´-ne-ah), 204, 276. Harpies (har´-piz), 137, 220. Harpinna (har-pin´-nah), 233. Hebe (hee´-be), 41, 156, 256. Hebrus, river, the (hee´-brus), 82. Hecate (hec´-a-te), 85. Hecatombs (hec´-a-tomes), 193. Hecatoncheires (hec´-a-ton-ki´-reez), 13. Hector, 284, 290, 293. Hecuba (hec´-u-bah), 283, 304. Helen, 267, 286, 304. Helenus (hel´-e-nus), 299. Helicon (hel´-e-con), 158, 162. Helios, (hee´-le-[)o]s), 61, 316. Helios-Apollo, 70. Helle (hel´-le), 215. Hemera (hee´-me-rah), 13, 142. Heosphorus (he-[)o]s´-fo-rus), 68. Hephæstus (he-fes´-tus), 97. Hera (he´-rah), 38, 214. Heracles [54] (her´-a-cleez), 26, 218, 234. Heraclidæ [54] (her-a-cli´-dee), 280. Heræ (he´-ree), 41. Hercules (her´-cu-leez) _See_ Heracles. --Pillars of, 246. Hermæ (her´-mee), 118. Hermes (her´-meez), 117, 250, 312. Hermione (her-mi´-o-ne), 307. Heroes, 8. Herostratus (he-ros´-tra-tus), 93. Herse (her´-se), 87, 122. Hesiod's Theogony (he´-she-od), 24, 150. Hesione (he-si´-o-ne), 245, 253, 285. Hesperia (hes-pee´-re-ah), 163. Hesperides (hes-per´-i-deez), 162, 247. Hesperus (hes´-pe-rus), 68. Hestia (hes´-te-ah), 48. Hip´pocamp, 229. Hippocamps, 102. Hippocrene (hip-po-cree´-ne), 159, 162. Hippodamia (hip´-po-da-mi´-ah), 232, 266. Hippolyte (hip-pol´-i-te), 264. Hippolyte's Girdle, 244. Hippolytes (hip-pol´-i teez), 283. Hippolytus (hip-pol´-i-tus), 266. Hippomedon (hip-pom´-e-don), 273. Hippomenes (hip-pom´-e-neez), 91. Horæ (ho´-ree), 164. Horned Hind, 240. Hyacinthus (hi-a-sin´-thus), 77. Hyades (hi´-a-deez), 170. Hydra, Lernean, the (hi´-drah, ler-nee´-an), 239. Hygeia (hi-jee´-yah), 177. Hylas (hi´-las), 216, 219. Hyllus (hil´-lus), 254, 281. Hymen (hi´-men), or Hymenæus (hi-me-nee´-us), 154. Hyperion (hi-pee´-re-on), 13. Hypermnestra (hip-erm-nes´-trah), 135. Hypnus (hip´-nus), 142. Hypsipyle (hip-sip´-i-le), 274. I. Iambe (i-am´-be), 53. Iapetus (i-ap´-e-tus), 24. Iasion (i-a´-zhe-on), 137. Iberia (i-bee´-re-ah), 247. Icaria (i-ca´-re-ah), 212. Icarus (ic´-a-rus), 211. Ichor (i´-kor), 7. Ida, Mount, 157, 284, 300. Idas (i´-dass), 34, 75. Idmon (id´-mon), 216. Idomeneus (i-dom´-e-nuce), 286. Ilion (il´-e-on), 283. Illyria (il-lir´-e-ah), 205. Ilus (i´-lus), 283. Inachus (in´-a-cus), 36. Ino (i´-no), 205, 215. Inuus (in´-u-us), 174. Io (i´-o), 36. Iobates (i-ob´-a-teez), 257. Iolaus (i-o-la´-us), 239, 251, 281. Iolcus (i-ol´-cus), 213, 230. Iole (i´-o-le), 251, 255. Ion (i´-on), 210. Iphigenia (if´-i-ge-ni´-ah), 94, 289, 307. Iphitus (if´-i-tus), 251. Iris (i´-ris), 155, 220. Iron Age, 23. Ismene (iss-mee´-ne), 271. Ister (iss´-ter), 226. Isthmian Games (isth´-me-an), 107, 264. Ithaca (ith´-a-cah), 310, 319. Ixion (ix-i´-on), 135. J. Jani (ja´-ni), 178. Janus (ja´-nus), 18, 178. {330} Jason (ja´-son), 213. Jocasta (jo-cas´-tah), 269, 270. Juno (ju´-no), 42, 185. Jupiter (ju´-pe-ter), 38. Jupiter-Ammon, 207. Juventas (ju-ven´-t[)a]ss), 156, 183. K. Keidomos (ki´-do-mos), 113. Ker (cur), 149. Keres (kee´-reez), 149. L. Labdacus (lab´-da-cus), 269. Labyrinth (lab´-i-rinth), 212, 262. Lacedæmon (las-e-dee´-mon), 283. Lac´edæmo´nians, 189. Lachesis (lak´-e-sis), 139. Lacolia (la-co´-le-ah), 250. Lacus Nemorensis (la´-cus nem-o-ren´-sis), 97. Ladon (la´-don), 240. Laertes (la-er´-teez), 314, 323. Læstrygones (les-trig´-o-neez), 311. Laius (la´-yus), 269. Lampetus (lam´-pe-tus), 67. Lampsacus (lamp´-sa-cus), 176. Laocoon (la-oc´-o-on), 301. Laodamas (la-od´-a-mass), 277. Laomedon (la-om´-e-don), 104, 245, 253. Lar, 186. Lares Familiares (la´-reez fa-mil´-e-a´-reez), 186. Larissa (la-ris´-sah), 189, 209. Latmus Mount, 87. Latona (la-to´-nah), 31. Laverna (la-ver´-nah), 184. Leda (lee´-dah), 33. Lemnos, island of, (lem´-noss), 98, 217. Lemuralia (lem-u-ra´-le-ah), 186. Lemures (lem´-u-reez), 186. Lerna, 239. Lernean Hydra. _See_ Hydra. Lesbos (lez´-bos), 290. Lethe (lee´-the, _th_ as in _both_), 133. Leto (lee´-to), 31. Leucippus (lu-sip´-pus), 34. Leucothea (lu-co´-the-ah, _th_ as in _both_), 111, 318. Liber (li´-ber), 130. Liberalia (lib-er-a´-le-ah), 130. Libya (lib´-yah), 207, 229. Limoniades (lim-o-ni´-a-deez), 170. Linden-nymph, 168. Linus (li´-nus), 235. Lion, Nemean (ne´-me-an), 238. Ludi Maximi (lu´-di max´-i-mi), 48. Ludovici Villa (lu-do-vee´-chee), 116. Luna (lu´-nah), 86, 97. Lupercus (lu-per´-cus), 174. Lycaon (li-cay´-on), 37. Lycomedes (lic-o-mee´-deez), 268, 287. Lycurgus (li-cur´-gus), 126, 189, 274. Lycus (li´-cus), 32. Lynceus (lin´-suce), 34, 216. M. Macaria (ma-ca´-re-ah), 281. Machaon (ma-ca´-on), 177, 300. Magna-Mater (may´-ter), 19. Maia (may´-yah), 119. Mamers (ma´-merz), 114. Manes (ma´-neez), 185. Marathonian Bull (mar-a-tho´-ne-an), 262. Mares of Diomedes, 243 Marpessa (mar-pes´-sah), 75. Mars (marz), 114. Marspiter (mars´-pe-ter), 114. Marsyas (mar´-she-ass), 78. Mater-Deorum (dee-o´-rum), 19. Matronalia (ma-tro-na´-le-ah), 43. Mecone (me-co´-ne), 24. Medea (me-dee´-ah), 223, 261. Medusa (me-du´-sah), 45, 144, 206. Megæra (me-jee´-rah), 138. Megapenthes (meg-a-pen´-theez), 209. Megara (meg´-a-rah), 138, 237, 251. Melanippe (mel-a-nip´-pe), 245. Meleager (me-le-a´-jer), 89, 216. Meliades (me-li´-a-deez), 170. Melissa (me-lis´-sah), 15. Melpomene (mel-pom´-e-ne), 159. Memnon (mem´-non), 297. Memphis (mem´-fiss), 36. Menades (men´-a-deez), 198. Menelaus (men-e-la´-us), 294, 304, 305. Menesthius (me-nes´-the-us), 268. Menoeceus (me-nee´-suce), 274. Menoetius (me-nee´-she-us), 216. Mercury (mer´-cu-ry), 123. Merope (mer´-ope, first _e_ like _ei_ in _their_), 269. Messene (mes-see´-ne), 283. Metaneira (met-a-ni´-rah), 53. Metis (mee´-tiss), 30. Metra (mee´-trah), 57, 92. Midas (mi´-das), 79, 128. Midea (mi-dee´-ah), 209. Milo (mi´-lo), 60. Miltiades (mil-ti´-a-deez), 268. Mimas (mi´-mass), 20. Minerva (mi-ner´-vah), 47. Minerval (mi-ner´-val), 47. Minos (mi´-n[)o]s), 34, 134, 212, 243. Minotaur (min´-o-tawr), 212, 262. Minyans (min´-yanz), 237. Mnemosyne (ne-m[)o]s´-i-ne), 13, 31. Moira (moy´-rah), 139. Moiræ (moy´-ree), 297, 139. {331} Moly (mo´-ly), 312. Momus (mo´-mus), 149. Moneta Juno (mo-nee´-tah), 42. Mopsus, 216. Morpheus (mor´-fuce), 143. Mors (morz). _See_ Thanatos. Musagetes (mu-saj´-e-teez), 71. Muses, 157. Mutunus (mu-tu´-nus), 176. Mycenæ (mi-see´-ne), 209, 305. Myrmidons (mir´-mi-dons), 288, 293, 295. Myrtilus (mir´-ti-lus), 233. Mysia (mish´-e-ah), 219. Mysians, 289. N. Naiads (na´-yads), or Naiades (na-i´-a-deez), 166, 227. Napææ (na-pee´-ee), 169. Narcissus (nar-sis´-sus), 169. Nausicaa (naw-sic´-a-ah), 317. Naxos (nax´-oss), 128, 263. Necessitas (ne-ses´-si-tass), 148. Nectar, 15. Neleus (nee´-luce), 106, 119, 216. Nemea (nee´-me-ah), 274. Nemean Lion. _See_ Lion. Nemesis (nem´-e-siss), 141. Nemoralia (nem-o-ra´-le-ah), 97. Neoptolemus (ne-op-tol´-e-mus), 299, 304. Nephalia (ne-fa´-le-ah), 139. Nephelæ (nef´-e-lee), 12. Nephele (nef´-e-le), 215. Neptunalia (nep-tu-na´-le-ah), 107. Neptune (nept´-une), 14, 107. Nereides (ne-ree´-i-deez), 108, 167. Nereus (nee´-ruce), 13, 108. Nessus, 254. Nestor, 286, 301, 305. Nike (ni´-ke), 117. Niobe (ni´-o-be), 79, 141. Noman, 309. Notus (no´-tus), 171. Nox. _See_ Nyx. Nyctimus (nic´-ti-mus), 38. Nycteus (nic´-tuce), 32. Nymphs, 165. Nysa, Mount (ni´-sah), 125. Nyx (nix), 13, 142. O. Oceanides (o-se-an´-i-deez), 108, 166. Oceanus (o-see´-a-nus), 12, 107, 166, 314. Ocypete (o-sip´-e-te), 137. Odysseus (o-dis´-suce), 131, 287, 307. Oechalia (e-ka´-le-ah), 255. Oedipus (ed´-i-pus), 146, 269. Oeneus (ee´-nuce), 89, 254. Oenomaus (ee-nom´-a-us), 232. Oenone (ee-no´-ne) 284, 300. Ogygia (o-jij´-e-ah), 317. Oileus (o-i´-luce), 216, 221. Olympia (o-lim´-pe-ah), 29, 123. Olym´pic Games, 30. Olym´pus, Mount, 27. Omphale (om´-fa-le), 252. Ops, 19. Oracles, 194. Orchamus (or´-ca-mus), 63. Orchomenus (or-com´-e-nus), 237. Orcus (or´-cus), 136. Oreades (o-ree´-a-deez), 169. Orithyia (or´-i-thi´-yah), 171. Orestes (o-res´-teez), 95, 139, 306. Orpheus (or´-fuce), 80, 216, 228. Orthrus (or´-thrus), 246. Ossa (oss´-sah), 106. Othrys, Mount, (o´-thris), 16. Otus (o´-tus), 105. Oxen of Geryones. _See_ Geryones. Oxylus (ox´-i-lus), 283. P. Palæmon (pa-lee´-mon), 111. Palamedes (pal-a-mee´-deez), 287, 291. Palatine (pal´-a-tin), 181. Pales (pa´-leez), 181. Palilia (pa-lil´-e-ah), 181. Palladium (pal-la´-de-um), 299, 301. Pallan´tids, 262. Pallas (pal´-lass), 117. Pallas-Athene, 43, 234, 302. Pan, 79, 171, 198. Panacea (pan-a-see´-ah), 177. Panathenæa (pan´-ath-e-nee´-ah), 199. Pandareos (pan-da´-re-oss), 138. Pandora (pan-do´-rah), 25. Panisci (pa-nis´-si), 174. Panoptes (pa-nop´-teez), 246. Parcæ (par´-see). _See_ Moiræ. Paris (par´-ris), 39, 284, 286. Parnassus (par-nas´-sus), 158. Parthenon (par´-the-non), 46. --Hill, 89. Parthenopæus (par´-then-o-pee´-us), 273. Patroclus (p[)a]-tro´-clus), 288, 293, 314. Pedasus (ped´-a-sus), 292. Pegasus (peg´-a-sus), 145, 162, 257. Peitho (pi´-tho), 134. Peleus (pee´-luce), 39, 287. Pelias (pee´-le-ass), 106, 213, 230. Pelion, Mount (pee´-le-on), 106. Peloponnesus (pel´-o-pon-nee´-sus), 281. Pelops (pee´-lops), 135, 232. Penates (pe-na´-teez), 187. {332} Penelope (pe-nel´-o-pe), 287, 319. Peneus (pe-nee´-us), 74, 242. Penthesilea (pen´-the-si-lee´-ah), 296 Pentheus (pen´-thuce), 126, 205. Pephredo (pe-free´-do), 145. Peplus (pee´-plus), 199. Periphetes (per-i-fee´-teez), 260. Perse (per´-se), 64, 312. Persephone (per-sef´-o-ne), 52, 197, 267. Perseus (per´-suce), 145, 205. Petasus (pet´-a-sus), 121. Phæaces (fee-a´-seez), 228, 318. Phædra (fee´-drah), 266. Phaëthon (fa´-e-thon), 64, 67. Pharos, isle of, (fa´-r[)o]s), 108. Phases, river (fa´-seez), 222. Phegeus (fee´-juce), 278. Phidias (fid´-e-ass), 28. Philemon (fi-lee´-mon), 37. Philoctetes (fil-oc-tee´-teez), 256, 290, 299. Phineus (fi´-nuce), 208, 220. Phlegethon (flej´-e-thon), 134. Phocis (fo´-siss), 306. Phoebe (fee´-be), 13. Phoebus-Apollo (fee´-bus), 68, 298. Pholus (fo´-lus), 240. Phorcys (for´-siss), 13, 111. Phrygia (frij´-e-ah), 18. Phryxus (frix´-us), 222. Phylace (fil´-a-se), 290. Phyleus (fi´-luce), 242, 254. Phylla (fil´-lah), 233. Picumnus (pi-cum´-nus), 182. Picus (pi´-cus), 182. Pieria (pi-ee´-re-ah), 119, 158. Pierides (pi-er´-i-deez), 158, 162. Pierus (pi´-e-rus), 158. Pilumnus (pi-lum´-nus), 182. Pindus, Mount, 158. Pirithöus (pi-rith´-o-us), 216, 250, 265. Pisa (pi´-sah), 232. Pittheus (pit´-thuce), 259. Platea (pla-tee´-ah), 40. Pleiades (plee´-ya-deez), 119. Pluto (plu´-to), 136. Plutus (plu´-tus), 132, 137, 148. Podalirius (pod-a-lir´-e-us), 177. Podarces (po-dar´-seez), 253. Pollux, 33, 187, 227, 268. Polybotes (pol-e-bo´-teez), 104. Polybus (pol´-e-bus), 269. Polydectes (pol-e-dec´-teez), 205. Polydeuces (pol-e-du´-seez). _See_ Pollux. Polydorus (pol-e-do´-rus), 205. Polyhymnia (pol-e-him´-ne-ah), 159. Polynices (pol-e-ni´-seez), 271, 272, 275. Polyphemus (pol-e-fee´-mus), 105, 219, 307. Pomona (po-mo´-nah), 180. Pontus, 13. Porta Lavernalis (lav-er-na´-lis), 184. Poseidon (po-si´-don), 101, 162, 266. Praxiteles (prax-it´-e-leez), 123. Priam (pri´-am), 254, 283, 304. Priamus (pri´-a-mus). _See_ Priam. Priapus (pri-a´-pus), 175. Priests, 191. Procrustes (pro-crus´-teez), 261. Proetus (pree´-tus), 257. Prometheus (pro-mee´-thuce), 24, 149, 193, 222. Proserpine (pross´-er-pine), _See_ Persephone. Protesilaus (pro-tess´-i-la´-us), 290. Proteus (pro´-tuce), 108. Prytaneum (prit-a-nee´-um), 49. Psophis (so´-fiss), 278. Psyche (si´-ke), 150. Pylades (pil´-a-deez), 95, 306. Pylos (pi´-l[)o]s), 286. Pyracmon (pi-rac´-mon), 16. Pyrrha (pir´-rah), 22. Pythia (pith´-e-ah) 195, 269. Pythian Games, 83. Python (pi´-thon), 31, 72, 195. Q. Quirinus (que-ri´-nus), 115. R. Remus (ree´-mus), 114. Rhadamanthus (rad-a-man´-thus), 34, 134. Rhamnus (ram´-nus), 142. Rhamnusia (ram-nu´-zhe-ah), 142. Rhea (ree´-ah), 13, 18. Rhoda (ro´-dah), 105. Rhodes (roads), 105. Rhodope, Mount (rod´-o-pe), 130. Rhoetus (ree´-tus), 20. Robigus (ro-bi´-gus), 180. Romulus (rom´-u-lus), 114. S. Sacrifices, 192. Sagaris (sag´-a-ris), 19. Salamis (sal´-a-mis), 285. Salii (sa´-le-i), 115. Samos (sa´-mos), 34. Saturn (sat´-urn), 17, 200. Saturnalia (sat-ur-na´-le-ah), 200. Satyrs (sa´-turz), 174, 198. Scamander (sca-man´-der), 290. Scheria (skee´-re-ah), 318. Schoeneus (skee´-nuce), 89. Scyros, island of, (si´-r[)o]s), 268, 287. Scylla (sil´-lah), 104, 316. Scyron (si´-ron), 260. {333} Seasons, 164. Selene (se-lee´-ne), 86. Selene-Artemis, 96. Selli (sel´-li), 29. Semele (sem´-e-le), 35, 205, 215. Seriphus (se-ri´-fus), 205. Servius Tullius (ser´-ve-us tul´-le-us), 184. Shades, realm of, 267, 314. Sibyls (sib´-bles), 84. Silens (si´-lenz), 174. Silenus (si-lee´-nus), 125, 198. Silvanus (sil-va´-nus), 115, 182. Silver Age, 23. Simois (sim´-o-iss), 290. Sinnis (sin´-nis), 260. Sinon (si´-non), 302. Siphylus (sif´-i-lus), 80. Sirens (si´-renz), 112, 158, 315. Sisyphus (sis´-i-fus), 135. Sol (soll). _See_ Helios. Solymans (sol´-i-mans), 258. Somnus (som´-nus). _See_ Hypnus. Soothsayers, 195. Sparta, 285. Sphinx (sfinks), 146. Stables, Augean (aw-jee´-an), 242. Statues, 190. Stellio (stel´-le-o), 57. Steropes (ster´-o peez, the first _e_ like _ei_ in _their_), 16. Stheno (sthee´-no), 144. Strophius (stro´-fe-us), 306. Stymphalides (stim-fal´-i-deez), 221, 242. Styx (sticks), 117, 132, 287. Symplegades (sim-pleg´-a-deez), 221. Syrinx (si´-rinks), 172. Syrtes (sir´-teez), 229. T. Tænarum (ten´-a-rum), 132, 250. Talaria (ta-la´-re-ah), 121. Talus (ta´-lus), 229. Tantalus (tan´-ta-lus), 134. Tarquinius Superbus (tar-quin´-e-us su-per´-bus), 84. Tartarus (tar´-ta-rus), 14, 134. Taurica Chersonesus (taw´-ri-cah ker-so-nee´-sus), 93, 306. Tauris (taw´-ris), 93, 306. Tegea (tee´-je-ah), 279. Telamon (tel´-a-mon), 216, 253, 285. Telemachus (tel-lem´-a-cus), 287, 320. Telephus (tel´-e-fus), 289. Temenus (tem´-e-nus), 282. Temples, 188. Tenedos (ten´-e-dos), 290, 301, 303. Terminus (ter´-mi-nus), 182. Terpsichore (terp-sic´-o-re), 159. Terra (ter´-rah, the _e_ like _ei_ in _their_), 11. Tethys (tee´-thiss, _th_ as in _both_), 107, 166. Teutamias (tu-ta´-me-ass), 209. [55]Thalia (tha-li´-ah), 159, 163. Thallo (thal´-lo), 164. Thamyris (tham´-i ris), 158. Thanatos (than´-a-tos), 142. Thaumas (thaw´-mass), 13, 111, 137. Thebes (theebs), 203. Theia (thi´-ah), 13. Themis (thee´-mis), 31, 48. Themiscyra (the-mis´-se-rah), 245. Thermodon (ther-mo´-don), 244. Thersander (ther-san´-der), 276. Thersites (ther-si´-teez), 297. Theseus (thee´-suce), 250, 259. Thesmophoria (thes-mo-fo´-re-ah), 197. Thes´saly, 77. Thestius (thes´-te-us), 33. Thetis (thee´-tis), 39, 98, 110, 297. Thyone (thi-o´-ne), 128. Tiphys (ti´-fiss), 216. Tiresias (ti-ree´-she-ass), 235, 271, 274, 277, 313. Tiryns (ti´-rinz), 209, 252. Tirynth (ti´-rinth), 209, 252. Tisiphone (ti-sif´-o-ne), 138. Titanomachia (ti´-tan-o-ma´-ke-ah), 17. Titans (ti´-tanz), 13. Tithonus (ti-tho´-nus), 68, 297. Tityus (tit´-e-us), 134. Trachin (tra´-kin), 254. Trachis (tra´-kis), 254. Trinacria (tri-na´-cre-ah), 316. Triptolemus (trip-tol´-e-mus), 53. Triton (tri´-ton), 109. Trivia (triv´-e-ah), 97. Troezen (tree´-zen), 251 Tros (tr[)o]ss), 157, 246. Troy, 283. -- walls of, 104. Tubal-Cain (too´-bal-cane), 101. Tyche (ti´-ke), 147. Tydeus (ti´-duce), 272. Tyndareus (tin-da´-re-us), 285. Typhoeus (ti-fo´-yuce), 21. Typhon (ti´-fon), 21. Tyro (ti´-ro), 106. U. Uffizi Gallery (oof´-fid-ze), 80. Ulysses (u-lis´-seez), _See_ Odysseus. Urania (u-ra´-ne-ah), 159. Uranus (u´-ra-nus), 11. V. Veneralia (ven-e-ra´-le-ah), 61. {334} Venus (vee´-nus), 61, 183. -- of Milo, 60. Vertumnus (ver-tum´-nus), 181. Vesta (ves´-tah), 50, 201. Vestalia (ves-ta´-le-ah), 59, 201. Via Salavia (vi´-ah sa-la´-ve-ah), 184. Victo´ria, 117. Vulcan, 100. W. Winds, 170, 298. Wooden Horse, 301. X. Xuthus (zoo-thus), 210. Z. Zephyrus (zef´-i-rus), 151, 171, 310. Zetes (zee´-teez), 171. Zethus (zee´-thus), 33. Zeus (zuce), 26. * * * * * A COMPLETE COURSE IN THE STUDY OF ENGLISH. * * * * * _Spelling, Language, Grammar, Composition, Literature_. * * * * * REED'S WORD LESSONS--A COMPLETE SPELLER. REED'S INTRODUCTORY LANGUAGE WORK. REED & KELLOGG'S GRADED LESSONS IN ENGLISH. REED & KELLOGG'S HIGHER LESSONS IN ENGLISH. REED & KELLOGG'S ONE-BOOK COURSE IN ENGLISH. KELLOGG'S TEXT-BOOK ON RHETORIC. KELLOGG'S TEXT-BOOK ON ENGLISH LITERATURE. In the preparation of this series the authors have had one object clearly in view--to so develop the study of the English language as to present a complete, progressive course, from the Spelling-Book to the study of English Literature. The troublesome contradictions which arise in using books arranged by different authors on these subjects, and which require much time for explanation in the schoolroom, will be avoided by the use of the above "Complete Course." Teachers are earnestly invited to examine these books. MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO., PUBLISHERS. 43, 45, and 47 East Tenth Street, New York. * * * * * NOTES [1] The early Greeks supposed the earth to be a flat circle, in the centre of which was Greece. Oceanus, the ocean stream, encircled it; the Mediterranean being supposed to flow into this river on the one side, and the Euxine, or Black Sea, on the other. [2] Owing to the vagueness of the various accounts of creation, the origin of the primeval gods is variously accounted for. Thus, for instance, Oceanus, with some, becomes the younger brother of Uranus and Gæa. [3] The myth of Cronus swallowing his children is evidently intended by the poets to express the melancholy truth that time destroys all things. [4] Nectar was the drink, and ambrosia the food of the gods. [5] The Cyclops are generally mentioned as the sons of Uranus and Gæa, but Homer speaks of Polyphemus, the chief of the Cyclops, as the son of Poseidon, and states the Cyclops to be his brothers. [6] Possibly an image of him placed in readiness. [7] This age was contemporary with the commencement of the dynasty of Zeus. [8] Hesiod is said to have lived 850 years before the Christian era, consequently about 200 years after King David. He lived in Boeotia, where his tomb is still shown at Orchomenus. This ancient writer left behind him two great poems, one entitled "The Works and Days," in which he gives us some of the earliest Greek legends, and the other, "The Theogony," containing the genealogies of the gods; but, unfortunately, both these poems have been so interpolated by the writers of the Alexandrian school that they have lost their value as reliable sources of information with regard to the early beliefs of the Greek nation. [9] Epimetheus signifies after-thought, Prometheus fore-thought. [10] There are various versions of this myth. According to some the jar or vase was full of all "the ills which flesh is heir to." [11] From _Diaus_, the sky. [12] A sacred shield made for Zeus by Hephæstus, which derived its name from being covered by the skin of the goat Amalthea, the word Ægis signifying goat's-skin. [13] See Demeter. [14] This frightful monster had sprung from the slimy and stagnant waters which remained on the surface of the earth after the deluge of Deucalion. [15] Castor and Pollux were known by the name of the Dioscuri, from _dios_, gods, and _kuroi_, youths. [16] The ancient Greeks attributed much of the subsequent character of an individual to early influences; hence Hera, the future queen and mistress of heaven, is represented as being brought up in a domesticated and orderly household, where home virtues are carefully inculcated. [17] In the Homeric age peacocks were unknown; it is therefore the later poets who describe Hera surrounded with peacocks, which were brought to Greece from India. [18] This circumstance has given rise to the erroneous conclusion that Juno presided over the finances of the state, but the word _moneta_ is derived from the Latin _monere_, which means to warn or admonish. [19] See Roman Festivals. [20] The first large ship possessed by the Greeks fit for more than coast navigation. [21] When Perseus, with the help of Athene, had cut off the head of the Medusa, the two sisters caused a sad dirge-like song to issue from the mouths of the many snakes of which their hair was composed, whereupon Athene, pleased with the sound, imitated the melody on a reed, and thus invented the flute. [22] For details see Roman Festivals. [23] See Legend of Troy. [24] Some, with but little reason, make Demeter the daughter of Uranus and Gæa. [25] Demeter transformed Ascalaphus into an owl for revealing the secret. [26] The course which the sun ran was considered by the ancients to be a rising and descending curve [drawing of an arc], the centre of which was supposed to be reached by Helios at mid-day. [27] The river Po. [28] This great work of antiquity was destroyed by an earthquake fifty-six years after its erection, B.C. 256. The fragments remained on the ground for many centuries, until Rhodes was conquered by the Turks, and they were eventually sold by one of the generals of Caliph Othman IV. to a merchant of Emesa for £36,000, A.D. 672. [29] According to some authorities, Strymon. [30] This wonderful lyre, which had been given to Apollo by Hermes (Mercury) in exchange for the Caduceus or rod of wealth, is said to have possessed such extraordinary powers, that it caused a stone, upon which it was laid, to become so melodious, that ever afterwards, on being touched, it emitted a musical sound which resembled that produced by the lyre itself. [31] Aristæus was worshipped as a rural divinity in various parts of Greece, and was supposed to have taught mankind how to catch bees, and to utilize honey and wax. [32] Astræa was the daughter of the Titans Coeus and Phoebe. Perses was son of the Titans Crios and Eurybia. [33] Called also Anaitis-Aphroditis. [34] This occurred during the night Alexander the Great was born. [35] Another version with regard to the origin of this defect, is that being born ugly and deformed, his mother Hera, disgusted at his unsightliness, herself threw him violently from her lap, and it was then that his leg was broken, producing the lameness from which he suffered ever after. On this occasion he fell into the sea, and was saved by the sea-nymphs Thetis and Eurynome, who kept him for nine years in a cavern beneath the ocean, where he made for them, in gratitude for their kindness, several beautiful ornaments, and trinkets of rare workmanship. [36] According to some accounts Chares was the wife of Hephæstus. [37] The trident resembled the arrow-headed pronged fork, used by the fishermen of the Mediterranean Sea in the eel-fishery. [38] Scylla is a dangerous rock, much dreaded by mariners, in the Straits of Messina. [39] The island of Rhodes owes its name to her. [40] It is worthy of notice that the sons of Poseidon were, for the most part, distinguished by great force and turbulence of character, in keeping with the element over which their father was the presiding deity. They were giants in power, and intractable, fiery, and impatient by nature, spurning all efforts to control them; in all respects, therefore, fitting representatives of their progenitor, the mighty ruler of the sea. [41] A cubit is the length from the elbow to the extremity of the middle finger, and therefore an indefinite measure, but modern usage takes it as representing a length of seventeen to eighteen inches. [42] On the Egyptian coast. [43] See Legend of the Argonauts. [44] His two sons Deimos and Phobos. [45] Romulus was deified by the Romans after death, and was worshipped by them under the name of Quirinus, an appellation which he shared in common with his father Mars. [46] Midas was the son of Cybele and Gordius, the king who tied the celebrated and intricate knot. [47] The shades of those mortals whose lives had neither been distinguished by virtue nor vice, were condemned to a monotonous, joyless, existence in the Asphodel meadows of Hades. [48] Echidna was a bloodthirsty monster, half maiden, half serpent. [49] One of the horns of the goat Amalthea, broken off by Zeus, and supposed to possess the power of filling itself with whatsoever its owner desired. [50] According to another account, Momus discovered that Aphrodite made a noise when she walked. [51] The word Psyche signifies "butterfly," the emblem of the soul in ancient art. [52] Tiresias alone, of all the shades, was in full possession of his mental vigour. [53] Most of the words ending in eus may also be pronounced thus: _Æ´-ge-us_, _[=a]´-tre-us_, _pro-me´-the-us_, etc. [54] The first e like ei in their. [55] _Th_ at the beginning of a word has its soft sound, as in _both_. 
41765	----	[Illustration: HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES] HALF A HUNDRED HERO TALES OF ULYSSES AND THE MEN OF OLD EDITED BY FRANCIS STORR EDITOR OF "THE JOURNAL OF EDUCATION," LONDON WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK C. PAPÉ [Illustration] NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1913 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY _Published January, 1911_ THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS RAHWAY, N. J. PREFACE The apology offered for adding yet another book of Classical Stories to the endless existing versions, ancient and modern, in verse and in prose, is the plea that Vivien offers to Merlin for her "tender rhyme": "It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differently." "You Greeks," said the Egyptian priest to Herodotus, "are always children," and Greece will never lose the secret of eternal youth. The tale of Troy divine, of Thebes and Pelops' line, the song of sweet Colonus, the most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby, Dido with a willow in her hand--these old stories of Homer and Sophocles, of Virgil and Ovid, have not lost their gloss and freshness. "The innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet." They have been sung or said by Wace and Caxton, by Chaucer and Wordsworth, by Keats and William Morris; they have been adapted for young readers by Fénelon, by Niebuhr, by Kingsley, by Hawthorne, and yet the last word has not been said. Each new editor makes his own selection, chooses some new facet, or displays the jewel in a new light. As Sainte-Beuve remarks of "Don Quixote" and other world classics, "One can discover there something more than the author first of all tried to see there, and certainly more than he dreamed of putting there." The present collection of Fifty Stories (there might well have been five hundred) makes no pretense either of completeness or of uniformity. Some of the contributors have followed closely the texts, others have given free play to their fancy, but in every case the myths have been treated simply as stories and no attempt has been made either to trace their origin or to indicate their religious or ethical significance. Most of the stories point their own moral, and need no more commentary than Jack the Giant-killer or the Sleeping Beauty. Young readers of to-day resent the sermons even of a Kingsley. From "Tanglewood Tales," a book that was the joy of our childhood, we have borrowed ten stories, and have taken the liberty of dividing into chapters and slightly abridging the longest of Hawthorne's Tales. All but one of the remaining forty are original versions. CONTENTS PAGE PLUTO AND PROSERPINE 1 By H. P. Maskell PAN AND SYRINX 5 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd THE STORY OF PHAETON 13 By M. M. Bird ARETHUSA 19 By V. C. Turnbull THE STORY OF DAPHNE 24 By M. M. Bird DEUCALION AND PYRRHA 28 By M. M. Bird EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA 33 By Nathaniel Hawthorne EUROPA AND THE GOD-BULL 50 By Nathaniel Hawthorne CADMUS AND THE DRAGON'S TEETH 65 By Nathaniel Hawthorne ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 83 By V. C. Turnbull HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES 89 I. HERCULES AND THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA By Nathaniel Hawthorne HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES 98 II. HERCULES AND ATLAS By Nathaniel Hawthorne HERCULES AND NESSUS 107 By H. P. Maskell THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE 111 By M. M. Bird HOW THESEUS FOUND HIS FATHER 124 By Nathaniel Hawthorne THESEUS AND THE WITCH MEDEA 131 By Nathaniel Hawthorne THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR 138 By Nathaniel Hawthorne THESEUS AND ARIADNE 144 By Nathaniel Hawthorne PARIS AND OENONE 154 By V. C. Turnbull IPHIGENIA 161 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd PROTESILAUS 166 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd THE DEATH OF HECTOR 173 By V. C. Turnbull THE WOODEN HORSE 180 By F. Storr THE SACK OF TROY 185 By F. Storr THE DEATH OF AJAX 191 By F. Storr THE FLIGHT OF ÆNEAS FROM TROY 196 By F. Storr ÆNEAS AND DIDO 201 By V. C. Turnbull ÆNEAS IN HADES 209 By V. C. Turnbull NISUS AND EURYALUS 217 By F. Storr ULYSSES IN HADES 224 By M. M. Bird CIRCE'S PALACE 232 By Nathaniel Hawthorne ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS 262 By Hope Moncrieff THE SIRENS 271 By V. C. Turnbull THE STORY OF NAUSICAA 275 By M. M. Bird THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES 283 By M. M. Bird BAUCIS AND PHILEMON 292 By H. P. Maskell HYPERMNESTRA 296 By V. C. Turnbull OEDIPUS AT COLONOS 302 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd MIDAS 308 By H. P. Maskell PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 313 By V. C. Turnbull MELEAGER AND ATALANTA 320 By H. P. Maskell THE STORY OF DÆDALUS AND ICARUS 326 By M. M. Bird SCYLLA, THE DAUGHTER OF NISUS 330 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd THE STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE 340 By M. M. Bird HERO AND LEANDER 344 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE 352 By F. Storr CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS 359 By H. P. Maskell ECHO AND NARCISSUS 364 By Thomas Bulfinch THE RING OF POLYCRATES 369 By M. M. Bird ROMULUS AND REMUS 375 By Mrs. Guy E. Lloyd ILLUSTRATIONS HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE THE STORY OF DAPHNE 26 HERCULES AND NESSUS 108 THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR 138 ÆNEAS IN HADES 212 ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS 266 PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA 316 ROMULUS AND REMUS 380 HALF A HUNDRED HERO TALES PLUTO AND PROSERPINE BY H. P. MASKELL In the very heart of Sicily are the groves of Enna--a land of flowers and rippling streams, where the spring-tide lasts all through the year. Thither Proserpine, daughter of Ceres, betook herself with her maidens to gather nosegays of violets and lilies. Eager to secure the choicest posy, she had wandered far from her companions, when Pluto, issuing, as was his wont, from his realm of shadows to visit the earth, beheld her, and was smitten by her childlike beauty. Dropping her flowers in alarm, the maiden screamed for her mother and attendants. 'Twas in vain; the lover seized her and bore her away in his chariot of coal-black steeds. Faster and faster sped the team as their swart master called to each by name and shook the reins on their necks. Through deep lakes they sped, by dark pools steaming with volcanic heat, and on past the twin harbors of Syracuse. When they came to the abode of Cyane, the nymph rose up from her crystal pool and perceived Pluto. "No farther shalt thou go!" she cried. "A maiden must be asked of her parents, not stolen away against her mother's will!" For answer the wrathful son of Saturn lashed his foam-flecked steeds. He hurled his royal scepter into the very bed of the stream. Forthwith the earth opened, making a way down into Tartarus; and the chariot vanished through the yawning cave, leaving Cyane dissolved in tears of grief for the ravished maiden and her own slighted domain. Meanwhile Ceres, anxious mother, had heard her daughter's cry for help. Through every clime and every sea she sought and sought in vain. From dawn to dewy eve she sought, and by night she pursued the quest with torches kindled by the flames of Ætna. Then, by Enna's lake, she found the scattered flowers and shreds of the torn robe, but further traces there were none. Weary and overcome with thirst, she chanced on a humble cottage and begged at the door for a cup of water. The goodwife brought out a pitcher of home-made barley wine, which she drained at a draught. An impudent boy jeered at the goddess, and called her "toss-pot." Dire and swift was the punishment that overtook him. Ceres sprinkled over him the few drops that remained; and, changed into a speckled newt, he crept away into a cranny. Too long would be the tale of all the lands and seas where the goddess sought for her child. When she had visited every quarter of the world she returned once more to Sicily. Cyane, had she not melted away in her grief, might have told all. Still, however, on Cyane's pool the girdle of Proserpine was found floating, and thus the mother knew that her daughter had been carried off by force. When this was brought home to her, she tore her hair and beat her breast. Not as yet did she know the whole truth, but she vowed vengeance against all the earth, and on Sicily most of all, the land of her bereavement. No longer, she complained, was ungrateful man worthy of her gifts of golden grain. A famine spread through all the land. Plowshares broke while they were turning the clods, the oxen died of pestilence, and blight befell the green corn. An army of birds picked up the seed as fast as it was sown; thistles, charlock, and tares sprang up in myriads and choked the fields before the ear could show itself. Then Arethusa, the river nymph, who had traveled far beneath the ocean to meet in Sicily her lover Alpheus, raised her head in pity for the starving land, and cried to Ceres: "O mourning mother, cease thy useless quest, and be not angered with a land which is faithful to thee. While I was wandering by the river Styx I beheld thy Proserpine. Her looks were grave, yet not as of one forlorn. Take comfort! She is a queen, and chiefest of those who dwell in the world of darkness. She is the bride of the infernal king." Ceres was but half consoled, and her wrath was turned from Sicily to the bold ravisher of her daughter. She hastened to Olympus, and laid her plaint before Jupiter. She urged that her daughter must be restored to her. If only Pluto would resign possession of Proserpine, she would forgive the ravisher. Jupiter answered mildly: "This rape of the god lover can scarce be called an injury. Pluto is my brother, and like me a king, except that he reigns below, whereas I reign above. Give your consent, and he will be no disgrace as a son-in-law." Still Ceres was resolved to fetch her daughter back, and Jupiter at length agreed that it should be so on condition that Proserpine, during her sojourn in the shades, had allowed no food to pass her lips. In joy the mother hurried down to Tartarus and demanded her daughter. But the fates were against her. The damsel had broken her fast. As she wandered in the fair gardens of Elysium she had picked a pomegranate from the bending tree, and had eaten seven of the sweet purple seeds. Only one witness had seen her in the fatal act. This was Ascalaphus, a courtier of Pluto, who some say had first put it into the mind of the king to carry off Proserpine. In revenge for this betrayal, Ceres changed him into an owl, and doomed him ever after to be a bird of ill-omen who cannot bear the light of day, and whose nightly hooting portends ill tidings to mortals. But Ceres was not doomed to lose Proserpine utterly. Jupiter decreed that for six months of each year her daughter was to reign in dark Tartarus by Pluto's side; for the other six months she was to return to earth and dwell with her mother. Joy returned to the mother's saddened heart; the barren earth at her bidding once more brought forth its increase. Soon the fields were smiling with golden corn, and the mellow grapes hung heavy on the vines, and once again that favored land became the garden of the world. PAN AND SYRINX BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD Long ages ago in the pleasant land of Arcadia, where the kindly shepherds fed their flocks on the green hills, there lived a fair maiden named Syrinx. Even as a tiny child she loved to toddle forth from her father's house and lose herself in the quiet woods. Often were they forced to seek long and far before they found her, when the dew was falling and the stars coming out in the dark blue sky; but however late it was, they never found her afraid nor eager to be safe at home. Sometimes she was curled up on the soft moss under the shelter of a spreading tree, fast asleep; sometimes she was lying by the side of a stream listening to the merry laughter of the water; sometimes, sitting over the stones upon the hillside, she would be watching with wonder and delight the lady moon, with her bright train of clouds, racing across the sky as if in hot chase. Years passed on, and Syrinx grew into a tall and slender maiden, with long fair hair and great gray eyes, with a look in them that made her seem to be always listening. Out in the woods there are so many sounds for any one who has ears to hear--the different notes of the birds, the hum of the insects, the swift, light rustle as some furry four-legged hunter creeps through the underwood. Then there is the pleasant, happy murmur of the breeze among the leaves, with a different sound in it for every different tree, or the wild shriek of the gale that rends the straining branches, or the bubbling of the spring, or the prattle of the running stream, or the plash of the waterfall. Many are the sounds of the woods, and Syrinx knew and loved them all until "Beauty born of murmuring sound, Had passed into her face." "Have a care, Syrinx," her playfellows would say sometimes. "If you wander alone in the woods, some day you will see the terrible god Pan." "I should like well to see him," the maiden made answer one day to an old crone who thus warned her. "The great god Pan loves the woods and everything that lives in them, and so do I. We must needs be friends if we meet." The old woman looked at her in horror and amaze. "You know not what you say, child," she made answer. "Some aver that none can look upon Pan and live, but of that I am none so sure, for I have heard of shepherds to whom he has spoken graciously, and they never the worse for it. But of this there is no doubt--whoever hears the shout of Pan runs mad with the sound of it. So be not too venturesome, or evil will come of it." Now Syrinx might have taken warning from these wise and kindly words. As it was, she treasured them, and only wondered what this god could be like, the sound of whose shout made men run mad. She feared to see him, and would have run swiftly away if she had caught a glimpse of him, and yet she went continually to the far and silent groves whither, so the shepherds said, Pan was most wont to resort. It chanced one day that Syrinx had wandered farther than was her wont; she had been in the woods since daybreak, and now it was high noon. She was tired and hot, and lay down to rest on a bank beneath a tall ash tree that was all covered with ivy, and resting there she soon fell fast asleep. While she slept the wild things of the woods came to look upon her with wonder. A doe that was passing with her fawn stood for a moment gazing mildly upon the maiden, and the fawn stooped and licked her fingers, but at the touch Syrinx stirred in her sleep and both doe and fawn bounded away among the bushes. A little squirrel dropped lightly from a tree and sat up close beside her, his tail curled jauntily over his back, his bright eyes fixed upon her face. The little furry rabbits first peeped at her out of their holes, and then growing bolder came quite close and sat with their soft paws tucked down and their ears cocked very stiffly, listening to her quiet breathing. And last of all, stepping noiselessly over the grass, came the lord of all the wild things, the great god Pan himself. His legs and feet were like those of a goat, so that he could move more quickly and lightly than the wild gazelle, and his ears were long and pointed--ears like those of a squirrel, so that he could hear the stirring of a nestling not yet out of its egg. Softly he drew nigh to the maiden, and there was a wicked smile in his bright dark eyes. But as he bent to look into her face she stirred, and he leapt lightly back and sat himself down a little space from her, leaning on his arm among the brushwood till he was half hidden from her. Beside him lay a great bough torn from the tree by some winter storm; Pan drew this to him and began to cut from it a piece of wood whereof to fashion a dainty little drinking-cup. And lying there, cutting at the wood, Pan began to whistle low and sweetly to himself, just as though he had been some shepherd or huntsman resting in the shade. At first the soft notes made for the half-awakened maiden a dream of singing birds and rippling water; then her drowsy eyes unclosed and she became aware of a bearded face turned half away from her and bent over some sort of work. For a time she lay still, and Pan forebore to glance at her, but cut away at the piece of wood he was fashioning, and whistled to himself as though he had not marked the maiden. Presently, broad awake, Syrinx raised herself upon her elbow and gazed full upon the stranger, who glanced round at her in a careless, friendly way, and nodded to her with a kindly smile. "Thou hast slept well, fair maiden," said Pan, in a low, gentle voice, that sounded like the far-off murmur of a winter torrent. And Syrinx, reassured by the gleam of the merry dark eyes, made answer: "Yea, fair sir, for I had wandered far, and was aweary." "How hast thou dared to wander so far from the haunts of men?" asked the sylvan god, "Art thou not afeard of all that might meet thee here in the deep forest?" "I fear none of the wild things of the wood," answered Syrinx simply, "for none has ever done me hurt. If thou art, as I judge thee, a hunter, thou knowest that it is through fear alone that the beasts of the forest do harm to man. But I move ever quietly among them, and do not startle them, and they go on their ways and leave me in peace." "Thou art passing wise," said Pan; "there are few indeed of thy years who have attained to thy knowledge. When a man perceives a rustling in the brushwood he flings his spear at the place; while women, for the most part, scream and flee. But the fearless may walk quiet and unharmed through the depths of the forest." "There is one fear in my heart, kind stranger," said Syrinx earnestly. "There be shepherds who say that in these forest paths they have seen and spoken with the great god Pan himself. But some say that it is death to see him, and all say that men run mad at the sound of his shout. How thinkest thou? Hast thou ever caught a glimpse of him?" There was a merry twinkle in those dancing eyes as the stranger made answer: "Nay, maiden, I have never seen him of whom thou speakest; but cast away thy last fear, for sure I am that the sight of him is not death to any living thing. He loves and cares for all that hath life; and as for his shout, that is only heard in battle, for he never cries aloud save in wrath, and then indeed it brings confusion to his enemies or to those who withstand him, but to his friends it brings courage and triumph." Syrinx heaved a sigh of relief, and lay back again, one arm under her head, her long fair hair rippling over her shoulder, and her beautiful gray eyes fixed upon the face of the stranger. Pan gazed upon her, and crept a little nearer through the brushwood. "Sure I am that thou art as wise as thou art kind, fair stranger," said the innocent maiden. "There has ever been within me a secret thought that Pan, the lord of all the wild things of the wood, could not be fierce and cruel as men said, and ever have I been assured that could I meet and speak with him I should love him well." "Love, love, love, love," said the deep soft voice of the great god Pan. "Every tree, every flower, every bird, every beast lives for nothing else. Dost thou indeed understand what thou sayest, fair maiden?" And the girl nodded her pretty head wisely, for she quite thought she did. "Yea, kind stranger," she answered, "for when I look into the eyes of one to whom I have never yet spoken a word, I know at once whether his speech and company are like to be pleasant to me, or whether I would have him pass on and speak no word. When I lay half asleep but now, and listened to your merry whistling, I could feel within me that it was a sweet and a friendly sound, and good to hear. It was like the speech of the forest, which I have loved since I was a baby." Pan laughed gently to himself as he fashioned his wooden cup; but there was a new gleam in his downcast eyes, and when next he glanced at her Syrinx saw the change, and a vague uneasiness awoke in her. She looked at the sky, already beginning to glow with the radiance of the setting sun. "It grows late," she said; "I must away, for I have far to go ere night-fall. Farewell, gentle stranger." "Nay, but stay a little longer," said Pan gently. "I know every path of the forest, and if the darkness falls upon thee I can guide thee safely, never fear." But the maiden feared the more, as she sprang to her feet. "Nay, I must tarry no longer," she said hastily; "it is already over-late." Tossing her hair back from her flushed face she sprang away down the slope like a frightened fawn. Forgetting all but his wish to stay her Pan leapt up to follow her, and glancing back over her shoulder Syrinx saw his goat feet, and knew with whom she had been speaking. With a sudden start she plunged into the brushwood, and as she disappeared from his sight Pan, anxious only to bring her back, uttered a mighty cry. The sound smote upon the ear of the terrified maiden, and her brain reeled. With one wild shriek of terror she turned and fled, and before even those swift goat's feet could overtake her she had plunged into the river, and was gone--a reed lost among the river-reeds. And the great god Pan sat down upon the river bank sorrowful and baffled; and as he gazed upon the water, flushed with the light of the setting sun, he saw the very bank of water-reeds where Syrinx had disappeared. Slender and graceful they were, as the maiden who was gone, and they trembled as she had done when she looked behind and saw who was her pursuer, and their tufted heads, golden in the evening light, reminded Pan of the golden hair of Syrinx. He stepped forward to the edge of the water, and stooping, plucked a handful of the reeds. They snapped with a sharp crack in his strong fingers, and as he looked down at them he sighed deeply. His sigh came back to him with a low musical note, and Pan went back to the bank, and sitting himself down he scanned and fingered tenderly the hollow stalks. Long did he sit there with his newly found treasure; the sun went down, the crimson clouds turned to dark lines across the pale saffron sky, the full moon rose slowly from behind the hill, and still Pan bent over his handful of water-reeds, and breathed upon them this way and that, and cut and fashioned them with care. Next day the shepherds were all abroad in the woods searching for Syrinx, but of her they found no trace; only, as they moved hither and thither, they heard sweet and strange and far-off music. It was as if all the sounds of the forest had been modulated and harmonized; now it swelled and grew loud and joyous, and now it died away in pitiful lamenting. It was Pan, playing upon the sevenfold pipe that he had made, and when at length he gave it to the sons of men, and taught them to play upon it too, he gave it the name of Syrinx, the beautiful and hapless maiden whom he had loved and lost. THE STORY OF PHAETON BY M. M. BIRD A fiery and high-spirited youth, Phaeton could not brook the taunts of his playmate Epaphus, who claimed divine descent from Isis. When Phaeton boasted that his father was Phoebus the Sun-god, Epaphus only laughed and called him a base-born pretender. So one day Phaeton, stung to madness by these taunts, went boldly to his mother Clymené and demanded that she should give him some clear proof that he was indeed, as she averred, the very son of Phoebus. Clymené lifted her beautiful hands to the Sun, who rode gorgeous in the Heavens, and swore by him that none other than Phoebus was the father of the boy. "Nevertheless," said she, "if this doth suffice you not, and you seek other proof, travel yourself to his Eastern Mansion, which lies not so far remote from here, and ask him whether you are not his son." The ambitious youth hastened to follow her counsel; he longed to see his father, and to visit the Eastern Mansion where he abode. Through India he traveled in haste, never resting till afar off he saw the wondrous light that shimmered perpetually over the Palace of the Sun. High it stood on columns of burnished gold ablaze with jewels. The folding doors were of silver, the walls of ivory, and Vulcan had wrought the precious metals in designs of wonderful beauty. The seas, the earth, the fair forms of the immortal gods, all graced the carven portals. Phaeton, toiling up the steep ascent, saw at a great distance the dazzling god, seated high on an imperial throne, all sparkling with gems. The Hours, Days, Months, and Years, were ranged on either hand. He saw Spring decked in flowers, Summer with her garner of grain, Autumn bowed beneath his burden of grapes and fruits, and hoary Winter shivering behind them. The all-beholding eye of the god perceived him from afar, and before he had spoken a word, a voice from the throne bade him welcome: "What wants my son? For my son thou art." Thus encouraged, the youth, though dazzled by the exceeding brightness, poured out his tale and proffered his petition. The god was touched by his tale of wrong. Flinging aside the awful glories that surrounded him, he bade his son advance, and embraced him with tenderness. "Make of me some request," he said, "and to convince thee that I am thy father, I swear by Styx to grant it, whate'er it be." The youth was transported with delight, and asked at once to be permitted to guide the Sun's bright chariot for one day. Phoebus was grieved beyond measure at the young man's rash ambition, and bitterly repented of his oath; but even a god, when he has sworn by Styx, cannot take back or annul that awful oath. "Ask of me some other proof," he begged. "Too vast and hazardous this task for thy strength and years. Not one of all the gods--not Jupiter himself, ruler of the sky--dares mount that burning chariot, save I alone!" He told him how with pain and labor the wild steeds climb up the arc of the sky--how from the topmost pinnacles of Heaven the Earth and Ocean lie so far beneath that even he himself is sometimes seized with giddiness and his brain reels. And when down the steep descent of the western sky the horses plunge headlong, it needs a strong and steady hand to check them in their course. He told him how, through all his daily task, the brave Sun has to front the opposing forces of the Bear, the Scorpion, and the Dog Star, and guide his steeds among their influences. Through a thousand snares his progress lies, with forms of starry monsters ready to devour him if he strays by a hair's breadth from the appointed way. And the very horses themselves, when their mettle is up, are a team that only a god may control. "My son," he besought him, "do not require of me a fatal gift." But the fond father pleaded in vain. The bold youth was unaffrighted, and the oath was binding. The time had come: Aurora heralded the new day. The golden chariot made by Vulcan was drawn forth; the spokes of the wheels were of silver, its seat was starred with gems. The nimble Hours brought forth from their stalls the fiery steeds. With last words of warning and advice, the father bade his son farewell, and watched him wend forth on his perilous journey. The youth leaped into the seat, he gathered up the reins, and gave his father such praise and thanks for his indulgence as cut him to the heart. The horses neighed and pranced, breathing fire from their distended nostrils. They sprang out through the gates of Dawn and flew over the clouds, leaving the light breezes of Morn far behind them. The youth was light; he could not poise or weight the chariot as did its accustomed rider. The bounding car was tossed to and fro, the sport of winds and currents. Wildly they hurtled headlong up the sky. The steeds perceived the lighter weight, the weaker hands. They plunged, and plunging, left the stated course. The youth became confused; he looked around him, but could no longer recognize the track. He did not know which way to steer, nor would the horses have obeyed his hand. Wildly they careered and brought the heat of midday into far regions of the Heavens that were unused to its untempered rays. All around him monstrous threatening shades awoke and stirred in the Heavens as he vexed them with the heat. Far, far below the affrighted youth could see Earth and Ocean spread out. But as his chariot raced madly down the heights, the clouds were dispersed by his fierce rays, the high mountains began to smoke, the forests to burn; ripened harvests were devoured by fire, whole cities were turned to ashes. Pindus and Parnassus were steaming, the fountains of Mount Ida were dried up, and Ætna raged with redoubled heat. Even the towering Apennines and Caucasus lost their snows, and the huge Alps were one range of living flame. The horrified youth beheld the universe burn around him, and he could scarce endure the sultry vapors that rose about him as from a furnace. Lost in clouds of whirling smoke and ashes, the steeds careered madly to and fro, he knew not whither. It is said that in that day the Moor began to change his hue and turn black, and Libya and all the deserts of Africa were then first drained of their moisture and left in great tracts of parching sandy waste. The great rivers, the Ganges, Euphrates, and the Danube, rose up in clouds of hissing steam, and the frightened Nile ran off and hid his head in the sands, and there for centuries and centuries it has lain hid. Stern Neptune, in amazement and anger, thrice reared his head above the shrinking waves where his fishes all were dying, and thrice the fierce flames drove him back. At length Earth, wrapped in her scalding seas, uplifting her scorching brows, appealed to Jupiter. "See how fierce vapors choke my breath; see my singed hair, my withered face, the heaps of cinders that defile my fair body.... Have pity." Jupiter heard her prayer. He mounted his high ethereal throne, called all powers, even the god whose son drove the chariot, to witness that what he did he was compelled to do, and launched a thunderbolt at the head of the despairing Phaeton. Thus with fire the god of gods suppressed the raging fire. Lifeless from the chariot the boy fell like a falling star, and his charred body dropped to the earth far from his own land, far in the western world, beside the river Po. The horses broke loose from their harness, the chariot was splintered into a thousand shining fragments and scattered far over the steaming earth. And the story goes, that for the space of one whole day, from morn till eve, the world existed without a sun, lighted only by the lurid glare of the burning ruins. Beside the waters of the river the Latian nymphs came round and gazed with awe upon the dead youth. His charred body they inclosed in a marble urn and wrote on it an epitaph: "Here lies a youth as beautiful as brave, Who through the heavens his father's chariot drave." His mother Clymené, frantic with grief, ceased not to roam the world, followed by her weeping daughters, until at last she came to the banks of Po, and found there the sculptured urn. She hung above it, bedewing the marble with her tears, crying aloud the name so dear to her. Her daughters stood around, weeping and lamenting with her. All night long they kept their watch, and returning day found them still calling on their brother's name. Four days and nights they kept their stand, till at length, when for their weariness they would have sought rest, they found they could not move. Phaethusa's arms were covered with hardening bark and branching boughs; Lampetia stood rooted to the ground; Æglé, as she tore her hair, only filled her hands with leaves. While their faces were yet untransformed, they cried to their mother for help. But, alas! she was powerless. She tore the bark from their fair bodies, she stripped the leaves from their sprouting fingers, she clung to their hardening limbs in vain. Only blood came trickling where she tore away the leaves and bark, and in faint voices the maidens cried that she only wounded her daughters when she tore their trees. Then the bark covered their fair faces, and they stood for ever dumb, waving green boughs in the sun, while tears of amber rolled slowly down the encrusting bark. ARETHUSA BY V. C. TURNBULL Lord of all waters was Oceanus, the ancient Titan god, whose beard, like a foaming cataract, swept to his girdle. Many fair daughters had he, of whom poets sing, yet the fairest of all was the nymph Arethusa. She had not lacked for wooers, but she shunned the haunts of men and abode on the Acroceraunian heights whence she had sprung, or when she descended to the plain hid herself in tangled bushes and overhanging alders. She loved the quiet woodland ways, and had vowed herself to the chaste huntress Diana, and in her train loved to fleet through the woods and over the plains of Achaia, chasing the flying deer. Now it happened one day that Arethusa, wearied with hunting and with the great heat, wandered alone among the woods and meadows, seeking a place of rest. Presently she heard the ripple of waters, and soon she came to a river flowing between straight poplars and hoary willows. Swiftly and quietly it ran, making no eddies, and so pure were its waters that she could count the pebbles lying in its deep bed like jewels in an open casket. Joyfully then the tired maiden unbound her sandals, and, sitting down upon the bank, dipped her white feet in the cool water. For a while she sat there undisturbed, and idly watched the growing ripples as she dabbled in the stream. But while she thus rested and played, a strange commotion drew her eyes to the middle of the stream, and a fear fell upon her, for she knew that it could be none other than Alpheus, the god of that river. Quickly she sprang to her feet, and while yet she stood trembling and irresolute, a hollow voice cried to her from mid-stream. And (oh marvel!) the voice was not terrible like that of a god, but tender and full of pleading love. "Whither dost thou hasten, Arethusa?" it said. And again: "Whither dost thou hasten?" But Arethusa, a maiden who cared nothing for love, would be wooed by neither god nor man. Swiftly she fled from the enchanted spot, even before the young river-god had sprung from the stream with love and longing in his eyes. And now began that long chase of which the end was even stranger than the beginning. Arethusa, weary no longer, darted like a fawn from the river, and Alpheus, more ardent still as the maid was coy, swiftly followed her flying steps. Through woods and meadows, over hills and across valleys--yes, and past more than one city, fled pursuer and pursued. But now, as the day drew towards sunsetting, Arethusa's strong limbs wearied, her strength flagged, and her pace slackened, and in her sick heart she knew how vain a thing it is for a mortal to strive against a god. For no weariness weighed down the feet of Alpheus; straight and swift he ran as his own river. Now so near was he to the maiden that his long shadow fell across her feet; but no faster could she go, for the sun smote fiercely upon her, and her strength was failing. Louder and louder sounded the footsteps of the god. Now she could feel his hard breathing in her long hair; was there no escape? With her last strength she cried to her sovereign mistress: "Help, O Huntress, thy huntress maiden! Aid her who so often carried thy bow and thine arrows in the chase!" And the goddess answered her votary. For at once Arethusa was wrapped in a dense cloud, so dense indeed that even the burning eyes of her pursuer could not pierce it. There, then, she crouched, like a hare on its form, while outside she heard the footsteps of Alpheus pacing round her hiding-place, searching and baffled. But he, having come so near his prize, would not now give it up, and she knew that he would watch the cloud till she came forth. At the thought, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and ran down to her feet. Faster and faster it poured; she was as ice that melts in the sun; and she realized with joy that the goddess was opening for her another way of escape. All her weariness and terror slid from her straightway; her tired limbs melted into a liquid ease, and it was no maiden but a laughing stream that shot from under the cloud and fled singing towards the western sea. But Alpheus, noting the guile of the goddess, laughed aloud, for could he not at will become even as his own river? He changed even as he conceived the thought; and now the chase began once more, only this time river pursued stream, leaping from crag to crag, and rushing across wide wastes of marshy country. And again Arethusa, finding herself in straits, cried aloud to her sovereign mistress Diana. And, behold, in answer to her prayer, the earth was suddenly rent asunder and a vast black chasm yawned in her path. Into it she plunged, and down, down, down she fell. And into it in pursuit plunged also Alpheus, who loved her so well that he was ready to follow her to the depths of the earth. * * * * * The darkness passed, and overhead was a beautiful green light, and on all sides a profound and solemn silence. Arethusa had left the land behind, and was pushing across the floor of the ocean. And behind her came the waters of Alpheus. Then into the maiden heart, which as yet had known not love, came something better than fear. From the lover who could follow her even hither why should she fly? On he came, undeterred and unpolluted by the brackish sea, his waters as fresh and pure as when they had first run laughing through the sunlit meadows of Arcadia.... Arethusa sought no more to fly. Love had conquered--Love, the lord of gods and men, who mocks at maidens' vows and melts the coldest breast. So there, amid the alien waters of the sea, the two met in loving embrace, never again to part. And after this the gods brought them once again to the light of the sun. For, finding at length a way of escape through a fissure of the rocks, they rushed forth as that Arethusan Fount which springs up in the Sicilian island of Ortygia. "And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one dale where the morning basks Like friends once parted Grown single-hearted, They ply their watery tasks. At sunrise they leap From their cradles steep In the cave of the shelving hill; At noontide they flow Through the woods below And the meadows of Asphodel; And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore;-- Like spirits that lie In the azure sky When they love but live no more." SHELLEY THE STORY OF DAPHNE BY M. M. BIRD Phoebus Apollo, the Sun-god, a hunter unmatched in the chase, had slain the awful Python with his shafts. To commemorate such a doughty deed, he instituted the Pythian Games wherein noble youths should strive for mastery. The prize was a simple green wreath, the symbol of victory. The laurel was not yet the leaf dedicated to the wreaths the gods bestowed upon the happy victors, but every kind of green was worn with promiscuous grace upon the flowing locks of Phoebus. Flushed with pride in his new success against the Python, Phoebus saw Cupid, Venus' immortal son, bending his bow and aiming his feathered shafts at unwary mortals. A heart once pricked by one of those tiny darts felt all the bitter-sweet of love, and never recovered from the wound. Him Phoebus taunted. "Are such as these fit weapons for chits?" he cried. "Know that such archery is my proper business. My shafts fly resistless. See how the Python has met his just doom at my hands. Take up thy torch, and, with that only, singe the feeble souls of lovers." Cupid returned him answer that though on all beside Apollo's shafts might be resistless, to Cupid would justly be the fame when he himself was conquered. The mischievous boy flew away to the heights of Parnassus, and thence winged one of his sharpest arrows against the breast of the bold deity. Another and different shaft he took, blunt and tipped with lead, and this he aimed at the heart of a certain nymph of surpassing fairness, a shaft designed to provoke disdain of love in her chaste bosom. Her name was Daphne, the young daughter of Peneus. She was a follower of Diana, the divine huntress. All her days she spent in the woods among the wild creatures, or scoured the open plains with swift feet. All her love was given to the free life of the forest: she roamed in fearless pursuit of beasts of prey, her quiver at her side, her bow in hand, her lovely hair bound in many a fillet about her head. Her father often blamed her. "Thou owest it," he said, "to thyself and me to take a husband." But she, casting her young arms about his neck, begged him to leave her free to pursue the life she loved, and not set the yoke of marriage on her unwilling shoulders. "No more I beg of thee," she said, "than Diana's fond parent granted her." Her soft-hearted father consented to respect her whim, but warned her that she would soon rue her unnatural wish. As Daphne was one day hunting in the forest, Apollo perceived her. The arrow winged by Cupid had not failed of its effect, and the poison of love ran like fever through his veins. He saw the polished argent of her bared shoulder; he saw the disheveled hair that the wind had loosened from its snood; he saw the eyes, limpid and innocent as a fawn's, the beauty and speed of her feet as she fled down the forest glade, her taper fingers as they fitted an arrow to the bow-string. He saw and burned. Swift as the wind the startled damsel had fled as she espied him, nor when he overtook her would she stay to hearken to his flattering words. "Stay, nymph!" he cried. "It is no foe who follows you. Why should you flee as the trembling doe from the lion, the lamb from the hungry wolf, the dove from the pursuing falcon? It is a god who loves and follows. It is a god you flee from, a god who loves, and will not be denied." Still she fled and still he followed; he the loving, she the loath, he pleading and she deaf to his prayers. As a hare doubles to elude the greyhound that is gaining on her, the flying maid turned back and sought thus to elude her pursuer. In vain she strove against a god. Terror winged her feet, but there is no escape from Love. He gained ground upon her, and now she felt his hot breath on her hair; his arm was just outstretched to clasp her. The nymph grew pale with mortal terror. Spent with her long, hard race for freedom, she cast a despairing look around her. No help was to be seen, but near by ran the waters of a little brook. "Oh, help!" she cried, "if water gods are deities indeed. Earth, I adjure you, gape and entomb this unhappy wretch; or change my form, the cause of all my fear!" The kind earth heard her frenzied prayer. The frightened nymph found her feet benumbed with cold and rooted to the ground. As Apollo's arms were flung about her a filmy rind grew over her body, her outflung arms were changed to leafy boughs, her hair, her fingers, all were turned to shuddering leaves; only the smoothness of her skin remained. "Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!" For a maiden he clasped a laurel tree, and his hot lips were pressed upon the cold and senseless bark. [Illustration: THE STORY OF DAPHNE] Yet Apollo is a gracious god, and presently, when his passion had cooled, he repented him of his mad pursuit and its desperate ending. The idea of the coy maiden, roaming the forest fancy-free, crept into his imagination, more delicate and lovely than when she lived in deed. So he vowed that the laurel should be his peculiar tree. Her leaves should be bound for poet's brow, should crown the victor in the chariot race, and the conqueror as he marched in the great triumph. Secure from thunder should she stand, unfading as the immortal gods; and as the locks of Apollo are unshorn, her boughs should be decked in perpetual green through all the changing seasons. And the grateful tree could only bend her fair boughs above him and wave the leafy burden of her head. DEUCALION AND PYRRHA BY M. M. BIRD To the golden age of innocence, when the world was young and men a race of happy children, succeeded an age of silver, and then an age of brass. Last came an age of iron, when every man's hand was against his neighbor, and Justice fled affrighted to the sky. Then the sons of earth, the giants, no longer curbed by law or fear of the gods, waxed bold and wanton. Piling mountain upon mountain they essayed to scale the heavens and hurl its monarch from his throne. These Jupiter blasted with his red lightnings and transfixed with his winged bolts. But from their blood, as from seed that the sower scatters, there arose a race of men, a feeble folk, but no less godless and lawless than their sires. Then Jupiter, beholding the ways of men that they were evil and that none was righteous in his eyes, determined to destroy this world and people it with a new race unlike the first. He was minded at first to destroy it by fire, and made ready his artillery of thunderbolts, but then he bethought him that the vast conflagration might blaze up to heaven itself and scorch the gods on their golden thrones. So he dropped the bolts from his hand. "Water," he cried, "as my poet has sung 'is the best of all elements'; by water I will drown the world." First he bound the North Wind that freezes floods by its icy breath, then loosed the South Wind that brings fog and darkness and horror on its wings. From his beard and eyebrows he rained showers, from his robe and mantle the unceasing floods streamed down and wreathing mists encircled his frowning brow. He swept above the earth, wringing the waters from the high clouds, while peal on peal of thunder rolled about him. The bearded corn bent before the driving rain, and the farmers lamented their ruined crops. But not alone in the skies was Jupiter content to open the watergates. He summoned to his aid the powers of Neptune. The ocean, the natural enemy of the fruitful earth, swelled with pride at this request, and rushed inland to meet the swollen torrents that gushed from the hills across the sodden plains. The floods gathered deep over the lowlands, the fields were drowned, the ruined grain was submerged. Sheep and cattle, peasants and their plows, trees and wild beasts, were all borne out upon the resistless waters. Even the houses, sapped by the water, fell into the angry flood, and all the household goods were swallowed up. Some climbed high cliffs to escape the general doom, other launched out in little boats and floated above the submerged chimneys of their homes or cast anchor among their vines. Hills and valleys were alike engulfed by the heaving waters; those who had sought safety on the hilltops died of starvation, and those in boats were swamped. Jupiter, looking down from his starry heights, saw nothing but a lake of troubled waters where the blooming earth had been. The destruction was complete. Then he unloosed the North Wind, and set fierce Boreas to drive away the clouds. Neptune he commanded to lay his trident on the rough waves and smooth out their furrows. And he bade Triton, who appeared above the waves, give the signal for the waters to retire within their proper bounds. Triton blew a blast on his shell, and the note was borne from wave to wave, from marge to marge. The waters, obedient to the summons, ran off the shores. The streams shrank by slow degrees to their accustomed level, and the green shoulders of the earth rose up from out their watery shroud. The tops of the drooping trees emerged all matted with mud, the houses lay in heaps of reeking ruin, the whole world lay desolate and wore a sickly hue. I have said that all men were evil, yet among this sinful race were two righteous found, and though they could not save others from destruction, they themselves were saved. In a far vale of Thessaly there lived an aged couple, who had fled there to escape from the wickedness of men, Deucalion and Pyrrha his wife. When the flood came they had seen a little skiff floating by their cottage door and had embarked in it. For many days the skiff had floated like a cork above the surging flood, and when the flood abated they found themselves stranded on the heights of Parnassus. They were the sole survivors, and they blessed the gods for their deliverance, but as they looked upon the scene of desolation they were sad at heart. It was a silent world. No human voice to greet them, no sound of beast or bird. They were childless and without hope of children, and if one of them were to die, how could the other live on? Yet in their misery they forgot not to pay their reverent vows to Jupiter, the God of Deliverance, and then together made their way down from Parnassus and sought the now ruined shrine of Themis. The roofs were green with moss and slime; no fire burned on the deserted altar. They fell prostrate and implored the goddess: "O righteous Themis, if the gods can be moved to love or pity by our prayers; if the miseries of men can touch them; if there is forgiveness and renewed favor to be found in them, tell how we may restore mankind, and by a miracle repeople all the world!" The gracious goddess bowed to them and said: "Depart! Veil your heads and cast each behind you the bones of your mighty mother." The pair stood amazed and dumb with wonder. Pyrrha could not bring herself to obey the dire and seemingly impious command. "Forbid it, Heaven," she cried, "that I should tear those sacred relics from their sepulcher!" But Deucalion pondered in his heart the word of the goddess, ever seeking in it some hidden meaning not at first made clear. At length his eye brightened; he called Pyrrha to him and said: "If I understand it right, there is an answer to the dark enigma that will free the goddess's word from taint of sacrilege. Our mighty mother is the earth; the stones are her bones. These we must cast behind us." With renewed hope and gladness Pyrrha heard his words, and though doubting still resolved to try. Descending from the mountain to the plain that was strewn with stones, reverently they veiled their heads, and, taking up one stone after another, they flung them over their shoulders. And as the stones fell to the ground a miracle was wrought. As each stone fell it visibly changed. At first but the imperfect rudiments of a form appeared, such as is seen in marble where the chisel has begun to chip it out, and the sculptor has not yet lavished on it his finished art. Then by degrees the stones seemed to swell and soften like ripening fruit, till at last the life-blood ran through the blue veins, while the bones kept their hardness and supported the new-formed frame. By divine power each stone thrown by Deucalion turned into a man; while each that Pyrrha threw bloomed into a fair woman. Thus was the earth repeopled. 'Tis a marvelous tale, but if you doubt its truth go question the Egyptian rustics. They will tell you that when the Nile subsides they find in the slime rude stones shaped like a man's body, with a knob like a head and bosses like the beginnings of arms and legs. These are stones that Deucalion and Pyrrha threw, but such as fell at their feet instead of behind them, and only began to turn into men and women. EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him, and be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora. The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this: "Epimetheus, what have you in that box?" "My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains." "But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?" "That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus. "How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great ugly box were out of the way!" "Oh, come, don't think of it any more!" cried Epimetheus. "Let us run out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children." It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and mothers to take care of the children, because there was no danger or trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing on a tree; and if he looked at the tree in the morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast. It was a very pleasant life indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or caroling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter throughout the livelong day. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to discover the secret of the mysterious box. This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but every day it grew more and more substantial, until before a great while the cottage of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other children. "Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to herself and to Epimetheus. "And what on earth can be inside of it?" "Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus at last; for he had grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe figs, and eat them under the trees for our supper. And I know a vine that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted." "Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora pettishly. "Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a good-tempered child, "let us run out and have a merry time with our playmates." "I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!" answered our pettish little Pandora. "And besides, I never do have any. This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time. I insist upon you telling me what is inside of it." "As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is inside?" "You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, "and then we could see for ourselves." "Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus. And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it, that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still, she could not help thinking and talking about the box. "At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here." "It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came, by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings." "What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora. "Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive." "I know him," said Pandora thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a staff. It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the box. No doubt he intended it for me; and most probably it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or something very nice for us both to eat!" "Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until Quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the lid of the box." "What a dull boy it is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!" For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without asking Pandora to accompany him. He was tired to death of hearing about the box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was the messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where Pandora would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did babble about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the box! It seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually stumbling over it and making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of their shins. Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his ears from morning to night, especially as the little people of the earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they knew not how to deal with them. Thus a small vexation made as much disturbance then as a far bigger one would in our own times. After Epimetheus was gone Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had called it ugly above a hundred times; but in spite of all that she had said against it, it was in truth a very handsome article of furniture. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that little Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this account. The edges and corners of the box were carved with wonderful skill. Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers, foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled beauty. But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved foliage, Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely, which stole the beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more closely, she could discover nothing of the kind. Some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly by her catching a sideway glimpse at it. The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief, in the center of the lid. There was nothing else save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked, or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features, indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips and utter itself in words. Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this: "Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box? Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and have ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not find something very pretty!" The box was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet, by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three times already she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it. "I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it was done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again after undoing it. There could be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me for that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied." First she tried to lift it. It was heavy; much too heavy for the slender strength of a child like Pandora. She raised one end of the box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again with a pretty loud thump. A moment afterwards she almost fancied that she heard something stir inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as possible and listened. Positively there did seem to be a kind of stifled murmur within. Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears? Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all events, her curiosity was stronger than ever. As she drew back her head her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord. "It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord." So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in attempting to undo it. Meanwhile the bright sunshine came through the open window, as did likewise the merry voices of the children playing at a distance; and, perhaps, the voice of Epimetheus among them. Pandora stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the box, but run and join her little playfellows and be happy? All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with the knot; and, happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her. "That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the world to run away!" But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening. "This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?" She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was until Epimetheus should come in. "But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into the box?" And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well do so at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear--or else it was her curiosity that whispered: "Let us out, dear Pandora; pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty playfellows for you! Only let us out!" "What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box? Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly be any harm in just one little peep!" But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing. This was the first time since his little playmate had come to dwell with him that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. In short, he grew so uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed him any better than they did. At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely--roses and lilies, and orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance behind as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy. The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it in those days rather better than they can now. Meanwhile a great black cloud had been gathering in the sky for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun. But just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity. He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora and fling the wreath of flowers over her head before she should be aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he pleased without much probability of Pandora's hearing his footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his entering the cottage the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her. If he had cried out Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known. But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise. As Pandora raised the lid the cottage grew very dark and dismal, for the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright and looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as if he were in pain. "Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora! why have you opened this wicked box?" Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic mosquitoes, were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats' wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her I know not how deeply if Epimetheus had not run and brushed it away. Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be which had made their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows; there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes; there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment. But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing they did was to fling open the doors and windows in hope of getting rid of them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and so pestered and tormented the small people everywhere about that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And, what was very singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they dreamed of such a thing. Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus, remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them, because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the world began. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In order to indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Suddenly there was a gentle tap on the inside of the lid. "What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head. But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer. "You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!" Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand, knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box. "Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity. "Who are you, inside of this naughty box?" A sweet little voice spoke from within: "Only lift the lid, and you shall see." "No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob, "I have had enough of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so foolish as to let you out!" She looked towards Epimetheus as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that she was wise a little too late. "Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!" And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked. Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter at every word that came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner, had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than before. "My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?" "Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good humor as yet. "And what of it?" "Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora. "Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other Trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can make no very great difference." "You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her eyes. "Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora, lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so dismal as you think them!" "Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open the box!" "And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the room, "I will help you!" So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger amid the gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise. After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails. "Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora. "I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box to make amends to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which was destined to be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well in spite of them all." "Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very beautiful!" "Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles." "And you will stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "for ever and ever?" "As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile, "and that will be as long as you live in the world--I promise never to desert you. There may be times and seasons, now and then, when you will think that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know something very good and beautiful that is to be given you, hereafter!" "Oh, tell us," they exclaimed; "tell us what it is!" "Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth. "But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true." "We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath. And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope, that has since been alive. And, to tell you the truth, I cannot help being glad (though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more as I grow older. But then that lovely and lightsome figure of Hope! What in the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the earth; Hope makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect, Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter. EUROPA AND THE GOD-BULL BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, and their little sister Europa (who was a very beautiful child), were at play together near the sea-shore in their father's kingdom of Phoenicia. They had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents dwelt, and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the sea, all sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently against the beach. The three boys were very happy gathering flowers and twining them into garlands, with which they adorned the little Europa. Seated on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an abundance of buds and blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily out, and, as Cadmus said, was the prettiest of all the flowers. Just then there came a splendid butterfly fluttering along the meadow, and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out that it was a flower with wings. Europa, who was a little wearied with playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers, but sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes. For a while she listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a voice saying "Hush!" and bidding her go to sleep. But the pretty child, if she slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment, when she heard something trample on the grass not far from her, and peeping out from the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull. And whence could this bull have come? Europa and her brothers had been a long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other living thing, either there or on the neighboring hills. "Brother Cadmus!" cried Europa, starting up out of the midst of the roses and lilies. "Phoenix! Cilix! Where are you all? Help! Help! Come and drive away this bull!" But her brothers were too far off to hear, especially as the fright took away Europa's voice and hindered her from calling very loudly. So there she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white lilies that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands. Nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the bull, rather than anything frightful in its appearance, that caused Europa so much alarm. On looking at him more attentively, she began to see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly amiable expression in his face. As for his breath--the breath of cattle, you know, is always sweet--it was as fragrant as if he had been grazing on no other food than rosebuds, or, at least, the most delicate of clover blossoms. Never before did a bull have such bright and tender eyes, and such smooth horns of ivory, as this one. And the bull ran little races, and capered sportively around the child; so that she quite forgot how big and strong he was, and, from the gentleness and playfulness of his actions, soon came to consider him as innocent a creature as a pet lamb. Thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen Europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and ivory horns. Then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them out of her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be friends with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had touched. Well, my stars! was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty, and amiable creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a little girl? When the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is really wonderful to think of), when he saw that Europa was no longer afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself for delight. He frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping from twig to twig. Indeed, his motion was as light as if he were flying through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their print in the grassy soil over which he trod. With his spotless hue, he resembled a snow-drift wafted along by the wind. Once he galloped so far away that Europa feared lest she might never see him again; so, setting up her childish voice, she called him back. "Come back, pretty creature!" she cried. "Here is a nice clover blossom." And then it was delightful to witness the gratitude of this amiable bull, and how he was so full of joy and thankfulness that he capered higher than ever. He came running and bowed his head before Europa, as if he knew her to be a king's daughter, or else recognized the important truth that a little girl is everybody's queen. And not only did the bull bend his neck, he absolutely knelt down at her feet, and made such intelligent nods, and other inviting gestures, that Europa understood what he meant just as well as if he had put it in so many words. "Come, dear child," was what he wanted to say, "let me give you a ride on my back." At the first thought of such a thing Europa drew back. But then she considered in her wise little head that there could be no possible harm in taking just one gallop on the back of this docile and friendly animal, who would certainly set her down the very instant she desired it. And how it would surprise her brothers to see her riding across the green meadow! And what merry times they might have, either taking turns for a gallop, or clambering on the gentle creature, all four children together, and careering round the field with shouts of laughter that would be heard as far off as King Agenor's palace! "I think I will do it," said the child to herself. And, indeed, why not? She cast a glance around, and caught a glimpse of Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, who were still in pursuit of the butterfly, almost at the other end of the meadow. It would be the quickest way of rejoining them, to get upon the white bull's back. She came a step nearer to him, therefore; and--sociable creature that he was--he showed so much joy at this mark of her confidence, that the child could not find it in her heart to hesitate any longer. Making one bound (for this little princess was as active as a squirrel), there sat Europa on the beautiful bull, holding an ivory horn in each hand lest she should fall off. "Softly, pretty bull, softly!" she said, rather frightened at what she had done. "Do not gallop too fast." Having got the child on his back, the animal gave a leap into the air, and came down so like a feather that Europa did not know when his hoofs touched the ground. He then began to race to that part of the flowery plain where her three brothers were, and where they had just caught their splendid butterfly. Europa screamed with delight; and Phoenix, Cilix, and Cadmus stood gaping at the spectacle of their sister mounted on a white bull, not knowing whether to be frightened, or to wish the same good luck for themselves. The gentle and innocent creature (for who could possibly doubt that he was so?) pranced round among the children as sportively as a kitten. Europa all the while looked down upon her brothers, nodding and laughing, but yet with a sort of stateliness in her rosy little face. As the bull wheeled about to take another gallop across the meadow, the child waved her hand and said "Good-by," playfully pretending that she was now bound on a distant journey, and might not see her brothers again for nobody could tell how long. "Good-by," shouted Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, all in one breath. But, together with her enjoyment of the sport, there was still a little remnant of fear in the child's heart; so that her last look at the three boys was a troubled one, and made them feel as if their dear sister were really leaving them forever. And what do you think the snowy bull did next? Why, he set off, as swift as the wind, straight down to the sea-shore, scampered across the sand, took an airy leap, and plunged right in among the foaming billows. The white spray rose in a shower over him and little Europa, and fell spattering down upon the water. Then what a scream of terror did the poor child send forth! The three brothers screamed manfully, likewise, and ran to the shore as fast as their legs would carry them, with Cadmus at their head. But it was too late. When they reached the margin of the sand, the treacherous animal was already away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and tail emerging, and poor little Europa between them, stretching out one hand towards her dear brothers, while she grasped the bull's ivory horn with the other. And there stood Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, gazing at this sad spectacle through their tears, until they could no longer distinguish the bull's snowy head from the white-capped billows that seemed to boil up out of the sea's depth around him. Nothing more was ever seen of the white bull--nothing more of the beautiful child. This was a mournful story, as you may well think, for the three boys to carry home to their parents. King Agenor, their father, was the ruler of the whole country; but he loved his little daughter Europa better than his kingdom, or than all his other children, or than anything else in the world. Therefore, when Cadmus and his two brothers came crying home, and told him how that a white bull had carried off their sister, and swam with her over the sea, the king was quite beside himself with grief and rage. Although it was now twilight, and fast growing dark, he bade them set out instantly in search of her. "Never shall you see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring me back my little Europa to gladden me with her smiles and her pretty ways. Begone, and enter my presence no more, till you come leading her by the hand." As King Agenor said this his eyes flashed fire (for he was a very passionate king), and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys did not even venture to ask for their suppers, but slunk away out of the palace, and only paused on the steps a moment to consult whither they should go first. While they were standing there, all in dismay, their mother, Queen Telephassa (who happened not to be by when they told the story to the king), came hurrying after them, and said that she too would go in quest of her daughter. "Oh, no, mother!" cried the boys. "The night is dark, and there is no knowing what troubles and perils we may meet with." "Alas! my dear children," answered poor Queen Telephassa, weeping bitterly, "that is only another reason why I should go with you. If I should lose you too, as well as my little Europa, what would become of me?" In this manner they went down the palace steps, and began a journey which turned out to be a great deal longer than they dreamed of. The last that they saw of King Agenor, he came to the door, with a servant holding a torch beside him, and called after them into the gathering darkness: "Remember! Never ascend these steps again without the child!" "Never!" sobbed Queen Telephassa; and the three brothers answered, "Never! Never! Never! Never!" And they kept their word. Year after year King Agenor sat in the solitude of his beautiful palace, listening in vain for their returning footsteps, hoping to hear the familiar voice of the queen and the cheerful talk of his sons entering the door together, and the sweet, childish accents of little Europa in the midst of them. But so long a time went by that, at last, if they had really come, the king would not have known that this was the voice of Telephassa, and these the younger voices that used to make such joyful echoes when the children were playing about the palace. We must now leave King Agenor to sit on his throne, and must go along with Queen Telephassa and her three youthful companions. They went on and on, and traveled a long way, and passed over mountains and rivers and sailed over seas. Here and there, and everywhere, they made continual inquiry if any person could tell them what had become of Europa. The rustic people, of whom they asked this question, paused a little while from their labors in the field, and looked very much surprised. They thought it strange to behold a woman in the garb of a queen (for Telephassa, in her haste, had forgotten to take off her crown and her royal robes) roaming about the country, with three lads around her, on such an errand as this seemed to be. But nobody could give them any tidings of Europa--nobody had seen a little girl dressed like a princess, and mounted on a snow-white bull, which galloped as swiftly as the wind. I cannot tell you how long Queen Telephassa, and Cadmus, and Phoenix, and Cilix, her three sons, went wandering along the highways and by-paths, or through the pathless wildernesses of the earth, in this manner. But certain it is that, before they reached any place of rest, their splendid garments were quite worn out. They all looked very much travel-stained, and would have had the dust of many countries on their shoes, if the streams, through which they waded, had not washed it all away. When they had been gone a year, Telephassa threw away her crown, because it chafed her forehead. "It has given me many a headache," said the poor queen, "and it cannot cure my heartache." As fast as their princely robes got torn and tattered, they exchanged them for such mean attire as ordinary people wore. By and by they came to have a wild and homeless aspect; so that you would much sooner have taken them for a gipsy family than a queen and three princes, who had once a palace for their home, and a train of servants to do their bidding. The three boys grew up to be tall young men, with sunburnt faces. Each of them girded a sword to defend himself against the perils of the way. When the husbandmen at whose farmhouses they sought hospitality, needed their assistance in the harvest-field, they gave it willingly; and Queen Telephassa (who had done no work in her palace, save to braid silk threads with golden ones) came behind them to bind the sheaves. If payment was offered, they shook their heads, and only asked for tidings of Europa. "There are bulls enough in my pasture," the old farmers would reply; "but I never heard of one like this you tell me of. A snow-white bull with a little princess on his back! Ho! ho! I ask your pardon, good folks; but there never was such a sight seen hereabouts." At last, when his upper lip began to have the down on it, Phoenix grew weary of rambling hither and thither to no purpose. So one day, when they happened to be passing through a pleasant and solitary tract of country, he sat himself down on a heap of moss. "I can go no farther," said Phoenix, "it is a mere foolish waste of life to spend it, as we do, in always wandering up and down, and never coming to any home at nightfall. Our sister is lost, and never will be found. She probably perished in the sea, or to whatever shore the white bull may have carried her. It is now so many years ago that there would be neither love nor acquaintance between us, should we meet again. My father has forbidden us to return to his palace, so I shall build me a hut of branches and dwell here." "Well, son Phoenix," said Telephassa sorrowfully, "you have grown to be a man, and must do as you judge best. But, for my part, I will still go in quest of my poor child." "And we two will go along with you!" cried Cadmus and Cilix. But before setting out they all helped Phoenix to build a habitation. When completed it was a sweet rural bower, roofed overhead with an arch of living boughs. Inside there were two pleasant rooms, one of which had a soft heap of moss for a bed, while the other was furnished with a rustic seat or two, curiously fashioned out of the crooked roots of trees. So comfortable and homelike did it seem, that Telephassa and her two companions could not help sighing to think that they must still roam about the world instead of spending the remainder of their lives in some such cheerful abode as they had there built for Phoenix. But, when they bade him farewell, Phoenix shed tears, and probably regretted that he was no longer to keep them company. However, he had fixed upon an admirable place to dwell in. And by and by there came other people, who chanced to have no home; and seeing how pleasant a spot it was, they built themselves huts in the neighborhood of Phoenix's habitation. Thus, before many years went by, a city had grown up there, in the center of which was seen a stately palace of marble, wherein dwelt Phoenix, clothed in a purple robe, and wearing a golden crown upon his head. For the inhabitants of the new city, finding that he had royal blood in his veins, had chosen him to be their king. The very first decree of state which King Phoenix issued was, that if a maiden happened to arrive in the kingdom, mounted on a snow-white bull and calling herself Europa, his subjects should treat her with the greatest kindness and respect, and immediately bring her to the palace. You may see by this that Phoenix's conscience never quite ceased to trouble him for giving up the quest of his dear sister, and sitting himself down to be comfortable, while his mother and her companions went onward. But often and often, at the close of a weary day's journey, did Telephassa, Cadmus, and Cilix remember the pleasant spot in which they had left Phoenix. It was a sorrowful prospect for these wanderers, that on the morrow they must again set forth; and that, after many nightfalls, they would, perhaps, be no nearer the close of their toilsome pilgrimage than now. These thoughts made them all melancholy at times, but appeared to torment Cilix more than the rest of the party. At length, one morning, when they were taking their staffs in hand to set out, he thus addressed them: "My dear mother, and you, good brother Cadmus, methinks we are like people in a dream. There is no substance in the life which we are leading. It is such a dreary length of time since the white bull carried off my sister Europa, that I have quite forgotten how she looked, and the tones of her voice, and, indeed, almost doubt whether such a little girl ever lived in the world. And whether she once lived or no, I am convinced that she no longer survives, and that therefore it is the merest folly to waste our own lives and happiness in seeking her. Were we to find her, she would now be a woman grown, and would look upon us all as strangers. So, to tell you the truth, I have resolved to take up my abode here; and I entreat you, mother, and you, brother, to follow my example." "Not I, for one," said Telephassa; although the poor queen, firmly as she spoke, was so travel-worn that she could hardly put her foot to the ground. "Not I, for one! In the depths of my heart little Europa is still the rosy child who ran to gather flowers so many years ago. She has not grown to womanhood, nor forgotten me. At noon, at night, journeying onward, sitting down to rest, her childish voice is always in my ears, calling, 'Mother! mother!' Stop here who may, there is no repose for me." "Nor for me," said Cadmus, "while my dear mother pleases to go onward." They remained with Cilix a few days, however, and helped him to build a rustic bower, resembling the one which they had formerly built for Phoenix. When they were bidding him farewell, Cilix burst into tears, and told his mother that it seemed just as melancholy a dream to stay there in solitude as to go onward. If she really believed that they would ever find Europa, he was willing to continue the search with them even now. But Telephassa bade him remain there, and be happy, if his own heart would let him. So the pilgrims took their leave of him and departed, and were hardly out of sight before some other wandering people came along that way and saw Cilix's habitation, and were greatly delighted with the appearance of the place. There being abundance of unoccupied ground in the neighborhood, these strangers built huts for themselves, and were soon joined by a multitude of new settlers, who quickly formed a city. In the middle of it was seen a magnificent palace of colored marble, on the balcony of which, every noontide, appeared Cilix, in a long purple robe, and with a jeweled crown upon his head; for the inhabitants, when they found out that he was a king's son, had considered him the fittest of all men to be a king himself. One of the first acts of King Cilix's government was to send out an expedition, consisting of a grave ambassador and an escort of bold and hardy young men, with orders to visit the principal kingdoms of the earth, and inquire whether a young maiden had passed through those regions, galloping swiftly on a white bull. It is therefore plain to my mind, that Cilix secretly blamed himself for giving up the search for Europa, as long as he was able to put one foot before the other. Telephassa and Cadmus were now pursuing their weary way, with no companion but each other. The queen leaned heavily upon her son's arm, and could walk only a few miles a day. But for all her weakness and weariness, she would not be persuaded to give up the search. It was enough to bring tears into the eyes of bearded men to hear the melancholy tone with which she inquired of every stranger whether he could tell her any news of the lost child. "Have you seen a little girl--no, no, I mean a young maiden of full growth--passing by this way, mounted on a snow-white bull, which gallops as swiftly as the wind?" "We have seen no such wondrous sight," the people would reply; and very often, taking Cadmus aside, they whispered to him, "Is this stately and sad-looking woman your mother? Surely she is not in her right mind; and you ought to take her home, and make her comfortable, and do your best to get this dream out of her fancy." "It is no dream," said Cadmus. "Everything else is a dream, save that." But one day Telephassa seemed feebler than usual, and leaned almost her whole weight on the arm of Cadmus, and walked more slowly than ever before. At last they reached a solitary spot, where she told her son that she must needs lie down, and take a good long rest. "A good long rest!" she repeated, looking Cadmus tenderly in the face. "A good long rest, thou dearest one!" "As long as you please, dear mother," answered Cadmus. Telephassa bade him sit down on the turf beside her, and then she took his hand. "My son," said she, fixing her dim eyes most lovingly upon him, "this rest that I speak of will be very long indeed! You must not wait till it is finished. Dear Cadmus, you do not comprehend me. You must make a grave here, and lay your mother's weary frame into it. My pilgrimage is over." Cadmus burst into tears, and for a long time refused to believe that his dear mother was now to be taken from him. But Telephassa reasoned with him, and kissed him, and at length made him discern that it was better for her spirit to pass away out of the toil, the weariness, the grief, and disappointment which had burdened her on earth, ever since the child was lost. He therefore repressed his sorrow, and listened to her last words. "Dearest Cadmus," said she, "thou hast been the truest son that ever mother had, and faithful to the very last. Who else would have borne with my infirmities as thou hast? It is owing to thy care, thou tenderest child, that my grave was not dug long years ago, in some valley or on some hillside, that lies far, far behind us. It is enough. Thou shalt wander no more on this hopeless search. But when thou hast laid thy mother in the earth, then go, my son, to Delphi, and inquire of the oracle what thou shalt do next." "Oh, mother, mother," cried Cadmus, "couldst thou but have seen my sister before this hour!" "It matters little now," answered Telephassa, and there was a smile upon her face. "I go now to the better world, and sooner or later, shall find my daughter there." I will not sadden you with telling how Telephassa died and was buried, but will only say, that her dying smile grew brighter, instead of vanishing from her dead face; so that Cadmus felt convinced that, at her very first step into the better world, she had caught Europa in her arms. He planted some flowers on his mother's grave, and left them to grow there and make the place beautiful when he should be far away. CADMUS AND THE DRAGON'S TEETH BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE After performing this last sorrowful duty, he set forth alone, and took the road towards the famous oracle of Delphi, as Telephassa had advised him. On his way thither he still inquired of most people whom he met whether they had seen Europa; for, to say the truth, Cadmus had grown so accustomed to ask the question, that it came to his lips as readily as a remark about the weather. He received various answers. Some told him one thing, and some another. Among the rest, a mariner affirmed that, many years before, in a distant country, he had heard a rumor about a white bull, which came swimming across the sea with a child on his back, dressed up in flowers that were blighted by the sea water. He did not know what had become of the child or the bull; and Cadmus suspected, indeed, by a queer twinkle in the mariner's eyes, that he was putting a joke upon him, and had never really heard anything about the matter. Poor Cadmus found it more wearisome to travel alone than to bear all his dear mother's weight, while she had kept him company. His heart, you will understand, was now so heavy that it seemed impossible, sometimes, to carry it any farther. But his limbs were strong and active, and well accustomed to exercise. He walked swiftly along, thinking of King Agenor and Queen Telephassa, and his brothers, all of whom he had left behind him, at one point of his pilgrimage or another, and never expected to see them any more. Full of these remembrances, he came within sight of a lofty mountain, which the people thereabouts told him was called Parnassus. On the slope of Mount Parnassus was the famous Delphi whither Cadmus was going. This Delphi was supposed to be the very midmost spot of the whole world. The place of the oracle was a certain cavity in the mountain-side, over which, when Cadmus came thither, he found a rude bower of branches. It reminded him of those which he had helped to build for Phoenix and Cilix. In later times, when multitudes of people came from great distances to put questions to the oracle, a spacious temple of marble was erected over the spot. But in the days of Cadmus, as I have told you, there was only this rustic bower, with its abundance of green foliage and a tuft of shrubbery that ran wild over the mysterious hole in the hillside. When Cadmus had thrust a passage through the tangled boughs, and made his way into the bower, he did not at first discern the half-hidden cavity. But soon he felt a cold stream of air rushing out of it, with so much force that it shook the ringlets on his cheeks. Pulling away the shrubbery which clustered over the hole, he bent forward and spoke in a distinct but reverential tone, as if addressing some unseen personage inside of the mountain. "Sacred oracle of Delphi," said he, "whither shall I go next in quest of my dear sister Europa?" There was at first a deep silence, and then a rushing sound, or a noise like a long sigh, proceeding out of the interior of the earth. This cavity, you must know, was looked upon as a sort of fountain of truth, which sometimes gushed out in audible words; although, for the most part, these words were such a riddle that they might as well have stayed at the bottom of the hole. But Cadmus was more fortunate than many others who went to Delphi in search of truth. By and by the rushing noise began to sound like articulate language. It repeated, over and over again, the following sentence, which, after all, was so like the vague whistle of a blast of air, that Cadmus really did not quite know whether it meant anything or not: "Seek her no more! Seek her no more! Seek her no more!" "What, then, shall I do?" asked Cadmus. For ever since he was a child, you know, it had been the great object of his life to find his sister. From the very hour that he left following the butterfly in the meadow, near his father's palace, he had done his best to follow Europa, over land and sea. And now, if he must give up the search, he seemed to have no more business in the world. But again the sighing gust of air grew into something like a hoarse voice. "Follow the cow!" it said. "Follow the cow! Follow the cow!" And when these words had been repeated until Cadmus was tired of hearing them (especially as he could not imagine what cow it was, or why he was to follow her), the gusty hole gave vent to another sentence. "Where the stray cow lies down, there is your home." These words were pronounced but a single time, and died away into a whisper before Cadmus was fully satisfied that he had caught the meaning. He put other questions but received no answer; only the gust of wind sighed continually out of the cavity, and blew the withered leaves rustling along the ground before it. "Did there really come any words out of the hole?" thought Cadmus; "or have I been dreaming all this while?" He turned away from the oracle, and thought himself no wiser than when he came thither. Caring little what might happen to him, he took the first path that offered itself, and went along at a sluggish pace; for, having no object in view, nor any reason to go one way more than another, it would certainly have been foolish to make haste. Whenever he met anybody, the old question was at his tongue's end: "Have you seen a beautiful maiden, dressed like a king's daughter, and mounted on a snow-white bull, that gallops as swiftly as the wind?" But, remembering what the oracle had said, he only half uttered the words, and then mumbled the rest indistinctly; and from his confusion, people must have imagined that this handsome young man had lost his wits. I know not how far Cadmus had gone, nor could he himself have told you, when, at no great distance before him, he beheld a brindled cow. She was lying down by the wayside, and quietly chewing her cud; nor did she take any notice of the young man until he had approached pretty nigh. Then getting leisurely upon her feet, and giving her head a gentle toss, she began to move along at a moderate pace, often pausing just long enough to crop a mouthful of grass. Cadmus loitered behind, whistling idly to himself, and scarcely noticing the cow, until the thought occurred to him, whether this could possibly be the animal which, according to the oracle's response, was to serve him for a guide. But he smiled at himself for fancying such a thing. He could not seriously think that this was the cow, because she went along so quietly, behaving just like any other cow. Evidently she neither knew nor cared so much as a wisp of hay about Cadmus, and was only thinking how to get her living along the wayside, where the herbage was green and fresh. Perhaps she was going home to be milked. "Cow, cow, cow!" cried Cadmus. "Hey, Brindle, hey! Stop, my good cow." He wanted to come up with the cow, so as to examine her, and see if she would appear to know him, or whether there were any peculiarities to distinguish her from a thousand other cows, whose only business is to fill the milk-pail, and sometimes kick it over. But still the brindled cow trudged on, whisking her tail to keep the flies away, and taking as little notice of Cadmus as she well could. If he walked slowly, so did the cow, and seized the opportunity to graze. If he quickened his pace, the cow went just so much faster; and once, when Cadmus tried to catch her by running, she threw out her heels, stuck her tail straight on end, and set off at a gallop, looking as queerly as cows generally do while putting themselves to their speed. When Cadmus saw that it was impossible to come up with her, he walked on moderately, as before. The cow, too, went leisurely on, without looking behind. Wherever the grass was greenest, there she nibbled a mouthful or two. Where a brook glistened brightly across the path, there the cow drank, and breathed a comfortable sigh, and drank again, and trudged onward at the pace that best suited herself and Cadmus. "I do believe," thought Cadmus, "that this may be the cow that was foretold me. If it be the one, I suppose she will lie down somewhere hereabouts." Whether it was the oracular cow or some other one, it did not seem reasonable that she should travel a great way farther. So, whenever they reached a particularly pleasant spot on a breezy hillside, or in a sheltered vale, or flowery meadow, on the shore of a calm lake, or along the bank of a clear stream, Cadmus looked eagerly around to see if the situation would suit him for a home. But still, whether he liked the place or no, the brindle cow never offered to lie down. On she went at the quiet pace of a cow going homeward to the barn-yard; and every moment Cadmus expected to see a milkmaid approaching with a pail, or a herdsman running to head the stray animal and turn her back towards the pasture. But no milkmaid came; no herdsman drove her back; and Cadmus followed the stray brindle till he was almost ready to drop down with fatigue. "Oh, brindled cow," cried he, in a tone of despair, "do you never mean to stop?" He had now grown too intent on following her to think of lagging behind, however long the way and whatever might be his fatigue. Indeed, it seemed as if there were something about the animal that bewitched people. Several persons who happened to see the brindled cow, and Cadmus following behind, began to trudge after her, precisely as he did. Cadmus was glad of somebody to converse with, and therefore talked very freely to these good people. He told them all his adventures, and how he had left King Agenor in his palace, and Phoenix at one place, and Cilix at another, and his dear mother, Queen Telephassa, under a flowery sod; so that now he was quite alone, both friendless and homeless. He mentioned likewise, that the oracle had bidden him be guided by a cow, and inquired of the strangers whether they supposed that this brindled animal could be the one. "Why, 'tis a very wonderful affair," answered one of his new companions. "I am pretty well acquainted with the ways of cattle, and I never knew a cow, of her own accord, go so far without stopping. If my legs will let me, I'll never leave following the beast till she lies down." "Nor I!" said a second. "Nor I!" cried a third. "If she goes a hundred miles farther, I'm determined to see the end of it." The secret of it was, you must know, that the cow was an enchanted cow, and that, without their being conscious of it, she threw some of her enchantment over everybody that took so much as half-a-dozen steps behind her. They could not possibly help following her, though all the time they fancied themselves doing it of their own accord. The cow was by no means very nice in choosing her path, so that sometimes they had to scramble over rocks, or wade through mud and mire, and were all in a terribly bedraggled condition, and tired to death, and very hungry, into the bargain. What a weary business it was! But still they kept trudging stoutly forward, and talking as they went. The strangers grew very fond of Cadmus, and resolved never to leave him, but to help him build a city wherever the cow might lie down. In the center of it there should be a noble palace, in which Cadmus might dwell and be their king, with a throne, a crown and scepter, a purple robe, and everything else that a king ought to have; for in him there were the royal blood, and the royal heart, and the head that knew how to rule. While they were talking of these schemes, and beguiling the tediousness of the way with laying out the plan of the new city, one of the company happened to look at the cow. "Joy! joy!" cried he, clapping his hands. "Brindle is going to lie down." They all looked; and, sure enough, the cow had stopped and was staring leisurely about her, as other cows do when on the point of lying down. And slowly, slowly did she recline herself on the soft grass, first bending her fore-legs, and then crouching her hind ones. When Cadmus and his companions came up with her, there was the brindled cow taking her ease, chewing her cud, and looking them quietly in the face; as if this was just the spot she had been seeking for, and as if it were all a matter of course. "This, then," said Cadmus, gazing around him, "this is to be my home." It was a fertile and lovely plain, with great trees flinging their sun-speckled shadows over it, and hills fencing it in from the rough weather. At no great distance they beheld a river gleaming in the sunshine. A home feeling stole into the heart of poor Cadmus. He was very glad to know that here he might awake in the morning without the necessity of putting on his dusty sandals to travel farther and farther. The days and the years would pass over him, and find him still in this pleasant spot. If he could have had his brothers with him, and could have seen his dear mother under a roof of his own, he might here have been happy, after all their disappointments. Some day or other, too, his sister Europa might have come quietly to the door of his home, and smiled round upon the familiar faces. But, indeed, since there was no hope of regaining the friends of his boyhood, or ever seeing his dear sister again, Cadmus resolved to make himself happy with these new companions who had grown so fond of him while following the cow. "Yes, my friends," said he to them, "this is to be our home. Here we will build our habitations. The brindled cow which has led us hither will supply us with milk. We will cultivate the neighboring soil, and lead an innocent and happy life." His companions joyfully assented to this plan; and, in the first place, being very hungry and thirsty, they looked about them for the means of providing a comfortable meal. Not far off they saw a tuft of trees, which appeared as if there might be a spring of water beneath them. They went thither to fetch some, leaving Cadmus stretched on the ground along with the brindled cow; for, now that he had found a place of rest, it seemed as if all the weariness of his pilgrimage, ever since he left King Agenor's palace, had fallen upon him at once. But his new friends had not long been gone when he was suddenly startled by cries, shouts, and screams, and the noise of a most terrible struggle, and in the midst of it all a most awful hissing, which went right through his ears like a rough saw. Running towards the tuft of trees, he beheld the head and fiery eyes of an immense serpent or dragon, with the widest jaws that ever a dragon had, and a vast many rows of horribly sharp teeth. Before Cadmus could reach the spot, this pitiless reptile had killed his poor companions, and was busily devouring them, making but a mouthful of each man. It appears that the fountain of water was enchanted, and that the dragon had been set to guard it, so that no mortal might ever quench his thirst there. As the neighboring inhabitants carefully avoided the spot, it was now a long time (not less than a hundred years, or thereabouts) since the monster had broken his fast; and, as was natural enough, his appetite had grown to be enormous, and was not half satisfied by the poor people whom he had just eaten up. When he caught sight of Cadmus, therefore, he set up another abominable hiss, and flung back his immense jaws, until his mouth looked like a great red cavern, at the farther end of which were seen the legs of his last victim, whom he had hardly had time to swallow. But Cadmus was so enraged at the destruction of his friends, that he cared neither for the size of the dragon's jaws nor for his hundreds of sharp teeth. Drawing his sword he rushed at the monster, and flung himself right into his cavernous mouth. This bold method of attacking him took the dragon by surprise; for, in fact, Cadmus had leaped so far down into his throat, that the rows of terrible teeth could not close upon him, nor do him the least harm in the world. Thus, though the struggle was a tremendous one, and though the dragon shattered the tuft of trees into small splinters by the lashing of his tail, yet, as Cadmus was all the while slashing and stabbing at his very vitals, it was not long before the scaly wretch bethought himself of slipping away. He had not gone his length, however, when the brave Cadmus gave him a sword thrust that finished the battle; and, creeping out of the gateway of the creature's jaws, there he beheld him still wriggling his vast bulk, although there was no longer life enough in him to harm a little child. But do not you suppose that it made Cadmus sorrowful to think of the melancholy fate which had befallen those poor, friendly people, who had followed the cow along with him? It seemed as if he were doomed to lose everybody whom he loved, or to see them perish in one way or another. And here he was, after all his toils and troubles, in a solitary place, with not a single human being to help him build a hut. "What shall I do?" cried he aloud. "It were better for me to have been devoured by the dragon, as my poor companions were." "Cadmus," said a voice--but whether it came from above or below him, or whether it spoke within his own breast, the young man could not tell--"Cadmus, pluck out the dragon's teeth, and plant them in the earth." This was a strange thing to do; nor was it very easy, I should imagine, to dig out all those deep-rooted fangs from the dead dragon's jaws. But Cadmus toiled and tugged, and after pounding the monstrous head almost to pieces with a great stone, he at last collected as many teeth as might have filled a bushel or two. The next thing was to plant them. This, likewise, was a tedious piece of work, especially as Cadmus was already exhausted with killing the dragon and knocking his head to pieces, and had nothing to dig the earth with, that I know of, unless it were his sword-blade. Finally, however, a sufficiently large tract of ground was turned up, and sown with this new kind of seed; although half of the dragon's teeth still remained to be planted some other day. Cadmus, quite out of breath, stood leaning upon his sword, and wondering what was to happen next. He had waited but a few moments when he began to see a sight which was as great a marvel as the most marvelous thing I ever told you about. The sun was shining slantwise over the field, and showed all the moist, dark soil, just like any other newly planted piece of ground. All at once, Cadmus fancied he saw something glisten very brightly, first at one spot, then at another, and then at a hundred and a thousand spots together. Soon he perceived them to be the steel heads of spears, sprouting up everywhere like so many stalks of grain, and continually growing taller and taller. Next appeared a vast number of bright sword-blades, thrusting themselves up in the same way. A moment afterwards, the whole surface of the ground was broken by a multitude of polished brass helmets, coming up like a crop of enormous beans. So rapidly did they grow, that Cadmus now discerned the fierce countenance of a man beneath every one. In short, before he had time to think what a wonderful affair it was, he beheld an abundant harvest of what looked like human beings, armed with helmets and breastplates, shields, swords, and spears; and before they were well out of the earth, they brandished their weapons, and clashed them one against another, seeming to think, little while as they had yet lived, that they had wasted too much of life without battle. Every tooth of the dragon had produced one of these sons of deadly mischief. Up sprouted, also, a great many trumpeters; and with the first breath that they drew, they put their brazen trumpets to their lips, and sounded a tremendous and ear-shattering blast; so that the whole space, just now so quiet and solitary, reverberated with the clash and clang of arms, the bray of warlike music, and the shouts of angry men. So enraged did they all look, that Cadmus fully expected them to put the whole world to the sword. How fortunate would it be for a great conqueror, if he could get a bushel of the dragon's teeth to sow! "Cadmus," said the same voice which he had before heard, "throw a stone into the midst of the armed men." So Cadmus seized a large stone, and, flinging it into the middle of the army, saw it strike the breastplate of a gigantic and fierce-looking warrior. Immediately on feeling the blow, he seemed to take it for granted that somebody had struck him; and, uplifting his weapon, he smote his next neighbor a blow that cleft his helmet asunder and stretched him on the ground. In an instant those nearest the fallen warrior began to strike at one another with their swords, and stab with their spears. The confusion spread wider and wider. Each man smote down his brother, and was himself smitten down before he had time to exult in his victory. The trumpeters, all the while, blew their blasts shriller and shriller; each soldier shouted a battle-cry, and often fell with it on his lips. It was the strangest spectacle of causeless wrath, and of mischief for no good end, that had ever been witnessed; but, after all, it was neither more foolish nor more wicked than a thousand battles that have since been fought, in which men have slain their brothers with just as little reason as these children of the dragon's teeth. It ought to be considered, too, that the dragon people were made for nothing else; whereas other mortals were born to love and help one another. Well, this memorable battle continued to rage until the ground was strewn with helmeted heads that had been cut off. Of all the thousands that began the fight, there were only five left standing. These now rushed from different parts of the field, and, meeting in the middle of it, clashed their swords and struck at each other's hearts as fiercely as ever. "Cadmus," said the voice again, "bid those five warriors sheathe their swords. They will help you to build the city." Without hesitating an instant, Cadmus stepped forward, with the aspect of a king and a leader, and extending his drawn sword amongst them, spoke to the warriors in a stern and commanding voice. "Sheathe your weapons!" said he. And forthwith, feeling themselves bound to obey him, the five remaining sons of the dragon's teeth made him a military salute with their swords, returned them to the scabbards, and stood before Cadmus in a rank, eying him as soldiers eye their captain while awaiting the word of command. These five men had probably sprung from the biggest of the dragon's teeth, and were the boldest and strongest of the whole army. They were almost giants, indeed, and had good need to be so, else they never could have lived through so terrible a fight. They still had a very furious look, and, if Cadmus happened to glance aside, would glare at one another with fire flashing out of their eyes. It was strange, too, to observe how the earth, out of which they had so lately grown, was incrusted here and there on their bright breastplates, and even begrimed their faces; just as you may have seen it clinging to beets and carrots when pulled out of their native soil. Cadmus hardly knew whether to consider them as men, or some odd kind of vegetable; although, on the whole, he concluded that there was human nature in them, because they were so fond of trumpets and weapons, and so ready to shed blood. They looked him earnestly in the face, waiting for his next order, and evidently desiring no other employment than to follow him from one battlefield to another, all over the wide world. But Cadmus was wiser than these earth-born creatures, with the dragon's fierceness in them, and knew better how to use their strength and hardihood. "Come!" said he. "You are sturdy fellows. Make yourselves useful! Quarry some stones with those great swords of yours, and help me to build a city." The five soldiers grumbled a little, and muttered that it was their business to overthrow cities, not to build them up. But Cadmus looked at them with a stern eye, and spoke to them in a tone of authority, so that they knew him for their master, and never again thought of disobeying his commands. They set to work in good earnest, and toiled so diligently, that, in a very short time, a city began to make its appearance. At first, to be sure, the workmen showed a quarrelsome disposition. Like savage beasts, they would doubtless have done one another mischief, if Cadmus had not kept watch over them and quelled the fierce old serpent that lurked in their hearts when he saw it gleaming out of their wild eyes. But, in course of time, they got accustomed to honest labor, and had sense enough to feel that there was more true enjoyment in living at peace, and doing good to one's neighbor, than in striking at him with a two-edged sword. It may not be too much to hope that the rest of mankind will by and by grow as wise and peaceable as these five earth-begrimed warriors who sprang from the dragon's teeth. And now the city was built, and there was a home in it for each of the workmen. But the palace of Cadmus was not yet erected, because they had left it till the last, meaning to introduce all the new improvements of architecture, and make it very commodious, as well as stately and beautiful. After finishing the rest of their labors, they all went to bed betimes, in order to rise in the gray of the morning, and to get at least the foundation of the edifice laid before nightfall. But, when Cadmus arose and took his way towards the site where the palace was to be built, followed by his five sturdy workmen marching all in a row, what do you think he saw? What should it be but the most magnificent palace that had ever been seen in the world? It was built of marble and other beautiful kinds of stone, and rose high into the air, with a splendid dome and a portico along the front, and carved pillars, and everything else that befitted the habitation of a mighty king. It had grown up out of the earth in almost as short a time as it had taken the armed host to spring from the dragon's teeth; and what made the matter more strange, no seed of the stately edifice had ever been planted. When the five workmen beheld the dome, with the morning sunshine making it look golden and glorious, they gave a great shout. "Long live King Cadmus," they cried, "in his beautiful palace!" And the new king, with his five faithful followers at his heels, shouldering their pickaxes and marching in a rank (for they still had a soldier-like sort of behavior, as their nature was), ascended the palace steps. Halting at the entrance, they gazed through a long vista of lofty pillars that were ranged from end to end of a great hall. At the farther extremity of this hall, approaching slowly towards him, Cadmus beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful, and adorned with a royal robe, and a crown of diamonds over her golden ringlets, and the richest necklace that ever a queen wore. His heart thrilled with delight. He fancied it his long-lost sister Europa, now grown to womanhood, coming to make him happy, and to repay him, with her sweet sisterly affection, for all those weary wanderings in quest of her since he left King Agenor's palace--for the tears that he had shed, on parting with Phoenix and Cilix--for the heartbreakings that had made the whole world seem dismal to him over his dear mother's grave. But, as Cadmus advanced to meet the beautiful stranger, he saw that her features were unknown to him, although, in the little time that it required to tread along the hall, he had already felt a sympathy betwixt himself and her. "No, Cadmus," said the same voice that had spoken to him in the field of the armed men, "this is not that dear sister Europa whom you have sought so faithfully all over the wide world. This is Harmonia, a daughter of the sky, who is given you instead of sister, and brothers, and mother. You will find all those dear ones in her alone." So King Cadmus dwelt in the palace, with his new friend Harmonia, and found a great deal of comfort in his magnificent abode, but would doubtless have found as much, if not more, in the humblest cottage by the wayside. Before many years went by, there was a group of rosy little children (but how they came thither has always been a mystery to me) sporting in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and running joyfully to meet King Cadmus when affairs of state left him at leisure to play with them. They called him father, and Queen Harmonia mother. The five old soldiers of the dragon's teeth grew very fond of these small urchins, and were never weary of showing them how to shoulder sticks, flourish wooden swords, and march in military order, blowing a penny trumpet, or beating an abominable rub-a-dub upon a little drum. But King Cadmus, lest there should be too much of the dragon's tooth in his children's disposition, used to find time from his kingly duties to teach them their A B C--which he invented for their benefit, and for which many little people, I am afraid, are not half so grateful to him as they ought to be. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE BY V. C. TURNBULL "Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing; To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. "Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing-care and grief-of-heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die." SHAKESPEARE. Never was musician like Orpheus, who sang songs, inspired by the Muses, to a lyre that was given to him by Apollo. So mighty indeed was the magic of his music, that Nature herself owned his sway. Not only did rocks and rills repeat his lays, but the very trees uprooted themselves to follow in his train, and the savage beasts of the forest were tamed and fawned upon him as he played and sang. But of all who hearkened enchanted to those matchless strains, none drew deeper delight therefrom than the singer's newly wed wife, the young and lovely Eurydice. Hour by hour she sat at his feet hearkening to the music of his voice and lyre, and the gods themselves might have envied the happy pair. And surely some god did look with envious eye upon those two. For on an evil day, Eurydice, strolling with her maidens through a flowery meadow, was bitten on her foot by a viper and perished in all her beauty ere the sun went down. Then Orpheus, terrible in his anguish, swore that death itself should not forever rob him of his love. His song, which could tame wild beasts and drag the ancient trees from their roots, should quell the powers of hell and snatch back Eurydice from their grasp. Thus he swore, calling on the gods to help him; and taking his lyre in his hand he set forth on that fearful pilgrimage from which never man--unless, like Hercules, he was a hero, half man and half god--had returned alive. And now he reaches the downward path, the end whereof is lost in gloom. Deeper and deeper he descended till the light of day was quite shut out, and with it all the sounds of the pleasant earth. Downward through the silence as of the grave, downward through darkness deeper than that of any earthly night. Then out of the darkness, faint at first, but louder as he went on, came sounds that chilled his blood--shrieks and groans of more than mortal anguish, and the terrible voices of the Furies, speaking words that cannot be uttered in any human tongue. When Orpheus heard these things his knees shook and his feet paused as if rooted to the ground. But remembering once more his love and all his grief, he struck his lyre and sang, till his dirge, reverberating like a coronach or funeral march, drowned all the sounds of hell. And Charon, the old ferryman, subdued by the melody, ferried him over the ninefold Styx which none save the dead might cross; and when Orpheus reached the other side great companies of pale ghosts flocked round him on that drear shore; for the singer was no shadowy ghost like themselves, but a mortal, beautiful though woebegone, and his song spoke to them as with a thousand voices of the sunlight and the familiar earth, and of those who were left behind in their well-loved homes. But Orpheus, not finding Eurydice among these, made no tarrying. Onward he passed, over the flaming flood of Phlegethon, through the cloud-hung and adamantine portals of Tartarus. Here Pluto, lord of the under-world, sits enthroned, and round him sinners do penance for the evil that they wrought upon earth. There Ixion, murderer of his father-in-law, is racked upon the ever-turning wheel, and Tantalus, who slew his son, endures eternal hunger in sight of food and eternal fear from the stone ever ready to fall. There the daughters of Danaüs cease not to pour water into bottomless urns. There Sisyphus, who broke faith with the gods when they permitted him to return a little while to the upper world, evermore rolls up a steep hill a great stone that, falling back from the summit, crushes the wretch in its downward rush. But now a great marvel was seen in hell. For as Orpheus entered singing, his melodies, the first that had ever sounded in that dread abode, caused all its terrors for a moment to cease. Tantalus caught no more at the fruits that slipped through his fingers, Ixion's wheel ceased to turn, the daughters of Danaüs paused at their urns, and Sisyphus rested on his rock. Nay, the very Furies themselves ceased to scourge their victims, and the snakes that mingled with their locks hung down, forgetting to hiss. So came Orpheus to the throne of great Pluto, by whose side sat Proserpine, his Queen. And the king of the infernal gods asked: "What wouldst thou, mortal, who darest to enter unbidden this our realm of death?" Orpheus answered, touching his lyre the while: "Not as a spy or a foe have I come where no living wight hath ventured before, but I seek my wife, slain untimely by the fangs of a serpent. Such love as mine for a maiden such as she must melt the stoniest heart. Thy heart is not all of stone, and thou too didst once love an earthly maiden. By these places filled with horrors, and by the silence of these boundless realms, I entreat thee restore Eurydice to life." He paused, and all Tartarus waited with him for a reply. The terrible eyes of Pluto were cast down, and to Proserpine came a memory of the far-off days when she too was a maid upon earth sporting in the flowery meads of Enna. Then Orpheus struck again his magic strings and sang: "To thee we all belong; to thee soon or late we all must come. It is but for a little space that I crave my Eurydice. Nay, without her I will not return. Grant, therefore, my prayer, O Pluto, or slay me here and now." Then Pluto raised his head and spoke: "Bring hither Eurydice." And Eurydice, still pale and limping from her mortal wound, was brought from among the shades of the newly dead. And Pluto said: "Take back, Orpheus, thy wife Eurydice, and lead her to the upper world again. But go thou before and leave her to follow after. Look not once back till thou hast passed my borders and canst see the sun, for in the moment when thou turnest thy head, thy wife is lost to thee again and forever." Then with great joy Orpheus turned and led Eurydice from thence. They left behind the tortured dead and the gibbering ghosts; they crossed the flaming Phlegethon, and Charon rowed them once more over the ninefold Styx; and up the dark path they went, the cries of Tartarus sounding ever fainter in their ears; and anon the light of the sun shone faint and far where the path returned to earth, and as they pressed forward the song of the little birds made answer to the lyre of Orpheus. But the cup of happiness was dashed from the lips that touched its brim. For even as they stood upon the uttermost verge of the dark place, the light of the sun just dawning upon their faces and their feet within a pace of earthly soil, Eurydice stumbled and cried out in pain. Without a thought Orpheus turned to see what ailed her, and in that moment was she caught from him. Far down the path he saw her, a ghost once more, fading from his sight like smoke as her faint form was lost in the gloom; only for a moment could he see her white arms stretched towards him in vain; only once could he hear her last heart-broken farewell. Down the path rushed Orpheus, clamoring for his Eurydice lost a second time; but vain was all his grief, for not again would Charon row him across the Styx. So the singer returned to earth, his heart broken, and all joy gone from his life. Thenceforth his one consolation was to sit upon Mount Rhodope singing his love and his loss. And the Thracian women, worshipers of Bacchus, kindling at his strains, called to him to join in their wild rites. But when he turned from them with loathing, they fell upon him, tearing him limb from limb. And his head they cast into the river Hebrus, whose banks bore to the Ægean Sea that long-drawn wail: "Eurydice, Eurydice!" And still as we hear the music of that sweet name we think of "infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn." But the gods, first punishing the Thracian women by turning them into trees, took the lyre of Orpheus and set it among the stars. And Orpheus himself, once more entering by the gate of death the regions of the dead, seeks and finds his beloved Eurydice. Now may they walk side by side, now Orpheus, if he goes before, may look back in safety upon the face of his loved one. For the sorrows of life are over and the pangs of death are past, and no shadow of parting can come between the singer and his love in the Elysium of the Blessed. HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES PART I. HERCULES AND THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price by the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of nowadays! But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit on a single tree in the wide world. Not so much as a seed of those apples exists any longer. And even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, many doubted whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen any. Children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to stories of the golden apple tree, and resolved to discover it when they should be big enough. Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit. Many of them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples. No wonder that they found it impossible to gather them! It is said that there was a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on the watch while the other fifty slept. But it was quite a common thing with youths, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the garden of the Hesperides. And once the adventure was undertaken by a hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the world. At the time of which I am going to speak, he was wandering through the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand and a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He was wrapped in the skin of the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind and generous and noble, there was a good deal of the lion's fierceness in his heart. As he went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the right road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the question, if the stranger had not carried so big a club. So he journeyed on, still making the same inquiry, until at last he came to the brink of a river, where some beautiful girls sat twining wreaths of flowers. "Can you tell me, pretty maidens," asked the stranger, "whether this is the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?" The girls had been having a fine time together, weaving the flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads. But, on hearing the stranger's question, they dropped all their flowers on the grass and gazed at him with astonishment. "The garden of the Hesperides!" cried one. "We thought mortals had been weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments. And pray, bold stranger, what do you want there?" "A certain king, who is my cousin," replied he, "has ordered me to get him three of the golden apples." "Most of the young men who go in quest of these apples," observed another of the damsels, "desire to obtain them for themselves, or to present to some fair maiden whom they love. Do you, then, love this king, your cousin, so very much?" "Perhaps not," replied the stranger, sighing. "He has often been severe and cruel to me. But it is my destiny to obey him." "And do you know," asked the damsel who had first spoken, "that a terrible dragon, with a hundred heads, keeps watch under the golden apple tree?" "I know it well," answered the stranger calmly. "But from my cradle upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with serpents and dragons." The maidens looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion's skin which he wore, and likewise at his heroic limbs and figure; and they whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who might reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of other men. But then, the dragon with a hundred heads! What mortal, even if he possessed a hundred lives, could hope to escape the fangs of such a monster? So kind-hearted were the maidens, that they could not bear to see this brave and handsome traveler attempt what was so very dangerous, and devote himself, most probably, to become a meal for the dragon's hundred ravenous mouths. "Go back," cried they all; "go back to your own home! Your mother, beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she do more, should you win ever so great a victory? No matter for the golden apples! No matter for the king, your cruel cousin! We do not wish the dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up!" The stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances. He carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay half buried in the earth near by. With the force of that idle blow, the great rock was shattered all to pieces. It cost the stranger no more effort to achieve this feat of strength than for one of the young maidens to touch her sister's rosy cheek with a flower. "Do you not believe," said he, looking at the damsels with a smile, "that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon's hundred heads?" Then he sat down on the grass and told them the story of his life, or as much of it as he could remember, from the day when he was first cradled in a warrior's brazen shield. When the stranger had finished the story of his adventures, he looked around at the attentive faces of the maidens. "Perhaps you may have heard of me before," said he, modestly. "My name is Hercules." "We had already guessed it," replied the maidens; "for your wonderful deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange any longer that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the Hesperides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!" Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty shoulders, so that the lion's skin was almost entirely covered with roses. They took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms that not a finger's breadth of its oaken substance could be seen. It looked all like a huge bunch of flowers. Lastly, they joined hands, and danced around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own accord, and grew into a choral song in honor of the illustrious Hercules. And Hercules was rejoiced, as any other hero would have been, to know that these fair young girls had heard of the valiant deeds which it had cost him so much toil and danger to achieve. But still he was not satisfied. He could not think that what he had already done was worthy of so much honor, while there remained any bold adventure to be undertaken. "Dear maidens," said he, when they paused to take breath, "now that you know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of the Hesperides?" "Ah! must you go so soon?" they exclaimed. "You that have performed so many wonders, and spent such a toilsome life--cannot you content yourself to repose a little while on the margin of this peaceful river?" Hercules shook his head. "I must depart now," said he. "We will then give you the best directions we can," replied the damsels. "You must go to the sea-shore, and find out the Old One, and compel him to inform you where the golden apples are to be found." "The Old One!" repeated Hercules, laughing at this odd name. "And pray who may the Old One be?" "Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure!" answered one of the damsels. "He has fifty daughters, whom some people call very beautiful; but we do not think it proper to be acquainted with them, because they have sea-green hair, and taper away like fishes. You must talk to this Old Man of the Sea. He is a seafaring person, and knows all about the garden of the Hesperides, for it is situated in an island which he is often in the habit of visiting." Hercules then asked whereabouts the Old One was most likely to be met with. When the damsels had informed him, he thanked them for all their kindness; most of all for telling him the right way; and immediately set forth upon his journey. But, before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after him. "Keep fast hold of the Old One when you catch him!" cried she, smiling, and lifting her finger to make the caution more impressive. "Do not be astonished at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast, and he will tell you what you wish to know." Hercules again thanked her, and pursued his way, while the maidens resumed their pleasant labor of making flower-wreaths. They talked about the hero long after he was gone. "We will crown him with the loveliest of our garlands," said they, "when he returns hither with the three golden apples, after slaying the dragon with a hundred heads." Meanwhile Hercules traveled constantly onward, over hill and dale, and through the solitary woods. Hastening forward, without ever pausing or looking behind, he by and by heard the sea roaring at a distance. At this sound he increased his speed, and soon came to a beach, where the great surf-waves tumbled themselves upon the hard sand, in a long line of snowy foam. At one end of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot, where some green shrubbery clambered up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and beautiful. A carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules espy there but an old man, fast asleep! But was it really and truly an old man? Certainly, at first sight, it looked very like one; but on closer inspection it rather seemed to be some kind of a creature that lived in the sea. For on his legs and arms there were scales such as fishes have; he was web-footed and web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, being of a greenish tinge, had more the appearance of a tuft of seaweed than of an ordinary beard. Have you never seen a stick of timber that has long been tossed about by the waves, and has got all overgrown with barnacles, and at last, drifting ashore, seems to have been thrown up from the very deepest bottom of the sea? Well, the old man would have put you in mind of just such a wave-tossed spar! But Hercules, the instant he set his eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it could be no other than the Old One, who was to direct him on his way. Yes; it was the self-same Old Man of the Sea whom the hospitable maidens had talked to him about. Thanking his stars for the lucky accident of finding the old fellow asleep, Hercules stole on tiptoe towards him and caught him by the arm and leg. "Tell me," cried he, before the Old One was well awake, "which is the way to the garden of the Hesperides?" As you may imagine, the Old Man of the Sea awoke in a fright. But his astonishment could hardly have been greater than was that of Hercules the next moment. For, all of a sudden, the Old One seemed to disappear out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the fore and hind leg! But still he kept fast hold. Then the stag disappeared, and in its stead there was a sea-bird, fluttering and screaming, while Hercules clutched it by the wing and claw! But the bird could not get away. Immediately afterwards, there was an ugly three-headed dog, which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped fiercely at the hands by which he held him! But Hercules would not let him go. In another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should appear but Geryon, the six-legged man-monster, kicking at Hercules with five of his legs in order to get the remaining one at liberty! But Hercules held on. By and by no Geryon was there, but a huge snake, like one of those which Hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a hundred times as big; and it twisted and twined about the hero's neck and body, and threw its tail high in the air, and opened its deadly jaws as if to devour him outright; but Hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain. But, as Hercules held on so stubbornly and only squeezed the Old One so much the tighter at every change of shape, and really put him to no small torture, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure. So there he was again, a fishy, scaly, web-footed sort of personage, with something like a tuft of seaweed at his chin. "Pray, what do you want with me?" cried the Old One, as soon as he could take his breath; for it was quite a tiresome affair to go through so many false shapes. "Why do you squeeze me so hard? Let me go this moment, or I shall begin to consider you an extremely uncivil person!" "My name is Hercules!" roared the mighty stranger. "And you will never get out of my clutch until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of the Hesperides!" When the old fellow heard who it was that had caught him, he saw with half an eye that it would be necessary to tell him everything that he wanted to know. He had often heard of the fame of Hercules, and of the wonderful things that he was constantly performing in various parts of the earth, and how determined he always was to accomplish whatever he undertook. He therefore made no more attempts to escape, but told the hero how to find the garden of the Hesperides, and likewise warned him of many difficulties which must be overcome before he could arrive thither. "You must go on, thus and thus," said the Old Man of the Sea, after taking the points of the compass, "till you come in sight of a very tall giant, who holds the sky on his shoulders. And the giant, if he happens to be in the humor, will tell you exactly where the garden of the Hesperides lies." "And if the giant happens not to be in the humor," remarked Hercules, balancing his club on the tip of his finger, "perhaps I shall find means to persuade him!" HERCULES AND THE GOLDEN APPLES PART II. HERCULES AND ATLAS BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Thanking the Old Man of the Sea, and begging his pardon for having squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey. Nothing was before him save the foaming, dashing, measureless ocean. But suddenly, as he looked towards the horizon, he saw something, a great way off, which he had not seen the moment before. It gleamed very brightly, almost as you may have beheld the round, golden disk of the sun when it rises or sets over the edge of the world. It evidently drew nearer; for at every instant this wonderful object became larger and more lustrous. At length it had come so nigh that Hercules discovered it to be an immense cup or bowl, made either of gold or burnished brass. How it had got afloat upon the sea is more than I can tell you. There it was, at all events, rolling on the tumultuous billows, which tossed it up and down and heaved their foamy tops against its sides, but without ever throwing their spray over the brim. "I have seen many giants in my time," thought Hercules, "but never one that would need to drink his wine out of a cup like this!" And, true enough, what a cup it must have been! It was as large--as large--but, in short, I am afraid to say how immeasurably large it was. To speak within bounds, it was ten times larger than a great mill-wheel; and, all of metal as it was, it floated over the heaving surges more lightly than an acorn-cup adown the brook. The waves tumbled it onward until it grazed against the shore within a short distance of the spot where Hercules was standing. As soon as this happened, he knew what was to be done; for he had not gone through so many remarkable adventures without learning pretty well how to conduct himself whenever anything came to pass a little out of the common rule. It was just as clear as daylight that this marvelous cup had been set adrift by some unseen power, and guided hitherward, in order to carry Hercules across the sea on his way to the garden of the Hesperides. Accordingly, without a moment's delay, he clambered over the brim and slid down on the inside, where, spreading out his lion's skin, he proceeded to take a little repose. He had scarcely rested until now, since he bade farewell to the damsels on the margin of the river. The waves dashed there with a pleasant and ringing sound against the sides of the hollow cup; it rocked lightly to and fro, and the motion was so soothing that it speedily rocked Hercules into an agreeable slumber. His nap had probably lasted a good while, when the cup chanced to graze against a rock, and resounded and reverberated through its metal substance a hundred times as loudly as ever you heard a church-bell. The noise awoke Hercules, who instantly started up and gazed around him, wondering whereabouts he was. He was not long in discovering that the cup had floated across a great part of the sea, and was approaching the shore of what seemed to be an island. And on that island, what do you think he saw? It was a giant! But such an intolerably big giant! A giant as tall as a mountain; so vast a giant, that the clouds rested about his midst like a girdle, and hung like a hoary beard from his chin, and flitted before his huge eyes, so that he could neither see Hercules nor the golden cup in which he was voyaging. And, most wonderful of all, the giant held up his great hands and appeared to support the sky, which, so far as Hercules could discern through the clouds, was resting upon his head! Meanwhile the bright cup continued to float onward, and finally touched the strand. Just then a breeze wafted away the clouds from before the giant's visage, and Hercules beheld it, with all its enormous features: eyes, each of them as big as yonder lake, a nose a mile long, and a mouth of the same width. Poor fellow! He had evidently stood there a long while. An ancient forest had been growing and decaying round his feet; and oak trees, of six or seven centuries old, had sprung from the acorn, and forced themselves between his toes. The giant now looked down from the far height of his great eyes, and perceiving Hercules, roared out in a voice that resembled thunder proceeding out of the cloud that had just flitted away from his face: "Who are you down at my feet there? And whence do you come in that little cup?" "I am Hercules!" thundered back the hero, in a voice pretty nearly or quite as loud as the giant's own. "And I am seeking the garden of the Hesperides!" "Ho! ho! ho!" roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter. "That is a wise adventure, truly!" "And why not?" cried Hercules, getting a little angry at the giant's mirth. "Do you think I am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads!" Just at this time, while they talking together, some black clouds gathered about the giant's middle and burst into a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning, causing such a pother that Hercules found it impossible to distinguish a word. Only the giant's immeasurable legs were to be seen, standing up into the obscurity of the tempest; and now and then a momentary glimpse of his whole figure mantled in a volume of mist. He seemed to be speaking most of the time; but his big, deep, rough voice chimed in with the reverberations of the thunder-claps, and rolled away over the hills, like them. At last the storm swept over as suddenly as it had come. And there again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, and the pleasant sunshine beaming over his vast height, and illuminating it against the background of the sullen thunder-clouds. So far above the shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was moistened by the raindrops! When the giant could see Hercules still standing on the sea-shore, he roared out to him anew. "I am Atlas, the mightiest giant in the world! And I hold up the sky upon my head!" "So I see," answered Hercules. "But can you show me the way to the garden of the Hesperides?" "What do you want there?" asked the giant. "I want three of the golden apples," shouted Hercules, "for my cousin, the king." "There is nobody but myself," quoth the giant, "that can go to the garden of the Hesperides and gather the golden apples. If it were not for this little business of holding up the sky, I would make half a dozen steps across the sea and get them for you." "You are very kind," replied Hercules. "And cannot you rest the sky upon a mountain?" "None of them are quite high enough," said Atlas, shaking his head, "But if you were to take your stand on the summit of that nearest me, your head would be pretty nearly on a level with mine. You seem to be a fellow of some strength. What if you should take my burden on your shoulders while I do your errand for you?" Hercules, as you must be careful to remember, was a remarkably strong man; and though it certainly requires a great deal of muscular power to uphold the sky, yet, if any mortal could be supposed capable of such an exploit, he was the one. Nevertheless, it seemed so difficult an undertaking that, for the first time in his life, he hesitated. "Is the sky very heavy?" he inquired. "Why, not particularly so, at first," answered the giant, shrugging his shoulders. "But it gets to be a little burthensome after a thousand years!" "And how long a time," asked the hero, "will it take you to get the golden apples?" "Oh, that will be done in a few moments," cried Atlas. "I shall take ten or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again before your shoulders begin to ache." "Well, then," answered Hercules, "I will climb the mountain behind you there and relieve you of your burden." The truth is, Hercules had a kind heart of his own, and considered that he should be doing the giant a favor by allowing him this opportunity for a ramble. And besides, he thought that it would be still more for his own glory, if he could boast of upholding the sky, than merely to do so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a hundred heads. Accordingly, without more words, the sky was shifted from the shoulders of Atlas and placed upon those of Hercules. When this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious spectacle he was then. Next, he slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest that had grown up around it; then the other. Then, all at once he began to caper, and leap, and dance for joy at his freedom; flinging himself nobody knows how high into the air, and floundering down again with a shock that made the earth tremble. Then he laughed--Ho! ho! ho!--with a thunderous roar that was echoed from the mountains, far and near, as if they and the giant had been so many rejoicing brothers. When his joy had a little subsided, he stepped into the sea; ten miles at the first stride, which brought him mid-leg deep; and ten miles at the second, when the water came just above his knees; and ten miles more at the third, by which he was immersed nearly to his waist. This was the greatest depth of the sea. Hercules watched the giant, as he still went onward; for it was really a wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles off, half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall, and misty, and blue, as a distant mountain. At last the gigantic shape faded entirely out of view. And now Hercules began to consider what he should do, in case Atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were to be stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads which guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. If any such misfortune were to happen, how could he ever get rid of the sky? And, by the by, its weight began already to be a little irksome to his head and shoulders. "I really pity the poor giant," thought Hercules. "If it wearies me so much in ten minutes, how must it have wearied him in a thousand years?" I know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he beheld the huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the sea. At his nearer approach, Atlas held up his hand, in which Hercules could perceive three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins, all hanging from one branch. "I am glad to see you again," shouted Hercules, when the giant was within hearing. "So you have got the golden apples?" "Certainly, certainly," answered Atlas; "and very fair apples they are. I took the finest that grew on the tree, I assure you. Ah! it is a beautiful spot, that garden of the Hesperides. Yes; and the dragon with a hundred heads is a sight worth any man's seeing. After all, you had better have gone for the apples yourself." "No matter," replied Hercules. "You have had a pleasant ramble, and have done the business as well as I could. I heartily thank you for your trouble. And now, as I have a long way to go and am rather in haste--and as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden apples--will you be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders again?" "Why, as to that," said the giant, chucking the golden apples into the air twenty miles high, or thereabouts, and catching them as they came down--"as to that, my good friend, I consider you a little unreasonable. Cannot I carry the golden apples to the king, your cousin, much quicker than you could? As his majesty is in such a hurry to get them, I promise you to take my longest strides. And besides, I have no fancy for burdening myself with the sky just now." Here Hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders. It being now twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble out of their places. Everybody on earth looked upward in affright, thinking that the sky might be going to fall next. "Oh, that will never do!" cried Giant Atlas, with a great roar of laughter. "I have not let fall so many stars within the last five centuries. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will begin to learn patience!" "What!" shouted Hercules very wrathfully, "do you intend to make me bear this burden for ever?" "We will see about that, one of these days," answered the giant. "At all events, you ought not to complain, if you have to bear it the next hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it a good while longer, in spite of the back-ache. Well, then, after a thousand years, if I happen to feel in the mood, we may possibly shift about again. You are certainly a very strong man, and can never have a better opportunity to prove it. Posterity will talk of you, I warrant it!" "Pish! a fig for its talk!" cried Hercules, with another hitch of his shoulders. "Just take the sky upon your head one instant, will you? I want to make a cushion of my lion's skin for the weight to rest upon. It really chafes me, and will cause unnecessary inconvenience in so many centuries as I am to stand here." "That's no more than fair, and I'll do it!" quoth the giant; for he had no unkind feeling toward Hercules, and was merely acting with a too selfish consideration of his own ease. "For just five minutes, then, I'll take back the sky. Only for five minutes, recollect! I have no idea of spending another thousand years as I spent the last. Variety is the spice of life, say I." Ah, the thick-witted old rogue of a giant! He threw down the golden apples, and received back the sky from the head and shoulders of Hercules upon his own, where it rightly belonged. And Hercules picked up the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins, and straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the slightest heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed after him to come back. Another forest sprang up around his feet, and grew ancient there; and again might be seen oak trees of six or seven centuries old, that had waxed thus aged betwixt his enormous toes. And there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the thunder rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of Giant Atlas bellowing after Hercules! HERCULES AND NESSUS BY H. P. MASKELL Fairest among the maidens of Ætolia was Deianira, daughter of Oeneus, King of Calydon. From far and wide came suitors seeking her hand in marriage, but her father promised to give her only to him who could prove his strength and courage above all others. What lover, however ardent his desire, dare venture to try his skill against Hercules? And when the hero came to court only Achelous the river-god would enter the lists against him. Long and fierce was the battle between these two as they rushed together, grasping each other foot to foot, fingers pressed upon fingers, and forehead to forehead. For some time they seemed equal in strength, but Hercules pressed harder, and seizing his enemy by the shoulders threw him to the earth. In vain Achelous changed himself into a serpent; his throat was grasped with a grip that would strangle him in spite of all his lithe, winding folds, and the hissing as he darted forth his forked tongue. In vain, too, he sought to change the issue of the fight in the form of a wild bull. The hero took him by the horns, and held him to the ground. One of the horns he tore off by main force. The Naiads took this horn, filled it with fruit and flowers, and offered it to the goddess of Plenty. So Hercules was victor in the lists of love, and won for prize the king's fair daughter. Many years the happy pair abode in Calydon, and children were born to them. Deianira was a happy wife, and her only grief was that her lord was so often absent from home, for Hercules would never rest from his toils. On one of these adventures he had been persuaded by his wife to take her with him, and on their way home they came to a broad and rapid river. The stream was swollen with winter rains, and the eddies were deep and dangerous. Nessus the Centaur, who lived in a cavern close by, offered to carry Deianira over on his back. He knew the fords, and his strength was as the strength of ten. So Hercules trusted his wife to the Centaur, although she was almost as much afraid of Nessus as she was of the dark roaring torrent. He himself threw his club and crooked bow across, and plunged boldly into the stream. Just as he reached the farther bank and was taking up his bow he heard a scream. Nessus had betrayed his trust, and was about to carry off Deianira in the very sight of her husband. Swiftly flew an arrow from the bow, which pierced the traitor's back. It was tinged with poison from the hydra, and the wound was mortal. Nessus, as he drew the barbed steel from his body, muttered to himself, "I will not die unavenged." Then handing his blood-stained tunic to Deianira, he cried, "I have sinned, and am justly punished. Pardon a dying man, and in token of forgiveness accept from me a dying gift. Keep this tunic as a talisman. If ever thy lord's love should wax cold, or he should look upon another woman to love her more than thee, give him this charmed tunic to wear, and it will rekindle his old passion." [Illustration: HERCULES AND NESSUS] Time passed by, and the feats of the mighty Hercules were known all over the world. Returning victorious from battle he was preparing a sacrifice vowed to Jupiter on Mount Oeta, when he found he lacked the proper dress, and sent a messenger to Deianira for a robe. Meanwhile rumor had been busy, and a tale had reached the ears of Deianira that Hercules was in love with Iole, daughter of Eurytus, whom he had lately vanquished and slain. As she loved him, she believed it, and alarmed with the story burst into a torrent of grief. But soon she took comfort. "Why these tears? They will only flatter my rival. I must seek some means to keep my husband for myself." And then she bethought herself of the tunic that Nessus had given her. What if she gave this tunic to the messenger, so that Hercules should wear it, and so by its virtue her husband be restored to her again? The fatal gift was sent. Hercules, not knowing whose it had been, put it on as he went to sacrifice. As he was pouring wine on the altars the venom from the garment began to work. He tried to tear the tunic from him, but it clung to him like a coat of pitch. He rolled in agony on the ground, he tore away his very flesh, he roared in agony like a wounded bull, and the hollows of Oeta reverberated his groans. At last he fell exhausted, and his comrades bore him on a litter to the ships. Then Hercules knew that his end was come, and, preparing himself to die as a hero should, he gave his last injunctions to his son. A pile was built with trees at the top of the mountain. To his friend Philoctetes he gave the famous bow and quiver. Then, when the fire had been kindled, he spread over all the skin of the Nemæan lion, and laid himself down upon it, with his head resting on his club, as calmly as a guest resting after the banquet. Jupiter, looking down from heaven, saw the hero thus peaceful amid the flames of the burning pile. "He who has conquered all men," he cried, "shall conquer also these fires. Only that which is mortal and which he received from his mother can perish there. His immortal part I will receive into the realms above." And the other gods assented. Even Juno, who had pursued the hero so cruelly during his life, had no word to urge against their decision. The burning pile was shrouded in a mist of dark smoke; and while the mortal body of Hercules fell into ashes, him the great father, taking up among circling clouds, bore aloft to the glittering stars in his chariot drawn by four fiery steeds. THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE BY M. M. BIRD The great hall was decked for a banquet. Revelers sat round the laden board and feasted and sang and quaffed rich wines from silver goblets. The king on his daïs toyed with his jeweled wine-cup and gazed down the length of the hall at the flushed faces of the feasters, and heard their gay laughter peal up to the vaulted roof. Yet the eyes of Pelias, the king, were dark, and a settled scowl was on his brow. Terror of Heaven's vengeance still haunted him. He had commanded this festival in honor of Neptune, and yet he knew that the anger of Jupiter was unappeased while the Golden Fleece still hung in the wood at Colchis. For Phrixus, son of Æolus, had fled on the Sacred Ram with the Fleece of Gold, to Æetes, King of Colchis, who had protected him and given him his daughter Chalciope to wife. Though Phrixus was now dead, Æetes still held the Fleece in Colchis, and the line of Æolus languished under the wrath of Jupiter till such time as it was restored to Greece. This was the subject of the king's meditations as he looked down on the gay company assembled at his feast. And of a sudden his eyes lighted on a travel-stained figure making his way up the long hall to the steps of his throne, in spite of the soiled and tattered weeds. He recognized his royal kinsman. It was Jason son of Æson, his own nephew, who, determined to have speech with his uncle the king, had now dared the crossing of the river Anaurus, although swollen by winter rains, and had hardly won through. Till he entered the palace he did not know of the great feast that was being held, but he stood not on ceremony, and made his way to the foot of the throne, just as he was. One of his sandals had stuck in the mire and been left in the river bed. Now an oracle had come to the king but a short time before, warning him to beware of a man coming in from the field with one sandal lacking. And King Pelias shrank from the sight of the innocent youth who stood before him; and in the dark depths of his heart devised a cruel plot for his destruction, whereby he might rid himself of the menace and, at the same time, be restored to the favor of Jupiter. Undaunted by the tyrant's frown, Jason stood before him and asserted his claim to the throne. "I, Jason, son of Æson, of the line of Æolus, live as a peasant among peasants on the banks of Anaurus," he cried, in his brave young voice. "Restore me to my rightful place as son of the late king." The king dared not openly dispute the claim, but with a feigned smile he answered: "Fetch hither the Golden Fleece held by Æetes in Colchis, that you may thus prove worthy to boast yourself of the proud line of Æolus. Deliver your father's house from the wrath of Jupiter, and then come to claim your birthright!" He devised this task, thinking that even could Jason perchance overcome the Colchians, he must assuredly be slain by enemies or lost in the sea ere ever he won home again. For it was well known that Æetes had hung the Golden Fleece in an enchanted wood, and set a sleepless serpent to guard the treasure against any who should pass his men-at-arms. At first Jason was cast into despair at the greatness of this task, but strong in his own innocence and determined to vindicate his rights, he took up the challenge. "I go," he cried, "at the ruthless behest of a tyrannous king and the doom of a god! Who will go in my company--who?" And from east and west and south the heroes of a hundred deeds came hasting to join him on his quest, for all had heard of the Golden Fleece and its theft by the Colchian men. And the fame of its quest was noised abroad so that all who loved a bold venture came to proffer Jason their aid; and with others it was the lust of gold that drew them; and with others, again, love of justice and pity for the youth robbed of his birthright by an unjust king. Thus there came to Iolcus the mighty Hercules, and the twin sons of Jupiter, Castor and Pollux, Orpheus with his magic lute, Idmon the seer, and Tiphys the steersman, and others all famous for their prowess in war, the sons of gods and heroes, too many to name. Then Jason set himself to prepare for his great enterprise, gathering stores and arms, and eagerly seeking information of those who had traveled afar off of the Colchians and their king Æetes, and the famed Fleece of Gold, while the good ship _Argo_ was daily growing under the fashioning hands of Argus and his men, who, instructed by Minerva, built so gallant a ship as had never before sailed the seas. And daily there were added to Jason's company valiant warriors and men of renown, young and old, till at last the day came when the _Argo_ was launched for her great enterprise, and the last sacrifices were paid to the protecting gods, and the last feast was eaten on the Pagasæan shore. Then the heroes cast lots for their places at the oars--for all but the place of honor at the middle thwart, which was given to Hercules and his companion Ancæus. Tiphys, by common consent, was set at the helm, while Jason was proclaimed captain and chief, in peace and in war, of all the goodly band. And thus it came that such a company of heroes as had never before been gathered together on one quest sailed forth from Iolcus in the _Argo_ in search of the Golden Fleece. For many days they pursued their way, braving the storms of those dangerous seas, landing on strange coasts where sometimes they found shelter and kindness, but oftener had to fight for life and honor. But ever the glorious quest inspired them, the Golden Fleece brightened their dreams, and they strove loyally together to win through all temptations and dangers. But not all of them survived to reach their goal. Great Hercules was left on the Mysian hills seeking his lost armor-bearer Hylas; and Idmon the seer, faring across a marshy plain, was suddenly attacked by a wild boar and so wounded that he died. For three whole days the heroes mourned his loss; and while they mourned, Tiphys the steersman fell sick, and his sickness was unto death. For grief then the band had gone no farther on the quest had not Ancæus rekindled their courage with brave words and offered himself as their steersman. And by general acclamation he was elected to the post, and they set forth on their way with renewed faith. But at last the gallant _Argo_ won through the Pontus Sea and the dreadful Dark Blue Crags, and the voyagers knew themselves to be near to Colchis and the end of their journeying. Picture to yourselves the storm-tossed _Argo_ flying over the seas, and great eagles swooping and wheeling overhead, by which Jason, the captain, knew that they approached the island of Mars, where those winged messengers of the gods were wont to attack any who dared effect a landing. But by his command the heroes armed themselves, and the oarsmen were protected by the shields of their comrades from the feathered darts rained down upon them by the furious birds. And with loud clashing and clanging of their harness the creatures were scared away. So the heroes reached the shore and rested there in peace after their battling with the storm. And as they lay on the shore they saw in the waves a great spar, and four young men clinging to it, tossed hither and thither, till at length it was cast up on to the beach. These proved to be the four sons of Phrixus, who had been thrust out of Colchis by their stern grandsire Æetes, and sent away in a little boat. Their skiff had been too frail to withstand the storm that the good ship _Argo_ had outlived. When these heard of the quest, they offered Jason their allegiance, and begged him to accept their aid in his perilous venture, which he gladly did. So, in calm weather, they sailed gaily on to Colchis, elated to have thus escaped all the perils and to be within sight of their goal. The Golden Fleece burned ever brighter before the longing eyes of that hero band; courage and loyalty inspired each heart and nerved each arm; they were ready to give life itself, if need be, to achieve their task and bring again the miraculous Fleece to Greece--and such a spirit is unconquerable. Now Æetes, King of Colchis, dwelt in his city by the sea. He had but two daughters, the elder, Chalciope, was the widow of that Phrixus who had come hither riding on the Golden Ram, while the younger was Medea, a sorceress. She was a priestess of Hecate, and served the dreadful mysteries of the goddess. She was versed in all poisons and philters, and would wander out into wild places beyond the city to gather herbs for the brewing of her mystic potions. She lived with her brothers, the sons of Æetes, and Chalciope her sister, in a palace in the city, and beside it stood a temple to Hecate. It happened on a certain day that Medea, as was her wont, went into the hall of the temple, and as she stood there she saw a crowd approaching up the street. Foremost in the throng she saw her sister's four sons, who had been mourned as lost for ever. She cried aloud, and the waiting-women in the palace heard her cry and dropped their broideries, and with Chalciope her sister came running to learn the cause of her fear. And Chalciope saw her sons and clasped them to her with tears of joy. But Medea stood gazing at the splendid strangers who came with them--Jason and his two friends, Telamon and Augias. And as she gazed, Cupid let fly one of his burning shafts, and it pierced the maiden's bosom and there burned with a dull flame. And her eyes were fastened on Jason's comely face, and the conscious blushes flamed in the whiteness of her cheeks, and she stood as if bound by one of her own spells. Hearing the commotion, the king and queen inquired the cause; and when they saw the handsome strangers they gave them fair welcome, and invited them to join their banquet. Though Æetes looked sourly on the sons of Phrixus, of whom he had thought to have rid himself for ever, he was constrained to receive them also with their rescuers. When seated at the banquet, Argus, one of Phrixus' sons, explained to the king all the circumstances of Jason's coming, and the quest on which he came. "Not to take the Fleece by force he comes," pleaded Argus, "but is minded to pay a fair price for thy gift. He has heard of the bitter enmity of the Sauromatæ: these rebels he will subdue for thee, and put them under thy sway." The king's wrath waxed hot, and chiefly with his daughter's sons, for he deemed that they had stirred up Jason to this quest. "Not for the Fleece come ye!" he cried; "but my scepter and my kingly honor ye come to steal! Now, if ye had not broken bread at my table before ye spoke, your tongues had I surely cut out, and had hewn your hands from your wrists, and had sent you forth with naught but your feet to fare through the land! So should ye refrain hereafter from coming on such like quest." But Jason made gentle answer to the angry king, assuring him that no such wild dream had brought him to this land, but the ruthless behest of a tyrannous king and the doom of a god. Then the king inly pondered whether to fall on the heroes and do them to death or put their might to the test. And this he decided to be the better way, for they were mighty men and renowned for valor, and he saw that he should have to overcome them by subtlety. So he set Jason this impossible task: On the plain of Mars were two brazen-hoofed bulls, breathing flames of fire; these Jason must yoke, and by them drive four plowshares across the plain from dawn to dusk. And in the furrows sow the teeth of a dragon, from which out of the earth armed warriors should spring, and these he must smite and conquer! The hero sat speechless in his despair, for he deemed no man sufficient for so terrible a task. But Argus went out with him, and knowing his own and his brothers' fate to hang on him, implored him to consult his mother's sister, Medea, the sorceress. Jason, for kindness, consented, but with little hope of the issue. So Argus returned to his mother, to beg her to intercede with Medea. Medea, torn with love for Jason, spent the night in mourning over his certain fate unless he craved her aid in his gigantic task, and was longing, yet ashamed, to proffer it. It was, therefore, to the relief of her indecision that her sister Chalciope came to her at length, and begged her to interfere to save her four sons from the doom that threatened them. Medea was glad, for she was thus enabled to save her dignity, and in obeying the dictates of her heart seem only to be concerned with the safety of her sister's sons. Next morning, therefore, she called her maidens and went out in her chariot to the fane of Hecate on the plain beyond the city, a place where she was often wont to go to gather herbs. There Jason met her, and he sacrificed his pride to beg her assistance. She was torn between love for him and a sense of duty to her father; but yet love was the stronger, and she promised him her aid. Long they talked together in that wilderness till the shades of evening fell and her attendants became uneasy at her long tarrying. She gave him a magic drug that would render his body and arms invulnerable against all attack, and gave him also minute directions for his guidance in his dreadful conflict. And Jason saw how beautiful and tender she was, and love for her awoke in his heart, and he wooed her with gentle words, and vowed that if she would go with him to Greece she should there be made his honored wife. Evening drew on, and Medea went sadly back to her night of anguished vigil in her palace in the city, while Jason prepared himself for his doubtful conflict. At midnight he bathed alone in the sacred river. Then he digged a pit in the plain as Medea had directed him, and offered a lamb by the pit's brink, and kindled a pyre and burned the carcase. Mingled libations he also poured, and then, calling on Hecate, drew back and strode from the place, and looked not once behind him at the awful queen he had invoked, nor the shapes of fear that accompanied her, nor turned at the wild baying of the hounds of hell. Then he sprinkled his corslet, his helm, and his arms with the drug Medea gave him, and his comrades proved his harness with all their might and main, whose ringing blows fell harmless upon it. Then he sprinkled his own limbs with the magic drug and fared forth invincible. At dawn, the heroes sailed in the _Argo_ up the river till they came near to the plain of Mars, and there anchored. King Æetes came out from the city in procession to the lists, and all the men of Colchis were gathered on the one hand and the heroes on the other to watch the outcome of this terrible strife. So Jason set to his task. Bearing with him his helm full of the dragon's teeth he crossed the field, and there saw the brazen yoke lying, and the plow of massive stone. Suddenly, from their lair, the bulls rushed out together and bore down upon him. Jason, setting his feet wide, caught their charge on his shield and withstood the shock. Mightily he seized the horn of one of the monsters, haled with all his strength, and striking its hoof with his foot cast it down on its knees. And, to the amazement of all, he did likewise to its fellow. Then he cast away his shield, and holding them down set the brazen yoke on their necks. All marveled at his superhuman strength. The brow of Æetes was black, but the heroes rejoiced and cheered their leader right lustily. Then he took with him the helm full of dragon's teeth, and his spear for a goad, and forced those frantic beasts to draw the massive plow across the plain, and sowed his baneful seed as he went. All day long he drove his resisting team across the stony plain; and as the granite plowshare tore its way through the earth he cast the dragon's teeth among the upturned clods. And at length the evening fell, and he unloosed the yoke, and with smiting and shouting scared the bulls across the plain to their caves. Then he gladly returned to the _Argo_, plunged his helm into the river, and was about to slake his terrible thirst, when he turned to see the whole earth bristling with armed warriors, row on row of shields and spears and helms. The words of Medea came to his remembrance then, and ere he fell upon them he took up from the earth a great round boulder such as four strong men of to-day scarce could move, and flung it in their midst. Loudly the Colchians shouted, but speechless fear seized on their king when he saw the flight of that massive crag and beheld the earthborn slaying each other. And among them stood Jason, beautiful as a god, hewing them down with his sword, till not one was left alive. Then the night fell and Jason slept, for he knew that his task was accomplished. Æetes and his princes went silently back to their city, for the superhuman power of the hero inspired them with nameless fears. And in the palace Medea was smitten with terror, for she knew that it must come to the ears of the king her father, that by her arts Jason had been helped to victory, and she dreaded his vengeance. She knew not where to turn for aid but to Jason himself; so she veiled herself, and thrusting her secret drugs and poisons into her bosom, she fled in the darkness from her palace. Through the night she hastened, weeping piteously, torn between love and duty to her parents and her passion for the man her spells had helped, till she saw the gleam of the fire where the heroes were feasting on the river bank. And through the noise of their revelry and the ringing of their gay laughter a bitter cry was heard--a woman's cry. And the sons of Phrixus, her nephews, and Jason, her lover, knew her voice, and they hastily thrust out from the bank and rowed to the place where she stood, and Jason leaped to the bank beside her. Then Medea clung to his knees and besought him to carry her away lest her father's vengeance should fall heavy upon her. Therefore, before them all, he swore to take her to Greece and wed her there. Then she adjured them to go in haste, wasting no more precious hours in revelry, to fetch the Golden Fleece before Æetes came in pursuit of them. "Speed," she cried, "while darkness covers your deeds!" So they went in all haste, till they came to the enchanted wood where the Fleece was hanging on an oak tree. And Medea landed there with Jason, and together they sped through the wood till they saw the Fleece shining like flame through the dusk, while before it, in coil on coil, loathsome, with open, watchful eyes, the awful serpent reared its head. Then Medea called the magic of sleep to her aid. She anointed the serpent's head with her drugs, and rained her spells on its unsleeping eyes, and it sank down upon the earth in lazily undulating folds, until at length it slept. Then Jason cast the great Fleece across his shoulder, and it fell down all his height and trailed upon the ground. And he caught it up about him and hastened from the spot. The Argonauts, watching anxiously, saw it come flaming through the trees. They greeted the achieving of their quest with shouts of joy, and strove among themselves to touch the glorious Fleece. But Jason was seized with fear lest some god or man should arrive to wrest his treasure from him, so he covered the shimmering Fleece with a mantle, and it lay in the stern of the _Argo_, with the maiden beside it, and Jason stood above them with his harness on his back and his great sword in his hand. And the rowers bent to their oars, and the strong blades beat the waves, and swifter than a flying bird the good ship sped down the tide. By this King Æetes and the Colchians knew of Medea's love and her deeds of rebellion. They swarmed on the river banks, and Æetes on his white charger pursued the flying boat. But he could not reach his disobedient daughter nor stay the flight of the hero band who had escaped the death he plotted, by the aid of love. And in his wrath the king sent ships after them and charged his captains: "Except ye lay hands on the maiden and bring her so that I may pour the fury with which I burn upon her, on your heads shall all these things light, and ye shall learn the full measure of my wrath." But far across the seas the good ship _Argo_ flew, and though the Colchians pursued, Medea was never taken, but after all adventure reached Iolcus with Jason, her lover and her lord. For it was ordained of the high gods that the Golden Fleece should be brought back to Greece by the might of Jason and his brotherhood of heroes, that the wrath of Jupiter might be appeased. For the heroes went on the quest armed with the strength of innocence, and love fought on their side that they might prove mightier than a ruthless king or the doom of an offended god. HOW THESEUS FOUND HIS FATHER BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE In the old city of Troezene, at the foot of a lofty mountain, there lived, a very long time ago, a little boy named Theseus. His grandfather, King Pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was reckoned a very wise man; so that Theseus, being brought up in the royal palace, and being naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of profiting by the old king's instructions. His mother's name was Æthra. As for his father, the boy had never seen him. But, from his earliest remembrance, Æthra used to go with little Theseus into a wood, and sit down upon a moss-grown rock, which was deeply sunken into the earth. Here she often talked with her son about his father, and said that he was called Ægeus, and that he was a great king, and ruled over Attica, and dwelt at Athens, which was as famous a city as any in the world. Theseus was very fond of hearing about King Ægeus, and often asked his good mother Æthra why he did not come and live with them at Troezene. "Ah, my dear son," answered Æthra, with a sigh, "a monarch has his people to take care of. The men and women over whom he rules are in the place of children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his own children as other parents do. Your father will never be able to leave his kingdom for the sake of seeing his little boy." "Well, but, dear mother," asked the boy, "why cannot I go to this famous city of Athens, and tell King Ægeus that I am his son?" "That may happen by and by," said Æthra. "Be patient, and we shall see. You are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an errand." "And how soon shall I be strong enough?" Theseus persisted in inquiring. "You are but a tiny boy as yet," replied his mother. "See if you can lift this rock on which we are sitting." The little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength. So, grasping the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled amain, and got himself quite out of breath, without being able to stir the heavy stone. It seemed to be rooted into the ground. No wonder he could not move it; for it would have taken all the force of a very strong man to lift it out of its earthy bed. His mother stood looking on, with a sad kind of a smile on her lips and in her eyes, to see the zealous and yet puny efforts of her little boy. She could not help being sorrowful at finding him already so impatient to begin his adventures in the world. "You see how it is, my dear Theseus," said she. "You must possess far more strength than now before I can trust you to go to Athens, and tell King Ægeus that you are his son. But when you can lift this rock, and show me what is hidden beneath it, I promise you my permission to depart." Often and often, after this, did Theseus ask his mother whether it was yet time for him to go to Athens; and still his mother pointed to the rock, and told him that, for years to come, he could not be strong enough to move it. And again and again the rosy-cheeked and curly-headed boy would tug and strain at the huge mass of stone, striving, child as he was, to do what a giant could hardly have done without taking both of his great hands to the task. Meanwhile the rock seemed to be sinking farther and farther into the ground. The moss grew over it thicker and thicker, until at last it looked almost like a soft green seat, with only a few gray knobs of granite peeping out. The overhanging trees, also, shed their brown leaves upon it, as often as the autumn came; and at its base grew ferns and wild flowers, some of which crept quite over its surface. To all appearance the rock was as firmly fastened as any other portion of the earth's substance. But difficult as the matter looked, Theseus was now growing up to be such a vigorous youth that, in his own opinion, the time would quickly come when he might hope to get the upper hand of this ponderous lump of stone. "Mother, I do believe it has started!" cried he, after one of his attempts. "The earth around it is certainly a little cracked!" "No, no, child!" his mother hastily answered. "It is not possible that you can have moved it, such a boy as you still are!" Nor would she be convinced, although Theseus showed her the place where he fancied that the stem of a flower had been partly uprooted by the movement of the rock. But Æthra sighed and looked disquieted; for, no doubt, she began to be conscious that her son was no longer a child, and that, in a little while hence, she must send him forth among the perils and troubles of the world. It was not more than a year afterwards when they were again sitting on the moss-covered stone. Æthra had once more told him the oft-repeated story of his father, and how gladly he would receive Theseus at his stately palace, and how he would present him to his courtiers and the people, and tell them that here was the heir of his dominions. The eyes of Theseus glowed with enthusiasm, and he would hardly sit still to hear his mother speak. "Dear mother Æthra," he exclaimed, "I never felt half so strong as now! I am no longer a child, nor a boy, nor a mere youth! I feel myself a man! It is now time to make one earnest trial to remove the stone." "Ah, my dearest Theseus," replied his mother, "not yet! not yet!" "Yes, mother," he said resolutely, "the time has come!" Then Theseus bent himself in good earnest to the task, and strained every sinew, with manly strength and resolution. He put his whole brave heart into the effort. He wrestled with the big and sluggish stone, as if it had been a living enemy. He heaved, he lifted, he resolved now to succeed, or else to perish there and let the rock be his monument forever! Æthra stood gazing at him, and clasped her hands, partly with a mother's pride and partly with a mother's sorrow. The great rock stirred! Yes; it was raised slowly from the bedded moss and earth, uprooting the shrubs and flowers along with it, and was turned upon its side. Theseus had conquered! While taking breath he looked joyfully at his mother, and she smiled upon him through her tears. "Yes, Theseus," she said, "the time has come, and you must stay no longer at my side! See what King Ægeus, your royal father, left for you, beneath the stone, when he lifted it in his mighty arms and laid it on the spot whence you have now removed it." Theseus looked, and saw that the rock had been placed over another slab of stone, containing a cavity within it; so that it somewhat resembled a roughly made chest or coffer, of which the upper mass had served as the lid. Within the cavity lay a sword, with a golden hilt, and a pair of sandals. "That was your father's sword," said Æthra, "and those were his sandals. When he went to be King of Athens, he bade me treat you as a child until you should prove yourself a man by lifting this heavy stone. That task being accomplished, you are to put on his sandals, in order to follow in your father's footsteps, and to gird on his sword, so that you may fight giants and dragons, as King Ægeus did in his youth." "I will set out for Athens this very day!" cried Theseus. But his mother persuaded him to stay a day or two longer, while she got ready some necessary articles for his journey. When his grandfather, the wise King Pittheus, heard that Theseus intended to present himself at his father's palace, he earnestly advised him to get on board of a vessel, and go by sea; because he might thus arrive within fifteen miles of Athens, without either fatigue or danger. "The roads are very bad by land," quoth the venerable king; "and they are terribly infested with robbers and monsters. A mere lad like Theseus is not fit to be trusted on such a perilous journey all by himself. No, no; let him go by sea!" But when Theseus heard of robbers and monsters, he pricked up his ears and was so much the more eager to take the road along which they were to be met with. On the third day, therefore, he bade a respectful farewell to his grandfather, thanking him for all his kindness; and, after affectionately embracing his mother, he set forth, with a good many of her tears glistening on his cheeks, and some, if the truth must be told, that had gushed out of his own eyes. But he let the sun and wind dry them, and walked stoutly on, playing with the golden hilt of his sword and taking very manly strides in his father's sandals. I cannot stop to tell you hardly any of the adventures that befell Theseus on the road to Athens. It is enough to say that he quite cleared that part of the country of the robbers about whom King Pittheus had been so much alarmed. One of these bad people was named Procrustes, and he was indeed a terrible fellow, and had an ugly way of making fun of the poor travelers who happened to fall into his clutches. In his cavern he had a bed, on which, with great pretense of hospitality, he invited his guests to lie down; but if they happened to be shorter than the bed, this wicked villain stretched them out by main force; or, if they were too tall, he lopped off their heads or feet, and laughed at what he had done as an excellent joke. Thus, however weary a man might be, he never liked to lie in the bed of Procrustes. Another of these robbers, named Sinis, must likewise have been a very great scoundrel. He was in the habit of flinging his victims off a high cliff into the sea; and in order to give him exactly his deserts, Theseus tossed him off the very same place. But if you will believe me, the sea would not pollute itself by receiving such a bad person into its bosom, neither would the earth, having once got rid of him, consent to take him back; so that, between the cliff and the sea, Sinis stuck fast in the air, which was forced to bear the burden of his naughtiness. Thus, by the time he reached his journey's end, Theseus had done many valiant feats with his father's golden-hilted sword, and had gained the renown of being one of the bravest young men of the day. His fame traveled faster than he did, and reached Athens before him. As he entered the city, he heard the inhabitants talking at the street corners and saying that Hercules was brave, and Jason too, and Castor and Pollux likewise, but that Theseus, the son of their own king, would turn out as great a hero as the best of them. Theseus took longer strides on hearing this, and fancied himself sure of a magnificent reception at his father's court, since he came thither with Fame to blow her trumpet before him, and cry to King Ægeus, "Behold your son!" THESEUS AND THE WITCH MEDEA BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Theseus little suspected, innocent youth that he was, that here in this very Athens, where his father reigned, a greater danger awaited him than any which he had encountered on the road. Yet this was the truth. You must understand that the father of Theseus, though not very old in years, was almost worn out with the cares of government, and had thus grown aged before his time. His nephews, not expecting him to live a very great while, intended to get all the power of the kingdom into their own hands. But when they heard that Theseus had arrived in Athens, and learned what a gallant young man he was, they saw that he would not be at all the kind of person to let them steal away his father's crown and scepter, which ought to be his own by right of inheritance. Thus these bad-hearted nephews of King Ægeus, who were the own cousins of Theseus, at once became his enemies. A still more dangerous enemy was Medea, the wicked enchantress; for she was now the king's wife, and wanted to give the kingdom to her son Medus, instead of letting it be given to the son of Æthra, whom she hated. It so happened that the king's nephews met Theseus, and found out who he was, just as he reached the entrance of the royal palace. With all their evil designs against him, they pretended to be their cousin's best friends, and expressed great joy at making his acquaintance. They proposed to him that he should come into the king's presence as a stranger, in order to try whether Ægeus would discover in the young man's features any likeness either to himself or his mother Æthra, and thus recognize him for a son. Theseus consented, for he fancied that his father would know him in a moment, by the love that was in his heart. But while he waited at the door, the nephews ran and told King Ægeus that a young man had arrived in Athens, who, to their certain knowledge, intended to put him to death and get possession of his royal crown. "And he is now waiting for admission to your Majesty's presence," added they. "Aha!" cried the old king, on hearing this. "Why, he must be a very wicked young fellow, indeed! Pray, what would you advise me to do with him?" In reply to this question, the wicked Medea put in her word. You have heard already of this enchantress, and the wicked arts that she practised upon men. Amongst a thousand other bad things, she knew how to prepare a poison, that was instantly fatal to whomsoever might so much as touch it with his lips. So when the king asked what he should do with Theseus, this naughty woman had an answer ready at her tongue's end. "Leave that to me, please your Majesty," she replied. "Only admit this evil-minded young man to your presence, treat him civilly, and invite him to drink a goblet of wine. Your Majesty is well aware that I sometimes amuse myself with distilling very powerful medicines. Here is one of them in this small phial. As to what it is made of, that is one of my secrets of state. Do but let me put a single drop into the goblet, and let the young man taste it, and I will answer for it, he shall quite lay aside the bad designs with which he comes hither." As she said this, Medea smiled; but, for all her smiling face, she meant nothing less than to poison the poor innocent Theseus before his father's eyes. And King Ægeus, like most other kings, thought any punishment mild enough for a person who was accused of plotting against his life. He therefore made little or no objection to Medea's scheme, and as soon as the poisonous wine was ready, gave orders that the young stranger should be admitted into his presence. The goblet was set on a table beside the king's throne, and a fly, meaning just to sip a little from the brim, immediately tumbled into it, dead. Observing this, Medea looked round at the nephews and smiled again. When Theseus was ushered into the royal apartment, the only object that he seemed to behold was the white-bearded old king. There he sat on his magnificent throne, a dazzling crown on his head, and a scepter in his hand. His aspect was stately and majestic, although his years and infirmities weighed heavily upon him, as if each year were a lump of lead and each infirmity a ponderous stone, and all were bundled up together and laid upon his weary shoulders. The tears, both of joy and sorrow, sprang into the young man's eyes; for he thought how sad it was to see his dear father so infirm, and how sweet it would be to support him with his own youthful strength, and to cheer him up with the alacrity of his loving spirit. When a son takes his father into his warm heart, it renews the old man's youth in a better way than by the heat of Medea's magic caldron. And this was what Theseus resolved to do. He could scarcely wait to see whether King Ægeus would recognize him, so eager was he to throw himself into his arms. Advancing to the foot of the throne, he attempted to make a little speech, which he had been thinking about as he came up the stairs. But he was almost choked by a great many tender feelings that gushed out of his heart and swelled into his throat, all struggling to find utterance together. And therefore, unless he could have laid his full, over-brimming heart into the king's hand, poor Theseus knew not what to do or say. The cunning Medea observed what was passing in the young man's mind. She was more wicked at that moment than ever she had been before; for (and it makes me tremble to tell you of it) she did her worst to turn all this unspeakable love with which Theseus was agitated to his own ruin and destruction. "Does your Majesty see his confusion?" she whispered in the king's ear. "He is so conscious of guilt that he trembles and cannot speak. The wretch lives too long! Quick; Offer him the wine!" Now King Ægeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger as he drew near the throne. There was something, he knew not what, either in his white brow, or in the fine expression of his mouth, or in his beautiful and tender eyes, that made him indistinctly feel as if he had seen this youth before; as if, indeed, he had trotted him on his knee when a baby, and had beheld him growing to be a stalwart man, while he himself grew old. But Medea guessed how the king felt, and would not suffer him to yield to these natural sensibilities, although they were the voice of his deepest heart, telling him, as plainly as it could speak, that here was his dear son, and Æthra's son, coming to claim him for a father. The enchantress again whispered in the king's ear, and compelled him, by her witchcraft, to see everything under a false aspect. He made up his mind therefore to let Theseus drink off the poisoned wine. "Young man," said he, "you are welcome! I am proud to show hospitality to so heroic a youth. Do me the favor to drink the contents of this goblet. It is brimming over, as you see, with delicious wine, such as I bestow only on those who are worthy of it! None is more worthy to quaff it than yourself!" So saying, King Ægeus took the golden goblet from the table and was about to offer it to Theseus. But, partly through his infirmities and partly because it seemed so sad a thing to take away this young man's life, however wicked he might be, and partly, no doubt, because his heart was wiser than his head, and quaked within him at the thought of what he was going to do--for all these reasons the king's hand trembled so much that a great deal of the wine slopped over. In order to strengthen his purpose, and fearing lest the whole of the precious poison should be wasted, one of his nephews now whispered to him: "Has your Majesty any doubt of this stranger's guilt? There is the very sword with which he meant to slay you. How sharp, and bright, and terrible it is! Quick!--let him taste the wine, or perhaps he may do the deed even yet." At these words Ægeus drove every thought and feeling out of his breast, except the one idea of how justly the young man deserved to be put to death. He sat erect on his throne, and held out the goblet of wine with a steady hand, and bent on Theseus a frown of kingly severity; for, after all, he had too noble a spirit to murder even a treacherous enemy with a deceitful smile upon his face. "Drink!" said he, in the stern tone with which he was wont to condemn a criminal to be beheaded. "You have well deserved of me such wine as this!" Theseus held out his hand to take the wine. But before he touched it, King Ægeus trembled again. His eyes had fallen on the gold-hilted sword that hung at the young man's side. He drew back the goblet. "That sword!" he cried. "How came you by it?" "It was my father's sword," replied Theseus, with a tremulous voice. "These were his sandals. My dear mother (her name is Æthra) told me his story while I was yet a little child. But it is only a month since I grew strong enough to lift the heavy stone and take the sword and sandals from beneath it and come to Athens to seek my father." "My son! my son!" cried King Ægeus, flinging away the fatal goblet and tottering down from the throne, to fall into the arms of Theseus. "Yes, these are Æthra's eyes; it is my son." I have quite forgotten what became of the king's nephews. But when the wicked Medea saw this new turn of affairs she hurried out of the room, and going to her private chamber, lost no time in setting her enchantments at work. In a few moments she heard a great noise of hissing snakes outside of the chamber window; and behold! there was her fiery chariot and four huge winged serpents, wriggling and twisting in the air, flourishing their tails higher than the top of the palace, and all ready to set off on an aërial journey. Medea stayed only long enough to take her son with her, and to steal the crown jewels, together with the king's best robes and whatever other valuable things she could lay hands on; and getting into the chariot, she whipped up the snakes and ascended high over the city. The king, hearing the hiss of the serpents, scrambled as fast as he could to the window and bawled out to the abominable enchantress never to come back. The whole people of Athens too, who had run out of doors to see this wonderful spectacle, set up a shout of joy at the prospect of getting rid of her. Medea, almost bursting with rage, uttered precisely such a hiss as one of her own snakes, only ten times more venomous and spiteful; and glaring fiercely out of the blaze of the chariot, she shook her hands over the multitude below, as if she were scattering a million of curses among them. In so doing, however, she unintentionally let fall about five hundred diamonds of the first water, together with a thousand great pearls and two thousand emeralds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and topazes, to which she had helped herself out of the king's strong-box. All these came pelting down, like a shower of many-colored hailstones, upon the heads of grown people and children, who forthwith gathered them up and carried them back to the palace. But King Ægeus told them that they were welcome to the whole, and to twice as many more, if he had them, for the sake of his delight at finding his son and losing the wicked Medea. And, indeed, if you had seen how hateful was her last look, as the flaming chariot flew upward, you would not have wondered that both king and people should think her departure a good riddance. THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE And now Prince Theseus was taken into great favor by his royal father. The old king was never weary of having him sit beside him on his throne (which was quite wide enough for two), and of hearing him tell about his dear mother, and his childhood, and his many boyish efforts to lift the ponderous stone. Theseus, however, was much too brave and active a young man to be willing to spend all his time in relating things which had already happened. His ambition was to perform other and more heroic deeds, which should be better worth telling in prose and verse. Nor had he been long in Athens before he caught and chained a terrible mad bull, and made a public show of him, greatly to the wonder and admiration of good King Ægeus and his subjects. But pretty soon he undertook an affair that made all his foregone adventures seem like mere boy's play. The occasion of it was as follows: One morning, when Prince Theseus awoke, he fancied that he must have had a very sorrowful dream, and that it was still running in his mind, even now that his eyes were open. For it appeared as if the air was full of a melancholy wail; and when he listened more attentively, he could hear sobs, and groans, and screams of woe, mingled with deep, quiet sighs, which came from the king's palace, and from the streets, and from the temples, and from every habitation in the city. And all these mournful noises, issuing out of thousands of separate hearts, united themselves into the one great sound of affliction which had startled Theseus from slumber. He put on his clothes as quickly as he could (not forgetting his sandals and gold-hilted sword), and hastening to the king, inquired what it all meant. [Illustration: THESEUS GOES TO SLAY THE MINOTAUR] "Alas! my son," quoth King Ægeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very lamentable matter in hand! This is the woefullest anniversary in the whole year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of the youths and maidens of Athens shall go to be devoured by the horrible Minotaur!" "The Minotaur!" exclaimed Prince Theseus; and, like a brave young prince as he was, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "What kind of a monster may that be? Is it not possible, at the risk of one's life, to slay him?" But King Ægeus shook his venerable head, and to convince Theseus that it was quite a hopeless case, he gave him an explanation of the whole affair. It seems that in the island of Crete there lived a certain dreadful monster, called a Minotaur, which was shaped partly like a man and partly like a bull, and was altogether such a hideous sort of a creature that it is really disagreeable to think of him. If he were suffered to exist at all, it should have been on some desert island, or in the duskiness of some deep cavern, where nobody would ever be tormented by his abominable aspect. But King Minos, who reigned over Crete, laid out a vast deal of money in building a habitation for the Minotaur, and took great care of his health and comfort, merely for mischief's sake. A few years before this time there had been a war between the city of Athens and the island of Crete, in which the Athenians were beaten, and compelled to beg for peace. No peace could they obtain, however, except on condition that they should send seven young men and seven maidens, every year, to be devoured by the pet monster of the cruel King Minos. For three years past this grievous calamity had been borne. And the sobs, and groans, and shrieks with which the city was now filled were caused by the people's woe, because the fatal day had come again when the fourteen victims were to be chosen by lot; and the old people feared lest their sons or daughters might be taken, and the youths and damsels dreaded lest they themselves might be destined to glut the ravenous maw of that detestable man-brute. But when Theseus heard the story, he straightened himself up, so that he seemed taller than ever before; and as for his face, it was indignant, despiteful, bold, tender, and compassionate, all in one look. "Let the people of Athens this year draw lots for only six young men, instead of seven," said he. "I will myself be the seventh; and let the Minotaur devour me if he can!" "Oh, my dear son!" cried King Ægeus, "why should you expose yourself to this horrible fate? You are a royal prince, and have a right to hold yourself above the destinies of common men." "It is because I am a prince, your son, and the rightful heir to your kingdom, that I freely take upon me the calamity of your subjects," answered Theseus. "And you, my father, being king over this people, and answerable to Heaven for their welfare, are bound to sacrifice what is dearest to you, rather than that the son or daughter of the poorest citizen should come to any harm." The old king shed tears, and besought Theseus not to leave him desolate in his old age, more especially as he had but just begun to know the happiness of possessing a good and valiant son. Theseus, however, felt that he was in the right, and therefore would not give up his resolution. But he assured his father that he did not intend to be eaten up unresistingly, like a sheep, and that, if the Minotaur devoured him, it should not be without a battle for his dinner. And finally, since he could not help it, King Ægeus consented to let him go. So a vessel was got ready, and rigged with black sails; and Theseus, with six other young men and seven tender and beautiful damsels, came down to the harbor to embark. A sorrowful multitude accompanied them to the shore. There was the poor old king, too, leaning on his son's arm, and looking as if his single heart held all the grief of Athens. Just as Prince Theseus was going on board his father bethought himself of one last word to say. "My beloved son," said he, grasping the prince's hand, "you observe that the sails of this vessel are black, as indeed they ought to be, since it goes upon a voyage of sorrow and despair. Now, being weighed down with infirmities, I know not whether I can survive till the vessel shall return. But as long as I do live, I shall creep daily to the top of yonder cliff, to watch if there be a sail upon the sea. And, dearest Theseus, if by some happy chance you should escape the jaws of the Minotaur, then tear down those dismal sails, and hoist others that shall be bright as the sunshine. Beholding them on the horizon, myself and all the people will know that you are coming back victorious, and will welcome you with such a festal uproar as Athens never heard before." Theseus promised that he would do so. Then, going on board, the mariners trimmed the vessel's black sails to the wind, which blew faintly off the shore, being pretty much made up of the sighs that everybody kept pouring forth on this melancholy occasion. But by and by, when they got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from the north-west, and drove them along as merrily over the white-capped waves as if they had been going on the most delightful errand imaginable. And though it was a sad business enough, I rather question whether fourteen young people, without any old persons to keep them in order, could continue to spend the whole time of the voyage in being miserable. There had been some few dances upon the undulating deck, I suspect, and some hearty bursts of laughter, and other such unseasonable merriment among the victims, before the high, blue mountains of Crete began to show themselves among the far-off clouds. That sight, to be sure, made them all very grave again. No sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of King Minos came down to the waterside and took charge of the fourteen young men and damsels. Surrounded by these armed warriors, Prince Theseus and his companions were led to the king's palace and ushered into his presence. Now Minos was a stern and pitiless king. He bent his shaggy brows upon the poor Athenian victims. Any other mortal, beholding their fresh and tender beauty and their innocent looks, would have felt himself sitting on thorns until he had made every soul of them happy by bidding them go free as the summer wind. But this immitigable Minos cared only to examine whether they were plump enough to satisfy the Minotaur's appetite. For my part, I wish he himself had been the only victim; and the monster would have found him a pretty tough one. One after another, King Minos called these pale, frightened youths and sobbing maidens to his footstool, gave them each a poke in the ribs with his scepter (to try whether they were in good flesh or no), and dismissed them with a nod to his guards. But when his eyes rested on Theseus, the king looked at him more attentively, because his face was calm and grave. "Young man," asked he, with his stern voice, "are you not appalled at the certainty of being devoured by this terrible Minotaur?" "I have offered my life in a good cause," answered Theseus, "and therefore I give it freely and gladly. But thou, King Minos, art thou not thyself appalled, who, year after year, hast perpetrated this dreadful wrong, by giving seven innocent youths and as many maidens to be devoured by a monster? Dost thou not tremble, wicked king, to turn thine eyes inward on thine own heart? Sitting there on thy golden throne and in thy robes of majesty, I tell thee to thy face, King Minos, thou art a more hideous monster than the Minotaur himself!" "Aha! do you think me so?" cried the king, laughing in his cruel way. "To-morrow, at breakfast time, you shall have an opportunity of judging which is the greater monster, the Minotaur or the king! Take them away, guards; and let this free-spoken youth be the Minotaur's first morsel!" THESEUS AND ARIADNE BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Near the king's throne stood his daughter Ariadne. She was a beautiful and tender-hearted maiden, and looked at these poor doomed captives with very different feelings from those of the iron-breasted King Minos. She really wept, indeed, at the idea of how much human happiness would be needlessly thrown away by giving so many young people, in the first bloom and rose-blossom of their lives, to be eaten up by a creature who, no doubt, would have preferred a fat ox, or even a large pig, to the plumpest of them. And when she beheld the brave-spirited figure of Prince Theseus bearing himself so calmly in his terrible peril, she grew a hundred times more pitiful than before. As the guards were taking him away, she flung herself at the king's feet and besought him to set all the captives free, and especially this one young man. "Peace, foolish girl!" answered King Minos. "What hast thou to do with an affair like this? It is a matter of state policy, and therefore quite beyond thy weak comprehension. Go water thy flowers, and think no more of these Athenian caitiffs, whom the Minotaur shall as certainly eat up for breakfast as I will eat a partridge for my supper." So saying, the king looked cruel enough to devour Theseus and all the rest of the captives himself, had there been no Minotaur to save him the trouble. As he would not hear another word in their favor, the prisoners were now led away and clapped into a dungeon, where the jailer advised them to go to sleep as soon as possible, because the Minotaur was in the habit of calling for breakfast early. The seven maidens and six young men soon sobbed themselves to slumber. But Theseus was not like them. He felt conscious that he was wiser and braver and stronger than his companions, and that therefore he had the responsibility of all their lives upon him, and must consider whether there was no way to save them, even in this last extremity. So he kept himself awake, and paced to and fro across the gloomy dungeon in which they were shut up. Just before midnight the door was softly unbarred, and the gentle Ariadne showed herself, with a torch in her hand. "Are you awake, Prince Theseus?" she whispered. "Yes," answered Theseus. "With so little time to live, I do not choose to waste any of it in sleep." "Then follow me," said Ariadne, "and tread softly." What had become of the jailer and the guards Theseus never knew. But however that might be, Ariadne opened all the doors and led him forth from the darksome prison into the pleasant moonlight. "Theseus," said the maiden, "you can now get on board your vessel and sail away for Athens." "No," answered the young man; "I will never leave Crete unless I can first slay the Minotaur, and save my poor companions, and deliver Athens from this cruel tribute." "I knew that this would be your resolution," said Ariadne. "Come, then, with me, brave Theseus. Here is your own sword which the guards deprived you of. You will need it; and pray Heaven you may use it well." Then she led Theseus along by the hand until they came to a dark, shadowy grove, where the moonlight wasted itself on the tops of the trees, without shedding hardly so much as a glimmering beam upon their pathway. After going a good way through this obscurity, they reached a high marble wall, which was overgrown with creeping plants, that made it shaggy with their verdure. The wall seemed to have no door, nor any windows, but rose up, lofty and massive and mysterious, and was neither to be clambered over nor, so far as Theseus could perceive, to be passed through. Nevertheless, Ariadne did but press one of her soft little fingers against a particular block of marble and, though it looked as solid as any other part of the wall, it yielded to her touch, disclosing an entrance just wide enough to admit them. They crept through, and the marble stone swung back into its place. "We are now," said Ariadne, "in the famous labyrinth which Dædalus built before he made himself a pair of wings and flew away from our island like a bird. That Dædalus was a very cunning workman, but of all his artful contrivances this labyrinth is the most wondrous. Were we to take but a few steps from the doorway, we might wander about all our lifetime and never find it again. Yet in the very center of this labyrinth is the Minotaur, and, Theseus, you must go thither to seek him." "But how shall I ever find him?" asked Theseus, "if the labyrinth so bewilders me, as you say it will?" Just as he spoke they heard a rough and very disagreeable roar, which greatly resembled the lowing of a fierce bull, but yet had some sort of sound like the human voice. Theseus even fancied a rude articulation in it, as if the creature that uttered it were trying to shape his hoarse breath into words. It was at some distance, however, and he really could not tell whether it sounded most like a bull's roar or a man's harsh voice. "That is the Minotaur's noise," whispered Ariadne, closely grasping the hand of Theseus, and pressing one of her own hands to her heart, which was all in a tremble. "You must follow that sound through the windings of the labyrinth, and, by and by, you will find him. Stay! take the end of this silken string; I will hold the other end; and then, if you win the victory, it will lead you again to this spot. Farewell, brave Theseus." So the young man took the end of the silken string in his left hand, and his gold-hilted sword, ready drawn from its scabbard, in the other, and trod boldly into the inscrutable labyrinth. How this labyrinth was built is more than I can tell you, but so cunningly contrived a mizmaze was never seen in the world before nor since. Theseus had not taken five steps before he lost sight of Ariadne; and in five more his head was growing dizzy. But he still went on, now creeping through a low arch, now ascending a flight of steps, now in one crooked passage, and now in another, with here a door opening before him, and there one banging behind, until it really seemed as if the walls spun round and whirled him along with them. And all the while, through these hollow avenues, now nearer, now farther off again, resounded the cry of the Minotaur; and the sound was so fierce, so cruel, so ugly, so like a bull's roar, and withal so like a human voice, and yet like neither of them, that the brave heart of Theseus grew sterner and angrier at every step; for he felt it an insult to the moon and sky, and to our affectionate and simple Mother Earth, that such a monster should have the audacity to exist. As he passed onward, the clouds gathered over the moon, and the labyrinth grew so dusky that Theseus could no longer discern the bewilderment through which he was passing. He would have felt quite lost, and utterly hopeless of ever again walking in a straight path, if every little while he had not been conscious of a gentle twitch at the silken cord. Then he knew that the tender-hearted Ariadne was still holding the other end, and that she was fearing for him, and hoping for him, and giving him just as much of her sympathy as if she were close by his side. But still he followed the dreadful roar of the Minotaur, which now grew louder and louder, and finally so very loud that Theseus fully expected to come close upon him, at every new zigzag and wriggle of the path. And at last, in an open space, in the very center of the labyrinth, he did discern the hideous creature. Sure enough, what an ugly monster it was! Only his horned head belonged to a bull; and yet, somehow or other, he looked like a bull all over, preposterously waddling on his hind legs; or, if you happened to view him in another way, he seemed wholly a man, and all the more monstrous for being so. And there he was, the wretched thing, with no society, no companion, no kind of a mate, living only to do mischief, and incapable of knowing what affection means. Theseus hated him, and shuddered at him, and yet could not but be sensible of some sort of pity; and all the more, the uglier and more detestable the creature was. For he kept striding to and fro in a solitary frenzy of rage, continually emitting a hoarse roar, which was oddly mixed up with half-shaped words; and, after listening awhile, Theseus understood that the Minotaur was saying to himself how miserable he was, and how hungry, and how he hated everybody, and how he longed to eat up the human race alive. Was Theseus afraid? By no means, my dear auditors. What! a hero like Theseus afraid! Not had the Minotaur had twenty bull heads instead of one. Bold as he was, however, I fancy that it strengthened his valiant heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the silken cord, which he was still holding in his left hand. It was as if Ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and, much as he already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice as much. And to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for now the Minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of Theseus, and instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does when he means to rush against an enemy. At the same time he belched forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute. Theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that rather by his gestures than his words; for the Minotaur's horns were sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than his tongue. But probably this was the sense of what he uttered: "Ah, wretch of a human being! I'll stick my horns through you, and toss you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down." "Come on, then, and try it!" was all that Theseus deigned to reply; for he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent language. Without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight between Theseus and the Minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or moon. I really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster, in his first headlong rush against Theseus, had not missed him, by a hair's-breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the stone wall. On this mishap he bellowed so intolerably that a part of the labyrinth tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of Crete mistook the noise for an uncommonly heavy thunder-storm. Smarting with the pain, he galloped around the open space in so ridiculous a way that Theseus laughed at it long afterwards, though not precisely at the moment. After this the two antagonists stood valiantly up to one another, and fought sword to horn, for a long while. At last, the Minotaur made a run at Theseus, grazed his left side with his horn, and flung him down; and thinking that he had stabbed him to the heart, he cut a great caper in the air, opened his bull mouth from ear to ear, and prepared to snap his head off. But Theseus by this time had leaped up, and caught the monster off his guard. Fetching a sword-stroke at him with all his force, he hit him fair upon the neck, and made his bull head skip six yards from his human body, which fell down flat upon the ground. So now the battle was ended. Immediately the moon shone out as brightly as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness and the ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever. And Theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another twitch of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter he had held it fast in his left hand. Eager to let Ariadne know of his success, he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found himself at the entrance of the labyrinth. "Thou hast slain the monster," cried Ariadne, clasping her hands. "Thanks to thee, dear Ariadne," answered Theseus, "I return victorious." "Then," said Ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get them and thyself on board the vessel before dawn. If morning finds thee here, my father will avenge the Minotaur." To make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and hardly knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what Theseus had done, and that they must set sail for Athens before daybreak. Hastening down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except Prince Theseus, who lingered behind them, on the strand, holding Ariadne's hand clasped in his own. "Dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us. Thou art too gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as King Minos. He cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the little flower that grows in one of its crevices. But my father, King Ægeus, and my dear mother, Æthra, and all the fathers and mothers in Athens, and all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee as their benefactress. Come with us, then; for King Minos will be very angry when he knows what thou hast done." Now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of Theseus and Ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young stranger whose life she had preserved. They say, too, that Prince Theseus (who would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in the world) ungratefully deserted Ariadne on a solitary island, where the vessel touched on its voyage to Athens. But had the noble Theseus heard these falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors as he served the Minotaur! Here is what Ariadne answered, when the brave Prince of Athens besought her to accompany him: "No, Theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand and then drawing back a step or two, "I cannot go with you. My father is old, and has nobody but myself to love him. Hard as you think his heart is, it would break to lose me. At first King Minos will be angry; but he will soon forgive his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, I know, that no more youths and maidens must come from Athens to be devoured by the Minotaur. I have saved you, Theseus, as much for my father's sake as for your own. Farewell! Heaven bless you!" All this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet a dignity, that Theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer. Nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid Ariadne an affectionate farewell, and go on board the vessel and set sail. In a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow, as Prince Theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with a whistling breeze behind them. On the homeward voyage the fourteen youths and damsels were in excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose. They spent most of their time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck slope too much. In due season they came within sight of the coast of Attica, which was their native country. But here, I am grieved to tell you, happened a sad misfortune. You will remember (what Theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father, King Ægeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead of black ones, in case he should overcome the Minotaur, and return victorious. In the joy of their success, however, and amidst the sports, dancing, and other merriment with which these young folks wore away the time, they never once thought whether their sails were black, white, or rainbow colored, and, indeed, left it entirely to the mariners whether they had any sails at all. Thus the vessel returned, like a raven, with the same sable wings that had wafted her away. But poor King Ægeus, day after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the summit of a cliff that overhung the sea, and there sat watching for Prince Theseus, homeward bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal blackness of the sails, than he concluded that his dear son, whom he loved so much, and felt so proud of, had been eaten by the Minotaur. He could not bear the thought of living any longer; so, first flinging his crown and scepter into the sea (useless baubles that they were to him now!) King Ægeus, merely stooped forward, and fell headlong over the cliff, and was drowned, poor soul, in the waves that foamed at its base! This was melancholy news for Prince Theseus, who, when he stepped ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no; and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very much out of spirits. However, he sent for his dear mother to Athens, and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people. PARIS AND OENONE BY V. C. TURNBULL "Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills." TENNYSON: _Oenone_. Queen Hecuba, wife of Priam, King of Troy, dreamed an evil dream. For in her sleep she thought one came to her and said: "Behold, thou shalt bring forth a torch which shall set thy palace afire." Not many days afterwards, therefore, when the Queen bore a son, Priam, to whom she had told her dream, ordered his slaves to destroy the child. But before his cruel order could be carried out, Hecuba contrived to steal away the babe and place it with certain shepherds--kindly folk, who cared for it as their own child--on Mount Ida, over against the city of Troy. And they called the child Paris. Now Paris, though reared among rude shepherd folk, soon showed that royal blood ran in his veins, and he won great praise from the shepherds for his skill in tending the sheep upon the mountain, and for the daring with which he pursued and slew the wild beasts who sought to devour them. So Paris grew to man's estate, and in all the land was none fairer than he, or more gracious withal. No marvel, then, that the mountain maid Oenone, whose home was in the vale of Ida, should be smitten by his beauty; and he loving her with equal warmth, they were wedded and lived together in that pleasant land with the happiness of simple folk. Together they shared the pleasures of the chase, and Oenone was not less skilled than Paris in cheering on the hounds and in spreading the nets. In quieter moods they would wander together by the river or in the woods, and Paris would carve their names upon the gray boles of the beeches. And on one poplar that grew on the banks of the river Xanthus, he carved these words: "Back to its source thy stream shall start, Ere Paris from Oenone part." But even then the gods were preparing a bitter sorrow for Paris, for Oenone, and for countless generations of mortals otherwhere. Across the sea, in Thessaly, a great feast was being held to celebrate the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. And because the bride was no maiden born of woman, but an immortal Nereid, all the gods and goddesses were bidden to the banquet. All were bidden save one, Eris by name, the Goddess of Strife, most hateful of the immortals. So she, full of rage at the slight, cast on the board where all the guests were feasting a golden apple bearing the legend _To the Fairest_. Then ensued, as Eris had intended, great strife among the goddesses, and, in especial, Juno, Minerva, and Venus claimed each the golden fruit. So the gods, not willing themselves to settle the dispute, bade the three goddesses betake themselves to Mount Ida, there to seek the judgment of Paris and to abide by his decision. So on a day before the lowly bower of Paris and Oenone stood the three great goddesses. Naked they came, clad in celestial radiance, as with a garment, and at their feet violets and crocuses pushed upward through the grass, and hovering round them were the peacock of Juno, the owl of Minerva, and the doves of Venus. Then when Paris faltered, not knowing which to choose when all were so fair, Juno, Queen of Heaven, said: "Choose me, and I will give thee the kingdoms of the world." Then Minerva, the wise Virgin goddess, said: "Choose me, and I will give thee wisdom." Last of all, Venus, the sea-born Goddess of Love, whispered: "Choose me, and I will give thee to wife the fairest woman in Greece." Smiling, she stretched forth her hand and the golden apple was hers, and the three goddesses vanished in a cloud, and with them vanished all happiness from the heart of Oenone. Not long after this, Priam, King of Troy, proposed a contest in arms among his sons and other princes, promising to the winner the finest bull on the pastures of Mount Ida. And Paris, grieving to see the bull driven off by the messengers of Priam, determined that he too would strive with the sons of Priam, whom as yet he knew not for his brothers. So on the day fixed for the contests, Paris strove with Priam's sons Polites, Helenus, and Deiphobus, and with other princes, and worsted them all. Yea, and he strove also with the strongest of the king's sons, great Hector himself, and for him too was he a match. But Hector, enraged, turned and pursued Paris as he would kill him, so that Paris fled to the temple of Jupiter for refuge. In this temple he was met by Cassandra, the daughter of Priam, to whom Apollo had granted knowledge of things to come. And marking in Paris the very mold and features of her own brothers, she drew from him all he knew of his story. So, adding thereto of her own knowledge, Cassandra knew that this was indeed her brother who was put away while a baby, and taking him by the hand she led him back to the household of Priam and Hecuba, bidding all embrace their brother and son. Then Priam and Hecuba and all their sons very gladly took Paris to their hearts, for they forgot the dismal prophecy of his birth, noting only his modest courtesy, his beauty, and his strength. Paris, therefore, remained a while in the royal household, and all made him great cheer. Yet was he not wholly happy in the palace of Priam. Not, alas! that his thoughts turned often to Oenone whom he had left on Mount Ida, but evermore there sounded in his ears the low voice of Venus, saying: "The fairest woman in Greece shall be thy wife." And Paris would muse, saying to himself: "Helen, wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, is the fairest of all the daughters of men. All the princes of Greece sought her hand in marriage, and when those who have seen her try to tell of her beauty, speech fails them, for she is more fair than man can tell or poet can sing." Then, pursuing his thought, he would ponder: "Am not I, Paris, no more a shepherd on Mount Ida, but now a prince in a royal palace and son of the King of Troy? Surely the word that Venus spake will yet be fulfilled!" Now Priam's sister, Hesione, had been carried off and wedded against her will, and this thing was a bitterness to Priam. So Paris, perceiving this, set himself and his fellows to build and man a fleet, declaring that he would bring back Hesione, but thinking in his heart not of Hesione, but of Helen. To obtain wood for his ships he returned to Mount Ida to cut down the tallest pines that crowned the craggy ledges where the winds of the sea sighed through the branches, as it were, indeed, the soughing of another sea through the melancholy tree-tops. Oenone received her lord with gladness on his return; but when she knew that his thought was but to fashion ships for a voyage, the spirit of prophecy came upon her, and she cried to him, as one inspired: "A bitter thing is this that thou doest, O Paris, my husband! For behold, thou farest to Greece to fetch hither the ruin of thy country and thy kindred. Yea, and to me shalt thou come at the last, stricken unto death, beseeching the aid of my leechcraft...." At this place the gift failed her as suddenly as it had come, and she fell to weeping. But Paris, kissing her, bade her put away her fears and look out over the sea for his return. And when he had fashioned his ships and rigged them with tall masts and calked them with pitch, he set sail across the seas, leaving Oenone to watch for his homeward sails. Many days did she sit upon a cliff that overlooked the blue waters, watching for the ship's return. One night, as in a vision, she saw, or seemed to see, a white sail on the marge, and it sped before the wind and passed close beneath the cliff where she stood at gaze. And as she looked down, her heart turned sick within her; for on the deck stood a lady. A daughter of the gods she seemed, divinely fair, and her arms were round the neck of Paris, while her head lay upon his breast. And Oenone saw Paris spring to shore bearing this lady in his arms; she saw him lead her to the city of Troy; she saw the gates flung open and all the people come forth to meet the pair; and she knew that this was Helen, the fairest of women, who had fled with Paris from Menelaus, her husband. She knew, too, that she, Oenone, would be left lonely till she died. * * * * * Now followed that great siege of Troy of which poets will sing till the end of time. For Menelaus, the husband of Helen, and his brother Agamemnon, the great general, stirred up all the princes of Greece who had been the suitors of Helen and, on her marriage with Menelaus, had bound themselves in a solemn league to protect her from all manner of violence. So all the princes and captains of Greece came with a great host and many ships, and laid siege to Troy; and many battles were fought upon the plains outside the city walls. And to Oenone, wandering widowed upon Mount Ida, the sound of the strife rolled up, and from afar she perceived the confused struggle of chariots and horses and men; but she heard and saw these things as one who marked them not, for it was as if her heart had died, and her life had ended. * * * * * Now when the war had lasted for a space of years, Paris, although constantly protected by the goddess Venus, received a wound from the poisoned arrow of one Philoctetes. Then in his anguish he remembered his deserted Oenone, and her great skill at leechcraft, and he said to his attendants: "Carry me out of the city to Mount Ida, that I may look once more on the face of my wife Oenone, and beseech her pardon for the great wrong she has endured at my hands. And haply, when she seeth my grievous state, her pitiful heart will be moved with compassion, and she will heal me with her leechcraft, for naught else may avail." So they carried Paris in a litter up the slopes of Mount Ida. And Oenone, seeing them approach, went down swiftly to meet them. And Paris, when he saw her coming, stretched out his arms a little and let them fall, for they were very weak; and Oenone, uttering a lamentable cry, like a bird who sees her nestling slain, flew to meet his embrace. But in that moment Paris had breathed his last. The eyes, once so bright, were fixed in a stony stare, and the dews of death were on that marble brow. Then Oenone, forgetting all the wrongs she had suffered, remembering only the morning light of happy marriage and that he had come back to her at the last, fell down upon his breast embracing him and bathing him with her tears. Then, crying aloud with a great and exceeding bitter cry, she plucked a dagger from her girdle and plunged it into her heart, falling dead upon the breast which had pillowed her head in other years. So died Oenone, faithful to the faithless, the most innocent of all who perished for the sin of Paris, the son of Priam. IPHIGENIA BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD Menelaus, brother of the King of Mycenæ, had for his wife the most beautiful woman in the world, whose name was Helen; but she was stolen from him by a treacherous guest, Paris, the son of Priam, King of Troy, who carried her away with him to his home far over the sea. Then Menelaus, in his anger and sorrow, asked all his friends to help him to bring back his wife, and to punish his treacherous guest, and all the chieftains of Greece came to his aid, for Troy was a wondrous strong city, and its walls had been built by Neptune, the god of the sea. Foremost of all the chieftains was Agamemnon, King of Mycenæ, the elder brother of Menelaus; he was chosen to be the head of the whole array, and under him served Ulysses, the wise king of Ithaca, and Achilles, chief of the Myrmidons, whom no weapon could wound save in the heel; and many more of fame throughout the whole world. The fleet came together at Aulis in the land of Boeotia; all were ready and eager to fare forth over the sea and fight against Troy; and a goodly sight it was to see the brass-beaked vessels and the brave warriors who crowded thick upon them. But day after day passed by and the fleet lay still in harbor, for no breeze came to fill the sails. And all the chieftains were dumfounded, for their valor was of no avail, and their hearts were heavy within them; for they knew not wherefore their ships lay thus becalmed, and they feared lest the immortal gods did not will that Troy should fall. At last they sent for Calchas, the wise seer, and asked if he could tell them the will of the gods. And Calchas made answer: "The winds are withheld from you, O chieftains, by the will of Diana, the huntress of the woods. For King Agamemnon, once on a day, slew a stag within her sacred grove, and ever since she has hated him sore, and therefore she will not let you sail till her anger is appeased by rich offerings." Then said King Agamemnon; "Since mine is the blame, let the expiation be mine also. Speak, Calchas: what offering will content the goddess, that the winds may come forth from their prison-house and our ships spread their sails and fare over the sea to Troy?" All hearkened eagerly, for the face of Calchas was dark and terrible, so that every man feared to hear his answer. "The goddess asks of thee the best and most beautiful of all that is thine," said the stern seer; "she asks the life of thy daughter Iphigenia." A shudder ran through all who heard the fearful words. Menelaus, with a cry of sorrow and terror, came close to his brother and laid his hand on his arm, and Agamemnon the king stood in a tumult of agony, speaking no word for some little space. At length the chieftain looked round upon his comrades, saying: "A hard fate is upon me, ye leaders of the Greeks. For either I must shed blood that is dearer to me than my own, or else our great array must lie here idle till the ships are rotten or the captains desert and leave us stranded." Then said Menelaus to Calchas: "Is there no other way? Cannot the great goddess be appeased without this innocent victim?" And Calchas made answer: "There is no other way." Agamemnon, with bowed head, climbed slowly to his tent upon the hillside, and the rumor ran quickly through the camp that the wrath of Diana could only be turned away by the death of the fair and innocent maiden Iphigenia, the daughter of the king. Then Agamemnon despatched a guileful message to his wife Clytemnestra, praying her to send their daughter Iphigenia quickly to Aulis, since Achilles, the noble chief of the Myrmidons, had asked leave to wed the maiden, and it must be done in haste, for the fleet was on the point of sailing. When Clytemnestra heard her husband's message she was glad at heart, for the fame of Achilles was great, and he was brave and strong and beautiful as the immortal gods. In haste was the maiden decked for her wedding and sent with the messengers of Agamemnon to the camp at Aulis. And as Iphigenia was led into the camp she marveled greatly, for all who looked upon her were filled with pity, and cold fear touched the heart of the maiden as she passed through the silent and sorrowful host. The warriors were moved at the sight of her youth and innocence; but no man strove to save her from her fate, for without her death all their gathering together would be for naught. Within the tent of Agamemnon the stern seer Calchas awaited the destined victim. All was prepared for the sacrifice, and Agamemnon and Menelaus already stood by the altar. In haste was the maiden decked out--not for her bridal, but for her death. Then they led her forth into the sunshine again, and she looked round upon the hillside and the blue sea where lay the idle ships; and when she saw her father standing by the altar she would have cried out to him and begged for mercy, but those who led her laid their hands upon her mouth. The poor child tried to win from her father one pitying glance, but Agamemnon hid his face in his mantle; he could not look upon the face of the child who was to be slain to expiate his sin. So there was no help for the beautiful and innocent maiden, and she was led to her death. But so great was the ruth of the Greeks that no man save the stern Calchas dared witness the terrible deed; and because they could not bear to believe afterwards that the maiden had indeed been slain there upon the altar, the tale went forth that at the last moment Diana had laid a hart upon the altar and had borne the maiden safely away to Tauris. But in truth the cruel sacrifice was completed, and even as the flame leapt up on the altar the tree-tops swung and swayed, and ripples coursed over the glassy surface of the sea; the breeze for which the host had waited so long had been set free, and the warriors joyfully hoisted their sails and stood out of the harbor of Aulis on their way to the siege of Troy. But now was Diana well avenged for Agamemnon's profanation of her grove. For, from the innocent blood of Iphigenia, uprose an avenger, destined to follow King Agamemnon and all his family till the dark deed had been expiated. Long and grievous was the warfare before the walls of Troy; and it was not till the tenth year after his setting forth that tidings came that King Agamemnon was on his way home. All through those years his wife had nourished the hope of vengeance in her heart, both for the death of Iphigenia and for the falsehood that had made her send the maiden to the camp. So the king came home only to his grave. His wife received him with gracious words and with every sign of rejoicing; but ere night fell Agamemnon lay slain in his bath, where the dagger of Clytemnestra had smitten him down. Next the Avenger of Blood put into the heart of Orestes, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, a great hatred for the mother who had slain his father. He was far from home when the cruel deed was done, and it was long ere he returned; but when at last he came he smote his own mother and slew her. After this deed of awe and terror the Avenger of Blood pursued Orestes, and drove him, a branded outlaw, from land to land. At length he fled to the sanctuary of the great goddess Minerva, and was at last permitted to expiate his guilt. He had to seek a piece of land that was not made when he killed his mother, so he went to the mouth of a river where fresh soil was being formed by the sand that was brought down by the rushing flood. And here he was allowed to purify himself, and the Avenger of Blood left him, at last, at peace. PROTESILAUS BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD Protesilaus, King of Thessaly, was a happy and a fortunate man. A beautiful and fertile kingdom was his, left to him by his father, the fleet-footed Iphicles, and his wife Laodamia, a fair and gracious queen, was very dear to his heart. But the call of honor came, and all Greece was arming to revenge upon the false Paris the wrong he had done to his host Menelaus in carrying off his wife, the beauteous Helen. Then Protesilaus donned his armor with the rest, and forty goodly vessels sailed from the coast of Thessaly, and joined the assembled fleet of the Greeks at Aulis in Boeotia. Sad was the parting with the fair Queen Laodamia, and many bitter tears she wept when her husband's ships had sailed away and she was left alone. Her whole life was bound up in him, and when he was gone everything that was left to her seemed empty and worthless. Often would she climb the rocks and look forth over the sun-lit waters for hours dreaming and dreaming of the day when Protesilaus should come back to her again to reign over his people in peace and safety. For many days the Greek ships lay wind-bound at Aulis, because their leader, King Agamemnon, had offended the great goddess Diana. At length (as the preceding story told) he was forced to expiate his guilt by the sacrifice of his innocent daughter Iphigenia. As soon as the offering was completed the goddess, appeased, let loose the imprisoned winds, and the great fleet set sail for Troy. Most of the warriors on those bounding ships were eager and happy; their waiting was over, the delight of battle was close before them. But Protesilaus was silent and thoughtful; he would stand for hours on the deck of his vessel looking down upon the lines of foam that it left in its wake, and ever his thoughts were the same. He was not mourning for his beloved wife, nor for the happy home he had left. He was not sad to think of all the perils and hardships that awaited the Greeks at Troy. He was thinking and thinking of the words spoken by the oracle of Apollo at Delphi. The first man to leap ashore, so the oracle had said, should be slain; and even as he had first heard the stern sentence the heart of Protesilaus had beat high with the determination that he himself would be that man. He would crowd all sail on his swift ship, and waiting on the prow would spring on shore through the breakers, and so fulfil the will of the gods. All through the voyage this one thought filled the mind of Protesilaus. He grieved, it is true, that he should never again see his dearly loved wife, Laodamia, nor the beautiful palace they had been building for themselves, wherein they had hoped to be happy together for many years, after the war was over. And sometimes a passionate regret would overcome the warrior when he remembered that the war must all be fought out without his having any share in the famous battles that were before his comrades. His brother would lead the men of Thessaly to the strife, and would return with them in triumph to their homes when, as Calchas had foretold, in the tenth year the city of King Priam should fall. So, undaunted in courage, steadfast in resolution though sad at heart, Protesilaus sailed on to his chosen fate, and even the immortal gods were stirred with wonder and admiration when they saw his ship shoot forth before all the rest as soon as the land of Troy came in sight. Tall and stately on the prow stood the figure of Protesilaus, clad in glittering armor, and with sword and spear and shield all ready for the combat. The helmsman steered straight for a little sandy spit that rose from the water's edge, and Protesilaus sprang ashore long before the rest of the Greek array had neared the Trojan strand. Then the words of the oracle were fulfilled. Some say it was the spear of Hector, some that of Æneas that struck the hero down. Foremost of all the mighty army of King Agamemnon he fell, honored and mourned by all his comrades. Queen Laodamia waited impatiently in the peaceful land of Thessaly, longing for tidings from her lord. She had heard of the long waiting at Aulis, she shuddered when the words of Calchas were repeated to her; in sight of all the host a serpent devoured first nine sucklings and then the mother sow, and when Calchas saw it he said that this was a sign that in the tenth year the city of Priam should fall before the attacks of the Greeks. Ten years seemed a long, long time to the eager queen before she should see her dear lord home again. She would wake up suddenly in the night, and stare into the darkness, thinking with terror of the months and months of hopeless waiting that lay before her. Then tidings came to Thessaly of the sailing of the fleet, and as men told over the names of the mighty heroes who had gone forth to fight with Agamemnon, they forgot the words of the wise seer Calchas, and hoped that this brave array must soon return in triumph. Not many weeks later Laodamia was seated at her loom weaving a robe for her warrior to wear on his return in triumph when there came to her, white and trembling, her favorite of all her maidens. The queen looked up in alarm. "What ails thee, child?" she asked. "Why dost thou stand there pale and silent? Is aught amiss?" The maiden tried in vain to frame words to answer. Covering her face with her hands she sank upon her knees and burst into tears. And the queen, with a great terror at her heart, went forth into a house full of tears and lamentations, for the tidings had come, over the sea, of the death of the noble Protesilaus. Then Laodamia went back into her inner chamber, and covering her head she flung herself prone upon the ground, and lay there all through the day, while her maidens wept and wailed without the door, and none dared enter or attempt to comfort her. But at nightfall the queen arose, and passing from her chamber to the temple, she begged the priest to instruct her what sacrifice to offer to the gods of the world of spirits, that they might allow her but once more to look upon her lord. Then the priest prepared in haste the sevenfold offering due to the great gods of the under-world, and told her the vows and prayers that she must offer, and then left her alone in the temple. Then, standing erect and stretching her suppliant hands towards the heavens, the queen flung her whole soul into the impassioned entreaty that she might see her dear lord once again. No door opened, no curtain was lifted, but on a sudden two forms appeared before the startled suppliant. One she saw at once, by his winged helmet and his rod encircled by snakes, must be the swift messenger of the gods, Mercury; the other, she recognized with a thrill of terror and joy, was the husband for a sight of whom she had just been praying so earnestly. Then Mercury touched Laodamia with his rod, and at the touch all her fear fell from her at once. "Great Jupiter has heard thy prayer," said Mercury. "Behold, thy husband is with thee once more, and he shall tarry with thee for the space of three hours." Having thus spoken Mercury vanished from sight, and Protesilaus and Laodamia stood alone together. Then the queen sprang forward and tried to fling her arms round her dear husband; but though he stood there before her in form and features unchanged, it was but the ghost of her lost lord. Thrice she essayed to embrace him, and thrice her arms clasped nothing but the empty air. Then she cried out in anguish: "Alas! have the gods mocked me after all? Is this not Protesilaus, then, who seems to stand before me?" Then the shade of the warrior made answer: "Nay, dear wife, the gods do not mock thee, and it is indeed Protesilaus who stands before thee. Yet am I no living man; for the oracle had foretold that the first of the Greek host to leap ashore should be slain; therefore, seeing that the immortal gods asked a life, I gave them mine, and steering to the shore before all the other ships, I sprang on land the first of all the host, and fell, slain by the spear of the enemy." Then the queen made answer: "Noblest and best of warriors! even the gods are filled with admiration for thy courage, for they have allowed thee to come back to thy wife and to thy home. Surely they will go on to give thee even a greater gift. As I look upon thee I see no change in thee; thou art fair and young as when we said farewell. Doubtless the gods will give thee back to me wholly again, and naught shall ever more divide us." But even as she spoke the queen shrank back in dread, for the face of the vision changed and became like that of a dead man, while Protesilaus made answer: "Short is my sojourn upon earth, soon must I leave thee again. But be brave and wise, dear love; give not thy whole life over unto mourning, but be patient; and though I must pass from thee now, some day we shall meet once more; and though our earthly love is ended, yet may we joy for ever in faithful companionship one with another." "Ah! wherefore shouldst thou leave me?" cried the queen; "the gods have already wrought wonders, why should they not give thee back thy life? If thou goest from me again, I will follow thee, for I cannot stay alone." Then Protesilaus tried to soothe and calm his wife, that she might give up the vain hope of living again together as they once had done, and might look forward instead to a pure and happy life beyond the grave. The gods had already given her much, he said, and she ought to strive to be worthy of their mercy, and by her courage and self-control win for herself eternal peace. While her husband was speaking his face lost its ghastly look, and he seemed even more beautiful and gracious than when he was alive. And Laodamia watched him, and was calmed and cheered at the sight; but she hardly marked his words, so sure was she that the gods would relent when the end of the three hours was come, and would allow him to stay with her once more a living man. But even while the hero urged his wife to be patient and courageous, even while she looked for the gods to restore him to her, lo! the three hours were past, and Mercury stood once more within the temple. Then, Laodamia understood that her hopes were vain, and that Protesilaus was doomed to leave her. She tried to hold that dear form fast, but she grasped a shadow; her empty fingers closed helplessly as Protesilaus vanished from her sight. With a shriek she fell prone on the temple floor, and the priests who hurried to their queen's assistance raised a lifeless corpse. True to her lord, if ever yet was wife, she had followed him to the Shades; yet alas! in death they were not reunited. The gods are just, and Laodamia had not yet learnt the lesson of Protesilaus, that there is a higher and nobler thing even than human love--self-sacrifice and duty. Therefore she is doomed for a set time to wander in the Mourning Fields apart from happy ghosts, till her spirit raised and solemnized by suffering is worthy to meet her lord who walks with the heroes of old in the dwellings of the blest. THE DEATH OF HECTOR BY V. C. TURNBULL Of all the Trojan warriors none could be compared with their leader, Hector, the son of Priam. Terrible was he in battle, as the Greeks had known to their cost; but within the walls of Troy none was more loved than he; for towards all he was gracious and kindly. To Priam and Hecuba a dutiful son; aye, even to Paris and Helen, the guilty cause of unnumbered woes, he showed a brother's spirit. But none knew the depth of his love and gentleness as did his wife, Andromache, and their little son, Astyanax. These, in the pauses of the strife around the walls of Troy, he would seek out, comforting his wife with tender words and dandling the young child in his strong hands. Such was Hector, greatest of the Trojans. Of the Greeks, the greatest in strength and terrible might of battle was Achilles, son of Peleus and the divine Thetis. A mightier warrior was he even than Hector himself, and no man unaided of the gods might fight against him and live. And when Troy had been besieged for nine long years, and countless brave warriors had fallen on either side, these two champions of the Greek and Trojan hosts met face to face. And this is how they came to fight and how they fared. Achilles, in high dudgeon with King Agamemnon over what he deemed an unfair division of spoil, had suddenly withdrawn to his tent and left the rest to fight on without his aid. But his young comrade in arms and dearest friend, Patroclus, the son of Menoetius, he at length permitted to return to the fight, arming him with his own armor. But him Hector slew, stripping off from his body the armor of Achilles and donning it himself. Now, when Achilles heard that Patroclus was dead, his grief was so terrible that he could scarce be held from laying hands on himself. But his wrath was stronger than his grief, and he swore to slay the slayer of his friend. Therefore, forgetting his old quarrel, he hastened to make peace with Agamemnon. And since his own armor had been taken by Hector, his mother, Thetis, prevailed upon Vulcan, the god-smith, to fashion him a corslet, a helmet, and a mighty shield wrought all round with strange devices. Armed in this panoply of the god and towering over the heads of all the Greeks, he strode shouting into the fray. And indeed the Greeks needed all the help that he could bring; for Hector had driven them down to their very ships, and scarcely had they been able to rescue the body of Patroclus. And now Hector, seeing Achilles, would have rushed to meet him, had not Apollo forbade. But the youngest and dearest of Priam's fifty sons, dying to flesh his maiden sword (for the fond father had forbidden him to fight), sprang forward in his brother's place, and fell transfixed at the first encounter; no match, rash boy, for the divine Achilles. At this sight, not Apollo himself could restrain the wrath of Hector, who bounded over the plain and, bestriding his brother's corpse, hurled his spear. But though his aim was true, Minerva turned the spear aside, and when Achilles charged, Hector too was snatched away by his guardian Apollo. But upon the other Trojans Achilles fell with terrible fury. Many he drove into the river Scamander that flowed by the walls of Troy, slaying them, as a great dolphin of the sea might devour the small fishes; and twelve Trojans he took alive that he might sacrifice them at the funeral of his friend Patroclus. None indeed could stand before him, and those who escaped his fury fled back to the city, where Priam had ordered the gate to be opened to receive the fugitives. At last all were within the walls save only Hector, who stood by the Scæan gate alone. Achilles, afar on the plain, was hotly pursuing one whom he believed to be the Trojan Agenor, whose shape, however, Apollo had taken to draw Achilles from the walls. Now, however, the son of Peleus discovered his mistake, and, turning, he came raging across the plain in his glittering armor towards the Scæan gate. And Hector stood and waited for him there. While he waited, King Priam, his old father, many of whose sons Achilles had already slain, came out and entreated him to enter the city. And his mother Hecuba implored him, in pity for her gray hairs not to give battle to Achilles, but to enter while there was yet time. But Hector was deaf to all prayers. It was foolhardiness in not ordering an earlier retreat that had brought dire misery upon the Trojans, and should he enter the city to meet the reproaches of all? No; better stay there single-handed, either to slay Achilles or by him be honorably slain. While he thus pondered Achilles was upon him, brandishing a great spear, his armor flashing like fire. And so terrible was the aspect of this warrior, larger than mortal and clad in the mail of Vulcan, that, for the first time, the heart of even Hector failed, and he turned and fled. Fast he fled, and, as a hawk chases a dove, Achilles pursued. Past the watch-tower they ran, along the wagon-road about the walls, and on to the twofold spring of Scamander. Thrice they ran round the city, and in Olympus the high gods looked down, and the heart of Jupiter himself was moved to pity, and he cried to the other gods: "Shall we save Hector, or let him fall by the hand of Achilles?" Then Minerva answered: "Wilt thou, great sire, rescue a man whom Fate has appointed to die? This thing is not well pleasing in our eyes." Jupiter answered: "Fain would I have it otherwise, but it shall be as thou wilt." Then Minerva came down swiftly from Olympus to aid Achilles. Nevertheless, Apollo was already with the two putting strength and swiftness into the limbs of Hector, who sought always the shelter of the towers, hoping that those who stood upon them might defend him with their spears; but always Achilles would force him outward, driving him towards the plain. Now, for the fourth time, Achilles the pursuer and Hector the pursued had reached the springs of Scamander, and Jupiter held out the scales of doom, weighing the fates of the two men. And the scale of Hector sank, and Apollo left him. Then Minerva, cruelly deceiving, bethought her by evil guile to end the fray, and took on the shape of Hector's brother Deiphobus, saying, "Come, my brother, let us make a stand against Achilles and flee from him no more." And Hector, suspecting no guile, answered gratefully: "O, ever dearest of all my brothers, dearer still art thou now to me, for thou alone hast ventured to stand by my side in this perilous hour." Then, as Achilles came upon them, Hector cried with a strong voice: "Great Achilles, I fear thee now no more. Only let this be agreed between us: that whichever of us shall fall, his body shall not be dishonored, but shall be given back for burial rites." But Achilles scowled and answered: "No covenant be there between thee and me. Fight! for the time is come to pay the penalty for all my comrades whom thou hast slain." Thus speaking, he hurled his spear, but Hector bowed his head and the weapon passed, and touched him not. And Hector wot not that Minerva had caught it as it flew and restored it to Achilles' hand. Confident of victory, he hurled his spear, striking the very middle of Achilles' shield. But the handiwork of Vulcan was proof even against the spear of Hector. And Hector, perceiving this, turned to Deiphobus for another spear. But no Deiphobus was there. Then, indeed, Hector knew that Minerva had deceived him, and that he stood there godforsaken, a doomed man. He knew he must perish; but he resolved to perish gloriously. Drawing, therefore, his great sword, he rushed upon Achilles. But ere he could strike a blow the spear of Achilles pierced him where the neck joins the shoulder, and Hector fell. And Achilles, triumphing over him, cried aloud: "Slayer of Patroclus, despoiler of his arms, the dogs and vultures shall devour thy carcase!" But the dying Hector answered: "Nay, great Achilles, let not this shame be. Take rather the ransom that my parents shall bring thee, and suffer me to be buried in Troy." For he knew that while his body remained unburied his spirit would know no rest in the lower world. But Achilles, savage as a wild beast, cried to him: "No ransom shall buy back thy body; no, nor shall thy weight in gold save thy flesh from the dogs." Hector answered with his last breath: "Oh, heart of iron! But on thee, too, shall fall vengeance, in that day when Paris and Apollo shall slay thee by the Scæan gate." With this dying curse the spirit of Hector fled. Then Achilles, stripping off the armor of Patroclus, pierced the ankle bones of the dead man, binding them with thongs to the chariot, and letting the head that was once so fair drag in the dust. Thus dragged he Hector to the ships. And Andromache, beholding this from the city wall, swooned as one dead. And on each following day Achilles dragged the body of Hector round the bier of Patroclus. Yet was it not in any way defiled, for Venus and Apollo preserved it in all its beauty as when Hector was alive. At last Priam rose up, and, taking with him a great ransom, drove unscathed to the Grecian camp (for Mercury was his guide), and, falling on his knees and kissing the murderous hands of Achilles, besought him to restore the body of Hector. And Achilles, touched with ruth by the old man's tears and prayers, consented, and himself lifted the body into the litter. So Priam bore back his dead son to Troy. And they who so often had gone forth to hail Hector returning victorious from the field, now flocked round to greet him with tears. The first to wail over him was Andromache, his wife. Then came Hecuba, his mother. Last of all came Helen, who cried: "Never did I hear thee utter one bitter word. And if any spake harshly to me, thou would'st check them with thy kind and gentle words. Therefore I weep for thee, I, friendless now in all Troy." On the tenth day after this the Trojans burned the body of Hector on a great pile, quenching the embers with wine. And the ashes they laid in a golden chest and wrapped it in purple robes and laid it in mother earth, and over it they raised a mighty cairn. Thus did men bury Hector, captain of the hosts of Troy. THE WOODEN HORSE BY F. STORR Thrice three years had passed, and it seemed to the Greek leaders that they were no nearer the capture of Troy than when they had first landed in the Troad, a gallant company, fired with hope and the promise of an easy victory. Since then the tide of battle had ebbed and flowed with alternate fortunes. Many a Trojan chieftain had fallen, but no breach had been made in the walls, and they seemed to have gained no painful inch. There was mutiny in the Grecian host, and they clamored to be led home again. But the crafty Ulysses summoned the mutineers to an assembly, and addressed them in honeyed words: "My friends," he said, "we have all endured hardships, I no less than you. Have patience yet a while. Have we labored for nothing these nine weary years? Will ye leave your quarry when it is at the last gasp? Know ye not the prophecy of Calchas, that in the tenth year, and not before, Troy was destined to fall? Trust to me, for to me the gods have revealed a cunning stratagem whereby of a surety ye shall take and sack the city." Thus Ulysses persuaded them to stay on, for not only was he the most persuasive of orators, but none had ever known his wisdom at fault. Nor had they long to wait for the fulfilment of his promise. The very next day came an order that all should strike their tents and embark forthwith. Before night-fall the whole host had gathered on the shore; the beached ships had been hauled down, and away they sailed. Westward they sailed, but not to Greece. No sooner were they to the leeward of a small rocky island in the offing then they tacked, and came to anchor in a sandy cove well hidden from the mainland by jutting cliffs. Great was the rejoicing in Troy town at their departure. The gates were flung wide open, and the townsfolk, so long pent up within the walls, streamed out as for a holiday, to visit the battlefield and view the spots where so many famous forays and single combats had taken place. But of all the sights that attracted the crowd, the most popular was a strange object that no one had observed before. It was a Wooden Horse on rollers, in build and shape not unlike one of those toys that children love to drag about by a string; but this horse was huge as a mountain, and ribbed with solid beams of fir. Long and eagerly they debated for what purpose it had been built, and why the Greeks had left it behind them. Some were for burning it as an uncanny thing that could bode them no good. Others cried: "'Tis a votive offering to Minerva; let us drag it within the walls and set it up in the citadel as a memorial of our deliverance." While this dispute was hotly raging, Laocoön, in his priestly robes, rushed into the throng. "Fools," he cried, "will ye let yourselves be cheated? Are ye so slow of heart as not to detect Greek subtlety or the guile of Ulysses? The Greeks, I tell you, have not gone, and either this Horse is an engine of war to overtop our battlements, or Greek warriors are hidden in its womb." And as he spoke he hurled a mighty spear against the Horse, and the cavernous depths reverberated with the shock, and from within there came a rattle as of clashing arms. But the multitude heeded not the warning, for fate had sealed their ears. While this was going on outside the walls, there was scarcely less excitement in the city. Certain shepherds had surprised a young Greek, and were dragging their captive before King Priam, with a hooting and jeering crowd at their heels. "Woe is me!" cried the youth as he came into the king's presence; "have I escaped from the Greeks, my bitter foes who sought my life, only to fall among Trojans from whom I can expect no mercy?" But the king bade him fear nothing, and tell his tale. It was an artful tale concocted for him by Ulysses, how to the Greeks, desirous of sailing home and detained by contrary winds, an oracle had come-- "To speed you here a virgin maid was slain, Blood must be spilt to speed you home again"-- how _he_ had been pointed out by Calchas as the destined victim, and had escaped even as he was being led in bonds to the altar. His tattered dress and bleeding wrists bore out this plausible tale. The king ordered his captors to free him from his manacles, and assuring the prisoner that he need fear nothing, begged him to tell them what was the design of the Greeks in building and leaving behind them the Wooden Horse. Sinon (for that was the name that the pretended deserter took) first invoked on his head the direst curses if he failed to reveal to his deliverers the whole truth, and then repeated the lesson in which his cunning master Ulysses had drilled him. "You must know," he said, "that all the hopes of Greece lay in the favor and protection of their patron goddess, Minerva. But the wrath of the goddess was kindled against the host, for the son of Tydeus, at the prompting of Ulysses--that godless knave who sticks at no crime--had invaded her shrine, slain her custodians, and snatched therefrom the Palladium, the sacred image of the goddess, deeming it a charm that would bring them certain victory. And the goddess showed by visible signs her displeasure. In each encounter our forces were routed; around the carven image now set up in the camp lightnings played, and thrice amid the lightning and thunder the goddess herself was seen with spear at rest and flashing targe. And Calchas, of whom we sought counsel in our terror, bade us sail back to Argos, and when in her great temple we had shriven us, with happier auspices renew the fray; but first in her honor we must erect a Wooden Horse, so huge that it could not pass your gates or be brought within your walls. Moreover, Calchas told us that if any man were rash enough to lay sacrilegious hands on the votive Horse, he would straightway be smitten by the vengeful goddess!" And lo! even as he spoke a strange portent was seen to confirm his words. Laocoön, the high priest of Neptune--he who had hurled his spear at the Wooden Horse--was sacrificing to the sea god a mighty bull at the altar, when far away in the offing two leviathans of the deep were seen approaching from Tenedos. They looked like battleships as they plowed the waves, but as they drew nearer you could mark the blood-beclotted mane and ravenous jaws of the sea-serpent, while behind lay floating many a rood coil upon coil like some huge boa-constrictor's. The crowd fled in terror, but the sea-serpents passed through the midst and made straight for the altar of Neptune. First they coiled themselves round the two sons of Laocoön, who were ministering to their father as he sacrificed, and squeezed the life out of the miserable boys. Then, as Laocoön rushed to release his sons and sought to pierce the scaly monsters with his sacrificial knife, they wound their folds twice about his middle and twice about his neck, and high above his head they towered with blood-shot eyes and triple-forked tongues. And Laocoön, like the bull he had immolated at the altar, bellowed aloud in his dying agony. But the sea-serpents slowly unwound themselves and glided out of sight beneath the pediment of Diana's statue. This seemed to all a sign from heaven to confirm what Sinon had told them. No more doubt was possible, and a universal clamor arose: "To the Horse! to the Horse!" Out rushed the crowd; ropes were fastened to its neck and legs, and soon half the city was tugging at them might and main, while the sappers made a breach in the walls to let it in, and by help of levers and pulleys it mounted the steep escarpment, and as it passed down the street a joyous troop of boys and girls followed, struggling to take hold of the taut ropes and chanting snatches of pæans and songs of victory. Thus did the gods send on the Trojans a strong delusion that they should believe a lying tale; and what ten long campaigns and a thousand brass-beaked ships, what all the might of Agamemnon, king of men, and the prowess of Achilles, goddess-born, had failed to accomplish, was brought to pass by the guile and craft of one man. THE SACK OF TROY BY F. STORR The Wooden Horse was set up in the citadel, and after a night of feasting and carousal, the Trojan warriors had all retired to rest from their labors, and deep slumber sealed their weary eyes, for now they feared no nightly alarms, no réveillé before break of day. But with night-fall the Greek fleet at Tenedos had loosed their moorings, and were making full sail for the Trojan shore. When all slept the traitor Sinon slipped out from the turret of the palace where the king had assigned him a lodging, and crouching in the shadow climbed the hill of the citadel. There stood the Wooden Horse, weird and ghostly in the moonlight, not a sentinel to guard it. Leaning on the parapet he watched the white sails of the fleet as it sped landward, and soon he saw the preconcerted signal--a flaming torch at the masthead of the admiral ship. Then by the ropes still left hanging from the Horse's neck, he swarmed up and opened a secret panel in the side. One by one the mailed warriors let themselves down: first Ulysses, the arch-plotter, then Neoptolemus, Achilles' son, Menelaus, Epeos, the architect of the Horse, and other chieftains too many to name. They made straight for the city gates, and despatching the sentinels before any had time to give the alarm, let in the serried battalions who were waiting outside. Like the rest of the Trojan warriors Æneas slept, but his sleep was disturbed by a vision of the night. At his bedside stood a ghostly form. His visage was marred, his locks and beard were clotted with gouts of blood, his breast was slashed and scarred, and his feet were pierced and livid with the marks of cords. Yet, though thus defaced and maimed, Æneas knew at once the godlike Hector, and cried to him, "Light of Troy, our country's hope and stay, thou com'st much looked for. Where hast thou tarried this long, long while? Why is thy visage thus marred? What mean those hideous scars?" The ghost answered nothing but gazed down on Æneas with sad, lack-luster eyes. Only as it vanished it spoke. "Fly, goddess-born; save thyself from the flames. The foe is within the gates. Troy topples to its fall. Could faith and courage have availed, this right hand had saved it. To thee Troy now commends her household gods. Take them with thee in thy flight, and with them to guide and guard thee found beyond the seas a new and mightier Troy." The ghost had vanished; but when Æneas woke he found at his bedside the household gods and the fillets of Vesta and her fire that is never quenched. From without there came a confused sound of hurrying feet, the tramp of armed men, the clash of arms, and mingled shouts and groans. He climbed to the roof to see what it all meant. Volumes of smoke like a mountain torrent were rolling over the city, and from the murk there leapt tongues of flame. In desperate haste he donned his arms and went forth, bewildered and not knowing which way to turn. At his threshold he met Panthus, high priest of Apollo and custodian of the citadel, and asked him what was happening. "All is over," cried the priest; "the gods have deserted us; Greece has triumphed; Troy is no more--a name, a city of the past." Horror-stricken but undeterred, Æneas hurried on to where the fray seemed the hottest, and gathering round him some score of trusty comrades, he thus addressed them: "Friends and brothers in arms, all is not lost; let us take courage from despair, and at worst die like men with our breasts to the foe." They all rushed into the mellay, and at first fortune favored the brave. Androgeus, the captain of a picked corps of Greeks, hailed them; and mistaking them in the darkness for fellow-countrymen, twitted them on their tardiness, and bade them hurry on to share in the loot. Too late he perceived his mistake. Before they had time to unsheath a sword or unbuckle a shield, Æneas and his comrades were on them and not one escaped. Flushed with their first success, Coroebus, one of the forlorn hope, cried: "Hark ye, comrades, I have bethought me of a glorious stratagem; let us exchange arms and scutcheons with our dead foemen. All is fair in war." No sooner said than done; and great was the havoc they wrought at the first by this disguise, but in the end it cost them dear. As they passed by the temple of Minerva they were arrested by a piteous spectacle. Cassandra, the prophetic maid, was being dragged from the altar by the rude soldiery, her hair disheveled, her arms pinioned, and her eyes upturned to heaven. Coroebus' high spirit could not brook the sight, and he hurled himself on the ruffians, the rest following his lead. Though outnumbered they held, and more than held, their own, till from the pinnacles of the temple a whole battery of rocks and missiles rained down on their devoted heads. Their disguise had too well deceived the defenders of the temple, and soon the assailants were reinforced by the main body of the Greeks, with Ajax and the two Atridæ at their head, who soon penetrated their disguise. Coroebus was the first to fall; then Ripeus, the justest ruler in all Troy; nor did his gray hairs and the fillet of Apollo that he wore save Panthus from the common fate. Æneas, with two wounded comrades, all that was left of that devoted band, made his way to the palace of Priam, where it looked as if the whole Greek force had gathered. Part were working battering-rams against the solid masonry, others planting scaling ladders against the walls, up which the boldest, with shields held high above their heads, were already swarming, while the garrison hurled down on them stones, tiles, whatever came to hand; even the gilded beams of the royal chambers. At the rear of the palace was a postern gate leading to a covered passage that connected the house of Hector and Andromache with the palace. By this Æneas entered and climbed to a watch-tower that commanded the whole city, the plain with the Greek encampments, and beyond, the sea, now studded with ships. At his bidding the guards set to work, and soon, with axes and crow-bars, they had loosened the foundations of the turret. It tottered, it toppled, and fell with a mighty crash, burying hundreds of the besiegers beneath its ruins. But what were they among so many? At the main entrance of the palace stood Neoptolemus in his glittering armor, like a snake who has lost its winter weeds, and snatching a double-headed ax from a common soldier, he battered in the panels and wrenched the massive door from its brass hinges. Through the long corridors and gilded ante-chambers, like a river that has burst its dam, the flood of armed Greeks swept on, and from the inner chambers there came a long-drawn wail of women's voices that shivered to the golden stars. On came Neoptolemus, sweeping before him the feeble palace guards. The cedarn doors gave way like match-wood, and there, huddled on the floor or clinging to the pillars of the tapestried chamber, he beheld, like sheep led to the slaughter, the queen and the princesses, the fifty daughters and fifty daughters-in-law of King Priam. But where was Priam the while? In the center of the palace was a court open to the sky, and in the center of the court was a great altar over-shadowed by an immemorial bay-tree. Hither Hecuba and her kinswomen had fled for refuge when the rabble of soldiers burst in on them, and in the court she espied her aged husband girt in armor that ill-fitted his shrunken limbs, and she called to him, "What madness hath seized thee thus to rush to certain death? Hector himself could not save us now; what can thy feeble arms avail? Take sanctuary with us. Either this altar shall protect us or here we shall all perish together!" The feeble old king yielded to his wife's entreaties, but hardly had he reached the altar when he beheld Polites, the child of his old age, whom he loved most now Hector was dead, limping towards them like a wounded hare, and close behind him in hot pursuit Neoptolemus with outstretched lance; and a moment after the son fell transfixed at his father's feet. "Wretch," he cried, beside himself with righteous wrath, "more fell than dire Achilles! _He_ gave me back my son's corpse, but thou hast stained my gray hairs and god's altar with a son's blood." He spake, and hurled at Neoptolemus with nerveless arm a spear that scarce had force to pierce the outmost fold of the targe. With a scornful laugh Neoptolemus turned on him, and dragged him by his long white beard from the altar. "Die, old dotard," he cried, "and in the shades be sure thou tell my sire Achilles what a degenerate son is his." So saying, he drove his sword to the old king's heart. "Such was the end of Priam, such his fate, To see in death his house all desolate, And Troy, whom erst a hundred states obeyed, A heap of blackened stones in ruin laid. A headless corpse washed by the salt sea tide, Not e'en a stone to show where Priam died." THE DEATH OF AJAX BY F. STORR Of all the Greek knights who fought against Troy the boldest and most chivalrous was Ajax, son of Telamon. But his fiery temper oft proved his bane, and in the end it led him to ruin and death. When Achilles died he left his arms to be awarded by the captains of the host to him whom they should pronounce the bravest of the Greeks, and the prize fell to Ulysses. Ajax took this award in high dudgeon, and, knowing himself the better man, affirmed that this judgment could have been procured only by fraud and corruption, and swore that he would be avenged of his crafty rival. He challenged his enemy to single combat, but Ulysses was too wary to risk his life against such a swordsman, and the chiefs who heard of the quarrel interfered, saying that Greek must not take the blood of Greek. Thus balked, Ajax raged more furiously, and swore that if Ulysses would not fight he would slay him in his tent. So Ulysses went about in fear of his life, and he appealed to his patron goddess to defend him. Minerva heard his prayer, and promised her favorite warrior that he should suffer no harm. She kept her word by sending on Ajax a strong delusion, whereby in his frenzy he mistook beasts for men. The Greeks found the herds and flocks that had been taken in raids, and were kept in pound as a common stock to feed the army, hacked and hewn in the night, as though a mountain lion had been ravaging them; and they suspected Ajax, whose strange behavior none could fail to notice, as the offender, but they had no certain proof, and Ulysses, the man of many wiles, was by common consent deputed to search into the matter. So the next night he stole forth from the camp alone, and in the early light of dawn he espied a solitary figure hurrying over the plain, and he followed the trail like a bloodhound till it led him to the tent of Ajax. He paused uncertain, for he dared not venture farther, and was about to return and report to the commanders what he had seen, when he heard a voice saying, "Ulysses, what dost thou here?" and he knew it could be none other than the voice of his own goddess Minerva. He told her the case and craved her aid in his perplexity, and the goddess gently upbraided him. "Thou wert no coward soul, Ulysses, when I chose thee as my favored knight, and now dost thou fear a single unarmed man, and one by me bereft of his wits?" And Ulysses answered, "Goddess, I am no coward, but the bravest may quail before a raving madman." But Minerva replied, "Be of good heart, and trust as ever to me. Lo, I will show thee a sight whereon thou mayst glut thine eyes." Thereupon she opened the flap of the tent, and within stood Ajax, wild and haggard, his hands dripping with gore, and all around him were sheep and oxen, some beheaded, some ripped up, and some horribly mutilated--a very shambles. At the moment Ajax was belaboring a huge ram that he had strapped up to a pillar of the tent, and, as each blow of the double thong descended he shouted, "Take that, Ulysses; that's for thy knavery, that for thy villainy, that for thy lies, thou white-livered rogue." Ulysses could not but smile as he saw himself scourged and cursed in effigy, but he was touched by a thought of human infirmity and the ruin of a noble soul, and he prayed the goddess to avert from him such a calamity. In the women's tent hard by sat Tecmessa, the captive wife of Ajax, weeping and wringing her hands. His tender love had made her forget her desolate home and slaughtered brethren, and she had borne him a son, the pride and joy of both parents. But ever since he had lost the prize for bravery she had noted a growing estrangement. He avoided her, meeting her advances with cold looks, and the night before, when she asked him why he was girding on his armor at that hour, he had answered her, "Silence, woman; women should be seen, not heard." And then he had gone forth and returned with these beeves and sheep that he was now hacking to pieces like a madman. Their boy she had sent away with his nurse to be out of harm's way, and she sat cowering in her tent. As she sat, half dazed with grief and watching, she heard her name called. Trembling she arose and met her lord at the tent door. Again he called her, but now his voice was tender and low, and he gazed at her with a look of mingled pity and love. And her heart rejoiced, for she saw that his madness had passed, that her old Ajax was restored to her. "Tecmessa," he asked, "where is our boy?" And Tecmessa hastened and brought back their child Eurysaces. Ajax took him from his nurse's arms, and he kissed the innocent brow and spoke: "My boy, may thy lot in life be happier than thy father's; but in all else be like unto me, and thou shalt prove no base man." Then he passed with Tecmessa into her tent, and flung himself down on the bed and lay there as a sick man who has scarce recovered from a grievous illness. She would fain have ministered to him, but he refused all meat and drink, and lay for long hours holding her hand. Ever and anon he would ask, "Where is Teucer? Is not Teucer returned? I would fain speak with my brother." As the sun was setting he rose from his bed and took his sword, telling his wife that he must leave her for a while, but would soon return. She, fearing another fit of madness, sought with tears to detain him, but he gently put her aside and told her what his errand was. He must needs go to the sea-baths, and with pure ablution wash away his stains and make him clean. And he gently unwound her clinging arms, closed her lips with a kiss, and went on his way. When he reached the river, he drew his sword from the scabbard and planted it firm in earth. "Fatal blade," he cried, "once the sword of Hector, then a foeman's gift to his arch-enemy, a bane to each who owned thee; but to me, thy last master, a friend at need. I have had my day, and for me there is living none. My sword, go with me to the shades." Therewith he hurled himself upon the naked steel and gave up the ghost. Fishermen dragging their nets at dawn found the body, and brought it back to camp. Teucer, warned by the seer Calchas that unless his brother could be kept within doors for that day some dread calamity awaited him, had hurried to warn and save him from his doom; but as he reached the tent he was met by the bearers bringing home his brother's corpse. There was mourning in the Grecian camp. A great man had fallen that day; for his brief madness the gods alone were to blame; and his long years of service, his gallant deeds, his fearless courage, his noble generosity, were alone remembered. So they decreed for him a public funeral with all the pomp and ceremony that befitted a great chieftain. Already they had begun to raise a huge funeral pile and to deck the sacrificial altar, when Menelaus, who shared with Agamemnon the chief command, rode up in hot haste to forbid the public burial. "No man," he declared, "who had defied his authority and done such injury to the common cause should be honored." But Ulysses with a soft answer turned away his wrath: "True, he hath sinned against thee, O king, and in life he hated me, but death is the great atoner. Honor the fearless knight. Let his ashes rest in peace." THE FLIGHT OF ÆNEAS FROM TROY BY F. STORR Æneas, standing on the battlements of the palace, had beheld the heartrending scene of Troy's destruction, horror-stricken and unable to help. All his comrades were dead or had fled, and he alone was left. As he looked on Priam's bleeding corse the face of his own father Anchises, as old and as defenseless, flashed across his fancy, and he saw in vision his desolate home, his wife Creusa, and Iulus clinging to his mother's knees. He stole out of the palace by the same covered way that had let him in, and was hurrying home when he passed the shrine of Vesta, and cowering behind the altar, by the glare of the conflagration that still raged, he espied Helen, the prime cause of all their woes. His soul burned with righteous indignation. "What," he cried to himself, "shall this cursed woman, the bane both of Greece and of Troy, shall she alone escape scot-free; shall she return to Greece a crowned queen with our captive sons and daughters in her train? No," he cried, as he drew his sword; "to slay a woman is no knightly deed, but men will approve me as the minister of God's vengeance." But of a sudden, effulgent in the heavens like her own star, he beheld his goddess-mother, and she laid a hand on his outstretched arm in act to strike, and whispered in his ear: "My son, why this empty rage? Dost thou forget thy mother and all her care for thee and thine? Think of thine aged sire, thy loving wife, thy little son. But for me they had all perished by the sword and flames. 'Tis not Paris, 'tis not that Spartan woman who hath wrought this ruin, but the gods who were leagued against Troy. Lo, I will take the scales from thine eyes, and for a moment thou shalt behold as one of themselves the immortals at work. Look yonder, where walls and watch-towers are crashing down, as though upheaved by an earthquake, Neptune is up-prizing with his dread trident the walls that he helped to build. There at the Scæan gates stands Juno in full mail crying Havoc! and hounding on the laggard Greeks. Look backward at the citadel; above it towers Minerva, wrapt in a storm-cloud, and flashing her Gorgon shield. Nay more, on far Olympus (but this thou canst not see) the Almighty Father is heartening those gods who are banded for the ruin of Troy. Save thyself, my son, while yet there is time. Let adverse gods rage; I, thy mother, will never leave thee nor forsake thee." The goddess vanished, and as by a flash of lightning he beheld for an instant the grim visages of the Powers of Darkness. Under the tutelage of Venus, Æneas reached his home without adventure and found all safe, as she had promised. He was preparing for his flight to the neighboring hills when an unforeseen impediment arose. No persuasions would induce Anchises to accompany him. "Ye are young and lusty," cried his sire, "fly for your lives and leave me, a poor old man tottering on the brink of the grave. All I ask is that ye repeat over me the ritual for the dead. The Greeks, when they find me, will grant me sepulture." No prayers or arguments could move the old man from his obstinate resolution, and Æneas, in desperation, was again girding on his armor, choosing to perish with wife and child in single-handed fight rather than desert his aged parent, when a sign from heaven was given that first amazed and then filled all hearts with joy. On the head of the child Iulus there appeared a tongue of fire that spread among his curly locks, and played round his smooth brow, crowning him like the aureole of a saint. In horror his mother sought to extinguish the flames, but the water she poured made them only burn the brighter. But Anchises knew the heavenly sign, and with uplifted palms he prayed that Jupiter would confirm his good will by some more certain augury. And straightway on the left (the lucky side) a clap of thunder was heard, and from the zenith there fell a meteor that left a long trail of light as it fell to earth on the pine-clad slopes of Mount Ida. Then at last Anchises yielded, and Æneas, stooping down, lifted the old man on his shoulder. By his side, holding his right hand, was Iulus, bravely trying to keep pace with his father's long strides, and last came Creusa, with a train of household slaves. As trysting-place, in case they should get separated in the crowd and confusion, Æneas assigned to them a deserted shrine of Vesta, near to a solitary cypress tree which would serve them as a landmark. They were well on their way, and had escaped the worst perils, when Anchises cried out, "Hist! I hear the tramp of armed men, and see the glint of armor." And Æneas, who never before had quailed in the storm of battle, now trembled like an aspen leaf, and snatching up the boy he ran for his life, and never drew breath till he had reached the deserted shrine. Then he looked back, and to his horror Creusa was nowhere to be seen. Had she missed the road, or had she fainted on the way? He questioned his household who had by now arrived, but none had seen their mistress since they left the city. Again he donned his arms and rushed back by the way he had come. Not a trace of his wife could he find. He re-entered the city by the same gate, and rethreaded the same dark alleys. He sought his home, but it was now a mass of smoldering ruins. As a last desperate hope he sought the Royal Treasure House, if haply she might there have found a hiding-place, but at the entrance stood Phoenix and Ulysses, the captains told off to guard the loot. There lay, piled in a confused heap, all the wealth of Troy that the flames had not consumed--purple robes, coverlets and tapestries, armlets and anklets of wrought gold, jeweled drinking-bowls, and the sacred vessels from the temples. Reckless of the risks he ran he shouted from street to street, "Creusa! Creusa!" when at last a familiar voice replied, and before him he saw, not, alas! Creusa, but her ghost, larger than human, gazing down on him with eyes of infinite pity. "Why," it whispered, "this wild grief? Nothing, dear lord, is here for tears. 'Twas not the will of heaven that I should share thy wanderings and toils. Be of good heart. In the far west, so fate ordains, where Tiber rolls his yellow tide, thou shalt found a new empire and espouse a princess of the land. Nor need'st thou pity my less fortunate lot. I have known all the joys of married bliss, and my body shall rest in the soil that gave me birth. No proud Greek will boast that he bears home in his captive train her who was the wife of Æneas, the daughter-in-law of Venus. And now, fare thee well. Forget not our sweet child, and her who bore him." "Thrice he essayed with arms outstretched to clasp Her shade, and thrice it slipped from his fond grasp, Like frolic airs that o'er a still lake play, Or dreams that vanish at the break of day." ÆNEAS AND DIDO BY V. C. TURNBULL Hardly less renowned than the wanderings of crafty Ulysses, after the fall of Troy, are those of pious Æneas, the Trojan. Many were his adventures and heavy his losses, for he was pursued evermore by the hatred of Juno, who detested all Trojans, and but for the protecting care of his mother Venus he must have perished. On the Sicilian shore he had lost his aged father, Anchises, and Æneas mourned his good old sire, whom he had carried on his shoulders from burning Troy. Thence he set sail with his son Iulus to Italy. But when they had put forth to sea, Juno smote them with a terrible storm, so that Æneas lost all but seven ships of his fleet and not a few of his comrades perished. He himself, with his son Iulus and his friend Achates, was driven out of his course and carried to the shores of Libya. Here the Trojans disembarked and thankfully rested their brine-drenched limbs on the beach. And when they had feasted off the grain brought from their ships, and the venison procured for them by their captain's bow, Æneas, taking with him only Achates, set forth to survey this unexplored country. On their way through a forest they met a fair maid in the garb of a huntress, and of her they inquired what land this might be and who dwelt therein. She told them they had come to the land and city of Carthage, over which ruled the Tyrian Queen Dido. She told them, moreover, that the Queen had once ruled in Tyre, the consort of Sichæus, a Phoenician prince, and that when her lord had been murdered by his cruel brother Pygmalion, she had fled to Libya, where even now she was rearing the stately city of Carthage. And she bade them seek the Queen and throw themselves on her protection. Æneas had gazed in wonder and admiration at the maiden, deeming her some nymph of Dian's train, and he was about, on bended knee, to give her thanks when she turned on him a parting glance. And lo! the goddess stood revealed, radiant in celestial beauty; and as he recognized his mother, she had vanished from his sight. Cheered by this vision, Æneas and Achates pressed forward, and, that none might molest them, Venus wrapped them in a thick mist. Emerging from the forest they climbed a hill overlooking the city of Carthage, where skilled workmen were on all sides busied rearing stately buildings. In the midst of the city, with a flight of marble stairs and surrounded by a grove of trees, stood a temple to Juno, its gates of brass glittering in the morning sun. And Æneas, drawing near, marveled to find the walls of this temple painted with pictures of the Trojan War--aye, and himself he saw portrayed fighting against the Grecian leaders. Whilst Æneas and Achates were still gazing, Queen Dido drew near with a great retinue of maidens and youths. She seated herself on a throne under the dome of the temple, for here it was her custom to deal justice and apportion work to her subjects, urging forward with cheerful words the building of her city. Among the first to appear before the Queen, Æneas and Achates saw with astonishment certain of their own friends--Ilioneus, Antheus, Sergestus, and Cloanthus, whom they had supposed to have been drowned in the storm. These, coming before Dido, told her of their sufferings and entreated her protection in that strange country. "We had for our king Æneas," said Ilioneus, the spokesman, "than whom none was more pious and brave. If he yet lives we shall not despair, neither shalt thou, O Queen, repent thee of thy hospitality." Queen Dido answered the Trojans graciously, promising them all they asked and more. "And would," she added, "that your prince Æneas too were here! But my messengers shall search the Libyan coasts, and if he has been cast ashore he shall be found." Even as she spoke, the mist that hid Æneas and Achates suddenly parted, and Æneas stood forth in the bright light like a god; and, joyfully embracing his friends, poured out his gratitude to Dido. The voice of the Queen was even gentler than before as she replied: "I too have been tossed by fortune on the high seas; I too came to these shores a stranger. What sorrow was myself have known, and learnt to melt at others' woe." Then Dido bade Æneas and Achates to a feast in her palace, and to their followers on the shore she sent bulls, lambs, and wine to provide a banquet. Æneas also despatched Achates to the beach to bring therefrom the young Iulus, and with him presents for the Queen--a mantle stiff with gold, a scepter, a necklace of pearls, and a crown set with double rows of gems and gold. The gifts made and his son embraced, Æneas was led into the great hall of the palace, where the guests reclined on purple couches. In the midst Queen Dido reclined on a golden couch under a rich canopy, and beside her lay the boy Iulus. So they feasted and were merry, and after the banquet Dido pledged her guest in a loving cup and invited him to tell her all that had befallen him since the fall of Troy. And he told her the long tale of his perils by land and sea, and of the shipwreck which had landed him upon the hospitable shores of Carthage. And, as Queen Dido listened, the memory of her dead husband Sichæus was no longer first in her thoughts, for a great love sprang up for this princely stranger who had endured so much and had followed his star, true to his country and his country's gods. Far into the night the Queen sat listening to the tale, and in the night watches the image of the hero haunted her fevered sleep. At the first dawn she sought her sister Anna, and poured into sympathetic ears the trouble of her heart, confessing with shame her fears lest she should prove faithless to the memory of her dead lord. But Anna bade her mourn no more for the unheeding dead, wasting her youth and beauty. "Surely," said she, "it was Juno who sent the Trojans to this shore. Think, sister, how your city will flourish, how your kingdom will wax great from such an alliance! How will the Carthaginian glory be advanced by Trojan arms!" That day she invited her guest to view all the wonders of Carthage. She showed him her rising quays and forts, her palace and its treasures; but even as they conversed her voice would falter, and her silence and blushes were tell-tales and betrayed her growing love. When the evening feast was ended she asked again to hear the tale of Troy, and hung again on his lips. For the next day, to divert her guest, the Queen ordered a great hunt, and an army of beaters was sent to scour the hills and drive in the game. At dawn a gallant company--all the proud lords of Carthage and the comrades of Æneas--gathered at the palace gates and waited for the Queen. At length she descended from her chamber, robed in gold and purple, and the long cavalcade rode forth headed by Dido and Æneas. When they reached the hills they scattered far and wide in the ardor of the chase, and the royal pair found themselves alone. On a sudden the heavens were darkened and the rain descended in torrents, and Dido and Æneas betook themselves for shelter to a mountain cave. Thus had Juno planned it, for she hated the Trojans and would have kept Æneas in Carthage. There, in the dark cavern, the Trojan plighted his troth to the Carthaginian Queen. That day the tide of death set in. The heavens thundered and the mountain nymphs wailed over their bridal. But the triumph of Juno was short-lived, for Jupiter, from his throne on Olympus, beheld the founder of the Roman race forgetful of his destiny and sunk in soft dalliance. He called to him his son Mercury, and bade him bind on his winged sandals, and bear to Carthage this stern reproof: "Shame on thee, degenerate hero, false to thy mother and thy son, thus sunk in luxury and ease! Set sail and leave this fatal shore." The heart of the hero, when he heard this message, was torn in twain. How could he disobey the voice of the god? How could he bring himself to desert the Queen whose heart he had won, and break his troth? But what were the closest of human ties when the god had spoken? So he called to him his comrades and bade them in secret make ready the ships for departure. But lovers' ears are keen, and rumors of the preparation reached the Queen in her palace. She raved like a madwoman, and called down curses on the perjured traitor. Grown calmer, she sought Æneas and, with mingled reproaches and appeals to his pity, besought him at least to delay his departure. The lover's heart was touched, but the hero was unmoved; and with the gentlest words he could frame, he told the Queen that he had no choice but to follow his weird as Heaven ordained. He could never forget her lovingkindness, and would cherish her memory to his dying day. Then the Queen knew that she was betrayed, and flatteries and soft words served but to rekindle her rage. She bade the perjured wretch begone; she cursed his false gods and their lying message, and swore that she would pursue him with black flames, and that after death her ghost would haunt him in every place. This said, she turned and left him, and he saw her nevermore. Æneas would fain have stayed to calm her grief and soothe her rage, but duty bade him go, and he urged on his men to equip the fleet for departure. They, nothing loath, set to, and the harbor was like an ant-hill, with the sailors shaping new oars and loading the beached vessels. Soon the black keels rode the waters all along the shore. Dido, perceiving this from her tower, sent her sister Anna with a last message imploring Æneas yet a little to delay. But Æneas, steadfast as a rock, turned to her a deaf ear, and into the heart of the unhappy Dido came despair and thoughts of death. To death, indeed, dark omens turned her mind. For when she offered sacrifice, the wine which she poured upon the smoking incense turned to blood; and at night, when kneeling before the shrine of her dead husband, she heard his voice bidding her arise and come to him. So the Queen, interpreting these dark signs as her sick heart dictated, made ready to die. Calling her sister Anna, she declared that she would now make use of a magic charm given to her by a priestess to bring back faithless lovers or make the love-sick whole. To work this spell it was necessary to collect and burn all tokens of the light of love. "Do you, therefore," said Dido to Anna, "gather together the arms and garments which Æneas in his haste to be gone has left behind him, and lay these upon a vast funeral pile, which I beseech you to erect secretly in the inner court of the palace, under the open sky." As she spoke, a deadly pallor overspread the face of Dido. But her sister Anna, suspecting nothing, made haste to obey the Queen. The great pile was quickly erected, with torches and fagots of oak, and crowned with funeral boughs. On it were placed the weapons and raiment of Æneas, while the Queen offered sacrifices, and herbs cut by moonlight with brazen sickles. Next morning, before daybreak, Æneas called upon his comrades to set sail. With his own sword he cut the hawsers, and his men, pushing off, smote the sounding waves with their oars, and the wind filling their unfurled sails, they swept out into the open sea as the sun rose over the waters. From the tower of her palace Queen Dido saw them depart. And lifting up her voice she laid a curse upon them, prophesying that for ages to come dire enmity should rage between the race of Æneas and the Carthaginian people. Then, very pale, she entered the inner court and mounted the funeral pile. A little while she paused, musing and shedding her last tears. Anon she spoke, and bade farewell to the light of the sun: "I have lived my life; I have finished the course ordained to me by Fate. I have raised a glorious city. I descend illustrious to the shades below." She paused, and her voice fell to a low wail as she added: "Happy, ah, too happy, my lot had the Trojan ships never touched my shores!" Then, unsheathing the sword, she plunged it into her bosom and fell down upon the pyre. Her handmaidens, seeing her fall, rent the air with their cries. And Anna, rushing in, raised her dying sister in her arms, striving in vain to stanch the flowing blood, and crying with tears: "Oh, sister, was it for this that you bade me raise the pyre? Ah, would that you had let me be your companion in death!" But the last words of Dido, Queen of Carthage, had been spoken. * * * * * Far out at sea, Æneas saw a great smoke rising from Carthage, as it were from a funeral pyre. And a sore pang smote him, and bitterly he divined what had passed. But he held upon his destined way, nor looked he back again, but turned his eyes towards the promised land of Latium. ÆNEAS IN HADES BY V. C. TURNBULL "The journey down to the abyss Is prosperous and light; The palace gates of gloomy Dis Stand open day and night; But upward to retrace the way, And pass into the light of day,-- There comes the stress of labor--this May task a hero's might." VIRGIL.--_Conington's Translation._ Æneas, in the course of his wanderings, landed on the shores of Cumæ in Italy. Here he sought out the Sibyl, the inspired prophetess who dwelt in a cave behind the temple of Apollo, and gave forth to inquirers the answers of the god. High destinies she promised Æneas, but not without many further trials. Æneas, undismayed, besought the Sibyl to guide him on his way: "O Priestess, it has been told that here are the gates of the lower world. Open for me, I beg of you, that portal, for I long greatly to speak once more with my dear father. I bore him on my shoulders from flaming Troy, and in all my voyages he accompanied me, facing, though infirm, the terrors of sea and sky. Nay, more, it was at his bidding that I came a suppliant to thy temple. Have pity upon us both, O Sybil, and enable us to meet once more." Then the Sibyl, in reply, warned Æneas that though many went down with ease into the Abode of the Dead, few--very few, and they the specially favored of the gods--returned therefrom. "But if," she went on, "you are determined to dare the desperate enterprise, seek out in this dark wood a tree that hides one branch all golden. This bough is sacred to Proserpine, Queen of the Lower World, and to her must you bear it as a gift. Without it no living being may enter the Lower World. Pluck it, and if the Fates have willed it so, it will yield at a touch, else no mortal force can wrest it from its parent stem." So Æneas and Achates plunged into the primeval forest near which the Sibyl dwelt. They had not gone far when two doves alighted on the sward hard by. Then Æneas was glad, for he knew them to be the birds of his mother Venus, and he besought his mother that her messengers might guide him on his way. And the doves flitted on before them till they lighted at last on a lofty tree, amid the boughs of which Æneas discerned the gleam of gold. This was the Golden Bough, growing like mistletoe from the oak, and there was a tinkle in the air as the breeze rustled the golden foil. Joyfully Æneas broke it from the trunk, and bore it back to the dwelling of the Sibyl. Then the priestess led the way back into the gloomy wood, halting before a cavern, vast and hideous with its yawning black mouth, from which exhaled so poisonous a breath that no bird could cross it unhurt. Here Æneas and the Sibyl offered sacrifices to the Gods of the Lower World. At sunrise the ground began to rumble beneath their feet, and a baying of hell-dogs rolled up from the chasm. "Avaunt, ye profane!" cried the priestess, "and, Æneas, do thou draw thy sword and march boldly forward; now is the hour to try thy mettle." So saying, she plunged into the dark cavern, and Æneas, following, entered the world of the dead. In a desolate country on the outskirts of the spirit-world they saw the forms of Grief and vengeful Cares; here dwelt disconsolate Old Age, Fear, Famine, Death, and Toil. Murderous War was here, and frantic Discord, whose viperous locks are bound with bloody fillets. All these they passed, coming to the turbid flood Acheron, on which the ferryman Charon, a grisly, unkempt graybeard, with eyes of flame, plied to and fro. On the banks of the river stood a great company of ghosts, matrons and men, boys and maidens, numerous as swallows flying south, or leaves before the autumn wind. They stood praying to be taken into the boat, and stretching their hands towards the farther shore; but the sullen boatman would take only a few, choosing whom he would. Then, in reply to his questions, the priestess told Æneas that the bodies of those whom the boatman refused had been left unburied upon earth, wherefore these ghosts were doomed to flutter for a hundred years along the shores of Acheron before Charon would consent to ferry them across. By this time they had reached the landing-stage, and the priestess beckoned to Charon; he refusing at first to carry a mortal across that river till she showed him the Golden Bough. At the sight of this Charon came at once with his boat, pushing out the ghosts that sat therein to make room for Æneas. Groaning beneath the weight of a mortal the boat was well-nigh swamped, but at length the priestess and the hero were safely landed on the farther shore. But now at the gate stood Cerberus, the three-headed dog, making those realms resound with his barking. To him the priestess threw an opiate of honey-cakes, and he, snatching at it with his three mouths, lay down to sleep, thus permitting them to pass. Now to their ears came the wails of infants, ghosts of those who had been bereft of sweet life even at their mother's breast. Next came those who had been condemned to death unheard or falsely charged. Full justice they now received; Minos the judge metes out to each his proper sentence. After these Æneas came upon a group of those unhappy ones who with their own hands had destroyed their lives. Ah, gladly now would they endure poverty and toil could they but revisit the kindly light of the sun! Now Æneas entered a region named the Fields of Mourning, inhabited by the ghosts of those who had died for love. And among them, in a wood, Æneas saw, or deemed he saw, dim as the new moon in a cloudy sky, the form of Dido, still pale from her death-wound. Tears in his eyes, he addressed her sad ghost with loving words as of old: "So, as I feared, it was true, the message of those funeral fires. And was I, alas! the cause of your death? O Queen, believe that it was against my will that I left thy coasts! Unwilling, I swear, by the behest of the gods did I leave thee, even as now, by the same behest, I tread the land of darkness and despair. Ah, tarry but a little! 'Tis our last farewell." [Illustration: ÆNEAS IN HADES] So he spoke, seeking to soothe the injured shade. But she, with averted eyes, stood still as a statue of stone. Then in silent scorn she fled to seek her first lord, Sichæus, who answers sorrow with sorrow. Thence to the farthest fields they passed the haunts of heroes slain in battle; and here Æneas greeted many comrades of early days. But when the ghosts of Agamemnon's Greek army beheld the mighty hero, his arms gleaming through the shades, they quaked, and many fled as erstwhile before to their ships, while others, trying to raise the war-cry, could utter only "the bat-like shrilling of the dead." A pitiful shade, with marred visage and mangled body, approached them, and Æneas recognized the ghost of Deiphobus, son of Priam, and asked of his cruel fate; and Deiphobus poured forth the long tale of his wife's treachery, and how he had been foully slaughtered in his sleep. Long had they thus conversed, but the Sibyl plucked Æneas by the robe and warned him: "Night falls apace; 'tis time to go. Thou hast come to the parting of the ways. Here lie Elysium and the fields of the blessed, and there, to the left, Tartarus and the tortures of the damned." And even now Æneas descried vast prisons inclosed with a triple wall, round which the river Phlegethon rolled its threefold floods of flame, while rocks whirled roaring down the stream. Over against the stream stood a massive gateway, whose adamantine columns defied all force of men or gods, and above the gate rose a tower of iron. Here sat the Fury Tisiphone, watching all who entered. And from within the gate came groans and the whistling of scourges and the clanking of chains. Æneas asked what meant this woful wailing, and the Sibyl replied: "None innocent may cross that threshold. There Rhadamanthus judges the dead, and avenging Tisiphone scourges the guilty. Within the gate rages the Hydra with fifty gaping mouths. Downward sinks the pit, twice as deep as the heavens are high. In it groan the Titans, hurled down with thunderbolts, and the giants, Otus and Ephialtes, who strove to overturn the throne of Jupiter himself. There lies Tityus, o'er nine roods outstretched, and eternally does a vulture tear his liver with her beak. Over some hangs a rock threatening ever to fall; before others a bounteous banquet is continually spread, but the hands that they stretch to take the food are evermore struck back by the Furies. Some roll a huge stone, others are bound to the revolving wheel. Here lie they who heaped up riches for themselves, an unnumbered multitude; here also they who hated their brothers or lifted cruel hands against their parents. Take warning by their fate, and ask no further concerning their awful doom." Thus warned, Æneas went forward in silence, and at the direction of the Sibyl he offered the Golden Bough at the gate. Now came they at length to the regions of joy, the green retreats and happy groves of Elysium. An ampler ether and a purer light invest these fields, for the blessed have their own sun and stars. In jousts and races, in dance and song, they fleet the golden hours, a blessed company of bards and patriots, paladins and victors in the races. Among them Æneas marked Ilus, a former king of Troy, and Dardanus, that city's founder. Their chariots were empty, their spears stood fixed in the ground, their horses fed at large throughout the plain, for the ruling purpose in life survives the grave. There, in a sequestered dale, stood Anchises surveying the souls that were to revisit earth once more, among them his own offspring yet unborn. But when he saw Æneas moving to meet him, with outstretched arms and tearful eyes he cried: "O my son, my son, hast thou come to me indeed? Am I permitted to see thy face and hear thy well-known voice once more?" And Æneas answered, weeping also: "Give me thy hand, my father, and take me to thy breast." Thrice he strove to throw his arm round his father, thrice the phantom slipped from his embrace, thin as the fluttering breeze or like a dream of the night. Gazing around him he saw in a wooded glade numberless peoples and tribes, hovering above the brakes like bees in summer-time, and he inquired of his sire what these might be. Then Anchises taught Æneas many wonderful things concerning the state of departed souls in Elysium and the future of the Trojan race. And touching the first, he said that after suffering many things the evil of their natures was washed or burned away, and they passed to Elysium, there to dwell for a thousand years. "All these," he continued, "are then summoned forth by the gods in a great body to the river Lethe, wherein they leave all memory of the past and again become willing to return into mortal bodies." Saying this, he led Æneas to the summit of a hill from which they who were to be born could be seen passing in an endless file before them. "See you," he said, "that youth leaning on a pointless spear? He shall be Silvius, the child of thy old age, and shall reign over Alba Longa. Behold there Romulus, the founder of Rome, the city of the seven hills, he shall rule the world. The graybeard behind him is Numa, the lawgiver, and next comes Tullus, the warrior. Those that follow are the proud Tarquins. There, too, is Brutus, unhappy man, who shall give liberty to Rome; and, unhappy father! whose inflexible justice shall doom to death his guilty sons." All these and many others who sprang from Æneas' loins, did Anchises point out, crying as he ended: "To you, O Romans, be it given to rule the nations, to dictate terms of peace, to spare the humbled, and to crush the proud." Last they watched the great Marcellus, the terror of the Gauls, the conqueror of Carthage. Then Æneas asked: "What youth is he, O father, who walks by his side in shining armor; but his countenance is sad, his eyes fixed upon the ground? Is he a son, or haply a grandson?" And Anchises wept as he replied: "Alas, my son, for the sorrows of thy kindred! Dear child of pity! could'st thou but burst thy fate's invidious bar, our own Marcellus thou! Ah! woful shall be the day of his death! Could he but live none had faced his onset. Bring lilies--lilies in handfuls; let me heap bright flowers on the shade unborn, and pay at least this empty tribute."[1] Thus they passed through Elysium, Anchises showing and explaining all to Æneas, firing him with the thoughts of future fame, and instructing him how to act throughout the struggles of his remaining life. Then, when all had been shown and said, Father Anchises sent back his son Æneas and the Sibyl to the mortal world by that shining Ivory Gate where through pass the dreams that visit the slumbers of men. FOOTNOTE: [1] The reference is to Marcellus, nephew and son-in-law of Augustus, and his destined heir. He died at the early age of eighteen. NISUS AND EURYALUS BY F. STORR Æneas was absent from the camp. Warned by Father Tiber he had gone with a picked band of followers to seek the alliance of his kinsman, King Evander, who with his Arcadians had settled themselves on the seven hills which now are Rome. Whilst he was away, the camp was left in charge of his son Iulus, and as adjutant and counselor to the young prince he appointed his most experienced general, old Aletes. But Juno, the implacable foe of Troy, had despatched to Turnus, the Rutulian Prince, her messenger Iris to tell him of Æneas' absence and bid him seize the occasion to storm the Trojan camp. So all day long the garrison, reduced in numbers and without its great captain, saw the tide of horse and foot, Latins, Rutulians, and Etruscans, gathering in the plain and sweeping onward to overwhelm them, like the Nile in full flood. As Æneas had bid them, they retired within their intrenchments, too strong to be carried at the first assault. At nightfall the enemy withdrew, and the weary defenders lay down to sleep, but in fear of a night attack they ventured not to unbuckle their armor, and at each camp-gate was posted a strong guard of sentinels. Conspicuous among the captains of the guard was Nisus, whom his mother, Ida, the world-famed huntress, had sent as squire to Æneas, no less skilled than his mother with javelin or with bow. With him as his lieutenant was Euryalus, the fairest youth, save Iulus alone, in all the Trojan host, the down of manhood just showing on his cheek, elsewise as round and smooth as a girl's. The two were more than brothers-in-arms, inseparable as twin cherries on a single stalk; the one followed the other as his shadow, and their love was more than the love of man and maid. And now as they kept watch together they thus conversed: NISUS. I know not what ails me, brother, but to-night I feel a wild unrest, a strange prompting to be up and doing some doughty deed. What think you, brother? Is it an inspiration of heaven or only my own fiery spirit, pent up within these walls and fretting for the fray? Mark you, brother. The enemy's camp is silent as the tomb. Not a sentinel is stirring, and the rare watch-fires burn low. 'Tis plain to me that the captains, having driven us back to our trenches, have been celebrating their victory and are now buried in drunken slumber. Now I will expound to thee the plan that is working in my brain. At all hazards Æneas must be summoned back from the city of Evander--so our generals and men are all agreed. If only my proposal is accepted, methinks I have discovered a way to bear the message and work our deliverance. EURYALUS. Verily 'tis a glorious venture and well worth the risk, but thou speakest as if the venture were thine. Can I have heard thee aright? Truly, brother, the plan is _thine_, but the execution is _ours_. Thinkest thou, brother, alone to put thy head into the lion's mouth? Shall I not share thy triumph or thy death? In life we have been one, and in death we shall not be divided. NISUS. Nay, brother, I never doubted thy courage or thy love. This thought alone, perhaps a selfish thought, was mine: if perchance I should fall--and sanguine as I am of success I know 'tis a perilous hazard--I would fain one sure friend survived to lay my body in mother earth, or if that grace is denied, at least to perform due rites at my cenotaph. I thought, moreover, that thou art the younger man and thy mother's only son. EURYALUS. Out on thy vain excuses! Only if thou takest me with thee will I forgive them. My mind is set. Let us to work. So they called to the nearest sentinels to relieve them of their guard and hurried to seek Iulus. They found him in his tent presiding over a council of war, but the sentries let them pass on business that would not wait. It chanced that the captains were at that moment debating how possibly to convey a message to Æneas informing him of their pressing need, and when Nisus expounded to them his plan, assuring them that as a young hunter he had explored every inch of the ground and knew a secret forest path that would lead them to the rear of the enemy's camp, he was welcomed as a messenger sent from heaven. Old Aletes laid his hands on their heads and with tears in his eyes blessed the gods for sending such deliverers. "Young heroes!" he cried, "your virtue is its own reward, but Æneas, when he returns, will know how to recompense you." Iulus, with boyish generosity, promised them his choicest treasures, embossed tankards and two talents of gold, aye and the charger and arms of Turnus, whose fall was certain when Æneas returned; and he put his arms round Euryalus' neck (the youth was scarce older than himself) and called him his brother-in-arms. Boldened by this signal favor of the prince, Euryalus, on bended knee, besought one parting boon. "Prince," he cried, "I have an aged mother who for my sake left her native home and the court of King Acestes to accompany me to the wars. I may not stay to bid her farewell and receive her blessing, nor could I dare confide to her our perilous errand. Thou hast deigned to call me brother: O prince, be to her a son. To know that thou wilt be here to solace and comfort her will give me fresh confidence." The prince swore to love and cherish her no less than his own lost mother, Creusa, and wishing him Godspeed he girt on his shoulder the sword of that famous Cretan swordsman, Lycaon, with hilt of wrought gold and scabbard of ivory. To Nisus, Achates gave his own helmet, that had borne the brunt of many a shrewd blow. Thus armed and charged with many messages from Iulus to his father they left the camp, and the captains sent after them a parting cheer. The night was dark, but Nisus could almost have found his way blindfolded through the familiar forest. In a short hour they had reached the camp unperceived, and then, as Nisus had anticipated, they found a scene of barbarous revelry. Amongst tilted war-chariots, tethered horses, and empty wine-jars men lay stretched in drunken slumber. "Follow me," whispered Nisus, "and keep an open eye lest any attack me from behind. I will hew thee anon a path of blood by which we can both pass to our goal." With drawn sword he rushed on Rhamnes, who lay snoring on a pile of broidered coverlets: an augur was he of royal blood, but little did his augury avail him that day. His three attendants soon followed their master to the shades. Like a ravening wolf who has leapt into the sheepfold he dealt havoc right and left, and all that Nisus spared the sword of Euryalus despatched. "Enough," cried Nisus, at length sated with carnage; "our way through the enemy is clear, and the tell-tale morn is nigh at hand." Much rich spoil they left behind--flagons of gold and silver, gemmed goblets and broideries; but Euryalus cast longing eyes on a huge baldrick with bosses of gold, an heirloom of the dead augur, and he strapped it round his shoulder; nor could he resist (proud youth) the temptation to try on a bright helmet with flaming crest of Messapus, the Tamer of Steeds. With these spoils to attest their glorious raid, the pair left the camp and gained in safety the open. Their task seemed well-nigh accomplished, but it chanced that a troop of three hundred horse, despatched from the Latin capital as an advanced guard for Turnus, were just then approaching the camp from the opposite direction, and espying in the twilight the glint of the helmet they challenged the pair. No answer was returned, and Nisus, who was leading, quickened his pace to gain the shelter of the forest. The horsemen wheeled round and sought to cut off their retreat, but they were too late, and Nisus was already speeding down a winding bypath that he knew full well, when he looked back, and to his horror perceived that Euryalus was not following. "Euryalus!" he shouted, but no answer came. He turned and painfully retraced his steps. Soon he heard the tramp of horses among the brushwood and broken branches, and guided by the sound in a clearing of the forest he saw Euryalus, his back against an oak, like a stag at bay, facing a ring of horsemen. What was he to do? To save himself by flight was unthinkable, but should he rush at once on certain death? In desperation he breathed a prayer to his patron goddess Diana. "Queen of the woods," he cried, "by the gifts I have offered on thine altar, by the vows I have daily paid, help me now in my utmost need and guide my aim!" So praying, he hurled with all his might a spear, and so straight and swift it flew that Sulmo was transfixed from back to breast, and the shaft snapped off short as the barbed head quivered in the wound. A second spear buried itself in Tagus's brain, and he too bit the dust. Volscens, the captain of the troop, saw his two comrades struck down as by a bolt from the blue, and with drawn sword he turned on Euryalus crying, "If I cannot reach the fiend who hurled those spears, thy blood at least shall atone the bloody deed." At this Nisus could no longer restrain himself, and leaping from the covert he shouted, "I, none but I, am the guilty cause. Oh, spare this innocent boy and turn your swords on me! To love his friend too well, this was his only crime!" But his words were vain; while yet he spoke the sword of Volscens had pierced the boy's heart and stained with gore his white side, and he drooped his head like a poppy drenched with rain, or a harebell upturned by the plowshare. At the sight Nisus hurled himself into the thick of his foes, scattering them right and left with the lightnings of his glaive, till he forced his way to Volscens, and with a dying effort smote the murderer of his sweet friend. Pierced with a hundred wounds he fell upon Euryalus' prostrate corpse, and a smile was on his lips, for in death they were not divided. Such was the tale that Virgil sang, and the prophecy that he uttered nigh upon two thousand years ago has been fulfilled: "O happy pair, if aught my verse avail, Your memory through the ages shall not fail, While on the Capitol Rome's flag is seen And Rome holds sway, Italia's Empress Queen." ULYSSES IN HADES BY M. M. BIRD Before he left fair Circe's isle Ulysses reminded the goddess of her promise to speed them on their homeward way. This, she assured him, not she but the Fates refused. Nor could they hope to breathe their native air till a long and toilsome journey had been taken, a journey that would lead them down even to the dread realms of Death. "But there," she said, "you shall seek out blind Tiresias, the Theban bard; though his eyes be blind his mind is filled with prophetic light. He will tell you all you seek to know of your future and the fate of those you love." Brave as he was, Ulysses shuddered at the awful road he had to tread, and appealed to Circe for further aid in this adventure. So she told him the landmarks to guide him on his way, and instructed him what to do when he reached the realms of Tartarus. And when morn broke he summoned his companions to set forth. They came in haste and joy. But one was missing. Elpenor, the youngest of the band, a wild and senseless youth, had climbed to the housetop to breathe the cold air after a debauch lasting far into the night. At the sudden tumult of departure he was roused, and hastening down he missed the ladder and fell headlong from the roof and broke his neck. Ignorant of his fate, the rest crowded eagerly round their leader, till his few and sober words told them that not yet the joys of homecoming awaited them, but it was decreed that first they should seek the awful shade of Tiresias in the dark and dreary realms of Death. Sadly then upon that shore they made their sacrifices to the immortal gods, and sadly embarked in the waiting ship and spread their sails to the freshening breeze. As the sun sank, and all the ways were darkened, they reached the utmost bounds of Ocean, a lonely land, where the sun never shines, where darkness broods perpetually over bare and rocky crags, the abode of the Cimmerians. Off their desolate shore Ulysses cast anchor, and leaping from his ship, descried the awful chasm that leads to the realms of the dead. His two companions bore with them the black sheep as Circe had bidden, and Ulysses drew his shining sword and carved a great trench, a cubit long and wide, in the black earth. This was filled with wine, milk, and honey, and the blood of the newly offered sacrifices. Thus, with solemn rites and holy vows, they invoked the nations of the dead. And lo! among the frowning caverns and all along the dusky shores appeared the phantom shapes of unsubstantial ghosts. Old and young, warriors ghastly with wounds, matrons and maids, rich and poor, they crowded about the trench filled with the reeking blood of sacrifice. But Ulysses in terror brandished his sword above the flowing blood, and the pale throngs started back and stood silently about him. Then he saw Elpenor, new to the realms of Death. Astonished, he demanded of the shade how it was that he had outrun their swift sail, and was found wandering with the dead. To which the youth replied that his feet, unsteady through excess of wine, had betrayed him and sent him headlong from the tower, and as he fell his neck was broken and his soul plunged in Hell. But he implored Ulysses, by all he held most dear, to give his unburied limbs a peaceful grave, and set up a barrow, and on it plant his oar to show that he had been one of Ulysses' crew. And Ulysses granted the boon, and the spirit of Elpenor departed content. Then, as Ulysses sat watching the trench, he saw the shade of his royal mother, Anticlea, approach; but though the tears bedewed his cheek at the sight, the pale shade stood regardless of her son. Next came the mighty Theban, Tiresias, bearing a scepter of gold; and he knew him and spake: "Why, son of Laertes, wanderest thou from cheerful day to tread this sorrowful path? What angry gods have led thee, alive, to be companion of the dead? If thou wilt sheathe thy sword I will relate thy future and the high purposes of Heaven towards thee." Ulysses sheathed his glittering blade, and the seer bent down and drank of the dark blood. Then he foretold all the strange disasters that would threaten and detain Ulysses on his homeward way. He told how at length he alone of all his crew would survive to reach his country--there to find his labors not yet at an end, with foes in power at his court, lordly suitors besieging his wife, and wasting his substance in riot and debauch. But a peaceful end to his long and toilsome life should come at last, and see him sink to the grave blessed by all his people. "This is thy life to come, and this is Fate," said the seer. To whom Ulysses, unmoved, made answer: "All that the gods ordain the wise endure." So the prophet went his way, and Ulysses waited on for his mother to come. And anon, Anticlea came and stooped and drank of the dark blood, and straightway all the mother in her soul awoke, and she addressed her son, asking whence he came and why. "To seek Tiresias, and learn my doom," Ulysses answered, "for I have been a roamer and an exile from home ever since the fall of Troy." Then he asked her how her own death had happened, whether his good father Laertes still lived, if Telemachus his son ruled in Ithaca, and if Penelope yet waited and watched for her absent lord, or if she had taken a new mate. To all his questions Anticlea made answer with tender pity. Penelope, his faithful wife, still mourned for him uncomforted; Telemachus, now almost grown to manhood, ruled his realm; and old Laertes, bowed with grief, only waited in sorrow for the release of the tomb, since his son Ulysses returned no more. She herself, his mother, had died of a broken heart; for him she lived, and when he came not, for love of him she died. Ulysses, deeply moved, strove thrice to clasp her in his arms, and thrice she slipped from his embrace, like a shadow or a dream. In vain he begged that his fond arms might enfold the parent so tenderly loved, that he might know it was she herself and no empty image sent by Hell's queen to mock his sorrow. But the pensive ghost admonished him that such were all spirits when they had quit their mortal bodies. No substance of the man remained, said she: all had been devoured by the funeral flames and scattered by the winds to the empty air. It was but the soul that flew, like a dream, to the infernal regions. "But go," she adjured him; "haste to climb the steep ascent; regain the day and seek your bride, to recount to her the horrors and the laws of Hell." As she ceased and disappeared, a cloud of phantoms, wives and daughters of kings and heroes, flitted round the visitant of earth. Dauntless he waved his sword; the ghostly crew shrank away and dared not drink of the wine in the trench at his feet. They passed, and to each other Ulysses heard them recount their names and needs. There he saw Alcmena, mother of Alcides; Megara, wife of Hercules, who was slain by him in his madness; the beautiful Chloris, Antiope, and Leda, mother of the deathless twins Castor and Pollux, who live and die alternately, the one in Heaven and the other in Hell, the favored sons of Jove. There walked Phædra, shedding unceasing tears of remorse for her slain love, and near her mournful Ariadne. All these, and many more, Ulysses recognized in that pale procession of departed spirits. When they had been summoned back to the black halls of Proserpine, the forms of the heroes slain by the foul Ægisthus came in sight. High above them all towered great Agamemnon. He drank the wine and knew his friend; with tears Ulysses greeted him and inquired what relentless doom, what fate of war, or mischance upon the ocean, had thrust his spirit into Hell? And Agamemnon told him all the dreadful story of his return from Troy, and the treachery of his wife Clytemnestra and her lover, who slew him as he feasted, and with him all his friends; most pitiful of all, the voice of the dying Cassandra, slain at his side as he himself lay dying, still rang in his ears. And Ulysses answered him: "What ills hath Jupiter wreaked on the house of Atreus through the counsels of women!" "Be warned," replied Agamemnon, "and tell no woman all that is in thy heart; not even Penelope, though she is discreet and true above all other women and will not plot thy death." And he grieved for his own son Orestes, on whom he had never looked, envying his friend an heir so wise and brave as the young Telemachus. Then he saw Achilles and Patroclus, approaching through the gloom. Achilles knew his friend and hastened to his side. "Oh mortal, overbold," he asked, "how durst thou come down living to the realms of the dead?" Ulysses told him how he had come, though living, to seek counsel of the dead. But Achilles made answer: "Rather would I, in the sun's warmth divine, Moil as a churl, who drags his days in grief, Than the whole lordship of the dead were mine." Then, like Agamemnon, he demanded news of his son, and Ulysses charmed the father's heart by telling of the gallant deeds of Neoptolemus at Troy town, and how he had escaped unscathed from the fight. Achilles glowed with pride and delight; and as he joined the illustrious shades of the warriors about him, Ulysses sought the side of Ajax, whom he perceived standing apart in gloom and sullenness. His lost honors perpetually stung his mind, though the fight had been fair and Ulysses had been judged the victor by the Trojans. Ulysses seeing him stand thus mournfully aloof, addressed him with tender sorrow. "Still burns thy rage? Can brave souls bear malice e'en after death?" he asked him sadly. But for all his appeals the resentful shade turned from him with disdain, and silently stalked away. Touched to the depths of a generous heart Ulysses started in pursuit through the black and winding ways of Death, to find and force him to reply to his earnest questioning, but on the way such strange and awful scenes met his astonished eyes as caused him to pause and turn aside. There was huge Orion, whirling aloft his ponderous mace of brass to crush his savage prey. There was Tityus, the son of Earth, who for offering violence to the goddess Latona was shot dead by her children, and lay for ever in Hell in fetters while vultures gnawed at his liver. Again he looked, and beheld Tantalus, whose awful groans echoed through the roofless caverns. When to the stream that rippled past him he applied his parched lips, it fled before he could taste of it. Fruit of all kinds hung round him--pomegranates, figs, and ripening apples; but if he strove to seize the fruit, the baffling wind would toss the branch high out of his reach. When in horror at the sight of these torments, Ulysses turned aside, he saw a laboring figure, Sisyphus, who with weary steps up a high hill was heaving a huge round stone. When, with infinite straining, he reached at length the summit, the boulder, poising but an instant, bounded down the steep again with a wild impetuous rush, and dragged with it Sisyphus into the depths of an awful cavern. Thence once again, with sweat and agony, he must renew his toil and creep with painful labor up the slope, thrusting the rock before him. This the punishment for a life of avaricious greed, devoted to a pitiless unassuageable lust for gold and power. And farther on great Hercules was seen, a towering specter of gigantic form. Gloomy as night he stood, in act to shoot an arrow from his monstrous bow. With grim visage and terrible look he lamented his wrongs and woes, and then abruptly turning, strode away. When Ulysses, curious to view the kings of ancient days and all the endless ranks of the mighty dead, would have stood strong in this resolve to watch them, a great swarm of specters rose from deepest Hell. With hideous yells they flew at him; they gaped at him and gibbered in such menacing tones that his blood froze in his veins. In fear lest the Gorgon, rising from the depths of the infernal lake, with her crown of hissing snakes about her brow, should transfix him to stone, he turned and fled. He climbed the steep ascent and joined his waiting shipmates. They set sail with all haste to leave the dread Cimmerian shore, and a fair wind sped them on their backward way. CIRCE'S PALACE BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE After escaping from the Cyclopes, and enduring many other perils by land and sea in the course of his weary voyage to Ithaca, Ulysses arrived at a green island, the name of which was unknown to him, and was glad to moor his tempest-beaten bark in a quiet cove. But he had encountered so many dangers from giants, and one-eyed Cyclopes, and monsters of the sea and land, that he could not help dreading some mischief, even in this pleasant and seemingly solitary spot. For two days, therefore, the poor weather-worn voyagers kept quiet, and either stayed on board of their vessel, or merely crept along under the cliffs that bordered the shore; and to keep themselves alive, they dug shell-fish out of the sand, and sought for any little rill of fresh water that might be running towards the sea. Before the two days were spent, they grew very weary of this kind of life; for the followers of King Ulysses were terrible gormandizers, and pretty sure to grumble if they missed their regular meals, and their irregular ones besides. Their stock of provisions was quite exhausted, and even the shell-fish began to get scarce, so that they had now to choose between starving to death or venturing into the interior of the island, where perhaps some huge three-headed dragon, or other horrible monster, had his den. But King Ulysses was a bold man as well as a prudent one; and on the third morning he determined to discover what sort of a place the island was, and whether it were possible to obtain a supply of food for the hungry mouths of his companions. So, taking a spear in his hand, he clambered to the summit of a cliff and gazed round about him. At a distance, towards the center of the island, he beheld the stately towers of what seemed to be a palace, built of snow-white marble, and rising in the midst of a grove of lofty trees. The thick branches of these trees stretched across the front of the edifice, and more than half concealed it, although, from the portion which he saw, Ulysses judged it to be spacious and exceedingly beautiful, and probably the residence of some great nobleman or prince. A blue smoke went curling up from the chimney, and was almost the pleasantest part of the spectacle to Ulysses. For, from the abundance of this smoke, it was reasonable to conclude that there was a good fire in the kitchen, and that, at dinner-time, a plentiful banquet would be served up to the inhabitants of the palace, and to whatever guests might happen to drop in. With so agreeable a prospect before him, Ulysses fancied that he could not do better than to go straight to the palace gate, and tell the master of it that there was a crew of poor shipwrecked mariners, not far off, who had eaten nothing for a day or two save a few clams and oysters, and would therefore be thankful for a little food. And the prince or nobleman must be a very stingy curmudgeon, to be sure, if, at least, when his own dinner was over, he would not bid them welcome to the broken victuals from the table. Pleasing himself with this idea, King Ulysses had made a few steps in the direction of the palace, when there was a great twittering and chirping from the branch of a neighboring tree. A moment afterwards a bird came flying towards him, and hovered in the air, so as almost to brush his face with its wings. It was a very pretty little bird, with purple wings and body, and yellow legs, and a circle of golden feathers round its neck, and on its head a golden tuft, which looked like a king's crown in miniature. Ulysses tried to catch the bird. But it fluttered nimbly out of his reach, still chirping in a piteous tone, as if it could have told a lamentable story, had it only been gifted with human language. And when he attempted to drive it away, the bird flew no farther than the bough of the next tree, and again came fluttering about his head, with its doleful chirp, as soon as he showed a purpose of going forward. "Have you anything to tell me, little bird?" asked Ulysses. "Peep!" said the bird, "peep, peep, pe--weep!" And nothing else would it say, but only, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" in a melancholy cadence, and over and over and over again. As often as Ulysses moved forward, however, the bird showed the greatest alarm, and did its best to drive him back with the anxious flutter of its purple wings. Its unaccountable behavior made him conclude, at last, that the bird knew of some danger that awaited him, and which must needs be very terrible, beyond all question, since it moved even a little fowl to feel compassion for a human being. So he resolved, for the present, to return to the vessel, and tell his companions what he had seen. This appeared to satisfy the bird. As soon as Ulysses turned back, it ran up the trunk of a tree, and began to pick insects out of the bark with its long, sharp bill; for it was a kind of woodpecker, you must know, and had to get its living in the same manner as other birds of that species. But every little while, as it pecked at the bark of the tree, the purple bird bethought itself of some secret sorrow, and repeated its plaintive note of "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" On his way to the shore, Ulysses had the good luck to kill a large stag. Taking it on his shoulders he lugged it along with him, and flung it down before his hungry companions. But the next morning their appetites were as sharp as ever. They looked at Ulysses, as if they expected him to clamber up the cliff again and come back with another fat deer upon his shoulders. Instead of setting out, however, he summoned the whole crew together, and told them it was in vain to hope that he could kill a stag every day for their dinner, and therefore it was advisable to think of some other mode of satisfying their hunger. "Now," said he, "when I was on the cliff yesterday, I discovered that this island is inhabited. At a considerable distance from the shore stood a marble palace, which appeared to be very spacious, and had a great deal of smoke curling out of one of its chimneys." "Aha!" muttered some of his companions, smacking their lips. "That smoke must have come from the kitchen fire. There was a good dinner on the spit; and no doubt there will be as good a one to-day." "But," continued the wise Ulysses, "you must remember, my good friends, our misadventure in the cavern of one-eyed Polyphemus, the Cyclops! To tell you the truth, if we go to yonder palace, there can be no question that we shall make our appearance at the dinner-table; but whether seated as guests, or served up as food, is a point to be seriously considered." "Either way," murmured some of the hungriest of the crew, "it will be better than starvation; particularly if one could be sure of being well fattened beforehand, and daintily cooked afterwards." "That is a matter of taste," said King Ulysses, "and, for my own part, neither the most careful fattening nor the daintiest of cookery would reconcile me to being dished at last. My proposal is, therefore, that we divide ourselves into two equal parties, and ascertain, by drawing lots, which of the two shall go to the palace and beg for food and assistance. If these can be obtained, all is well. If not, and if the inhabitants prove as inhospitable as Polyphemus, or the Læstrygons, then there will but half of us perish, and the remainder may set sail and escape." As nobody objected to this scheme, Ulysses proceeded to count the whole band, and found that there were forty-six men including himself. He then numbered off twenty-two of them, and put Eurylochus (who was one of his chief officers, and second only to himself in sagacity) at their head. Ulysses took command of the remaining twenty-two men in person. Then, taking off his helmet, he put two shells into it, on one of which was written, "Go," and on the other, "Stay." Another person now held the helmet, while Ulysses and Eurylochus drew out each a shell; and the word "Go" was found written on that which Eurylochus had drawn. In this manner it was decided that Ulysses and his twenty-two men were to remain at the seaside until the other party should have found out what sort of treatment they might expect at the mysterious palace. As there was no help for it, Eurylochus immediately set forth at the head of his twenty-two followers, who went off in a very melancholy state of mind, leaving their friends in hardly better spirits than themselves. No sooner had they clambered up the cliff than they discerned the tall marble towers of the palace, ascending, as white as snow, out of the lovely green shadow of the trees which surrounded it. A gush of smoke came from a chimney in the rear of the edifice. The vapor rose high in the air, and, meeting with a breeze, was wafted seaward, and made to pass over the heads of the hungry mariners. When people's appetites are keen, they have a very quick scent for anything savory in the wind. "That smoke comes from the kitchen!" cried one of them, turning up his nose as high as he could, and snuffing eagerly. "And, as sure as I'm a half-starved vagabond, I smell roast meat in it." "Pig, roast pig!" said another. "Ah, the dainty little porker! My mouth waters for him." "Let us make haste," cried the others, "or we shall be too late for the good cheer!" But scarcely had they made half a dozen steps from the edge of the cliff, when a bird came fluttering to meet them. It was the same pretty little bird, with the purple wings and body, the yellow legs, the golden collar round its neck, and the crown-like tuft upon its head, whose behavior had so much surprised Ulysses. It hovered about Eurylochus, and almost brushed his face with its wings. "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" chirped the bird. So plaintively intelligent was the sound, that it seemed as if the little creature were going to break its heart with some mighty secret that it had to tell, and only this one poor note to tell it with. "My pretty bird," said Eurylochus--for he was a wary person, and let no token of harm escape his notice--"my pretty bird, who sent you hither? And what is the message which you bring?" "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" replied the bird, very sorrowfully. Then it flew towards the edge of the cliff, and looked round at them, as if exceedingly anxious that they should return whence they came. Eurylochus and a few others were inclined to turn back. They could not help suspecting that the purple bird must be aware of something mischievous that would befall them at the palace, and the knowledge of which affected its airy spirit with a human sympathy and sorrow. But the rest of the voyagers, snuffing up the smoke from the palace kitchen, ridiculed the idea of returning to the vessel. One of them (more brutal than his fellows, and the most notorious gormandizer in the whole crew) said such a cruel and wicked thing, that I wonder the mere thought did not turn him into a wild beast, in shape, as he already was in his nature. "This troublesome and impertinent little fowl," said he, "would make a delicate titbit to begin dinner with. Just one plump morsel, melting away between the teeth. If he comes within my reach, I'll catch him, and give him to the palace cook to be roasted on a skewer." The words were hardly out of his mouth, before the purple bird flew away, crying, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" more dolorously than ever. "That bird," remarked Eurylochus, "knows more than we do about what awaits us at the palace." "Come on, then," cried his comrades, "and we'll soon know as much as he does." The party, accordingly, went onward through the green and pleasant wood. Every little while they caught new glimpses of the marble palace, which looked more and more beautiful the nearer they approached it. At one place they came to a crystal spring, and paused to drink at it for want of liquor which they liked better. Looking into its bosom, they beheld their own faces dimly reflected, but so extravagantly distorted by the gush and motion of the water, that each one of them appeared to be laughing at himself and all his companions. So ridiculous were these images of themselves, indeed, that they did really laugh aloud, and could hardly be grave again as soon as they wished. And after they had drank, they grew still merrier than before. "It has a twang of the wine-cask in it," said one, smacking his lips. "Make haste!" cried his fellows; "we'll find the wine-cask itself at the palace; and that will be better than a hundred crystal fountains." Then they quickened their pace, and capered for joy at the thought of the savory banquet at which they hoped to be guests. But Eurylochus told them that he felt as if he were walking in a dream. "If I am really awake," continued he, "then, in my opinion, we are on the point of meeting with some stranger adventure than any that befell us in the cave of Polyphemus, or among the gigantic man-eating Læstrygons, or in the windy palace of King Æolus, which stands on a brazen-walled island. This kind of dreamy feeling always comes over me before any wonderful occurrence. If you take my advice, you will turn back." "No, no," answered his comrades, snuffing the air, in which the scent from the palace kitchen was now very perceptible. "We would not turn back, though we were certain that the king of the Læstrygons, as big as a mountain, would sit at the head of the table, and huge Polyphemus, the one-eyed Cyclops, at its foot." At length they came within full sight of the palace, which proved to be very large and lofty, with a great number of airy pinnacles upon its roof. Though it was now midday, and the sun shone brightly over the marble front, yet its snowy whiteness, and its fantastic style of architecture, made it look unreal, like the frostwork on a window pane, or like the shapes of castles which one sees among the clouds by moonlight. But, just then, a puff of wind brought down the smoke of the kitchen chimney among them, and caused each man to smell the odor of the dish that he liked best and, after scenting it, they thought everything else moonshine, and nothing real save this palace, and save the banquet that was evidently ready to be served up in it. So they hastened their steps towards the portal, but had not got halfway across the wide lawn, when a pack of lions, tigers, and wolves came bounding to meet them. The terrified mariners started back, expecting no better fate than to be torn to pieces and devoured. To their surprise and joy, however, these wild beasts merely capered around them, wagging their tails, offering their heads to be stroked and patted, and behaving just like so many well-bred house-dogs, when they wish to express their delight at meeting their master or their master's friends. The biggest lion licked the feet of Eurylochus; and every other lion, and every wolf and tiger, singled out one of his two-and-twenty followers, whom the beast fondled as if he loved him better than a beef-bone. But, for all that, Eurylochus imagined that he saw something fierce and savage in their eyes; nor would he have been surprised, at any moment, to feel the big lion's terrible claws, or to see each of the tigers make a deadly spring, or each wolf leap at the throat of the man whom he had fondled. Their mildness seemed unreal, and a mere freak; but their savage nature was as true as their teeth and claws. Nevertheless, the men went safely across the lawn with the wild beasts frisking about them, and doing no manner of harm; although, as they mounted the steps of the palace, you might possibly have heard a low growl, particularly from the wolves, as if they thought it a pity, after all, to let the strangers pass without so much as tasting what they were made of. Eurylochus and his followers now passed under a lofty portal, and looked through the open doorway into the interior of the palace. The first thing that they saw was a spacious hall, and a fountain in the middle of it, gushing up towards the ceiling out of a marble basin, and falling back into it with a continual plash. The water of this fountain, as it spouted upward, was constantly taking new shapes, not very distinctly, but plainly enough for a nimble fancy to recognize what they were. Now it was the shape of a man in a long robe, the fleecy whiteness of which was made out of the fountain's spray; now it was a lion, or a tiger, or a wolf, or an ass, or, as often as anything else, a hog, wallowing in the marble basin as if it were his sty. But, before the strangers had time to look closely at this wonderful sight, their attention was drawn off by a very sweet and agreeable sound. A woman's voice was singing melodiously in another room of the palace, and with her voice was mingled the noise of a loom, at which she was probably seated, weaving a rich texture of cloth, and intertwining the high and low sweetness of her voice into a rich tissue of harmony. By and by the song came to an end; and then, all at once, there were several feminine voices, talking airily and cheerfully, with now and then a merry burst of laughter, such as you may always hear when three or four young women sit at work together. "What a sweet song that was!" exclaimed one of the voyagers. "Too sweet, indeed," answered Eurylochus, shaking his head. "Yet it was not so sweet as the song of the Sirens, those bird-like damsels who wanted to tempt us on the rocks so that our vessel might be wrecked, and our bones left whitening along the shore." "But just listen to the pleasant voices of those maidens, and that buzz of the loom as the shuttle passes to and fro," said another comrade. "What a domestic, household, homelike sound it is! Ah, before that weary siege of Troy, I used to hear the buzzing loom and the women's voices under my own roof. Shall I never hear them again? nor taste those nice little savory dishes which my dearest wife knew how to serve up?" "Tush! we shall fare better here," said another. "But how innocently those women are babbling together, without guessing that we overhear them! And mark that richest voice of all, so pleasant and familiar, but which yet seems to have the authority of a mistress among them. Let us show ourselves at once. What harm can the lady of the palace and her maidens do to mariners and warriors like us?" "Remember," said Eurylochus, "that it was a young maiden who beguiled three of our friends into the palace of the king of the Læstrygons, who ate up one of them in the twinkling of an eye." No warning or persuasion, however, had any effect on his companions. They went up to a pair of folding doors at the farther end of the hall, and throwing them wide open, passed into the next room. Eurylochus, meanwhile, had stepped behind a pillar. In the short moment, while the folding doors opened and closed again, he caught a glimpse of a very beautiful woman rising from the loom, and coming to meet the poor weather-beaten wanderers, with a hospitable smile, and her hand stretched out in welcome. There were four other young women, who joined their hands and danced merrily forward, making gestures of obeisance to the strangers. They were only less beautiful than the lady who seemed to be their mistress. Yet Eurylochus fancied that one of them had sea-green hair, and that the close-fitting bodice of a second looked like the bark of a tree, and that both the others had something odd in their aspect, although he could not quite determine what it was, in the little while that he had to examine them. The folding doors swung quickly back, and left him standing behind the pillar, in the solitude of the outer hall. There Eurylochus waited until he was quite weary, and listened eagerly to every sound, but without hearing anything that could help him to guess what had become of his friends. Footsteps, it is true, seemed to be passing and repassing in other parts of the palace. Then there was a clatter of silver dishes, or golden ones, which made him imagine a rich feast in a splendid banqueting hall. But by and by he heard a tremendous grunting and squealing, and then a sudden scampering, like that of small, hard hoofs over a marble floor, while the voices of the mistress and her four handmaidens were screaming all together, in tones of anger and derision. Eurylochus could not conceive what had happened, unless a drove of swine had broken into the palace, attracted by the smell of the feast. Chancing to cast his eyes at the fountain, he saw that it did not shift its shape as formerly, nor looked either like a long-robed man, or a lion, a tiger, a wolf, or an ass. It looked like nothing but a hog, which lay wallowing in the marble basin, and filled it from brim to brim. But we must leave the prudent Eurylochus waiting in the outer hall, and follow his friends into the inner secrecy of the palace. As soon as the beautiful woman saw them, she arose from the loom, as I have told you, and came forward smiling, and stretching out her hand. She took the hand of the foremost among them, and bade him and the whole party welcome. "You have been long expected, my good friends," said she. "I and my maidens are well acquainted with you, although you do not appear to recognize us. Look at this piece of tapestry, and judge if your faces must not have been familiar to us." So the voyagers examined the web of cloth which the beautiful woman had been weaving in her loom; and, to their vast astonishment, they saw their own figures perfectly represented in different colored threads. It was a life-like picture of their recent adventures, showing them in the cave of Polyphemus, and how they had put out his one great moony eye; while in another part of the tapestry they were untying the leathern bags, puffed out with contrary winds; and farther on they beheld themselves scampering away from the gigantic king of the Læstrygons, who had caught one of them by the leg. Lastly, there they were, sitting on the desolate shore of this very island, hungry and downcast, and looking ruefully at the bare bones of the stag which they devoured yesterday. This was as far as the work had yet proceeded; but when the beautiful woman should again sit down at her loom, she would probably make a picture of what had since happened to the strangers, and of what was now going to happen. "You see," she said, "that I know all about your troubles; and you cannot doubt that I desire to make you happy for as long a time as you may remain with me. For this purpose, my honored guests, I have ordered a banquet to be prepared. Fish, fowl, and flesh, roasted and in luscious stews, and seasoned, I trust, to all your tastes, are ready to be served up. If your appetites tell you it is dinner-time, then come with me to the festal saloon." At this kind invitation the hungry mariners were quite overjoyed; and one of them, taking upon himself to be spokesman, assured their hospitable hostess that any hour of the day was dinner-time with them, whenever they could get flesh to put in the pot, and fire to boil it with. So the beautiful woman led the way; and the four maidens (one of them had sea-green hair, another a bodice of oak bark, a third sprinkled a shower of water drops from her fingers' ends, and the fourth had some other oddity, which I have forgotten), all these followed behind, and hurried the guests along until they entered a magnificent saloon. It was built in a perfect oval, and lighted from a crystal dome above. Around the walls were ranged two-and-twenty thrones, overhung by canopies of crimson and gold, and provided with the softest of cushions, which were tasseled and fringed with gold cord. Each of the strangers was invited to sit down; and there they were, two-and-twenty storm-beaten mariners, in worn and tattered garb, sitting on two-and-twenty cushioned and canopied thrones, so rich and gorgeous that the proudest monarch had nothing more splendid in his stateliest hall. Then you might have seen the guests nodding, winking with one eye, and leaning from one throne to another, to communicate their satisfaction in hoarse whispers. "Our good hostess has made kings of us all," said one. "Ha! do you smell the feast? I'll engage it will be fit to set before two-and-twenty kings." But the beautiful woman now clapped her hands; and immediately there entered a train of two-and-twenty serving-men, bringing dishes of the richest food, all hot from the kitchen fire, and sending up such a steam that it hung like a cloud below the crystal dome of the saloon. An equal number of attendants brought great flagons of wine of various kinds, some of which sparkled as it was poured out, and went bubbling down the throat; while of other sorts, the purple liquor was so clear that you could see the wrought figures at the bottom of the goblet. While the servants supplied the two-and-twenty guests with food and drink, the hostess and her four maidens went from one throne to another, exhorting them to eat their fill, and to quaff wine abundantly, and thus to recompense themselves at this one banquet for the many days when they had gone without a dinner. But, whenever the mariners were not looking at them (which was pretty often, as they looked chiefly into the basins and platters), the beautiful woman and her damsels turned aside and laughed. Even the servants, as they knelt down to present the dishes, might be seen to grin and sneer while the guests were helping themselves to the offered dainties. And once in a while the strangers seemed to taste something that they did not like. "Here is an odd kind of a spice in this dish," said one. "I can't say it quite suits my palate. Down it goes, however." "Send a good draught of wine down your throat," said his comrade on the next throne; "that is the stuff to make this sort of cookery relish well. Though I must needs say, the wine has a queer taste, too. But the more I drink of it the better I like the flavor." Whatever little fault they might find with the dishes, they sat at dinner a prodigiously long while. They forgot all about their homes, and their wives and children, and all about Ulysses, and everything else, except this banquet, at which they wanted to keep feasting forever. But at length they began to give over, from mere incapacity to hold any more. "That last bit of fat is too much for me," said one. "And I have not room for another morsel," said his next neighbor, heaving a sigh. "What a pity! My appetite is as sharp as ever." In short, they all left off eating, and leaned back on their thrones, with such a stupid and helpless aspect as made them ridiculous to behold. When their hostess saw this, she laughed aloud; so did her four damsels; so did the two-and-twenty serving-men that bore the dishes, and their two-and-twenty fellows that poured out the wine. And the louder they all laughed, the more stupid and helpless did the two-and-twenty gormandizers look. Then the beautiful woman took her stand in the middle of the saloon, and stretching out a slender rod (it had been all the while in her hand, although they never noticed it till this moment), she turned it from one guest to another, until each had felt it pointed at himself. Beautiful as her face was, and though there was a smile on it, it looked just as wicked and mischievous as the ugliest serpent that ever was seen; and fat-witted as the voyagers had made themselves, they began to suspect that they had fallen into the power of an evil-minded enchantress. "Wretches," cried she, "you have abused a lady's hospitality; and in this princely saloon your behavior has been suited to a hog-pen. You are already swine in everything but the human form, which you disgrace, and which I myself should be ashamed to keep a moment longer, were you to share it with me. But it will require only the slightest exercise of magic to make the exterior conform to the hoggish disposition. Assume your proper shapes, gormandizers, and begone to the sty!" Uttering these last words, she waved her wand; and stamping her foot imperiously, each of the guests was struck aghast at beholding, instead of his comrades in human shape, one-and-twenty hogs sitting on the same number of golden thrones. Each man (as he still supposed himself to be) essayed to give a cry of surprise, but found that he could merely grunt, and that, in a word, he was just such another beast as his companions. It looked so intolerably absurd to see hogs on cushioned thrones, that they made haste to wallow down upon all fours, like other swine. They tried to groan and beg for mercy, but forthwith emitted the most awful grunting and squealing that ever came out of swinish throats. They would have wrung their hands in despair, but, attempting to do so, grew all the more desperate for seeing themselves squatted on their hams, and pawing the air with their fore-trotters. Dear me! what pendulous ears they had! what little red eyes, half buried in fat! and what long snouts, instead of Grecian noses! "Begone to your sty!" cried the enchantress, giving them some smart strokes with her wand; and then she turned to the serving-men--"Drive out these swine, and throw down some acorns for them to eat." Meantime Eurylochus had waited, and waited, and waited in the entrance hall of the palace, without being able to comprehend what had befallen his friends. At last, when the swinish uproar sounded through the palace, and when he saw the image of a hog in the marble basin, he thought it best to hasten back to the vessel and inform the wise Ulysses of these marvelous occurrences. So he ran as fast as he could down the steps, and never stopped to draw breath till he reached the shore. "Why do you come alone?" asked King Ulysses, as soon as he saw him. "Where are your two-and-twenty comrades?" At these questions Eurylochus burst into tears. "Alas!" cried he, "I greatly fear we shall never see one of their faces again." Then he told Ulysses all that had happened, as far as he knew it; and added that he suspected the beautiful woman to be a vile enchantress, and the marble palace, magnificent as it looked, to be only a dismal cavern in reality. As for his companions, he could not imagine what had become of them, unless they had been given to the swine to be devoured alive. At this intelligence all the voyagers were greatly affrighted. But Ulysses lost no time in girding on his sword, and hanging his bow and quiver over his shoulders, and taking a spear in his right hand. When his followers saw their wise leader making these preparations, they inquired whither he was going, and earnestly besought him not to leave them. "You are our king," cried they; "and what is more, you are the wisest man in the whole world, and nothing but your wisdom and courage can get us out of this danger. If you desert us, and go to the enchanted palace, you will suffer the same fate as our poor companions, and not a soul of us will ever see our dear Ithaca again." "As I am your king," answered Ulysses, "and wiser than any of you, it is therefore the more my duty to see what has befallen our comrades, and whether anything can yet be done to rescue them. Wait for me here until to-morrow. If I do not then return, you must hoist sail and endeavor to find your way to our native land. For my part, I am answerable for the fate of these poor mariners, who have stood by my side in battle, and been so often drenched to the skin, along with me, by the same tempestuous surges. I will either bring them back with me or perish." Had his followers dared, they would have detained him by force. But King Ulysses frowned sternly on them, and shook his spear, and bade them stop him at their peril. Seeing him so determined they let him go, and sat down on the sand, as disconsolate a set of people as could be, waiting and praying for his return. It happened to Ulysses, just as before, that, when he had gone a few steps from the edge of the cliff, the purple bird came fluttering towards him, crying, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" and using all the art it could to persuade him to go no farther. "What mean you, little bird?" cried Ulysses. "You are arrayed like a king in purple and gold, and wear a golden crown upon your head. Is it because I too am a king, that you desire so earnestly to speak with me? If you can talk in human language, say what you would have me do." "Peep!" answered the purple bird, very dolorously. "Peep, peep, pe--we--ep!" Certainly there lay some heavy anguish at the little bird's heart; and it was a sorrowful predicament that he could not at least have the consolation of telling what it was. But Ulysses had no time to waste in trying to get at the mystery. He therefore quickened his pace, and had gone a good way along the pleasant wood-path, when there met him a young man of very brisk and intelligent aspect, and clad in a rather singular garb. He wore a short cloak, and a sort of cap that seemed to be furnished with a pair of wings; and from the lightness of his step, you would have supposed that there might likewise be wings on his feet. To enable him to walk still better (for he was always on one journey or another), he carried a winged staff, around which two serpents were wriggling and twisting. In short, I have said enough to make you guess that it was Quicksilver[2]; and Ulysses (who knew him of old, and had learned a great deal of his wisdom from him) recognized him in a moment. "Whither are you going in such a hurry, wise Ulysses?" asked Quicksilver. "Do you not know that this island is enchanted? The wicked enchantress (whose name is Circe, the sister of King Æetes) dwells in the marble palace which you see yonder among the trees. By her magic arts she changes every human being into the brute beast or fowl whom he happens most to resemble." "That little bird, which met me at the edge of the cliff," exclaimed Ulysses; "was he a human being once?" "Yes," answered Quicksilver. "He was once a king, named Picus, and a pretty good sort of a king too, only rather too proud of his purple robe, and his crown, and the golden chain about his neck; so he was forced to take the shape of a gaudy-feathered bird. The lions, and wolves, and tigers, who will come running to meet you, in front of the palace, were formerly fierce and cruel men, resembling in their dispositions the wild beasts whose forms they now rightfully wear." "And my poor companions," said Ulysses, "have they undergone a similar change through the arts of this wicked Circe?" "You well know what gormandizers they were," replied Quicksilver; and, rogue that he was, he could not help laughing at the joke. "So you will not be surprised to hear that they have all taken the shapes of swine! If Circe had never done anything worse, I really should not think her so very much to blame." "But can I do nothing to help them?" inquired Ulysses. "It will require all your wisdom," said Quicksilver, "and a little of my own into the bargain, to keep your royal and sagacious self from being transformed into a fox. But do as I bid you, and the matter may end better than it has begun." While he was speaking, Quicksilver seemed to be in search of something; he went stooping along the ground, and soon laid his hand on a little plant with a snow-white flower, which he plucked and smelt. Ulysses had been looking at that very spot only just before; and it appeared to him that the plant had burst into full flower the instant when Quicksilver touched it with his fingers. "Take this flower, King Ulysses," said he. "Guard it as you do your eyesight; for I can assure you it is exceedingly rare and precious, and you might seek the whole earth over without ever finding another like it. Keep it in your hand, and smell of it frequently after you enter the palace, and while you are talking with the enchantress. Especially when she offers you food or a draught of wine out of her goblet, be careful to fill your nostrils with the flower's fragrance. Follow these directions, and you may defy her magic arts to change you into a fox." When Ulysses reached the lawn in front of the palace, the lions and other savage animals came bounding to meet him, and would have fawned upon him and licked his feet. But the wise king struck at them with his long spear, and sternly bade them begone out of his path; for he knew that they had once been bloodthirsty men, and would now tear him limb from limb, instead of fawning upon him, could they do the mischief that was in their hearts. The wild beasts yelped and glared at him, and stood at a distance while he ascended the palace steps. On entering the hall, Ulysses saw the magic fountain in the center of it. The up-gushing water had now again taken the shape of a man in a long, white, fleecy robe, who appeared to be making gestures of welcome. The king likewise heard the noise of the shuttle in the loom, and the sweet melody of the beautiful woman's song, and then the pleasant voices of herself and the four maidens talking together, with peals of merry laughter intermixed. But Ulysses did not waste much time in listening to the laughter or the song. He leaned his spear against one of the pillars of the hall, and then, after loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped boldly forward and threw the folding doors wide open. The moment she beheld his stately figure standing in the doorway, the beautiful woman rose from the loom and ran to meet him, with a glad smile throwing its sunshine over her face and both her hands extended. "Welcome, brave stranger!" cried she. "We were expecting you. Your companions have already been received into my palace, and have enjoyed the hospitable treatment to which the propriety of their behavior so well entitles them. If such be your pleasure, you shall first take some refreshment, and then join them in the elegant apartments which they now occupy. See, I and my maidens have been weaving their figures into this piece of tapestry." She pointed to the web of beautifully woven cloth in the loom. Circe and the four nymphs must have been very diligently at work since the arrival of the mariners; for a great many yards of tapestry had now been wrought, in addition to what I before described. In this new part Ulysses saw his two-and-twenty friends represented as sitting on cushioned and canopied thrones, greedily devouring dainties and quaffing deep draughts of wine. The work had not yet gone any farther. Oh, no, indeed. The enchantress was far too cunning to let Ulysses see the mischief which her magic arts had since brought upon the gormandizers. "As for yourself, valiant sir," said Circe, "judging by the dignity of your aspect, I take you to be nothing less than a king. Deign to follow me, and you shall be treated as befits your rank." So Ulysses followed her into the oval saloon where his two-and-twenty comrades had devoured the banquet which ended so disastrously for themselves, but all this while he had held the snow-white flower in his hand, and had constantly smelt of it while Circe was speaking; and as he crossed the threshold of the saloon, he took good care to inhale several long and deep snuffs of its fragrance. Instead of two-and-twenty thrones, which had before been ranged around the wall, there was now only a single throne in the center of the apartment. But this was surely the most magnificent seat that ever a king or an emperor reposed himself upon, all made of chased gold, studded with precious stones, with a cushion that looked like a soft heap of living roses, and overhung by a canopy of sunlight which Circe knew how to weave into drapery. The enchantress took Ulysses by the hand, and made him sit down upon this dazzling throne. Then, clapping her hands, she summoned the chief butler. "Bring hither," said she, "the goblet that is set apart for kings to drink out of. And fill it with the same delicious wine which my royal brother, King Æetes, praised so highly when he last visited me with my fair daughter Medea. That good and amiable child! Were she now here, it would delight her to see me offering this wine to my honored guest." But Ulysses, while the butler was gone for the wine, held the snow-white flower to his nose. "Is it a wholesome wine?" he asked. At this the four maidens tittered; whereupon the enchantress looked round at them with an aspect of severity. "It is the wholesomest juice that ever was squeezed out of the grape," said she; "for, instead of disguising a man, as other liquor is apt to do, it brings him to his true self and shows him as he ought to be." The chief butler liked nothing better than to see people turned into swine, or making any kind of beast of themselves; so he made haste to bring the royal goblet, filled with a liquid as bright as gold, and which kept sparkling upward and throwing a sunny spray over the brim. But, delightful as the wine looked, it was mingled with the most potent enchantments that Circe knew how to concoct. For every drop of the pure grape juice there were two drops of the pure mischief; and the danger of the thing was, that the mischief made it taste all the better. The mere smell of the bubbles, which effervesced at the brim, was enough to turn a man's beard into pig's bristles, or make a lion's claws grow out of his fingers, or a fox's brush behind him. "Drink, my noble guest," said Circe, smiling as she presented him with the goblet. "You will find in this draught a solace for all your troubles." King Ulysses took the goblet with his right hand, while with his left he held the snow-white flower to his nostrils, and drew in so long a breath that his lungs were quite filled with its pure and simple fragrance. Then, drinking off all the wine, he looked the enchantress calmly in the face. "Wretch," cried Circe, giving him a smart stroke with her wand, "how dare you keep your human shape a moment longer? Take the form of the brute whom you most resemble. If a hog, go join your fellow-swine in the sty; if a lion, a wolf, a tiger, go howl with the wild beasts on the lawn; if a fox, go exercise your craft in stealing poultry. Thou hast quaffed off my wine, and canst be man no longer." But such was the virtue of the snow-white flower, instead of wallowing down from his throne in swinish shape, or taking any other brutal form, Ulysses looked even more manly and king-like than before. He gave the magic goblet a toss, and sent it clashing over the marble floor to the farthest end of the saloon. Then, drawing his sword, he seized the enchantress by her beautiful ringlets, and made a gesture as if he meant to strike off her head at one blow. "Wicked Circe," cried he, in a terrible voice, "this sword shall put an end to thy enchantments. Thou shalt die, vile wretch, and do no more mischief in the world by tempting human beings into the vices which make beasts of them." The tone and countenance of Ulysses were so awful, and his sword gleamed so brightly and seemed to have so intolerably keen an edge, that Circe was almost killed by the mere fright, without waiting for a blow. The chief butler scrambled out of the saloon, picking up the golden goblet as he went; and the enchantress and the four maidens fell on their knees, wringing their hands, and screaming for mercy. "Spare me!" cried Circe. "Spare me, royal and wise Ulysses. For now I know that thou art he of whom Quicksilver forewarned me, the most prudent of mortals, against whom no enchantments can prevail. Thou only couldst have conquered Circe. Spare me, wisest of men. I will show thee true hospitality, and even give myself to be thy slave, and this magnificent palace to be henceforth thy home." The four nymphs, meanwhile, were making a most piteous ado; and especially the ocean nymph, with the sea-green hair, wept a great deal of salt water, and the fountain nymph, besides scattering dewdrops from her fingers' ends, nearly melted away into tears. But Ulysses would not be pacified until Circe had taken a solemn oath to change back his companions, and as many others as he should direct, from their present forms of beast or bird into their former shapes of men. "On these conditions," said he, "I consent to spare your life. Otherwise you must die upon the spot." With a drawn sword hanging over her, the enchantress would readily have consented to do as much good as she had hitherto done mischief, however little she might like such employment. She therefore led Ulysses out of the back entrance of the palace, and showed him the swine in their sty. There were about fifty of these unclean beasts in the whole herd; and though the greater part were hogs by birth and education, there was wonderfully little difference to be seen betwixt them and their new brethren who had so recently worn the human shape. The comrades of Ulysses, however, had not quite lost the remembrance of having formerly stood erect. When he approached the sty, two-and-twenty enormous swine separated themselves from the herd and scampered towards him with such a chorus of horrible squealing as made him clap both hands to his ears. And yet they did not seem to know what they wanted, nor whether they were merely hungry, or miserable from some other cause. It was curious, in the midst of their distress, to observe them thrusting their noses into the mire in quest of something to eat. The nymph with the bodice of oaken bark (she was the hamadryad of an oak) threw a handful of acorns among them; and the two-and-twenty hogs scrambled and fought for the prize, as if they had tasted not so much as a noggin of sour milk for a twelvemonth. "These must certainly be my comrades," said Ulysses. "I recognize their dispositions. They are hardly worth the trouble of changing them into the human form again. Nevertheless, we will have it done, lest their bad example should corrupt the other hogs. Let them take their original shapes, therefore, Dame Circe, if your skill is equal to the task. It will require greater magic, I trow, than it did to make swine of them." So Circe waved her wand again, and repeated a few magic words, at the sound of which the two-and-twenty hogs pricked up their pendulous ears. It was a wonder to behold how their snouts grew shorter and shorter, and their mouths (which they seemed to be sorry for, because they could not gobble so expeditiously) smaller and smaller, and how one and another began to stand upon his hind-legs, and scratch his nose with his fore-trotters. At first the spectators hardly knew whether to call them hogs or men, but by and by they came to the conclusion that they rather resembled the latter. Finally, there stood the twenty-two comrades of Ulysses, looking pretty much the same as when they left the vessel. You must not imagine, however, that the swinish quality had entirely gone out of them. When once it fastens itself into a person's character, it is very difficult getting rid of it. This was proved by the hamadryad, who, being exceedingly fond of mischief, threw another handful of acorns before the twenty-two newly restored people; whereupon down they wallowed, in a moment, and gobbled them up in a very shameful way. Then recollecting themselves, they scrambled to their feet, and looked more than commonly foolish. "Thanks, noble Ulysses!" they cried. "From brute beasts you have restored us to the condition of men again." "Do not put yourselves to the trouble of thanking me," said the wise king. "I fear I have done but little for you." To say the truth, there was a suspicious kind of a grunt in their voices, and for a long time afterwards they spoke gruffly, and were apt to set up a squeal. "It must depend upon your own future behavior," added Ulysses, "whether you do not find your way back to the sty." At this moment the note of a bird sounded from the branch of a neighboring tree. "Peep, peep, pe--weep--ep!" It was the purple bird who, all this while, had been sitting over their heads, watching what was going forward, and hoping that Ulysses would remember how he had done his utmost to keep him and his followers out of harm's way. Ulysses ordered Circe instantly to make a king of this good little fowl, and leave him exactly as she found him. Hardly were the words spoken, and before the bird had time to utter another "Pe--weep," King Picus leaped down from the bough of the tree, as majestic a sovereign as any in the world, dressed in a long purple robe and gorgeous yellow stockings, with a splendidly wrought collar about his neck and a golden crown upon his head. He and King Ulysses exchanged with one another the courtesies which belong to their elevated rank. But from that time forth, King Picus was no longer proud of his crown and his trappings of royalty, nor of the fact of his being a king; he felt himself merely the upper servant of his people, and that it must be his lifelong labor to make them better and happier. As for the lions, tigers, and wolves (though Circe would have restored them to their former shapes at his slightest word), Ulysses thought it advisable that they should remain as they now were, and thus give warning of their cruel dispositions, instead of going about under the guise of men and pretending to human sympathies, while their hearts had the blood-thirstiness of wild beasts. So he let them howl as much as they liked, but never troubled his head about them. And when everything was settled according to his pleasure, he sent to summon the remainder of his comrades, whom he had left at the sea-shore. These being arrived, with the prudent Eurylochus at their head, they all made themselves comfortable in Circe's enchanted palace until quite rested and refreshed from the toils and hardships of their voyage. FOOTNOTE: [2] The Romans called him Mercury, and the Greeks Hermes. ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS BY HOPE MONCRIEFF Many a year did the much-enduring Ulysses sail unknown seas, on his way back from Troy to Ithaca, his island home. Beset by such mishaps and enchantments that for long he seemed little like to see again his faithful wife Penelope and his son Telemachus, he escaped from one perilous adventure after another, but none more fearsome than when he came to the smoking mountain-land of the Cyclopes. So were named a cruel race of one-eyed giants, wild as the rocky heights on which they fed their flocks of sheep and goats, knowing not to plant corn or fruit, and holding no commerce with kindly men, nor reverencing the lords of heaven. The very danger of venturing into such a land was lure enough for this hero, when from his ship he sighted a huge cave opening high above the beach, its mouth half hidden by a tangle of dark wood. Here lived alone one of these monsters, Polyphemus by name, a savage so churlish of nature that he kept aloof even from his fierce fellows. Eager to explore that gloomy lair, Ulysses picked out twelve of his boldest men, with whom he landed, leaving the vessel moored by the shore to await their return. On reaching the cave they found its master absent, but that he would soon return they might guess from the flocks of bleating lambs and kids penned up within, along with great piles of cheeses, vats of curd, and rows of milking vessels, the giant's household goods. The sailors, their hearts chilled by its damp shades, were not for staying long in this vast and deep-sunk hollow. "Let us begone," they urged their leader, "back to the ship with a load of cheeses and a drove of lambs and kids to mend our fare on the salt waves! It were better to help ourselves behind the back of such a host, who may soon come to catch us in his den." But Ulysses let curiosity get the better of prudence. He had a mind at all risks to know what manner of creature this was that lived in so strange an abode; and he kept his companions in the cave, with a venturesomeness that cost them dear. They even made bold to light a fire and to refresh themselves from the giant's store of milk and cheese; and thus were they caught, taking their ease, when Polyphemus came home at evening, driving before him his full-uddered flock. Above their bleating and scurrying was heard the heavy tramp of that monster, and the earth shook as from his shoulders he flung down a crashing stack of firewood, gathered in the forests through which he stalked like a moving mountain. The flock driven inside, he closed the entrance of the cave by dragging across it a mighty boulder that would have made a load for twenty wagons. Having thus shut out the fading light, he knelt down to milk his ewes and goats, as yet unaware what uninvited guests were straining their eyes at his black bulk from the deepest and darkest recess into which they had shrunk before his coming. But when he went on to light a fire, the flickering flames showed them his hideous face with its one broad red eye, that glowed in sudden anger when it fell upon the strangers; and through the smoky vaults echoed the blood-curdling roar with which he greeted them. "Who, and whence are ye?" he thundered forth. "Pirates, doubtless, who peril your own lives to rob other men!" "Nay," answered Ulysses, who of all the trembling band alone found voice to speak. "We are men of famous race, the Greeks who at last overcame Troy, and now, sailing home, have been driven by winds and waves upon this coast. As helpless suppliants we fall before thee, seeking the hospitality due to misfortune from all who fear the gods." "Ho, ho!" bellowed Polyphemus, in gigantic laughter. "Stranger, thou art strange indeed to this land, and a fool to boot, if thou think'st a Cyclops owns any law but his own will. For gods we care not, nor yet for men, whoever they boast themselves! But say, how and where came ye on our shore?" So he asked cunningly, hoping to make prize of their ship if anchored near at hand; but Ulysses was no less wily than bold, and took heed not to tell the truth. "Our vessel, alas! was dashed to pieces on the cliff, and, of all the crew, we only have saved nothing but our lives." Now the men saw with what an inhuman monster they had to do. The savage giant, wasting no more time in parley, caught up the first two that came to his hands, dashed their brains out against the stony floor, then greedily devoured their flesh before the eyes of the survivors, shuddering to think how soon they might meet the same fate. Ulysses alone, undaunted and indignant, laid hands on his sword, but forebore to draw it. Even when, having ended his horrid meal and washed it down with large draughts of milk, Polyphemus laid himself carelessly to sleep among his flocks, the hero saw it was vain to strike, for though he might slay their fearsome foe, he knew that the strength of all together could not roll away that rocky barrier from the cave mouth. There was nothing for it but to remain patient, watching a chance to overcome the giant by craft rather than by force. Through the night the poor sailors took such rest as they could, and the glimmering dawn brought fresh terror. As soon as the giant had risen and stretched his knotty limbs, he first set the lambs to the ewes, then snatched up two more of the hapless men, taken at random, to glut his taste for blood. When he turned out the flock to pasture, he neglected not to roll back the great rock that sealed up the cave, thus turned into a prison for these rash strangers, and soon like to be their tomb. But through the day their shrewd captain set his wits to work on a plot for escape. By good chance they had brought on shore with them a goat-skin full of strong wine, that now might serve to dull the giant's senses. In the cave they found a tree trunk he had plucked up by the root to make a club such as only so huge a monster could wield, for it was longer than the mast of their ship. This Ulysses had sharpened to a point and hardened in the fire before hiding it away among the dust and dirt that littered the cave. He explained to his comrades how he meant to use this enormous weapon, bidding them draw lots who should bear a hand with himself in the attempt; and, to his secret satisfaction, the lot fell on the very men he would have chosen for a daring deed. Polyphemus duly returned at night-fall and again, when he had closed the entrance and seen to his flocks, he caught up two more of the Greeks to make his supper. Half of his twelve men having thus been devoured, Ulysses brought to the blood-stained monster a milk-pail filled from the wine-skin. "Deign, O Cyclops," he cried on bended knee, "to taste this precious blood of the grape that rightly crowns a Greek banquet. It is well we have saved from our wreck one skin to offer thee, that may move thy heart to send us on our way unhurt, and not without some friendly boon. Else thy thirst for human blood will scare all men from this hateful shore, and never again canst thou come by such noble drink. Taste and know!" The greedy giant snatched up the bowl and drained it to the bottom; then, smacking his lips for delight, he held it out to be refilled. "Truly, it is noble drink, such as was never known in our land! Speak, stranger. Who art thou that bringest the nectar of the gods? Thy name?" "My name is Noman," quoth the crafty Ulysses, as he refilled the bowl. "Then, Noman, I grant thee a boon," hiccoughed the giant in boisterous glee, the fumes of the wine already mounting to his head. "In reward for the drink, I will eat up all thy companions before thee; and Noman shall be the last of all to die. So fill once more!" Again was poured the dark wine; and when Polyphemus had tossed off three brimming bowls, his brain began to reel, while his limbs failed him as well as his voice, with which he would have roared out brutal jests mixed with praises of this magic liquor. Staggering here and there, he stumbled and sprawled helplessly on the ground, and soon his snoring re-echoed through the cave like rolling thunder, as he sank into drunken slumber. [Illustration: ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS] When all else was still, Ulysses whispered the word to his wakeful crew. From the litter they silently dragged out that huge stake he had made ready: and blowing up the fire, heated its point till the green wood had almost burst into flame. It was all they could do to bear it along to the side of the sleeping giant. When their leader gave the signal, they plunged that red-hot spit into his eye, and, turning it like an awl, they bored a hole so deep and so wide that a torrent of blood gushed out to quench the fiery brand. The drunken giant started to his feet with a roar which sent them quailing backwards. But when he had torn the tormenting brand from his forehead, all he could do was to grope blindly around him, stamping and howling for pain and for rage against those puny enemies that in the dim firelight could take heed to keep out of his reach. So furious was the alarm he raised, that it woke his neighbor giants, who presently came hurrying along to the cave's mouth, and shouted to him: "What ails thee, Polyphemus, that thus our rest is disturbed? Who breaks upon thy sleep? Has any man found means to hurt thee? Or has some one been robbing thee by force or fraud?" "Noman has hurt me!" yelled back the blind giant. "Noman is robbing my flock! Noman, I say, has played a cruel trick upon me!" "Then if no man does thee harm, why these complaints?" grumbled his neighbors, while Ulysses chuckled over his sly device, all the more as he heard the giants tramping away to their own lairs with a parting word of mockery for the victim of a nightmare, as they took it to be. "If the gods send thee pain, take to prayer, and rouse us no more to give help against no man in mortal flesh!" Thus left to himself, the blinded monster, pouring out his rage in tears of blood, found it hopeless to lay hands on the silently exulting foes, who all night long remained shut up with him in the cave; yet more fiercely his dark mind was bent on revenge against that insolent Noman and the rest of his crew. Fumbling about till he touched the rock that barred the entrance, he heaved it away; then there sat down with his hands stretched out before him, to make sure that none of the men should slip through among the flock when the rosy dawn called them forth to their pasture. But again Ulysses was too wily for the thick-headed giant. Through the night he had been busy lashing the biggest rams together, three and three; and each midmost beast bore a man bound to it by osier twigs. The largest of all he kept for himself, creeping beneath it, and clinging to the thick fleece below its belly. On this strange steed he would come forth last of all. So, when the sheep poured out into the dewy uplands, the Cyclops, handling each as it slipped past him, felt nothing but their fleecy backs. Blind as he was, he knew the tread of that big ram, the pride of the flock, under which lay Ulysses, holding his breath, as its master stopped the beast to growl out: "Why com'st thou last who wert wont to lead the way, like a chief among thy fellows? Can it be that a dumb creature mourns for what Noman and his hateful band have done to its lord? Ah! could'st thou but speak to tell me in what corner the wretch lurks within, trembling for the moment when at last I shall dash out his brains and warm my heart with his blood!" With this he let the ram go, still sitting watchful at the entrance barred by his huge hands. But as he sat muttering threats, to his strained ears came a mocking cry from without, where now Ulysses had unbound his men, and the whole band were hurrying down to their ship, driving before them the pick of the giant's flock. Heartily the crew hailed their captain's return, and eagerly they would have known how it had fared with him. But this was no time for words. Ulysses bid them push off in haste, taking to their oars as soon as they had heaved the sheep on board. Scarcely indeed had they launched when the stumbling and shouting giant appeared upon the rocky heights above the shore. "Ha, ungracious host!" cried Ulysses; "didst thou think to gorge thyself on me, whom the gods have made an instrument to punish thy churlish manners?" No longer able to see his exultant enemies, the raging Cyclops plucked up a great rock to hurl after them, guided by the sound of that mocking voice. So near it fell that it had almost smashed the rudder, and raised such a wave as would have washed the galley back on shore had not Ulysses pushed it off again with all his strength, while the rowers bent their backs as for their lives. Though they begged him to be silent, their bold captain could not refrain from once more raising his voice in boastful taunts of the baffled monster. "Hear, Cyclops! Should men ask who blinded thee and made thy face more hideous than before, say not it was Noman, but Ulysses of Ithaca, victor at the walls of Troy!" Again the giant hurled a mighty rock that, had it struck fair, would have crushed their ship like an eggshell. Drenched by the splash, they rowed with might and main, and were soon out of reach; but so long as they could hear his voice, the raging giant's curses drove them onward across the bounding seas. Thus did Ulysses, by his cunning, prevail over the brute force of the Cyclops, for Minerva, goddess of Wisdom, inspired and guided him. Then soon, with a hungry heart craving for more adventures, he sailed to further wondrous lands and gathered fresh knowledge year by year. THE SIRENS BY V. C. TURNBULL Circe, when her spell was broken and she could no longer hope to keep Ulysses in her toils, repented her of the mischief she had done to his companions, and in a sudden fit of generosity (for though fickle and froward she was not wholly bad or heartless) determined to speed her parting guest. Not only did she know the power of herbs that could turn men into beasts, but as a goddess she could see into the future and foretell what should come to pass. So on the day of his departure she made a great feast and bade Ulysses and his crew. And they ate and drank to their hearts' content, and had no fear that they should suffer the fate of their companions. But Ulysses she took aside and revealed to him all that should befall him on his homeward voyage, and instructed him how he should avoid the perils that would beset him on the way. And first of all she bade him beware of the Sirens--sea maidens, whose song is more musical than is Apollo's lute; no mortal can resist its ravishment, and he who listens is lost. But Ulysses, whose soul still hungered for new adventures, said: "To hear such music, a man might well choose to die. Let me at any risk hear the song of the Sirens!" Then the goddess instructed him how, if he followed her precepts, he might hear the song of the Sirens and yet live. What the instructions were there is no need to tell, for Ulysses did all that the goddess had bidden him, and all that she foretold came to pass. So on the morrow the crew embarked, and Circe sending them a fair wind they were carried swiftly upon their way. But the heart of Ulysses was heavy as he pondered the counsels of the goddess and thought on the Sirens who had drawn so many men to their death. So he stood up and spoke to all his men, saying: "Friends, it is well I should declare to you the oracles of Circe, that with foreknowledge we may shun death--for she bade us shun the sound of the voices of the Sirens, and me only she bade listen to their song. Bind me, therefore, in a hard bond, that I may remain unmoved in my place, upright in the mast-stead, and from the mast let rope-ends be tied; and if I entreat and command you to set me free, then do ye bind me with yet more bonds." The men gave good heed, promising to obey in all things the commands of their wise leader. Meanwhile, land was spied ahead, and, Circe's wind still speeding the ship, she was borne swiftly towards the shore. Suddenly the wind ceased and there was a dead calm. No sea-bird cried, and the very waves seemed spell-bound. Then Ulysses knew that they were approaching the perilous Isle of the Sirens. So while his men were furling in the idle sails and plying the oars once more, he drew his sharp sword and, cutting in pieces a great cake of wax, kneaded it with his strong hands. Then, when the wax was soft, he anointed therewith the ears of his men as they sat at their oars, that they might not hear the voices of the Sirens. And the men in their turn bound their leader hand and foot upright in the mast-stead, and from the mast they fastened rope-ends. Having done this, they sat down to their oars and smote the level waters. Fast sped the ship across the bay, and now they were within hailing distance of the land. And there on the shore stood the Sirens, lovely as goddesses, singing and striking their golden lyres. Round about them was a green meadow, very sweet to the eyes of those sea-worn warriors, for the white bones with which it was strewn appeared but as lilies such as they remembered in their fields at home. Nearer sped the ship, and now the Sirens, seeing the far-famed Ulysses on board, sang yet more sweetly, in this fashion: "O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me: Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day: Mariner, mariner, furl your sails; ... sweet shall your welcome be. O hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we: * * * * * We will kiss sweet kisses and speak sweet words: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridgèd sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more."[3] So they sang, waving their white arms, beckoning with smiles and twanging their golden lyres. And their voice floating over the waters was sweet in the ears of travel-worn Ulysses--so sweet indeed, that forgetting the wise counsels of Circe, he called to his company to unbind him. But they, having their ears stopped with wax, could hear neither him nor the Sirens, and rowed more swiftly than before. So Ulysses made signs to them, nodding and frowning, whereupon two of them, Perimedes and Eurylochus, remembering his former words, rose and bound him yet faster to the mast. And bending their backs the rowers pulled their hardest, the curved keel shooting past the perilous shore. Fainter and fainter grew the song of the Sirens as now they were left behind, and their white arms could hardly be seen beckoning. And anon a breeze broke once more upon the deadly calm, and the sails being hoisted the ship was swept out to sea and the Isle of the Sirens became but a speck upon the horizon and was lost to view. So, by following the wise counsels of Circe of the braided tresses, the much-experienced Ulysses and all his comrades escaped the wiles of the Sirens who had enticed many to their death. But when the Sirens saw themselves at last defeated, their song was turned into a wail and their white robes seemed like wind-swept foam as they plunged beneath the wave. But the Sirens are immortal, and though no men can now behold their white bosoms pressing golden harps, yet their voices are still heard and still they sing the same song that they sang to Ulysses: "Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more."[4] FOOTNOTES: [3] Tennyson, "The Sea Fairies." [4] Tennyson, "The Lotos-Eaters." THE STORY OF NAUSICAA BY M. M. BIRD One night, Nausicaa, sole daughter of Alcinous, the Phæacian King, had a dream. She dreamt that the daughter of Dymas, her favorite playmate, stood at her bedside and gently chid her. "Shame upon thee, lie-a-bed," she cried, "to waste the shining hours. 'Twill soon be thy wedding-day, and thy bridal robe and the garments for thy bridesmaids have still to be washed and bleached. Get up and ask thy father to order for thee the wain and mules to draw it, and we'll all go a-washing, thou and I and our favorite playmates, to that clear pool where the river pauses before it plunges into the sea." At dawn Nausicaa awoke, but daylight did not dispel the dream, for it was Minerva herself who sent it. She waylaid her father as he went to the Council of the Elders and cried to him: "Father dear, may I have the high wain and the mules to-day? There is much soiled raiment to be washed--mine and thine and that of my three brothers who dwell with me in the palace." But of the bridal of her dream she said nothing, for she was a bashful maiden. And her father, smiling at her strange eagerness, said, "My darling child may take the car; whate'er our daughter asks, we give." Swiftly her attendants prepared the wain and harnessed the mules. They loaded it with the soiled robes and dresses that the maiden brought from her bower, and the good mother put on top a basket filled with cates and dainties, and a wine-skin, and a cruse of olive oil wherewith to anoint the maidens after their bath. Nausicaa climbed into the wain, and away they sped with laughter and with song, this bright bevy of maidens. When they reached the spot where all the falling streams emptied their waters into a wide basin, they unharnessed the mules and let them loose to graze on the plain, while all the girls set gayly to their task. At length they had finished their toil; every garment had been steeped and trodden with their dainty feet, and rinsed and spread out to dry on the hot sands, which sparkled in the sunlight. Then the maidens undressed and dabbled and splashed one another, and frolicked in the crystal pool. Tired with work and play they anointed their dripping limbs with the olive oil and sat down to rest in the shade. And Nausicaa unpacked the basket, and they ate and drank of the good things that the Queen had provided. This done, and while the clothes were yet drying in the sun, they played ball in the meadow, tossing it from one to another; and all the while Nausicaa guided their movements, keeping time with a rustic ballad measure. Meanwhile, all unknown to these merry maidens, deep in the shelter of a low-branched tree, Ulysses lay asleep. A tempest had wrecked his ship and robbed him of all his companions, and he had only the day before, by help of the goddess Leucothea, been saved, and hardly saved, from the devouring sea. Clinging to a spar he had been cast upon the Phæacian shore after many hours in the storm-tossed deep. Worn and bruised by battling with the breakers, he had sought shelter under the drooping branches of two ancient olive trees. Beneath this covert he made a great bed of fallen leaves, and heaping them above him, soon fell into a deep slumber sent in mercy to restore him by the ever-watchful Minerva. It chanced that in their game a girl missed the ball that Nausicaa threw, and it fell into the rapid stream, and was lost. The girls all shrieked, and the piercing cry waked the sleeping Ulysses. "Alas!" he lamented, "upon what inhospitable coast have I been cast? Is it possessed by fierce barbarians who will slay, or by men who will prove pitiful? Do I hear the voices of nymphs, or dryads, or of human maids?" The hero rose straightway from his leafy bed, and tearing off a green bough to hide his nakedness, he stepped forth to discover his fate. When the affrighted maidens saw this wild and savage man advancing, they fled and hid themselves among the rocks and caves of the broken shore. Not so Nausicaa. Inspired by Minerva with a boldness not her own, she stood and watched this strange interloper. He was now close to her, but he dared not clasp her knees, as suppliants are wont to do, for fear of alarming her, but, keeping his distance, he told her of his perils by sea. For twenty nights he had been wrestling with the waves, and had hardly reached this present haven. Now, famished and exhausted, he waited anxiously to learn where he stood, and only begged some garment to clothe his nakedness. "Lady," he added, with cunning flattery, "I know not whether thou art mortal or divine, so fair a maiden I now behold. Only once in Delos I saw so goodly a thing as thou--the sapling of a palm tree that sprung from the altar of Apollo." The fair Nausicaa was touched by his courtly words and bearing, and, marred as he was by the salt sea-foam, she marked his noble features. She answered his questions with graceful sweetness, telling with whom he had found refuge and assuring him of their hospitality. She called her girls and blamed them for their idle fears. Obedient to her directions they led Ulysses to the secret pool where he might bathe, they gave him of the oil to anoint himself, and laid ready for him one of the shining garments that they had just washed and dried in the sun. The maidens surveyed with wonder the majestic figure of the stranger when he returned to them, bathed and anointed, and clad in the pomp of royal vesture. And Nausicaa, gazing with admiration on him, whispered a prayer to Heaven that some such noble spouse might fall to her happy lot. They hastened then to serve him, setting before him food and wine, and he ate and drank eagerly, for he was half starved. Then, as evening approached, Nausicaa's cares were directed to their return to her father's palace. The mules were harnessed to the car, and she then turned to the stranger and gave him instructions how to reach the palace. For fear of slanderous tongues, she would not permit him to accompany her train, but caused him to follow at a seemly distance. She promised to go to her royal father and intercede with him for the stranger, whom she directed to follow her to the palace with all reasonable haste. There she advised that he should seek the Queen, Arete, whom he would find at that hour busied with her weaving. If he disclosed his mournful tale to her sympathetic ear, he would be assured of assistance, and doubtless live to see his native land once again. Thereon she whipped up her team of mules, and they started at a canter, but she was careful soon to rein them in that Ulysses might keep pace with them. But when they neared the town he stayed awhile in a sacred grove while Nausicaa went on her way through the crowded streets, where all turned to gaze at the princess, and thought she had never looked so beautiful. At the palace gates her brothers gathered round and received from her hands the garments she had washed for them. Then she hastened to her mother's chamber. Ulysses slowly approached the famous city of the Phæacians. Lest the lordly mien and regal robes of the stranger should attract the attention of the low-born crowd, Minerva spread a mist about her hero wherein he could walk unperceived and unmolested. When he had passed the walls of the city, he saw a girl carrying a pitcher (it was his goddess in disguise). He accosted her and begged her to show him the palace of Alcinous. This she did, and only left him at the gates, telling him that Arete was a gracious Queen, and if he won her favor, she might speed him on his homeward way. She vanished, leaving the hero to admire the beauties of the royal gates. These were of massive brass; a high cornice was reared above them, rich plates of gold overlaid the folding doors, and the pillars were of silver. Two rows of sculptured dogs in gold and silver, formed by Vulcan with divine art, stood guardian at Alcinous' gate, and within was a pleached garden, planted with fruit trees of all kinds, whose fruit faileth not, winter and summer alike. Pear ripens on pear, apple on apple, fig upon fig, and new grapes redden on the vine while the old grapes are treading in the wine-press. Long while Ulysses gazed and wondered. Then he crossed the threshold, and passing unperceived through the banqueting hall, he sought the inner chamber where sat the royal pair. And he cast his hands about the knees of Arete, and besought her pity, and that of the King, for a wretched exile worn with griefs and long toil. Then he sat him down among the ashes of their hearth. The King was moved with compassion. He raised the suppliant to a seat beside his own, and bade him share the feast. After pouring a due libation to Jupiter, the god of suppliants, Alcinous summoned his captains and princes to meet in council the following day to debate the cause of the stranger and devise proper means to transport him safe to the distant shore he designed to reach. When all had taken their departure and Ulysses was left alone with the King and Queen, Arete asked him who he was, whence he came, and who had given him that robe? For well she knew the garments her own hands had fashioned. Ulysses answered with the tale of his shipwreck and the gentle ministrations of her fair daughter, but his name he did not reveal. But Alcinous answered: "My daughter was much to blame in that she brought thee not to our house. Gladly would I give her to a man so goodly as thou, and I would bestow on thee lands and wealth if thou would'st stay. But no man will I detain against his will; and if thou would'st depart I will furnish thee with ships and an escort to speed thee on the way." Next day there was feasting in the hall to entertain the guest, and Demodocus the famous minstrel was there, and he sang the Song of Troy, of Agamemnon and Hector, aye, and of the feud 'twixt Achilles and Ulysses. And Ulysses, as he listened, drew his cloak over his head to hide his tears. After the feast there were games--racing, wrestling, and throwing the discus; and when the stranger was invited to make trial of his strength he hurled a huge rock that flew twice as far as the farthest quoit; and to this day the islanders point out to travelers Ulysses' stone. Again at evening there was feasting in the hall. And Ulysses, as he came from the bath, anointed with oil and clad in the royal mantle that Alcinous had given him, on his way to join the feast, met the white-armed Nausicaa standing in the doorway. "Farewell, stranger," she whispered; "depart in peace; and in thy far home think sometimes on the little maid who saved thee from the sea." And Ulysses answered: "Nausicaa, to thee I owe my life, and if God grants me to reach my home, all my days I will do worship to thee, as to a god." Then he hastened to join the feasters, and set him in the seat assigned to him at Alcinous' right hand. Noticing Demodocus, the sweet minstrel, standing by a pillar alone, he called a henchman and said, "Take from me this mess of wild boar, and when he has eaten thereof and drunk, bid him sing me, as he will, the lay of the Wooden Horse." And the inspired minstrel brought back to him so vividly that tale of fire and carnage that Ulysses was moved to tears; and Alcinous asked him whether he had lost some kinsman in the fray, or some friend dearer than a brother. Then Ulysses disclosed his name, and gave the King the full and true story of all his wanderings from the fall of Troy to the shipwreck that landed him on this friendly shore. When the long tale was ended Alcinous spake to his lordly company. "Let us speed our parting guest, the bravest and the noblest that has ever visited our land. With raiment and gold have I myself furnished him, but each of you give him a tripod or a caldron for a keepsake." As the King said so was it done, and Alcinous himself saw all the precious gifts safely stowed in the ship he had provided. Then they pledged one another in a parting cup, and Ulysses bade farewell to his generous and great-hearted hosts. Worn out with the emotions of those crowded hours he wrapped himself in his mantle and lay down to sleep in the stern, while the spread sails caught the freshening breeze and the galley flew over the waters. When the morning star shone bright in the heavens, the hills of Ithaca appeared like a cloud upon the horizon, and as day broke the ship drew into a little bay and grounded on the sands. Seeing that Ulysses was still wrapped in unbroken slumber, the sailors took him gently upon his couch and placed him on the rocky shore of his own Ithaca. Alcinous' royal gifts they placed beside him in the shade of a wild olive tree. Then they relaunched their bark and sped back across the main. Thus Ulysses reached once more his native land, but the end of his perils was not yet. THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES BY M. M. BIRD After ten long years of fighting Troy had fallen and the kings and captains had sailed away bearing home to Greece the spoils of the sacked city. Among these chieftains was Ulysses, lord of the small and rocky island of Ithaca, and none more famous than he for prowess in arms and yet more for the spirit of wisdom that the wise goddess Minerva put into the heart of her favored warrior. But while the other leaders straightway sought their homes, Ulysses roamed the seas for another ten years. The goddess Juno loved him not, and often drove him from his course; and he, ever yearning to gain knowledge of lands and men, encountered the strangest adventures in his wanderings, some of which you have already heard. But it is of his homecoming that I have now to tell. His perils and adventures were not ended yet, and without Minerva's aid he must surely have perished. When he landed on the rocky coast of Ithaca he found himself a complete stranger in his own land after twenty years of absence, so by Minerva's advice he disguised himself as a beggar that he might discover something of the state of his kingdom before making himself known. His queen, Penelope, had suffered great troubles and perplexities all these years. She had the care of all the lands and vast herds of cattle that made up the riches of the kingdom; many of her servants proved both dishonest and rebellious; and now a number of the neighboring princes had come seeking her hand in marriage. For all men held that Ulysses must have perished or he would surely have returned ere this. Telemachus, her young son, had just reached manhood, but was not yet strong enough unaided to drive out his mother's bold and shameless suitors and restore order to his realm. So the suitors continued to live in the palace, feasting daily and wasting Ulysses' goods and cattle with their wanton extravagances, while they continually urged Penelope to marry one of their number and give him the right to rule her kingdom for her. To this she would not give consent, for she loved Ulysses, and wept in secret over his absence and longed for his return, though she scarcely dared to hope for it after so many years had passed without news of his safety. At length Telemachus was inspired by Minerva to set out on a journey to seek his father. The goddess accompanied him in the guise of a wise old man named Mentor, to assist him in his search. After adventurous wanderings he reached the city of Sparta, where King Menelaus reigned, who gave him news of Ulysses and counseled him to return at once to Ithaca since his father was on his way thither. Telemachus hastened back, and, arriving before he was expected, went secretly to the house of Eumaeus, a faithful servant of the King, who for many years had filled the post of chief herdsman and keeper of the royal swine. This was an office of trust, for much of the wealth of the kingdom was in these herds of swine, which were required as sacrifices to the gods as well as for human food. Ulysses by this time had reached the house of Eumaeus, who had received him with kindness, and fed him, although he did not recognize his King in the aged beggar he found at his door. To this beggar he made complaint of the King's wasted substance, and the insufferable behavior of these suitors of the Queen. His tales of their doings made Ulysses' blood boil. He could hardly contain his indignation sufficiently to sustain the character of a wandering beggar whom these things did not concern. But he succeeded so well that Eumaeus had no suspicion who his strange guest could be. When Telemachus appeared, Eumaeus greeted him with the tenderness of a father, for he loved the young man dearly, and at once hastened to announce the joyful news of his safe return to his mother Penelope. When thus left alone, Ulysses threw off his disguise and declared himself to his son. Long time they discussed how best to take vengeance on these wicked and insolent princes who were plotting to deprive them of their kingdom; and they decided that as they were many and powerful it was needful to exercise caution and overcome them by cunning. Therefore Telemachus departed to the palace and disclosed to no one the news of Ulysses' return, not even to the Queen his mother. The wicked suitors had planned an ambush to slay the young prince as he made his way home from his journey in search of his father, but thanks to his secret and unexpected arrival, he had escaped their clutches. According to their daily custom they sat down to a feast in the hall of the palace, where Telemachus, putting on an appearance of great friendliness, joined them. Thither Eumaeus persuaded his aged guest to accompany him. In fluttering rags and leaning on his staff as though weighed down by age and weakness, Ulysses passed along the road to the palace that was his own. Outside the gate they were met by Melanthius, the faithless steward, whose own ill deeds made him show spite and jealousy to the blameless Eumaeus. He rated the old beggar soundly and ordered him away, and when he protested, cursed him and muttered a prayer that some suitor's sword might pierce the heart of Telemachus and rid them of a son no better than his dead father. Ulysses stood a moment in speechless rage, doubting whether to strike the wretch to earth with one blow of his mighty arm; but wiser counsels prevailed, and he curbed his anger and bore all affronts and insults with a noble fortitude that steadfastly awaited the right moment to strike. Passing the insolent Melanthius with disdain they approached the door. Lying on a dunghill beside the way Ulysses beheld his aged hound Argus, the hero of many a gallant chase. Now neglected, starved, forlorn, he had crept forth to die. But at the sound of his master's voice he strove in vain to raise the wasted body that was too weak to move from the dunghill where it lay. But with tail and ears and eyes he proclaimed his joy. A tear stole unperceived down Ulysses' cheek. He questioned Eumaeus about the hound, and as he paused, the noble creature, to whom fate had granted a sight of his master after twenty years of patient waiting, took one last look and died. When Eumaeus introduced the old beggar into the banqueting hall, true to the character he had adopted Ulysses went round to each reveler in turn and begged for food. Some carelessly flung him a few scraps, giving away readily what was not their own, but Antinous, the most lawless and violent of all the suitors, abused him and threw a footstool at him, striking him on the shoulder. Telemachus indignantly protested against this act of violence, and Ulysses was permitted to sit down by the door, with his scrip full of scraps from the princes' well-filled table. Presently there entered another beggar, a surly vagrant of great stature, named Irus, well known at the tables of the rich. He was enraged to find that another had been before him, and attacked the old man with loud abuse, finally challenging him to a fight, thinking him too weak with age to defend himself. The princes applauded him and urged on the fight between the two beggars. Ulysses pretended to fear, but when he threw off his rags and displayed his well-knit limbs and great muscles, all gazed at him astonished, and Irus tried to escape. He was caught and dragged before Ulysses and forced to engage in the combat he had provoked. Ulysses, knowing his own strength to be invincible, did not strike with more than half his force, but the first blow broke the sturdy beggar's jaw and flung him to the ground, from whence he was unable to rise. Ulysses was then given as the prize of victory a stew of savory meat. When the revelers were deep in their cups Ulysses and his son Telemachus stole away from the hall and conferred together in secret. They gathered all the best of the weapons in the armory and hid them in a convenient chamber, to be at hand in case of need. Telemachus then introduced Ulysses to the chamber of his mother Penelope, who failed to pierce his disguise, but listened with eagerness to the account the beggar gave of his wanderings and adventures. He claimed to have formerly entertained her husband in Crete, described his appearance exactly, and declared to her joy that his return within a month was certain. She then sent him to the bath, and bade Euryclea wait upon him. It happened that Euryclea was his old nurse, and her heart went out to the stranger, for in his look and voice there was something that reminded her of her absent lord. Gladly she fetched water to refresh him and knelt before him to bathe his feet. He remembered the long scar on his thigh, made by the tusk of a wild boar when as a youth he had hunted on Parnassus, and he strove to keep it concealed. But the loving eyes of his faithful nurse pierced the tattered rags that he wore, and she knew him for her lord and master. "My son--my King!" she cried. He laid his hand on her lips to stay the cry of joy that broke from her, and gravely warned her not to betray his return. When he returned from his bath, the Queen, still more impressed by his noble presence, though yet she knew him not, confided to him a design she had planned to assist her choice among these suitors who were all distasteful to her. She proposed to set them a superhuman task--to bend the great bow of Ulysses and perform the feat in which he used to excel. Two rows of beams, six in each row, should be set at equal distances apart, to support twelve silver ax rings, and through each line of six rings the archer must let fly his arrow straight and true. And the noble archer who should perform this feat should be rewarded by her hand. Ulysses applauded this design, urging her not to fear to name herself the prize, since Ulysses himself would enter the lists before the trial was over, win the prize, and claim her for his own. The following day another great feast was set, and the princes sat down to their feasting. Ulysses by this had watched the behavior of his people, and now understood who were faithful to him and who deserved no trust. Into this scene of revelry Penelope entered with her maidens, bearing the great bow and arrows of Ulysses, and challenged the princes to bend this bow and shoot the arrow through the silver rings as her lord Ulysses had been used to do, promising that he who could accomplish this should be her husband. The beams were already set in place, and Telemachus claimed his right to try his skill first among the suitors, since victory meant to him the safeguarding of a kingdom already his by right of descent. He set the axes in line upon the beams, with the rings ready for the flight of his arrow. Three times his young arm tried to bend the bow, three times he failed. Then all the princes in order, from right to left, took up the bow in turn and tried their skill. In vain they strained their muscles; they rubbed the bow with fat; they warmed it at the flame to make it supple; they tried every device to bend it. The tough bow bent not in their impious hands! While they strove Ulysses took aside Eumaeus, and Philaetus a herdsman and one who had remained faithful to him, and revealed himself to them. He then ordered that every door of the palace should be guarded by a trusty matron, and the main gate secured by a cable, and bade them then attend on him in the hall. Telemachus had sent his mother and her maids away to their own apartments, and asserting his authority now directed Eumaeus to bear the bow to the disguised beggar, that he might try his skill and strength. All the suitors were furious at this strange favor shown to a common beggar, and it was amidst a scene of tumult and confusion that Ulysses, without rising from his seat, bent the bow and sent his arrow straight and true through the silver rings. There was a moment of silent astonishment. Telemachus hastened to gird on his sword and, taking his javelin in his hand, stood by his father's side. Ulysses cried aloud to the suitors that he had won the first game he had tried to-day, and was ready to play a second with them. And another arrow winged its way straight at the throat of Antinous, who had raised a golden bowl and was drinking deep of the wine. The arrow pierced his neck and he dropped the goblet and fell lifeless on the marble floor. There was panic in the hall; the princes looked in vain for weapons or a way of escape from the doom that menaced them. "Aimest thou at princes?" they cried to Ulysses in their terror. "Dogs! ye have had your day!" cried he, and declared his name and estate to them. Some drew their swords and rushed on him, but the flying arrows pinned them, and they fell dead in heaps, while the sword and javelin of young Telemachus did good service. At length every suitor lay dead. The hall was like a shambles. Then the unfaithful servants were made to purify the palace and afterwards paid with their lives for their misdeeds, while those who had been true to their lord crowded around him with joy. Euryclea flew to summon the sleeping Penelope. She was unable to believe the glad news. "Ulysses comes! The suitors are no more!" She could not think it true. At last she stood trembling before her lord, still afraid to believe it was he, age and time seemed to have made him so strange to her eyes. Then Minerva crowned her watchful care of the hero by restoring to him the beauty of his youth; but still the Queen hesitated. Ulysses therefore described to her the marvels of the bridal bed he had contrived for her of the huge olive tree that grew in the courtyard. Penelope saw then that it was indeed the King, who alone could have known the secret of the bed. She fell fainting into his arms in a transport of joy, and Ulysses once more resumed his sway over the kingdom. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON BY H. P. MASKELL On the slopes of the Phrygian hills there once dwelt a pious old couple named Baucis and Philemon. They had lived all their lives in a tiny cottage of wattles thatched with straw, cheerful and contented in spite of their poverty. Servants never troubled them, because they waited on themselves, and they never had to consider the whims of other people, because they were their own masters. As this worthy old couple sat dozing by the fireside one evening in the late autumn, two strangers came and begged a shelter for the night. They had to stoop to enter the humble doorway, where the old man welcomed them heartily and bade them rest their weary limbs on the settle. Meanwhile Baucis stirred the embers, blowing them into a flame with dry leaves, and heaping on fagots and logs to boil the stewing-pot. Hanging from the blackened beams was a rusty side of bacon. Philemon cut off a rasher to roast; and while his guests refreshed themselves with a wash at the rustic trough, he gathered what pot herbs could be culled from his patch of garden. Then the old woman, her hands trembling with age, laid the cloth and spread the board. It was a rickety old table. One leg was too short, and had to be propped up with a potsherd. It was but a frugal meal, but one that hungry wayfarers could relish. The first course was a sort of omelet of curdled milk and eggs garnished with radishes and candied cornel berries, served on rude oaken platters. The cups of turned beechwood were filled with home-made wine from an earthenware jug. With the second course there were nuts, dried figs, and dates--plums too, and sweet-smelling apples, grapes, and a piece of clear white honeycomb. What made it the more grateful to the guests was the hearty spirit in which all was offered. Their hosts gave all they had to give without stint or grudging. But all at once something happened which startled and amazed Baucis and Philemon. They poured out wine for their guests, and lo! each time the pitcher filled itself again to the brim! In alarm they knelt down and implored the pardon of their visitors, for they now saw that these were not mere mortals. They were indeed none other than Jupiter and Mercury, who had come down to earth in disguise. The old couple excused themselves; by reason of their poverty and the lack of time, they had not been able to provide them a better entertainment. And Philemon hurried out and gave chase to their single goose, who served them for a watch-dog, intending to kill it and roast it for their guests. However, these forbade him, saying: "We are from above, and we have come down to punish the impious dwellers of the plains. In mortal shape we came down, and at a hundred houses asked for lodging and for rest. For answer a hundred doors were locked and barred against us. You alone, the poorest of all, have received us gladly, and given us of your best. Now it is for us to punish those who treat strangers so churlishly, while you shall be spared. Only leave your cottage and follow us to the mountain-top." So saying, the deities led the way up the hill, and the two old folk hobbled after them on their crutches. Presently they stopped to take rest, and, looking round, saw all the country round sinking into a marsh, their own hut alone left standing. And while they gazed, before their very eyes their cabin was changed into a temple. The stakes in the porch turned into marble columns, and the door expanded into a great carved and inlaid gate of bronze. The thatch grew yellow, till at last they saw that it had become a roof of gold tiles. Then Jupiter, regarding them with kindly eyes, inquired: "Tell us, good old man, and you, good wife, well worthy of such a husband, what boon would you crave of us?" Philemon whispered for a moment with Baucis, and she nodded her approval. "We desire," he replied, "to be your servants, and have the care of this temple. One other favor only we would ask. From boyhood I have loved only Baucis, and she has lived only for me. Let the same hour take us both away together. Let me never see the tomb of my wife, nor let her suffer the misery of mourning my death." The gods willingly granted both these requests, and endowed them with youth and strength as well. So long as their lives lasted Baucis and Philemon were guardians of the temple. And when once more old age and feebleness overtook them, they were standing, one day, in front of the sacred porch and relating to visitors the story of the temple. Baucis happened to turn her gaze on her husband and saw him slowly changing into a gnarled oak. And Philemon, as he felt himself rooted to the ground, saw Baucis at the same time turning to a leafy linden; and as their faces disappeared behind the green foliage, each cried to the other, "Farewell, dearest love"; and again, "Dearest love, farewell"; and trunks and branches took the place of their human forms. For long years these two trees were pointed out to all who came to worship at the temple, and many loved to bring garlands and hang them on the trees, in honor of two souls whose virtue the gods had so signally rewarded. And still, if you visit the spot, you may see an oak and a linden with branches intertwined. What more proof would you have that this tale is true? HYPERMNESTRA BY V. C. TURNBULL Danaüs and Ægyptus, two brothers, ruled together over Egypt. And to Danaüs fifty daughters were born, while Ægyptus begot fifty sons. Yet was not Danaüs happy; nay, he went all day in fear. For the mysterious voice of the Theban oracle had sounded terribly in his ears: WHEN THY DAUGHTER MARRIETH, DANAÜS, THOU ART DOOMED TO DEATH! Never could Danaüs put these words from his mind. Walking alone in the gardens of his palace, he started, thinking one whispered them in his ear; at the banquet they sounded like thunder above the singing of the minstrels; and at night he lay trembling on his bed, hearing the doom of the oracle spoken in low tones out of the darkness. So the life of Danaüs became dark and bitter, and his heart grew hard and cruel with fear. Now the sons of Ægyptus were grown into comely youths, and to their father it seemed but fitting that they should marry their cousins, the daughters of Danaüs, beautiful maidens all. But when he spoke thereon to his brother, a great terror fell on Danaüs. For casting his eyes on the young men as they strove together in their sports, he thought with bitterness: "Yea, and shall one of these be my murderer?" Then, in fear and rage, he turned to his brother, and, snarling like a wolf, cried, "Child of mine weds not child of thine!" Whereat Ægyptus raged mightily, swearing to fulfil his purpose, so that Danaüs, ever cunning rather than valiant, made amends for his hasty words and promised to tell his daughters of their uncle's pleasure. Howbeit, that night Danaüs gathering together his daughters, his slaves, and his goods, secretly left the palace, and flying northward to the coast of the Great Sea, there took ship and came at length to Argos in Greece. Gelanor, King of Argos, received Danaüs and his daughters with kindness and feasted them with royal cheer. But the heart of Danaüs knew not gratitude, and having left the throne of Egypt, he sought how to take that of Argos. Nor was this difficult, for Gelanor was at strife with his people, who were but too ready to seek a new ruler. Therefore, when Danaüs spoke to them fair words, promising them many things, they gave glad heed, and ere many days had passed Gelanor was driven forth and Danaüs ruled over Argos in his stead. But not long was he left in peace. For his brother Ægyptus, enraged to find Danaüs forsworn, and hearing of his fortune in Argos, called his sons together and cried to them, saying: "Sons, will ye suffer yourselves to be fooled? Shall this man snatch from you your brides and rule in peace on the throne which he hath stolen? Nay, if ye be sons of mine, go, gather to yourselves a mighty army and take from him his daughters and his land, and the gods prosper you and protect your rights." Then the young men, kindling at their father's words, gathered quickly a great host, and sailing in a fleet to Argos, they harried the country before Danaüs knew of their landing. And when one ran to tell him of their coming, a great fear struck upon his heart, for louder than ever in Egypt sounded in his ear: WHEN THY DAUGHTER MARRIETH, DANAÜS, THOU ART DOOMED TO DEATH! So with fear and hatred in his breast, but with smooth words upon his lips, he went forth to meet the young men and their followers, who were even now at the palace gates. All that they demanded he promised. "Take my daughters to wife," he cried; "reign over Argos in my stead, for I am old, and weary of ruling a strange people!" So the young men were admitted into the palace, and the maidens their cousins received them with mirth and feasting, and the day of their nuptials was appointed. But before the day came, the crafty Danaüs called his daughters to him and commanded them on peril of their lives to slay their husbands so soon as they should be wedded. And to each he gave a sharp dagger to conceal under her wedding robe. These, therefore, the daughters of Danaüs took, purposing to obey their father. For many of them were cruel even as he, while others, caring nothing for their affianced husbands, feared greatly to disobey Danaüs. So it was that as they took counsel together in the women's chamber after leaving their father's presence, there was but one voice among the maidens as to the wisdom of obeying his word. But the youngest, Hypermnestra, was silent. For her heart was tender and pitiful, and Lynceus, her betrothed, youngest of the sons of Ægyptus and the fairest, had moved her heart to love and tenderness. Like her sisters, she feared her father, and never before had she disobeyed his orders; but love conquered fear, and pity was stronger than filial duty. Now came the day of the weddings, and at night a great feast was spread. Golden lamps shed their radiance throughout the palace, and clouds of incense rolled up from the altar of Hymen, the god of happy nuptials. But Hypermnestra, heart-sick at the mockery, loathed the rich viands and the fumes of incense seemed to choke her. The feast was over, and the young bridegrooms, crowned with chaplets of fresh flowers and dressed in wedding robes, had drunk deeply of drugged wine, and were half asleep before they reached their bridal chambers--led like lambs to the slaughter! * * * * * Hypermnestra sat up on her couch, listening with straining ears. Surely it was groaning she heard, on this side and on that. Her sisters were obeying their father's command, and dared she alone be disobedient? By her side lay young Lynceus, flushed with wine and sleep, his head thrown back, his breast bare. Nearer and louder sounded the groans, and she knew that Danaüs would speedily be coming to count the dead. In her terror she raised her weapon, and would have stricken first her lover and then herself. "On earth," she cried, "there is no escape. I will die with my love, and we will go together to the realms of Tartarus, I the bride and he the bridegroom of Death." But as she bent over the sleeping Lynceus her hot tears awoke him, and he stretched out his arms to embrace her. She started aside like a guilty thing and hid her dagger, and cried to Lynceus: "Arise, fly hence! else will to-night be to thee an everlasting night!" "What sayest thou?" he murmured, only half awake. "Art mocking me? Is that a dagger in thy left hand?" "Rise and fly, while there is yet time!" she cried again. "Thy brothers are already dead, treacherously slain by their brides. The dawn is near; soon it will be too late. Leave me; fly! I cannot bear to see thee slain!" Then Lynceus sprang up and fled, and scarcely had he gone when Danaüs, gloating over his victims, entered to see if Hypermnestra had been obedient as her sisters. But Hypermnestra, fearful no longer, rose and faced him, holding out the bloodless dagger. "Take back thy weapon, cruel father," she cried. "Nay, and if thou wilt, smite me therewith, slaying me with the death I would not bring upon my husband. But not in death itself shalt thou hear me say, 'I repent.'" Strong and beautiful she stood there in the dawn, her eyes shining with triumph. But her father, enraged at the escape of one victim, struck her to the ground and ordered slaves to drag her by the hair to the palace dungeon. And not many days after, seated in the city hall of justice, he caused her to be brought before him to be sentenced for her disobedience. So slaves dragged in Hypermnestra, and she stood there before a great multitude, chains on her hands and feet, her white robe besmirched by the dungeon, but with the light of triumph still shining in her eyes. And all the people, seeing her, cried with one voice: "Spare her, O king!" and as his wrath burned yet fiercer as a fire that meets the blast, the prayer became a threat: "Spare her, thou cruel king!" But Danaüs, remembering the oracle, gnashed upon them with his teeth and rose as if to smite Hypermnestra with his own hand. But even as he rose a voice like thunder smote upon his ear: "Hold, thou cursed king!" and the crowd made way for a young warrior to pass. Like a young god, Lynceus rushed upon Danaüs and slew him at a stroke, and all the people hailed him as King over Argos, and his wife Hypermnestra as Queen. * * * * * But the guilty sisters of Hypermnestra, seeing what had chanced, fled from Argos, whither none knew or cared. And poets tell that after death their shades in Tartarus were condemned evermore to draw water in bottomless urns, a warning to all false wives and traitors; but Hypermnestra has won for herself a name that will live for all time as a maiden tender and true, who loved greatly and dared greatly. OEDIPUS AT COLONOS BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD Not far from the beautiful city of Athens, and within sight of its temple-crowned citadel, the Acropolis, lies the village of Colonos. Here, on the slope of the hill, once stood a sacred grove of laurel, whose evergreen sprays adorn Apollo's hair; of olive, planted there by the gray-eyed goddess, Minerva, protectress of Athens; and of vine, the gift of Bacchus. To this grove there came one day an old man, blind and meanly clad, but for all that venerable and noble of aspect, the unfortunate King Oedipus, led by his daughter Antigone, the sole prop and comfort of his old age. Sad indeed had been the fate of Oedipus. It had been decreed by the immortal gods that he should slay his father, King Laïus, and while he was still a babe in arms Laïus bade his servants take the child and leave him amongst the bare rocks of Cithæron. Here the forsaken infant was found by a shepherd, who bore him far away from his own city of Thebes to Corinth. Merope the queen chanced to see the child, and struck by the likeness to her own child whom she had just lost, she adopted him, and he was brought up in the palace, believing himself to be truly the son of those with whom he dwelt. But having learnt from the oracle of Apollo that he was doomed to slay his own father, he left Corinth in order to escape that doom, and on the road it fell on him without his being aware of it. For he met a choleric old man in a chariot, who tried to thrust him out of the path, and in defending himself against the old man's goad he smote him with his staff and slew him, not knowing who he was. But this was his father, Laïus, King of Thebes. Oedipus, journeying on, with no thought but to get far from Corinth and avoid all possibility of parricide, came by chance to his own unknown city, Thebes. Here he delivered the people from a monstrous plague, the Sphinx, and they chose him by acclamation for their king. Thereafter he ruled them well and happily till the wrath of the gods fell upon them for the unavenged murder of their late king. Then did Oedipus turn his mind to seek out the slayer of Laïus, and seeking diligently he found, in the end, that he himself had slain the king, and that the king was his own father. In grief and horror at his own unwitting crime, he stabbed and lacerated his own eyes. To crown his cup of sorrows he was driven from his home by his wicked and ambitious sons, and he wandered out into the world a blind beggar, guided and supported by his faithful daughter Antigone. Far had they wandered, and they were worn with toil and hunger when they sank down to rest beside the sacred grove of Colonos. Antigone guessed that the tower-crowned hill she saw before her in the distance guarded Athens, but she did not know what place this might be where her father rested, and was about to seek some one from whom to inquire, when by chance a man passed by along the road. Oedipus was beginning to ask this stranger to tell them somewhat of the place whither his wanderings had brought him, but the man interrupted his half-spoken question by telling him instantly to leave his seat, for this grove was the home of dread and mighty goddesses, and no man was permitted to set foot within the close, or even to approach the precincts. Then Oedipus asked the name of these goddesses. The wayfarer himself called them Eumenides, the Gracious Ones; at Athens they were known as the Semnai, or Dread Ladies; but their proper name was the Erinys, or Avengers of Blood. When Oedipus heard this he was glad, for the oracle had promised that the end of all his woes should come when he reached the shrine of the Dread Goddesses, and that as a sign that his troubles were over there should come a clap of thunder from a cloudless sky. Moreover the oracle foretold a blessing on the land that gave him burial. Therefore Oedipus begged the stranger to go in all haste to summon to him Theseus, the great and just King of Athens. But meanwhile the Thebans also had heard from the oracle that peace and prosperity should be to the last resting-place of the toil-worn Oedipus, and they had sent out to seek him and bring him back to his own city. It was beside the grove of the Dread Goddesses that the Thebans found their uncrowned king, but he refused to return to a land that had driven him forth from its borders, choosing rather to die where he was, in the land of his adoption, the hospitable state of Athens. But the Thebans were angered at his refusal, and seized and bore off his faithful daughter Antigone. And the old king was in sore distress; but when he appealed to Theseus to help him, Theseus stood his friend and pursued the band that was bearing away Antigone, and brought her back to her father, safe and sound. Then came to Oedipus yet another to crave the blessing of the uncrowned king, never so powerful as in his last hours. This was Polynices, the elder son of Oedipus. His younger brother had driven him out from Thebes and taken the throne himself, and now Polynices was collecting an army to go back and drive his brother away and make himself king again. But Oedipus would not help his wicked son, but cursed him instead, foretelling how the two brothers, the last of an accursed house, should fall by each other's hands, and neither of them should ever enjoy the kingdom for which they strove. Antigone entreated her brother to give up the fatal feud that could profit neither brother, but Polynices said he could not now turn back and desert his sworn allies, and he departed very sorrowful to meet his doom. And as he went, from the clear sky there came a sudden clap of thunder. Then Oedipus sent in haste for Theseus, for he knew that here was the promised sign, and that his troublous life was all but over. Theseus came quickly to see what was amiss with his old friend, and found him anxiously waiting, while the thunder roared louder and the forked lightning brought terror to all the beholders. Then said Oedipus: "The gods are showing now that the time of my doom is come. Blind though I am, I myself will guide my own steps to the spot where I am doomed to die, but thou alone, O Theseus, shalt know where is my resting-place, and thou shalt tell it to none on earth save when thy death-hour comes, and then shalt thou disclose it to thy eldest born. He in like manner shall hand the secret on, and thus shall peace and prosperity forever dwell in this land. Touch me not. Let me find my hallowed grave myself. Think of me sometimes when I am gone, and thou and all thy state are prosperous." Then the old man allowed his weeping daughters to lave his limbs and put on him a garment meet for the grave. And when this was done, and Antigone still clung weeping to her father, there came first a roll of thunder, and after the thunder a voice that called: "Ho, Oedipus, why tarriest thou?" Then the old king arose and called on Theseus and begged him to care for his daughters, and Theseus vowed to be a true friend to the desolate maidens. And Oedipus kissed his daughters and sent them weeping away, and only Theseus saw the blessed end of a man in life more sinned against than sinning, or knew the last resting-place of the body of King Oedipus. Antigone craved leave to visit her father's sepulcher, but not even she was allowed to know where was the secret burial-place; and when she was told that her father had willed that no mortal save Theseus should know the spot, she submitted, and only begged permission to go back to Thebes and try to save her brothers from their doom. But it was in vain that the gentle maiden strove to bring peace where was nothing but hatred. The two brothers, fighting in single combat, slew each other, and because Polynices had brought a great host against his own city, the Thebans cast his body without their walls and forbade that any man should sprinkle dust upon it, so should its soul never find rest, as a punishment for all its misdeeds. But Antigone would not leave her brother's corpse unburied. Her sister Ismene dared not help in such a deed, so the heroic maiden went alone, poured the three libations due to the dead, and scattered dust upon her brother's body, thus giving rest to his soul. Then Creon, King of the Thebans, was wroth with the maiden, and he commanded that she should be taken to a cave, and the mouth be barred with rocks. She should be given just enough food and water to prevent the guilt of her death falling upon the city, and left to pine away in her rocky dungeon. And the guards led her away and did the king's bidding. But when Creon's only son heard what was done he forced his way into that tomb of the living, for he loved Antigone, and would have delivered her at the price of his own life. For this he was too late; the princess had not waited to die by slow starvation within the walled-up cavern, she had strangled herself. The young prince, in his despair, smote himself with his own sword and fell dead beside the body of Antigone. So was the vengeance of the Erinys accomplished, and the work of the Avengers of Blood ended. MIDAS BY H. P. MASKELL Once upon a time there was born to Gordius, King of Phrygia, a son whom he named Midas. While this son was an infant in his cradle the ants were seen to creep in and put grains of golden wheat into his mouth. From this the wise men foretold that he would be exceeding rich and miserly, and choked with riches. When Midas grew up to manhood and succeeded his father as king, it was soon proved that the seers were true prophets. He loved wealth and riches for their own sake. Merchants were sent far and wide to trade in all kinds of produce, and brought back their gains to swell his coffers. He caused mines to be dug for the precious metals. As fast as the money came in he invested it again in new ventures, and everything he undertook succeeded. Hence the saying arose: "All that Midas touches turns into gold." Now it happened that Silenus, the foster-father of Bacchus, had wandered into Phrygia, and being an old man and overcome with wine--he was a terrible toper--the rustics used him roughly; and when he was sober they bound him with cords and took him as a prisoner to Midas. The king had been taught the rites of Bacchus, and as soon as he recognized Silenus, he rebuked the ignorant rustics and treated him with great honor, ordaining a special festival of ten days and ten nights to celebrate the visit of his guest. Bacchus, meanwhile, had been mourning the loss of his tutor. In gratitude to Midas for restoring his foster-father and preserving him from insult, he gave Midas the choice of any favor he desired. "All I desire," replied Midas, "is to be the richest king on earth. Make that a truth which men say about me, that everything I touch shall turn to gold." "You might have asked for something better," murmured the god, with a sigh. "But as you wish, so shall it be." Scarcely able to believe it could be true, Midas hurried away to test the reality of his good fortune. An oak grew by the roadside. He took hold of a small twig; it was a twig of gold. He picked up a clod of earth; it was no longer clay, but a huge nugget. Passing through a cornfield, all the ears that brushed against his hand became ears of gold. Plucking an apple from a tree, it was at once like to the golden apple that Paris gave to Venus. When he reached his palace and put his hand upon the doorpost, the wood turned yellow and glistened at his touch. The basin in which he washed his hands became a golden bowl, filled to the brim with gold-dust. "Now, indeed," he cried with joy, "wealth and power are mine. My riches will be endless. Thanks be given to the gods for this most wonderful and precious of all gifts. What in the world is better than gold?" While he was thus rejoicing, his servants entered and spread the table for a banquet. He seated himself and took a piece of bread in his hand. But it was no longer bread; it was hard, solid gold. He seized a goblet of wine, but to no purpose; he could not quench his thirst with a stream of gold! Too late he saw his folly. The richest man on earth, he was doomed to die of hunger and thirst. Nothing on earth was so useless to him as his gold! Raising his hands towards heaven, he implored the pardon of the gods. "Have mercy on me, for I repent me of my greed; have pity and deliver me from this awful curse!" Bacchus, seeing that he was cured of his sordid folly, took pity on him, and showed him how the baneful gift could be got rid of. "Go to Sardis," said he, "and track the river to its well-head. Plunge thy head beneath the bubbling spring, and purge thyself from the curse." The king hastened to bathe in the spring, and so gained relief: the golden virtue left the human body and entered into the water. And even now the sands of Pactolus glitter with grains of gold-dust. * * * * * After this stern lesson, Midas no longer cared to go on amassing riches, but turned his attention to country sports and to music. Sad to tell, however, his folly and conceit led to trouble even in this, for he was but a sorry musician, and yet he set up for being a virtuoso. Some nymphs had listened with pleasure to Pan playing on his rustic reeds, and persuaded the minstrel to challenge Apollo, God of Music, to a contest. Old Tmolus, the ruler of the mountain, agreed to act as umpire. Pan's music was rude and uncouth; but when Apollo touched the strings of his lyre his very posture showed the master's skill, and so sweet were the notes that all present agreed with the decision that to Apollo the prize must be given. Midas alone protested that the judgment was unfair, and that Pan's music was superior. As a fit punishment for his crass stupidity Apollo caused his ears to grow longer and longer, with gray hairs all over them, and twitching like the ears of an ass. Midas fled away amid the laughter of the deities and nymphs, and as quickly as possible concealed his disgrace under a thick turban. None of the people of Phrygia had been present at the musical contest, and for a long time Midas succeeded in hiding the shameful deformity from his subjects. However, the barber who trimmed his hair was obliged to know of it. He did not dare tell any one what he had seen; yet he found it harder every day to keep such a secret to himself. At last, as the only way he could conceive to relieve his mind of the burden, he went into a distant field, dug a hole in the ground, and whispered into it, "Midas has ass's ears." Then he shoveled the earth back, having delivered himself, and yet, as he thought, buried the secret quite safely. A year passed. A clump of reeds had grown on the spot where the fatal secret lay buried. The reeds rustled gently as they were stirred by the south wind, and the goatherds passing by with their flocks were drawn to the place by the strange sounds that arose. The reeds seemed to be whispering the story one to another: "Midas has ass's ears." And the wind carried the news to the reeds on the thatched sheds of the farm, so that they were soon quivering to tell their tale--when the farmer came in to supper, his goodwife called to him: "Such a funny saying has been running in my head all day--where it comes from is a mystery: 'Midas has ass's ears.'" The flowers told it to the trees, and the trees told it to the birds. Men and women learnt it they knew not how, but all who heard it found themselves forced by some mysterious impulse to repeat it to their neighbors, till all through the land of Phrygia rang the strange tidings: "Midas has ass's ears!" The hunger for gold may be cured, if taken in time; but not even a god can cure one who has ass's ears and lets the secret out. PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA BY V. C. TURNBULL On the shores of the Great Sea there dwelt in ancient times a simple folk of shepherds and tillers of the ground, who called themselves the Blameless Æthiops. They were a pious race, and worshiped in particular Atergatis, Queen of the Fishes. Year by year they dwelt in peace among their flocks and herds, their fields of barley and flax, and their vines that bore purple grapes on the sunny hillsides. But a great trouble fell upon this happy folk. For the earth heaved and yawned, and the dwellings of the people fell, and the sea poured in on the land, flooding and laying waste the golden harvest fields. Then a greater terror followed, for out of the sea rose a monster huge and terrible, such as never man had seen. Riding on the flood he came, bearing down upon the terrified people, and into his maw he swept their fattest sheep and kine, and also, alas! their fairest sons and daughters. And thus he came night after night, till the people's hearts failed them, and in their utter misery they sought counsel of their king. And King Cepheus spoke unto them, and said: "Surely, my people, ye have sinned, and offended our great sea-god. Let us go to his temple and offer gifts, and inquire of his priests, and learn which of you has sinned." So they went with their King Cepheus to consult the priests of the sea-gods whom they worshiped. And when many sacrifices had been offered, the priests cast lots to find who it was who had angered the gods and caused them to plague the land. And the lot fell upon Cassiopoeia, the queen. Then Cassiopoeia stood up before all the people, her ebon hair falling to her feet and her eyes shining with tears, as she cried, and said: "O my friends, I have sinned in my pride, and brought this evil on your homes. For not many days since my heart was lifted up and I boasted myself fairer than all the Nereids. And they, hearing, have risen in their wrath to avenge the insult. Pardon me, O my friends, for thus have I drawn desolation upon our land." And all the people were silent, but the priests made answer: "Truly hast thou spoken, O Queen, and assuredly has thy boasting been our curse. Now, therefore, take thy daughter Andromeda and bind her to a rock on the seashore, so that when the monster cometh again he shall see that we have given him our best, even our king's daughter. Perchance he will have mercy and spare her when he sees our repentance, but anywise he will depart whence he came and trouble us no more." Then King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopoeia rose up and went down to their palace in grief too great for tears. And they took Andromeda, their only child, the fairest maiden in the land, and withal the tenderest and truest, and carried her down to the sea-shore. And all the people followed, weeping bitterly, for to many of them Andromeda had spoken kind words, and to not a few had she done gracious deeds. Yet when they thought on their own desolate homes, where no children played, they told themselves that the young princess must die for the people. So they led Andromeda to the base of a sea-washed crag, and riveted her white arms with chains of brass to the black rock. And Cassiopoeia, kissing her, cried: "O child, forgive thy wretched mother!" And Andromeda answered: "It is not thou, mother, but the sea-god who hath done me to death." And the queen kissed her yet again, and departed weeping. All the people followed, and night fell, and she was left alone. Out of the sky looked down the white moon behind the cloud rack, and not more fair was she than this maiden standing on the black rock like a white statue, half hid by the streaming locks that rippled to her knee. So all night she stood and waited for her doom, most time mute with terror, but at whiles lamenting, and calling on the gods for pity. But no answer came save the thunder of the sea upon the rocks and the scream of the sea-birds wheeling between earth and sky. Morning came, flinging roses from her car and scattering gold across the waters, and as those in bitterest pain of heart take strange note of passing things, Andromeda's eyes, dull and despairing, watched the sea-birds at their play. Among them came one flying swifter and greater than osprey or sea-eagle, and the gulls all dived at his approach. As the winged form drew nigh Andromeda was aware that this was no sea-bird; and soon she perceived a youth, godlike and strong, whose plumed sandals carried him over the deep as lightly as if he had been indeed a bird. Blue as the sea were his eyes, and his hair shone in the morning sun like spun gold. From his shoulder floated a goat-skin, on his arm he carried a brazen shield, and on his thigh hung a sword that flashed like diamonds in the sun. Straight to Andromeda he flew, and putting back the hair that covered her face he gazed into her eyes with love and pity, as he cried: "O maiden, beautiful and pitiful, what cruelty hath brought thee to this pass?" But Andromeda, wan and weak after the terrors of the night, could only hang her head and weep. So Perseus drew his diamond sword and smote through her chains, and gathered her, set free, to his breast. But when she had wept there a little space Andromeda thrust him away with a sharp cry. "Oh, leave me!" she wailed, "for I am the accursed one, the victim offered to the angry gods. Come not between me and my doom, for I suffer in the people's place." "Never will I leave thee," answered Perseus, "and never shalt thou suffer while I have strength to draw sword in thy defense." But Andromeda only wept the more and begged him again to be gone, and he, thinking to calm her, again entreated to hear the story of her sad plight. So Andromeda told him why she was being offered up to the monster, and as she finished speaking, her eyes, wandering seaward, widened with horror, and she shrieked aloud: "It comes! it comes! Oh, kind and godlike youth, fly ere it is too late! Leave me; let not thine eyes behold my shameful end!" But Perseus, kissing the tears from her face, laughed aloud and made a mock of the great fish-beast which even now, like a leviathan of the deep, could be seen plowing its way towards them across the sea. [Illustration: PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA] "Shall I flee from a beast of the deep?" he asked. "Maiden, my father was Jupiter, king of the gods, and the great goddess Minerva hath me under her protection. From her I received this shield, and from Mercury, swiftest of the gods, a cap of darkness, these sandals, and this sword. Then, at Minerva's bidding, I sped northward through regions where man nor beast hath trodden. There found I the Gray Sisters, and snatched from them their one eye, keeping it till they told me the way to the garden of the Hesperides. And from the maidens in that garden I learned the secret dwelling-place of the gorgon Medusa, the very sight of whose face turns all men to stone. Her, at the bidding of Minerva, I slew, using the shield as a mirror and looking not on the gorgon's face as I shore off her viper-crowned head. Seven years have these adventures filled; very far have I traveled and many perils known. And shall I now turn back from a beast of the sea?" And he laughed again, and his laughter rang so joyously through the morning air that some comfort stole even into the sad heart of Andromeda; but still she besought him to go. "Many hath the sea-beast slain," she pleaded; "and why should he slay thee? Shall two perish instead of one? Strong-limbed art thou and brave; but what mortal shall stand against that strength? Never have I known fairer or gentler man than thou, and why should'st thou die? Seven years hath thy mother awaited thy homecoming, and shall her eyes see thee nevermore?" And when she had said this, Andromeda hid her face in her hair, sobbing very bitterly as she added: "Surely some maiden longeth for thee afar; and shall she go longing to her grave?" But ere Perseus could answer there came a roar from the sea, and looking down they saw that the monster was at hand. His great snout, pouring forth fountains of sea-water, lay already on the rocks, his vast scaly body, shells clinging to its scales and seaweeds dripping down its sides, rolled like some water-logged hulk; his tail, curling, coil upon coil, to the horizon, lashed the waters till they were white with foam, and the sea-birds screamed as before him the fishes fled leaping. Then Perseus, pausing not an instant, drew forth from under his goat-skin the fatal head of Medusa, the sight of which is death, and gripping it by its viper locks, he swooped like a hawk upon the monster as it rose to clamber up the beach. And the monster's great eyes rolled upward, blinking and wicked; but when they saw the Medusa they became fixed in a ghastly stare. And a great spasm ran through the sea-beast from snout to tail--a shiver, and then no motion or breath or sign of life, for that which had been a monster was now nothing but a long black rock. Then Perseus went back to Andromeda and showed her that her enemy was indeed dead, and Andromeda, after all her sorrows, was now the happiest maiden in the land. And all the people, hearing what had happened, came down to the shore with laughter and dancing and singing, and carried Andromeda and Perseus to the palace of the king and queen, who sat sorrowing for their daughter, deeming her already dead. And they, when they heard the glad tidings, rose up and embraced their daughter who had come back to them, as it were, from the grave, and gave her to Perseus to wife, begging him to stay with them for a while before he carried home his bride. So Perseus stayed with Cepheus and Cassiopoeia and their dark-haired Æthiopians for the space of a year, teaching them many things; and after that he built himself a ship of cedar-wood, and in it he sailed with Andromeda to Seriphos among the Isles of Greece, where his mother had waited for him seven years. And after a little while Perseus became King of Argos in the place of his grandfather Acrisius. Long and glorious was his reign, and fair Andromeda bore him four sons and three daughters. And when after many days Perseus died, the gods took him up into the sky. Who has not seen on a starlight night Cassiopoeia seated on her golden throne? There, too, is Perseus, still holding the Medusa's head, and beside him is Andromeda, still stretching out her starry arms to embrace her enstarred deliverer. MELEAGER AND ATALANTA BY H. P. MASKELL When Meleager, son of Oeneus, King of Calydon, was born, his mother Althæa dreamed that she had brought forth a burning brand. The three Fates were present at the moment of his birth, and foretold his future greatness. Clotho promised that he should have bravery and courage, Lachesis uncommon strength, and Atropos that he should live as long as the fire-brand on the hearth remained whole and unburnt. Althæa no sooner heard this than she snatched the brand from the fire and quenched it with water. Ever after she kept the brand in a safe place with jealous care, knowing that on this depended the life of her dear son. Grown to manhood, Meleager soon became famous for his knightly prowess. He sailed with Jason in search of the Golden Fleece, and when rebellious tribes made war against his father, he fought against their army and scattered it. A year came, long after famous as the harvest year. Never within the memory of man had there been such plenteous crops in the land of Calydon, and Oeneus the king made grateful offerings of first-fruits to the gods: corn to Ceres, wine to Bacchus, and olive oil to Minerva. All the gods received their tribute except Diana. Diana was forgotten, and the goddess was filled with jealousy. She resented the insult to her altars, and in revenge for the neglect sent a wild boar to ravage the kingdom. This boar was huge as a full-grown ox, his eyes were flaming and bloodshot, and the bristles stood up on his neck and flanks like long spikes. It was terrible to see his foaming jaws and large tusks--like an elephant's; when he roared his breath seemed to burn up the very herbage. Wherever he went he destroyed the farmer's hopes, trampling down the young shoots, devouring the corn in the ear, breaking the vines, and stripping the olive trees. Neither dogs nor shepherds could protect the sheep from being gored by his cruel tusks. The country folk had to fly for their lives into the walled cities. So Meleager invited a choice band of heroes to join him and help to destroy the monster. Nearly all those who had joined in the quest for the Golden Fleece came and brought others with them. But the foremost in Meleager's eyes was the fair huntress Atalanta, daughter of Iasius. Her robe flowed loose to the knee, held up over her left shoulder by one golden brooch, and her hair was gathered into a single knot. At her side hung an ivory quiver. It had been hard to tell whether she were youth or maid, so strong and stalwart were her limbs and so smooth her face. Meleager saw her, and loved her at first sight. "Here," he cried, "is the one maid for me!" But this was no time or place for love-making. The mighty hunt was about to begin. The monster had been tracked to a dense jungle, and the heroes got ready their nets and slipped the dogs. At length the pack gave tongue, and the hunters raised a shout as the boar came crashing through the wood, scattering the dogs right and left, some barking, some bleeding from ugly wounds. Echion's spear only grazed a maple tree. Jason was next to throw his swift lance, but it overshot the mark. The aim of Alastus was more true, but the iron head snapped off as it hit one of the mighty tusks, and the shaft failed to wound the brute. Like a stone from a catapult the furious boar rushed madly on among the youths; lightnings flashed from his eyes, and his breath was like a furnace; two of the huntsmen were laid low, and a third received a deadly wound; Nestor saved his life by catching in the nick of time the branch of an oak tree. Having whetted his tusks on the trunk the monster advanced once more, and gored another hero in the thigh. Castor and Pollux, on their white horses, rushed with lances poised to despatch him; they were too late, for the boar had found safe cover in the jungle, where neither horse nor weapon could reach him. Telamon, in his hot pursuit, was tripped up by a root. While Pelus was helping him to rise, Atalanta fitted an arrow to her bow and let fly. Diana, who loved the maiden, guided her aim. The shaft grazed the ear of the beast, leaving the bristles streaked with red; and Meleager was just as pleased as she herself at her success in drawing the first blood. Pointing it out to his companions, he exclaimed, "The maid is peerless in archery as in beauty! She puts us men to shame!" Stung to action by the taunt the heroes bestirred themselves, and shouted to encourage each other, but their very number confused their aim. Ancæus, swinging his battle-ax, rushed madly to his fate, crying, "Make way for me, and I will show you how much better a man's weapon is than a girl's arrow. Though he bear a charmed life, my right hand shall finish the brute!" As he stood boasting the boar seized him and gored him through and through and through, so that the earth around was soaked with his red life-blood. Theseus stayed his dear friend, Pirithoüs, son of Ixion, who was making straight for the enemy just as rashly. Warning him that it was better to be valiant at a distance, he hurled his heavy lance of cornel-wood pointed with brass. It was well poised, but caught in a beech tree. Jason, too, hurled his javelin again, but by an ill-chance struck an innocent hound and pinned him to the earth. Meleager's turn had now come, and he used his opportunity to good effect. Of two spears the first only grazed the boar's flank, the second transfixed the beast in the middle of the back. While it was writhing in agony, twisting about, covered with foam and blood, the conqueror lost no time. In a trice he had buried his gleaming blade behind the shoulder. His comrades crowded around him with shouts of joy. They marveled at the huge size of the boar as the carcass lay at full length, scarcely believing it safe even yet to touch, but each dipped his weapon in the blood. Meleager himself, placing his foot on the monster's head, exclaimed, "Receive, Arcadian nymph, the spoil that is thy right, for thou didst draw first blood! Only let me share thy glory!" So saying, he laid at her feet the skin, thick with stiffened bristles, and the head and monstrous tusks. The maiden was graciously pleased to accept the offering, and the smile that she bestowed on the giver more than repaid him for all his pains and perils. But his comrades were jealous of the favor bestowed on the young hunter. They murmured amongst themselves, and said, "Who is this upstart youth who, without asking our leave, bestows on his lady-love the spoils that belong to us all?" And they snatched away the trophy. This was more than the warlike prince could bear. Mad with anger and indignation, he plunged his sword into the breast of his uncle Plexippus (who had been the moving spirit in the protest), crying, "This will teach thee not to snatch away another's honors." And before long his blade was reeking with the blood of Toxeus, who seemed half disposed to avenge his brother's death. Meanwhile, Queen Althæa had heard of her son's victory over the monster, and was on her way to the temples of the gods with thankofferings, when she beheld the dead bodies of her brothers being borne from the field. All her joy was turned to sorrow; with a shriek of horror she hastened back home to put on mourning. But when she learnt who was the author of their death, grief vanished and gave place to a thirst for vengeance. She bethought herself of the brand which the Fates had given her, and which she had kept so carefully, knowing that her son's life depended on it. Now this fatal wood was to be the means of punishing the son for the murder of her brothers. At her bidding a fire was kindled. Holding the fatal billet in her ruthless hand, she moaned, "Ye Fates, I both avenge and commit a crime. With death must death be repaid. He deserves to die, and yet the thought of his death appalls me. Oh, that thou hadst been burnt, unnatural son, when an infant, in that first fire!" So saying, with trembling hands, she threw the fatal brand into the midst of the fire. And the brand, as it was caught by the flames, seemed to utter a dying groan. Meleager, far away, was seized with sudden pains. He felt his entrails scorched by secret fires; bravely he bore the torture. His one regret was that he was doomed to die an inglorious death, and he envied the fate of Ancæus. With his last breath he invoked a blessing on his aged father, his brother, and dear sisters--aye, and on his cruel mother. As the blaze kindled by Althæa rose and fell, so his torments waxed and waned. Both lives flickered out, and his spirit vanished into the light air. In Calydon, young and old, noble and serf, were all lamenting. The matrons tore their hair as they bewailed the untimely end of their brave young prince. Aged Oeneus abased himself on the ground, with dust on his white locks and wrinkled brow, bemoaning that he had lived to see that day. To the anguished mother, too, came tardy repentance. Natural affection had now gained the mastery over anger and revenge. "Wretch that I am!" she cried. "To the loss of my dear brothers, by my own ruthless deed I have added the loss of my dearer son." Horrified at her act, she could no longer bear to see the sun, and with a sword put an end to her misery and shame. THE STORY OF DÆDALUS AND ICARUS BY M. M. BIRD Athens is the eye of Greece, the mother of science and the arts, and of all her world-famed artists none is more famous than Dædalus, the sculptor, the architect, the first of air-men. It was he who taught men to carve in wood the human form divine, as the images prove that the Greeks named after him _dædala_. It was he who planned for Minos the labyrinth of which you have read elsewhere; and it was he who first made wings that men might fly like birds. Of this, his best and greatest invention, how he came to contrive it, and how disastrously it ended, you shall now hear. When Theseus had slain the Minotaur, King Minos was exceedingly wrath with his architect for betraying the secret of the labyrinth--a secret that none but the king and its contriver knew. So Dædalus, and with him his young son Icarus, was cast into prison, and there they languished long. But Pasiphaë the queen, who loved not her sovereign lord and loved her favorite artist, contrived their escape and hid them in a sea-cave. Still the cave was little better than a prison. It was dark and dank, and they dared only venture out at night for fear their hiding-place should be discovered. But though the artist's hands were idle, his busy brain was ever plotting and scheming. One day, as he sat at the cave's mouth watching the seagulls as they floated past on poised wings or mounted from the waves and with a stroke of their pinions were high in air, there flashed upon his brain the splendor of a sudden thought--With the wings of a bird I too could fly! At once the father and the son set to work to make themselves wings. The osprey and the sea-eagle, whose aeries were on the rocky heights, the father trapped with cunning snares, and from the combs of the wild bees on the hillside the son collected wax. So with infinite pains, and after endless failures, at last a pair of pinions were made. The upper row of quills were bound together by strong threads of twine on a framework of bone, and to them the bottom feathers were joined by beeswax. Like all great inventors, Dædalus had conquered Nature by imitating her. At first young Icarus had watched his father with eager curiosity, but like a boy, he had soon grown impatient, and, as Dædalus still persevered, he looked upon him as a harmless lunatic. What, then, were his delight and surprise when, one morning as he awoke, he beheld his father floating in mid-air before the cave's mouth. "Father," he cried, embracing him as he alighted, "what rapture! Let me too try if I can fly. Make me a pair of wings, and together we will escape from this island prison." "My boy," the grave sire replied, "thou shalt surely try, but flight is no easy matter, and thou must first learn thy lesson. Mark well my words. Steer always a middle flight; there only safety lies. If you fly low the sea spray will wet your flagging feathers, if high the sun will melt the wax. Keep me in sight, and swerve not to the north or south." Icarus promised to obey, but so fired was he with the thought of flying that he listened with half an ear, and soon forgot his father's directions. The second pair of wings were made and strapped with anxious care to the son's shoulder-blades. And, as the parent birds eye their callow nestlings when they essay their first flight, so Dædalus, as he mounted upwards, oft looked back on the boy and again repeated his warnings. The people were stirring in the towns, the countrymen were out in the fields after their beasts, and all the folk stayed in their morning tasks to gaze at these two strange creatures that floated overhead. "It is Dædalus and his son," they cried. "They have become gods." Minos in his palace was told of the strange spectacle. From his terrace he watched in impotent wrath the two dark specks far out to sea, that thus escaped him. At first Icarus kept close to his father, but soon he had lost all sense of danger, and with the reckless wantonness of youth, determined to go his own way. He reveled in the strong free strokes of his great wings; he mounted ever higher and higher, till the sea was spread below him like a blue plain, and the sandy islands showed like cloths of gold. Dædalus was winging his careful way lower down, below the scattered clouds, close above the golden islets, and shouted to his son to return. But Icarus, drunk with the delights of flight, mounted ever higher, up into the fierce rays of Phoebus, the Sun-god, who held out burning arms to the adventurous youth, beckoning him to race his fiery car across the heavens. The horrified father, floating on outspread wings over the Ægean Sea, looked up to see his boy like a tiny speck in the sun's rays. He knew the fierce heat of those rays; he knew that the wings were only fastened on by wax that could not hold against that scorching heat. And lo! as he looked, the speck grew larger and larger, and headlong down the sky he beheld Icarus falling, falling, his limp wings sagging from his shoulders, his frantic arms struggling to spread them and stay his fall. The drooping wings could not uphold him; he came whirling down the hissing air, and his agonized father watched his helpless boy fall into the blue waves beneath. For a moment he saw him struggle feebly, and then, like a bubble, he sank, and the unruffled waters lay calm and smiling as before. By the sad sea shore of the Ægean, where he landed after that disastrous flight, Dædalus raised a cenotaph to his lost son, and thereon he laid the wings, once the artist's pride, and now the father's bane. "Icarus, O my Icarus!" he cried; and still those waters echo the name of Icarus. SCYLLA, THE DAUGHTER OF NISUS BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD In Crete, the greatest and most powerful of the isles of Greece and the cradle of Jupiter, there once stood a splendid palace where lived the wealthy King Minos. To this palace came as guests one day Nisus, King of Megara, and his fair daughter Scylla; and there they abode many days, with every day fresh delights sought out by King Minos to give them pleasure. And Scylla, like a fond and foolish maiden, was dazzled by the pomp and by the flattery of King Minos, and he seemed to her the greatest and wisest of living men, and she would fain have tarried there forever, hearkening to his words and admiring all his riches. But King Nisus would not longer stay, and they departed, bearing with them rich gifts from the generous king, and returned to their own castle at Megara. Very small and mean did her home seem to Scylla now, and often would she climb to the top of a turret that looked over the sea, and thence she would gaze and gaze towards the south, and her thoughts would fly back to the fair island of Crete with its cities and its palaces, and its strong and noble king, till she envied the birds that skimmed past her turret on swift, light wings. They could fly to Crete whenever they would, and settle on the palace eaves; but the princess must sit still in her high turret, and hide even her longing away within her heart. The days passed by, and Nisus went no more to Crete, but Androgeos, son of King Minos, came to Megara and abode there some little space, and the king and the princess welcomed him kindly for his father's sake. After his visit Androgeos would not sail back straight to his father's halls; he was minded first to see the great city of Athens, the eye of Greece. King Nisus warned him that the road across the mountains was difficult and dangerous, and that many robbers hid among those hills; but the prince would not be warned. He went his way, and the next news of him that came was that he had been set upon by bandits and murdered. "He should have hearkened to the counsel of older and wiser men," said King Nisus. "I grieve for the youth, but he brought it on himself." But when Minos the king heard that his son Androgeos was dead, he was stricken with a great grief, and he sent to King Nisus demanding blood-money, since the prince was slain in the lands of the Megarians. But Nisus refused to pay. "It was no fault of mine," he said; "and I shall make no reparation for the death of one whose blood is on his own head." Then was King Minos wroth, and threatened to make good in person his rightful claim. So it chanced on a day when the Princess Scylla looked forth from her turret over the sea, as her custom was, she saw great ships, with bellying white sails, drawing near from the south; and as they rose upon the heaving billows, the sunbeams glinted back from many a shield and spear, for they carried the mailed warriors of King Minos coming to wrest from King Nisus blood-money for the death of Androgeos, son to King Minos, who had been slain by robbers on the lands of King Nisus. Then stepped forth from one of the ships the herald of King Minos, and he came into the palace of Megara and proclaimed his master's will to all that stood there. But Nisus the king frowned upon the herald. "I will pay no blood-money," he said. "Go your ways to your master and tell him so. Better were it for him to be satisfied with this answer of mine and to turn and hie him home. Little use is it for mortal men to strive against those who are protected by the undying gods. I care not for the wrath of King Minos, and the spears of his warriors have no more power to hurt my people than the bulrushes that children gather in the fields and break in mimic warfare with each other." "Thou speakest in riddles, King Nisus," replied the herald; "but my master is of kin to the immortals, and it cannot be that they will let him quail before a petty king like thee." So the herald turned and went back to his ships; and when King Minos heard that King Nisus refused to pay the blood-money, he made him ready for battle. Then the men of Crete fought stoutly against the men of Megara, and day after day the tide of battle surged around the walls of the town. But strive as they might the men of Crete won no inch of ground, but the men of Megara drove their foes before them like sheep. At length the warriors of King Minos began to murmur among themselves and to repeat the words that King Nisus had spoken to the herald. "If the city of Megara is indeed defended by the deathless gods," said they, "what avails it to fight and to strive?" And Minos knew that his men murmured, and his heart was sore within him. The Princess Scylla looked forth one day upon the host that was besieging the city of her home, and she chanced to see King Minos pass quite close to her casement. So near was he that she could see his face quite plainly. Pale and sorrowful he looked with grief at the death of his son and disappointment at the failure of his attack. He stood for a moment looking despairingly at the strong walls of his enemy's city, seeking and seeking as often before, and ever in vain, to find some way for his warriors to win passage into the town. At length he passed on his way, sad and dejected, for he saw no way at all of gaining the mastery in the strife. But the heart of the princess beat fast with love and sorrow. "Alas!" she thought to herself, "King Minos is fighting a hopeless battle, for none may gain any advantage over my father, so long as he keeps safe the purple lock of hair that the gods have placed upon his head as a spell against every evil. Vain is the strength of the warriors of Crete, vain the wisdom of their king. The bright lock of King Nisus will hold him and his people safe through every attack." The princess covered her face with her hands, and sat for a little space silent and miserable. Then on a sudden she raised her head and a new light was in her eyes. She was the only child of King Nisus, and when he died the city and the palace would be hers. The only man whom she had ever wished to wed was the stately King Minos. If he would but wed her all would be well; he should reign, as her husband, over the city against which he was leading his warriors in vain. And surely King Minos would willingly wed her as a reward if she put within his power the victory he had striven in vain to wrest for himself from the men of Megara. There was feasting that night in the hall of King Nisus, and the princess herself poured out her father's wine, and he was well pleased that she should wait upon him, for of late she had moped in her chamber and refused to share his feasts. But when the banquet was over a strange drowsiness weighed down the eyelids of King Nisus, for Scylla had mingled the juice of poppy and mandragora with the wine. Then the king sought his bed and lay there as one in a swoon, and his guards, who had drunk of the poppied wine, slept also as they kept watch before the door of Nisus. And when all was dark and still the princess Scylla stole softly to her father's chamber, holding a pair of shears in her hand. She drew back the heavy purple curtain that the moonlight might stream into the room, and then, kneeling beside the couch, she sought the bright lock on which depended the fortune of Megara, and with her shears she shore it off. Then, drawing the curtain close again that the moonlight might not awake the king, she hid the lock safely in the corner of her veil, and glided silently from the room. The moon was making a glittering path across the sea that murmured softly on the rocks, and all was still and dark within the city, when the watchman of the Cretan host saw a woman drawing near. Her bent head was shrouded in a dark veil, so that he could see naught of her face as she came, but she called to him in his own tongue, praying to be led forthwith to King Minos. "Nay, maiden, whosoever thou may'st be," replied the man. "The king is asleep in his tent at this hour, and none may have speech with him." "I will hold thee blameless, friend," said the princess; and the man was awed by her imperial speech and manner, and turning he led her to the tent of King Minos, passed within the curtains, roused the king, and brought him forth into the moonlight. "Who art thou who would'st speak with me?" asked the king, glancing keenly at the veiled woman. "I must speak with thee alone," she whispered, for she was now overcome with shame, and her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. But the king recognized at once the voice, and bidding the sentinel go back to his post, he asked in amazement: "What would'st thou with me, Princess Scylla?" Then the maiden flung back the veil from her head, and taking heart of courage, looked straight into the eyes of King Minos. "In the days that are gone," she made answer, "kind words were spoken between thee and me, O King. Remember now thy past affection, and look upon me gently, for through great peril come I to win happiness for both our peoples, and for thee and me, if thou wilt have it so." And King Minos read her love in the eyes of the maiden, but in his own heart was naught but bitterness for the unatoned death of his son and for his many days of fruitless warfare. Nevertheless he spoke gentle words, for he hoped that the love of Scylla might bring him profit. Then the princess took from her bosom her father's magic lock, and held it out to the king. "Behold the fortune of my father and of his people," she said. "This bright lock was placed on my father's head by the undying gods, and as long as it was safe no evil could befall him or his people; but I have shorn it off and brought it to thee, for peace is better than war, love is stronger than hate; and surely thou wilt look kindly upon her who plucks victory from defeat, and holds it forth for thee and thy warriors to take." Then King Minos took the lock, and he smiled upon Scylla as he made answer: "I take thy gift, fair maiden; when the battle shall be ended we will speak of the requital." So, wrapping her veil once more around her head, Scylla passed forth from the tent of King Minos, and took her way, not back to the towers of her home, but down to the sea-shore. Here she found a hidden nook among the rocks where she flung herself down, fordone and distracted by her own fierce hopes and fears. She had thought to be very happy when she looked once more upon the face of King Minos and heard him speak kindly to her; but there was no joy in her palpitating heart: only a vague dread as she remembered the smile of the king and a vague hope as she repeated to herself his words of promise. Lulled by the sound of the lapping waves and murmuring over and over to herself, "When the battle shall be ended we will speak of the requital," the wearied princess sank at length to sleep. The sky above her head flushed crimson with the rising of the sun; the warriors of King Minos came forth from their tents and set themselves in battle array. All through that day the princess slept on, while the men of Megara rushed to defend their crumbling walls, and King Nisus, roused from his heavy sleep, discovered his loss and flung himself into the front of the battle, knowing that now he fought in vain, since the magic lock was gone that had brought victory to him and his people. Sore amazed were the men of Megara to find that their foes were driving them backwards. At first they fought desperately, hoping that the Cretans were gaining the advantage only for a time, but presently it began to be whispered through the ranks that the favor of the immortals had deserted Megara, and men flung down their arms and fled headlong. The sky was reddened again by the sunset when Scylla was roused from her long slumber of exhaustion by the tramp of armed men close to her hiding-place. Lifting herself up, she peered cautiously between the rocks, and saw the Cretan warriors, bearing the spoils of the plundered city, returning to their ships. For King Minos was in haste to journey on and make Athens share in the punishment of Megara, since it was on a journey from Megara to Athens that his son Androgeos had been slain, and both the cities shared in the guilt of the slayer. Scylla watched the hurrying ranks, at first not understanding what they did. Then, on a sudden, she saw approaching the stately form of King Minos, and she came forth from among the rocks, and waited, hoping he might look upon her. But seeing that he made as though he would pass by, the princess stood in his path. Then said King Minos coldly: "What wilt thou with me, maiden?" And a great fear caught at the heart of Scylla, and she clasped her hands to her bosom as though she were at her last gasp. Yet with a supreme effort she made her last appeal: "My home is desolate, my father slain. 'Tis I, his daughter, who gave the battle to thy hands. I come, King Minos, to claim my promised guerdon." And King Minos made answer: "There is no gift in the world precious enough to make requital to a maiden who by her own deed has slain her father and laid her home in ruins and the pride of her people in the dust. I will not mock thee, princess, by striving to equal thy gift." And King Minos passed on his way to his ship; and as they followed him his warriors gazed with horror upon the maiden who had given the life of her father into the hand of his enemy; for all men knew by now that the safety of Nisus and his city had depended upon the magic lock, and that his daughter had shorn it from him and given it to King Minos. But Scylla stood on the rocky pathway where she had hearkened to the mocking words of King Minos, and the blue heavens seemed black above her head, and the silver sea black beneath her feet, and nowhere in the world was there for her any help or comfort. The troops of warriors passed her by and embarked in the ships that waited for them there below the cliff. The sunlight faded and the moon came out, and still the stricken maiden leant against the rock where Minos had dashed all her hopes to ruin. At length the song of the mariners came up from the sea, telling that the men were on board and the ships ready to sail, and with a cry of bitter anguish Scylla crept to the top of the rock that overlooked the sea. She saw the ship of King Minos moving slowly from the shore, and clasping her hands above her head, she leapt from the tall cliff. And men say that the gods had pity on her, and changed her into a sea-lark. But her father was wrath with her even in death, and he craved of the infernal powers the boon of vengeance. Therefore he was turned into a sea-eagle, and still the father, with hooked hands and ravenous beak, watches from his mountain walls to swoop upon his feathered daughter, who flits along the shore and cowers in the crannies of the rocks. THE STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE BY M. M. BIRD "The most lamentable comedy and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby."--SHAKESPEARE. In Babylon of old, where walls were first built of bricks, two houses had been set so close together that they shared one roof. Two families came to dwell in them, and young Pyramus of the one house soon made acquaintance with fair Thisbe of the other. Their friendship grew and ripened into love. But alas! a deathless feud had arisen to separate the two families, and the unhappy lovers were inexorably divided. Still, though angry parents could forbid their love and could prevent them meeting, all this could not avail to kill their love. The thwarted pair could but gaze upon each other, could only look and sigh: yet that was enough to feed the flame of love. And at last they found a way to reach each other's ears, as lovers will: a chink between two bricks in the wall that divided the two houses--a little chink where the cement had crumbled away, so small it had never been noticed and filled in. Through this friendly chink young Pyramus breathed his vows, and fair Thisbe answered him with tender words. Their eager lips pressed the unresponsive brick, their hands that longed to clasp each other were kept apart by the hard, unfeeling wall. Their sighs and softly spoken words of love alone could pierce the barrier that divided them. At last they resolved to defy the cruel parents who thus wronged their love; to steal out one night in the concealing darkness, and fly together despite all opposition. Outside the town, beside a little brook and shaded by a widespread mulberry tree, stood the tomb of Ninus. Here they agreed to meet at nightfall. Impatiently they watched the sun sink slowly down the western sky and bathe in the western sea. Thisbe, with caution, unbarred her father's door and stole softly forth, veiling her face and hasting through the town to the spot where the tomb stood on the open plain. But in the darkness other creatures had come forth. A lioness, scouring the plain in search of prey, had slain an ox. Surfeited with flesh and all besmeared with blood, it came swiftly to the brook to slake its thirst. By the light of the moon Thisbe, approaching the trysting-place, saw the fearful beast. She flew trembling across the plain to the neighboring rocks and hid within a cave. And as she fled her floating veil dropped from her shoulders and was left upon the ground. When the queen of beasts had drunk her fill, she came bounding back across the plain. She found the veil, and this she tore and mouthed with jaws still wet with the blood of the slaughtered ox. And then went on her way. Young Pyramus, who could not elude his parents so soon, came hastening to the tryst. By the moonlight he noted the footprints of the savage beast beside the brook, and farther on his anguished eyes beheld his loved Thisbe's torn and blood-stained veil. Convinced that the beast had slain his love, he cried in his agony of grief that the fault was his in that he had not been first at the tryst to protect her, and cursed the malevolence of fate that had caused him to fix the spot where she should meet her death. He kissed the veil so torn, so dear to him. And then, crying that Death should not divide two hearts so fond, he drew his sword and plunged it into his breast. The life-blood spurted from the grievous wound and besprinkled all the white clusters of the mulberry. Cautiously the trembling Thisbe left her hiding-place among the rocks, fearing lest delay should make her lover think her untrue, and neared the appointed spot. But though the tomb and the brook were there as of old, the tree she could not recognize with its new burden of crimson clusters. As she gazed in doubt, her eyes fell on a form that lay stretched upon the ground. She saw her lover bathed in his blood. She shrieked and tore her hair; she raised him, clasped him, bathed with her tears his gaping wound. She cried to him to wake and answer his poor Thisbe. His dying eyes unclosed in one long look of love, and then he died in her arms. She gazed around, saw her torn veil, and saw his own sword lying, blood-stained and sheathless, by his side. She saw that by his own hand he had inflicted the fatal wound; that, believing her dead, he had not chosen to survive. Should her love be weaker than his? She it was who had been the innocent cause of his death, and she would share it. One prayer she breathed that their cruel parents would grant them at last to be joined together, and in one urn confine their ashes. Of the drooping mulberry tree, beneath whose kindly shade she made her piteous lament, she begged one boon--that by the purple color of its fruit it would bear perpetual witness to their love and their untimely death. Then in her bosom she plunged the sword, yet warm with the blood of its slaughtered lord, and fell dead beside him. The prayer that dying Thisbe breathed was heard by compassionate gods and parents. Their ashes were mixed in one golden urn, and from that sad day the fruit of the mulberry tree has been stained a lustrous purple. HERO AND LEANDER BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD The goddess Venus was the Queen of Love and Beauty, and her worship was spread over all the world, for indeed she was one of the greatest of the immortals, and even the father of gods and of men himself had to own her power. She had many great and noted temples, and one of these was at Sestos, close by the side of the Hellespont, the sea in which Helle sank and was drowned when the Golden Ram carried off her brother Phrixus and herself. When this tale begins the priestess of the temple of Venus at Sestos was a very beautiful maiden called Hero. It was her duty to tend the altar of the goddess, to offer sacrifices, to hang up the votive offerings of worshipers round the walls, and to see that the slaves appointed to the work kept the marble steps and pillars always shining and polished. And many a youth came to worship at the temple, less for the sake of the goddess than for the beautiful priestess; but Hero never gave a glance at any man but carefully fulfilled her daily task, and every night retired to a tall tower on the cliff beside the sea, where she lived alone with an aged nurse who loved her dearly and was ready to do anything for her. Every year a great festival was held at Sestos, in honor of Adonis, the beautiful boy whom Venus had loved, and who had been slain by a wild boar. To this festival flocked all the countryside. Large-eyed oxen drew the creaking wagons all adorned with flowers and grasses, and crowded with rustics from the inland farms, and across the narrow strait came gay barges, bringing worshipers from the villages along the opposite shore. In the festal company there came one day from the town of Abydos, a beautiful youth named Leander. He was tall and straight as a young poplar, his bright eyes had a ready smile, his red lips a pleasant word for every one, but no maiden had ever yet won his love. Leander only laughed at these reproaches, but hidden within his heart was the dream of a maiden fairer and sweeter than any he yet had seen, to whom he would give his whole heart, and who, so he dreamt, would give him love for love. So it came about that when the yearly feast of Venus at Sestos returned, Leander determined to go and sacrifice at the altar of the goddess and pray to her that he might meet the maiden of his heart's desire. With the throng of worshipers Leander mounted the hill to the temple of Venus. White marble steps led up to a bright crystal pavement that was called by the citizens of Sestos the glass of Venus. The walls were of veined marble, and on the dome a cunning artist had painted a vine of vivid green, with Bacchus, the friend of Venus, gathering the purple grapes. On the wall behind was Proteus, the changeful god of the changeful sea, whence Venus had arisen. Rich offerings of gold, silver, precious stones, and gorgeous raiment hung on the walls between the carven figures. Leander gazed his fill at all these wonders, till his eyes were caught and held by the statue of the goddess that stood on a pedestal in the middle of the temple. Beneath her feet was a great sea-shell, borne on a breaking wave; in her hands, held close against her breast, a pair of doves; her face, looking out upon her worshipers, was such a miracle of loveliness that the gazer caught his breath in awe and wonder. Before the statue stood a little silver altar, and at this the priestess was kneeling when Leander came to the temple, for the sacrifice was just about to be consummated. For a while Leander saw nothing but the face of the marble goddess; then the kneeling priestess, robed in her gauzy veil, arose and faced for a moment the congregation of worshipers. Leander's eyes turned from the marble image to the living woman who stood before it, and the eyes of Hero met his. As if fascinated they gazed at one another, while in both their hearts flamed up the sudden fire of love. The worshipers all knelt, and Leander knelt with them, but his prayer was not to Venus: his soul was full and overflowing with love for the fair priestess, and it was of her alone he thought. It seemed as though Hero had read his thoughts, for as one who walks in his sleep she drew nearer to the young man. He started to his feet, and bending forward grasped her hand. The sacrifice was over, the worshipers were dispersing, the two were left alone, and for a moment they stood motionless, both of them trembling and awed at their own emotion. But when Hero, as if waking from a dream, strove to free her hand, Leander tightened his hold and whispered eagerly: "Nay, leave me not, fair maiden, for I love thee. Never before have I cared aught for mortal maid, but now thou art more to me than everything in the world beside." Hero flushed a rosy red, and her long eyelashes veiled the light of her eyes. "I know thee not, kind youth," she faltered, struggling betwixt love and maiden modesty, abashed at what she had done, and at the thought of how Leander's words had made her heart leap for joy. "It is not fitting that I should speak with thee--here." And then, in a lower whisper, turning half away and blushing more deeply than before, the maiden added hastily: "I dwell alone with my servant in yonder tower by the sea-shore, and when I leave the service of the goddess I ever put a light in the turret at the top, so that those on the sea may know where the haven lies and steer safely home. But thou must not seek me there." And snatching her hand from Leander's grasp the affrighted maiden turned and fled, while the tears sprang to her eyes, and as she ran she wept and smiled. As she mounted the slope that led to her tower on the cliff she slackened her pace, and dashing the tears from her eyes, looked back. Leander stood still where she had left him, gazing after her. Flinging her veil back over her shoulder she resumed her homeward way, slowly and with many a backward look. When she came to her tower Hero told her old servant to lay out all in readiness for the evening meal, and then to retire to her chamber above. "Thou art overtired, my pretty one," said the old crone. "These crowded festivals and long days of sacrifice are too much for such a tender flower as thou. Never fear, I will leave thee here in peace--and see, I will light thy lamp in the turret above, even now in the daylight, then may I seek the couch whereof my old bones ever are full fain, and thou shalt not need to climb those weary stairs." "As thou wilt, good nurse," answered Hero, turning aside to take off her veil and to hide her blush of pleasure. She had told Leander that the light was the signal that her office was ended for the day--would he notice it? Would he come? She wandered out in the twilight and broke off branches of roses to deck the room; she put on the table the candied fruits and honey-cakes and wine of Cyprus that the worshipers of Venus offer to her priestess. The heavy footsteps of the old dame sounded as she mounted the stair and came back to her chamber and her wished-for bed. Then silence fell on the tower, and Hero sat with beating heart and waited. Leander had climbed to the top of the cliff, and there had lain down with his face to the sea, determined to keep his eyes from the tower till there was a reasonable chance of seeing the light. "When I see it glow," said Leander to himself, "then shall I too know where the haven lies, and steer safely home." He closed his eyes that he might see once more in fancy the sweet averted face under the fine veil. A noise below the cliff made him look up; the boat that had come from Abydos in the morning was starting back again. He watched it with a smile. It seemed to him a lifetime since he stepped from its deck upon the quay. Straight across to the other shore of this narrow arm of the sea was but a mile, but the slanting course to Abydos was full three miles' distance. Leander watched the boat as she left the quay with all his friends on board; then he could wait no longer; he looked up at Hero's tower; and there, in the top of the turret, flamed the signal light. Small pause made Leander when once he had seen that. Meanwhile, from her casement, Hero too had seen the boat putting out for Abydos, and believing Leander to be on board, gone from Sestos perhaps forever, the maiden sank down beside her open door, and covering her face with her hands she wept sore. "Alas," she murmured, "he is gone, gone, gone! The boat has sailed away." Leander, as he mounted the rocky stairs that led to the turret, overheard the maiden's cry, and, rushing forward, he flung himself on his knees beside her and softly kissed her fingers. Then, looking up with a start, the maiden would fain have seemed wroth at the sight of him, but it was too late. She had yielded at a touch, and Love was lord of all. But on the morrow Leander must return to his home at Abydos. So he took ship early in the morning, finding a vessel that was sailing thither, and came to his own home again. His father noticed at once that the youth was wearing a sprig of myrtle and a scarf embroidered with the doves of Venus, and he chid him sharply. "There are plenty of fair maids here, in thy own land," said he; "choose one of them and be happy with her, but woo not the priestess of Venus, or harm will come of it." Leander made no answer to his father's admonition, but in his heart he knew that no other maiden could ever after content him, and that he must see Hero again, though he died for it. After his father's admonition he dared not be seen crossing the strait by day, but when night fell he wandered by the sea, looking longingly across the dark water; then, far and faint, like a star through the clear night, he caught the glimmer of Hero's lamp. "Alas!" cried Leander, "there lies the haven. Ah, would that I might steer safely home." Then with sudden resolution he flung his outer garment from him and plunging into the water oared his way with mighty strokes towards the glimmer of the light, and Hero, combing her long locks in the moonlight and thinking of her lover, was ware that he stood before her, and could hardly believe it was his very self. So once more they had joy of one another's love until the daybreak appeared in the sky, and then Leander said farewell with many kisses and swam safely home again, and no man the wiser. The days passed on and the youth's father was pleased at his restored cheerfulness, and thought that Hero must be forgotten, for he never crossed as he had been wont to Sestos. The summer passed, and one day there swept down from the hills the first of the autumn storms. Poor Hero, as she set her light in the turret, looked out across the tossing, white-capped waves and sighed as she thought that no swimmer could cross a sea like that. But Leander flinched not, for he plunged, buffeting the angry waves with a good heart, and ever as he rose upon their crests looking out for Hero's light. The fury of the sea could not master him, but the autumn chill struck home to his bones. Long he battled with the rising billows, but the storm waxed fiercer and the farther shore seemed no nearer. Fainter and fainter grew the swimmer, but still he struggled on. When he looked from a crest of the waves his lodestar was gone; a black cloud had hidden the turret lamp. Then at last his heart failed him, and flinging up his arms he sank to his watery grave. Long did Hero wait that night, hoping and fearing by turns; and when her lover did not come she wept bitter tears. But far worse pain was to come. For on the next day came to her tower the father of Leander. "Is my son here?" he asked, briefly and sternly. Hero trembling answered, "No, fair sir." "Is it true that he hath many times swum across the sea and visited thee?" The maiden hanging her head and blushing deeply answered, "Yea." "Then without doubt my son is drowned, and by thy fault," said the grief-stricken father, "for this morning were his garments found near the water's edge, but of him there was no sign." Even while he spoke there came from the quay a cry of sorrow and lamentation, and clambering swiftly down the cliff those two saw, laid upon the shore by tender hands, the strong and beautiful body of the dead Leander, whom they both had loved beyond all other living things upon the earth. PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE (_After William Morris_) BY F. STORR In ancient times there lived in Cyprus a sculptor named Pygmalion. He had won for himself fame and wealth by his cunning as a worker in marble, and his carven images of gods and goddesses, of heroes and heroines, were to be seen in every temple of the island and in all the palaces of the great. Many an island maiden cast on him admiring eyes, and would beseech him to immortalize her features in marble when he was engaged in sculpturing a naiad for a public fountain, or an oread for the shrine of the Great Huntress. Yet, though rich and famous and admired of women, Pygmalion was sad and dissatisfied. The nobles applauded and feasted him, but regarded him as an artisan of low birth and would not admit him to their friendship. The fairest maidens of Crete seemed to him plain and common when he compared them with the godlike forms that his chisel had wrought, and, still more, with the perfect woman whom his imagination pictured but even his hand had not the skill to realize. So it chanced one day that, after wandering listlessly about the streets, watching the bales of Tyrian purple piled on the quays, and listening to the chaffering of the dark-eyed merchants, he hied him home heavy-hearted, and turned mechanically for relief to the daily work by which he earned his bread. He had begun rough-hewing a block of Parian marble, uncertain at starting what he should make of it; but as he worked on, the veins in the marble suggested to him a woman's form, and in careless mood he exclaimed, "Grant, Lady Venus, that this statue may be a fulfilment of my dream, an express image, a reflection on earth of thy celestial beauty. Only grant my prayer and I vow that the maid shall be dedicated to thee, and serve thee in thy myrtle grove." So he prayed carelessly, but the goddess was by and heard his prayer, and so guided his hand that he wrought more surely and deftly than he had ever wrought before. As the white chips flew beneath his touch, a strange joy thrilled his heart, and withal, a dim sense of trouble, as though he were pursuing his own shadow, a phantom of his brain that still eluded his grasp. So he worked on hour after hour through the day, and all night he dreamt of his work. So absorbed was he that for a whole month he forgot his morning plunge in the river, forgot his stroll through the woods at sunset, forgot even to water the flowers in his garden close. And yet, so exquisitely delicate were the added touches and the smoothing of the marble, that you could have covered with a penny-piece all that had fallen in the month from his chisel. And still he seemed no nearer to his goal; so one morning, after a restless night, he arose and said to himself, "Pygmalion, thou art mad; some witch hath laid her spell upon thee. Rouse thyself while it is yet time; break the wicked spell; live as thou didst before, and seek not to attain that perfect beauty that is laid up in the heavens beyond mortal ken." With that he took his bow and quiver, passed through the town and out of the gates to the high woodlands beyond, to see if he had quite forgotten his old woodcraft. It was a fine summer morning, and the scent of the fields was wafted to him on the west wind. All around him as he passed was astir with life. The tall poplars rippled and quivered in the sunlight; the bees were busy in the clover; the swallows darted overhead, and the swish of the mower's scythe kept time with him as he strode on. At last he sat him down fordone. "The sun," he mused, "like me, has already passed his zenith and is hurrying to his rest. All nature is stirring, and each living thing is pursuing the daily round, its appointed task. Why am I alone a dreamer of dreams, the idler of an empty day?" With that he turned, and, goaded on by a wild desire, he knew not for what, found himself before he was aware at his own door. One moment he lingered at the threshold and said, "Ah! what should I do if _she_ were gone?" As he uttered the words he turned red at his own madness to dream that the goddess might have wrought a miracle and spirited her away to the myrtle grove, and yet again he turned deadly pale at the very thought of such a marvel. So, sighing, he passed into the house, but paused again before he summoned courage to enter his chamber where the statue stood. Nothing was changed. He caught up his chisel and tenderly essayed to perfect the marvel of the face that he had wrought. But to touch it now seemed to him a profanation, and flinging down the idle chisel he cried, "Alas! why have I made thee that thou should'st mock me thus? I know that there are many like unto thee, whose beauty is a snare to draw men into the net; but these the gods made to punish lust. Thee I made with a pure heart to worship and adore, and thou wilt not speak one little word to me." So saying, he drew back and gazed on the image through his tears. In truth it was of wondrous beauty, and could you have seen it, you would have said that it lacked little to be a living maid. Her unbound hair half hid the tender curve of her breast; one hand was outstretched as if to greet a lover, and the other held a full-blown rose. There was no smile on the parted lips, and in the wistful eyes there was a look, not of love, but as of one to whom love's mystery and magic were already half revealed. Thus he stood agaze, ashamed of his infatuate folly, yet with an infinite longing, stronger and stranger than he had ever felt before. There happened to be passing in the street some sturdy slaves who were bearing bales to the wharf. He hailed them and offered them a rich reward if they would help him to move the ponderous statue and set it in an empty niche beside his bed. When they had departed he searched his coffers to find gems and jewels wherewith to deck his lady of marble, but those he possessed seemed all too poor; so he took with him all his store of gold and bought from the merchants a necklace of pearls, and anklets and bracelets set with rare and precious stones. These he hung upon the cold marble and cast him down like a pilgrim at a shrine, praying his saint to accept his poor offering. So he prayed on till, outworn with passion, he slept at her feet. With the first dawn he awoke and passed into his garden to pick fresh flowers to lay upon her shrine. Then he brought an altar that he had wrought of chased gold for a great lord's hearth, and lit thereon a fire of cedar and sandal-wood, and, as the smoke of cassia and frankincense arose, he prayed and said, "Thou cold and mute image, not till I die shall I know whether the gods have sent a lying spirit to make me their sport, but this I know, that in life I shall love none but thee alone. Therefore, if thou canst not give me love for love, in pity take my life and let me rest at last." Thus he prayed, and the image neither spake nor moved, but the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought gazed down, as if touched with ruth and tenderness, on his bended head. So all day he worshiped at the shrine; but on the morrow, as the incense-smoke was curling round her head, he heard in the street the sound of minstrelsy, and as if fascinated by the sweet music, he left his prayer half said and went forth and beheld a gay train of men and maidens who bore on a car of gold an image of the Queen of Love that he himself had wrought in the old forgotten days, now draped for her solemn festival in a saffron robe broidered with mystic characters of gold. So he donned a festal chlamys and joined the glad procession, who led the goddess back to her temple, stripped her reverently of her weeds, and laid at her shrine their offerings of golden grain and honeycomb. By midday the crowd of worshipers had all departed, and he was left alone in the dim-lit temple. He drew near the shrine where stood his masterpiece--how feeble and faulty now it seemed--and casting incense on the altar flame, he prayed with stammering lips to his goddess: "Queen of Heaven, who didst help me of yore, help me yet again. Have I not prayed, have I not wept, have I not done thee true service? I have no words to tell thee my need, but thou knowest all my heart's desire. Hear me, O Queen!" And, as he prayed, suddenly the thin flame on the altar quivered like a live thing, and leapt up till it almost touched the temple dome, sinking once more into a feeble flicker. At this marvel his heart bounded wildly; but as the flame died down he said to himself, "Is not this another brain-sick phantom?" and with sad steps and slow he left the temple to seek his loveless home. As he stood before the door in the broad light of day he seemed like one awaking from a dream, yet the bliss it had brought still lingered on, like the after-glow on an Alpine height, and he blessed the goddess even for his dream. So he entered his chamber, wrapped in memories both sad and sweet, and paused with downcast eyes before they sought again his marble maid. Then he looked up, and lo, the niche was bare! and he cried aloud, bewildered and amazed. A soft, low voice breathed his name. He turned, and there between him and the setting sun stood his marble maid, clad in life and new beauty. The lineaments were the same--the brow, the lips, the tresses unconfined; but she came appareled in a more precious habit, for over all the goddess had shed the purple light of love, and had clothed her in the shining garment that he had seen that morning laid up in her temple. Speechless he stood in wonder and amazement, and once again her silver voice rang out clear: "Wilt thou not come to me, O dear companion of my new-found life, For I am called thy lover and thy wife." Still he moved not, and spake no word. Then she reached her hand to him, and looked at him with pleading eyes. The spell that bound him was broken; he caught the outstretched hands and drew her to him, felt the sweet breath he had sought so long in vain, felt the warm life within her heaving breast, and clasped in his arms his living love. And, as they stood there, cheek touching cheek, he heard her say, "Why art thou silent, O my love? Dost think, perchance, that this too is a dream? Nay, if thou lov'st me still, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee. Come with me into thy garden close, and there will I tell thee all the comfortable words that the Queen of Love spoke to me, and thou shalt tell me all thy hopes and fears, thy yearning for a beauty not of earth, thy sleepless nights, and all thy pain." So they passed into the garden close, and there beneath the whispering trees, by the soft moonlight, those happy lovers told each other the story of their love. What were the words they said I cannot tell again. This happened long ago, when the world was young, and they spoke in a tongue that few if any now can understand. Yet a poet of our own age has understood and translated for us the last word that the Queen of Heavenly Love spoke to her servant Pygmalion: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS BY H. P. MASKELL It was the banqueting-hall of the palace at Ægina. The young prince Phocus had invited his comrades to join him in a hunting party, and now, after dinner, they were gathered round the fire amusing themselves with stories of the chase. Meanwhile Cephalus, gray-headed and stricken in years, more weary than the others, sat silent and apart. The prince, noticing his moody look, rose and made room for him to join the circle. "May I ask," he inquired, "from what tree the javelin thou art holding was cut? I have been a hunter all my life, yet its texture puzzles me. A wild oak would have been brown in color, a cornel-wood shaft would show the knots. Never yet have I seen so taper and shapely a javelin." One of the youths interposed: "Ah! but as a weapon it is even more wonderful than for its beauty. Whatever it is aimed at it strikes. Chance does not guide its course when thrown; and it flies back of its own accord, stained with the blood of the quarry." Then Phocus became more curious still to know its history. Who was the giver of so precious a present? Cephalus at length consented to tell the story, tears starting to his eyes at the sorrow revived in his heart by the memories it recalled. "Long as I live," he exclaimed with a sigh, "this weapon will cause me to weep, for it proved the ruin of myself and my dear wife Procris. Fairer and sweeter was she than even her sister Orithyia, whom Boreas carried off. Her father Erechtheus bestowed her upon me, and for love she chose me for her own. I was considered a lucky man in possessing her, and so I was. In all Greece you could not have found a happier pair of lovers, and the gods themselves were jealous of our bliss--too great for mortals. Before the second month was ended after our marriage feast, Aurora, the goddess of the Dawn, beheld me in the early morn as I was planting nets to trap the deer from the heights of Hymettus, and I followed her against my will. She cast her spell on me, and held me by the witchery of her great eyes and rosy fingers. Fair she is, with a beauty not of earth, but she seemed to me less fair than Procris. Procris was ever in my thoughts, and in my dreams I breathed the name of Procris. Then the goddess cried angrily, 'You may keep your Procris. The day will come when you will wish you had never possessed her!' "Diana had bestowed on Procris, who loved the hunt, Lælaps, the hound whom no wild beast can outrun, and this javelin which nothing can escape, as a token of our reconciliation. These she gave to me. "Would you like to know the fate of this other present--the dog? When Oedipus had solved that riddle which none other could guess, and the Sphinx who invented it lay a mangled corpse, Themis left her not unavenged. Another plague was sent against Thebes, and a savage monster devoured both the peasants and their cattle. We, the youth of the district, came together and inclosed the fields with nets, but the monster with a light bound leaped over them and escaped. The dogs were loosed, and they followed, but it escaped them as easily as a winged bird. My dog Lælaps--a tempest for speed--was straining at the leash. Eagerly the bystanders begged me to unloose him. Scarcely had I done so when he was lost to our sight. A spear flies not more swiftly, nor pellets from a sling, nor arrows from a Cretan bow. I watched from the hill-top this marvelous chase. At one time the wild beast seemed caught, at another to have clean escaped as it dodged and doubled, so that its enemy could not run full tilt at it. I was now thinking to use my javelin; and while fitting my fingers to the thongs, turned my eyes one moment from the quarry. When I looked again, I beheld a still more wonderful sight. There were two marble statues in the middle of the plain; you would fancy one was flying and the other barking in pursuit. No doubt some god desired that both should remain unconquered in this test of speed." "But why should you complain of the javelin?" interrupted Phocus. "What fault is there in it?" "O Son of Æacus," replied Cephalus, "my sorrows have yet to be told. For years I was blest in my wife, and she was happy in her husband. None, not even Jupiter himself, could have come between us, nor could Venus have drawn me from my love. "When the sun was just gilding the hill-tops I was wont to go into the woods to hunt. I wanted no servants, nor horses, nor even keen-scented hounds with me; my sure javelin was enough for me. When I was sated with the slaughter of wild beasts I would betake myself to some cool shady spot, and enjoy the breeze coming gently over the cool valleys, and so refreshing in the noontide heat. While I awaited the rising of the breeze, I would sing a sort of refrain: 'Come, gentle Aura, kindly Aura; come to my breast; with thy cool sweetness refresh me, parched by the heat!' Perhaps, as cruel fate might have prompted me, I added other words, such as 'Sweet Aura, thou art my delight! Thou dost love and refresh me; thou makest me to seek woods and lonely haunts, and thy breath is pleasant on my face.' Some busybody must have heard me; and, imagining that I was in love with some nymph named Aura, carried the story to my wife. "Love is only too ready to believe the worst. When Procris heard the tale she fell down fainting with sudden grief. Then coming to, she bemoaned her wretched fate, and wept for my faithlessness. She believed that this Aura was a maiden and a rival. Yet, hoping she might be deceived, she would not pass sentence unless she beheld my treachery with her own eyes. "Next morning, at sunrise, I went out as usual to the woods, and being successful in the chase, lay down to rest myself, murmuring, 'Come to me, sweetest Aura.' Methought I heard a faint far-distant moan, but I heeded not and said again, 'Come, Aura, come!' A rustling of leaves startled me, and, thinking it was a wild beast, I let fly my javelin. "Alas! it was Procris. Crying, 'Ah, wretched me!' she received the dart in her breast. I ran to the sound of her voice. To my distraction I found her dying, her garments stained with blood, and drawing her own gift, that too-sure javelin, out of her wound. I lifted up her body, dearer to me than my own, in my guilty arms, and bound up the cruel wounds with strips torn from my garments; and I tried vainly to stanch the blood, begging her not to die and leave me desolate. "With gasping breath and broken utterance she whispered in my ear: 'I beseech thee, by the gods above, and by our marriage vows, and by my love even now enduring though I die, not to let that light-of-love, Aura, possess the heart that once was mine!' Then, at last, I saw the mistake of the name, and that her fears were about a shadow. I reassured her. But what availed it? She was sinking, and her little strength faded away with her life-blood. So long as she could look at anything, she gazed on me, and breathed out with a smile her unhappy life. But I like to fancy she died free from care, and with a look of content. "I still cherish her memory. No mortal maid has since possessed my heart. So have I grown old in the service of Diana, looking to the day which cannot now be long distant when we can meet and renew our love in the Elysian fields." ECHO AND NARCISSUS BY THOMAS BULFINCH Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument, would have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of--_reply_. You shall still have the last word, but no power to speak first." This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his footsteps. O, how she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse! but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here." Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come." Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again, "Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me!" "Have me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and among the mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word. Narcissus' cruelty in this case was not the only instance. He shunned all the rest of the nymphs, as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden, who had in vain endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the prayer. There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted, nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image. He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you shun me? Surely, my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him, however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas, alas!" she answered him with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts, Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile, and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus. Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's song in "Comus." She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and sings to attract their attention: "Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy aëry shell By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere, So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies." Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the fountain:-- "That day I oft remember when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound Of waters issued from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went With unexperienced thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite A shape within the watery gleam appeared, Bending to look on me. I started back; It started back; but pleased I soon returned, Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest, What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;'" &c. "Paradise Lost," Book IV. No one of the fables of antiquity has been oftener alluded to by the poets than that of Narcissus. Here are two epigrams which treat it in different ways. The first is by Goldsmith:-- "ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING" "Sure 'twas by Providence designed, Rather in pity than in hate, That he should be like Cupid blind, To save him from Narcissus' fate." The other is by Cowper:-- "ON AN UGLY FELLOW" "Beware, my friend, of crystal brook Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, Thy nose, thou chance to see; Narcissus' fate would then be thine, And self-detested thou would'st pine, As self-enamored he." THE RING OF POLYCRATES BY M. M. BIRD "Then, would'st thou keep thy happy place, Beseech the Immortals of their grace Some bitter with their sweet to blend; For when the gods on any pour Of happiness an unmixed store, Ruin full sure will be his end."--SCHILLER. Of all earth's monarchs, the lordliest and the proudest was Polycrates, Tyrant of Samos. Whatever he set his hand to had prospered. One by one he had conquered all the isles of Greece, and never had his galleys by sea or his archers on land known defeat. Alone to be compared with him in power was his friend and ally, Amasis, King of Egypt, by whose side he had warred and shared the spoils of victory. This Polycrates, in his palace on Samos, gazing out across the shining sea and meditating what new venture should occupy his arms, saw one day a single galley speeding swiftly from the south. It bore the cognizance of the King of Egypt, the watchmen said. "What message can our good brother Amasis have for us?" mused the King. "For what new exploit does he demand our aid, what deed does he not dare to venture till he league our charmed fortune with his own?" The galley flew over the waters; it glided round the outflung arm of the mole, and reached the quay. Messengers bore in haste to the palace a missive sealed with the great seal of Amasis. Polycrates searched the hieroglyphics in vain for some bold scheme, his share in which shall be more slaves, more land, more gold, more power, and more hate from those he conquers. For this is what Amasis wrote to his ally: "It is pleasant to hear of the success of a friend and ally. But thy excessive good fortune doth not please me, knowing as I do that the divinity is jealous. As for me, I would rather choose that both I and my friends should be partly successful in our undertakings, and partly suffer reverses; and so pass life meeting with vicissitudes of fortune than be prosperous in all things. For I cannot remember that I ever heard of any man who, having suffered no reverse, did not at last utterly perish. Be advised therefore by me, and act thus with regard to thy good fortune. Consider well what thou valuest most, and the loss of which would most pain thy soul; this treasure so cast away that it may never more be seen of man." Polycrates put down the letter and meditated. He looked round the gorgeous hall wherein he sat, he looked out of the window at the marble terraces, the vines and fruit trees of his palace gardens. Below he saw the crowded streets of his busy town, his quays where ships unloaded their merchandise for his pleasure. There was the harbor where his galleys lay, a hundred of them, each manned by fifty strong oarsmen, slaves. Beyond the great mole that captives of war had built for him lay the crowded islands of the Grecian seas, and they too were his vassals or allies. His power knew no check; the stream of gold flowed unbroken to his shores. He owned to himself with mingled pride and alarm that such prosperity was a thing to provoke the jealous envy of the immortals. Amasis had seen this danger, and had sent a kindly warning to his friend. It was well done. What loss would he most mourn? Tyrant as he was, Polycrates was a patron of the arts. It was at his court that Anacreon sung of wine and love as none had sung before. Painters and sculptors and musicians were entertained there, and he delighted in their arts. Should he sacrifice his favorite singer, his most gifted painter? Should he obliterate the world-famous fresco of his banquet hall, or slay the most beautiful of his slaves? But a new singer would soon replace the old, another artist would arise and would paint a more enchanting scene, a lovelier slave would fall captive to his arms. He despaired of selecting among his countless treasures what was most precious, when his eye fell on the great gold signet on his fore-finger. There was the symbol of his power itself, the splendid gold ring, carved by Theodorus, son of Telecles the Samian. There was the emerald engraved by Theodorus with his signet device. The impress of that signet on the pliant wax set the seal of the King's command on every order. His eyes dwelt on the beautiful ring; he turned it on his finger, he marked the cunning work of it, the elegant design. The gold glittered in the sunlight, the heart of the great emerald glowed with green fire. "This ring," he cried, "my dearest treasure, my most valued possession, I will cast into the sea!" His ministers and courtiers heard him astonished. They spoke among themselves with bated breath of the thing the King proposed to do. How could the business of the realm go on without the King's recognized seal to set upon his ordinances? The news spread through the palace, where astonishment was mingled with consternation, and consternation with admiration of the King who would sacrifice so great a treasure to propitiate the gods for the good of his realm. From the palace the news spread to the town, and men gathered in knots to discuss it, and women ran from house to house to tell and hear it. Then they saw the royal barge of fifty oars being swiftly prepared for sea. The crowds of workers left their toil in the workshops of the town and clustered on the quay. They looked and saw the King coming in procession from the palace, his ministers about him, his courtiers following after. A frown was on his brow and a fierce resolve in his eyes. And as he passed along the gangway they marked that his royal hand was bare; no green fire shone from it like a glow-worm at night. Out, far out into the sea the rowers drove the swift galley; the water boiled beneath the keel, and fled hissing from the stroke of those fifty oars. At last the silent King made a sign, and the oars flashed out of the water, scattering a silver fountain of spray. Thrice the King raised his arm in act to throw, and thrice as he eyed the priceless gem he clutched it in his open palm. But the fourth time he closed his dazzled eyes and flung it far from him. And the great emerald, as it fell into the main, flashed like a streamer in the northern sky. No sign that the gods accepted his sacrifice followed the deed. The sun shone bright overhead, and below was the innumerable laughter of the waves. The King made a sign with the hand, now so significantly bare, and the galley sped back to the quay. And all the days that followed there was mourning in the palace, the King was wrapped in gloom, the business of the state seemed to have been brought to a standstill. On the sixth day a humble fisherman climbed to the palace gates, bearing as a gift a royal sturgeon. "Accept, O King," he cried, "an offering worthy of thee. For three-score years have I plied my humble trade, yet never before have my nets brought to land so goodly a fish." Polycrates thanked the fisherman and bestowed on him a purse of gold, and the fish he ordered to be served for that night's banquet. The King was in his chamber, deep in state affairs, when a scullion came running demanding instant audience. In his hand was a jewel that flashed and glowed. Polycrates stared in amazement, and then stretched forth his hand to seize the ring that had been miraculously restored. For when the fisherman's gift had been cut open the ring had been found in its belly. The courtiers whispered together in fear: "What can this mean? Have the jealous gods rejected the sacrifice?" But Polycrates was beside himself with joy. He wrote in haste to Amasis, King of Egypt, to tell him what had befallen. "Such good fortune as mine," he declared, "is unassailable by gods or men." But Amasis was of a different opinion. He felt that no power could avail to save a man so unnaturally fortunate from the vengeance of the jealous gods. He sent his herald to say that he renounced the friendship between them lest, said he, if some dreadful and great calamity befell Polycrates he might himself be involved in it! Black anger at this desertion filled the heart of Polycrates. He heard that Cambyses, son of Cyrus, King of Persia, was on the point of invading Egypt with a great army, so he offered him help by sea. Cambyses gladly accepted this alliance, and Polycrates despatched forty ships of war. But in his heaven-sent blindness he manned them with malcontents and men of conquered nations whom he suspected of disloyalty and wished to remove--sending with them secretly a message to Cambyses that he did not wish a man of them to return. These warriors mutinied before they reached the battle ground, and returned in war array against Samos, but they, too, failed and Polycrates became more powerful than ever. And then it was that Oroetes, the Persian satrap of Sardis, who had conceived a hatred of Polycrates, enticed the fortunate tyrant to visit him and seized upon him treacherously and crucified him, so that men might see how the jealous gods will not suffer a mortal to share immortal bliss, and that soon or late pride has a fall. ROMULUS AND REMUS BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD Every one has heard tell of Rome, that great city, already ancient when Cæsar found on the shores of Britain woad-painted savages living in a swamp where now stands the mightiest city in the world. The story of Romulus and Remus tells of the founding of this ancient city, and how it took its name from its first king. Older even than Rome was a town built on a hill not far away by Iulus, son of Æneas, of whose wanderings you have heard, and called Alba Longa, the Long White City. When my story begins it was ruled by King Amulius. He had no right to the throne, but he had seized it by force from his elder brother, Numitor, who was a peace-abiding man, and no match for his ambitious brother. Amulius had nothing to fear from the gentle Numitor, who abode with his flocks and herds, but his guilty conscience would not let him rest, and he lived in terror lest one day the children of Numitor should avenge their father's wrongs and take the throne that was theirs by right of inheritance. So he hired assassins to kill the boy, and the girl, Sylvia, he doomed to be a vestal virgin. These were maidens vowed to remain single all their lives, and to watch the ever-burning fire in the shrine of the goddess Vesta; this could only be kept alive by spotless virgins, and on its life depended the safety of the city--of Alba first, and afterwards of Rome. But the god Mars, whom all Romans worship as the leader of their hosts and the founder of their race, looked with pity on the maid, and willed not that the seed of Numitor should perish. So he visited her as she lay asleep in the temple of Vesta, and he sent her a wonderful dream. She dreamt that as she sat and watched the sacred fire, she dozed, and the fillet slipped from her brow, and from the fillet there sprang two palm trees that grew and spread till their tops reached the heavens, and their branches overspread all the earth. Seven times did she dream the same dream, and she knew at last that it was a message of the god. And lo, in due time there were born to her twin sons of more than mortal beauty. When Amulius heard of the birth of these twins his wrath was kindled. He commanded that Sylvia should forthwith be buried alive, for that is the punishment appointed for virgins unfaithful to their vows; and himself seizing the wicker cradle in which the babes lay asleep, he flung it into the yellow Tiber. But Mars was mindful of his own. The mother, Sylvia, was nowhere to be found, for the god had spirited her away in safety, and the helpless babes, still sleeping quietly, floated upon the turbid waters as though their cradle had been a boat, while Father Tiber quelled his raging flood to let them pass unharmed. On drifted the frail bark down the river till it came to where, at the foot of a hill, stood a great wild fig tree, its gnarled roots laid bare by the wash of the flood. The floating cradle was driven against the roots of this tree and held fast there, for the water had reached its highest level and was beginning now to ebb. Through all the roaring of the raging river the babes had slept, but now, with a start, they awoke and looked up, expecting to see their mother bending over them and ready to take them to her breast. But over their heads they saw only a glimmer of twilight through the branches of the fig tree, and there was no sound save the sough of the wind and the lapping of the waters, and now and again the distant howl of a wolf seeking its evening meal. Cold and hungry, they cried piteously. Presently, through the gathering darkness, two green eyes stared down at them. It was a great gray she-wolf, and the hungry babes hushed their cry and gazed in wonder at those lamps of fire. The wolf sniffed all round the cradle; then she pushed it with her forepaws till it fell right over on its side and the two infants rolled out of it. She licked them gently with her rough tongue, and they cuddled to her warm flanks and clutched instinctively with their tiny fingers at her shaggy fell. She dragged them gently up the hillside, away from the water, to a mossy cavern where she had her lair, and there she gave them milk as though they had been her own cubs, and nestling close against her the babes fell asleep. It chanced that Faustulus, the chief herdsman of King Amulius, went forth one morning to see if the floods were abated and the pastures once more clear. As he wandered along at the foot of the Palatine hill he saw a cradle lying on its side beneath a fig tree. He went towards it, and as he neared the place his eye was caught by something moving within the dark shadow of an overhanging rock. He bent his steps to the cave to see what might be within it, when on a sudden a she-wolf sprang out and away among the bushes before he could aim a dart at her; and, to his amazement, a green woodpecker, with a piece of bread in its beak, came fluttering forth from the hollow. Both wolf and woodpecker, you must know, are special servants of Mars, and these were doing his pleasure and tending the helpless infants. Faustulus came to the cave and stooped to look in. There, scrambling over one another on a soft bed of moss and fern, were two beautiful boys; and he marveled greatly, and said to himself: "These babes were not born of common mortals, but of one of the immortal gods. A naiad, or haply a river-god, must have interposed to save them from the flood, and to feed them with ambrosia, the food of the gods." So he took them home to his wife Laurentia, and told her the tale. And when she saw their innocent faces her motherly heart was stirred with love and pity, and she tended them as though they had been her own sons, and called them Romulus and Remus. The boys grew up brave and strong. When they were old enough they helped the herdsmen of King Amulius; and, because they were ever foremost where there was danger, all the other lads came to look up to them as leaders. It was a life that pleased the twins well. All day they wandered on the slopes of the hills, guarding the grazing cattle from wild beasts or robbers, and at night all the herdsmen would join together and make a camp in some sheltered valley or beneath spreading trees on the mountain side. And here they would build great fires to keep off the wolves, and would lie beside them, singing songs or telling tales to one another. Sometimes the herdsmen of King Amulius had desperate fights with other herdsmen over good camping-grounds, or fertile pastures, or safe watering-places, or over the ownership of strayed cattle. More especially were their quarrels fierce and frequent with the herdsmen of Numitor, whose grazing-grounds marched with those of King Amulius. Sometimes, after these fights, the herdsmen of Numitor would complain to their master of the two tall striplings who constantly led the herdsmen of Amulius to victory. At length, one day they laid an ambush and caught Remus, and bore him away to Numitor. As soon as the deposed king saw the lad he was reminded of the face of his long-lost daughter Sylvia, and he eagerly desired to see Romulus also. Faustulus and his foster-son were wondering what could have befallen Remus, and were preparing to set out in search of him, when they saw a band of youths approaching, with olive boughs in their hands, in token that they came on a peaceful errand. "Wherefore come you hither, friends?" asked Romulus. The leader of the band made answer: "Our master, Numitor, has sent us, Romulus, to pray thee to hasten to his presence." "Nay," answered Romulus, "I cannot go with you, for I must seek my brother Remus, who is lost." Then said the herdsman: "Fear not for thy brother. He is already with our master Numitor." Then Faustulus, who long ago had guessed who the boys must be, said to Romulus: "Do thou the bidding of Numitor, and go with these youths. I myself will go with thee, and will tell thee on the way certain matters that it much imports thee to know." So on the way to the hall of Numitor, Faustulus told Romulus all the tale of the wicker cradle caught beneath the fig tree, and of the wolf and woodpecker that had tended the helpless babes. When the herd-lads saw Romulus pass by they followed him, armed with staves and slings, to see that no harm should come to him; for they loved him and his brother well, and counted them their leaders. As soon as Numitor saw the two lads together and heard the tale of their finding, he was sure that they must be the children of his daughter Sylvia. And Romulus and Remus, when they knew of the evil deeds of their great-uncle Amulius, determined to take vengeance on him. All the herdsmen were ready to follow wherever the twins might choose to lead, so they set forth at once for the hall of King Amulius, and they overpowered his bodyguard and slew him, and made Numitor king in his stead. King Numitor was no ungrateful monarch, and he assigned to his grandsons, while yet alive, all the lands beside the Tiber, and here the brothers determined to build a city and to found a kingdom. And now there came a sharp division between Romulus and Remus. They were of like age, strength, and courage, and of a like high spirit that ill brooked any kind of control. Both wanted to rule, neither was willing to obey; each of the twins was ambitious to be king in the new city, and to call it after his own name. [Illustration: ROMULUS AND REMUS] Then said their grandfather, King Numitor: "Strive not together over this thing, but let the all-seeing gods decide. Go up, either of you, to the top of one of these mountains, and look abroad upon the earth and sky, and the gods shall send a sign whereby ye may know who is chosen king." So Romulus and Remus went each to the top of one of the hills by the Tiber, and they looked abroad upon the earth and sky, all fair and bright in the sunny April weather. Remus first came back to his grandfather, and he was flushed with triumph. "Victory!" he cried. "The gods have chosen me as king, for I have seen six vultures flying in the sky." "Wait," said King Numitor; "do nothing rashly; let us hear what thy brother hath seen." As he spoke Romulus strode into the hall and bowed before his grandfather. "Speak," said King Numitor. "What hast thou seen from thy mountain-top?" And Romulus made answer: "I looked abroad upon the earth, and saw no living thing; but when I gazed upwards, lo, I saw twelve vultures flying in the sky." Then said Numitor: "Verily the gods have spoken plainly; here can be no mistaking. Hail, King Romulus! Thy brother saw but six vultures." And all the herdsmen cried with a great shout: "Hail, King Romulus!" But Remus muttered darkly: "I saw mine first, and I should be the king." But no man heeded him. Then Romulus took a plow with a brazen share and yoked to it a bullock and a heifer, and plowed a deep furrow round the Palatine hill; and all the herdsmen followed after, turning the earth that the share displaced all to the side of the furrow where the city was to stand, so that good fortune might ever follow it and wealth be stored within its walls. But where the gates were to stand, the plow was lifted and carried a little space, for that was the custom of those days, that the gates might not be holy, but that all men might pass through. The heart of Remus swelled with sullen anger, and he would not help his brother, nor take any part in the building of the city. Romulus would gladly have shared his lands and his wealth, but Remus would take nothing at his hands; if he might not be king he cared for nothing else. Day by day he loitered about, gloomily watching Romulus and his men as they toiled at the walls of their city. They wrought hard and long each day, for they wished to surround their chosen site with a rampart before any foe came to interrupt their work. Their first fortification was but a ditch and a mound, neither high nor wide, but enough to serve as a defense while they built better walls behind it at their leisure. On the day the first wall of his new city was completed, Romulus was filled with joy, and offered sacrifices to the gods, and gave thanks in the presence of all his men. But Remus thrust rudely in among the throng and laughed aloud in scorn: "What a wall to make such a pother about!" he cried; and running forward he leaped the ditch and the rampart, and turning leaped back again. "See how great a defense is your fine wall," he cried to Romulus, mocking him. "If a wolf should push against it he would knock it down, and I myself can leap within it whenever I choose." And Romulus answered, pale with passion: "Go thy ways, brother, and leave my wall alone, or I may do thee a mischief." "Thy wall!" retorted Remus. "Scarce can I see where thy wall runs. I thought, verily, some mole must have been rootling here upon the hillside." Now it has always been the custom of soldiers to build first with the spade, and the wall that Romulus and his friends had thrown up as they dug their ditch was higher even now than most of the walls that were made in those days. And Celer, the henchman of Romulus, the youth who had helped him most in his work, was sorely angered when Remus mocked; and when once more he leaped the wall, crying, "Even so will the enemy enter your city," Celer made answer fiercely: "And even thus will we meet the enemy"; and he smote Remus suddenly with the spade that was in his hand, and Remus fell dead at his brother's feet. And when Celer saw that he had slain the brother of the King he flung down his spade and fled quickly, and being swift of foot he escaped to a far-off land. And Romulus wept sore for his brother, and they took the body of Remus to the summit of the hill, and there they burnt it upon a great funeral pile. The newly built city was called Rome; and here for many years Romulus reigned as king, terrible to his foes and just and kindly to all his people. And when forty years had passed away it chanced that the King called together all his warriors to the Goat's Pool, that he might see and speak with them. They were standing ranged in their ranks while Romulus sat upon a high throne to muster them, when on a sudden there came a great darkness upon the whole assembly so that no man could see the face of him who stood next to him. Then, in the midst of the darkness, came a mighty storm of thunder and lightning. When the storm passed and the sun came out again all gazed in wonder and terror at the throne of Romulus, for the King was gone--he had vanished from their sight. And there were those who said that they had seen amid the storm a chariot of fire mounting to the heavens, and that the charioteer was none other than Mars himself come to bear away his son Romulus to the abode of the immortal gods. And while all men doubted and wondered and talked of these things it fell on a day that a friend of Romulus, named Julius Proculus, had a wondrous vision. For it seemed to him as he traveled alone among the mountains, that the King stood before him, great and noble and clad in shining armor. And Julius cried out: "Ah, my lord, wherefore hast thou left thy city in such sorrow? Hast thou indeed forsaken forever all those who love thee?" Then the bright vision made answer: "For a space have I dwelt with men, and a great and glorious city have I founded. Know me henceforward as Quirinus, one of the immortal gods. And now go back to my people and tell them that if they will follow forever the law that I have given them, suffering neither cowardice nor license among them, but being brave and just and honorable, then will I, Quirinus, ever be at hand to help them in their need, and they shall rule over all the peoples of the world." * * * * * BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN STORIES FOR GIRLS THE CASTAWAYS OF PETE'S PATCH Illustrated by ADA C. WILLIAMSON. $1.25 net. (Just published.) A tale of five girls and two youthful grown-ups who enjoyed unpremeditated camping; of a picturesque Indian who sells his home in order to live in it; of a mysteriously shipwrecked boy who is unable to tell whence he came; of Mabel, who tumbled into all the water there was, and of Mabel's friends, who sometimes tumbled in with her; of broken game laws, of a baffled game-warden who proved to be somebody else; and of many other things that _might_ have happened on the rugged shores of Lake Superior. DANDELION COTTAGE Illustrated by Mmes. SHINN and FINLEY. $1.50. Four young girls secure the use of a tumbledown cottage. They set up housekeeping under numerous disadvantages, and have many amusements and queer experiences. "A capital story. It is refreshing to come upon an author who can tell us about real little girls, with sensible ordinary parents, girls who are neither phenomenal nor silly."--_Outlook._ THE ADOPTING OF ROSA MARIE A sequel to "Dandelion Cottage." Illustrated by Mrs. SHINN. $1.50. The little girls, who played at keeping house in the earlier book, enlarge their activities to the extent of playing mother to a little Indian girl. "Those who have read 'Dandelion Cottage' will need no urging to follow further.... A lovable group of four real children, happily not perfect, but full of girlish plans and pranks.... A delightful sense of humor."--_Boston Transcript._ THE GIRLS OF GARDENVILLE Illustrated by MARY WELLMAN. 12mo. $1.50. Interesting, amusing, and natural stories of a girls' club--"The Sweet Sixteen" of Gardenville. "Will captivate as many adults as if it were written for them.... The secret of Mrs. Rankin's charm is her naturalness ... real girls ... not young ladies with 'pigtails,' but girls of sixteen who are not twenty-five ... as original as amusing."--_Boston Transcript._ HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 34 WEST 33D STREET NEW YORK COMPANION STORIES OF COUNTRY LIFE FOR BOYS _By CHARLES P. BURTON_ THE BOYS OF BOB'S HILL Illustrated by GEORGE A. WILLIAMS. 12mo. $1.25. A lively story of a party of boys in a small New England town. "A first-rate juvenile ... a real story for the live human boy--any boy will read it eagerly to the end ... quite thrilling adventures."--_Chicago-Record-Herald._ "Tom Sawyer would have been a worthy member of the Bob's Hill crowd and shared their good times and thrilling adventures with uncommon relish.... A jolly group of youngsters as nearly true to the real thing in boy nature as one can ever expect to find between covers."--_Christian Register._ THE BOB'S CAVE BOYS Illustrated by VICTOR PERARD. $1.50. "It would be hard to find anything better in the literature of New England boy life. Healthy, red-blooded, human boys, full of fun, into trouble and out again, but frank, honest, and clean."--_The Congregationalist._ "Even better than the first book, will interest every healthy youngster."--_Christian Register._ "A rousing story of wide-awake youngsters. A very delightful book. Told with much humor."--_Indianapolis News._ THE BOB'S HILL BRAVES Illustrated by H. S. DELAY. 12mo. $1.50. The "Bob's Hill" band spend a vacation in Illinois, where they play at being Indians, hear thrilling tales of real Indians, and learn much frontier history. A story of especial interest to "Boy Scouts." "Merry youngsters. Capital. Thrilling tales of the red men and explorers. These healthy, red-blooded, New England boys."--_Philadelphia Press._ THE BOY SCOUTS OF BOB'S HILL Illustrated by GORDON GRANT. 12mo. $1.25 net. This, the fourth book in the popular Bob's Hill Series, gives good promise of being even more widely read. The publishers have been fortunate in the admirable illustrations by the official artist of the Boy Scout Movement. The "gang" are just as human, humorous and clearly individualized as ever; and while the influence of the book is good, there is no "preaching," and fun and adventure abound. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS (VIII'12) NEW YORK BY ALICE CALHOUN HAINES _For Young Folks from 9 to 16 Years old._ PARTNERS FOR FAIR With illustrations by FAITH AVERY. $1.25 net. A story full of action, not untinged by pathos, of a boy and his faithful dog and their wanderings after the poor-house burns down. They have interesting experiences with a traveling circus; the boy is thrown from a moving train, and has a lively time with the Mexican Insurrectos, from whom he is rescued by our troops. THE LUCK OF THE DUDLEY GRAHAMS Illustrated by FRANCIS DAY. 300 pp., 12mo. $1.50. A family story of city life. Lightened by humor and an airship. "Among the very best of books for young folks. Appeals especially to girls."--_Wisconsin List for Township Libraries._ "Promises to be perennially popular. A family of happy, healthy, inventive, bright children make the best of restricted conditions and prove themselves masters of circumstances."--_Christian Register._ "Sparkles with cleverness and humor."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ COCK-A-DOODLE HILL A sequel to the above. Illustrated by FRANCIS DAY. 296 pp., 12mo. $1.50. "Cockle-a-doodle Hill" is where the Dudley Graham family went to live when they left New York, and here Ernie started her chicken-farm, with one solitary fowl, "Hennerietta." The pictures of country scenes and the adventures and experiences of this household of young people are very life-like. "No better book for young people than 'The Luck of the Dudley Grahams' was offered last year. 'Cock-a-Doodle Hill' is another of similar qualities."--_Philadelphia Press._ HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS (VIII'12) NEW YORK STANDARD CYCLOPÆDIAS FOR YOUNG OR OLD CHAMPLIN'S YOUNG FOLKS' CYCLOPÆDIAS By JOHN D. CHAMPLIN _Late Associate Editor of the American Cyclopædia_ Bound in substantial red buckram. Each volume complete in itself and sold separately. 12mo, $3.00 per volume, retail. COMMON THINGS New, Enlarged Edition, 850 pp. Profusely Illustrated "A book which will be of permanent value to any boy or girl to whom it may be given, and which fills a place in the juvenile library, never, so far as I know, supplied before."--_Susan Coolidge._ PERSONS AND PLACES New, Up-to-Date Edition, 985 pp. Over 375 Illustrations "We know copies of the work to which their young owners turn instantly for information upon every theme about which they have questions to ask. More than this, we know that some of these copies are read daily, as well as consulted; that their owners turn the leaves as they might those of a fairy book, reading intently articles of which they had not thought before seeing them, and treating the book simply as one capable of furnishing the rarest entertainment in exhaustless quantities."--_N. Y. Evening Post._ LITERATURE AND ART 604 pp. 270 Illustrations "Few poems, plays, novels, pictures, statues, or fictitious characters that children--or most of their parents--of our day are likely to inquire about will be missed here. Mr. Champlin's judgment seems unusually sound."--_The Nation._ GAMES AND SPORTS By JOHN D. CHAMPLIN and ARTHUR BOSTWICK Revised Edition, 784 pp. 900 Illustrations "Should form a part of every juvenile library, whether public or private."--_The Independent._ NATURAL HISTORY By JOHN D. CHAMPLIN, assisted by FREDERICK A. LUCAS 725 pp. Over 800 Illustrations "Here, in compact and attractive form, is valuable and reliable information on every phase of natural history, on every item of interest to the student. Invaluable to the teacher and school, and should be on every teacher's desk for ready reference, and the children should be taught to go to this volume for information useful and interesting."--_Journal of Education._ HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY NEW YORK CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious typographical errors have been repaired. Page placement keys in illustration tags--for example, "page 108]"--have been removed. Hyphenation inconsistencies retained. 
3327	----	BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY THE AGE OF FABLE Revised by Rev. E. E. Hale CONTENTS Chapter I Origin of Greeks and Romans. The Aryan Family. The Divinities of these Nations. Character of the Romans. Greek notion of the World. Dawn, Sun, and Moon. Jupiter and the gods of Olympus. Foreign gods. Latin Names.-- Saturn or Kronos. Titans. Juno, Vulcan, Mars, Phoebus-Apollo, Venus, Cupid, Minerva, Mercury, Ceres, Bacchus. The Muses. The Graces. The Fates. The Furies. Pan. The Satyrs. Momus. Plutus. Roman gods. Chapter II Roman Idea of Creation. Golden Age. Milky Way. Parnassus. The Deluge. Deucalion and Pyrrha. Pandora. Prometheus. Apollo and Daphne. Pyramus and Thisbe. Davy's Safety Lamp. Cephalus and Procris Chapter III Juno. Syrinx, or Pandean Pipes. Argus's Eyes. Io. Callisto Constellations of Great and Little Bear. Pole-star. Diana. Actaeon. Latona. Rustics turned to Frogs. Isle of Delos. Phaeton. Palace of the Sun. Phoebus. Day. Month. Year. Hours. Seasons. Chariot of the sun. People of Aethiopia. Libyan Desert. The Wells Dry. The Sea Shrinks. Phaeton's Tomb. The Heliades Chapter IV Silenus. Midas. Bacchus's Reward to Midas. River Pactolus. Pan Challenges Apollo. Midas's Ears. Gordian Knot. Baucis and Philemon. Aetna. Perpetual Spring. Pluto carries off Prosperine. Cere's Search. Prosperine's Release. Eleusinian Mysteries. Glaucis changed to a Fish. Scylla Chapter V Pygmalion's Statue. Dryope and Iole. Lotus Tree. Venus and Adonis. Anemone or Wind Flower. Apollo and Hyacinthus. Game of Quoits. Flower Hyacinthus. Ceyx and Halcyone. Palace of the King of Sleep. Morpheus. Halcyon Birds. Chapter VI Hamadryads. Pomona. Vertumnus. Iphis. Cupid and Psyche. Zephyr. Temple of Ceres. Temple of Venus. The Ant. Golden Fleece. Pluto. Cerberus. Charon. The Treasure. Stygian Sleep. Cup of Ambrosia. Birth of Pleasure. Greek name of Psyche. Chapter VII Cadmus. Origin of City of Thebes. Tyrians. Serpent. Dragon's Teeth. Harmonia. Serpent Sacred to Mars. Myrmidons. Cephalus. Aeacus. Pestilence Sent by June. Origin of Myrmidons. Chapter VIII Minos, King of Crete. Nisus, his purple hair. Scylla's Betrayal. Her Punishment. Echo. Juno's Sentence. Narcissus. Love for his own image. Clytie. Hopeless Love for Apollo. Becomes a Flower. Hero and Leander. Hellespont Chapter IX Goddess of Wisdom. Arachne. Her Challenge with Minerva. Minerva's Web. Arachne's Web. Transformation. Niobe Queen of Thebes. Mount Cynthus. Death of Niobe's Children. Changed to stone. The Gray-haired Sisters. The Gorgon Medusa. Tower of brass. Danae. Perseus. Net of Dicte. Minerva. King Atlas. Andromeda. Sea Monster. Wedding Feast. Enemies Turned to Stone. Chapter X Attributes of Monsters. Laius. Oedipus. The Oracle. Sphinx. The Riddle. Oedipus made King. Jocasta. Origin of Pegasus. Fountain of Hippocrene. The Chimaera. Bellerophontic Letters. The Centaurs. The Pygmies. Description of the Griffin. The Native Country. One-Eyed People Chapter XI The Ram with the Golden Fleece. The Hellespont. Jason's Quest. Sowing the Dragon's Teeth. Jason's Father. Incantations of Medea. Ancient Name of Greece. Great Gatherings of the Greeks. Wild Boar. Atalanta's Race. Three Golden Apples. Lovers' Ingratitude. Venus's Revenge. Corybantes Chapter XII Labors of Hercules.-- Fight with Nemean Lion.-- Slaughter of the Hydra. Cleaning the Augean Stables.-- Girdle of the Queen of the Amazons.-- Oxen of Geryon.-- Golden Apples of Hesperides.-- Victory over Antaeus.-- Cacus Slain.-- Hercules, Descent into Hades.-- He Becomes the Slave of Omphale.-- Dejanira's Charm.-- Death of Hercules.-- Hebe, Goddess of Youth Chapter XIII Theseus Moves the Fated Stone, and Proceeds to Athens.-- Procrustes's Bedstead.-- Tribute to Minos.-- Ariadne.-- Clew of Thread.-- Encounter with the Minotaur.-- Theseus Becomes King of Athens.-- Friendship of Theseus and Pirithous. The Theseum.-- Festival of Panathenaea.-- Elgin Marbles.-- National Greek Games.-- The Labyrinth.-- Daedalus' Wings.-- Invention of the Saw.-- Castor and Pollux.-- Argonautic Expedition.-- Orpheus's Harp.-- Gemini Chapter XIV Destruction of Semele.-- Infancy of Bacchus.-- March of Bacchus.- - One of the Bacchanals taken Prisoner.-- Pentheus.-- Worship of Bacchus Established in Greece.-- Ariadne.-- Bacchus's Marriage.-- Ariadne's Crown Chapter XV Pan.-- Shepherd's Pipe.-- Panic Terror.-- Signification of the Name Pan.-- Latin Divinities.-- Wood Nymphs.-- Water Nymphs.-- Sea Nymphs. Pleasing Traits of Old Paganism.-- Mrs. Browning's Poem.-- Violation of Cere's Grove.-- Erisichthon's Punishment.-- Rhoecus.-- Water Deities.-- Neptune's Symbol of Power.-- Latin Name for the Muses, and other Deities.-- Personification of the Winds. The Harpies.-- Worship of Fortuna Chapter XVI Transformation of Achelous.-- Origin of the Cornucopia.-- Ancient Meaning of fight of Achelous with Hercules.-- Aesculapius.-- The Cyclops. Antigone.-- Expedition of the "Seven against Thebes."- - Antigone's Sisterly Devotion.-- Antigone's Burial.-- Penelope.- - Statue to Modesty.-- Ulysses.-- Penelope's suitors.-- Penelope's Web Chapter XVII Orpheus's Lyre.-- Unhappy Prognostics at Orpheus's Marriage.-- Eurydice's Death.-- Orpheus Descends to the Stygian Realm.-- Orpheus Loses Eurydice Forever.-- Thracian Maidens.-- Honey.-- Aristaeus's Loss and Complaint.-- Cyrene's Apartments.-- Proteus Captured.-- His Directions to Orpheus.-- Swarm of Bees.-- Celebrated Mythical Poets and Musicians.-- First Mortal Endowed with Prophetic Powers Chapter XVIII Adventures of Real Persons.-- Arion, Famous Musician.-- Description of Ancient Theatres.-- Murder of Ibycus.-- Chorus Personating the Furies.-- Cranes of Ibycus.-- The Murderers Seized.-- Simonides.-- Scopa's Jest. Simonides's Escape.-- Sappho.-- "Lover's Leap" Chapter XIX Endymion.-- Mount Latmos. Gift of Perpetual Youth and Perpetual Sleep.-- Orion.-- Kedalion.-- Orion's Girdle.-- The Fatal Shot The Pleiads.-- Aurora.-- Memnon.-- statue of Memnon.-- Scylla.-- Acis and Galatea.-- River Acis Chapter XX Minerva's Competition.-- Paris's Decision.-- Helen.-- Paris's Elopement.-- Ulysses's Pretence.-- The Apple of Discord.-- Priam, King of Troy.-- Commander of Grecian Armament.-- Principal Leaders of the Trojans.-- Agamemnon Kills the Sacred Stag.-- Iphigenia.-- The Trojan War.-- The Iliad.-- Interest of Dods and Goddesses in the War.-- Achilles's Suit of Armor.-- Death of Hector.-- Ransom Sent to Achilles.-- Achilles Grants Priam's Request.-- Hector's Funeral Solemnities. Chapter XXI Achilles Captivated by Polyxena.-- Achilles' Claim.-- Bestowal of Achilles' Armor.-- The Hyacinth.-- Arrows of Hercules.-- Death of Paris.-- Celebrated Statue of Minerva.-- Wooden Horse.-- Greeks Pretend to Abandon the Siege.-- Sea Serpents.-- Laocoon.-- Troy subdued.-- Helen and Menelaus.-- Nepenthe.-- Agamemnon's Misfortunes.-- Orestes.-- Electra.-- Site of the City of Troy Chapter XXII The Odyssey.-- The Wanderings of Ulysses.-- Country of the Cyclops.-- The Island of Aeolus.-- The Barbarous Tribe of Laestrygonians.-- Circe.-- The Sirens.-- Scylla and Charybdis.-- Cattle of Hyperion.-- Ulysses's Raft.-- Calypso Entertains Ulysses.-- Telemachus and Mentor Escape from Calypso's Isle Chapter XXIII Ulysses Abandons the Raft.-- The Country of the Phaeacians.-- Nausicaa's Dream.-- A Game of Ball.-- Ulysses's Dilemma.-- Nausicaa's Courage.-- The Palace of Alcinous.-- Skill of the Phaeacian Women.-- Hospitality to Ulysses.-- Demodocus, the Blind Bard.-- Gifts to Ulysses Chapter XXV Virgil's Description of the Region of the Dead.-- Descend into Hades.-- The Black River and Ferryman.-- Cape Palinurus.-- The Three-Headed Dog.-- Regions of Sadness.-- Shades of Grecian and Trojan Warriors.-- Judgment Hall of Rhadamanthus.-- The Elysian Fields.-- Aeneas Meets His Father.-- Anchises Explains the Plan of Creation.-- Transmigration of Souls.-- Egyptian Name of Hades.-- Location of Elysium.-- Prophetic Power of the Sibyl.-- Legend of the Nine Books Stories of Gods and Heroes. Chapter I Introduction The literature of our time, as of all the centuries of Christendom, is full of allusions to the gods and goddesses of the Greeks and Romans. Occasionally, and, in modern days, more often, it contains allusions to the worship and the superstitions of the northern nations of Europe. The object of this book is to teach readers who are not yet familiar with the writers of Greece and Rome, or the ballads or legends of the Scandinavians, enough of the stories which form what is called their mythology, to make those allusions intelligible which one meets every day, even in the authors of our own time. The Greeks and Romans both belong to the same race or stock. It is generally known in our time as the Aryan family of mankind; and so far as we know its history, the Greeks and Romans descended from the tribes which emigrated from the high table- lands of Northern India. Other tribes emigrated in different directions from the same centre, so that traces of the Aryan language are found in the islands of the Pacific ocean. The people of this race, who moved westward, seem to have had a special fondness for open air nature, and a willingness to personify the powers of nature. They were glad to live in the open air, and they specially encouraged the virtues which an open-air people prize. Thus no Roman was thought manly who could not swim, and every Greek exercised in the athletic sports of the palaestra. The Romans and Grecian and German divisions of this great race are those with which we have most to do in history and in literature. Our own English language is made up of the dialects of different tribes, many of whom agreed in their use of words which they had derived from our Aryan ancestry. Thus our substantive verb I AM appears in the original Sanscrit of the Aryans as ESMI, and m for ME (MOI), or the first person singular, is found in all the verbal inflections. The Greek form of the same verb was ESMI, which became ASMI, and in Latin the first and last vowels have disappeared, the verb is SUM. Similar relationships are traced in the numerals, and throughout all the languages of these nations. The Romans, like the Etruscans who came before them, were neither poetical nor imaginative in temperament. Their activity ran in practical directions. They therefore invented few, if any stories, of the gods whom they worshipped with fixed rites. Mr. Macaulay speaks of these gods as "the sober abstractions of the Roman pantheon." We owe most of the stories of the ancient mythology to the wit and fancy of the Greeks, more playful and imaginative, who seized from Egypt and from the East such legends as pleased them, and adapted them in their own way. It often happens that such stories, resembling each other in their foundation, are found in the Greek and Roman authors in several different forms. To understand these stories, we will here first acquaint ourselves with the ideas of the structure of the universe, which the poets and others held, and which will form the scenery, so to speak, of the narratives. The Greek poets 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. 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 [this word means "who live beyond the north" from the word "hyper," beyond, and boreas, the north wind], 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 favored 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 favored 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 favor 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 western side, and to drive through the air, giving light to gods and men. The stars also, except those forming Charles' Wain or Bear, and others near them, rose out of and sank into 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 "Commmus." "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, Pacing 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 goddesses 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 [Or Zeus. The relation of these names to each other will be explained on the next page], as did also those deities whose usual abode was the earth, the waters, or the underworld. 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. T here the inhabitants divine rejoice Forever.:" Cowper Such were the abodes of the gods as the Greeks conceived them. The Romans, before they knew the Greek poetry, seem to have had no definite imagination of such an assembly of gods. But the Roman and Etruscan races were by no means irreligious. They venerated their departed ancestors, and in each family the worship of these ancestors was an important duty. The images of the ancestors were kept in a sacred place, each family observed, at fixed times, memorial rites in their honor, and for these and other religious observances the family hearth was consecrated. The earliest rites of Roman worship are supposed to be connected with such family devotions. As the Greeks and Romans became acquainted with other nations, they imported their habits of worship, even in early times. It will be remembered that as late as St. Paul's time, he found an altar at Athens "to an unknown god." Greeks and Romans alike were willing to receive from other nations the legends regarding their gods, and to incorporate them as well as they could with their own. It is thus that in the poetical mythology of those nations, which we are now to study, we frequently find a Latin and a Greek name for one imagined divinity. Thus Zeus, of the Greeks, becomes in Latin with the addition of the word pater (a father) [The reader will observe that father is one of the words derived from an Ayan root. Let p and t become rough, as the grammarians say, let p become ph, and t th, and you have phather or father], Jupiter Kronos of the Greeks appears as "Vulcanus" of the Latins, "Ares" of the Greeks is "Mars" or Mavors of the Latins, "Poseidon" of the Greeks is "Neptunus" of the Latins, "Aphrodite" of the Greeks is "Venus" of the Latins. This variation is not to be confounded with a mere translation, as where "Paulos" of the Greek becomes "Paulus" in Latin, or "Odysseus" becomes "Ulysses," or as when "Pierre" of the French becomes "Peter" in English. What really happened was, that as the Romans, more cultivated than their fathers, found in Greek literature a god of fire and smithery, they transferred his name "Hephaistos" to their own old god "Vulcanus," who had the same duties, and in their after literature the Latin name was used for the stories of Greek and Latin origin. As the English literature came into being largely on French and Latin models, and as French is but a degraded Latin and retains Latin roots largely, in our older English poets the Latin forms of these names are generally used. In our own generation, with the precision now so much courted, a fashion has come in, of designating Mars by his Greek name of "Ares," Venus by her name of "Aphrodite," and so on. But in this book, as our object is to make familiar the stores of general English literature which refer to such subjects, we shall retain, in general, the Latin names, only calling the attention of the reader to the Greek names, as they appear in Greek authors, and in many writers of the more recent English schools. The real monarch of the heavens in the mythology of both Greece and Rome is Jupiter (Zeus-pater, father-Jove) [Jove appears to be a word derived from the same root as Zeus, and it appears in the root dev of the Sanscrit, where devas are gods of different forms. Our English word devil probably comes from the French diable, Italian diavolo, Latin diabolus, one who makes division,- - literally one who separates balls, or throws balls about,-- instead of throwing them frankly and truly at the batsman. It is not to be traced to the Sanscrit deva.] In the mythological system we are tracing Zeus is himself the father of many of the gods, and he is often spoken of as father of gods and men. He is the father of Vulcan [In Greek Hephaistos], of Venus [in Greek Aphrodite], of Minerva [in Greek Pallas Athene, or either name separately], of Apollo [of Phoebus], Diana [in Greek Artemis], and of Mercury [in Greek Hermes], who are ranked among the twelve superior gods, and of many inferior deities. But Jupiter himself is not the original deity in these systems. He is the son of Saturnus, as in the Greek Zeus is the son of Kronos. Still the inevitable question would occur where did Saturnus or Kronos come from. And, in forms and statements more and more vague, the answer was that he was born from Uranus or Ouranos, which is the name of the Heaven over all which seemed to embrace all things. The Greek name of Saturn was spelled Kronos. The Greek name of Time was spelled Chronos. A similarity between the two was imagined. And the whole statement, when reduced to rationalistic language, would be that from Uranus, the infinite, was born Chronos, Time,-- that from Time, Zeus or Jupiter was born, and that he is the only child of Time who has complete sway over mortals and immortals. "The will of Jove I own, Who mortals and immortals rules alone." Homer, II.xii Jupiter was son of Saturn (Kronos) [The names included in parentheses are the Greek, the others being the Roman or Latin names] and Ops (Rhea in Greek, sometimes confounded with the Phrygian Cybele). 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. In allusion to the dethronement of Ouranos by Kronos, and of Kronos or Saturnus by Zeus or Jupiter, Prometheus says in AEschylus's tragedy,-- "You may deem Its towers impregnable; but have I not already seen two monarchs hurled from them." Thee 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 splendor 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 heathen 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 own children [This inconsistency arises from considering the Saturn of the Romans the same with the Grecian deity Chronos (Time), which, as it brings an end to all things which have had a beginning, may be said to devour its own offspring.] 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. 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 favorite bird, and bore his thunderbolts. Juno (Hera)[pronounce He-re, in two syllables] 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 favorite bird. Vulcan (Hephaistos), 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 [this is a Greek name of a Greek divinity, who seems to have had no Roman resemblance], 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-favored of the gods. Venus possessed an embroidered girdle called the Cestus, which had the power of inspiring love. Her favorite 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 from his head, completely armed. Her favorite 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. Four hours after his birth he found the shell of a tortoise, made holes in the opposite edges of it, and drew cords of linen through them, and the instrument was complete [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."] The cords were nine, in honor of the nine Muses. Mercury gave the lyre to Apollo, and received from him in exchange the caduceus. 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 presidency 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, Terpischore of choral dance and song, Erato of love-poetry, Polyhymnia of sacred poetry, Urania of astronomy, Thalia [Pronounced Tha-lei-a, with the emphasis on the second syllable] of comedy. Spenser described 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-favored show; As comely carriage, entertainment kind, Sweet semblance, friendly offices that bind, And all the compliments 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 crimes by their secret stings. 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 [the name Pan means everything, and he is sometimes spoken of as the god of all nature] was the god of flocks and shepherds. His favorite residence, as the Greeks describe him, 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. The Roman poets tried to identify him with the Grecian god Kronos, 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 [there was also a goddess called Fauna, or Bona Dea], 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. 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 another 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 to 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 a protector through life. On birthdays men made offerings to their Genius, women to their Juno. Macaulay 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." "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 have been so long used as English words, that they may be regarded as exceptions, to be pronounced as if English. Hecate is sometimes pronounced by the poets as a dissylable. In the Index at the close of the volume, we shall mark the accented syllable, in all words which appear to require it. CHAPTER II Prometheus and Pandora The Roman poet Ovid gives us a connected narrative of creation. Before the earth and sea and the all-covering heaven, one aspect, which we call Chaos, covered all the face of Nature,-- a rough heap of inert weight and discordant beginnings of things clashing together. As yet no sun gave light to the world, nor did the moon renew her slender horn month by month,-- neither did the earth hang in the surrounding air, poised by its own weight,-- nor did the sea stretch its long arms around the earth. Wherever there was earth, there was also sea and air. So the earth was not solid nor was the water fluid, neither was the air 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, no man knows who, arranged and divided the land. He placed the rivers and bays, raised mountains and dug out valleys and distributed woods, fountains, fertile fields and stony plains. Now that the air was clear the stars shone out, the fishes swam the sea and birds flew in the air, while the four-footed beasts roamed around the earth. But a nobler animal was needed, and man was made in the image of the gods with an upright stature [The two Greek words for man have the root an, "up], so that while all other animals turn their faces downward and look to the earth, he raises his face to heaven and gazes on the stars [Every reader will be interested in comparing this narrative with that in the beginning of Genesis. It seems clear that so many Jews were in Rome in Ovid's days, many of whom were people of consideration among those with whom he lived, that he may have heard the account in the Hebrew Scriptures translated. Compare JUDAISM by Prof. Frederic Huidekoper.] To Prometheus the Titan and to his brother Epimetheus was committed the task of making man and all other animals, and of endowing them with all needful faculties. This Epimetheus did, and his brother overlooked the work. Epimetheus then gave to the different animals their several gifts of courage, strength, swiftness and sagacity. He gave wings to one, claws to another, a shelly covering to the third. Man, superior to all other animals, came last. But for man Epimetheus had nothing,-- he had bestowed all his gifts elsewhere. He came to his brother for help, and Prometheus, with the aid of Minerva, went up to heaven, lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down fire to man. With this, man was more than equal to all other animals. Fire enabled him to make weapons to subdue wild beasts, tools with which to till the earth. With fire he warmed his dwelling and bid defiance to the cold. Woman was not yet made. The story 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. 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 consistent 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? 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 labor 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. "But when good Saturn, banished from above, Was driven to hell, the world was under Jove. Succeeding times a Silver Age behold, Excelling brass, but more excelled by gold. Then summer, autumn, winter did appear, And spring was but a season of the year. The sun his annual course obliquely made, Good days contracted and enlarged the bad, Then air, with sultry heats, began to glow; The wings of winds were clogged with ice and sno And shivering mortals into houses driven, Sought shelter from the inclemency of heaven. Those houses then were caves, or homely sheds; With twining osiers fenced; and moss their beds. Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke, And oxen labored first beneath the yoke. To this came next in course the Brazen Age: A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage, Not impious yet! . . . . . Hard Steel succeeded then; And stubborn as the metal were the men." Ovid's Metam, Book I. Dryden's Translation. Crime burst in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor 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 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 [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 favorite 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] alone was left, and finally she also took her departure. 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 it; but recollecting the danger that such a conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he changed his plan, and resolved to drown the world. Aquilo, the north wind, which scatters the clouds, was chained up; Notus, 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 labor 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 some one remained on a projecting hill-top, 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 wing 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 demeanor, 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 labor, 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 Jupiter, brought by Hermes, she ensnared 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, the Titan son of Iapetus and Themis, is a favorite subject with the poets. AEschylus wrote three tragedies on the subjects of his confinement, his release, and his worship at Athens. Of these only the first is preserved, the Prometheus Bound. Prometheus was the only one in the council of the gods who favored man. He alone was kind to the human race, and taught and protected them. "I formed his mind, And through the cloud of barbarous ignorance Diffused the beams of knowledge . . . . They saw indeed, they heard, but what availed Or sight or hearing, all things round them rolling, Like the unreal imagery of dreams In wild confusion mixed! The lightsome wall Of finer masonry, the raftered roof They knew not; but like ants still buried, delved Deep in the earth and scooped their sunless caves. Unmarked the seasons ranged, the biting winter, The flower-perfumed spring, the ripening summer Fertile of fruits. At random all their works Till I instructed them to mark the stars, Their rising, and, a harder science yet, Their setting. The rich train of marshalled numbers I taught them, and the meet array of letters. To impress these precepts on their hearts I sent Memory, the active mother of all reason. I taught the patient steer to bear the yoke, In all his toils joint-laborer of man. By me the harnessed steed was trained to whirl The rapid car, and grace the pride of wealth. The tall bark, lightly bounding o'er the waves, I taught its course, and winged its flying sail. To man I gave these arts." Potter's Translation from the Prometheus Bound Jupiter, angry at the insolence and presumption of Prometheus in taking upon himself to give all these blessings to man, condemned the Titan to perpetual imprisonment, bound on a rock on Mount Caucasus while a vulture should forever prey upon his liver. This state of torment might at any time have been brought to an end by Prometheus if he had been willing to submit to his oppressor. For Prometheus knew of a fatal marriage which Jove must make and by which he must come to ruin. Had Prometheus revealed this secret he would at once have been taken into favor. But this 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." PYTHON 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. And here Apollo founded his oracle at Delphi, the only oracle "that was not exclusively national, for it was consulted by many outside nations, and, in fact, was held in the highest repute all over the world. In obedience to its decrees, the laws of Lycurgus were introduced, and the earliest Greek colonies founded. No cities were built without first consulting the Delphic oracle, for it was believed that Apollo took special delight in the founding of cities, the first stone of which he laid in person; nor was any enterprise ever undertaken without inquiry at this sacred fane as to its probable success" [From Beren's Myths and Legends of Greece and Rome.] The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere [From the Belvedere of the Vatican palace where it stands] represents the god after his 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 sharp- 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. Many lovers sought her, but she spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking thought neither 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 favor, 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 in 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 bared 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. Now 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 feet stuck fast in the ground, as roots; 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. With you I will decorate 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. Apollo was god of music and of poetry and also of medicine. For, as the poet Armstrong says, himself a physician:-- "Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Expels disease, 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 often 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 neighborhood 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 ardor 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 love not 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. One 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 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 color fled from his cheeks at the sight. Presently he found the veil all rent and bloody. "Oh, 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 color 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 color 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. "Oh, 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 with 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 acceded to 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 Pomona's hand bestows In cultured garden, free uncultured flows, The flavor 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 lover's 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 Midsummer Night's Dream, where it is most amusingly burlesqued. Here is the description of the play and the characters by the Prologue. "Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth makes all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This lovely lady Thisby is certain. This man with lime and roughcast, doth present Wall, that vile Wall, which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. This man, with lanthorn, dog and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know, By Moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast, which by name Lion hight. The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall, Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broached his boiling bloody breast; And, Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew and died." Midsummer Night's Dream, v.1,128, et seq. 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 loved devotedly. Her name was Procris. She was a favorite 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 follow 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 allay 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 hie 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 endeavoring 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. In Shakespeare's play just quoted, there is an allusion to Cephalus and Procris, although rather badly spelt. Pyramus says, "Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true." Thisbe. "As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you." 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 III Io and Callisto. Diana and Actaeon. The Story of Phaeton Jupiter and Juno, although husband and wife, did not live together very happily. Jupiter did not love his wife very much, and Juno distrusted her husband, and was always accusing him of unfaithfulness. One day she perceived that it suddenly grew 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 that the heifer's form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould. This 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 loth to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a simple heifer? He could not, without arousing suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was not yet relieved of her suspicions; and she delivered the heifer to Argus, to be strictly watched. Now Argus had 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 o gras, 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, whence he could see 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 heard the instrument before. "Young man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on this stone. There is no better place for your flock to graze in than hereabouts, and here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love." Mercury sat down, talked, and told stories until 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 he 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 honor 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 (cow-bearer), 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 shrunk 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 boughs 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 continued groaning, she bemoaned her fate, and stood upright as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg 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 neighborhood 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 honor, 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 neighborhood 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 guilty 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." Il Penseroso And Prometheus, in James Russell 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 blithsome footsteps of the dawn." The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Pole star, 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 neighboring eyes." L'Allegro. The reference here is both to the Pole-star as the guide of mariners, and to the magnetic attraction of the North. He calls it also the "Star of Aready," because Callisto's boy was named Arcas, and they lived in Arcadia. In Milton's Comus, the elder brother, benighted in the woods, says, "Some gentle taper! Through 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 Aready, Or Tyrian Chynsure." DIANA AND ACTAEON 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 tomorrow we can renew our labors. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let us put by our instruments and indulge ourselves with rest." There was a valley thickly 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 labors 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 color 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 that 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 and cliffs, through mountain gorges that 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 own 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 every where 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 the "Epic of Hades" there is a description of Actaeon and his change of form. Perhaps the most beautiful lines in it are when Actaeon, changed to a stag, first hears his own hounds and flees. "But as I gazed, and careless turned and passed Through the thick wood, forgetting what had been, And thinking thoughts no longer, swift there came A mortal terror; voices that I knew. My own hounds' bayings that I loved before, As with them often o'er the purple hills I chased the flying hart from slope to slope, Before the slow sun climbed the eastern peaks, Until the swift sun smote the western plain; Whom often I had cheered by voice and glance, Whom often I had checked with hand and thong; Grim followers, like the passions, firing me, True servants, like the strong nerves, urging me On many a fruitless chase, to find and take Some too swift-fleeting beauty, faithful feet And tongues, obedient always: these I knew Clothed with a new-born force and vaster grown, And stronger than their master; and I thought, What if they tore me with their jaws, nor knew That once I ruled them, brute pursuing brute, And I the quarry? Then I turned and fled If it was I indeed that feared and fled Down the long glades, and through the tangled brakes, Where scarce the sunlight pierced; fled on and on, And panted, self-pursued. But evermore The dissonant music which I knew so sweet, When by the windy hills, the echoing vales And whispering pines it rang; now far, now near As from my rushing steed I leant and cheered With voice and horn the chase; this brought to me Fear of I knew not what, which bade me fly, Fly always, fly; but when my heart stood still, And all my limbs were stiffened as I fled, Just as the white moon ghost-like climbed the sky, Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud, With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam; And when I strove to check their savagery, Speaking with words; no voice articulate came, Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throng Leapt swift upon me and tore me as I lay, And left me man again." 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." Adonais, 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 labors, 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 neighboring 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 favor. 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 feel 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!" PHAETON Epaphus was the son of Jupiter and Io. Phaeton, child of the Sun, was one day boasting to him of his high descent and of his father Phoebus. Epaphus could not bear it. "Foolish fellow," said he "you believe your mother in all things, and you are puffed up by your pride in a false father." Phaeton went in rage and shame and reported this to his mother, Clymene. "If," said he, "I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother, some proof of it, and establish my claim to the honor." 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 labor 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 the Sun 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. 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. 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 every thing, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, 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; "only this 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 thunder bolts. 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 which 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 should give you a fatal gift; recall your request while yet you may. Do you ask me for 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 honor, 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 Daystar, 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 labor 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 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. 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 courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands. The horses, feeling the reins 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 Caijster 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 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. Oh, 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." 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, One of Prior's best remembered poems is that on the Female Phaeton, from which we quote the last verse. Kitty has been imploring her mother to allow her to go out into the world as her friends have done, if only for once. "Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way; Kitty, at heart's desire, Obtained the chariot for a day, And set the world on fire." 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 the 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 Lando describing 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 in the wave. Shake one and it awakens; then apply Its polished lip to your attentive car, And it remembers its August abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there." Gebir, Book 1 Chapter IV Midas. Baucis and Philemon. Pluto and Proserpine. Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old school master and foster father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking, and in that state had 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 whatever reward 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 newly acquired power, which he hastened to put to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found that a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold in his hand. He took up a stone it changed to gold. He touched a sod it did the same. He took 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 lips, 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, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to the river Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there plunge in your head and body 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 splendor, 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. Tmolus 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 to become 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 headdress. But his hairdresser 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, with every breeze which 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' 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, of which, in after times it was said, that whoever should untie it 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 the 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 stand 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 at many a door as weary travellers, 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, kindled up a fire, and 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 old and coarse enough, was spread over that. The old woman, with her apron on, with trembling hand set the table. One leg was shorter than the rest, but a shell put under restored the level. When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling herbs. Upon it she set some olives, Minerva's-fruit, 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 honor of their guests. But the goose, too nimble for the old folks, eluded their pursuit with the aid of feet and wings, 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, labored up the steep ascent. They had come 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 neighbors, 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 gold. Then spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor 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 long showed 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 roof 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." PROSERPINE Under the island of Aetna lies Typhoeus the Titan, in punishment for his share in the rebellion of the giants against Jupiter. Two mountains press down the one his right and the other his left hand while Aetna lies over his head. As Typhoeus moves, the earth shakes; as he breathes, smoke and ashes come up from Aetna. Pluto is terrified at the rocking of the earth, and fears that his kingdom will be laid open to the light of day. He mounts his chariot with the four black horses and comes up to earth and looks around. While he is thus engaged, Venus, sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid, sees him and says: "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 from his chariot, loved her, and carried her off. She screamed for help to her mother and her 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-colored 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 in 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 vigor 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 splendor 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 labor 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 favors" 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, endeavoring 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 favor. 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 build a magnificent temple to Ceres in Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and solemnity of their observance, surpassed all other religious celebrations among the Greeks. There can be little doubt but that this story of Ceres and Proserpine is 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 (a name for Pluto) 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 frightened Proserpine let fall Her flowers at the sight of Dis." The River Alpheus does in fact disappear under ground, 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 alludes to the same story, and to the practice of throwing garlands, or other light objects on the stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards thrown out when the river comes again to light. "Oh, 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, nor 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, 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 honor of their society. They obtained the consent of Oceanus and Tethys, the sovereigns of the sea, that all that was mortal in him should be washed away. A hundred rivers poured their waters over him . Then he lost all sense of his former nature and all consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself changed in form and mind. His hair was sea-green, and trailed behind him on the water; his shoulders grew broad, and what had been thighs and legs assumed the form of a fish's tail. The sea-gods complimented him on the change of his appearance, and he himself was pleased with his looks. One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of the water-nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a sheltered nook, laving her limbs in the clear water. He fell in love with her, and showing himself on the surface, spoke to her, saying such things as he thought most likely to win her to stay; for she turned to run immediately on sight of him and ran till she had gained a cliff overlooking the sea. Here she stopped and turned round to see whether it was a god or a sea-animal, and observed with wonder his shape and color. Glaucus, partly emerging from the water, and supporting himself against a rock, said, "Maiden, I am no monster, nor a sea-animal, but a god; and neither Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I. Once I was a mortal, and followed the sea for a living; but now I belong wholly to it." Then he told the story of his metamorphosis and how he had been promoted to his present dignity, and added, "But what avails all this if it fails to move your heart?" He was going on in this strain, but Scylla turned and hastened away. Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the enchantress, Circe. Accordingly he repaired to her island, the same where afterwards Ulysses landed, as we shall see in another story. After mutual salutations, he said, "Goddess, I entreat your pity; you alone can relieve the pain I suffer. The power of herbs I know as well as any one, for it is to them I owe my change of form I love Scylla. I am ashamed to tell you how I have sued and promised to her, and how scornfully she has treated me. I beseech you to use your incantations, or potent herbs, if they are more prevailing, not to cure me of my love, for that I do not wish, but to make her share it and yield me a like return." To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to the attractions of the sea-green deity, "You had better pursue a willing object; you are worthy to be sought, instead of having to seek in vain. Be not diffident, know your own worth. I protest to you that even I, goddess though I be, and learned in the virtues of plants and spells, should not know how to refuse you If she scorns you, scorn her; meet one who is ready to meet you half way, and thus make a due return to both at once." To these words Glaucus replied, "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the ocean, and seaweed on the top of the mountains, than I will cease to love Scylla, and her alone." The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither did she wish to do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned all her wrath against her rival, poor Scylla. She took plants of poisonous powers and mixed them together, with incantations and charms. Then she passed through the crowd of gambolling beasts, the victims of her art, and proceeded to the coast of Sicily, where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the shore to which Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day, to breathe the air of the sea, and to bathe in its waters. Here the goddess poured her poisonous mixture, and muttered over it incantations of mighty power. Scylla came as usual and plunged into the water up to her waist. What was her horror to perceive a brood of serpents and barking monsters surrounding her! At first she could not imagine they were a part of herself, and tried to run from them, and to drive them away; but as she ran she carried them with her, and when she tried to touch her limbs, she found her hands touch only the yawning jaws of monsters. Scylla remained rooted to the spot. Her temper grew as ugly as her form, and she took pleasure in devouring hapless mariners who came within her grasp. Thus she destroyed six of the companions of Ulysses, and tried to wreck the ships of Aeneas, till at last she was turned into a rock, and as such still continues to be a terror to mariners. The following is Glaucus's account of his feelings after his "sea-change:" "I plunged for life or death. To interknit One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain; so not enough Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; Forgetful utterly of self-9ntent, Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my well. "Twas freedom! And at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed." Keats. Chapter V Pygmalion. Dryope. Venus and Adonis. Apollo and Hyacinthus. Ceyx and Halcyone. Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman could be compared to it in beauty. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive, and only prevented from moving by modesty. His art was so perfect that it concealed itself, and its product looked like the workmanship of nature. Pygmalion admired his own work, and at last fell in love with the counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it, as if to assure himself whether it were living or not, and could not even then believe that it was only ivory. He caressed it, and gave it presents such as young girls love, bright shells and polished stones, little birds and flowers of various hues, beads and amber. He put raiment on its limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a necklace about its neck. To the ears he hung earrings and strings of pearls upon the breast. Her dress became her, and she looked not less charming than when unattired. He laid her on a couch spread with cloths of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their softness. The festival of Venus was at hand, a festival celebrated with great pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar and timidly said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give me, I pray you, for my wife" he dared not say "my ivory virgin," but said instead "one like my ivory virgin." Venus, who was present at the festival, heard him and knew the thought he would have uttered; and, as an omen of her favor, caused the flame on the altar to shoot up thrice in a fiery point into the air. When he returned home, he went to see his statue, and, leaning over the couch, gave a kiss to the mouth. It seemed to be warm. He pressed its lips again, he laid his hand upon the limbs; the ivory felt soft to his touch, and yielded to his fingers like the wax of Hymettus. While he stands astonished and glad, though doubting, and fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a lover's ardor he touches the object of his hopes. It was indeed alive! The veins when pressed yielded to the finger and then resumed their roundness. Then at last the votary of Venus found words to thank the goddess, and pressed his lips upon lips as real as his own. The virgin felt the kisses and blushed, and, opening her timid eyes to the light, fixed them at the same moment on her lover. Venus blessed the nuptials she had formed, and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city, sacred to Venus, received its name. Schiller, in his poem, the Ideals, applies this tale of Pygmalion to the love of nature in a youthful heart. In Schiller's version, as in William Morris's, the statue is of marble. "As once with prayers in passion flowing, Pygmalion embraced the stone, Till from the frozen marble glowing, The light of feeling o'er him shone, So did I clasp with young devotion Bright Nature to a poet's heart; Till breath and warmth and vital motion Seemed through the statue form to dart. "And then in all my ardor sharing, The silent form expression found; Returned my kiss of youthful daring, And understood my heart's quick sound. Then lived for me the bright creation. The silver rill with song was rife; The trees, the roses shared sensation, An echo of my boundless life." Rev. A. G. Bulfinch (brother of the author). Morris tells the story of Pygmalion and the Image in some of the most beautiful verses of the Earthly Paradise. This is Galatea's description of her metamorphosis: "'My sweet,' she said, 'as yet I am not wise, Or stored with words aright the tale to tell, But listen: when I opened first mine eyes I stood within the niche thou knowest well, And from my hand a heavy thing there fell Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear, But with a strange confused noise could hear. "'At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, But awful as this round white moon o'erhead, So that I trembled when I saw her there, For with my life was born some touch of dread, And therewithal I heard her voice that said, "Come down and learn to love and be alive, For thee, a well-prized gift, today I give."'" DRYOPE Dryope and Iole were sisters. The former was the wife of Andraemon, beloved by her husband, and happy in the birth of her first child. One day the sisters strolled to the bank of a stream that sloped gradually down to the water's edge, while the upland was overgrown with myrtles. They were intending to gather flowers for forming garlands for the altars of the nymphs, and Dryope carried her child at her bosom, a precious burden, and nursed him as she walked. Near the water grew a lotus plant, full of purple flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered them to the baby, and Iole was about to do the same, when she perceived blood dropping from the places where her sister had broken them off the stem. The plant was no other than the Nymph Lotis, who, running from a base pursuer, had been changed into this form. This they learned from the country people when it was too late. Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had done, would gladly have hastened from the spot, but found her feet rooted to the ground. She tried to pull them away, but moved nothing but her arms. The woodiness crept upward, and by degrees invested her body. In anguish she attempted to tear her hair, but found her hands filled with leaves. The infant felt his mother's bosom begin to harden, and the milk cease to flow. Iole looked on at the sad fate of her sister, and could render no assistance. She embraced the growing trunk, as if she would hold back the advancing wood, and would gladly have been enveloped in the same bark. At this moment Andraemon, the husband of Dryope, with her father, approached; and when they asked for Dryope, Iole pointed them to the new-formed lotus. They embraced the trunk of the yet warm tree, and showered their kisses on its leaves. Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her tears still flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she could she spoke. "I am not guilty. I deserve not this fate. I have injured no one. If I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with drought and my trunk be cut down and burned. Take this infant and give him to a nurse. Let him often be brought and nursed under my branches, and play in my shade; and when he is old enough to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and to say with sadness, 'My mother lies hid under this bark' But bid him be careful of river banks, and beware how he plucks flowers, remembering that every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise. Farewell, dear husband, and sister, and father. If you retain any love for me, let not the axe wound me, nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since I cannot stoop to you, climb up hither and kiss me; and while my lips continue to feel, lift up my child that I may kiss him. I can speak no more, for already the bark advances up my neck, and will soon shoot over me. You need not close my eyes; the bark will close them without your aid." Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; but the branches retained, for some time longer the vital heat. Keats, in Endymion, alludes to Dryope thus: "She took a lute from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child." VENUS AND ADONIS Venus, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with one of his arrows. She pushed him away, but the wound was deeper than she thought. Before it healed she beheld Adonis, and was captivated with him. She no longer took any interest in her favorite resorts, Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in metals. She absented herself even from Olympus, for Adonis was dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed and bore him company. She who used to love to recline in the shade, with no care but to cultivate her charms, now rambled through the woods and over the hills, dressed like the huntress Diana. She called her dogs, and chased hares and stags, or other game that it is safe to hunt, but kept clear of the wolves and bears, reeking with the slaughter of the herd. She charged Adonis, too, to beware of such dangerous animals. "Be brave towards the timid," said she; "courage against the courageous is not safe. Beware how you expose yourself to danger, and put my happiness to risk. Attack not the beasts that Nature has armed with weapons. I do not value your glory so highly as to consent to purchase it by such exposure. Your youth, and the beauty that charms Venus, will not touch the hearts of lions and bristly boars. Think of their terrible claws and prodigious strength! I hate the whole race of them. Do you ask why?" Then she told him the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, who were changed into lions for their ingratitude to her. Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot drawn by swans, and drove away through the air. But Adonis was too noble to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from his lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the animal with a sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws, and rushed after Adonis, who turned and ran; but the boar overtook him, and buried his tusks in his side, and stretched him dying upon the plain. Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached Cyprus, when she heard coming up through mid air the groans of her beloved, and turned her white-winged coursers back to earth. As she drew near and saw from on high his lifeless body bathed in blood, she alighted, and bending over it beat her breast and tore her hair. Reproaching the Fates, she said, "Yet theirs shall be but a partial triumph; memorials of my grief shall endure, and the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my lamentation shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall be changed into a flower; that consolation none can envy me." Thus speaking, she sprinkled nectar on the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in a pool on which raindrops fall, and in an hour's time there sprang up a flower of bloody hue like that of a pomegranate. But it is short-lived. It is said the wind blows the blossoms open, and afterwards blows the petals away; so it is called Anemone, or wind Flower, from the cause which assists equally in its production and its decay. Milton alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his Comus: "Beds of hyacinth and roses Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits th'Assyrian queen." And Morris also in Atalanta's Race: "There by his horn the Dryads well might know His thrust against the bear's heart had been true, And there Adonis bane his javelin slew" APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS Apollo was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. He accompanied him in his sports, carried the nets when he went fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him his lyre and his arrows. One day they played a game of quoits together, and Apollo, heaving aloft the discus, with strength mingled with skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched it as it flew, and excited with the sport ran forward to seize it, eager to make his throw, when the quoit bounded from the earth and struck him in the forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and retain the flitting life, but all in vain; the hurt was past the power of medicine. As, when one has broken the stem of a lily in the garden, it hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," so spoke Phoebus, "robbed of thy youth by me. Thine is the suffering, mine the crime. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not be thou shalt live with me in memory and in song. My lyre shall celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a flower inscribed with my regrets." While Apollo spoke, behold the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the herbage, ceased to be blood; but a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang up, resembling the lily, if it were not that this is purple and that silvery white (it is evidently not our modern hyacinth that is here described. It is perhaps some species of iris, or perhaps of larkspur, or of pansy.) And this was not enough for Phoebus; but to confer still grater honor, he marked the petals with his sorrow, and inscribed "Ah! Ah!" upon them, as we see to this day. The flower bears the name of Hyacinthus, and with every returning spring revives the memory of his fate. It was said that Zephyrus (the West-wind), who was also fond of Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus. Keats alludes to this in his Endymion, where he describes the lookers- on at the game of quoits: "Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent On either side, pitying the sad death Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent, Who now ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain." An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in Milton's Lycidas: "Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe." CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS Ceyx was King of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace without violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the daughter of Aeolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him. Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and direful prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as if the gods were hostile to him. He thought best therefore to make a voyage to Claros in Ionia, to consult the oracle of Apollo. But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife Halcyone, a shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew deadly pale. "What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned your affection from me? Where is that love of me that used to be uppermost in your thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the absence of Halcyone? Would you rather have me away?" She also endeavored to discourage him, by describing the violence of the winds, which she had known familiarly when she lived at home in her father's house, Aeolus being the god of the winds, and having as much as he could do to restrain them. "They rush together," said she, "with such fury that fire flashes from the conflict. But if you must go," she added, "dear husband, let me go with you, Otherwise I shall suffer, not only the real evils which you must encounter, but those also which my fears suggest." These words weighed heavily on the mind of king Ceyx, and it was no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered, therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and finished with these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star, that if fate permits I will return before the moon shall have twice rounded her orb." When he had thus spoken he ordered the vessel to be drawn out of the ship-house, and the oars and sails to be put aboard. When Halcyone saw these preparations she shuddered, as if with a presentiment of evil. With tears and sobs she said farewell, and then fell senseless to the ground. Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw her husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her. She answered his signal till the vessel had receded so far that she could no longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the vessel itself could no more be seen, she strained her eyes to catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared. Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary couch. Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays among the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails. When half or less of their course was passed, as night drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind to blow a gale. The master gives the word to take in sail, but the storm forbids obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and waves that his orders are unheard. The men, of their own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen the ship, to reef the sail. While they thus do what to each one seems best, the storm increases. The shouting of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of the waves, mingle with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds; then sinking away to the bottom assumes the color of the shoal, a Stygian blackness. The vessel obeys all these changes. It seems like a wild beast that rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in torrents, as if the skies were coming down to unite with the sea. When the lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add its own darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash, rending the darkness asunder, and lighting up all with a glare. Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to come on every wave. The men are stupefied with terror. The thought of parents, and kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their minds. Ceyx thinks of Halcyone. No name but hers is on his lips, and while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her absence. Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of lightning, the rudder broken, and the triumphant surge curling over looks down upon the wreck, then falls, and crushes it to fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and rise no more; others cling to fragments of the wreck. Ceyx, with the hand that used to grasp the sceptre, holds fast to a plank, calling for help, alas, in vain, upon his father and his father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the name of Halcyone. His thoughts cling to her. He prays that the waves may bear his body to her sight, and that it may receive burial at her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks. The Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not leave the heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds. In the mean while Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted the days till her husband's promised return. Now she gets ready the garments which he shall put on, and now what she shall wear when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent incense but more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no more, she prayed incessantly; that he might be safe; that he might come home; that he might not, in his absence, see any one that he would love better than her. But of all these prayers, the last was the only one destined to be granted. The goddess, at length, could not bear any longer to be pleaded with for one already dead, and to have hands raised to her altars, that ought rather to be offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said, "Iris, my faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and tell him to send a vision to Halcyone, in the form of Ceyx, to make known to her the event." Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tingeing the sky with her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the Cimmerian country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god, Somnus, Here Phoebus dares not come, either rising, or at midday, or setting. Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The bird of dawn, with crested head, never calls aloud there to Aurora, nor watchful dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs the silence. (This comparison of the dog and the goose is a reference by Ovid to a passage in Roman history.) No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the stillness. Silence reigns there; and from the bottom of the rock the River Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies grow abundantly before the door of the cave, and other herbs, from whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she scatters over the darkened earth. There is no gate to the mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor any watchman; but in the midst, a couch of black ebony, adorned with black plumes and black curtains. There the god reclines, his limbs relaxed with sleep. Around him lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore grains of sand. As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god, scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard upon his breast, at last shook himself free from himself, and leaning on his arm, inquired her errand, for he knew who she was. She answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer of minds and soother of careworn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that you dispatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of Trachinae, representing her lost husband and all the events of the wreck." Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness creeping over her, she made her escape, and returned by her bow the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous sons, Morpheus, the most expert at counterfeiting forms, and in imitating the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of each. But he only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate birds, beasts, and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a third, who turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other things without life. These wait upon kings and great personages in their sleeping hours, while others move among the common people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers, Morpheus, to perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself to grateful repose. Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the form of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he stood before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks. Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your husband's shade, instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me nothing. I am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my return. The stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea; waves filled my mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain messenger tells you this, no vague rumor brings it to your ears. I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate. Arise! Give me tears, give me lamentations, let me not go down to Tartarus unwept." To these words Morpheus added the voice which seemed to be that of her husband; he seemed to pour forth genuine tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx. Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her sleep, striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air. "Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? Let us go together." Her own voice awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly around, to see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her cries, had brought a light. When she found him not, she smote her breast and rent her garments. She cares not to unbind her hair, but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause of her grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers; "she perished with her Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and dead. I have seen him. I have recognized him. I stretched out my hands to seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it was the true shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed features, not with the beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and with his hair wet with sea-water, he appeared to wretched me. Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood," and she looked to find the mark of his footsteps. "This it was, this that my presaging mind foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me to trust himself to the waves. O, how I wish, since thou wouldst go, that thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been far better. Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend without thee, nor a separate death to die. If I could bear to live and struggle to endure, I should be more cruel to myself than the sea has been to me. But I will not struggle. I will not be separated from thee, unhappy husband. This time, at least I will keep thee company. In death, if one tomb may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes with thine, my name, at least, shall not be separated." Her grief forbade more words, and these were broken with tears and sobs. It was now morning. She went to the sea-shore, and sought the spot where she last saw him, on his departure. "Here he lingered and cast off his tacklings and gave me his last kiss." While she reviews every moment, and strives to recall every incident, looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object floating in the water. At first she was in doubt what it was, but by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and it was plainly the body of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of some shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears, saying, "Alas! Unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy wife!" Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she more and more nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. It is her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it, she exclaims, "O, dearest husband, is it thus you return to me?" There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She leaped upon this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so) she flew, and striking the air with wings produced on the instant, skimmed along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird. As she flew, her throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and like the voice of one lamenting. When she touched the mute and bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her new- formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak. Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether it was only the action of the waves, those who looked on doubted, but the body seemed to raise its head. But indeed he did feel it, and by the pitying gods both of them were changed into birds. They mate and have their young ones. For seven placid days, in winter time, Halcyone broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea. Then the way is safe to seamen. Aeolus guards the winds, and keeps them from disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his grandchildren. The following lines from Byron's Bride of Abydos might seem borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it were not stated that the author derived the suggestion from observing the motion of a floating corpse. "As shaken on his restless pillow, His head heaves with the heaving billow; That hand, whose motion is not life, Yet feebly seems to menace strife, Flung by the tossing tide on high,. Then levelled with the wave " Milton, in his Hymn for the Nativity, thus alludes to the fable of the Halcyon: "But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of light His reign of peace upon the earth began; The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean Who now hath quite forgot to rave While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." Keats, also, in Endymion, says: "O magic sleep! O comfortable bird That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hushed and smooth." Chapter VI Vertumnus and Pomona. Cupid and Psyche The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Among them was Pomona, and no one excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit. She cared not for forests and rivers, but loved the cultivated country and trees that bear delicious apples. Her right hand bore for its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning knife. Armed with this, she worked at one time, to repress the too luxuriant growths, and curtail the branches that straggled out of place; at another, to split the twig and insert therein a graft, making the branch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care, too, that her favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of water by them that the thirsty roots might drink. This occupation was her pursuit, her passion; and she was free from that which Venus inspires. She was not without fear of the country people, and kept her orchard locked, and allowed not men to enter. The Fauns and Satyrs would have given all they possessed to win her, and so would old Sylvanus, who looks young for his years, and Pan, who wears a garland of pine leaves around his head. But Vertumnus loved her best of all; yet he sped no better than the rest. Oh, how often, in the disguise of a reaper, did he bring her corn in a basket, and looked the very image of a reaper! With a hay-band tied round him, one would think he had just come from turning over the grass. Sometimes he would have an ox-goad in his hand, and you would have said he had just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a pruning-hook, and personated a vine-dresser; and again with a ladder on his shoulder, he seemed as if he was going to gather apples. Sometimes he trudged along as a discharged soldier, and again he bore a fishing-rod as if going to fish. In this way, he gained admission to her, again and again, and fed his passion with the sight of her. One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair surmounted with a cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the garden and admired the fruit. "It does you credit, my dear," she said, and kissed Pomona, not exactly with an old woman's kiss. She sat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with fruit which hung over her. Opposite was an elm entwined with a vine loaded with swelling grapes. She praised the tree and its associated vine, equally. "But," said Vertumnus, "if the tree stood alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would lie prostrate on the ground. Why will you not take a lesson from the tree and the vine, and consent to unite yourself with some one? I wish you would. Helen herself had not more numerous suitors, nor Penelope, the wife of shrewd Ulysses. Even while you spurn them, they court you rural deities and others of every kind that frequent these mountains. But if you are prudent and want to make a good alliance, and will let an old woman advise you, who loves you better than you have any idea of, dismiss all the rest and accept Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as well as he knows himself. He is not a wandering deity, but belongs to these mountains. Nor is he like too many of the lovers nowadays, who love any one they happen to see; he loves you, and you only. Add to this, he is young and handsome, and has the art of assuming any shape he pleases, and can make himself just what you command him. Moreover, he loves the same things that you do, delights in gardening, and handles your apples with admiration. But NOW he cares nothing for fruits, nor flowers, nor anything else, but only yourself. Take pity on him, and fancy him speaking now with my mouth. Remember that the gods punish cruelty, and that Venus hates a hard heart, and will visit such offenses sooner or later. To prove this, let me tell you a story, which is well known in Cyprus to be a fact; and I hope it will have the effect to make you more merciful. "Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved Anaxarete, a noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He struggled long with his passion, but when he found he could not subdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion. First he told his passion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster- child to favor his suit. And then he tried to win her domestics to his side. Sometimes he committed his vows to written tablets, and often hung at her door garlands which he had moistened with his tears. He stretched himself on her threshold, and uttered his complaints to the cruel bolts and bars. She was deafer than the surges which rise in the November gale; harder than steel from the German forges, or a rock that still clings to its native cliff. She mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her ungentle treatment, and gave not the slightest gleam of hope. "Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love, and standing before her doors, he spake these last words: 'Anaxarete, you have conquered, and shall no longer have to bear my importunities. Enjoy your triumph! Sing songs of joy, and bind your forehead with laurel, you have conquered! I die; stony heart, rejoice! This at least I can do to gratify you, and force you to praise me; and thus shall I prove that the love of you left me but with life. Nor will I leave it to rumor to tell you of my death. I will come myself, and you shall see me die, and feast your eyes on the spectacle. Yet, Oh, ye gods, who look down on mortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but this! Let me be remembered in coming ages, and add those years to my name which you have reft from my life.' Thus he said, and, turning his pale face and weeping eyes towards her mansion, he fastened a rope to the gate-post, on which he had hung garlands, and putting his head into the noose, he murmured, 'This garland at least will please you, cruel girl!' And falling, hung suspended with his neck broken. As he fell he struck against the gate, and the sound was as the sound of a groan. The servants opened the door and found him dead, and with exclamations of pity raised him and carried him home to his mother, for his father was not living. She received the dead body of her son, and folded the cold form to her bosom; while she poured forth the sad words which bereaved mothers utter. The mournful funeral passed through the town, and the pale corpse was borne on a bier to the place of the funeral pile. By chance the home of Anaxarete was on the street where the procession passed, and the lamentations of the mourners met the ears of her whom the avenging deity had already marked for punishment. "'Let us see this sad procession,' said she, and mounted to a turret, whence through an open window she looked upon the funeral. Scarce had her eyes rested upon the form of Iphis stretched on the bier, when they began to stiffen, and the warm blood in her body to become cold. Endeavoring to step back, she found she could not move her feet; trying to turn away her face, she tried in vain; and by degrees all her limbs became stony like her heart. That you may not doubt the fact, the statue still remains, and stands in the temple of Venus at Salamis, in the exact form of the lady. Now think of these things, my dear, and lay aside your scorn and your delays, and accept a lover. So may neither the vernal frosts blight your young fruits, nor furious winds scatter your blossoms!" When Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old woman, and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely youth. It appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud. He would have renewed his entreaties, but there was no need; his arguments and the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph no longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame. Pomona was the especial patroness of the apple-orchard, and as such she was invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider, in blank verse, in the following lines: "What soil the apple loves, what care is due To orchats, timeliest when to press the fruits, Thy gift, Pomona, in Miltonian verse Adventurous I presume to sing." Thomson, in the Seasons, alludes to Phillips: "Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse, With British freedom, sing the British song." It will be seen that Thomson refers to the poet's reference to Milton, but it is not true that Phillips is only the second writer of English blank verse. Many other poets beside Milton had used it long before Phillips' time. But Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and, as such, is invoked by Thomson: "Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves, To where the lemon and the piercing lime, With the deep orange, glowing through the green, Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes, Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit." CUPID AND PSYCHE A certain king had three daughters. (This seems to be one of the latest fables of the Greek mythology. It has not been found earlier than the close of the second century of the Christian era. It bears marks of the higher religious notions of that time.) The two elder were charming girls, but the beauty of the youngest was so wonderful that language is too poor to express its due praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that strangers from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and looked on her with amazement, paying her that homage which is due only to Venus herself. In fact, Venus found her altars deserted, while men turned their devotion to this young virgin. As she passed along, the people sang her praises, and strewed her way with chaplets and flowers. This perversion to a mortal of the homage due only to the immortal powers gave great offence to the real Venus. Shaking her ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, "Am I then to be eclipsed in my honors by a mortal girl? In vain then did that royal shepherd, whose judgment was approved by Jove himself, give me the palm of beauty over my illustrious rivals, Pallas and June. But she shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I will give her cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty." Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in his own nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her complaints. She points out Psyche to him, and says, "My dear son, punish that contumacious beauty; give thy mother a revenge as sweet as her injuries are great; infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some low, mean, unworthy being, so that she may reap a mortification as great as her present exultation and triumph." Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two fountains in Venus's garden, one of sweet waters, the other of bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity; then touched her side with the point of his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon Cupid (himself invisible) which so startled him that in his confusion he wounded himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound his whole thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he poured the balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets. Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from all her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and every mouth spoke her praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor plebeian presented himself to demand her in marriage. Her two elder sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two royal princes; but Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her solitude, sick of that beauty, which, while it procured abundance of flattery, had failed to awaken love. Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received this answer: "The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover. Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist." This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with dismay, and her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But Psyche said, "Why, my dear parents, do you now lament me? You should rather have grieved when the people showered upon me undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a Venus. I now perceive that I am a victim to that name. I submit. Lead me to that rock to which my unhappy fate has destined me." Accordingly, all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place in the procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp, and with her parents, amid the lamentations of the people, ascended the mountain, on the summit of which they left her alone, and with sorrowful hearts returned home. While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear and with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the earth and bore her with an easy motion into a flowery dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself down on the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke, refreshed with sleep, she looked round and beheld nearby a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the midst discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters, and hard by, a magnificent palace whose August front impressed the spectator that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she approached the building and ventured to enter. Every object she met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with carvings and paintings representing beasts of the chase and rural scenes, adapted to delight the eye of the beholder. Proceeding onward she perceived that besides the apartments of state there were others, filled with all manner of treasures, and beautiful and precious productions of nature and art. While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though she saw no one, uttering these words: "Sovereign lady, all that you see is yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants, and shall obey all your commands with our utmost care and diligence. Retire therefore to your chamber and repose on your bed of down, and when you see fit repair to the bath. Supper will await you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases you to take your seat there." Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and after repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in the alcove, where a table immediately presented itself, without any visible aid from waiters or servants, and covered with the greatest delicacies of food and the most nectareous wines. Her ears too were feasted with music from invisible performers; of whom one sang, another played on the lute, and all closed in the wonderful harmony of a full chorus. She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the hours of darkness, and fled before the dawn of morning, but his accents were full of love, and inspired a like passion in her. She often begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would not consent. On the contrary, he charged her to make no attempt to see him, for it was his pleasure, for the best of reasons, to keep concealed. "Why should you wish to behold me?" he said. "Have you any doubt of my love? Have you any wish ungratified? If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as an equal than adore me as a god." This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the novelty lasted she felt quite happy. But at length the thought of her parents, left in ignorance of her fate, and of her sisters, precluded from sharing with her the delights of her situation, preyed on her mind and made her begin to feel her palace as but a splendid prison. When her husband came one night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from him an unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her. So calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's commands, and he, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the mountain down to their sister's valley. They embraced her and she returned their caresses. "Come," said Psyche, "enter with me my house and refresh yourselves with whatever your sister has to offer." Then taking their hands she led them into her golden palace, and committed them to the care of her numerous train of attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at her table, and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young sister possessed of such state and splendor, so much exceeding their own. They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a person her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the mountains. The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess that she had never seen him. Then they proceeded to fill her bosom with dark suspicions. "Call to mind," they said, "the Pythian oracle that declared you destined to marry a direful and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of this valley say that your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent, who nourishes you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you. Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife; put them in concealment that your husband may not discover them, and when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed bring forth your lamp and see for yourself whether what they say is true or not. If it is, hesitate not to cut off the monster's head, and thereby recover your liberty." Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they did not fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her sisters were gone, their words and her own curiosity were too strong for her to resist. So she prepared her lamp and a sharp knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. When he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring. As she leaned the lamp over to have a nearer view of his face a drop of burning oil fell on the shoulder of the god, startled with which he opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her; then, without saying one word, he spread his white wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window to the ground. Cupid, beholding her as she lay in the dust, stopped his flight for an instant and said, "O foolish Psyche, is it thus you repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, will you think me a monster and cut off my head? But go; return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine. I inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion." So saying he fled away, leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling the place with mournful lamentations. When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around her, but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the open field not far from the city where her sisters dwelt. She repaired thither and told them the whole story of her misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful creatures inwardly rejoiced; "for now," said they, "he will perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, without saying a word of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning and ascended the mountain, and having reached the top, called upon Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping up, and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and was dashed to pieces. Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose, in search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain having on its brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to herself, "Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there," and directed her steps thither. She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in loose ears and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley. Scattered about lay sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the weary reapers' hands in the sultry hours of the day. This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by separating and sorting every thing to its proper place and kind, believing that she ought to neglect none of the gods, but endeavor by her piety to engage them all in her behalf. The holy Ceres, whose temple it was, finding her so religiously employed, thus spoke to her: "O Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though I cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach you how best to allay her displeasure. Go then, voluntarily surrender yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and submission to win her forgiveness; perhaps her favor will restore you the husband you have lost." Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the temple of Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and thinking of what she should say and how she should best propitiate the angry goddess, feeling that the issue was doubtful and perhaps fatal. Venus received her with angry countenance. "Most undutiful and faithless of servants," said she, "do you at last remember that you really have a mistress? Or have you rather come to see your sick husband, yet suffering from the wound given him by his loving wife? You are so ill-favored and disagreeable that the only way you can merit your lover must be by dint of industry and diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery." Then she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and lentils prepared for food for her doves, and said, "Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind in a parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done before evening." Then Venus departed and left her to her task. But Psyche, in perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat stupid and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable heap. While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a native of the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of the ant-hill, followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects, approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence taking grain by grain, they separated the pile, sorting each kind to its parcel; and when it was all done, they vanished out of sight in a moment. Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of the gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done she exclaimed, "This is no work of yours wicked one, but his, whom to your own and his misfortune you have enticed." So saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper and went away. Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called, and said to her, "Behold yonder grove which stretches along the margin of the water. There you will find sheep feeding without a shepherd, with golden-shining fleeces on their backs. Go, fetch me a sample of that precious wool gathered from every one of their fleeces. Psyche obediently went to the river-side, prepared to do her best to execute the command. But the river-god inspired the reeds with harmonious murmurs, which seemed to say, "O maiden, severely tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under the influence of the rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp horns or rude teeth. But when the noontide sun has driven the flock to the shade, and the serene spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then cross in safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees." Thus the compassionate river-god gave Psyche instructions how to accomplish her task, and by observing his directions she soon returned to Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece; but she received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, who said, "I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you have succeeded in this task, and I am not satisfied yet that you have any capacity to make yourself useful. But I have another task for you. Here, take this box, and go your way to the infernal shades, and give this box to Proserpine, and say, 'My mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in tending her sick son she has lost come of her own.' Be not too long on your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the circle of the gods and goddesses this evening." Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being obliged to go with her own feet directly down to Erebus. Wherefore, to make no delay of what was not to be avoided, she goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate herself headlong, thus to descend the shortest way to the shades below. But a voice from the tower said to her, "Why, poor unlucky girl, dost thou design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a manner? And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger, who hast been so miraculously supported in all thy former?" Then the voice told her how by a certain cave she might reach the realms of Pluto, and how to avoid all the dangers of the road, to pass by Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the ferryman, to take her across the black river and bring her back again. But the voice added, "When Proserpine has given you the box, filled with her beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be observed by you, that you never once open or look into the box nor allow your curiosity to pry into the treasure of the beauty of the goddesses. Psyche encouraged by this advice obeyed it in all things, and taking heed to her ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto. She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine, and without accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was offered her, but contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered her message from Venus. Presently the box was returned to her, shut and filled with the precious commodity. Then she returned the way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into the light of day. But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task a longing desire seized her to examine the contents of the box. "What," said she, "shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty, not take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more advantage in the eyes of my beloved husband!:" So she carefully opened the box, but found nothing there of any beauty at all, but an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which being thus set free from its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in the midst of the road, a sleepy corpse without sense or motion. But Cupid being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer to bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the smallest crack of the window of his chamber which happened to be left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up the sleep from her body closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche with a light touch of one of his arrows. "Again," said he, "hast thou almost perished by the same curiosity. But now perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, and I will take care of the rest." Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven, presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of the lovers so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent Mercury to bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she arrived, handing her a cup of ambrosia, he said, "Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid ever break away from the knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be perpetual." Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they had a daughter born to them whose name was Pleasure. The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered allegorical. The Greek name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the same word means the soul. There is no illustration of the immortality of the soul so striking and beautiful as the butterfly, bursting on brilliant wings from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull, grovelling caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day and feed on the most fragrant and delicate productions of the spring. Psyche, then, is the human soul, which is purified by sufferings and misfortunes, and is thus prepared for the enjoyment of true and pure happiness. In works of art Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings of a butterfly, alone or with Cupid, in the different situations described in the allegory. Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the conclusion of his Comus:-- "Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced, After her wandering labors long, Till free consent the gods among Make her his eternal bride; And from her fair unspotted side T wo blissful twins are to be born, Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn." The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the beautiful lines of T. K. Hervey:-- "They wove bright fables in the days of old When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings; When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold, And told in song its high and mystic things! And such the sweet and solemn tale of her The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given. That led her through the world, Love's worshipper, To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven! "In the full city, by the haunted fount, Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars, 'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount, Where silence sits to listen to the stars; In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove, The painted valley, and the scented air, She heard far echoes of the voice of Love, And found his footsteps' traces everywhere. "But never more they met! Since doubts and fears, Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth, Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears, And that bright spirit of immortal birth; Until her pining soul and weeping eyes Had learned to seek him only in the skies; Till wings unto the weary heart were given, And she became Love's angel bride in heaven!" The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more recent date than most of the legends of the Age of Fable. It is this that Keats alludes to in his Ode to Psyche. "O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heaped with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet, From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of Pale-mouthed prophet dreaming." In Moore's Summer Fete, a fancy ball is described, in which one of the characters personated is Psyche. "not in dark disguise to-night Hath our young heroine veiled her light; For see, she walks the earth, Love's own. His wedded bride, by holiest vow Pledged in Olympus, and made known To mortals by the type which now Hangs glittering on her snowy brow, That butterfly, mysterious trinket, Which means the soul (though few would think it), And sparkling thus on brow so white, Tells us we've Psyche here to-night." Chapter VII Cadmus. The Myrmidons. Jupiter, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away to the island of Crete, Europa, the daughter of Agenor king of Phoenicia. Agenor commanded his son Cadmus to go in search of his sister, and not to return without her. Cadmus went and sought long and far for his sister, but could not find her, and not daring to return unsuccessful, consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what country he should settle in. The oracle informed him that he should find a cow in the field, and should follow her wherever she might wander, and where she stopped, should build a city and call it Thebes. Cadmus had hardly left the Castalian cave, from which the oracle was delivered, when he saw a young cow slowly walking before him. He followed her close, offering at the same time his prayers to Phoebus. The cow went on till she passed the shallow channel of Cephisus and came out into the plain of Panope. There she stood still, and raising her broad forehead to the sky, filled the air with her lowings. Cadmus gave thanks, and stooping down kissed the foreign soil, then lifting his eyes, greeted the surrounding mountains. Wishing to offer a sacrifice to Jupiter, he sent his servants to seek pure water for a libation. Nearby there stood an ancient grove which had never been profaned by the axe, in the midst of which was a cave, thick covered with the growth of bushes, its roof forming a low arch, from beneath which burst forth a fountain of purest water. In the cave lurked a horrid serpent with a crested head and scales glittering like gold. His eyes shone like fire, his body was swollen with venom, he vibrated a triple tongue, and showed a triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians (Cadmus and his companions came from Tyre, the chief city of Phoenicia) dipped their pitchers in the fountain, and the ingushing waters made a sound, than the glittering serpent raised his head out of the cave and uttered a fearful hiss. The vessels fell from their hands, the blood left their cheeks, they trembled in every limb. The serpent, twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, raised his head so as to overtop the tallest trees, and while the Tyrians from terror could neither fight nor fly, slew some with his fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous breath. Cadmus having waited for the return of his men till midday, went in search of them. His covering was a lion's hide, and besides his javelin he carried in his hand a lance, and in his breast a bold heart, a surer reliance than either. When he entered the wood and saw the lifeless bodies of his men, and the monster with his bloody jaws, he exclaimed, "O faithful friends, I will avenge you, or share your death." So saying he lifted a huge stone and threw it with all his force at the serpent. Such a block would have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no impression on the monster. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which met with better success, for it penetrated the serpent's scales, and pierced through to his entrails. Fierce with pain the monster turned back his head to view the wound, and attempted to draw out the weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron point rankling in his flesh. His neck swelled with rage, bloody foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his nostrils poisoned the air around. Now he twisted himself into a circle, then stretched himself out on the ground like the trunk of a fallen tree. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding his spear opposite to the monster's opened jaws. The serpent snapped at the weapon and attempted to bite its iron point. At last Cadmus, watching his chance, thrust the spear at a moment when the animal's thrown back came against the trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in pinning him to its side. His weight bent the tree as he struggled in the agonies of death. While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast size, a voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but he heard it distinctly), commanding him to take the dragon's teeth and sow them in the earth. He obeyed. He made a furrow in the ground, and planted the teeth, destined to produce a crop of men. Scarce had he done so when the clods began to move, and the points of spears to appear above the surface. Next helmets, with their nodding plumes, came up, and next, the shoulders and breasts and limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed warriors. Cadmus, alarmed, prepared to encounter a new enemy, but one of them said to him, "Meddle not with our civil war." With that he who had spoken smote one of his earth-born brothers with a sword, and he himself fell pierced with an arrow from another. The latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner the whole crowd dealt with each other till all fell slain with mutual wounds except five survivors. One of these cast away his weapons and said, "Brothers, let us live in peace!" These five joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the name of Thebes. Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus. The gods left Olympus to honor the occasion with their presence, and Vulcan presented the bride with a necklace of surpassing brilliancy, his own workmanship. But a fatality hung over the family of Cadmus in consequence of his killing the serpent sacred to Mars. Semele and Ino, his daughters, and Actaeon and Pentheius, his grandchildren, all perished unhappily; and Cadmus and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to them, and emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who received them with honor and made Cadmus their king. But the misfortunes of their children still weighed upon their minds; and one day Cadmus exclaimed, "If a serpent's life is so dear to the gods, I would I were myself a serpent." No sooner had he uttered the words than he began to change his form. Harmonia beheld it, and prayed to the gods to let her share his fate. Both became serpents. They lie in the woods, but mindful of their origin they neither avoid the presence of man nor do they ever injure any one. There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the letters of the alphabet which were invented by the Phoenicians. This is alluded to by Byron, where, addressing the modern Greeks, he says: "You have the letters Cadmus gave, Think you he meant them for a slave?" Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded of the serpents of the classical stories, and says, "----pleasing was his shape, And lovely; never since of serpent kind Lovelier; not those that in Illyria changed Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god in Epidaurus." The "god in Epidaurus" was AEsculapius. Serpents were held sacred to him. THE MYRMIDONS The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles in the Trojan war. From them all zealous and unscrupulous followers of a political chief are called by that name down to this day. But the origin of the Myrmidons would not give one the idea of a fierce and bloody race, but rather of a laborious and peaceful one. Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of AEgina to seek assistance of his old friend and ally AEacus, the king, in his wars with Minos, king of Crete. Cephalus was kindly received, and the desired assistance readily promised. "I have people enough," said AEacus, "to protect myself and spare you such a force as you need." "I rejoice to see it," replied Cephalus, "and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to find such a host of youths as I see around me, all apparently of about the same age. Yet there are many individuals whom I previously knew that I look for now in vain. What has become of them?" AEacus groaned, and replied with a voice of sadness, "I have been intending to tell you, and will now do so without more delay, that you may see how from the saddest beginning a happy result sometimes flows. Those whom you formerly knew are now dust and ashes! A plague sent by angry Juno devastated the land. She hated it because it bore the name of one of her husband's female favorites. While the disease appeared to spring from natural causes we resisted it as we best might by natural remedies; but it soon appeared that the pestilence was too powerful for our efforts, and we yielded. At the beginning the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth, and thick clouds shut in the heated air. For four months together a deadly south wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells and springs; thousands of snakes crept over the land and shed their poison in the fountains. The force of the disease was first spent on the lower animals; dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The luckless ploughman wondered to see his oxen fall in the midst of their work, and lie helpless in the unfinished furrow. The wool fell from the bleating sheep, and their bodies pined away. The horse, once foremost in the race, contested the palm no more, but groaned at his stall, and died an inglorious death. The wild boar forgot his rage, the stag his swiftness, the bears no longer attacked the herds. Everything languished; dead bodies lay in the roads, the fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned by them. I tell you what is hardly credible, but neither dogs nor birds would touch them, nor starving wolves. Their decay spread the infection. Next the disease attacked the country people, and then the dwellers in the city. At first the cheek was flushed, and the breath drawn with difficulty. The tongue grew rough and swelled, and the dry mouth stood open with its veins enlarged and gasped for the air. Men could not bear the heat of their clothes or their beds, but preferred to lie on the bare ground; and the ground did not cool them, but on the contrary, they heated the spot where they lay. Nor could the physicians help, for the disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick gave them infection, so that the most faithful were the first victims. At last all hope of relief vanished and men learned to look upon death as the only deliverer from disease. Then they gave way to every inclination, and cared not to ask what was expedient, for nothing was expedient. All restraint laid aside, they crowded around the wells and fountains, and drank till they died, without quenching thirst. Many had not strength to get away from the water, but died in the midst of the stream, and others would drink of it notwithstanding. Such was their weariness of their sick-beds that some would creep forth, and if not strong enough to stand, would die on the ground. They seemed to hate their friends, and got away from their homes, as if, not knowing the cause of their sickness, they charged it on the place of their abode. Some were seen tottering along the road, as long as they could stand, while others sank on the earth, and turned their dying eyes around to take a last look, then closed them in death. "What heart had I left me, during all this, or what ought I to have had, except to hate life and wish to be with my dead subjects? On all sides lay my people strewn like over-ripened apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak. You see yonder s temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter. Oh, how many offered prayers there; husbands for wives, fathers for sons, and died in the very act of supplication! How often, while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell, struck down by disease without waiting for the blow. At length all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown out unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought with one another for the possession of them. Finally there were none left to mourn; sons and husbands, old men and youths, perished alike unlamented. "Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven. 'Oh, Jupiter,' I said, 'if thou art indeed my father, and art not ashamed of thy offspring, give me back my people, or take me also away!' At these words a clap of thunder was heard. 'I accept the omen,' I cried; 'oh, may it be a sign of a favorable disposition towards me!' By chance there grew by the place where I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to Jupiter. I observed a troop of ants busy with their labor, carrying minute grains in their mouths and following one another in a line up the trunk of the tree. Observing their numbers with admiration, I said, 'Give me, oh father, citizens as numerous as these, and replenish my empty city.' The tree shook and gave a rustling sound with its branches though no wind agitated them. I trembled in every limb, yet I kissed the earth and the tree. I would not confess to myself that I hoped, yet I did hope. Night came on and sleep took possession of my frame oppressed with cares. The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous branches all covered with living, moving creatures. It seemed to shake its limbs and throw down over the ground a multitude of those industrious grain-gathering animals, which appeared to gain in size, and grow larger, and by-and-by to stand erect, lay aside their superfluous legs and their black color, and finally to assume the human form. Then I awoke, and my first impulse was to chide the gods who had robbed me of a sweet vision and given me no reality in its place. Being still in the temple my attention was caught by the sound of many voices without; a sound of late unusual to my ears. While I began to think I was yet dreaming, Telamon, my son, throwing open the temple-gates, exclaimed, 'Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your hopes!' I went forth; I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my dream, and they were passing in procession in the same manner. While I gazed with wonder and delight they approached, and kneeling, hailed me as their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and proceeded to allot the vacant city to the new-born race, and to parcel out the fields among them. I called them Myrmidons from the ant (myrmex), from which they sprang. You have seen these persons; their dispositions resemble those which they had in their former shape. They are a diligent and industrious race, eager to gain, and tenacious of their gains. Among them you may recruit your forces. They will follow you to the war, young in years and bold in heart." This description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account which Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives of the plague of Athens. The historian drew from life, and all the poets and writers of fiction since his day, when they have had occasion to describe a similar scene, have borrowed their details from him. Chapter VIII Nisus and Scylla. Echo and Narcissus. Clytie. Hero and Leander Minos, king of Crete, made war upon Megara. Nisus was king of Megara, and Scylla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted six months, and the city still held out, for it was decreed by fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple lock, which glittered among the hair of King Nisus, remained on his head. There was a tower on the city walls, which overlooked the plain where Minos and his army were encamped. To this tower Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular, excited her admiration. She admired his graceful deportment; if he threw his javelin, skill seemed combined with force in the discharge; if he drew his bow, Apollo himself could not have done it more gracefully. But when he laid aside his helmet, and in his purple robes bestrode his white horse with its gay caparisons, and reined in its foaming mouth, the daughter of Nisus was hardly mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with admiration. She envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins that he held. She felt as if she could, if it were possible, go to him through the hostile ranks; she felt an impulse to cast herself down from the tower into the midst of his camp, or to open the gates to him, or do anything else, so only it might gratify Minos. As she sat in the tower, she talked thus with herself: "I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad war. I grieve that Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any cause that brings him to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing to grant us peace, and receive me as a hostage. I would fly down, if I could, and alight in his camp, and tell him that we yield ourselves to his mercy. But, then, to betray my father! No! Rather would I never see Minos again. And yet no doubt it is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered when the conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on his side. I think we shall be conquered; and if that must be the end of it, why should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of leaving it to be done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter if we can. And, oh, if any one should wound or kill Minos! No one surely would have the heart to do it; yet ignorantly, not knowing him, one might. I will, I will surrender myself to him, with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war. But how? The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he only stands in my way. Oh, that it might please the gods to take him away! But why ask the gods to do it? Another woman, loving as I do, would remove with her own hands whatever stood in the way of her love. And can any other woman dare more than I? I would encounter fire and sword to gain my object; but here there is no need of fire and sword. I only need my father's purple lock. More precious than gold to me, that will give me all I wish." While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole palace was buried in sleep. She entered her father's bedchamber and cut off the fatal lock; then passed out of the city and entered the enemy's camp. She demanded to be led to the king, and thus addressed him: "I am Scylla, the daughter of Nisus. I surrender to you my country and my father's house. I ask no reward but yourself; for love of you I have done it. See here the purple lock! With this I give you my father and his kingdom." She held out her hand with the fatal spoil. Minos shrunk back and refused to touch it. "The gods destroy thee, infamous woman," he exclaimed; "disgrace of our time! May neither earth nor sea yield thee a resting place! Surely, my Crete, where Jove himself was cradled, shall not be polluted with such a monster!" Thus he said, and gave orders that equitable terms should be allowed to the conquered city, and that the fleet should immediately sail from the island. Scylla was frantic. "Ungrateful man," she exclaimed, "is it thus you leave me? Me who have given you victory, who have sacrificed for you parent and country! I am guilty, I confess, and deserve to die, by not by your hand." As the ships left the shore, she leaped into the water, and seizing the rudder of the one which carried Minos, she was borne along an unwelcome companion of their course. A sea-eagle soaring aloft, it was her father who had been changed into that form, seeing her, pounced down upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws. In terror she let go the ship, and would have fallen into the water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The sea- eagle still cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he espies her in his lofty flight, you may see him dart down upon her, with beak and claws, to take vengeance for the ancient crime. ECHO AND NARCISSUS Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument would have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of REPLY. You shall still have the last word, but no power to speak first." This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his footsteps. Oh, how she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse, but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here." Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come." Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again, "Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me." "Have me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word. Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned all the rest of the nymphs as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden, who had in vain endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the prayer. There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks. Nor did the mountain goats resort to it, nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he thought it was some beautiful water=spirit living in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image. He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him, however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! Alas!" she answered him with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts, Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile, and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus. Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's song in Comus. She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and sings to attract their attention. "Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy aery shell By slow Meander's margent green. And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likes thy Narcissus are? Oh, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere, So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies." Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the fountain: "That day I oft remember when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where And what I was, whence thither brought, and how Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound Of waters issued from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went With unexperienced thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite A shape within the watery gleam appeared, Bending to look on me. I started back; It started back; but pleased I soon returned, Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest, What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.'" Paradise Lost, Book IV The fable of Narcissus is often alluded to by the poets. Here are two epigrams which treat it in different ways. The first is by Goldsmith: "ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING: "Sure 'twas by Providence designed, Rather in pity than in hate, That he should be like Cupid blind, To save him from Narcissus' fate" The other is by Cowper: "ON AN UGLY FELLOW "Beware, my friend, of crystal brook Or fountain, lest that hideous hook. Thy nose, thou chance to see; Narcissus' fate would then be thine, And self-detested thou would'st pine, As self-enamored he." CLYTIE Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold ground, with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders. Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own tears and the chilly dew her only food. She gazed on the sun when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his setting; she saw no other object, her face turned constantly on him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face became a sunflower, which turns on its stem so as always to face the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to that extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang. One of the best known of the marble busts discovered in our own time, generally bears the name of Clytie. It has been very frequently copied in plaster. It represents the head of a young girl looking down, the neck and shoulders being supported in the cup of a large flower, which by a little effort of imagination can be made into a giant sunflower. The latest supposition, however, is that this bust represented not Clytie, but Isis. Hood in his Flowers thus alludes to Clytie: "I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom therefore I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun; But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one." The sunflower is a favorite emblem of constancy. Thus Moore uses it: "The heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets The same look that she turned when he rose." It is only for convenience that the modern poets translate the Latin word HELIOTROPIUM, by the English sunflower. The sunflower, which was known to the ancients, was called in Greek, helianthos, from HELIOS, the sun; and ANTHOS a flower, and in Latin, helianthus. It derives its name from its resemblance to the sun; but, as any one may see, at sunset, it does not "turn to the God when he sets the same look that it turned when he rose." The Heliotrope of the fable of Clytie is called Turn-sole in old English books, and such a plant is known in England. It is not the sweet heliotrope of modern gardens, which is a South American plant. The true classical heliotrope is probably to be found in the heliotrope of southern France, a weed not known in America. The reader who is curious may examine the careful account of it in Larousse's large dictionary. HERO AND LEANDER Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the strait which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore in the town of Sestos lived the maiden Hero, a priestess of Venus. Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait nightly to enjoy the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which she reared upon the tower, for the purpose. But one night a tempest arose and the sea was rough; his strength failed, and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself down from the tower into the sea and perished. The following sonnet is by Keats: "ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER "Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly, Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light, Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea. 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death. Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. Oh, horrid dream! See how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile; He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!" The story of Leander's swimming the Hellespont was looked upon as fabulous, and the feat considered impossible, till Lord Byron proved its possibility by performing it himself. In the Bride of Abydos he says, "These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne." The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is a constant current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the Archipelago. Since Byron's time the feat has been achieved by others; but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the art of swimming sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity to any one of our readers who may dare to make the attempt and succeed in accomplishing it. In the beginning of the second canto of the same poem, Byron alludes to this story: "The winds are high on Helle's wave, As on that night of stormiest water, When Love, who sent, forgot to save The young, the beautiful, the brave, The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. Oh, when alone along the sky The turret-torch was blazing high, Though rising gale and breaking foam, And shrieking sea-birds warned him home; And clouds aloft and tides below, With signs and sounds forbade to go, He could not see, he would not hear Or sound or sight foreboding fear. His eye but saw that light of love, The only star it hailed above; His ear but rang with Hero's song, 'Ye waves, divide not lovers long.' That tale is old, but love anew May nerve young hearts to prove as true." The subject has been a favorite one with sculptors. Schiller has made one of his finest ballads from the tragic fate of the two lovers. The following verses are a translation from the latter part of the ballad: "Upon Hellespont's broad currents Night broods black, and rain in torrents From the cloud's full bosom pours; Lightnings in the sky are flashing, All the storms below are dashing On the crag-piled shores. Awful chasms gaping widely, Separate the mountain waves; Ocean yawning as to open Downward e'en to Pluto's caves." After the storm has arisen, Hero sees the danger, and cries, "Woe, ah! Woe; great Jove have pity, Listen to my sad entreaty, Yet for what can Hero pray? Should the gods in pity listen, He, e'en now the false abyss in, Struggles with the tempest's spray. All the birds that skim the wave In hasty flight are hieing home; T the lee of safer haven All the storm-tossed vessels come. "Ah! I know he laughs at danger, Dares again the frequent venture, Lured by an almighty power; For he swore it when we parted, With the vow which binds true-hearted Lovers to the latest hour. Yes! Even as this moment hastens Battles he the wave-crests rude, And to their unfathomed chasms Dags him down the angry flood. "Pontus false! Thy sunny smile Was the lying traitor's guile, Like a mirror flashing there: All thy ripples gently playing Til they triumphed in betraying Him into thy lying snare. Now in thy mid-current yonder, Onward still his course he urges, Thou the false, on him the fated Pouring loose thy terror-surges. Waxes high the tempest's danger, Waves to mountains rise in anger, Oceans swell, and breakers dash, Foaming, over cliffs of rock Where even navies, stiff with oak, Could not bear the crash. In the gale her torch is blasted, Beacon of the hoped-for strand; Horror broods above the waters, Horror broods above the land. Prays she Venus to assuage The hurricane's increasing rage, And to sooth the billows' scorn. And as gale on gale arises, Vows to each as sacrifices Spotless steer with gilded horn. To all the goddesses below, To "all the gods in heaven that be," She prays that oil of peace may flow Softly on the storm-tossed sea. Blest Leucothea, befriend me! From cerulean halls attend me; Hear my prayer of agony. In the ocean desert's raving, Storm-tossed seamen, succor craving, Find in thee their helper nigh. Wrap him in thy charmed veil, Secret spun and secret wove, Certain from the deepest wave To lift him to its crests above." Now the tempests wild are sleeping, And from the horizon creeping Rays of morning streak the skies, Peaceful as it lay before The placid sea reflects the shore, Skies kiss waves and waves the skies. Little ripples, lightly plashing, Break upon the rock-bound strand, And they trickle, lightly playing O'er a corpse upon the sand. Yes, 'tis he! Although he perished, Still his sacred troth he cherished, An instant's glance tells all to her; Not a tear her eye lets slip Not a murmur leaves her lip; Down she looks in cold despair; Gazes round the desert sea, Trustless gazes round the sky, Flashes then of noble fire Through her pallid visage fly! "Yes, I know, ye mighty powers, Ye have drawn the fated hours Pitiless and cruel on. Early full my course is over. Such a course with such a lover; Such a share of joy I've known. Venus, queen, within thy temple, Thou hast known me vowed as thine, Now accept thy willing priestess As an offering at thy shrine." Downward then, while all in vain her Fluttering robes would still sustain her, Springs she into Pontus' wave; Grasping him and her, the god Whirls them in his deepest flood, And, himself, becomes their grave. With his prizes then contented, Peaceful bids his waters glide, From the unexhausted vessels, Whence there streams an endless tide. Chapter IX Minerva and Arachne. Niobe. The Story of Perseus Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She, they say, sprang forth from his brain full grown and clad in complete armor. She presided over the useful and ornamental arts, both those of men, such as agriculture and navigation, and those of women, spinning, weaving, and needle-work. She was also a warlike divinity; but a lover of defensive war only. She had no sympathy with Mars's savage love of violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it. The tale ran that in the reign of Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities contended for the possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to that one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that the olive was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to the goddess; and it was named after her, Athens, her name in Greek being Athene. In another contest, a mortal dared to come in competition with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the nymphs themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her, as she took the wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skilful touch, or wove the web, or, when woven, adorned it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a goddess. "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she; "if beaten, I will pay the penalty." Minerva heard this and was displeased. Assuming the form of an old woman, she went and gave Arachne some friendly advice. "I have had much experience,: said she, "and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess. On the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you have said, and, as she is merciful, perhaps she will pardon you." Arachne stopped her spinning, and looked at the old dame with anger in her countenance. "Keep your counsel," said she, "for your daughters or handmaids; for my part, I know what I say, and I stand to it. I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if she dare venture." "She comes," said Minerva; and dropping her disguise, stood confessed. The nymphs bent low in homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified. She blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit of her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbore no longer, nor interposed any further advice. They proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the woof into its place and compacts the web. Both work with speed; their skilful hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the labor light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower (this description of the rainbow is literally translated rom Ovid), in which, where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are wholly different. Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune. Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with August gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted herself with helmed head, her AEgis covering her breast. Such was the central circle; and in the four corners were represented incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest before it was too late. Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda caressing the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised himself; and another, Danae, in the brazen tower in which her father had imprisoned her, but where the god effected his entrance in the form of a shower of gold. Still another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Encouraged by the tameness of the animal, Europa ventured to mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea, and swam with her to Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull so naturally was it wrought, and so natural was the water in which it swam. She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon the shore she was leaving, and to call to her companions for help. She appeared to shudder with terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her feet from the water. Arachne filled her canvas with these and like subjects, wonderfully well done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle, and rent it in pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne, and made her feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it, and went and hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her hanging by a rope. "Live, guilty woman," said she; " and that you may preserve the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, you and your descendants, to all future times." She sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew smaller yet; her fingers grew to her side, and served for legs. All the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider. Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his Muiopotmos, adhering very closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the conclusion of the story. The two stanzas which follow tell what was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the olive tree: "Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly, With excellent device and wondrous slight, Fluttering among the olives wantonly, That seemed to live, so like it was in sight; The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie, The silken down with which his back is dight, His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs, His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes." "Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid And mastered with workmanship so rare. She stood astonished long, ne aught gainsaid; And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare, And by her silence, sign of one dismayed, The victory did yield her as her share; Yet did she inly fret and felly burn, And all her blood to poisonous rancor turn." And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own mortification and vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess. The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick: UPON A LADY'S EMBROIDERY "Arachne once, as poets tell, A goddess at her art defied, And soon the daring mortal fell The hapless victim of her pride. "Oh, then, beware Arachne's fate; Be prudent, Chloe, and submit, For you'll most surely meet her hate, Who rival both her art and wit." Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describing the works of art with which the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa: "---- sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped From off her shoulder, backward borne, From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped The mild bull's golden horn." In his Princess there is this allusion to Danae: "Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me." NIOBE The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and served as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to compare themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a matron too, failed to learn the lesson of humility. It was Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud of; but it was not her husband's fame, nor her own beauty, nor their great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her. It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been, if only she had not claimed to be so. It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honor of Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana, when the people of Thebes were assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and paying their vows, that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her face as beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. "What folly," said she, "is this! to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored with worship rather than I? My father was Tantalus, who was received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules this city, Thebes; and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add, I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in- law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue. She may take from me much; I shall still have much left. Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Away with you from these solemnities, put off the laurel from your brows, have done with this worship!" The people obeyed, and left the sacred services uncompleted. The goddess was indignant. On top of Mount Cynthus where she dwelt, she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I who have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no more," said he; "speech only delays punishment." So said Diana also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there among the rest, some mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, "Ah, me!" dropped the reins and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow, like a boatman who sees the storm gathering and makes all sail for the port, gave the rein to his horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a cry together, together cast a parting look around them, and together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them fall, hastened to the spot to render them assistance, and fell stricken in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer might not avail. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all, in his ignorance that all needed not his intercession; and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late. The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it possible; she was indignant that the gods had dared and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband, Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas! How different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed, now one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "feed full your rage with my anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than you, my conqueror. Scarce had she spoken when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone. She was brave from excess of grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she was bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment, another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. "Spare me one, and that the youngest! Oh, spare me one of so many?!" she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, nor color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, and her veins ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to flow; and, borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief. The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of the fallen condition of modern Rome: "The Niobe of nations! There she stands, Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow, Old Tiber! Through a marble wilderness? Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress." Childe Harold, IV.79 The slaughter of the children of Niobe by Apollo, alludes to the Greek belief that pestilence and illness were sent by Apollo, and one dying by sickness was said to be struck by Apollo's arrow. It is to this that Morris alludes in the Earthly Paradise: "While from the freshness of his blue abode, Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget, The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet." Our illustration of this story is a copy of a celebrated statue in the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother clasped by the arm of her terrified child, is one of the most admired of the ancient statues. It ranks with the Laocoon and the Apollo among the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue: "To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain; The sculptor's art has made her breathe again." Tragic as is the story of Niobe we cannot forbear to smile at the use Moore has made of it in Rhymes on the Road: "'Twas in his carriage the sublime Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme, And, if the wits don't do him wrong, 'Twixt death and epics passed his time, Scribbling and killing all day long; Like Phoebus in his car at ease, Now warbling forth a lofty song, Now murdering the young Niobes." Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very prolific and very tasteless poet, whose works are now forgotten, unless when recalled to mind by some wit like Moore for the sake of a joke. THE GRAEAE AND GORGONS The Graeae were three sisters who were gray-haired from their birth, whence their name. The Gorgons were monstrous females with huge teeth like those of swine, brazen claws, and snaky hair. They also were three in number, two of them immortal, but the other, Medusa, mortal. None of these beings make much figure in mythology except Medusa, the Gorgon, whose story we shall next advert to. We mention them chiefly to introduce an ingenious theory of some modern writers, namely, that the Gorgons and Graeae were only personifications of the terrors of the sea, the former denoting the STRONG billows of the wide open main, and the latter the WHITE-crested waves that dash against the rocks of the coast. Their names in Greek signify the above epithets. PERSEUS AND MEDUSA Acrisius was the king who ruled in Argos. To him had an oracle declared that he should be slain by the child of his daughter Danae. Therefore the cruel king, thinking it better that Danae should have no children than that he should be slain, ordered a tower of brass to be made, and in this tower he confined his daughter away from all men. But who can withstand Jupiter? He saw Danae, loved her, and changing his form to a shower of gold, he shone into the apartment of the captive girl. Perseus was the child of Jupiter and Danae. Acrisius, finding that his precautions had come to nought, and yet hardly daring to kill his own daughter and her young child, placed them both in a chest and sent the chest floating on the sea. It floated away and was finally entangled in the net of Dicte, a fisherman in the island of Seriphus. He brought them to his house and treated them kindly, and in the house of Dicte, Perseus grew up. When Perseus was grown up, Polydectes, king of that country, wishing to send Perseus to his death, bade him go in quest of the head of Medusa. Medusa had once been a beautiful maiden, whose hair was her chief glory, but as she dared to vie in beauty with Minerva, the goddess deprived her of her charms and changed her beautiful ringlets into hissing serpents. She became a cruel monster of so frightful an aspect that no living thing could behold her without being turned into stone. All around the cavern where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men and beasts which had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified with the sight. Minerva and Mercury aided Perseus. From Minerva, Perseus borrowed her shield, and from Mercury the winged shoes and the harpe or crooked sword. After having flown all over the earth Perseus espied in the bright shield the image of Medusa and her two immortal sisters. Flying down carefully he cut at her with his harpe and severed her head. Putting the trophy in his pouch he flew away just as the two immortal sisters were awakened by the hissings of their snaky locks. PERSEUS AND ATLAS After the slaughter of Medusa, Perseus, bearing with him the head of the Gorgon, flew far and wide, over land and sea. As night came on, he reached the western limit of the earth, where the sun goes down. Here he would gladly have rested till morning. It was the realm of King Atlas, whose bulk surpassed that of all other men. He was rich in flocks and herds and had no neighbor or rival to dispute his state. But his chief pride was in his gardens, whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden branches, half hid with golden leaves. Perseus said to him, "I come as a guest. If you honor illustrious descent, I claim Jupiter for my father; if mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of the Gorgon. I seek rest and food." But Atlas remembered that an ancient prophecy had warned him that a son of Jove should one day rob him of his golden apples. So he answered, "Begone! Or neither your false claims of glory nor of parentage shall protect you;" and he attempted to thrust him out. Perseus, finding the giant too strong for him, said, "Since you value my friendship so little, deign to accept a present;" and turning his face away, he held up the Gorgon's head. Atlas, with all his bulk, was changed into stone. His beard and hair became forests, his arms and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones rocks. Each part increased in bulk till he became a mountain, and (such was the pleasure of the gods) heaven with all its stars rests upon his shoulders. And all in vain was Atlas turned to a mountain, for the oracle did not mean Perseus, but the hero Hercules, who should come long afterwards to get the golden apples for his cousin Eurystheus. Perseus, continuing his flight, arrived at the country of the AEthiopians, of which Cepheus was king. Cassiopeia, his queen, proud of her beauty, had dared to compare herself to the Sea- Nymphs, which roused their indignation to such a degree that they sent a prodigious sea-monster to ravage the coast. To appease the deities, Cepheus was directed hy the oracle to expose his daughter Andromeda to be devoured by the monster. As Perseus looked down from his aerial height he beheld the virgin chained to a rock, and waiting the approach of the serpent. She was so pale and motionless that if it had not been for her flowing tears and her hair that moved in the breeze, he would have taken her for a marble statue. He was so startled at the sight that he almost forgot to wave his wings. As he hovered over her he said, "O virgin, undeserving of those chains, but rather of such as bind fond lovers together, tell me, I beseech you, your name and the name of your country, and why you are thus bound." At first she was silent from modesty, and, if she could, would have hid her face with her hands; but when he repeated his questions, for fear she might be thought guilty of some fault which she dared not tell, she disclosed her name and that of her country, and her mother's pride of beauty. Before she had done speaking, a sound was heard off upon the water, and the sea-monster appeared, with his head raised above the surface, cleaving the waves with his broad breast. The virgin shrieked, the father and mother who had now arrived at the scene, wretched both, but the mother more justly so, stood by, not able to afford protection, but only to pour forth lamentations and to embrace the victim. Then spoke Perseus: "There will be time enough for tears; this hour is all we have for rescue. My rank as the son of Jove and my renown as the slayer of the Gorgon might make me acceptable as a suitor; but I will try to win her by services rendered, if the gods will only be propitious. If she be rescued by my valor, I demand that she be my reward." The parents consent (how could they hesitate?) And promise a royal dowry with her. And now the monster was within the range of a stone thrown by a skilful slinger, when with a sudden bound the youth soared into the air. As an eagle, when from his lofty flight he sees a serpent basking in the sun, pounces upon him and seizes him by the neck to prevent him from turning his head round and using his fangs, so the youth darted down upon the back of the monster and plunged his sword into its shoulder. Irritated by the wound the monster raised himself into the air, then plunged into the depth; then, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of barking dogs, turned swiftly from side to side, while the youth eluded its attacks by means of his wings. Wherever he can find a passage for his sword between the scales he makes a wound, piercing now the side, now the flank, as it slopes towards the tail. The brute spouts from his nostrils water mixed with blood. The wings of the hero are wet with it, and he dares no longer trust to them. Alighting on a rock which rose above the waves, and holding on by a projecting fragment, as the monster floated near he gave him a death-stroke. The people who had gathered on the shore shouted so that the hills re-echoed to the sound. The parents, transported with joy, embraced their future son-in-law, calling him their deliverer and the savior of their house, and the virgin, both cause and reward of the contest, descended from the rock. Cassiopeia was an Aethiopian, and consequently, in spite of her boasted beauty, black; at least so Milton seems to have thought, who alludes to this story in his Penseroso, where he addresses Melancholy as the "---- goddess, sage and holy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And, therefore, to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue. Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Aethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The Sea-nymphs, and their powers offended." Cassiopeia is called "the starred Aethiop queen," because after her death she was placed among the stars, forming the constellation of that name. Though she attained this honor, yet the Sea-Nymphs, her old enemies, prevailed so far as to cause her to be placed in that part of the heaven near the pole, where every night she is half the time held with her head downward, to give her a lesson of humility. "Prince Memnon" was the son of Aurora and Tithonus, of whom we shall hear later. THE WEDDING FEAST The joyful parents, with Perseus and Andromeda, repaired to the palace, where a banquet was spread for them, and all was joy and festivity. But suddenly a noise was heard of war-like clamor, and Phineus, the betrothed of the virgin, with a party of his adherents, burst in, demanding the maiden as his own. It was in vain that Cepheus remonstrated, "You should have claimed her when she lay bound to the rock, the monster's victim. The sentence of the gods dooming her to such a fate dissolved all engagements, as death itself would have done.:" Phineus made no reply, but hurled his javelin at Perseus, but it missed its mark and fell harmless. Perseus would have thrown his in turn, but the cowardly assailant ran and took shelter behind the altar. But his act was a signal for an onset by his band upon the guests of Cepheus. They defended themselves and a general conflict ensued, the old king retreating from the scene after fruitless expostulations, calling the gods to witness that he was guiltless of this outrage on the rights of hospitality. Perseus and his friends maintained for some time the unequal contest; but the numbers of the assailants were too great for them, and destruction seemed inevitable, when a sudden thought struck Perseus: "I will make my enemy defend me." Then, with a loud voice he exclaimed, :If I have any friend here let him turn away his eyes!" and held aloft the Gorgon's head. "Seek not to frighten us with your jugglery," said Thescelus, and raised his javelin in act to throw, and became stone in the very attitude. Ampyx was about to plunge his sword into the body of a prostrate foe, but his arm stiffened and he could neither thrust forward nor withdraw it. Another, in the midst of a vociferous challenge, stopped, his mouth open, but no sound issuing. One of Perseus's friends, Aconteus, caught sight of the Gorgon and stiffened like the rest. Astyages struck him with his sword, but instead of wounding, it recoiled with a ringing noise. Phineus beheld this dreadful result of his unjust aggression, and felt confounded. He called aloud to his friends, but got no answer; he touched them and found them stone. Falling on his knees and stretching out his hands to Perseus, but turning his head away, he begged for mercy. "Take all," said he, "give me but my life." "Base coward," said Perseus, "thus much I will grant you; no weapon shall touch you; moreover you shall be preserved in my house as a memorial of these events." So saying, he held the Gorgon's head to the side where Phineus was looking, and in the very form in which he knelt, with his hands outstretched and face averted, he became fixed immovably, a mass of stone! The following allusion to Perseus is from Milman's Samor: "As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood Perseus in stern tranquillity of wrath, Half stood, half floated on his ankle-plumes Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield Looked into stone the raging fray; so rose, But with no magic arms, wearing alone Th' appalling and control of his firm look, The Briton Samor; at his rising awe Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute." Then Perseus returned to Seriphus to King Polydectes and to his mother Danae and the fisherman Dicte. He marched up the tyrant's hall, where Polydectes and his guests were feasting. "Have you the head of Medusa?" exclaimed Polydectes. "Here it is," answered Perseus, and showed it to the king and to his guests. The ancient prophecy which Acrisius had so much feared at last came to pass. For, as Perseus was passing through the country of Larissa, he entered into competition with the youths of the country at the game of hurling the discus. King Acrisius was among the spectators. The youths of Larissa threw first, and then Perseus. His discus went far beyond the others, and, seized by a breeze from the sea, fell upon the foot of Acrisius. The old king swooned with pain, and was carried away from the place only to die. Perseus, who had heard the story of his birth and parentage from Danae, when he learned who Acrisius was, filled with remorse and sorrow, went to the oracle at Delphi, and there was purified from the guilt of homicide. Perseus gave the head of Medusa to Minerva, who had aided him so well to obtain it. Minerva took the head of her once beautiful rival and placed it in the middle of her Aegis. Milton, in his Comus, thus alludes to the Aegis: "What was that snaky-headed Gorgon-shield That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin, Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone, But rigid looks of chaste austerity, And noble grace that dashed brute violence With sudden adoration and blank awe!" Armstrong, the poet of the Art of Preserving Health, thus describes the effect of frost upon the waters: "Now blows the surly North and chills throughout the stiffening regions, while by stronger charms Than Circe e'er or fell Medea brewed, Each brook that wont to prattle to its banks Lies all bestilled and wedged betwixt its banks, Nor moves the withered reeds. . . . The surges baited by the fierce Northeast, Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads, E'en in the foam of all their madness struck To monumental ice. * * * * * Such execution, So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect Of terrible Medusa, When wandering through the woods she turned to stone Their savage tenants; just as the foaming lion Sprang furious on his prey, her speedier power Outran his haste, And fixed in that fierce attitude he stands Like Rage in marble!" Imitations of Shakespeare Of Atlas there is another story, which I like better than the one told. He was one of the Titans who warred against Jupiter like Typhoeus, Briareus, and others. After their defeat by the king of gods and men, Atlas was condemned to stand in the far western part of the earth, by the Pillars of Hercules, and to hold on his shoulders the weight of heaven and the stars. The story runs that Perseus, flying by, asked and obtained rest and food. The next morning he asked what he could do to reward Atlas for his kindness. The best that giant could think of was that Perseus should show him the snaky head of Medusa, that he might be turned to stone and be at rest from his heavy load. Chapter X Monsters. Giants. Sphinx. Pegasus and the Chimaera. Centaurs. Griffin. Pygmies Monsters, in the language of mythology, were beings of unnatural proportions or parts, usually regarded with terror, as possessing immense strength and ferocity, which they employed for the injury and annoyance of men. Some of them were supposed to combine the members of different animals; such were the Sphinx and the Chimaera; and to these all the terrible qualities of wild beasts were attributed, together with human sagacity and faculties. Others, as the giants, differed from men chiefly in their size; and in this particular we must recognize a wide distinction among them. The human giants, if so they may be called, such as the Cyclopes, Antaeus, Orion, and others, must be supposed not to be altogether disproportioned to human beings, for they mingled in love and strife with them. But the superhuman giants, who warred with the gods, were of vastly larger dimensions. Tityus, we are told, when stretched on the plain, covered nine acres, and Enceladus required the whole of Mount AEtna to be laid upon him to keep him down. We have already spoken of the war which the giants waged against the gods, and of its result. While this war lasted the giants proved a formidable enemy. Some of them, like Briareus, had a hundred arms; others, like Typhon, breathed out fire. At one time they put the gods to such fear that they fled into Egypt, and hid themselves under various forms. Jupiter took the form of a ram, whence he was afterwards worshipped in Egypt as the god Ammon, with curved horns. Apollo became a crow, Bacchus a goat, Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish, Mercury a bird. At another time the giants attempted to climb up into heaven, and for that purpose took up the mountain Ossa and piled it on Pelion. They were at last subdued by thunderbolts, which Minerva invented, and taught Vulcan and his Cyclopes to make for Jupiter. THE SPHINX Laius, king of Thebes, was warned by an oracle that there was danger to his throne and life if his new-born son should be suffered to grow up. He therefore committed the child to the care of a herdsman, with orders to destroy him; but the herdsman, moved to pity, yet not daring entirely to disobey, tied up the child by the feet, and left him hanging to the branch of a tree. Here the infant was found by a herdsman of Polybus, king of Corinth, who was pasturing his flock upon Mount Cithaeron. Polybus and Merope, his wife, adopted the child, whom they called OEdipus, or Swollen-foot, for they had no children themselves, and in Corinth OEdipus grew up. But as OEdipus was at Delphi, the oracle prophesied to him that he should kill his father and marry his own mother. Fighting against Fate, OEdipus resolved to leave Corinth and his parents, for he thought that Polybus and Merope were meant by the oracle. Soon afterwards, Laius being on his way to Delphi, accompanied only by one attendant, met in a narrow road a young man also driving in a chariot. On his refusal to leave the way at their command, the attendant killed one of his horses, and the stranger, filled with rage, slew both Laius and his attendant. The young man was OEdipus, who thus unknowingly became the slayer of his own father. Shortly after this event the city of Thebes was afflicted with a monster which infested the high-road. It was called the Sphinx. It had the body of a lion, and the upper part of a woman. It lay crouched on the top of a rock, and stopped all travellers who came that way, proposing to them a riddle, with the condition that those who could solve it should pass safe, but those who failed should be killed. Not one had yet succeeded in solving it, and all had been slain. OEdipus was not daunted by these alarming accounts, but boldly advanced to the trial. The Sphinx asked him, "What animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at noon on two, and in the evening upon three?" OEdipus replied, "Man, who in childhood creeps on hands and knees, in manhood walks erect, and in old age with the aid of a staff." The Sphinx was so mortified at the solving of her riddle that she cast herself down from the rock and perished. The gratitude of the people for their deliverance was so great that they made OEdipus their king, giving him in marriage their queen Jocasta. OEdipus, ignorant of his parentage, had already become the slayer of his father; in marrying the queen he became the husband of his mother. These horrors remained undiscovered, till at length Thebes was afflicted with famine and pestilence, and the oracle being consulted, the double crime of OEdipus came to light. Jocasta put an end to her own life, and OEdipus, seized with madness, tore out his eyes, and wandered away from Thebes, dreaded and abandoned hy all except his daughters, who faithfully adhered to him; till after a tedious period of miserable wandering, he found the termination of his wretched life. PEGASUS AND THE CHIMAERA When Perseus cut off Medusa's head, the blood sinking into the earth produced the winged horse Pegasus. Minerva caught and tamed him, and presented him to the Muses. The fountain Hippocrene, on the Muses' mountain Helicon, was opened by a kick from his hoof. The Chimaera was a fearful monster, breathing fire. The fore part of its body was a compound of the lion and the goat, and the hind part a dragon's. It made great havoc in Lycia, so that the king Iobates sought for some hero to destroy it. At that time there arrived at his court a gallant young warrior, whose name was Bellerophon. He brought letters from Proetus, the son-in-law of Iobates, recommending Bellerophon in the warmest terms as an unconquerable hero, but added at the close a request to his father-in-law to put him to death. The reason was that Proetus was jealous of him, suspecting that his wife Antea looked with too much admiration on the young warrior. From this instance of Bellerophon being unconsciously the bearer of his own death- warrant, the expression "Bellerophontic letters" arose, to describe any species of communication which a person is made the bearer of, containing matter prejudicial to himself. Iobates, on perusing the letters, was puzzled what to do, not willing to violate the claims of hospitality, yet wishing to oblige his son-in-law. A lucky thought occurred to him, to send Bellerophon to combat with the Chimaera. Bellerophon accepted the proposal, but before proceeding to the combat consulted the soothsayer Polyidus, who advised him to procure if possible the horse Pegasus for the conflict. For this purpose he directed him to pass the night in the temple of Minerva. He did so, and as he slept Minerva came to him and gave him a golden bridle. When he awoke the bridle remained in his hand. Minerva also showed him Pegasus drinking at the well of Pirene, and at sight of the bridle, the winged steed came willingly and suffered himself to be taken. Bellerophon mounting, rose with him into the air, and soon found the Chimaera, and gained an easy victory over the monster. After the conquest of the Chimaera, Bellerophon was exposed to further trials and labors by his unfriendly host, but by the aid of Pegasus he triumphed in them all; till at length Iobates, seeing that the hero was a special favorite of the gods, gave him his daughter in marriage and made him his successor on the throne. At last Bellerophon by his pride and presumption drew upon himself the anger of the gods; it is said he even attempted to fly up into heaven on his winged steed; but Jupiter sent a gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw his rider, who became lame and blind in consequence. After this Bellerophon wandered lonely through the Aleian field, avoiding the paths of men, and died miserably. Milton alludes to Bellerophon in the beginning o the seventh book of Paradise Lost: "Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine Following above the Olympian hill I soar, Above the flight of Pegasean wing, Up-led by thee, Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed, An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air, (Thy tempering;) with like safety guided down Return me to my native element; Lest from this flying steed unreined, (as once Bellerophon, though from a lower sphere,) Dismounted on the Aleian field I fall, Erroneous there to wander, and forlorn." Young in his Night Thoughts, speaking of the skeptic, says, "He whose blind thought futurity denies, Unconscious bears, Bellerophon, like thee His own indictment; he condemns himself, Who reads his bosom reads immortal life, Or nature there, imposing on her sons, Has written fables; man was made a lie." Vol. II.1,12. Pegasus, being the horse of the Muses, has always been at the service of the poets. Schiller tells a pretty story of his having been sold by a needy poet, and put to the cart and the plough. He was not fit for such service, and his clownish master could make nothing of him. But a youth stepped forth and asked leave to try him. As soon as he was seated on his back, the horse, which had appeared at first vicious, and afterwards spirit-broken, rose kingly, a spirit, a god; unfolded the splendor of his wings and soared towards heaven. Our own poet Longfellow also records an adventure of this famous steed in his Pegasus in Pound. Shakespeare alludes to Pegasus in Henry IV, where Vernon describes Prince Henry: "I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, His cuishes on his thighs, gallantly armed, Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropped down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship." THE CENTAURS The Greeks loved to people their woods and hills with strange wild people, half man, half beast. Such were the Satyrs men with goats' legs. But nobler and better were the Centaurs, men to the waist, while the rest was the form of a horse. The ancients were too fond of a horse to consider the union of his nature with man's as forming any very degraded compound, and accordingly the Centaur is the only one of the fancied monsters of antiquity to which any good traits are assigned. The Centaurs were admitted to the companionship of man, and at the marriage of Pirithous with Hippodamia, they were among the guests. At the feast, Eurytion, one of the Centaurs, becoming intoxicated with the wine, attempted to offer violence to the bride; the other Centaurs followed his example, and a dreadful conflict arose in which several of them were slain. This is the celebrated battle of the Lapithae and Centaurs, a favorite subject with the sculptors and poets of antiquity. But all the Centaurs were not like the rude guests of Pirithous. Chiron was instructed by Apollo and Diana, and was renowned for his skill in hunting, medicine, music, and the art of prophecy. The most distinguished heroes of Grecian story were his pupils. Among the rest the infant Aesculapius was intrusted to his charge, by Apollo, his father. When the sage returned to his home bearing the infant, his daughter Ocyroe came forth to meet him, and at sight of the child burst forth into a prophetic strain (for she was a prophetess), foretelling the glory that he was to achieve. Aesculapius, when grown up, became a renowned physician, and even in one instance succeeded in restoring the dead to life. Pluto resented this, and Jupiter, at his request, struck the bold physician with lightning and killed him, but after his death received him into the number of the gods. Chiron was the wisest and justest of all the Centaurs, and at his death Jupiter placed him among the stars as the constellation Sagittarius. THE PYGMIES The Pygmies were a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek word which means the cubit (a cubit was a measure of about thirteen inches), which was said to be the height of these people. They lived near the sources of the Nile, or according to others, in India. Homer tells us that the cranes used to migrate every winter to the Pygmies' country, and their appearance was the signal of bloody warfare to the puny inhabitants, who had to take up arms to defend their cornfields against the rapacious strangers. The Pygmies and their enemies the cranes form the subject of several works of art. Later writers tell of an army of Pygmies which finding Hercules asleep made preparations to attack him, as if they were about to attack a city. But the hero awaking laughed at the little warriors, wrapped some of them up in his lion's-skin, and carried them to Eurystheus. Milton used the Pygmies for a simile, Paradise Lost, Book I: "----like that Pygmaean race Beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves Whose midnight revels by a forest side, Or fountain, some belated peasant sees, (Or dreams he sees), while overhead the moon Sits artibress, and nearer to the earth Wheels her pale course; they on their mirth and dance Intent, with jocund music charm his ear. At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds." THE GRIFFIN, OR GRYPHON The Griffin is a monster with the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and back covered with feathers. Like birds it builds its nest, and instead of an egg lays an agate therein. It has long claws and talons of such a size that the people of that country make them into drinking-cups. India was assigned as the native country of the Griffins. They found gold in the mountains and built their nests of it, for which reason their nests were very tempting to the hunters, and they were forced to keep vigilant guard over them. Their instinct led them to know where buried treasures lay, and they did their best to keep plunderers at a distance. The Arimaspians, among whom the Griffins flourished, were a one-eyed people of Scythia. Milton borrows a simile from the Griffins, Paradise Lost, Book II.: "As when a Gryphon through the wilderness, With winged course, o'er hill and moory dale, Pursues the Arimaspian who by stealth Hath from his wakeful custody purloined His guarded gold." Chapter XI The Golden Fleece. Medea. The Calydonian Hunt In very ancient times there lived in Thessaly a king and queen named Athamas and Nephele. They had two children, a boy and a girl. After a time Athamas grew indifferent to his wife, put her away, and took another. Nephele suspected danger to her children from the influence of the step-mother, and took measures to send them out of her reach. Mercury assisted her, and gave her a ram, with a GOLDEN FLEECE, on which she set the two children, trusting that the ram would convey them to a place of safety. The ram sprung into the air with the children on his back, taking his course to the east, till when crossing the strait that divides Europe and Asia, the girl, whose name was Helle, fell from his back into the sea, which from her was called the Hellespont, now the Dardanelles. The ram continued his career till he reached the kingdom of Colchis, on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, where he safely landed the boy Phyrxus, who was hospitably received by AEetes, the king of the country. Phryxus sacrificed the ram to Jupiter, and gave the golden fleece to AEetes, who placed it in a consecrated grove, under the care of a sleepless dragon. There was another kingdom in Thessaly near to that of Athamas, and ruled over by a relative of his. The king AEson, being tired of the cares of government, surrendered his crown to his brother Pelias, on condition that he should hold it only during the minority of Jason, the son of AEson. When Jason was grown up and came to demand the crown from his uncle, Pelias pretended to be willing to yield it, but at the same time suggested to the young man the glorious adventure of going in quest of the golden fleece, which it was well known was in the kingdom of Colchis, and was, as Pelias pretended, the rightful property of their family. Jason was pleased with the thought, and forthwith made preparations for the expedition. At that time the only species of navigation known to the Greeks consisted of small boats or canoes hollowed out from trunks of trees, so that when Jason employed Argus to build him a vessel capable of containing fifty men, it was considered a gigantic undertaking. It was accomplished, however, and the vessel was named the Argo, from the name of the builder. Jason sent his invitation to all the adventurous young men of Greece, and soon found himself at the head of a band of bold youths, many of whom afterwards were renowned among the heroes and demigods of Greece. Hercules, Theseus, Orpheus, and Nestor were among them. They are called the Argonauts, from the name of their vessel. The Argo with her crew of heroes left the shores of Thessaly and having touched at the Island of Lemnos, thence crossed to Mysia and thence to Thrace. Here they found the sage Phineus, and from him received instruction as to their future course. It seems the entrance of the Euxine Sea was impeded by two small rocky islands, which floated on the surface, and in their tossings and heavings occasionally came together, crushing and grinding to atoms any object that might be caught between them. They were called the Symplegades, or Clashing Islands. Phineus instructed the Argonauts how to pass this dangerous strait. When they reached the islands they let go a dove, which took her way between the rocks, and passed in safety, only losing some feathers of her tail. Jason and his men seized the favorable moment of the rebound, plied their oars with vigor, and passed safe through, though the islands closed behind them, and actually grazed their stern. They now rowed along the shore till they arrived at the eastern end of the sea, and landed at the kingdom of Colchis. Jason made known his message to the Colchian king, AEetes, who consented to give up the golden fleece if Jason would yoke to the plough two fire-breathing bulls with brazen feet, and sow the teeth of the dragon, which Cadmus had slain, and from which it was well known that a crop of armed men would spring up, who would turn their weapons against their producer. Jason accepted the conditions, and a time was set for making the experiment. Previously, however, he found means to plead his cause to Medea, daughter of the king. He promised her marriage, and as they stood before the altar of Hecate, called the goddess to witness his oath. Medea yielded and by her aid, for she was a potent sorceress, he was furnished with a charm, by which he could encounter safely the breath of the fire-breathing bulls and the weapons of the armed men. At the time appointed, the people assembled at the grove of Mars, and the king assumed his royal seat, while the multitude covered the hill-sides. The brazen-footed bulls rushed in, breathing fire from their nostrils, that burned up the herbage as they passed. The sound was like the roar of a furnace, and the smoke like that of water upon quick-lime. Jason advanced boldly to meet them. His friends, the chosen heroes of Greece, trembled to behold him. Regardless of the burning breath, he soothed their rage with his voice, patted their necks with fearless hands, and adroitly slipped over them the yoke, and compelled them to drag the plough. The Colchians were amazed; the Greeks shouted for joy. Jason next proceeded to sow the dragon's teeth and plough them in. And soon the crop of armed men sprang up, and wonderful to relate! no sooner had they reached the surface than they began to brandish their weapons and rush upon Jason. The Greeks trembled for their hero, and even she who had provided him a way of safety and taught him how to use it, Medea herself, grew pale with fear. Jason for a time kept his assailants at bay with his sword and shield, till finding their numbers overwhelming, he resorted to the charm which Medea had taught him, seized a stone and threw it in the midst of his foes. They immediately turned their arms against one another, and soon there was not one of the dragon's brood left alive. The Greeks embraced their hero, and Medea, if she dared, would have embraced him too. Then AEetes promised the next day to give them the fleece, and the Greeks went joyfully down to the Argo with the hero Jason in their midst. But that night Medea came down to Jason, and bade him make haste and follow her, for that her father proposed the next morning to attack the Argonauts and to destroy their ship. They went together to the grove of Mars, where the golden fleece hung guarded by the dreadful dragon, who glared at the hero and his conductor with his great round eyes that never slept. But Medea was prepared, and began her magic songs and spells, and sprinkled over him a sleeping potion which she had prepared by her art. At the smell he relaxed his rage, stood for a moment motionless, then shut those great round eyes, that had never been known to shut before, and turned over on his side, fast asleep. Jason seized the fleece, and with his friends and Medea accompanying, hastened to their vessel, before AEETES, the king, could arrest their departure, and made the best of their way back to Thessaly, where they arrived safe, and Jason delivered the fleece to Pelias, and dedicated the Argo to Neptune. What became of the fleece afterwards we do not know, but perhaps it was found, after all, like many other golden prizes, not worth the trouble it had cost to procure it. This is one of those mythological tales, says a modern writer, in which there is reason to believe that a substratum of truth exists, though overlaid by a mass of fiction. It probably was the first important maritime expedition, and like the first attempts of the kind of all nations, as we know from history, was probably of a half-piratical character. If rich spoils were the result, it was enough to give rise to the idea of the golden fleece. Another suggestion of a learned mythologist, Bryant, is that it is a corrupt tradition of the story of Noah and the ark. The name Argo seems to countenance this, and the incident of the dove is another confirmation. Pope, in his Ode on St. Cecelia's Day, thus celebrates the launching of the ship Argo, and the power of the music of Orpheus, whom he calls the Thracian: "So when the first bold vessel dared the seas, High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain, While Argo saw her kindred trees Descend from Pelion to the main. Transported demigods stood round, And men grew heroes at the sound." In Dyer's poem of The Fleece there is an account of the ship Argo and her crew, which gives a good picture of this primitive maritime adventure: "From every region of Aegea's shore The brave assembled; those illustrious twins, Castor and Pollux; Orpheus, tuneful bard; Zetes and Calais, as the wind in speed; Strong Hercules and many a chief renowned. On deep Iolcos' sandy shore they thronged, Gleaming in armor, ardent of exploits; And soon, the laurel cord and the huge stone Uplifting to the deck, unmoored the bark; Whose keel of wondrous length the skilful hand Of Argus fashioned for the proud attempt; And in the extended keel a lofty mast Upraised, and sails full swelling; to the chiefs Unwonted objects. Now first, now they learned Their bolder steerage over ocean wave, Led by the golden stars, as Chiron's art Had marked the sphere celestial." Hercules left the expedition at Mysia, for Hylas, a youth beloved by him, having gone for water, was laid hold of and kept by the nymphs of the spring, who were fascinated by his beauty. Hercules went in quest of the lad, and while he was absent the Argo put to sea and left him. Moore, in one of his songs, makes a beautiful allusion to this incident: "When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers in the way. "Thus many like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine." But Hercules, as some say, went onward to Colchis by land, and there performed many mighty deeds, and wiped away the stain of cowardice which might have clung to him. MEDEA AND AESON Amid the rejoicings for the recovery of the golden Fleece, Jason felt that one thing was wanting, the presence of AESON, his father, who was prevented by his age and infirmities from taking part in them. Jason said to Medea, "My wife, I would that your arts, whose power I have seen so mighty for my aid, could do me one further service, and take some years from my life to add them to my father's." Medea replied, "Not at such a cost shall it be done, but if my art avails me, his life shall be lengthened without abridging yours." The next full moon she issued forth alone, while all creatures slept; not a breath stirred the foliage, and all was still. To the stars she addressed her incantations, and to the moon; to Hecate (Hecate was a mysterious divinity sometimes identified with Diana and sometimes with Proserpine. As Diana represents the moonlight splendor of night, so Hecate represents its darkness and terrors. She was the goddess of sorcery and witchcraft, and was believed to wander by night along the earth, seen only by the dogs whose barking told her approach.), the goddess of the underworld, and to Tellus, the goddess of the earth, by whose power plants potent for enchantments are produced. She invoked the gods of the woods and caverns, of mountains and valleys, of lakes and rivers, of winds and vapors. While she spoke the stars shone brighter, and presently a chariot descended through the air, drawn by flying serpents. She ascended it, and, borne aloft, made her way to distant regions, where potent plants grew which she knew how to select for her purpose. Nine nights she employed in her search, and during that time came not within the doors of her palace nor under any roof, and shunned all intercourse with mortals. She next erected two altars, the one to Hecate, the other to Hebe, the goddess of youth, and sacrificed a black sheep, pouring libations of milk and wine. She implored Pluto and his stolen bride that they would not hasten to take the old man's life. Then she directed that AESON should be led forth, and having thrown him into a deep sleep by a charm, had him laid on a bed of herbs, like one dead. Jason and all others were kept away from the place, that no profane eyes might look upon her mysteries. Then, with streaming hair, she thrice moved round the altars, dipped flaming twigs in the blood, and laid them thereon to burn. Meanwhile the caldron with its contents was got ready. In it she put magic herbs, with seeds and flowers of acrid juice, stones from the distant East, and sand from the shore of all-surrounding ocean; hoar frost, gathered by moonlight, a screech-owl's head and wings, and the entrails of a wolf. She added fragments of the shells of tortoises, and the liver of stags, animals tenacious of life, and the head and beak of a crow, that outlives nine generations of men. These, with many other things without a name, she boiled together for her purposed work, stirring them up with a dry olive branch; and behold, the branch when taken out instantly became green, and before long was covered with leaves and a plentiful growth of young olives; and as the liquor boiled and bubbled, and sometimes ran over, the grass, wherever the sprinklings fell, shot forth with a verdure like that of spring. Seeing that all was ready, Medea cut the throat of the old man and let out all his blood, and poured into his mouth and into his wound the juices of her caldron. As soon as he had completely imbibed them, his hair and beard laid by their whiteness and assumed the blackness of youth; his paleness and emaciation were gone; his veins were full of blood, his limbs of vigor and robustness. AESON is amazed at himself, and remembers that such as he now is he was in his youthful days, forty years before. Medea used her arts here for a good purpose, but not so in another instance, where she made them the instruments of revenge. Pelias, our readers will recollect, was the usurping uncle of Jason, and had kept him out of his kingdom. Yet he must have had some good qualities, for his daughters loved him, and when they saw what Medea had done for AESON, they wished her to do the same for their father. Medea pretended to consent, and prepared her caldron as before. At her request an old sheep was brought and plunged into the caldron. Very soon a bleating was heard in the kettle, and, when the cover was removed, a lamb jumped forth and ran frisking away into the meadow. The daughters of Pelias saw the experiment with delight, and appointed a time for their father to undergo the same operation. But Medea prepared her caldron for him in a very different way. She put in only water and a few simple herbs. In the night she with the sisters entered the bed-chamber of the old king, while he and his guards slept soundly under the influence of a spell cast upon them by Medea. The daughters stood by the bedside with their weapons drawn, but hesitated to strike, till Medea chid their irresolution. Then, turning away their faces and giving random blows, they smote him with their weapons. He, starting from his sleep, cried out, "My daughters, what are you doing? Will you kill your father?:" Their hearts failed them, and the weapons fell from their hands, but Medea struck him a fatal blow, and prevented his saying more. Then they placed him in the caldron, and Medea hastened to depart in her serpent-drawn chariot before they discovered her treachery, for their vengeance would have been terrible. She escaped, however, but had little enjoyment of the fruits of her crime. Jason, for whom she had done so much, wishing to marry Creusa, princess of Corinth, put away Medea. She, enraged at his ingratitude, called on the gods for vengeance, sent a poisoned robe as a gift to the bride, and then killing her own children, and setting fire to the palace, mounted her serpent-drawn chariot and fled to Athens, where she married King AEgeus, the father of Theseus; and we shall meet her again when we come to the adventures of that hero. The incantations of Medea will remind the reader of those of the witches in Macbeth. The following lines are those which seem most strikingly to recall the ancient model: "Round about the caldron go; In the poisoned entrails throw. * * * * * * Fillet of a fenny snake In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog. Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing: * * * * * * Maw of ravening salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digged in the dark." Macbeth, Act IV., Scene 1 And again: Macbeth. What is't you do? Witches. A deed without a name. There is another story of Medea almost too revolting for record even of a sorceress, a class of persons to whom both ancient and modern poets have been accustomed to attribute every degree of atrocity. In her flight from Colchis she had taken her young brother Absyrtus with her. Finding the pursuing vessels of AEETES gaining upon the Argonauts, she caused the lad to be killed and his limbs to be strewn over the sea. AEETES on reaching the place found these sorrowful traces of his murdered son; but while he tarried to collect the scattered fragments and bestow upon them an honorable interment, the Argonauts escaped. In the poems of Campbell will be found a translation of one of the choruses of the tragedy of Medea, where the poet Euripides has taken advantage of the occasion to pay a glowing tribute to Athens, his native city. It begins thus: "Oh, haggard queen! To Athens dost thou guide Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore; Or seek to hide thy damned parricide Where Peace and Justice dwell for evermore?" THE CALYDONIAN HUNT. MELEAGER AND ATALANTA The search for the Golden Fleece was undertaken by Jason, aided by heroes from all Greece, or Hellas as it was then called. It was the first of their common undertakings which made the Greeks feel that they were in truth one nation, though split up into many small kingdoms. Another of their great gatherings was for the Calydonian Hunt, and another, the greatest and most famous of all, for the Trojan War. The hero of the quest for the golden Fleece was Jason. With the other heroes of the Greeks, he was present at the Calydonian Hunt. But the chief hero was Meleager, the son of OEneus, king of Calydon, and Althea, his queen. Althea, when her son was born, beheld the three Destinies, who, as they spun their fatal thread, foretold that the life of the child should last no longer than a brand then burning upon the hearth. Althea seized and quenched the brand, and carefully preserved it for years, while Meleager grew to boyhood, youth, and manhood. It chanced, then, that OEneus, as he offered sacrifices to the gods, omitted to pay due honors to Diana, and she, indignant at the neglect, sent a wild boar of enormous size to lay waste the files of Calydon. Its eyes shone with blood and fire, its bristles stood like threatening spears, its tusks were like those of Indian elephants. The growing corn was trampled, the vines and olive trees laid waste, the flocks and herds were driven in wild confusion by the slaughtering foe. All common aid seemed vain; but Meleager called on the heroes of Greece to join in a bold hunt for the ravenous monster. Theseus and his friend Pirithous, Jason, Peleus afterwards the father of Achilles, Telamon the father of Ajax, Nestor, then a youth, but who in his age bore arms with Achilles and Ajax in the Trojan war, these and many more joined in the enterprise. With them came Atalanta, the daughter of Iasius, king of Arcadia. A buckle of polished gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver hung on her left shoulder, and her left hand bore the bow. Her face blent feminine beauty with the best graces of martial youth. Meleager saw and loved. But now already they were near the monster's lair. They stretched strong nets from tree to tree; they uncoupled their dogs, they tried to find the footprints of their quarry in the grass. From the wood was a descent to marshy ground. Here the boar, as he lay among the reeds, heard the shouts of his pursuers, and rushed forth against them. One and another is thrown down and slain. Jason throws his spear with a prayer to Diana for success; and the favoring goddess allows the weapon to touch, but not to wound, removing the steel point of the spear even in its flight. Nestor, assailed, seeks and finds safety in the branches of a tree. Telamon rushes on, but stumbling at a projecting root, falls prone. But an arrow from Atalanta at length for the first time tastes the monster's blood. It is a slight wound, but Meleager sees and joyfully proclaims it. Anceus, excited to envy by the praise given to a female, loudly proclaims his own valor, and defies alike the boar and the goddess who had sent it; but as he rushes on, the infuriated beast lays him low with a mortal wound. Theseus throws his lance, but it is turned aside by a projecting bough. The dart of Jason misses its object, and kills instead one of their own dogs. But Meleager, after one unsuccessful stroke, drives his spear into the monsters side, then rushes on and despatches him with repeated blows. Then rose a shout from those around; they congratulated the conqueror, crowding to touch his hand. He, placing his foot upon the slain boar, turned to Atalanta and bestowed on her the head and the rough hide which were the trophies of his success. But at this, envy excited the rest to strife. Phlexippus and Toxeus, the uncles of Meleager and Althea's brothers, beyond the rest opposed the gift, and snatched from the maiden the trophy she had received. Meleager, kindling with rage at the wrong done to himself, and still more at the insult offered to her whom he loved, forgot the claims of kindred, and plunged his sword into the offenders' hearts. As Althea bore gifts of thankfulness to the temples for the victory of her son, the bodies of her murdered brothers met her sight. She shrieks, and beats her breast, and hastens to change the garments of rejoicing for those of mourning. But when the author of the deed is known, grief gives way to the stern desire of vengeance on her son. The fatal brand, which once she rescued from the flames, the brand which the Destinies had linked with Meleager's life, she brings forth, and commands a fire to be prepared. Then four times she essays to place the brand upon the pile; four times draws back, shuddering at the thought of bringing destruction on her son. The feelings of the mother and the sister contend within her. Now she is pale at the thought of the purposed deed, now flushed again with anger at the act of her son. As a vessel, driven in one direction by the wind, and in the opposite by the tide, the mind of Althea hangs suspended in uncertainty. But now the sister prevails above the mother, and she begins as she holds the fatal wood: "Turn, ye Furies, goddesses of punishment! Turn to behold the sacrifice I bring! Crime must atone for crime. Shall OEneus rejoice in his victor son, while the house of Thestius (Thestius was father of Toxeus, Phlexippus and Althea) is desolate? But, alas! To what deed am I borne along? Brothers, forgive a mother's weakness! My hand fails me. He deserves death, but not that I should destroy him. But shall he then live, and triumph, and reign over Calydon, while you, my brothers, wander unavenged among the shades? No! Thou has lived by my gift; die, now, for thine own crime. Return the life which twice I gave thee, first at thy birth, again when I snatched this brand from the flames. O that thou hadst then died! Alas! Evil is the conquest; but, brothers, ye have conquered." And, turning away her face, she threw the fatal wood upon the burning pile. It gave, or seemed to give, a deadly groan. Meleager, absent and unknowing of the cause, felt a sudden pang. He burns and only by courageous pride conquers the pain which destroys him. He mourns only that he perishes by a bloodless and unhonored death. With his last breath he calls upon his aged father, his brother, and his fond sisters, upon his beloved Atalanta, and upon his mother, the unknown cause of his fate. The flames increase, and with them the pain of the hero. Now both subside; now both are quenched. The brand is ashes and the life of Meleager is breathed forth to the wandering winds. Althea, when the deed was done, laid violent hands upon herself. The sisters of Meleager mourned their brother with uncontrollable grief; till Diana, pitying the sorrows of the house that once had aroused her anger, turned them into birds. ATALANTA The innocent cause of so much sorrow was a maiden whose face you might truly say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy. Her fortune had been told, and it was to this effect: "Atalanta, do not marry; marriage will be your ruin." Terrified by this oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted herself to the sports of the chase. To all suitors (for she had many) she imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving her of their persecutions: "I will be the prize of him who shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Hippomenes was to be judge of the race. "Can it be possible that any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. But when he saw her lay aside her robe for the race, he changed his mind, and said, "Pardon me, youths, I knew not the prize you were competing for." As he surveyed them he wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with envy of any one that seemed at all likely to win. While such were his thoughts, the virgin darted forward. As she ran, she looked more beautiful than ever. The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away? I pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth. I wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me." While she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Venus; "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on" Venus heard, and was propitious. In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches, and golden fruit. Hence Venus gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by all else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The signal is given; each starts from the goal, and skims over the sand. So light their tread, you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface or over the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered on Hippomenes: "Now, now do your best! Haste, haste! You gain on her! Relax not! One more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. At that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. The virgin was all amazement. She stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts burst forth from all sides. She redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him. Again he threw an apple. She stopped again, but again came up with him. The goal was near; one chance only remained. "Now, goddess," said he, "prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off at one side. She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn aside for it. She did so, and was vanquished. The youth carried off his prize. But the lovers were so full of their own happiness that they forgot to pay due honor to Venus; and the goddess was provoked at their ingratitude. She caused them to give offence to Cybele. That powerful goddess was not to be insulted with impunity. She took from them their human form and turned them into animals of characters resembling their own: of the huntress-heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness, and of her lord and master a lion, and yoked them to her ear, there they are still to be seen in all representations, in statuary or painting, of the goddess Cybele. Cybele is the Latin name of the goddess called by the Greeks Rhea and Ops. She was the wife of Cronos and mother of Zeus. In works of art, she exhibits the matronly air which distinguishes Juno and Ceres. Sometimes she is veiled, and seated on a throne with lions at her side, at other times riding in a chariot drawn by lions. She sometimes wears a mural crown, that is, a crown whose rim is carved in the form of towers and battlements. Her priests were called Corybantes. Byron in describing the city of Venice, which is built on a low island in the Adriatic Sea, borrows an illustration from Cybele: "She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers." Childe Harold, IV In Moore's Rhymes on the Road, the poet, speaking of Alpine scenery, alludes to the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, thus: "Even here, in this region of wonders, I find That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind, Or at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray By the golden illusions he flings in her way." Chapter XII Hercules. Hebe and Ganymede Hercules (in Greek, Heracles) was the son of Jupiter and Alemena. As Juno was always hostile to the offspring of her husband by mortal mothers, she declared war against Hercules from his birth. She sent two serpents to destroy him as he lay in his cradle, but the precocious infant strangled them with his own hands. (On this account the infant Hercules was made the type of infant America, by Dr. Franklin, and the French artists whom he employed in the American Revolution. Horatio Greenough has placed a bas- relief of the Infant Hercules on the pedestal of his statue of Washington, which stands in front of the Capitol.) He was however by the arts of Juno rendered subject to his cousin Eurystheus and compelled to perform all his commands. Eurystheus enjoined upon him a succession of desperate adventures, which are called the twelve "Labors of Hercules." The first was the fight with the Nemean lion. The valley of Nemea was infested by a terrible lion. Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring him the skin of this monster. After using in vain his club and arrows against the lion, Hercules strangled the animal with his hands. He returned carrying the dead lion on his shoulders; but Eurystheus was so frightened at the sight of it and at this proof of the prodigious strength of the hero, that he ordered him to deliver the account of his exploits in future outside the town. His next labor was to slaughter the Hydra. This monster ravaged the country of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well of Amymone, of which the story is that when the country was suffering from drought, Neptune, who loved her, had permitted her to touch the rock with his trident, and a spring of three outlets burst forth. Here the Hydra took up his position, and Hercules was sent to destroy him. The Hydra had nine heads, of which the middle one was immortal. Hercules struck off its head with his club, but in the place of the head knocked off, two new ones grew forth each time. At length with the assistance of his faithful servant Iolaus, he burned away the heads of the Hydra, and buried the ninth or immortal one under a huge rock. Another labor was the cleaning of the Augean stables. Augeas, king of Elis, had a herd of three thousand oxen, whose stalls had not been cleansed for thirty years. Hercules brought the rivers Alpheus and Peneus through them, and cleansed them thoroughly in one day. His next labor was of a more delicate kind. Admeta, the daughter of Eurystheus, longed to obtain the girdle of the queen of the Amazons, and Eurystheus ordered Hercules to go and get it. The Amazons were a nation of women. They were very warlike and held several flourishing cities. It was their custom to bring up only the female children; the boys were either sent away to the neighboring nations or put to death. Hercules was accompanied by a number of volunteers, and after various adventures at last reached the country of the Amazons. Hippolyta, the queen, received him kindly, and consented to yield him her girdle; but Juno, taking the form of an Amazon, went among the other Amazons and persuaded them that the strangers were carrying off their queen. The Amazons instantly armed and came in great numbers down to the ship. Hercules, thinking that Hippolyta had acted treacherously, slew her, and taking her girdle, made sail homewards. Another task enjoined him was to bring to Eurystheus the oxen of Geryon, a monster with three bodies who dwelt in the island Erytheia (the red), so called because it lay at the west, under the rays of the setting sun. This description is thought to apply to Spain, of which Geryon was said to be king. After traversing various countries, Hercules reached at length the frontiers of Libya and Europe, where he raised the two mountains of Calpe and Abyla, as monuments of his progress, or according to another account rent one mountain into two and left half on each side, forming the Straits of Gibraltar, the two mountains being called the Pillars of Hercules. The oxen were guarded by the giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog, but Hercules killed the giant and his dog and brought away the oxen in safety to Eurystheus. The most difficult labor of all was bringing the golden apples of the Hesperides, for Hercules did not know where to find them. These were the apples which Juno had received at her wedding from the goddess of the Earth, and which she had intrusted to the keeping of the daughters of Hesperis, assisted by a watchful dragon. After various adventures Hercules arrived at Mount Atlas in Africa. Atlas was one of the Titans who had warred against the gods, and after they were subdued, Atlas was condemned to bear on his shoulders the weight of the heavens. He was the father of the Hesperides, and Hercules thought, might, if any one could, find the apples and bring them to him. But how to send Atlas away from his post, or bear up the heavens while he was gone? Hercules took the burden on his own shoulders, and sent Atlas to seek the apples. He returned with them, and though somewhat reluctantly, took his burden upon his shoulders again, and let Hercules return with the apples to Eurystheus. (Hercules was a descendant of Perseus. Perseus changed Atlas to stone. How could Hercules take his place? This is only one of the many anachronisms found in ancient mythology.) Milton in his Comus makes the Hesperides the daughters of Hesperus, and nieces of Atlas: "---- amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus and his daughters three, That sing about the golden tree." The poets, led by the analogy of the lovely appearance of the western sky at sunset, viewed the west as a region of brightness and glory. Hence they placed in it the Isles of the blest, the ruddy isle Erytheia, on which the bright oxen of Geryon were pastured, and the isle of the Hesperides. The apples are supposed by some to be the oranges of Spain, of which the Greeks had heard some obscure accounts. A celebrated exploit of Hercules was his victory over Antaeus. Antaeus, the son of Terra (the Earth) was a mighty giant and wrestler, whose strength was invincible so long as he remained in contact with his mother Earth. He compelled all strangers who came to his country to wrestle with him, on condition that if conquered (as they all were), they should be put to death. Hercules encountered him, and finding that it was of no avail to throw him, for he always rose with renewed strength from every fall, he lifted him up from the earth and strangled him in the air. Cacus was a huge giant, who inhabited a cave on Mount Aventine (one of the seven hills of Rome), and plundered the surrounding country. When Hercules was driving home the oxen of Geryon, Cacus stole part of the cattle, while the hero slept. That their foot-prints might not serve to show where they had been driven, he dragged them backward by their tails to his cave; so their tracks all seemed to show that they had gone in the opposite direction. Hercules was deceived by this stratagem, and would have failed to find his oxen, if it had not happened that in driving the remainder of the herd past the cave where the stolen ones were concealed, those within began to low, and were thus discovered. Cacus was slain by Hercules. The last exploit we shall record was bringing Cerberus from the lower world. Hercules descended into Hades, accompanied by Mercury and Minerva. He obtained permission from Pluto to carry Cerberus to the upper air, provided he could do it without the use of weapons; and in spite of the monster's struggling he seized him, held him fast, and carried him to Eurystheus, and afterwards brought him back again. When he was in Hades he obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and imitator, who had been detained a prisoner there for an unsuccessful attempt to carry off Proserpine. Hercules in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus and was condemned for this offence to become the slave of Queen Omphale for three years. While in this service the hero's nature seemed changed. He lived effeminately, wearing at times the dress of a woman, and spinning wool with the handmaidens of Omphale, while the queen wore his lion's skin. When this service was ended he married Dejanira and lived in peace with her three years. On one occasion as he was travelling with his wife, they came to a river, across which the Centaur Nessus carried travellers for a stated fee. Hercules himself forded the river, but gave Dejanira to Nessus to be carried across. Nessus attempted to run away with her, but Hercules heard her cries, and shot an arrow into the heart of Nessus. The dying Centaur told Dejanira to take a portion of his blood and keep it, as it might be used as a charm to preserve the love of her husband. Dejanira did so, and before long fancied she had occasion to use it. Hercules in one of his conquests had taken prisoner a fair maiden, named Iole, of whom he seemed more fond than Dejanira approved. When Hercules was about to offer sacrifices to the gods in honor of his victory, he sent to his wife for a white robe to use on the occasion. Dejanira, thinking it a good opportunity to try her love-spell, steeped the garment in the blood of Nessus. We are to suppose she took care to wash out all traces of it, but the magic power remained, and as soon as the garment became warm on the body of Hercules, the poison penetrated into all his limbs and caused him the most intense agony. In his frenzy he seized Lichas, who had brought him the fatal robe, and hurled him into the sea. He wrenched off the garment, but it stuck to his flesh, and with it he tore away whole pieces of his body. In this state he embarked on board a ship and was conveyed home. Dejanira on seeing what she had unwittingly done, hung herself. Hercules, prepared to die, ascended Mount OEta, where he built a funeral pile of trees, gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, and laid himself down on the pile, his head resting on his club, and his lion's skin spread over him. With a countenance as serene as if he were taking his place at a festal board, he commanded Philoctetes to apply the torch. The flames spread apace and soon invested the whole mass. Milton thus alludes to the frenzy of Hercules: "As when Alcides (Alcides, a name of Hercules; the word means "descendant of Alcaeus"), from OEchalia crowned With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore, Through pain, up by the roots Thessalian pines And Lichas from the top of OEta threw Into the Euboic Sea." The gods themselves felt troubled at seeing the champion of the earth so brought to his end; but Jupiter with cheerful countenance thus addressed them; "I am pleased to see your concern, my princes, and am gratified to perceive that I am the ruler of a loyal people, and that my son enjoys your favor. For although your interest in him arises from his noble deeds, yet it is not the less gratifying to me. But now I say to you, Fear not. He who conquered all else is not to be conquered by those flames which you see blazing on Mount OEta. Only his mother's share in him can perish; what he derived from me is immortal. I shall take him, dead to earth, to the heavenly shores, and I require of you all to receive him kindly. If any of you feel grieved at his attaining this honor, yet no one can deny that he has deserved it." The gods all gave their assent; Juno only heard the closing words with some displeasure that she should be so particularly pointed at, yet not enough to make her regret the determination of her husband. So when the flames had consumed the mother's share of Hercules, the diviner part, instead of being injured thereby, seemed to start forth with new vigor, to assume a more lofty port and a more awful dignity. Jupiter enveloped him in a cloud, and took him up in a four-horse chariot to dwell among the stars. As he took his place in heaven, Atlas felt the added weight. Juno, now reconciled to him, gave him her daughter Hebe in marriage. The poet Schiller, in one of his pieces called the Ideal and Life, illustrates the contrast between the practical and the imaginative in some beautiful stanzas, of which the last two may be thus translated: "Deep degraded to a coward's slave, Endless contests bore Alcides brave, Through the thorny path of suffering led; Slew the Hydra, crushed the lion's might, Threw himself, to bring his friend to light, Living, in the skiff that bears the dead. All the torments, every toil of earth Juno's hatred on him could impose, Well he bore them, from his fated birth To life's grandly mournful close. Till the god, the earthly part forsaken, From the man in flames asunder taken, Drank the heavenly ether's purer breath. Joyous in the new unwonted lightness, Soared he upwards to celestial brightness, Earth's dark heavy burden lost in death. High Olympus gives harmonious greeting To the hall where reigns his sire adored; Youth's bright goddess, with a blush at meeting, Gives the nectar to her lord." S. G. Bulfinch HEBE AND GANYMEDE Hebe, the daughter of Juno, and goddess of youth, was cupbearer to the gods. The usual story is, that she resigned her office on becoming the wife of Hercules. But there is another statement which our countryman Crawford, the sculptor, has adopted in his group of Hebe and Ganymede, now in the gallery of the Boston Athenaeum. According to this, Hebe was dismissed from her office in consequence of a fall which she met with one day when in attendance on the gods. Her successor was Ganymede, a Trojan boy whom Jupiter, in the disguise of an eagle, seized and carried off from the midst of his playfellows on Mount Ida, bore up to heaven, and installed in the vacant place. Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describes among the decorations on the walls, a picture representing this legend: "There, too, flushed Ganymede his rosy thigh Half buried in the eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot through the sky Above the pillared town." And in Shelley's Prometheus, Jupiter calls to his cup-bearer thus: "Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Ganymede, And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire." The beautiful legend of the Choice of Hercules may be found in the Tatler, No. 97. The same story is told in the Memorabilia of Xenophon. Chapter XIII Theseus. Daedalus. Castor and Pollux Theseus was the son of AEgeus, king of Athens, and of Aethra, daughter of the king of Troezene. He was brought up at Troezene, and, when arrived at manhood, was to proceed to Athens and present himself to his father. AEgeus, on parting from Aethra, before the birth of his son, placed his sword and shoes under a large stone, and directed her to send his son to him when he became strong enough to roll away the stone and take them from under it. When she thought the time had come, his mother led Theseus to the stone, and he removed it with ease, and took the sword and shoes. As the roads were infested with robbers, his grandfather pressed him earnestly to take the shorter and safer way to his father's country, by sea; but the youth, feeling in himself the spirit and the soul of a hero, and eager to signalize himself like Hercules, with whose fame all Greece then rang, by destroying the evil-doers and monsters that oppressed the country, determined on the more perilous and adventurous journey by land. His first day's journey brought him to Epidaurus, where dwelt a man named Periphetes, a son of Vulcan. This ferocious savage always went armed with a club of iron, and all travellers stood in terror of his violence. When he saw Theseus approach, he assailed him, but speedily fell beneath the blows of the young hero, who took possession of his club, and bore it ever afterwards as a memorial of his first victory. Several similar contests with the petty tyrants and marauders of the country followed, in all of which Theseus was victorious. One of these evil-doers was called Procrustes, or the Stretcher. He had an iron bedstead, on which he used to tie all travellers who fell into his hands. If they were shorter than the bed, he stretched their limbs to make them fit it; if they were longer than the bed, he lopped off a portion. Theseus served him as he had served others. Having overcome all the perils of the road, Theseus at length reached Athens, where new dangers awaited him. Medea, the sorceress, who had fled from Corinth after her separation from Jason, had become the wife of AEgeus, the father of Theseus. Knowing by her arts who he was, and fearing the loss of her influence with her husband, if Theseus should be acknowledged as his son, she filled the mind of AEgeus with suspicions of the young stranger, and induced him to present him a cup of poison; but at the moment when Theseus stepped forward to take it, the sight of the sword which he wore discovered to his father who he was, and prevented the fatal draught. Medea, detected in her arts, fled once more from deserved punishment, and arrived in Asia, where the country afterwards called Media received its name from her. Theseus was acknowledged by his father, and declared his successor. The Athenians were at that time in deep affliction, on account of the tribute which they were forced to pay to Minos, king of Crete. This tribute consisted of seven youths and seven maidens, who were sent every year to be devoured by the Minotaur, a monster with a bull's body and a human head. It was exceedingly strong and fierce, and was kept in a labyrinth constructed by Daedalus, so artfully contrived that whoever was enclosed in it could by no means find his way out unassisted. Here the Minotaur roamed, and was fed with human victims. Theseus resolved to deliver his countrymen from this calamity, or to die in the attempt. Accordingly, when the time of sending off the tribute came, and the youths and maidens were, according to custom, drawn by lot to be sent, he offered himself as one of the victims, in spite of the entreaties of his father. The ship departed under black sails, as usual, which Theseus promised his father to change for white, in case of his returning victorious. When they arrived in Crete, the youths and maidens were exhibited before Minos; and Ariadne, the daughter of the king, being present, became deeply enamored of Theseus, by whom her love was readily returned. She furnished him with a sword, with which to encounter the Minotaur, and with a clew of thread by which he might find his way out of the labyrinth. He was successful, slew the Minotaur, escaped from the labyrinth, and taking Ariadne as the companion of his way, with his rescued companions sailed for Athens. On their way they stopped at the island of Naxos, where Theseus abandoned Ariadne, leaving her asleep. For Minerva had appeared to Theseus in a dream, and warned him that Ariadne was destined to be the wife of Bacchus, the wine-god. (One of the finest pieces of sculpture in Italy, the recumbent Ariadne of the Vatican, represents this incident. A copy is in the Athenaeum gallery, Boston. The celebrated statue of Ariadne, by Danneker, represents her as riding on the tiger of Bacchus, at a somewhat later period of her story.) On approaching the coast of Attica, Theseus, intent on Ariadne, forgot the signal appointed by his father, and neglected to raise the white sails, and the old king, thinking his son had perished, put an end to his own life. Theseus thus became king of Athens. One of the most celebrated of the adventures of Theseus is his expedition against the Amazons. He assailed them before they had recovered from the attack of Hercules, and carried off their queen, Antiope. The Amazons in their turn invaded the country of Athens and penetrated into the city itself; and the final battle in which Theseus overcame them was fought in the very midst of the city. This battle was one of the favorite subjects of the ancient sculptors, and is commemorated in several works of art that are still extant. The friendship between Theseus and Pirithous was of a most intimate nature, yet it originated in the midst of arms. Pirithous had made an irruption into the plain of Marathon, and carried off the herds of the king of Athens. Theseus went to repel the plunderers. The moment Pirithous beheld him, he was seized with admiration; he stretched out his hand as a token of peace, and cried, "Be judge thyself, what satisfaction dost thou require?" "Thy friendship," replied the Athenian, and they swore inviolable fidelity. Their deeds corresponded to their professions, and they ever continued true brothers in arms. Each of them aspired to espouse a daughter of Jupiter. Theseus fixed his choice on Helen, then but a child, afterwards so celebrated as the cause of the Trojan war, and with the aid of his friend he carried her off. Pirithous aspired to the wife of the monarch of Erebus; and Theseus, though aware of the danger, accompanied the ambitious lover in his descent to the underworld. But Pluto seized and set them on an enchanted rock at his palace gate, where they remained till Hercules arrived and liberated Theseus, leaving Pirithous to his fate. After the death of Antiope, Theseus married Phaedra, daughter of Minos, king of Crete. Phaedra saw in Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, a youth endowed with all the graces and virtues of his father, and of an age corresponding to her own. She loved him, but he repulsed her advances, and her love was changed to hate. She used her influence over her infatuated husband to cause him to be jealous of his son, and he imprecated the vengeance of Neptune upon him. As Hippolytus was one day driving his chariot along the shore, a sea-monster raised himself above the waters, and frightened the horses so that they ran away and dashed the chariot to pieces. Hippolytus was killed, but by Diana's assistance Aesculapius restored him to life. Diana removed Hippolytus from the power of his deluded father and false stepmother, and placed him in Italy under the protection of the nymph Egeria. Theseus at length lost the favor of his people, and retired to the court of Lycomedes, king of Scyros, who at first received him kindly, but afterwards treacherously slew him. In a later age the Athenian general Cimon discovered the place where his remains were laid, and caused them to be removed to Athens, where they were deposited in a temple called the Theseum, erected in honor of the hero. The queen of the Amazons whom Theseus espoused is by some called Hippolyta. That is the name she bears in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, the subject of which is the festivities attending the nuptials of Theseus and Hippolyta. Mrs. Hemans has a poem on the ancient Greek tradition that the "Shade of Theseus" appeared strengthening his countrymen at the battle of Marathon. Mr. Lewis Morris has a beautiful poem on Helen, in the Epic of Hades. In these lines Helen describes how she was seized by Theseus and his friend: ----"There came a night When I lay longing for my love, and knew Sudden the clang of hoofs, the broken doors, The clash of swords, the shouts, the groans, the stain Of red upon the marble, the fixed gaze Of dead and dying eyes, that was the time When first I looked on death, and when I woke From my deep swoon, I felt the night air cool Upon my brow, and the cold stars look down, As swift we galloped o'er the darkling plain And saw the chill sea-glimpses slowly wake, With arms unknown around me. When the dawn Broke swift, we panted on the pathless steeps, And so by plain and mountain till we came to Athens, ----." Theseus is a semi-historical personage. It is recorded of him that he united the several tribes by whom the territory of Attica was then possessed into one state, of which Athens was the capital. In commemoration of this important event, he instituted the festival of Panathenaea, in honor of Minerva, the patron deity of Athens. This festival differed from the other Grecian games chiefly in two particulars. It was peculiar to the Athenians, and its chief feature was a solemn procession in which the Peplus or sacred robe of Minerva was carried to the Parthenon, and suspended before the statue of the goddess. The Peplus was covered with embroidery, worked by select virgins of the noblest families in Athens. The procession consisted of persons of all ages and both sexes. The old men carried olive- branches in their hands, and the young men bore arms. The young women carried baskets on their heads, containing the sacred utensils, cakes, and all things necessary for the sacrifices. The procession formed the subject of the bas-reliefs by Phidias which embellished the outside of the temple of the Parthenon. A considerable portion of these sculptures is now in the British museum among those known as the "Elgin marbles." OLYMPIC AND OTHER GAMES We may mention here the other celebrated national games of the Greeks. The first and most distinguished were the Olympic, founded, it was said , by Jupiter himself. They were celebrated at Olympia in Elis. Vast numbers of spectators flocked to them from every part of Greece, and from Asia, Africa, and Sicily. They were repeated every fifth year in midsummer, and continued five days. They gave rise to the custom of reckoning time and dating events by Olympiads. The first Olympiad is generally considered as corresponding with the year 776 B.C. The Pythian games were celebrated in the vicinity of Delphi, the Isthmian on the Corinthian isthmus, the Nemean at Nemea, a city of Argolis. The exercises in these games were of five sorts: running, leaping, wrestling, throwing the quoit, and hurling the javelin, or boxing. Besides these exercises of bodily strength and agility, there were contests in music, poetry, and eloquence. Thus these games furnished poets, musicians, and authors the best opportunities to present their productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide. DAEDALUS The labyrinth from which Theseus escaped by means of the clew of Ariadne, was built by Daedalus, a most skilful artificer. It was an edifice with numberless winding passages and turnings opening into one another, and seeming to have neither beginning nor end, like the river Maender, which returns on itself, and flows now onward, now backward, in its course to the sea. Daedalus built the labyrinth for King Minos, but afterwards lost the favor of the king, and was shut up in a tower. He contrived to make his escape from his prison, but could not leave the island by sea, as the king kept strict watch on all the vessels, and permitted none to sail without being carefully searched. "Minos may control the land and sea,:" said Daedalus, "but not the regions of the air. I will try that way." So he set to work to fabricate wings for himself and his young son Icarus. He wrought feathers together beginning with the smallest and adding larger, so as to form an increasing surface. The larger ones he secured with thread and the smaller with wax, and gave the whole a gentle curvature like the wings of a bird. Icarus, the boy, stood and looked on, sometimes running to gather up the feathers which the wind had blown away, and then handling the wax and working it over with his fingers, by his play impeding his father in his labors. When at last the work was done, the artist, waving his wings, found himself buoyed upward and hung suspended, poising himself on the beaten air. He next equipped his son in the same manner, and taught him how to fly, as a bird tempts her young ones from the lofty nest into the air. When all was prepared for flight, he said, "Icarus, my son, I charge you to keep at a moderate height, for if you fly too low the damp will clog your wings, and if too high the heat will melt them. Keep near me and you will be safe." While he gave him these instructions and fitted the wings to his shoulders, the face of the father was wet with tears, and his hands trembled. He kissed the boy, not knowing that it was for the last time. Then rising on his wings he flew off, encouraging him to follow, and looked back from his own flight to see how his son managed his wings. As they flew the ploughman stopped his work to gaze, and the shepherd learned on his staff and watched them, astonished at the sight, and thinking they were gods who could thus cleave the air. They passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the right, when the boy, exulting in his career, began to leave the guidance of his companion and soar upward as if to reach heaven. The nearness of the blazing sun softened the wax which held the feathers together, and they came off. He fluttered with his arms, but no feathers remained to hold the air. While his mouth uttered cries to his father, it was submerged in the blue waters of the sea, which thenceforth was called by his name. His father cried, "Icarus, Icarus, where are you?" At last he saw the feathers floating on the water, and bitterly lamenting his own arts, he buried the body and called the land Icaria in memory of his child. Daedalus arrived safe in Sicily, where he built a temple to Apollo, and hung up his wings, an offering to the god. Daedalus was so proud of his achievements that he could not bear the idea of a rival. His sister had placed her son Perdix under his charge to be taught the mechanical arts. He was an apt scholar and gave striking evidences of ingenuity. Walking on the seashore he picked up the spine of a fish. Imitating it, he took a piece of iron and notched it on the edge, and thus invented the SAW. He put two pieces of iron together, connecting them at one end with a rivet, and sharpening the other ends, and made a PAIR OF COMPASSES. Daedalus was so envious of his nephew's performances that he took an opportunity, when they were together one day on the top of a high tower, to push him off. But Minerva, who favors ingenuity, saw him falling, and arrested his fate by changing him into a bird called after his name, the Partridge. This bird does not build his next in the trees, nor take lofty flights, but nestles in the hedges, and mindful of his fall, avoids high places. The death of Icarus is told in the following lines by Darwin: "---- with melting wax and loosened strings Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings; Headlong he rushed through the affrighted air, With limbs distorted and dishevelled hair; His scattered plumage danced upon the wave, And sorrowing Nereids decked his watery grave; O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed, And strewed with crimson moss his marble bed; Struck in their coral towers the passing bell, And wide in ocean tolled his echoing knell." CASTOR AND POLLUX Castor and Pollux were the offspring of Leda and the Swan, under which disguise Jupiter had concealed himself. Leda gave birth to an egg, from which sprang the twins. Helen, so famous afterwards as the cause of the Trojan war, was their sister. When Theseus and his friend Pirithous had carried off Helen from Sparta, the youthful heroes Castor and Pollux, with their followers, hasted to her rescue. Theseus was absent from Attica, and the brothers were successful in recovering their sister. Castor was famous for taming and managing horses, and Pollux for skill in boxing. They were united by the warmest affection, and inseparable in all their enterprises. They accompanied the Argonautic expedition. During the voyage a storm arose, and Orpheus prayed to the Samothracian gods, and played on his harp, whereupon the storm ceased and stars appeared on the heads of the brothers. From this incident, Castor and Pollux came afterwards to be considered the patron deities of seamen and voyagers (One of the ships in which St. Paul sailed was named the Castor and Pollux. See Acts xxviii.II.), and the lambent flames, which in certain sates of the atmosphere play round the sails and masts of vessels, were called by their names. After the Argonautic expedition, we find Castor and Pollux engaged in a war with Idas and Lynceus. Castor was slain, and Pollux, inconsolable for the loss of his brother, besought Jupiter to be permitted to give his own life as a ransom for him. Jupiter so far consented as to allow the two brothers to enjoy the boon of life alternately, passing one day under the earth and the next in the heavenly abodes. According to another form of the story, Jupiter rewarded the attachment of the brothers by placing them among the stars as Gemini, the Twins. They received divine honors under the name of Dioscuri (sons of Jove). They were believed to have appeared occasionally in later times, taking part with one side or the other, in hard-fought fields, and were said on such occasions to be mounted on magnificent white steeds. Thus, in the early history of Rome, they are said to have assisted the Romans at the battle of Lake Regillus, and after the victory a temple was erected in their honor on the spot where they appeared. Macaulay, in his Lays of Ancient Rome, thus alludes to the legend: "So like they were, no mortal Might one from other know; White as snow their armor was, Their steeds were white as snow. Never on earthly anvil Did such rare armor gleam, And never did such gallant steeds Drink of an earthly stream. . . . . . . . . . "Back comes the chief in triumph Who in the hour of fight Hath seen the great Twin Brethren In harness on his right. Safe comes the ship to haven Through billows and through gales, If once the great Twin Brethren Sit shining on the sails." In the poem of Atalanta in Calydon Mr. Swinburne thus describes the little Helen and Clytemnestra, the sisters of Castor and Pollux: MELEAGER "Even such I saw their sisters, one swan white, The little Helen, and less fair than she, Fair Clytemnestra, grave as pasturing fawns, Who feed and fear the arrow; but at whiles, As one smitten with love or wrung with joy, She laughs and lightens with her eyes, and then Weeps; whereat Helen, having laughed, weeps too, And the other chides her, and she being chid speaks naught, But cheeks and lips and eyelids kisses her, Laughing; so fare they, as in their blameless bud, And full of unblown life, the blood of gods." ALTHEA "Sweet days before them, and good loves and lords, And tender and temperate honors of the hearth; Peace, and a perfect life and blameless bed" Chapter XIV Bacchus. Ariadne Bacchus was the son of Jupiter and Semele. Juno, to gratify her resentment against Semele, contrived a plan for her destruction. Assuming the form of Beroe, her aged nurse, she insinuated doubts whether it was indeed Jove himself who came as a lover. Heaving a sigh, she said, "I hope it will turn out so, but I can't help being afraid. People are not always what they pretend to be. If he is indeed Jove, make him give some proof of it. Ask him to come arrayed in all his splendors, such as he wears in heaven. That will put the matter beyond a doubt." Semele was persuaded to try the experiment. She asks a favor, without naming what it is. Jove gives his promise and confirms it with the irrevocable oath, attesting the river Styx, terrible to the gods themselves. Then she made know her request. The god would have stopped her as she spake, but she was too quick for him. The words escaped, and he could neither unsay his promise nor her request. In deep distress he left her and returned to the upper regions. There he clothed himself in his splendors, not putting on all his terrors, as when he overthrew the giants, but what is known among the gods as his lesser panoply. Arrayed in this he entered the chamber of Semele. Her mortal frame could not endure the splendors of the immortal radiance. She was consumed to ashes. Jove took the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the Nysaean nymphs, who nourished his infancy and childhood, and for their care were rewarded by Jupiter by being placed, as the Hyades, among the stars. When Bacchus grew up he discovered the culture of the vine and the mode of extracting its precious juice; but Juno struck him with madness, and drove him forth a wanderer through various parts of the earth. In Phrygia the goddess Rhea cured him and taught him her religious rites, and he set out on a progress through Asia teaching the people the cultivation of the vine. The most famous part of his wanderings is his expedition to India, which is said to have lasted several years. Returning in triumph he undertook to introduce his worship into Greece, but was opposed by some princes who dreaded its introduction on account of the disorders and madness it brought with it. As he approached his native city Thebes, Pentheus the king, who had no respect for the new worship, forbade its rites to be performed. But when it was known that Bacchus was advancing, men and women, but chiefly the latter, young and old poured forth to meet him and to join his triumphal march. Mr. Longfellow in his Drinking Song thus describes the march of Bacchus: "Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow, supernal As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal. "Round about him fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses." It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded, and threatened. "Go," said he to his attendants, "seize this vagabond leader of the rout and bring him to me. I will soon make him confess his false claim of heavenly parentage and renounce his counterfeit worship." It was in vain his nearest friends and wisest counselors remonstrated and begged him not to oppose the god. Their remonstrances only made him more violent. But now the attendants returned whom he had despatched to seize Bacchus. They had been driven away by the Bacchanals, but had succeeded in taking one of them prisoner, whom, with his hands tied behind him, they brought before the king. Pentheus beholding him, with wrathful countenance said, "Fellow! You shall speedily be put to death, that your fate may be a warning to others; but though I grudge the delay of your punishment, speak, tell us who you are, and what are these new rites you presume to celebrate." The prisoner unterrified responded, "My name is Acetes; my country is Maeonia; my parents were poor people, who had no fields or flocks to leave me, but they left me their fishing rods and nets and their fisherman's trade. This I followed for some time, till growing weary of remaining in one place, I learned the pilot's art and how to guide my course by the stars. It happened as I was sailing for Delos, we touched at the island of Dia and went ashore. Next morning I sent the men for fresh water and myself mounted the hill to observe the wind; when my men returned bringing with them a prize, as they thought, a boy of delicate appearance, whom they had found asleep. They judged he was a noble youth, perhaps a king's son, and they might get a liberal ransom for him. I observed his dress, his walk, his face. There was something in them which I felt sure was more than mortal. I said to my men, 'What god there is concealed in that form I know not, but some one there certainly is. Pardon us, gentle deity, for the violence we have done you, and give success to our undertakings.' Dictys, one of my best hands for climbing the mast and coming down by the ropes, and Melanthus, my steersman, and Epopeus the leader of the sailors' cry, one and all exclaimed, 'Spare your prayers for us.' So blind is the lust of gain! When they proceeded to put him on board I resisted them. 'This ship shall not be profaned by such impiety,' said I. 'I have a greater share in her than any of you.' But Lycabas, a turbulent fellow, seized me by the throat and attempted to throw me overboard, and I scarcely saved myself by clinging to the ropes. The rest approved the deed. "Then Bacchus, for it was indeed he, as if shaking off his drowsiness, exclaimed, 'What are you doing with me? What is this fighting about? Who brought me here? Where are you going to carry me?' One of them replied, 'fear nothing; tell us where you wish to go and we will take you there.' "Naxos is my home,' said Bacchus; 'take me there and you shall be well rewarded.' They promised so to do, and told me to pilot the ship to Naxos. Naxos lay to the right, and I was trimming the sails to carry us there, when some by signs and others by whispers signified to me their will that I should sail in the opposite direction, and take the boy to Egypt to sell him for a slave. I was confounded and said, 'Let some one else pilot the ship;' withdrawing myself from any further agency in their wickedness. They cursed me, and one of them exclaiming, 'Don't flatter yourself that we depend on you for our safety,' took my place as pilot, and bore away from Naxos. "Then the god, pretending that he had just become aware of their treachery, looked out over the sea and said in a voice of weeping, 'Sailors, these are not the shores you promised to take me to; yonder island is not my home. What have I done that you should treat me so? It is small glory you will gain by cheating a poor boy.' I wept to hear him, but the crew laughed at both of us, and sped the vessel fast over the sea. All at once strange as it may seem, it is true the vessel stopped, in the mid sea, as fast as if it was fixed on the ground. The men, astonished, pulled at their oars, and spread more sail, trying to make progress by the aid of both, but all in vain. Ivy twined round the oars and hindered their motion, and clung with its heavy clusters of berries to the sails. A vine, laden with grapes, ran up the mast, and along the sides of the vessel. The sound of flutes was heard and the odor of fragrant wine spread all around. The god himself had a chaplet of vine leaves, and bore in his hand a spear wreathed with ivy. Tigers crouched at his feet, and lynxes and spotted panthers played around him. The sailors were seized with terror or madness; some leaped overboard; others, preparing to do the same, beheld their companions in the water undergoing a change, their bodies becoming flattened and ending in a crooked tail. One exclaimed, 'What miracle is this!' and as he spoke his mouth widened, his nostrils expanded, and scales covered all his body. Another endeavoring to pull the oar felt his hands shrink up, and presently to be no longer hands but fins; another trying to raise his arms to a rope found he had no arms, and curving his mutilated body, jumped into the sea. What had been his legs became the two ends of a crescent-shaped tail. The whole crew became dolphins and swam about the ship, now upon the surface, now under it, scattering the spray, and spouting the water from their broad nostrils. Of twenty men I alone was left. The god cheered me, as I trembled with fear. 'Fear not,' said he; 'steer toward Naxos.' I obeyed, and when we arrived there, I kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred rites of Bacchus." Pentheus here exclaimed, "We have wasted time enough on this silly story. Take him away and have him executed without delay." Acetes was led away by the attendants and shut up fast in prison; but while they were getting ready the instruments of execution, the prison doors opened of their own accord and the chains fell from his limbs, and when the guards looked for him he was no where to be found. Pentheus would take no warning, but instead of sending others, determined to go himself to the scene of the solemnities. The mountain Cithaeron was all alive with worshippers, and the cries of the Bacchanals resounded on every side. The noise roused the anger of Pentheus as the sound of a trumpet does the fire of a war-horse. He penetrated the wood and reached an open space where the wildest scene of the orgies met his eyes. At the same moment the women saw him; and first among them his own mother, Agave, blinded by the god, cried out, "See there the wild boar, the hugest monster that prowls in these woods! Come on, sisters! I will be the first to strike the wild boar." The whole band rushed upon him, and while he now talks less arrogantly, now excuses himself, and now confesses his crime and implores pardon, they press upon and wound him. In vain he cries to his aunts to protect him from his mother. Autonoe seized one arm, Ino the other, and between them he was torn to pieces, while his mother shouted, "Victory! Victory! We have done it; the glory is ours!" So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece. There is an allusion to the story of Bacchus and the mariners in Milton's Comus, at line 46. The story of Circe will be found in Chapter XXII. "Bacchus that first from out the purple grape Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine, After the Tuscan mariners transformed, Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed On Circe's island fell; (who knows not Circe, The daughter of the Sun? Whose charmed cup Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, And downward fell into a grovelling swine.)" ARIADNE We have seen in the story of Theseus how Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, after helping Theseus to escape from the labyrinth, was carried by him to the island of Naxos and was left there asleep, while Theseus pursued his way home without her. Ariadne, on waking and finding herself deserted, abandoned herself to grief. But Venus took pity on her, and consoled her with the promise that she should have an immortal lover, instead of the mortal one she had lost. The island where Ariadne was left was the favorite island of Bacchus, the same that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to carry him to, when they so treacherously attempted to make prize of him. As Ariadne sat lamenting her fate, Bacchus found her, consoled her and made her his wife as Minerva had prophesied to Theseus. As a marriage present he gave her a golden crown, enriched with gems, and when she died, he took her crown and threw it up into the sky. As it mounted the gems grew brighter and were turned into stars, and preserving its form Ariadne's crown remains fixed in the heavens as a constellation, between the kneeling Hercules and the man who holds the serpent. Spenser alludes to Ariadne's crown, though he has made some mistakes in his mythology. It was at the wedding of Pirithous, and not Theseus, that the Centaurs and Lapithae quarrelled. "Look how the crown which Ariadne wore Upon her ivory forehead that same day That Theseus her unto his bridal bore, When the bold Centaurs made that bloody fray With the fierce Lapiths which did them dismay; Being now placed in the firmament, Through the bright heaven doth her beams display, And is unto the stars an ornament, Which round about her move in order excellent." Chapter XV The Rural Deities. Erisichthon. Rhoecus. The Water Deities. Camenae. Winds. Pan, the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds, dwelt in grottos, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused himself with the chase or in leading the dances of the nymphs. He was fond of music, and, as we have seen, the inventor of the syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he himself played in a masterly manner. Pan, like other gods who dwelt in forests, was dreaded by those whose occupations caused them to pass through the woods by night, for the gloom and loneliness of such scenes dispose the mind to superstitious fears. Hence sudden fright without any visible cause was ascribed to Pan, and called a Panic terror. As the name of the god signifies in Greek, ALL, Pan came to be considered a symbol of the universe and personification of Nature; and later still to be regarded as a representative of all the gods, and heathenism itself. Sylvanus and Faunus were Latin divinities, whose characteristics are so nearly the same as those of Pan that we may safely consider them as the same personage under different names. The wood-nymphs, Pan's partners in the dance, were but one of several classes of nymphs. There were beside them the Naiads, who presided over brooks and fountains, the Oreads, nymphs of mountains and grottos, and the Nereids, sea-nymphs. The three last named were immortal, but the wood-nymphs, called Dryads or Hamadryads, were believed to perish with the trees which had been their abode, and with which they had come into existence. It was therefore an impious act wantonly to destroy a tree, and in some aggravated cases was severely punished, as in the instance of Erisichthon, which we shall soon record. Milton, in his glowing description of the early creation, thus alludes to Pan as the personification of Nature: "Universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, Led on the eternal spring." And describing Eve's abode: "In shadier bower More sacred or sequestered, though but feigned, Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nymph Nor Faunus haunted." Paradise lost, B. IV. It was a pleasing trait in the old Paganism that it loved to trace in every operation of nature the agency of deity. The imagination of the Greeks peopled all the regions of earth and sea with divinities, to whose agency it attributed those phenomena which our philosophy ascribes to the operation of the laws of nature. Sometimes in our poetical moods we feel disposed to regret the change, and to think that the heart has lost as much as the head has gained by the substitution. The poet Wordsworth thus strongly expresses this sentiment: "Great God, I'd rather be A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn. So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from th4e sea, And hear old Tritou blow his wreathed horn." Schiller, in his poem The Gods of Greece, expresses his regret for the overthrow of the beautiful mythology of ancient times in a way which has called forth an answer from a Christian poetess, Mrs. Browning, in her poem called The Dead Pan. The two following verses are a specimen: "By your beauty which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, By our grand heroic guesses Through your falsehood at the True, We will weep NOT! Earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole, And Pan is dead. "Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth; And those debonaire romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot course is run! Look up poets, to the sun! Pan, Pan is dead." These lines are founded on an early Christian tradition that when the heavenly host told the shepherds at Bethlehem of the birth of Christ, a deep groan, heard through all the isles of Greece, told that the great Pan was dead, and that all the royalty of Olympus was dethroned, and the several deities were sent wandering in cold and darkness. So Milton, in his Hymn to the Nativity: "The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-enwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn." ERISICHTHON Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods. On one occasion he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred to Ceres. There stood in this grove a venerable oak, so large that it seemed a wood in itself, its ancient trunk towering aloft, whereon votive garlands were often hung and inscriptions carved expressing the gratitude of suppliants to the nymph of the tree. Often had the Dryads danced round it hand in hand. Its trunk measured fifteen cubits round, and it overtopped the other trees as they overtopped the shrubbery. But for all that, Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare it, and he ordered his servants to cut it down. When he saw them hesitate, he snatched an axe from one, and thus impiously exclaimed, :"I care not whether it be a tree beloved of the Goddess or not; were it the goddess herself it should come down, if it stood in my way." So saying, he lifted the axe, and the oak seemed to shudder and utter a groan. When the first blow fell upon the trunk, blood flowed from the wound. All the bystanders were horror-struck, and one of them ventured to remonstrate and hold back the fatal axe. Erisichthon with a scornful look, said to him, "Receive the reward of your piety;" and turned against him the weapon which he had held aside from the tree, gashed his body with many wounds, and cut off his head. Then from the midst of the oak came a voice, "I who dwell in this tree am a nymph beloved of Ceres, and dying by your hands, forewarn you that punishment awaits you." He desisted not from his crime, and at last the tree, sundered by repeated blows and drawn by ropes, fell with a crash, and prostrated a great part of the grove in its fall. The Dryads, in dismay at the loss of their companion, and at seeing the pride of the forest laid low, went in a body to Ceres, all clad in garments of mourning, and invoked punishment upon Erisichthon. She nodded her assent, and as she bowed her head the grain ripe for harvest in the laden fields bowed also. She planned a punishment so dire that one would pity him, if such a culprit as he could be pitied to deliver him over to Famine. As Ceres herself could not approach Famine, for the Fates have ordained that these two goddesses shall never come together, she called an Oread from her mountain and spoke to her in these words: "There is a place in the farthest part of ice-clad Scythia, a sad and sterile region without trees and without crops. Cold dwells there, and Fear, and Shuddering, and Famine. Go to Famine and tell her to take possession of the bowels of Erisichthon. Let not abundance subdue her, nor the power of my gifts drive her away. Be not alarmed at the distance," (for Famine dwells very far from Ceres,) "but take my chariot. The dragons are fleet and obey the rein, and will take you through the air in a short time." So she gave her the reins, and she drove away and soon reached Scythia. On arriving at Mount Caucasus she stopped the dragons and found Famine in a stony field, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage. Her hair was rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her lips blanched, her jaws covered with dust, and her skin drawn tight, so as to show all her bones. As the Oread saw her afar off (for she did not dare to come near) she delivered the commands of Ceres; and though she stopped as short a time as possible, and kept her distance as well as she could, yet she began to feel hungry, and turned the dragons' heads and drove back to Thessaly. In obedience to the commands of Ceres, Famine sped through the air to the dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bed-chamber of the guilty man, and found him asleep. She enfolded him with her wings and breathed herself into him, infusing her poison into his veins. Having discharged her task, she hastened to leave the land of plenty and returned to her accustomed haunts. Erisichthon still slept, and in his dreams craved food, and moved his jaws as if eating. When he awoke his hunger was raging. Without a moment's delay he would have food set before him, of whatever kind earth, sea, or air produces; and complained of hunger even while he ate. What would have sufficed for a city or a nation was not enough for him. The more he ate, the move he craved. His hunger was like the sea, which receives all the rivers, yet is never filled; or like fire that burns all the fuel that is heaped upon it, yet is still voracious for more. His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands of his appetite, but his hunger continued unabated. At length he had spent all, and had only his daughter left, a daughter worthy of a better parent. HER TOO HE SOLD. She scorned to be the slave of a purchaser, and as she stood by the seaside, raised her hands in prayer to Neptune. He heard her prayer, and, though her new master was not far off, and had his eye upon her a moment before, Neptune changed her form, and made her assume that of a fisherman busy at his occupation. Her master, looking for her and seeing her in her altered form, addressed her and said, "Good fisherman, whither went the maiden whom I saw just now, with hair dishevelled and in humble garb, standing about where you stand? Tell me truly; so may your luck be good, and not a fish nibble at your hook and get away." She perceived that her prayer was answered, and rejoiced inwardly at hearing the question asked her of herself. She replied, "Pardon me, stranger, but I have been so intent upon my line, that I have seen nothing else; but I wish I may never catch another fish if I believe any woman or other person except myself to have been hereabouts for some time." He was deceived and went his way, thinking his slave had escaped. Then she resumed her own form. Her father was well pleased to find her still with him, and the money too that he got by the sale of her; so he sold her again. But she was changed by the favor of Neptune as often as she was sold, now into a horse, now a bird, now an ox, and now a stag, got away from her purchasers and came home. By this base method the starving father procured food; but not enough for his wants, and at last hunger compelled him to devour his limbs, and he strove to nourish his body by eating his body, till death relieved him from the vengeance of Ceres. RHOECUS The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish injuries. The story of Rhoecus proves this. Rhoecus, happening to see an oak just ready to fall, ordered his servants to prop it up. The nymph, who had been on the point of perishing with the tree, came and expressed her gratitude to him for having saved her life, and bade him ask what reward he would have for it. Rhoecus boldly asked her love, and the nymph yielded to his desire. She at the same time charged him to be constant, and told him that a bee should be her messenger, and let him know when she would admit his society. One time the bee came to Rhoecus when he was playing at draughts, and he carelessly brushed it away. This so incensed the nymph that she deprived him of sight. Our countryman, James Russell Lowell, has taken this story for the subject of one of his shorter poems. He introduces it thus: "Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth and beauty still, As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze." THE WATER DEITIES Oceanus and Tethys were the Titans who ruled over the Sea. When Jove and his brothers overthrew the Titans and assumed their power, Neptune and Amphitrite succeeded to the dominion of the waters in place of Oceanus and Tethys. NEPTUNE Neptune was the chief of the water deities. The symbol of his power was the trident, or spear with three points, with which he used to shatter rocks, to call forth or subdue storms, to shake the shores, and the like. He created the horse, and was the patron of horse races. His own horses had brazen hoofs and golden manes. They drew his chariot over the sea, which became smooth before him, while the monsters of the deep gambolled about his path. AMPHITRITE Amphitrite was the wife of Neptune. She was the daughter of Nereus and Doris, and the mother of Triton. Neptune, to pay his court to Amphitrite, came riding on the dolphin. Having won her, he rewarded the dolphin by placing him among the stars. NEREUS AND DORIS Nereus and Doris were the parents of the Nereids, the most celebrated of whom were Amphitrite, Thetis, the mother of Achilles, and Galatea, who was loved by the Cyclops Polyphemus. Nereus was distinguished for his knowledge, and his love of truth and justice, and is described as the wise and unerring Old Man of the Sea. The gift of prophecy was also ascribed to him. TRITON AND PROTEUS Triton was the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and the poets make him his father's trumpeter. Proteus was also a son of Neptune. He, like Nereus, is styled a sea-elder for his wisdom and knowledge of future events. His peculiar power was that of changing his shape at will. THETIS Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, was so beautiful that Jupiter himself sought her in marriage; but having learned from Prometheus the Titan, that Thetis should bear a son who should be greater than his father, Jupiter desisted from his suit and decreed that Thetis should be the wife of a mortal. By the aid of Chiron the Centaur, Peleus succeeded in winning the goddess for his bride, and their son was the renowned Achilles. In our chapter on the Trojan war it will appear that Thetis was a faithful mother to him, aiding him in all difficulties, and watching over his interests from the first to the last. LEUCOTHEA AND PALAEMON Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, flying from her frantic husband, with her little son Melicertes in her arms, sprang from a cliff into the sea. The gods, out of compassion, made her a goddess of the sea, under the name of Leucothea, and him a god under that of Palaemon. Both were held powerful to save from shipwreck, and were invoked by sailors. Palaemon was usually represented riding on a dolphin. The Isthmian games were celebrated in his honor. He was called Portumnus by the Romans, and believed to have jurisdiction of the ports and shores. Milton alludes to all these deities in the song at the conclusion of Comus. "Sabrina fair, Listen and appear to us, In name of great Oceanus; By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, And Tethys' grave, majestic pace, By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look, And the Carpathian wizard's hook (Proteus) By scaly Triton's winding shell, And old soothsaying Glaucus; spell, By Leucothea's lovely hands, And her son who rules the strands, By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet, And the songs of Sirens sweet." Armstrong, the poet of the Art of preserving Health, under the inspiration of Hygeia, the goddess of health, thus celebrates the Naiads. Paeon is a name both of Apollo and Aesculapius. "Come, ye Naiads! To the fountains lead! Propitious maids! The task remains to sing Your gifts (so Paeon, so the powers of health Command), to praise your crystal element. Oh, comfortable streams! With eager lips And trembling hands the languid thirsty quaff New life in you; fresh vigor fills their veins. No warmer cups the rural ages knew, None warmer sought the sires of humankind; Happy in temperate peace their equal days Felt not the alternate fits of feverish mirth And sick dejection; still serene and pleased, Blessed with divine immunity from ills, Long centuries they lived; their only fate Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death." THE CAMENAE By this name the Latins designated the Muses, but included under it also some other deities, principally nymphs of fountains. Egeria was one of them, whose fountain and grotto are still shown. It was said that Numa, the second king of Rome, was favored by this nymph with secret interviews, in which she taught him those lessons of wisdom and of law which he embodied in the institutions of his rising nation. After the death of Numa the nymph pined away and was changed into a fountain. Byron, in Childe Harold, Canto IV., thus alludes to Egeria and her grotto: "Here didst thou dwell in this enchanted cover, Egeria! All thy heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy." Tennyson, also, in his Palace of Art, gives us a glimpse of the royal lover expecting the interview. "Holding one hand against his ear, To list a footfall ere he saw The wood-nymph, stayed the Tuscan king to hear Of wisdom and of law." THE WINDS When so many less active agencies were personified, it is not to be supposed that the winds failed to be so. They were Boreas or Aquilo, the north wind, Zephyrus or Favonius, the west, Notus or Auster, the south, and Eurus, the east. The first two have been chiefly celebrated by the poets, the former as the type of rudeness, the latter of gentleness. Boreas loved the nymph Orithyia, and tried to play the lover's part, but met with poor success. It was hard for him to breathe gently, and sighing was out of the question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavors, he acted out his true character, seized the maiden and carried her off. Their children were Zetes and Calais, winged warriors, who accompanied the Argonautic expedition, and did good service in an encounter with those monstrous birds the Harpies. Zephyrus was the lover of Flora. Milton alludes to them in Paradise Lost, where he describes Adam waking and contemplating Eve still asleep: "He on his side Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamored, and beheld Beauty which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice, Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, Her hand soft touching, whispered thus, 'Awake! My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight.'" Dr. Young, the poet of the Night Thoughts, addressing the idle and luxurious, says: "Ye delicate! Who nothing can support (Yourselves most insupportable), for whom The winter rose must blow, . . . . . . And silky soft Favonious breathe still softer or be chid!" Fortuna is the Latin name for Tyche, the goddess of Fortune. The worship of Fortuna held a position of much higher importance at Rome than did the worship of Tyche among the Greeks. She was regarded at Rome as the goddess of good fortune only, and was usually represented holding the cornucopia. Victoria, the Latin form for the goddess Nike, was highly honored among the conquest-loving Romans, and many temples were dedicated to her at Rome. There was a celebrated temple at Athens to the Greek goddess Nike Apteros, or Wingless Victory, of which remains still exist. Chapter XVI Achelous and Hercules. Admetus and Alcestis. Antigone. Penelope The river-god Achelous told the story of Erisichthon to Theseus and his companions, whom he was entertaining at his hospitable board, while they were delayed on their journey by the overflow of his waters. Having finished his story, he added, "But why should I tell of other persons' transformations, when I myself am an instance of the possession of this power. Sometimes I become a serpent, and sometimes a bull, with horns on my head. Or I should say, I once could do so; but now I have but one horn, having lost one." And here he groaned and was silent. Theseus asked him the cause of his grief, and how he lost his horn. To which question the river-god replied as follows: "Who likes to tell of his defeats? Yet I will not hesitate to relate mine, comforting myself with the thought of the greatness of my conqueror, for it was Hercules. Perhaps you have heard of the fame of Dejanira, the fairest of maidens, whom a host of suitors strove to win. Hercules and myself were of the number, and the rest yielded to us two. He urged in his behalf his descent from Jove, and his labors by which he had exceeded the exactions of Juno, his step-mother. I, on the other hand, said to the father of the maiden, 'Behold me, the king of the waters that flow through your land. I am no stranger from a foreign shore, but belong to the country, a part of your realm. Let it not stand in my way that royal Juno owes me no enmity, nor punishes me with heavy tasks. As for this man, who boasts himself the son of Jove, it is either a false pretence, or disgraceful to him if true, for it cannot be true except by his mother's shame.' As I said this Hercules scowled upon me, and with difficulty restrained his rage. 'My hand will answer better than my tongue,' said he. 'I yield you the victory in words, but trust my cause to the strife of deeds. With that he advanced towards me, and I was ashamed, after what I had said, to yield. I threw off my green vesture, and presented myself for the struggle. He tried to throw me, now attacking my head, now my body. My bulk was my protection, and he assailed me in vain. For a time we stopped, then returned to the conflict. We each kept our position, determined not to yield, foot to foot, I bending over him, clinching his hands in mine, with my forehead almost touching his. Thrice Hercules tried to throw me off, and the fourth time he succeeded, brought me to the ground and himself upon my back. I tell you the truth, it was as if a mountain had fallen on me. I struggled to get my arms at liberty, panting and reeking with perspiration. He gave me no chance to recover, but seized my throat. My knees were on the earth and my mouth in the dust. "Finding that I was no match for him in the warrior's art, I resorted to others, and glided away in the form of a serpent. I curled my body in a coil, and hissed at him with my forked tongue. He smiled scornfully at this, and said, 'It was the labor of my infancy to conquer snakes.' So saying he clasped my neck with his hands. I was almost choked, and struggled to get my neck out of his grasp. Vanquished in this form, I tried what alone remained to me, and assumed the form of a bull. He grasped my neck with his arm, and, dragging my head down to the ground, overthrew me on the sand. Nor was this enough. His ruthless hand rent my horn from my head. The Naiades took it, consecrated it, and filled it with fragrant flowers. Plenty adopted my horn, and made it her own, and called it Cornucopia. The ancients were fond of finding a hidden meaning in their mythological tales. They explain this fight of Achelous with Hercules by saying Achelous was a river that in seasons of rain overflowed its banks. When the fable says that Achelous loved Dejanira, and sought a union with her, the meaning is, that the river in its windings flowed through part of Dejanira's kingdom. It was said to take the form of a snake because of its winding, and of a bull because it made a brawling or roaring in its course. When the river swelled, it made itself another channel. Thus its head was horned. Hercules prevented the return of these periodical overflows, by embankments and canals; and therefore he was said to have vanquished the river-god and cut off his horn. Finally, the lands formerly subject to overflow, but now redeemed, became very fertile, and this is meant by the horn of plenty. There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia. Jupiter at his birth was committed by his mother Rhea to the care of the daughters of Melisseus, a Cretan king. They fed the infant deity with the milk of the goat Amalthea. Jupiter broke off one of the horns of the goat and gave it to his nurses, and endowed it with the wonderful power of becoming filled with whatever the possessor might wish. The name of Amalthea is also given by some writers to the mother of Bacchus. It is thus used by Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV.: "That Nyseian isle, Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham, Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove, Hid Amalthea and her florid son, Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye." ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS Aesculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with such skill in the healing art that he even restored the dead to life. At this Pluto took alarm, and prevailed on Jupiter to launch a thunderbolt at Aesculapius. Apollo was indignant at the destruction of his son, and wreaked his vengeance on the innocent workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who have their workshop under Mount Aetna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing. Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, which so incensed Jupiter that he condemned him as a punishment to become he servant of a mortal for the space of one year. Accordingly Apollo went into the service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for him on the verdant banks of the river Amphrysus. Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made happy in the possession of Alcestis. But Admetus fell ill, and being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him on condition that some one would consent to die in his stead. Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the ransom, and perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents, fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was not so. Brave warriors, who would willingly have perilled their lives for their prince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him on the bed of sickness; and old servants who had experienced his bounty and that of his house from their childhood up, were not willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show their gratitude. Men asked, "Why does not one of his parents do it? They cannot in the course of nature live much longer, and who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave from an untimely end?" But the parents, distressed though they were at the thought of losing him, shrunk from the call. Then Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the substitute. Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have submitted to receive it at such a cost; but there was no remedy. The condition imposed by the Fates had been met, and the decree was irrevocable. Alcestis sickened as Admetus revived, and she was rapidly sinking to the grave. Just at this time Hercules arrived at the palace of Admetus, and found all the inmates in great distress for the impending loss of the devoted wife and beloved mistress. Hercules, to whom no labor was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. He went and lay in wait at the door of the chamber of the dying queen, and when Death came for his prey, he seized him and forced him to resign his victim. Alcestis recovered, and was restored to her husband. Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet on his deceased wife. "Methought I saw my late espoused saint, Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint." James Russell Lowell has chosen the "Shepherd of King Admetus" for the subject of a short poem. He makes that event the first introduction of poetry to men. "Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw, And yet unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law. And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after poets only knew Their first-born brother was a god." In The Love of Alcestis, one of the poems in The Earthly Paradise, Mr. Morris thus tells the story of the taming of the lions: "---- Rising up no more delay he made, But took the staff and gained the palace-door Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood, Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood, And all the joys of the food-hiding trees. But harmless as their painted images 'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook, And no delay the conquered beasts durst make, But drew, not silent; and folk just awake, When he went by as though a god they saw, Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw Fresh water from the fount, sank trembling down, And silence held the babbling, wakened town." ANTIGONE The poems and histories of legendary Greece often relate, as has been seen, to women and their lives. Antigone was as bright an example of filial and sisterly fidelity as was Alcestis of connubial devotion. She was the daughter of OEdipus and Jocasta, who, with all their descendants, were the victims of an unrelenting fate, dooming them to destruction. OEdipus in his madness had torn out his eyes, and was driven forth from his kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all men, as an object of divine vengeance. Antigone, his daughter, alone shared his wanderings, and remained with him till he died, and then returned to Thebes. Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the kingdom between them, and reign alternately year by year. The first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother. Polynices fled to Adrastus, king of Argos, who gave him his daughter in marriage, and aided him with an army to enforce his claim to the kingdom. This led to the celebrated expedition of the "Seven against Thebes," which furnished ample materials for the epic and tragic poets of Greece. Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the enterprise, for he was a soothsayer, and knew by his art that no one of the leaders except Adrastus would live to return. But Amphiaraus, on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king's sister, had agreed that whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion, the decision should be left to Eriphyle. Polynices, knowing this, gave Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and thereby gained her to his interest. This collar or necklace was a present which Vulcan had given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus, and Polynices had taken it with him on his flight from Thebes. Eriphyle could not resist so tempting a bribe, and by her decision the war was resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his certain fate. He bore his part bravely in the contest, but could not avert his destiny. Pursued by the enemy he fled along the river, when a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter opened the ground, and he, his chariot, and his charioteer, were swallowed up. It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of heroism or atrocity which marked the contest; but we must not omit to record the fidelity of Evadne as an offset to the weakness of Eriphyle. Capaneus, the husband of Evadne, in the ardor of the fight, declared that he would force his way into the city in spite of Jove himself. Placing a ladder against the wall, he mounted, but Jupiter, offended at his impious language, struck him with a thunderbolt. When his obsequies were celebrated, Evadne cast herself on his funeral pile and perished. Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias as to the issue. Tiresias, in his youth, had by chance seen Minerva bathing. The goddess in her wrath deprived him of his sight, but afterwards relenting gave him in compensation the knowledge of future events. When consulted by Eteocles, he declared that victory should fall to Thebes if Menoeceus, the son of Creon, gave himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth, learning the response, threw away his life in the first encounter. The siege continued long, with various success. At length both hosts agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel by single combat. They fought and fell by each other's hands. The armies then renewed the fight, and at last the invaders were forced to yield, and fled, leaving their dead unburied. Creon, the uncle of the fallen princes, now become king, caused Eteocles to be buried with distinguished honor, but suffered the body of Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every one, on pain of death, to give it burial. Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the revolting edict which consigned her brother's body to the dogs and vultures, depriving it of those rites which were considered essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading counsel of an affectionate but timid sister, and unable to procure assistance, she determined to brave the hazard and to bury the body with her own hands. She was detected in the act, and Creon gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having deliberately set at nought the solemn edict of the city. Her love, Haemon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate, would not survive her, and fell by his own hand. Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the Grecian poet Sophocles. Mrs. Jameson, in her Characteristics of Women, has compared her character with that of Cordelia, in Shakespeare's King Lear. The perusal of her remarks cannot fail to gratify our readers. The following is the lamentation of Antigone over OEdipus, when death has at last relieved him from his sufferings: "Alas! I only wished I might have died With my poor father; wherefore should I ask For longer life? Oh, I was fond of misery with him; E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved When he was with me. Oh, my dearest father, Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid, Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still Wast dear, and shalt be ever." Francklin's Sophocles PENELOPE Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were rather those of character and conduct than of person. She was the daughter of Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, king of Ithaca, sought her in marriage, and won her over all competitors. When the moment came for the bride to leave her father's house, Icarius, unable to bear the thoughts of parting with his daughter, tried to persuade her to remain with him, and not accompany her husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope her choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but dropped her veil over her face. Icarius urged her no further, but when she was gone erected a statue to Modesty on the spot where they parted. Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year when it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the Trojan war. During his long absence, and when it was doubtful whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he would ever return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors, from whom there seemed no refuge but in choosing one of them for her husband. Penelope, however, employed every art to gain time, still hopping for Ulysses' return. One of her arts of delay was engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of Laertes, her husband's father. She pledged herself to make her choice among the suitors when the robe was finished. During the day she worked at the robe, but in the night she undid the work of the day. This is the famous Penelope's web, which is used as a proverbial expression for anything which is perpetually doing but never done. The rest of Penelope's history will be told when we give an account of her husband's adventures. Chapter XVII Orpheus and Eurydice. Artistaeus. Amphion. Linus. Thamyris. Marsyas. Melampus. Musaeus Orpheus was the son of Apollo and the muse Calliope. He was presented by his father with a lyre and taught to play upon it, and he played to such perfection that nothing could withstand the charm of his music. Not only his fellow mortals, but wild beasts were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by their fierceness, and stood entranced with his lay. Nay, the very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The former crowded round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their hardness, softened by his notes. Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of Orpheus with Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no happy omens with him. His very torch smoked and brought tears into their eyes. In coincidence with such prognostics Eurydice, shortly after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her companions, was seen by the shepherd Aristaeus, who was struck with her beauty, and made advances to her. She fled, and in flying trod upon a snake in the grass, was bitten in the foot and died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to seek his wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave situated on the side of the promontory of Taenarus and arrived at the Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts, and presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying the words with the lyre, he sung, "O deities of the underworld, to whom all we who live must come, hear my words, for they are true! I come not to spy out the secrets of Tartarus, nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog with snaky hair who guards the entrance. I come to seek my wife, whose opening years the poisonous viper's fang has brought to an untimely end. Love had led me here, Love, a god all powerful with us who dwell on the earth, and, if old traditions say true, not less so here. I implore you by these abodes full of terror, these realms of silence and uncreated things, unite again the thread of Eurydice's life. We all are destined to you, and sooner or later must pass to your domain. She too, when she shall have filled her term of life, will rightly be yours. But till then grant her to me, I beseech you. If you deny me, I cannot return alone; you shall triumph in the death of us both." As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears. Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his efforts for water, Ixion's wheel stood still, the vulture ceased to tear the giant's liver, the daughters of Danaus rested from their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen. Then for the first time, it is said, the cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist, and Pluto himself gave way. Eurydice was called. She came from among the new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot. Orpheus was permitted to take her away with him on one condition, that he should not turn round to look at her till they should have reached the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded on their way, he leading, she following, through passages dark and steep, in total silence, till they had nearly reached the outlet into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus, in a moment of forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was still following, cast a glance behind him, when instantly she was borne away. Stretching out their arms to embrace one another they grasped only the air. Dying now a second time she yet cannot reproach her husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold her? "Farewell," she said, "a last farewell," and was hurried away, so fast that the sound hardly reached his ears. Orpheus endeavored to follow her, and besought permission to return and try once more for her release but the stern ferryman repulsed him and refused passage. Seven days he lingered about the brink, without food or sleep; then bitterly accusing of cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the rocks and mountains, melting the hearts of tigers and moving the oaks from their stations. He held himself aloof from womankind, dwelling constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance. The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their advances. They bore with him as long as they could; but finding him insensible, one day, one of them, excited by the rites of Bacchus, exclaimed, "See yonder our despiser!" and threw at him her javelin. The weapon, as soon as it came within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless at his feet. So did also the stones that they threw at him. But the women raised a scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the missiles reached him and soon were stained with his blood. The maniacs tore him limb from limb, and threw his head and his lyre into the river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music, to which the shores responded a plaintive symphony. The Muses gathered up the fragments of his body and buried them at Libethra, where the nightingale is said to sing over his grave more sweetly than in any other part of Greece. His lyre was placed by Jupiter among the stars. His shade passed a second time to Tartarus, where he sought out his Eurydice and embraced her, with eager arms. They roam through those happy fields together now, sometimes he leads, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes as much as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty for a thoughtless glance. The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of the power of music, for his Ode for St. Cecelia's Day. The following stanza relates the conclusion of the story: "But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes; Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. Now under hanging mountains, Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, All alone, He makes his moan, And calls her ghost, Forever, ever, ever lost! Now with furies surrounded, Despairing, confounded, He trembles, he glows, Amidst Rhodope's snows. See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries. Ah, see, he dies! Yet even in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue; Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung." The superior melody of the nightingale's song over the grave of Orpheus, is alluded to by Southey in his Thalaba: "Then on his ear what sounds Of harmony arose! Far music and the distance-mellowed song From bowers of merriment; The waterfall remote; The murmuring of the leafy groves; The single nightingale Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned, That never from that most melodious bird Singing a love-song to his brooding mate, Did Thracian shepherd by the grave Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody, Though there the spirit of the sepulchre All his own power infuse, to swell The incense that he loves." ARISTAEUS, THE BEE-KEEPER Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for his own advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping bees. Honey must first have been known as a wild product, the bees building their structures in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, or any similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the carcass of a dead animal would be occupied by the bees for that purpose. It was no doubt from some such incident that the superstition arose that the bees were engendered by the decaying flesh of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story (From the Georgies, Book IV.1.317), shows how this supposed fact may be turned to account for renewing the swarm when it has been lost by disease or accident. The shepherd Aristaeus, who first taught the management of bees, was the son of the water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished, and he resorted for aid to his mother. He stood at the river side and thus addressed her: "Oh, mother, the pride of my life is taken from me! I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing, and you, my mother, have not warded off from me the blow of misfortune." His mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river with her attendant nymphs around her. They were engaged in female occupations, spinning and weaving, while one told stories to amuse the rest. The sad voice of Aristaeus interrupting their occupation, one of them put her head above the water and seeing him, returned and gave information to his mother, who ordered that he should be brought into her presence. The river at her command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood curled like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region where the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the enormous receptacles of waters and was almost deafened with the roar, while he surveyed them hurrying off in various directions to water the face of the earth. Arriving at his mother's apartment he was hospitably received by Cyrene and her nymphs, who spread their table with the richest dainties. They first poured out libations to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the feast, and after that Cyrene thus addressed him: "There is an old prophet named Proteus, who dwells in the sea and is a favorite of Neptune, whose herd of sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold him in great respect, for he is a learned sage, and knows all things, past, present, and to come. He can tell you, my son, the cause of the mortality among your bees, and how you may remedy it. But he will not do it voluntarily, however you may entreat him. You must compel him by force. If you seize him and chain him, he will answer your questions in order to get released, for he cannot, by all his arts, get away if you hold fast the chains. I will carry you to his cave, where he comes at noon to take his midday repose. Then you may easily secure him. But when he finds himself captured, his resort is to a power he possesses of changing himself into various forms. He will become a wild boar or a fierce tiger, a scaly dragon, or lion with yellow mane. Or he will make a noise like the crackling of flames or the rush of water, so as to tempt you to let go the chain, when he will make his escape. But you have only to keep him fast bound, and at last when he finds all his arts unavailing, he will return to his own figure and obey your commands." So saying she sprinkled her son with fragrant nectar, the beverage of the gods, and immediately an unusual vigor filled his frame and courage his heart, while perfume breathed all around him. The nymph led her son to the prophet's cave, and concealed him among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place behind the clouds. Then noon came and the hour when men and herds retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet slumber, Proteus issued from the water, followed hy his herd of sea- calves, which spread themselves along the shore. He sat on the rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself on the floor of the cave and went to sleep. Aristaeus hardly allowed him to get fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted aloud. Proteus, waking and finding himself captured, immediately resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But trying all in vain, he at last resumed his own form and addressed the youth in angry accents: "Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my abode, and what do you want with me?" Aristaeus replied, "Proteus, you know already, for it is needless for any one to attempt to deceive you. And do you also cease your efforts to elude me. I am led hither by divine assistance, to know from you the cause of my misfortune and how to remedy it." At these words the prophet, fixing on him his gray eyes with a piercing look, thus spoke: "You received the merited reward of your deeds, by which Eurydice met her death, for in flying from you she trod upon a serpent, of whose bite she died. To avenge her death the nymphs, her companions, have sent this destruction bo your bees. You have to appease their anger, and thus it must be done: Select four bulls of perfect form and size, and four cows of equal beauty, build four altars to the nymphs, and sacrifice the animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove. To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honors as may allay their resentment. Returning after nine days you will examine the bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall." Aristaeus faithfully obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he left their bodies in the grove, he offered funeral honors to the shades of Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day he examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate! A swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses, and were pursuing their labors there as in a hive. In the Task, Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia. He has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in connection with waterfalls, etc." "Less worthy of applause though more admired, Because a novelty, the work of man, Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, The wonder of the north. No forest fell When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores T'enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods And make thy marble of the glassy wave. In such a palace Aristaeus found Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear." Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river Severn, in the Guardian-spirit's Song in Comus: "Sabrina fair! Listen when thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; Listen for dear honor's sake, Goddess of the silver lake! Listen and save." The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians, some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself: AMPHION Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes. With his twin brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount Cithaeron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre, and taught him to play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her children of their rights, and to summon them to her assistance. With a band of their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him drag her till she was dead (the punishment of Dirce is the subject of a celebrated group of statuary now in the Museum at Naples). Amphion, having become king of Thebes fortified the city with a wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the wall. In Tennyson's poem of Amphion is an amusing use of this story: "Oh, had I lived when song was great, In days of old Amphion, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate Nor feared for reed or scion! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were limber, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, And fiddled to the timber! "'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; Whenever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move And flounder into hornpipes." LINUS Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him. THAMYRIS An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the contest was deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness (Paradise Lost, Book III.35). MARSYAS Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away, and it fell down to earth, and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon it, and drew from it such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of course triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive. MELAMPUS Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers. Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus took care of the young ones and fed them carefully. One day when he was asleep under the oak, the serpents licked his ears with their tongues. On awaking he was astonished to find that he now understood the language of birds and creeping things. This knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive and kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of night heard the wood-worms in the timbers talking together, and found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten through, and the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors and demanded to be let out, warning them also. They took his warning, and thus escaped destruction, and rewarded Malampus and held him in high honor. MUSAEUS A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of Orpheus in his Il Penseroso: "But, oh, sad virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bed the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek." Chapter XVIII Arion. Ibycus. Simonides. Sappho The poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real persons, some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on poets who succeeded them is yet more important than their poetical remains. The adventures recorded of them in the following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives of the Age of Fable, that is, that of the poets who have told them. In their present form, the first two are translated from the German, the story of Arion from Schlegel, and that of Ibycus from Schiller. ARION Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of Periander, king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for the prize. He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like a brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said, "and be contented. He who strives to win may lose." Arion answered, "A wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet. The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will the enjoyment of it be increased by the consciousness of my wide- spread fame!" He went, won the prize, and embarked with his wealth in a Corinthian ship for home. On the second morning after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and fair. "Oh, Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your fears! Soon shall you forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings will we display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at the festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the ocean, but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging hints with one another, and found they were plotting to possess themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die! If you would have a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will nothing satisfy you but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome. I willingly buy my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare you. Your life will be too dangerous to us. Where could we go to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been robbed by us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on returning home, we could never more be free from fear." "Grant me, then," said he, "a last request, since nought will avail to save my life, that I may die as I have lived, as becomes a bard. When I shall have sung my death-song, and my harp-strings shall cease to vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life, and yield uncomplaining to my fate." This prayer, like the others, would have been unheeded, they thought only of their booty, but to hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts. "Suffer me," he added, "to arrange my dress. Apollo will not favor me unless I be clad in my minstrel garb." He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning air and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen gazed with admiration. He strode forward to the vessel's side and looked down into the blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he sang, "Companion of my voice, come with me to the realm of shades. Though Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage. Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood, ye happy souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as found; when she had vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I must away, but I will not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye who slay me unoffending, when I am no more, your time of trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest, who throws himself upon your mercy!" So saying, he sprang into the deep sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way, fancying themselves safe from all danger of detection. But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants of the deep to listen, and dolphins followed the ship as if chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a dolphin offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to shore. At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass was afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory of the event. When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion thus poured forth his thanks. "Farewell, thou faithful, friendly fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have. May Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou, proud of the burden, draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of the deep." Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went, full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of Periander. "I come back to thee, my friend," he said. "The talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of thousands, but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure; yet I retain the consciousness of wide-spread fame." Then he told Periander all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who heard him with amazement. "Shall such wickedness triumph?" said he. "Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That we may discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment, and so they will approach without suspicion." When the ship arrived in the harbor, he summoned the mariners before him. "Have you heard anything of Arion?" he inquired. "I anxiously look for his return." They replied, "We left him well and prosperous in Tarentum." As they said these words, Arion stepped forth and faced them. His well proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors; his left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. They fell prostrate at his feet, as if a lightning bolt had struck them. "We meant to murder him, and he has become a god. O Earth, open and receive us!" Then Periander spoke. "He lives, the master of the lay! Kind Heaven protects the poet's life. As for you, I invoke not the spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves of avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may aught beautiful delight your souls!" Spencer represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the train of Neptune and Amphitrite: "Then was there heard a most celestial sound Of dainty music which did next ensue, And, on the floating waters as enthroned, Arion with his harp unto him drew The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew; Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore Through the Aegean Seas from pirates' view, Stood still, by him astonished at his love, And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar." Byron, in his Childe Harold, Canto II., alludes to the story of Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the seamen making music to entertain the rest: "The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe; Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove." IBYCUS In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows, it is necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients were immense buildings providing seats for from ten to thirty thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It is recorded that AEschylus, the tragic poet, having on one occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers, the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like representation for the future. Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead, taking the same course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. "Good luck to you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen. We come from far, and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from harm!" He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood. There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand, accustomed to the lyre and not to the strife of arms, sank powerless. He called for help on men and gods, but his cry reached no defender's ear. "Then here must I die," said he, "in a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and see none to avenge my cause." Sore wounded he sank to the earth, when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. "Take up my cause, ye cranes," he said, "since no voice but yours answers to my cry." So saying, he closed his eyes in death. The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored to me?" he exclaimed; "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the wreath of triumph in the strife of song!" The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss. They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood. But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feat? Did he fall by the hands of robbers, or did some private enemy slay him? The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye beheld it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their own temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in this throng of men that now presses into the ampitheatre. For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles widening in their ascent rise, tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky. And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre. Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings! The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were bloodless, and in place of hair, writing and swelling serpents curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their hymn, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound of the instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart, curdling the blood. "Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime! Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us. But woe! Woe! To him who has done the deed of secret murder. We, the fearful family of Night, fasten ourselves upon his whole being. Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet and bring him to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course; still on and on to the end of life, we give him no peace nor rest." Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence, while stillness like the stillness of death sat over the whole assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings; and then in solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed out at the back of the stage. Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the uppermost benches "Look! Look! Comrade, yonder are the cranes of Ibycus!" And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a dark object which a moment's inspection showed to be a flock of cranes flying directly over the theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he say?" The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to mouth the words, "Of Ibycus! Him whom we all lament, with some murderer's hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?" And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning's flash the thought sped through every heart, "Observe the power of the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! The murderer has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry and the other to whom he spoke!" The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too late. The faces of the murderers pale with terror betrayed their guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed their crime and suffered the punishment they deserved. SIMONIDES Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies. In the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The Lamentation of Danae, the most important of the fragments which remain of his poetry is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant son were confined by order of her father Acrisius in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and protected them. The child Perseus when grown up became a famous hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous chapter. Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes, receiving his reward from the munificence of those whose exploits he celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but closely resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus, described by Homer, or of Homer himself as recorded by tradition. On one occasion when residing at the court of Scopas, king of Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to diversify his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety, introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such digressions were not unusual with the poets on similar occasions, and one might suppose an ordinary mortal might have been content to share the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity is exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every verse that did not rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached to receive the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected sum, saying, "Here is payment for my portion of the performance, Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee for so much as relates to them." The disconcerted poet returned to his seat amidst the laughter which followed the great man's jest. In a little time he received a message that two young men on horseback were waiting without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened to the door, but looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely however had he left the banqueting-hall when the roof fell in with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all his guests beneath the ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves. Sappho Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return of affection she threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that those who should take that "Lover's-leap," would, if not destroyed, be cured of their love. Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in Childe Harold, Canto II.: Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her leap, are referred to the Spectator, Nos. 223 and 229, and also to Moore's Evenings in Greece. Chapter XIX Endymion. Orion. Aurora and Tithonus. Acis and Galatea Endymion was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos. One calm, clear night, Diana, the Moon, looked down and saw him sleeping. The cold heart of the virgin goddess was warmed by his surpassing beauty, and she came down to him, kissed him, and watched over him while he slept. Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we can have but few adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life, for she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs from the wild beasts. The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning which it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young poet, his fancy and his heart seeking in vain for that which can satisfy them, finding his favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, and nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent witness the melancholy and the ardor which consumes him. The story suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life spent more in dreams than in reality, and an early and welcome death. S. G. Bulfinch The Endymion of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing some exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon: "The sleeping kine Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine. Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes, And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken." Dr. Young in the Night Thoughts alludes to Endymion thus: "These thoughts, O Night, are thine; From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere, Her shepherd cheered, of her enamored less Than I of thee." Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess, tells, "How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she conveyed him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of Old Latmos, where she stoops each night, Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, To kiss her sweetest." ORION Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a mighty hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through the depths of the sea, or as others say, of walking on its surface. Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Oenopion, king of Chios, and sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts, and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved; but as Oenopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at this conduct, having made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight, and cast him out on the sea shore. The blinded hero followed the sound of the Cyclops' hammer till he reached Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking pity on him, gave him Kedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun. Placing Kedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam. After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a favorite, and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her brother was highly displeased and often chid her, but to no purpose. One day, observing Orion wading though the sea with his head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his sister and maintained that she could not hit that black thing on the sea. The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim. The waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion's skin, and club. Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him. The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train. One day Orion saw them, and became enamored, and pursued them. In their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form, and Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, and then made them a constellation in the sky. Though their numbers was seven, only six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it is said, left her place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy, for that city was founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an effect on her sisters that they have looked pale ever since. Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the "Occultation of Orion." The following lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic story. We must premise that on the celestial globe Orion is represented as robed in a lion's skin and wielding a club. At the moment the stars of the constellation one by one were quenched in the light of the moon, the poet tells us, "Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet. His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When blinded by Oenopion He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And climbing up the narrow gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun." Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads: "Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid." Locksley Hall Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad: "Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." See also Mrs. Heman's verses on the same subject. AURORA AND TITHONUS. Aurora, the goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at times inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away, and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old. When his hair was quite white she left his society; but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was clad in celestial raiment. At length he lost the power of using his limbs, and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally she turned him into a grasshopper. Memnon was the son of aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the AEthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of Ocean. He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his father in the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great honors, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the wonders of the ocean shore. The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led his troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when Achilles appeared and restored the battle. A long and doubtful contest ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length victor declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled in dismay. Aurora, who, from her station in the sky, had viewed with apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the Dawn. The Aethiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream in the grove of the nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of his funeral-pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the flame. Every year, at the anniversary of his death, they return and celebrate his obsequies in like manner. Aurora remains inconsolable for the loss of her son. Her tears still flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops on the grass. Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there will exist some memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in Egypt, are two colossal statues, one of which is said to be the statue of Memnon. Ancient writers record that when the first rays of the rising sun fall upon this statue, a sound is heard to issue from it which they compare to the snapping of a harp- string. There is some doubt about the identification of the existing statue with the one described by the ancients, and the mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there are not wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible. It has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making its escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given some ground for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late traveller, of the highest authority, examined the statue itself, and discovered that it was hollow, and that "in the lap of the statue is a stone, which, on being struck, emits a metallic sound, that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who was predisposed to believe its powers." The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with the poets. Darwin, in his Botanic Garden, says, "So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain; Touched by his orient beam responsive rings The living lyre and vibrates all its strings; Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong, And holy echoes swell the adoring song." ACIS AND GALATEA Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs. She had many suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she was persecuted. One day the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the story, and then replied, "Yet, maiden, your persecutors are of the not ungentle race of men, whom if you will you can repel; but I, the daughter of Nereus, and protected by such a band of sisters, found no escape from the passion of the Cyclops but in the depths of the sea;" and tears stopped her utterance, which when the pitying maiden had wiped away with her delicate finger, and soothed the goddess, "Tell me, dearest," said she, "the cause of your grief." Galatea then said, "Acis was the son of Faunus and a Naiad. His father and mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal to mine. For the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and he was just sixteen years old, the down just beginning to darken his cheeks. As much as I sought his society, so much did the cyclops seek mine; and if you ask me whether my love for Acis or my hatred for Polyphemus was the stronger, I cannot tell you; they were in equal measure. Oh, Venus, how great is thy power! This fierce giant, the terror of the woods, whom no hapless stranger escaped unharmed, who defied even Jove himself, learned to feel what love was, and touched with a passion for me, forgot his flocks and his well-stored caverns. Then, for the first time, he began to take some care of his appearance, and to try to make himself agreeable; he harrowed those coarse locks of his with a comb, and mowed his beard with a sickle, looked at his harsh features in the water, and composed his countenance. His love of slaughter, his fierceness and thirst of blood prevailed no more, and ships that touched at his island went away in safety. He paced up and down the sea-shore, imprinting huge tracks with his heavy tread, and, when weary, lay tranquilly in his cave. "There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on either side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat down while his flocks spread themselves around. Laying down his staff which would have served for a mast to hold a vessel's sail, and taking his instrument, compacted of numerous pipes, he made the hills and the waters echo the music of his song. I lay hid under a rock, by the side of my beloved Acis, and listened to the distant strain. It was full of extravagant praises of my beauty, mingled with passionate reproaches of my coldness and cruelty. "When he had finished he rose up, and like a raging bull, that cannot stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I thought no more of him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which gave him a view of us as we sat. 'I see you,' he exclaimed, 'and I will make this the last of your love-meetings.' His voice was a roar such as an angry Cyclops alone could utter. AEtna trembled at the sound. I, overcome with terror, plunged into the water. Acis turned and fled, crying, 'Save me, Galatea, save me, my parents!" The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from the side of the mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner of it touched him it overwhelmed him. "All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him with the honors of his grandfather the river-god. The purple blood flowed out from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler and looked like the stream of a river rendered turbid by rains, and in time it became clear. The rock cleaved open, and the water, as it gushed from the chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur." Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the name of Acis. Chapter XX The Trojan War Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a very foolish thing; she entered into competition with Juno and Venus for the prize of beauty. It happened thus. At the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis all the gods were invited with the exception of Eris, or Discord. Enraged at her exclusion, the goddess threw a golden apple among the guests with the inscription, "For the most beautiful." Thereupon Juno, Venus, and Minerva, each claimed the apple. Jupiter not willing to decide in so delicate a matter, sent the goddesses to Mount Ida, where the beautiful shepherd Paris was tending his flocks, and to him was committed the decision. The goddesses accordingly appeared before him. Juno promised him power and riches, Minerva glory and renown in war, and Venus the fairest of women for his wife, each attempting to bias his decision in her own favor. Paris decided in favor of Venus and gave her the golden apple, thus making the two other goddesses his enemies. Under the protection of Venus, Paris sailed to Greece, and was hospitably received by Menelaus, king of Sparta. Now Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was the very woman whom Venus had destined for Paris, the fairest of her sex. She had been sought as a bride by numerous suitors, and before her decision was made known, they all, at the suggestion of Ulysses, one of their number, took an oath that they would defend her from all injury and avenge her cause if necessary. She chose Menelaus, and was living with him happily when Paris became their guest. Paris, aided by Venus, persuaded her to elope with him, and carried her to Troy, whence arose the famous Trojan war, the theme of the greatest poems of antiquity, those of Homer and Virgil. Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to fulfil their pledge, and join him in his efforts to recover his wife. They generally came forward, but Ulysses, who had married Penelope and was very happy in his wife and child, had no disposition to embark in such a troublesome affair. He therefore hung back and Palamedes was sent to urge him. When Palamedes arrived at Ithaca, Ulysses pretended to be mad. He yoked an ass and an ox together to the plough and began to sow salt. Palamedes, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the plough, whereupon the father turned the plough aside, showing plainly that he was no madman, and after that could no longer refuse to fulfil his promise. Being now himself gained for the undertaking, he lent his aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs, especially Achilles. This hero was the son of that Thetis at whose marriage the apple of Discord had been thrown among the goddesses. Thetis was herself one of the immortals, a sea-nymph, and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if he went on the expedition, she endeavored to prevent his going. She sent him away to the court of king Lycomedes, and induced him to conceal himself in the disguise of a maiden among the daughters of the king. Ulysses, hearing he was there, went disguised as a merchant to the palace and offered for sale female ornaments, among which he had placed some arms. While the king's daughters were engrossed with the other contents of the merchant's pack, Achilles handled the weapons and thereby betrayed himself to the keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great difficulty in persuading him to disregard his mother's prudent counsels and join his countrymen in the war. Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer of Helen, was his son. Paris had been brought up in obscurity, because there were certain ominous forebodings connected with him from his infancy that he would be the ruin of the state. These forebodings seemed at length likely to be realized, for the Grecian armament now in preparation was the greatest that had ever been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, and brother of the injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief. Achilles was their most illustrious warrior. After him ranked Ajax, gigantic in size and of great courage, but dull of intellect, Diomedes, second only to Achilles in all the qualities of a hero, Ulysses, famous for his sagacity, and Nestor, the oldest of the Grecian chiefs, and one to whom they all looked up for counsel. But Troy was no feeble enemy. Priam, the king, was now old, but he had been a wise prince and had strengthened his state by good government at home and numerous alliances with his neighbors. But the principal stay and support of his throne was his son Hector, one of the noblest characters painted by heathen antiquity. Hector felt, from the first, a presentiment of the fall of his country, but still persevered in his heroic resistance, yet by no means justified the wrong which brought this danger upon her. He was united in marriage with Andromache, and as a husband and father his character was not less admirable than as a warrior. The principal leaders on the side of the Trojans, besides Hector, were Aeneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus and Sarpedon. After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army assembled in the port of Aulis in Boeotia. Here Agamemnon in hunting killed a stag which was sacred to Diana, and the goddess in return visited the army with pestilence, and produced a calm which prevented the ships from leaving the port. Calchas the soothsayer thereupon announced that the wrath of the virgin goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin on her altar, and that none other but the daughter of the offender would be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his consent, and the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the pretence that she was to be married to Achilles. When she was about to be sacrificed the goddess relented and snatched her away, leaving a hind in her place, and Iphigenia enveloped in a cloud was carried to Tauris, where Diana made her priestess of her temple. Tennyson, in his Dream of Fair women, makes Iphigenia thus describe her feelings at the moment of sacrifice, the moment represented in our engraving: "I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears; My father held his hand upon his face; I, blinded by my tears, "Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs, As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die. "The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat, The temples and the people and the shore; One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat Slowly, and nothing more." The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the forces to the coast of Troy. The Trojans came to oppose their landing, and at the first onset Protesilaus fell by the hand of Hector. Protesilaus had left at home his wife Laodamia, who was most tenderly attached to him. When the news of his death reached her she implored the gods to be allowed to converse with him only three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led Protesilaus back to the upper world, and when he died a second time Laodamia died with him. There was a story that the nymphs panted elm trees round his grave which grew very well till they were high enough to command a view of Troy, and then withered away, while fresh branches sprang from the roots. Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia for the subject of a poem. It seems the oracle had declared that victory should be the lot of that party from which should fall the first victim to the war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on his brief return to earth, as relating to Laodamia the story of his fate: "The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea; And if no worthier led the way, resolved That of a thousand vessels mine should be The foremost prow impressing to the strand, Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. "Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife! On thee too fondly did my memory hang, And on the joys we shared in mortal life, The paths which we had trod, these fountains, flowers; My new planned cities and unfinished towers. "But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 'Behold they tremble! Haughty their array, Yet of their number no one dares to die!'" In soul I swept the indignity away; Old frailties then recurred; but lofty thought In act embodied my deliverance wrought. . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight, A constant interchange of growth and blight!" THE ILIAD The war continued without decisive results for nine years. Then an event occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the cause of the Greeks, and that was a quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. It is at this point that the great poem of Homer, the Iliad, begins. The Greeks, though unsuccessful against Troy, had taken the neighboring and allied cities, and in the division of the spoil a female captive, by name Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of Agamemnon. Chryses came bearing the sacred emblems of his office, and begged the release of his daughter. Agamemnon refused. Thereupon Chryses implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks till they should be forced to yield their prey. Apollo granted the prayer of his priest, and sent pestilence into the Grecian camp. Then a council was called to deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the plague. Achilles boldly charged their misfortunes upon Agamemnon as caused by his withholding Chryseis. Agamemnon enraged, consented to relinquish his captive, but demanded that Achilles should yield to him in her stead Briseis, a maiden who had fallen to Achilles' share in the division of the spoil. Achilles submitted, but forthwith declared that he would take no further part in the war. He withdrew his forces from the general camp and openly avowed his intention of returning home to Greece. The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this famous war as the parties themselves. It was well known to them that fate had decreed that Troy should fall, at last, if her enemies should persevere and not voluntarily abandon the enterprise. Yet there was room enough left for chance to excite by turns the hopes and fears of the powers above who took part with either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence of the slight put upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans; Venus for the opposite cause favored them. Venus enlisted her admirer Mars on the same side, but Neptune favored the Greeks. Apollo was neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the other, and Jove himself, though he loved the good King Priam, yet exercised a degree of impartiality; not however without exceptions. Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury done to her son. She repaired immediately to Jove's palace, and besought him to make the Greeks repent of their injustice to Achilles by granting success to the Trojan arms. Jupiter consented; and in the battle which ensued the Trojans were completely successful. The Greeks were driven from the field, and took refuge in their ships. Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest chiefs. Nestor advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles to persuade him to return to the field; that Agamemnon should yield the maiden, the cause of the dispute, with ample gifts to atone for the wrong he had done. Agamemnon consented, and Ulysses, Ajax, and Phoenix were sent to carry to Achilles the penitent message. They performed that duty, but Achilles was deaf to their entreaties. He positively refused to return to the field, and persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece without delay. The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and now, instead of besieging Troy, they were in a manner besieged themselves within their rampart. The next day after the unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, a battle was fought, and the Trojans, favored by Jove, were successful, and succeeded in forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart, and were about to set fire to the ships. Neptune, seeing the Greeks so pressed, came to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the prophet, encouraged the warriors with his shouts, and appealed to each individually till he raised their ardor to such a pitch that they forced the Trojans to give way. Ajax performed prodigies of valor, and at length encountered Hector. Ajax shouted defiance, to which Hector replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior. It was well aimed, and struck Ajax where the belts that bore his sword and shield crossed each other on the breast. The double guard prevented its penetrating, and it fell harmless. Then Ajax, seeing a huge stone, one of those that served to prop the ships, hurled it at Hector. It struck him in the neck and stretched him on the plain. His followers instantly seized him, and bore him off stunned and wounded. While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the Trojans, Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his attention had been drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno. That goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and, to crown all, had borrowed of Venus her girdle called Cestus, which had the effect to heighten the wearer's charms to such a degree that they were quite irresistible. So prepared, Juno went to join her husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle. When he beheld her she looked so charming that the fondness of his early love revived, and, forgetting the contending armies and all other affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle go as it would. But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon turning his eyes downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the plain almost lifeless from pain and bruises, he dismissed Juno in a rage, commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him. When Iris came he sent her with a stern message to Neptune, ordering him instantly to quit the field. Apollo was dispatched to heal Hector's bruises and to inspirit his heart. These orders were obeyed with such speed that while the battle still raged, Hector returned to the field and Neptune betook himself to his own dominions. An arrow from Paris's bow wounded Machaon, son of Aesculapius, who inherited his father's art of healing, and was therefore of great value to the Greeks as their surgeon, besides being one of their bravest warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his chariot and conveyed him from the field. As they passed the ships of Achilles, that hero, looking out over the field, saw the chariot of Nestor and recognized the old chief, but could not discern who the wounded chief was. So calling Patroclus, his companion and dearest friend, he sent him to Nestor's tent to inquire. Patroclus, arriving at Nestor's tent, saw Machaon wounded, and having told the cause of his coming would have hastened away, but Nestor detained him, to tell him the extent of the Grecian calamities. He reminded him also how, at the time of departing for Troy, Achilles and himself had been charged by their respective fathers with different advice; Achilles to aspire to the highest pitch of glory, Patroclus, as the elder, to keep watch over his friend, and to guide his inexperience. "Now," said Nestor, "is the time for such influence. If the gods so please, thou mayest win him back to the common cause; but if not let hm at least send his soldiers to the field, and come thou, Patroclus, clad in his armor, and perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the Trojans." Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened back to Achilles, revolving in his mind all he had seen and heard. He told the prince the sad condition of affairs at the camp of their late associates; Diomedes, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, all wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships preparing to burn them, and thus to cut off all means of return to Greece. While they spoke the flames burst forth from one of the ships. Achilles, at the sight, relented so far as to grant Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons (for so were Achilles' soldiers called) to the field, and to lend him his armor that he might thereby strike more terror into the minds of the Trojans. Without delay the soldiers were marshalled, Patroclus put on the radiant armor and mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth the men ardent for battle. But before he went, Achilles strictly charged him that he should be content with repelling the foe. "Seek not," said he, "to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add still more to the disgrace already mine." Then exhorting the troops to do their best he dismissed them full of ardor to the fight. Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where it raged hottest; at the sight of which the joyful Grecians shouted and the ships reechoed the acclaim. The Trojans, at the sight of the well-known armor, struck with terror, looked every where for refuge. First those who had got possession of the ship and set it on fire left and allowed the Grecians to retake it and extinguish the flames. Then the rest of the Trojans fled in dismay. Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons of Nestor performed prodigies of valor. Hector was forced to turn his horses' heads and retire from the enclosure, leaving his men entangled in the fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove them before him, slaying many, none daring to make a stand against him. At last Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in fight to Patroclus. Jupiter looked down upon him and would have snatched him from the fate which awaited him, but Juno hinted that if he did so it would induce all others of the inhabitants of heaven to interpose in like manner whenever any of their offspring were endangered; to which reason Jove yielded. Sarpedon threw his spear but missed Patroclus, but Patroclus threw his with better success. It pierced Sarpedon's breast and he fell, and, calling to his friends to save his body from the foe, expired. Then a furious contest arose for the possession of the corpse. The Greeks succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his armor; but Jove would not allow the remains of his son to be dishonored, and by his command Apollo snatched from the midst of the combatants the body of Sarpedon and committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death and Sleep, by whom it was transported to Lycia, the native land of Sarpedon, where it received due funeral rites. Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in repelling the Trojans and relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted him. Patroclus threw a vast stone at Hector, which missed its aim, but smote Cebriones, the charioteer, and knocked him from the car. Hector leaped from the chariot to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also decended to complete his victory. Thus the two heroes met face to face. At this decisive moment the poet, as if reluctant to give Hector the glory, records that Phoebus took part against Patroclus. He struck the helmet from his head and the lance from his hand. At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded him in the back, and Hector pressing forward pierced him with his spear. He fell mortally wounded. Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus, but his armor was at once taken possession of by Hector, who, retiring a short distance, divested himself of his own armor and put on that of Achilles, then returned to the fight. Ajax and Menelaus defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors struggled to capture it. The battle raged with equal fortune, when Jove enveloped the whole face of heaven with a dark cloud. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking round for some one whom he might dispatch to Achilles to tell him of the death of his friend and of the imminent danger that his remains would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no suitable messenger. It was then that he exclaimed in those famous lines so often quoted, "Father of heaven and earth! Deliver thou Achaia's host from darkness; clear the skies; Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such, Destruction with it; but, oh, give us day." Cowper. Or, as rendered by Pope, "Lord of earth and air! Oh, king! Oh, father! Hear my humble prayer! Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore; Give me to see and Ajax asks no more; If Greece must perish we thy will obey But let us perish in the face of day." Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Then Ajax sent Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus's death, and of the conflict raging for his remains. The Greeks at last succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely pursued by Hector and Aeneas and rest of the Trojans. Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that Antilochus feared for a while that he would destroy himself. His groans reached the ears of his mother, Thetis, far down in the deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to him to inquire the cause. She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach that he had indulged his resentment so far, and suffered his friend to fall a victim to it. But his only consolation was the hope of revenge. He would fly instantly in search of Hector. But his mother reminded him that he was now without armor, and promised him, if he would but wait till the morrow, she would procure for him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to that he had lost. He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan's palace. She found him busy at his forge making tripods for his own use, so artfully constructed that they moved forward of their own accord when wanted, and retired again when dismissed. On hearing the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately laid aside his work and hastened to comply with her wishes. He fabricated a splendid suit of armor for Achilles, first a shield adorned with elaborate devices, then a helmet crested with gold, then a corslet and greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to his form, and of consummate workmanship. It was all done in one night, and Thetis, receiving it, descended with it to earth and laid it down at Achilles' feet at the dawn of day. The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death of Petroclus was at the sight of this splendid armor. And now arrayed in it, he went forth into the camp, calling all the chiefs to council. When they were all assembled he addressed them. Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly lamenting the miseries that had resulted from it, he called on them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon made a suitable reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of discord, and thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the heroes. Then Achilles went forth to battle, inspired with a rage and thirst for vengeance that made him irresistible. The bravest warriors fled before him or fell by his lance. Hector, cautioned by Apollo, kept aloof, but the god, assuming the form of one of Priam's sons, Lycaon, urged AEneas to encounter the terrible warrior. AEneas, though he felt himself unequal, did not decline the combat. He hurled his spear with all his force against the shield, the work of Vulcan. It was formed of five metal plates; two were of brass, two of tin, and one of gold. The spear pierced two thicknesses, but was stopped in the third. Achilles threw his with better success. It pierced through the shield of Aeneas, but glanced near his shoulder and made no wound. Then AEneas seized a stone, such as two men of modern times could hardly lift, and was about to throw it, and Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him, when Neptune, who looked out upon the contest, moved with pity for AEneas, who he saw would surely fall a victim if not speedily rescued, spread a cloud between the combatants, and lifting AEneas from the ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to the rear of the battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away, looked round in vain for his adversary, and acknowledging the prodigy, turned his arms against other champions. But none dared stand before him, and Priam looking down from his city walls beheld his whole army in full flight towards the city. He gave command to open wide the gates to receive the fugitives, and to shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the enemy should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit that that would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the form of Agenor, Priam's son, encountered Achilles for a while, then turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city. Achilles pursued and had chased his supposed victim far from the walls, when Apollo disclosed himself, and Achilles, perceiving how he had been deluded, gave up the chase. But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without, determined to await the combat. His old father called to him from the walls and begged him to retire nor tempt the encounter. His mother, Hecuba, also besought him to the same effect, but all in vain. "How can I," said he to himself, "by whose command the people went to this day's contest, where so many have fallen, seek safety for myself against a single foe? But what if I offer him to yield up Helen and all her treasures and ample of our own beside? Ah no! It is too late. He would not even hear me through, but slay me while I spoke." While he thus ruminated, Achilles approached, terrible as Mars, his armor flashing lighting as he moved. At that sight Hector's heart failed him and he fled. Achilles swiftly pursued. They ran, still keeping near the walls, till they had thrice encircled the city. As often as Hector approached the walls Achilles intercepted him and forced him to keep out in a wider circle. But Apollo sustained Hector's strength, and would not let him sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the form of Deiphobus, Hector's bravest brother, appeared suddenly at his side. Hector saw him with delight, and, thus strengthened, stopped his flight and turned to meet Achilles. Hector threw his spear, which struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back. He turned to receive another from the hand of Deiphobus, but Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood his doom and said, "Alas! It is plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at hand, but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will not fall inglorious." So saying, he drew his falchion from his side and rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secured behind his shield, waited the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his spear, Achilles, choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the armor leaves the neck uncovered, aimed his spear at that part, and Hector fell, death-wounded, and feebly said, "Spare my body! Let my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites from the sons and daughters of Troy." To which Achilles replied, "Dog, name not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have brought such dire distress. No! Trust me, nought shall save thy carcass from the dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were offered, I would refuse it all." So saying, he stripped the body of its armor, and fastening cords to the feet, tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body to trail along the ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed the steeds, and so dragged the body to and fro before the city. What words can tell the grief of King Priam and Queen Hecuba at this sight! His people could scarce restrain the old king from rushing forth. He threw himself in the dust, and besought them each by name to give him way. Hecuba's distress was not less violent. The citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of the mourning reached the ears of Andromache, the wife of Hector, as she sat among her maidens at work, and anticipating evil she went forth to the wall. When she saw the sight there presented, she would have thrown herself headlong from the wall, but fainted and fell into the arms of her maidens. Recovering, she bewailed her fate, picturing to herself her country ruined, herself a captive, and her son dependent for his bread on the charity of strangers. When Achilles and the Greeks had taken their revenge on the killer of Patroclus they busied themselves in paying due funeral rites to their friend. A pile was erected, and the body burned with due solemnity; and then ensued games of strength and skill, chariot races, wrestling, boxing, and archery. Then the chiefs sat down to the funeral banquet and after that retired to rest. But Achilles neither partook of the feast nor of sleep. The recollection of his lost friend kept him awake, remembering their companionship in toil and dangers, in battle or on the perilous deep. Before the earliest dawn he left his tent, and joining to his chariot his swift steeds, he fastened Hector's body to be dragged behind. Twice he dragged him round the tomb of Patroclus, leaving him at length stretched in the dust. But Apollo would not permit the body to be torn or disfigured with all this abuse, but preserved it free from all taint or defilement. When Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing brave Hector, Jupiter in pity summoned Thetis to his presence. He told her to go to her son and prevail on him to restore the body of Hector to his friends. Then Jupiter sent Iris to King Priam to encourage him to go to Achilles and beg the body of his son. Iris delivered her message, and Priam immediately prepared to obey. He opened his treasures and took out rich garments and cloths, with ten talents in gold and two splendid tripods and a golden cup of matchless workmanship. Then he called to his sons and bade them draw forth his litter and place in it the various articles designed for a ransom to Achilles. When all was ready, the old king with a single companion, as aged as himself, the herald Idaeus, drove forth from the gates, parting there with Hecuba his queen, and all his friends, who lamented him as going to certain death. But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king, sent Mercury to be his guide and protector. Mercury, assuming the form of a young warrior, presented himself to the aged couple, and while at the sight of him they hesitated whether to fly or yield, the god approached, and grasping Priam's hand, offered to be their guide to Achilles' tent. Priam gladly accepted his offered service, and he, mounting the carriage, assumed the reins and soon conveyed them to the tent of Achilles. Mercury's wand put to sleep all the guards, and without hindrance he introduced Priam into the tent where Achilles sat, attended hy two of his warriors. The old king threw himself at the feet of Achilles and kissed those terrible hands which had destroyed so many of his sons. "Think, O Achilles," he said, "of thy own father, full of days like me, and trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Perhaps even now some neighbor chief oppresses him, and there is none at hand to succor him in his distress. Yet doubtless knowing that Achilles lives he still rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy face again. But no comfort cheers me, whose bravest sons, so late the flower of Ilium, all have fallen. Yet one I had, one more than all the rest the strength of my age, whom fighting for his country, thou hast slain. I come to redeem his body, bringing inestimable ransom with me. Achilles, reverence the gods! Recollect thy father! For his sake show compassion to me!" These words moved Achilles and he wept; remembering by turns his absent father and his lost friend. Moved with pity of Priam's silver locks and beard, he raised him from the earth and thus spake: "Priam, I know that thou has reached this place conducted by some god, for without divine aid no mortal even in the prime of youth had dared the attempt. I grant thy request; moved thereto by the evident will of Jove." So saying he arose, and went forth with his two friends, and unloaded of its charge the litter, leaving two mantles and a robe for the covering of the body, which they placed on the litter, and spread the garments over it, that not unveiled it should be borne back to Troy. Then Achilles dismissed the old king with his attendants, having first pledged himself to allow a truce of twelve days for the funeral solemnities. As the litter approached the city and was descried from the walls, the people poured forth to gaze once more on the face of their hero. Foremost of all, the mother and the wife of Hector came, and at the sight of the lifeless body renewed their lamentations. The people all wept with them, and to the going down of the sun there was no pause or abatement of their grief. The next day preparations were made for the funeral solemnities. For nine days the people brought wood and built the pile, and on the tenth they placed the body on the summit and applied the torch; while all Troy, thronging forth, encompassed the pile. When it had completely burned, they quenched the cinders with wine, collected the bones and placed them in a golden urn, which they buried in the earth, and reared a pile of stones over the spot. "Such honors Ilium to her hero paid, And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade." Pope's Homer Chapter XXI The Fall of Troy. Return of the Greeks. Orestes and Electra The story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector, and it is from the Odyssey and later poems that we learn the fate of the other heroes. After the death of Hector, Troy did not immediately fall, but receiving aid from new allies still continued its resistance. One of these allies was Memnon, the AETHIOPIAN prince, whose story we have already told. Another was Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, who came with a band of female warriors. All the authorities attest their valor and the fearful effect of their war-cry. Penthesilea slew many of the bravest warriors, but was at last slain by Achilles. But when the hero bent over his fallen foe, and contemplated her beauty, youth and valor, he bitterly regretted his victory. Thersites, an insolent brawler and demagogue, ridiculed his grief, and was in consequence slain by the hero. Achilles by chance had seen Polyxena, daughter of King Priam, perhaps on occasion of the truce which was allowed the Trojans for the burial of Hector. He was captivated with her charms, and to win her in marriage agreed to use his influence with the Greeks to grant peace to Troy. While in the temple of Apollo, negotiating the marriage, Paris discharged at him a poisoned arrow, which guided by Apollo, wounded Achilles in the heel, the only vulnerable part about him. For Thetis, his mother, had dipped him when an infant in the river Styx, which made every part of him invulnerable except the heel by which she held him. (The story of the invulnerability of Achilles is not found in Homer, and is inconsistent with his account. For how could Achilles require the aid of celestial armor if he were invulnerable?) The body of Achilles, so treacherously slain, was rescued by Ajax and Ulysses. Thetis directed the Greeks to bestow her son's armor on the hero who, of all survivors, should be judged most deserving of it. Ajax and Ulysses were the only claimants; a select number of the other chiefs were appointed to award the prize. It was awarded to Ulysses, thus placing wisdom before valor; whereupon Ajax slew himself. On the spot where his blood sank into the earth a flower sprang up, called the hyacinth, bearing on its leaves the first two letters of the name of Ajax, Ai, the Greek for "woe." Thus Ajax is a claimant with the boy Hyacinthus for the honor of giving birth to this flower. There is a species of Larkspur which represents the hyacinth of the poets in preserving the memory of this event, the Delphinium Ajacis Ajax's Larkspur. It was now discovered that Troy could not be taken but by the arrows of Hercules. They were in possession of Philoctetes, the friend who had been with Hercules at the last, and lighted his funeral pyre. Philoctetes had joined the Grecian expedition against Troy, but had accidentally wounded his foot with one of the poisoned arrows, and the smell from his wound proved so offensive that his companions carried him to the Isle of Lemnos and left him there. Diomedes was now sent to induce him to rejoin the army. He succeeded. Philoctetes was cured of his wound by Machaon, and Paris was the first victim of the fatal arrows. In his distress Paris bethought him of one whom in his prosperity he had forgotten. This was the nymph OEnone, whom he had married when a youth, and had abandoned for the fatal beauty Helen. OEnone, remembering the wrongs she had suffered, refused to heal the wound, and Paris went back to Troy and died. OEnone quickly repented, and hastened after him with remedies, but came too late, and in her grief hung herself. Tennyson has chosen OEnone as the subject of a short poem; but he has omitted the concluding part of the story, the return of Paris wounded, her cruelty and subsequent repentance. "---- Hither came at noon Mournful OENONE, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair, or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. . . . . . . . . . . . . . "'O Mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear Mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat, white-horned, white-hooved, Come up from reedy Simois, all alone. "'O Mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far off the torrent called me from the cliff: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With downdropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard-skin Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Clustered about his temples like a God's, And his cheek brightened as the foambow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming, ere he came. "'Dear Mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked And listened, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. "My own OENONE, Beautiful-browed OENONE, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingraven 'For the most fair,' would seem award it thine As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows." "'Dear Mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, "This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the gods Hanged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twas due; But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Her� comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou within the cave Beyond yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, May'st well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of gods."'" There was in Troy a celebrated statue of Minerva called the Palladium. It was said to have fallen from heaven, and the belief was that the city could not be taken so long as this statue remained within it. Ulysses and Diomedes entered the city in disguise, and succeeded in obtaining the Palladium, which they carried off to the Grecian camp. But Troy still held out, and the Greeks began to despair of ever subduing it by force, and by advice of Ulysses resolved to resort to stratagem. They pretended to be making preparations to abandon the siege, and a portion of the ships were withdrawn, and lay hid behind a neighboring island. The Greeks then constructed an immense WOODEN HORSE, which they gave out was intended as a propitiatory offering to Minerva, but in fact was filled with armed men. The remaining Greeks then betook themselves to their ships and sailed away, as if for a final departure. The Trojans, seeing the encampment broken up and the fleet gone, concluded the enemy to have abandoned the siege. The gates were thrown open, and the whole population issued forth rejoicing at the long- prohibited liberty of passing freely over the scene of the late encampment. The great horse was the chief object of curiosity. All wondered what it could be for. Some recommended to take it into the city as a trophy; others felt afraid of it. While they hesitate, Laocoon, the priest of Neptune, exclaims, "What madness, citizens, is this! Have you not learned enough of Grecian fraud to be on your guard against it? For my part I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts." So saying he threw his lance at the horse's side. It struck, and a hollow sound reverberated like a groan. Then perhaps the people might have taken his advice and destroyed the fatal horse and all its contents; but just at that moment a group of people appeared dragging forward one who seemed a prisoner and a Greek. Stupefied with terror he was brought before the chiefs, who reassured him, promising that his life should be spared on condition of his returning true answers to the questions asked him. He informed them that he was a Greek, Sinon by name, and that in consequence of the malice of Ulysses he had been left behind by his countrymen at their departure. With regard to the wooden horse, he told them that it was a propitiatory offering to Minerva, and made so huge for the express purpose of preventing its being carried within the city; for Calchas the prophet had told them that if the Trojans took possession of it, they would assuredly triumph over the Greeks. This language turned the tide of the people's feelings, and they began to think how they might best secure the monstrous horse and the favorable auguries connected with it, when suddenly a prodigy occurred which left no room to doubt. There appeared advancing over the sea two immense serpents. They came upon the land, and the crowd fled in all directions. The serpents advanced directly to the spot where Laocoon stood with his two sons. They first attacked the children, winding round their bodies and breathing their pestilential breath in their faces. The father, attempting to rescue them, is next seized and involved in the serpents' coils. He struggles to tear them away, but they overpower all his efforts and strangle him and the children in their poisonous folds. This event was regarded as a clear indication of the displeasure of the gods at Laocoon's irreverent treatment of the wooden horse, which they no longer hesitated to regard as a sacred object and prepared to introduce with due solemnity into the city. This was done with songs and triumphal acclamations, and the day closed with festivity. In the night the armed men who were enclosed in the body of the horse, being led out by the traitor Sinon, opened the gates of the city to their friends who had returned under cover of the night. The city was set on fire; the people, overcome with feasting and sleep, put to the sword, and Troy completely subdued. One of the most celebrated groups of statuary in existence is that of Laocoon and his children in the embrace of the serpents. "There is a cast of it in the Boston Athenaeum; the original is in the Vatican at Rome. The following lines are from the Childe Harold of Byron: "Now turning to the Vatican go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain; A father's love and mortal's agony With as immortal's patience blending; vain The struggle! Vain against the coiling strain And gripe and deepening of the dragon's grasp The old man's clinch; the long envenomed chain Rivets the living links; the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang and stifles gasp on gasp." The comic poets will also occasionally borrow a classical allusion. The following is from Swift's description of a City Shower: "Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And over and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, run them through;) Laocoon struck the outside with a spear, And each imprisoned champion quaked with fear." King Priam lived to see the downfall of his kingdom, and was slain at last on the fatal night when the Greeks took the city. He had armed himself and was about to mingle with the combatants, but was prevailed on by Hecuba, his aged queen, to take refuge with herself and his daughters as a suppliant at the altar of Jupiter. While there, his youngest son Polites, pursued by Pyrrhus (Pyrrhus's exclamation, "Not such aid nor such defenders does the time require," has become proverbial.), the son of Achilles, rushed in wounded, and expired at the feet of his father; whereupon Priam, overcome with indignation, hurled his spear with feeble hand against Pyrrhus, and was forthwith slain by him. Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to Greece. Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, and he gave her the gift of prophecy; but afterwards offended with her, he rendered the gift unavailing by ordaining that her predictions should never be believed. Polyxena, another daughter, who had been loved by Achilles, was demanded by the ghost of this warrior, and was sacrificed by the Greeks upon his tomb. From Schiller's poem "Cassandra": "And men my prophet wail deride! The solemn sorrow dies in scorn; And lonely in the waste, I hide The tortured heart that would forewarn. Amid the happy, unregarded, Mock'd by their fearful joy, I trod; Oh, dark to me the lot awarded, Thou evil Pythian God! "Thine oracle, in vain to be, Oh, wherefore am I thus consigned, With eyes that every truth must see, Lone in the city of the blind? Cursed with the anguish of a power To view the fates I may not thrall, The hovering tempest still must lower, The horror must befall! Boots it th veil to lift, and give To sight the frowning fates beneath? For error is the life we live, And, oh, our knowledge is but death! Take back the clear and awful mirror, Shut from my eyes the blood-red glare; Thy truth is but the gift of terror, When mortal lips declare. "My blindness give to me once more, They gay dim senses that rejoice; The past's delighted songs are o'er For lips that speak a prophet's voice. To me the future thou hast granted; I miss the moment from the chain The happy present hour enchanted! Take back thy gift again!" Sir Edw. L. Bulwer's translation MENELAUS AND HELEN Our readers will be anxious to know the fate of Helen, the fair but guilty occasion of so much slaughter. On the fall of Troy Menelaus recovered possession of his wife, who had not ceased to love him, though she had yielded to the might of Venus and deserted him for another. After the death of Paris she aided the Greeks secretly on several occasions, and in particular when Ulysses and Diomedes entered the city in disguise to carry off the Palladium. She saw and recognized Ulysses, but kept the secret, and even assisted them in obtaining the image. Thus she became reconciled to her husband, and they were among the first to leave the shores of Troy for their native land. But having incurred the displeasure of the gods they were driven by storms from shore to shore of the Mediterranean, visiting Cyprus, Phoenicia and Egypt. In Egypt they were kindly treated and presented with rich gifts, of which Helen's share was a golden spindle and a basket on wheels. The basket was to hold the wool and spools for the queen's work. Dyer, in his poem of The Fleece, thus alludes to the incident: "----many yet adhere To the ancient distaff at the bosom fixed. Casting the whirling spindle as they walk. . . . . . . . . . . This was of old, in no inglorious days, The mode of spinning, when the Egyptian prince A golden distaff gave that beauteous nymph, Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly gift." Milton also alludes to a famous recipe for an invigorating draught, called Nepenthe, which the Egyptian queen gave to Helen: "Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, Is of such power to stir up joy as this, To life so friendly or so cool to thirst." Comus Menelaus and Helen at length arrived in safety at Sparta, resumed their royal dignity, and lived and reigned in splendor; and when Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, in search of his father, arrived at Sparta, he found Menelaus and Helen celebrating the marriage of their daughter Hermione to Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. In "the Victory Feast," Schiller thus reviews the return of the Greek heroes. "The son of Atreus, king of men, The muster of the hosts surveyed, How dwindled from the thousands, when Along Scamander first arrayed! With sorrow and the cloudy thought, The great king's stately look grew dim, Of all the hosts to Ilion brought, How few to Greece return with him! Still let the song to gladness call, For those who yet their home shall greet! For them the blooming life is sweet; Return is not for all! "Nor all who reach their native land May long the joy of welcome feel; Beside the household gods may stand Grim Murder, with awaiting steel And they who 'scape the foe, may die Beneath the foul, familiar glaive. Thus he to whom prophetic eye Her light the wise Minerva gave; 'Ah! Bless'd, whose hearth, to memory true The goddess keeps unstained and pure; For woman's guile is deep and sure, And falsehood loves the new!' "The Spartan eyes his Helen's charms, By the best blood of Greece recaptured; Round that fair form his glowing arms (A second bridal) wreath, enraptured. Woe waits the work of evil birth, Revenge to deeds unblessed is given! For watchful o'er the things of earth, The eternal council-halls of heaven. Yes, ill shall never ill repay; Jove to the impious hands that stain The altar of man's heart, Again the doomer's doom shall weigh!" Sir Edw. L. Bulwer's translation AGAMEMNON, ORESTES, AND ELECTRA Agamemnon, the general-in-chief of the Greeks, the brother of Menelaus, who had been drawn into the quarrel to avenge another's wrongs, was not so fortunate in the issue as his brother. During his absence his wife Clytemnestra had been false to him, and when his return was expected, she, with her paramour, AEgisthus, laid a plan for his destruction, and at the banquet given to celebrate his return, murdered him. The conspirators intended also to slay his son Orestes, a lad not yet old enough to be an object of apprehension, but from whom, if he should be suffered to grow up, there might be danger. Electra, the sister of Orestes, saved her brother's life by sending him secretly away to his uncle Strophius, king of Phocis. In the palace of Strophius, Orestes grew up with the king's son, Pylades, and formed with him that ardent friendship which has become proverbial. Electra frequently reminded her brother hy messengers of the duty of avenging his father's death, and when grown up he consulted the oracle of Delphi, which confirmed him in his design. He therefore repaired in disguise to Argos, pretending to he a messenger from Strophius, who had come to announce the death of Orestes, and brought the ashes of the deceased in a funeral urn. After visiting his father's tomb and sacrificing upon it, according to the rites of the ancients, he made himself known to his sister Electra, and soon after slew both AEgisthus and Clytemnestra. This revolting act, the slaughter of a mother by her son, though alleviated by the guilt of the victim and the express command of the gods, did not fail to awaken in the breasts of the ancients the same abhorrence that it does in ours. The Eumenides, avenging deities, seized upon Orestes, and drove him frantic from land to land. Pylades accompanied him in his wanderings, and watched over him. At length in answer to a second appeal to the oracle, he was directed to go to Tauris in Scythia, and to bring thence a statue of Diana which was believed to have fallen from heaven. Accordingly Orestes and Pylades went to Tauris, where the barbarous people were accustomed to sacrifice to the goddess all strangers who fell into their hands. The two friends were seized and carried bound to the temple to be made victims. But the priestess of Diana was no other than Iphigenia, the sister of Orestes, who, our readers will remember, was snatched away by Diana, at the moment when she was about to be sacrificed. Ascertaining from the prisoners who they were, Iphigenia disclosed herself to them, and the three made their escape with the statue of the goddess, and returned to Mycenae. But Orestes was not yet relieved from the vengeance of the Erinnyes. At length he took refuge with Minerva at Athens. The goddess afforded him protection, and appointed the court of Areopagus to decide his fate. The Erinnyes brought forward their accusation, and Orestes made the command of the Delphic oracle his excuse. When the court voted and the voices were equally divided, Orestes was acquitted by the command of Minerva. Byron, in Childe Harold, Canto IV, alludes to the story of Orestes: "O thou who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss, For that unnatural retribution, just, Had it but been from hands less near, in this, Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!" One of the most pathetic scenes in the ancient drama is that in which Sophocles represents the meeting of Orestes and Electra, on his return from Phocis. Orestes, mistaking Electra for one of the domestics, and desirous of keeping his arrival a secret till the hour of vengeance should arrive, produces the urn in which his ashes are supposed to rest. Electra, believing him to be really dead, takes the urn, and embracing it, pours forth her grief in language full of tenderness and despair. Milton, in one of his sonnets, says: "The repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare." This alludes to the story that when, on one occasion, the city of Athens was at the mercy of her Spartan foes, and it was proposed to destroy it, the thought was rejected upon the accidental quotation, by some one, of a chorus of Euripides. TROY After hearing so much about the city of Troy and its heroes, the reader will perhaps be surprised to learn that the exact site of that famous city is still a matter of dispute. There are some vestiges of tombs on the plain which most nearly answers to the description given by Homer and the ancient geographers, but no other evidence of the former existence of a great city. Byron thus describes the present appearance of the scene: "The winds are high, and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main; And night's descending shadows hide That field with blood bedewed in vain, The desert of old Priam's pride, The tombs, sole relics of his reign, All save immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle." Bride of Abydos. Chapter XXII Adventures of Ulysses. The Lotus-Eaters. Cyclopes. Circe. Sirens. Scylla and Charybdis. Calypso The romantic poem of the Odyssey is now to engage our attention. It narrates the wanderings of Ulysses (Odysseus in the Greek language) in his return from Troy to his own kingdom of Ithaca. From Troy the vessels first made land at Ismarus, a city of the Ciconians, where, in a skirmish with the inhabitants, Ulysses lost six men from each ship. Sailing thence they were overtaken by a storm which drove them for nine days along the sea till they reached the country of the Lotus-eaters. Here, after watering, Ulysses sent three of his men to discover who the inhabitants were. These men on coming among the Lotus-eaters were kindly entertained by them, and were given some of their own food, the lotus-plant to eat. The effect of this food was such that those who partook of it lost all thoughts of home and wished to remain in that country. It was by main force that Ulysses dragged these men away, and he was even obliged to tie them under the benches of his ship. (Tennyson in the Lotus-eaters has charmingly expressed the dreamy languid feeling which the lotus-food is said to have produced: "How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whispered speech; Eating the lotus, day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heaped over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass.") They next arrived at the country of the Cyclopes. The Cyclopes were giants, who inhabited an island of which they were the only possessors. The name means "round eye," and these giants were so called because they had but one eye, and that placed in the middle of the forehead. They dwelt in caves and fed on the wild productions of the island and on what their flocks yielded, for they were shepherds. Ulysses left the main body of his ships at anchor, and with one vessel went to the Cyclopes' island to explore for supplies. He landed with his companions, carrying with them a jar of wine for a present, and coming to a large cave they entered it, and finding no one within examined its contents. They found it stored with the riches of the flock, quantities of cheese, pails and bowls of milk, lambs and kids in their pens, all in nice order. Presently arrived the master of the cave, Polyphemus, bearing an immense bundle of firewood, which he threw down before the cavern's mouth. He then drove into the cave the sheep and goats to be milked, and, entering, rolled to the cave's mouth an enormous rock, that twenty oxen could not draw. Next he sat down and milked his ewes, preparing a part for cheese, and setting the rest aside for his customary drink. Then turning round his great eye he discerned the strangers, and growled out to them, demanding who they were, and where from. Ulysses replied most humbly, stating that they were Greeks, from the great expedition that had lately won so much glory in the conquest of Troy; that they were now on their way home, and finished by imploring his hospitality in the name of the gods. Polyphemus deigned no answer, but reaching out his hand, seized two of the Greeks, whom he hurled against the side of the cave, and dashed out their brains. He proceeded to devour them with great relish, and having made a hearty meal, stretched himself out on the floor to sleep. Ulysses was tempted to seize the opportunity and plunge his sword into him as he slept, but recollected that it would only expose them all to certain destruction, as the rock with which the giant had closed up the door was far beyond their power to remove, and they would therefore be in hopeless imprisonment. Next morning the giant seized two more of the Greeks, and dispatched them in the same manner as their companions, feasting on their flesh till no fragment was left. He then moved away the rock from the door, drove out his flocks, and went out, carefully replacing the barrier after him. When he was gone Ulysses planned how he might take vengeance for his murdered friends, and effect his escape with his surviving companions. He made his men prepare a massive bar of wood cut by the Cyclops for a staff, which they found in the cave. They sharpened the end of it and seasoned it in the fire, and hid it under the straw on the cavern floor. Then four of the boldest were selected, with whom Ulysses joined himself as a fifth. The Cyclops came home at evening, rolled away the stone and drove in his flock as usual. After milking them and making his arrangements as before, he seized two more of Ulysses' companions and dashed their brains out, and made his evening meal upon them as he had on the others. After he had supped, Ulysses, approaching him, handed him a bowl of wine, saying, "Cyclops, this is wine; taste and drink after thy meal of man's flesh." He took and drank it, and was hugely delighted with it, and called for more. Ulysses supplied him once and again, which pleased the giant so much that he promised him as a favor that he should be the last of the party devoured. He asked his name, to which Ulysses replied, "My name is Noman." After his supper the giant lay down to repose, and was soon sound asleep. Then Ulysses with his four select friends thrust the end of the stake into the fire till it was all one burning coal, then poising it exactly above the giant's only eye, they buried it deeply into the socket, twirling it round and round as a carpenter does his auger. The howling monster filled the cavern with his outcry, and Ulysses with his aids nimbly got out of his way and concealed themselves in the cave. The Cyclops, bellowing, called aloud on all the Cyclopes dwelling in the caves around him, far and near. They on his cry flocked around the den, and inquired what grievous hurt had caused him to sound such an alarm and break their slumbers. He replied, "O friends, I die, and Noman gives the blow." They answered, "If no man hurts thee it is the stroke of Jove, and thou must bear it." So saying, they left him groaning. Next morning the Cyclops rolled away the stone to let his flock out to pasture, but planted himself in the door of the cave to feel of all as they went out, that Ulysses and his men should not escape with them. But Ulysses had made his men harness the rams of the flock three abreast, with osiers which they found on the floor of the cave. To the middle ram of the three one of the Greeks suspended himself, so protected by the exterior rams on either side. As they passed, the giant felt of the animals' backs and sides, but never thought of their bellies; so the men all passed safe, Ulysses himself being on the last one that passed. When they had got a few paces from the cavern, Ulysses and his friends released themselves from their rams, and drove a good part of the flock down to the shore to their boat. They put them aboard with all haste, then pushed off from the shore, and when at a safe distance Ulysses shouted, "Cyclops, the gods have well requited thee for thy atrocious deeds. Know it is Ulysses to whom thou owest thy shameful loss of sight." The Cyclops, hearing this, seized a rock that projected from the side of the mountain, and rending it from its bed he lifted it high in the air, then exerting all his force, hurled it in the direction of the voice. Down came the mass, just clearing the vessel's stern. The ocean, at the plunge of the huge rock, heaved the ship towards the land, so that it barely escaped being swamped by the waves. When they had with the utmost difficulty pulled off shore, Ulysses was about to hail the giant again, but his friends besought him not to do so. He could not forbear, however, letting the giant know that they had escaped his missile, but waited till they had reached a safer distance than before, The giant answered them with curses, but Ulysses and his friends plied their oars vigorously, and soon regained their companions. Ulysses next arrived at the island of AEolus. To this monarch Jupiter had intrusted the government of the winds, to send them forth or retain them at his will. He treated Ulysses hospitably, and at his departure gave him, tied up in a leathern bag with a silver string, such winds as might be hurtful and dangerous, commanding fair winds to blow the barks towards their country. Nine days they sped before the wind, and all that time Ulysses had stood at the helm, without sleep. At last quite exhausted he lay down to sleep. While he slept, the crew conferred together about the mysterious bag, and concluded it must contain treasures given by the hospitable King AEolus to their commander. Tempted to secure some portion for themselves they loosed the string, when immediately the winds rushed forth. The ships were driven far from their course, and back again to the island they had just left. AEolus was so indignant at their folly that he refused to assist them further, and they were obliged to labor over their course once more by means of their oars. THE LAESTRYGONIANS The next adventure was with the barbarous tribe of Laestrygonians. The vessels pushed into the harbor, tempted by the secure appearance of the cove, completely land-locked; Ulysses alone moored his vessel without. As soon as the Laestrygonians found the ships completely in their power they attacked them, having huge stones which broke and overturned them, and with their spears dispatched the seamen as they struggled in the water. All the vessels with their crews were destroyed, except Ulysses' own ship which had remained outside, and finding no safety but in flight, he exhorted his men to ply their oars vigorously, and they escaped. With grief for their slain companions mixed with joy at their own escape, they pursued their way till they arrived at the Aeaean isle, where dwelt Circe, the daughter of the sun. Landing here Ulysses climbed a hill, and gazing round saw no signs of habitation except in one spot at the centre of the island, where he perceived a palace embowered with trees. He sent forward one- half of his crew, under the command of Eurylochus, to see what prospect of hospitality they might find. As they approached the palace, they found themselves surrounded by lions, tigers and wolves, not fierce, but tamed by Circe's art, for she was a powerful magician. All these animals had once been men, but had been changed by Circe's enchantments into the forms of beasts. The sounds of soft music were heard from within, and a sweet female voice singing. Eurylochus called aloud and the goddess came forth and invited them in. They all gladly entered except Eurylochus, who suspected danger. The goddess conducted her guests to a seat, and had them served with wine and other delicacies. When they had feasted heartily, she touched them one by one with her wand, and they became immediately changed into SWINE, in "head, body, voice and bristles," yet with their intellects as before. She shut them in her sties, and supplied them with acorns and such other things as swine love. Eurylochus hurried back to the ship and told the tale. Ulysses thereupon determined to go himself, and try if by any means he might deliver his companions. As he strode onward alone, he met a youth who addressed him familiarly, appearing to be acquainted with his adventures. He announced himself as Mercury, and informed Ulysses of the arts of Circe, and of the danger of approaching her. As Ulysses was not to be dissuaded from his attempts, Mercury provided him with a sprig of the plant Moly, of wonderful power to resist sorceries, and instructed him how to act. Ulysses proceeded, and reaching the palace was courteously received by Circe, who entertained him as she had done his companions, and after he had eaten and drank, touched him with her wand, saying, "Hence seek the sty and wallow with thy friends." But he, instead of obeying, drew his sword and rushed upon her with fury in his countenance. She fell on her knees and begged for mercy. He dictated a solemn oath that she would release his companions and practise no further against him or them; and she repeated it, at the same time promising to dismiss them all in safety after hospitably entertaining them. She was as good as her word. The men were restored to their shapes, the rest of the crew summoned from the shore, and the whole magnificently entertained day after day, till Ulysses seemed to have forgotten his native land, and to have reconciled himself to an inglorious life of ease and pleasure. At length his companions recalled him to nobler sentiments, and he received their admonition gratefully. Circe aided their departure, and instructed them how to pas safely by the coast of the Sirens. The Sirens were Sea-nymphs who had the power of charming by their song all who had heard them, so that the unhappy mariners were irresistibly impelled to cast themselves into the sea to their destruction. Circe directed Ulysses to fill the ears of his seamen with wax, so that they should not hear the strain; and to cause himself to be bound to the mast, and his people to be strictly enjoined, whatever he might say or do, by no means to release him till they should have passed the Sirens' island. Ulysses obeyed these directions. He filled the ears of his people with wax, and suffered them to bind him with cords firmly to the mast. As they approached the Sirens' island, the sea was calm, and over the waters came the notes of music so ravishing and attractive, that Ulysses struggled to get loose, and by cries and signs to his people, begged to be released; but they, obedient to his previous orders, sprang forward and bound him still faster. They held on their course, and the music grew fainter till it ceased to be heard, when with joy Ulysses gave his companions the signal to unseal their ears, and they relieved him from his bonds. The imagination of a modern poet, Keats, has discovered for us the thoughts that passed through the brains of the victims of Circe, after their transformation. In his Endymion he represents one of them, a monarch in the guise of an elephant, addressing the sorceress in human language thus: "I sue not for my happy crown again; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife; I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys; I will forget them; I will pass these joys, Ask nought so heavenward; so too too high; Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die; To be delivered from this cumbrous flesh, From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, And merely given to the cold, bleak air. Have mercy, goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!" SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS Ulysses had been warned by Circe of the two monsters Scylla and Charybdis. We have already met with Scylla in the story of Glaucus, and remember that she was once a beautiful maiden and was changed into a snaky monster by Circe. She dwelt in a cave high up on the cliff, from whence she was accustomed to thrust forth her long necks for she had six heads, and in each of her mouths to seize one of the crew of every vessel passing within reach. The other terror, Charybdis, was a gulf, nearly on a level with the water. Thrice each day the water rushed into a frightful chasm, and thrice was disgorged. Any vessel coming near the whirlpool when the tide was rushing in must inevitably by ingulfed; not Neptune himself could save it. On approaching the haunt of the dread monsters, Ulysses kept strict watch to discover them. The roar of the waters as Charybdis ingulfed them, gave warning at a distance, but Scylla could nowhere be discerned. While Ulysses and his men watched with anxious eyes the dreadful whirlpool, they were not equally on their guard from the attack of Scylla, and the monster darting forth her snaky heads, caught six of his men, and bore them away shrieking to her den. It was the saddest sight Ulysses had yet seen; to behold his friends thus sacrificed and hear their cries, unable to afford them any assistance. Circe had warned him of another danger. After passing Scylla and Charybdis, the next land he would make was Trinakria, an island whereon were pastured the cattle of Hyperion, the Sun, tended by his daughters Lampetia and Phaethusa. These flocks must not be violated, whatever the wants of the voyagers might be. If this injunction were transgressed, destruction was sure to fall on the offenders. Ulysses would willingly have passed the island of the Sun without stopping, but his companions so urgently pleaded for the rest and refreshment that would be derived from anchoring and passing the night on shore, that Ulysses yielded. He bound them, however, with an oath that they would not touch one of the animals of the sacred flocks and herds, but content themselves with what provision they yet had left of the supply which Circe had put on board. So long as this supply lasted the people kept their oath, but contrary winds detained them at the island for a month, and after consuming all their stock of provisions, they were forced to rely upon the birds and fishes they could catch. Famine pressed them, and at length one day, in the absence of Ulysses, they slew some of the cattle, vainly attempting to make amends for the deed by offering from them a portion to the offended powers. Ulysses, on his return to the shore, was horror-struck at perceiving what they had done, and the more so on account of the portentous signs which followed. The skins crept on the ground, and the joints of meat lowed on the spits while roasting. The wind becoming fair they sailed from the island. They had not gone far when the weather changed, and a storm of thunder and lightning ensued. A stroke of lightning shattered their mast, which in its fall killed the pilot. At last the vessel itself came to pieces. The keel and mast floating side by side, Ulysses formed of them a raft, to which he clung, and, the wind changing, the waves bore him to Calypso's island. All the rest of the crew perished. The following allusion to the stories we have just been relating is from Milton's Comus, line 252: "I have often heard My mother Circe and the Sirens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs and baneful drugs, Who as they sung would take the prisoned soul And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept, And chid her barking waves into attention. And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause." Scylla and Charybdis have become proverbial, to denote opposite dangers which beset one's course. CALYPSO Calypso was a sea-nymph. One of that numerous class of female divinities of lower rank than the gods, yet sharing many of their attributes. Calypso received Ulysses hospitably, entertained him magnificently, became enamored of him, and wished to retain him forever, conferring on him immortality. But he persisted in his resolution to return to his country and his wife and son. Calypso at last received a command from Jove to dismiss him. Mercury brought the message to her, and found her in her grotto, which is thus described by Homer: "A garden vine, luxuriant on all sides, Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph, Their sinuous course pursuing side by side, Strayed all around, and every where appeared Meadows of softest verdure purpled o'er With violets; it was a scene to fill A god from heaven with wonder and delight." Calypso with much reluctance proceeded to obey the commands of Jupiter. She supplied Ulysses with the means of constructing a raft, provisioned it well for him, and gave him a favoring gale. He sped on his course prosperously for many days, till at length, when in sight of land, a storm arose that broke his mast, and threatened to rend the raft asunder. In this crisis he was seen by a compassionate sea-nymph, who in the form of a cormorant alighted on the raft, and presented him a girdle, directing him to bind it beneath his breast, and if he should be compelled to trust himself to the waves, it would buoy him up and enable him by swimming to reach the land. Fenelon, in his romance of Telemachus, has given us the adventures of the son of Ulysses in search of his father. Among other places at which he arrived, following on his father's footsteps, was Calypso's isle, and, as in the former case, the goddess tried every art to keep him with her, and offered to share her immortality with him. But Minerva, who, in the shape of Mentor, accompanied him and governed all his movements, made him repel her allurements, and when no other means of escape could be found, the two friends leaped from a cliff into the sea, and swam to a vessel which lay becalmed off shore. Byron alludes to this leap of Telemachus and Mentor in the following stanza: "But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, The sister tenants of the middle deep; There for the weary still a haven smiles, Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep, And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep For him who dared prefer a mortal bride. Here too his boy essayed the dreadful leap, Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; While thus of both bereft the nymph-queen doubly sighed." Chapter XXIII The Odyssey (continued) THE PHAEACIANS. FATE OF THE SUITORS Ulysses clung to the raft while any of its timbers kept together, and when it no longer yielded him support, binding the girdle around him, he swam. Minerva smoothed the billows before him and sent him a wind that rolled the waves towards the shore. The surf beat high on the rocks and seemed to forbid approach; but at length finding calm water at the mouth of a gentle stream, he landed, spent with toil, breathless and speechless and almost dead. After some time reviving, he kissed the soil, rejoicing, yet at a loss what course to take. At a short distance he perceived a wood, to which he turned his steps. There finding a covert sheltered by intermingling branches alike from the sun and the rain, he collected a pile of leaves and formed a bed, on which he stretched himself, and heaping the leaves over him, fell asleep. The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the Phaecians. These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopes; but being oppressed by that savage race, they migrated to the isle of Scheria, under the conduct of Nausithous their king. They were, the poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who appeared manifestly and feasted among them when they offered sacrifices, and did not conceal themselves from solitary wayfarers when they met them. They had abundance of wealth and lived in the enjoyment of it undisturbed by the alarms of war, for as they dwelt remote from gain-seeking man, no enemy ever approached their shores, and they did not even require to make use of bows and quivers. Their chief employment was navigation. Their ships, which went with the velocity of birds, were endued with intelligence; they knew every port and needed no pilot. Alcinous, the son of Nausithous, was now their king, a wise and just sovereign, beloved by his people. Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast ashore on the Phaeacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his bed of leaves, Nausicaa, the daughter of the king, had a dream sent by Minerva, reminding her that her wedding-day was not far distant, and that it would be but a prudent preparation for that event to have a general washing of the clothes of the family. This was no slight affair, for the fountains were at some distance and the garments must be carried thither. On awaking, the princess hastened to her parents to tell them what was on her mind; not alluding to her wedding-day, but finding other reasons equally good. Her father readily assented and ordered the grooms to furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The clothes were put therein, and the queen mother placed in the wagon, likewise an abundant supply of food and wine. The princess took her seat and plied the lash, her attendant virgins following her on foot. Arrived at the river side they turned out the mules to graze, and unloading the carriage, bore the garments down to the water, and working with cheerfulness and alacrity soon dispatched their labor. Then having spread the garments on the shore to dry, and having themselves bathed, they sat down to enjoy their meal; after which they rose and amused themselves with a game of ball, the princess singing to them while they played. But when they had refolded the apparel and were about to resume their way to the town, Minerva caused the ball thrown by the princess to fall into the water, whereat they all screamed, and Ulysses awaked at the sound. Now we must picture to ourselves Ulysses, a shipwrecked mariner, but just escaped from the waves, and utterly destitute of clothing, awaking and discovering that only a few bushes were interposed between him and a group of young maidens, whom, by their deportment and attire, he discovered to be not mere peasant girls, but of a higher class. Sadly needing help, how could he yet venture, naked as he was, to discover himself and make his wants known? It certainly was a case worthy of the interposition of his patron goddess Minerva, who never failed him at a crisis. Breaking off a leafy branch from a tree, he held it before him and stepped out from the thicket. The virgins, at sight of him, fled in all directions, Nausicaa alone excepted, for Minerva aided and endowed her with courage and discernment. Ulysses, standing respectfully aloof, told his sad case, and besought the fair object (whether queen or goddess he professed he knew not) for food and clothing. The princess replied courteously, promising present relief and her father's hospitality when he should become acquainted with the facts. She called back her scattered maidens, chiding their alarm, and reminding them that the Phaeacians had no enemies to fear. This man, she told them, was an unhappy wanderer, whom it was a duty to cherish, for the poor and stranger are from Jove. She bade them bring food and clothing, for some of her brothers' garments were among the contents of the wagon. When this was done, and Ulysses, retiring to a sheltered place, had washed his body free from the sea-foam, clothed and refreshed himself with food, Pallas dilated his form and diffused grace over his ample chest and manly brows. The princess, seeing him, was filled with admiration, and scrupled not to say to her damsels that she wished the gods would send her such a husband. To Ulysses she recommended that he should repair to the city, following herself and train so far as the way lay through the fields; but when they should approach the city she desired that he would no longer be seen in her company, for she feared the remarks which rude and vulgar people might make on seeing her return accompanied by such a gallant stranger; to avoid which she directed him to stop at a grove adjoining the city, in which were a farm and garden belonging to the king. After allowing time for the princess and her companions to reach the city, he was then to pursue his way thither, and would be easily guided by any he might meet to the royal abode. Ulysses obeyed the directions, and in due time proceeded to the city, on approaching which he met a young woman bearing a pitcher forth for water. It was Minerva, who had assumed that form. Ulysses accosted her, and desired to be directed to the palace of Alcinous the king. The maiden replied respectfully, offering to be his guide; for the palace, she informed him, stood near her father's dwelling. Under the guidance of the goddess, and by her power enveloped in a cloud which shielded him from observation, Ulysses passed among the busy crowd, and with wonder observed their harbor, their ships, their forum (the resort of heroes), and their battlements, till they came to the palace, where the goddess, having first given him some information of the country, king, and people he was about to meet, left him. Ulysses, before entering the courtyard of the palace, stood and surveyed the scene. Its splendor astonished him. Brazen walls stretched from the entrance to the interior house, of which the doors were gold, the door-posts silver, the lintels silver ornamented with gold. On either side were figures of mastiffs wrought in gold and silver, standing in rows as if to guard the approach. Along the walls were seats spread through all their length with mantles of finest texture, the work of Phaeacian maidens. On these seats the princes sat and feasted, while golden statues of graceful youths held in their hands lighted torches, which shed radiance over the scene. Full fifty female menials served in household offices, some employed to grind the corn, others to wind off the purple wool or ply the loom. For the Phaeacian women as far exceeded all other women in household arts as the mariners of that country did the rest of mankind in the management of ships. Without the court a spacious garden lay, in which grew many a lofty tree, pomegranate, pear, apple, fig, and olive. Neither winter's cold nor summer's drought arrested their growth, but they flourished in constant succession, some budding while others were maturing. The vineyard was equally prolific. In one quarter you might see the vines, some in blossom, some loaded with ripe grapes, and in another observe the vintagers treading the wine-press. On the garden's borders flowers of every hue bloomed all the year round, arranged with neatest art. In the midst two fountains poured forth their waters, one flowing by artificial channels over all the garden, the other conducted through the courtyard of the palace, whence every citizen might draw his supplies. Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for the cloud which Minerva spread around him still shielded him. At length, having sufficiently observed the scene, he advanced with rapid step into the hall where the chiefs and senators were assembled, pouring libation to Mercury, whose worship followed the evening meal. Just then Minerva dissolved the cloud and disclosed him to the assembled chiefs. Advancing toward the queen, he knelt at her feet and implored her favor and assistance to enable him to return to his native country. Then withdrawing, he seated himself in the manner of suppliants, at the hearth- side. For a time none spoke. At last an aged statesman, addressing the king, said, "It is not fit that a stranger who asks our hospitality should be kept waiting in suppliant guise, none welcoming him. Let him therefore be led to a seat among us and supplied with food and wine." At these words the king rising gave his hand to Ulysses and led him to a seat, displacing thence his own son to make room for the stranger. Food and wine were set before him and he ate and refreshed himself. The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the next day he would call them to council to consider what had best be done for the stranger. When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with the king and queen, the queen asked him who he was and whence he came, and (recognizing the clothes which he wore as those which her maidens and herself had made) from whom he received his garments. He told them of his residence in Calypso's isle and his departure thence; of the wreck of his raft, his escape by swimming, and of the relief afforded by the princess. The parents heard approvingly, and the king promised to furnish him a ship in which he might return to his own land. The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of the king. A bark was prepared and a crew of stout rowers selected, and all betook themselves to the palace, where a bounteous repast was provided. After the feast the king proposed that the young men should show their guest their proficiency in manly sports, and all went forth to the arena for games of running, wrestling, and other exercises. After all had done their best, Ulysses being challenged to show what he could do, at first declined, but being taunted by one of the youths, seized a quoit of weight far heavier than any the Phaeacians had thrown, and sent it farther than the utmost throw of theirs. All were astonished, and viewed their guest with greatly increased respect. After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led in Demodocus, the blind bard, "Dear to the Muse, Who yet appointed him both good and ill, Took from him sight, but gave him strains divine." He took for his theme the wooden horse, by means of which the Greeks found entrance into Troy. Apollo inspired him, and he sang so feelingly of the terrors and the exploits of that eventful time that all were delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears. Observing which, Alcinous, when the song was done, demanded of him why at the mention of troy his sorrows awaked. Had he lost there a father or brother, or any dear friend? Ulysses in reply announced himself by his true name, and at their request, recounted the adventures which had befallen him since his departure from Troy. This narrative raised the sympathy and admiration of the Phaeacians for their guest to the highest pitch. The king proposed that each chief should present him with a gift, himself setting the example. They obeyed, and vied with one another in loading the illustrious stranger with costly gifts. The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phaeacian vessel, and in a short time arrived safe at Ithaca, his own island. When the vessel touched the strand he was asleep. The mariners, without waking him, carried him on shore, and landed with him the chest containing his presents, and then sailed away. But Neptune was displeased at the conduct of the Phaeacians in thus rescuing Ulysses from his hands. In revenge, on the return of the vessel to port, he transformed it into a rock, right opposite the mouth of the harbor. Homer's description of the ships of the Phaeacians has been thought to look like an anticipation of the wonders of modern steam navigation. Alcinous says to Ulysses, "Say from what city, from what regions tossed, And what inhabitants those regions boast? So shalt thou quickly reach the realm assigned, In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind; No helm secures their course, no pilot guides; Like man intelligent they plough the tides, Conscious of every coast and every bay That lies beneath the sun's all-seeing ray." Odyssey, Book VIII Lord Carlisle, in his Diary in the Turkish and Greek Waters, thus speaks of Corfu, which he considers to be the ancient Phaeacian island: "The sites explain the Odyssey. The temple of the sea-god could not have been more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of the most elastic turf, on the brow of a crag commanding harbor, and channel, and ocean. Just at the entrance of the inner harbor there is a picturesque rock with a small convent perched atop it, which by one legend is the transformed pinnace of Ulysses. "Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper distance from the probable site of the city and palace of the king, to justify the princess Nausicaa having had resort to her chariot and to luncheon when she went with the maidens of the court to wash their garments." FATE OF THE SUITORS It was now twenty years that Ulysses had been away from Ithaca, and when he awoke he did not recognize his native land. But Minerva, appearing to him in the form of a young shepherd, informed him where he was, and told him the state of things at his palace. More than a hundred nobles of Ithaca and of the neighboring islands had been for years suing for the hand of Penelope, his wife, imagining him dead, and lording it over his palace and people, as if they were owners of both. That he might be able to take vengeance upon them, it was important that he should not be recognized. Minerva accordingly metamorphosed him into an unsightly beggar, and as such he was kindly received by Eumaeus, the swine-herd, a faithful servant of his house. Telemachus, his son, was absent in quest of his father. He had gone to the courts of the other kings, who had returned from the Trojan expedition. While on the search, he received counsel from Minerva to return home. Arriving at Ithaca, he sought Eumaeus to learn something of the state of affairs at the palace before presenting himself among the suitors. Finding a stranger with Eumaeus, he treated him courteously, though in the garb of a beggar, and promised him assistance. Eumaeus was sent to the palace to inform Penelope privately of her son's arrival, for caution was necessary with regard to the suitors, who, as Telemachus had learned, were plotting to intercept and kill him. When Eumaeus was gone, Minerva presented herself to Ulysses, and directed him to make himself known to his son. At the same time she touched him, removed at once from him the appearance of age and penury, and gave him the aspect of vigorous manhood that belonged to him. Telemachus viewed him with astonishment, and at first thought he must be more than mortal. But Ulysses announced himself as his father, and accounted for the change of appearance by explaining that it was Minerva's doing. "Then threw Telemachus His arms around his father's neck and wept, Desire intense of lamentation seized On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged His grief." The father and son took counsel together how they should get the better of the suitors and punish them for their outrages. It was arranged that Telemachus should proceed to the palace and mingle with the suitors as formerly; that Ulysses should go also, as a beggar, a character which in the rude old times had different privileges from those we concede to it now. As traveller and story-teller, the beggar was admitted in the halls of chieftains, and often treated like a guest; though sometimes, also, no doubt, with contumely. Ulysses charged his son not to betray, by any display of unusual interest in him, that he knew him to be other than he seemed, and even if he saw him insulted, or beaten, not to interpose otherwise than he might do for any stranger. At the palace they found the usual scene of feasting and riot going on. The suitors pretended to receive Telemachus with joy at his return, though secretly mortified at the failure of their plots to take his life. The old beggar was permitted to enter, and provided with a portion from the table. A touching incident occurred as Ulysses entered the court-yard of the palace. An old dog lay in the yard almost dead with age, and seeing a stranger enter, raised his head, with ears erect. It was Argus, Ulysses' own dog, that he had in other days often led to the chase. "Soon he perceived Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears Clapped close, and with his tail glad signs he gave Of gratulation, impotent to rise, And to approach his master as of old. Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear Unmarked. . . . Then his destiny released Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see Ulysses in the twentieth year restored." As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors soon began to exhibit their insolence to him. When he mildly remonstrated, one of them raised a stool and with it gave him a blow. Telemachus had hard work to restrain his indignation at seeing his father so treated in his own hall, but remembering his father's injunctions, said no more than what became him as master of the house and protector of his guests. Penelope had protracted her decision in favor of any one of her suitors so long, that there seemed to be no further pretence for delay. The continued absence of her husband seemed to prove that his return was no longer to be expected. Meanwhile her son had grown up, and was able to manage his own affairs. She therefore consented to submit the question of her choice to a trial of skill among the suitors. The test selected was shooting with the bow. Twelve rings were arranged in a line, and he whose arrow was sent through the whole twelve, was to have the queen for his prize. A bow that one of his brother heroes had given to Ulysses in former times, was brought from the armory, and with its quiver full of arrows was laid in the hall. Telemachus had taken care that all other weapons should be removed, under pretence that in the heat of competition, there was danger, in some rash moment, of putting them to an improper use. All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to be done was to bend the bow in order to attach the string. Telemachus endeavored to do it, but found all his efforts fruitless; and modestly confessing that he had attempted a task beyond his strength, he yielded the bow to another. HE tried it with no better success, and, amidst the laughter and jeers of his companions, gave it up. Another tried it and another; they rubbed the bow with tallow, but all to no purpose; it would not bend. Then spoke Ulysses, humbly suggesting that he should be permitted to try; for, said he, "beggar as I am, I was once a soldier, and there is still some strength in these old limbs of mine." The suitors hooted with derision, and commanded to turn him out of the hall for his insolence. But Telemachus spoke up for him, and merely to gratify the old man, bade him try. Ulysses took the bow, and handled it with the hand of a master. With ease he adjusted the cord to its notch, then fitting an arrow to the bow he drew the string and sped the arrow unerring through the rings. Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he said, "Now for another mark!" and aimed direct at the most insolent one of the suitors. The arrow pierced through his throat and he fell dead. Telemachus, Eumaeus, and another faithful follower, well armed, now sprang to the side of Ulysses. The suitors, in amazement, looked round for arms but found none, neither was there any way of escape, for Eumaeus had secured the door. Ulysses left them not long in uncertainty; he announced himself as the long-lost chief, whose house they had invaded, whose substance they had squandered, whose wife and son they had persecuted for ten long years; and told them he meant to have ample vengeance. All the suitors were slain, except Phemius the bard and Medon the herald, and Ulysses was left master of his own palace and possessor of his kingdom and his wife. Among Schiller's works is the following epigram on Ulysses: "To gain his home all oceans he explored; Here Scylla frowned, and there Charybdis roared; Horror on sea, and horror on the land, In hell's dark boat he sought the spectre land, Till borne a slumberer to his native spot, He woke, and sorrowing, knew his country not." Sir Edward Bulwer"s translation Tennyson's poem of Ulysses represents the old hero, after his dangers past and nothing left but to stay at home and be happy, growing tired of inaction and resolving to set forth again in quest of new adventures. "Come my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew, Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." Chapter XXIV Adventures of AEneas The Harpies Dido Palinurus We have followed one of the Grecian heroes, Ulysses, in his wanderings, on his return home from Troy, and now we propose to share the fortunes of the remnant of the conquered people, under their chief AEneas, in their search for a new home, after the ruin of their native city. On that fatal night when the wooden horse disgorged its contents of armed men, and the capture and conflagration of the city were the result, Aeneas made his escape from the scene of destruction with his father, and his wife, and young son. The father, Anchises, was woo old to walk with the speed required, and AEneas took him upon his shoulders. Thus burdened, leading his son and followed by his wife, he made the best of his way out of the burning city; but in the confusion, his wife was swept away and lost. On arriving at the place of rendezvous, numerous fugitives, of both sexes, were found, who put themselves under the guidance of Aeneas. Some months were spent in preparation and at length they embarked. They first landed on the neighboring shores of Thrace, and were preparing to build a city, but AEneas was deterred by a prodigy. Preparing to offer sacrifice, he tore some twigs from one of the bushes. To his dismay the wounded part dropped blood. When he repeated the act, a voice from the ground cried out to him, "Spare me, AEneas; I am your kinsman, Polydore, here murdered with many arrows, from which a bush has grown, nourished with my blood." These words recalled to the recollection of AEneas that Polydore was a young prince of Troy, whom his father had sent with ample treasures to the neighboring land of Thrace, to be there brought up, at a distance from the horrors of war. The king to whom he was sent had murdered him, and seized his treasures. AEneas and his companions hastened away, considering the land to be accursed by the stain of such a crime. They next landed on the island of Delos, which was once a floating island, till Jupiter fastened it by adamantine chains to the bottom of the sea. Apollo and Diana were born there, and the island was sacred to Apollo. Here AEneas consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received an answer, as ambiguous as usual "Seek your ancient mother; there the race of AEneas shall dwell, and reduce all other nations to their sway." The Trojans heard with joy, and immediately began to ask one another, "Where is the spot intended by the oracle?" Anchises remembered that there was a tradition that their forefathers came from Crete, and thither they resolved to steer. They arrived at Crete, and began to build their city, but sickness broke out among them, and the fields that they had planted failed to yield a crop. In this gloomy aspect of affairs, AEneas was warned in a dream to leave the country, and seek a western land, called Hesperia, whence Dardanus, the true founder of the Trojan race, had originally migrated. To Hesperia, now called Italy, therefore, they directed their future course, and not till after many adventures and the lapse of time sufficient to carry a modern navigator several times round the world, did they arrive there. Their first landing was at the island of the Harpies: "----The daughters of the earth and sea, The dreadful snatchers, who like women were Down to the breast, with scanty coarse black hair About their heads, and dim eyes ringed with red, And bestial mouths set round with lips of lead, But from their gnarled necks there began to spring Half hair, half feathers, and a sweeping wing Grew out instead of arm on either side, And thick plumes underneath the breast did hide The place where joined the fearful natures twain. Gray-feathered were they else, with many a stain Of blood thereon, and on birds' claws they went. Morris: Life and Death of Jason The Harpies had been sent by the gods to torment a certain Phineus, whom Jupiter had deprived of his sight in punishment of his cruelty; and whenever a meal was placed before him, the Harpies darted down from the air and carried it off. They were driven away from Phineus by the heroes of the Argonautic expedition, and took refuge in the island where AEneas now found them. When they entered the port the Trojans saw herds of cattle roaming over the plain. They slew as many as they wished, and prepared for a feast. But no sooner had they seated themselves at the table, than a horrible clamor was heard in the air, and a flock of odious Harpies came rushing down upon them, seizing in their talons the meat from the dishes, and flying away with it. AEneas and his companions drew their swords and dealt vigorous blows among the monsters, but to no purpose, for they were so nimble it was almost impossible to hit them, and their feathers were like armor impenetrable to steel. One of them, perched on a neighboring cliff, screamed out, "Is it thus, Trojans, you treat us innocent birds, first slaughter our cattle, and then make war on ourselves?" She then predicted dire sufferings to them in their future course, and having vented her wrath flew away. The Trojans made haste to leave the country, and next found themselves coasting along the shore of Epirus. Here they landed, and to their astonishment learned that certain Trojan exiles, who had been carried there as prisoners, had become rulers of the country. Andromache, the widow of Hector, became the wife of one of the victorious Grecian chiefs, to whom she bore a son. Her husband dying, she was left regent of the country, as guardian of her son, and had married a fellow-captive, Helenus, of the royal race of Troy. Helenus and Andromache treated the exiles with the utmost hospitality, and dismissed them loaded with gifts. From hence AEneas coasted along the shore of Sicily, and passed the country of Cyclopes. Here they were hailed from the shore by a miserable object, whom by his garments, tattered as they were, they perceived to be a Greek. He told them he was one of Ulysses' companions, left behind by that chief in his hurried departure. He related the story of Ulysses' adventure with Polyphemus, and besought them to take him off with them, as he had no means of sustaining his existence where he was, but wild berries and roots, and lived in constant fear of the Cyclopes. While he spoke Polyphemus made his appearance; a terrible monster, shapeless, vast, whose only eye had been put out. He walked with cautious steps, feeling his way with a staff, down to the sea-side, to wash his eye-socket in the waves. When he reached the water, he waded out towards them, and his immense height enabled him to advance far into the sea, so that the Trojans, in terror, took to their oars to get out of his way. Hearing the oars, Polyphemus shouted after them, so that the shores resounded, and at the noise the other Cyclopes came forth from their caves and woods, and lined the shore, like a row of lofty pine trees. The Trojans plied their oars, and soon left them out of sight. AEneas had been cautioned by Helenus to avoid the strait guarded by the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. There Ulysses, the reader will remember, had lost six of his men, seized by Scylla, while the navigators were wholly intent upon avoiding Charybdis. AEneas, following the advice of Helenus, shunned the dangerous pass and coasted along the island of Sicily. Juno, seeing the Trojans speeding their way prosperously towards their destined shore, felt her old grudge against them revive, for she could not forget the slight that Paris had put upon her, in awarding the prize of beauty to another. In heavenly minds can such resentments dwell! Accordingly she hastened to AEolus, the ruler of the winds, the same who supplied Ulysses with favoring gales, giving him the contrary ones tied up in a bag. AEolus obeyed the goddess and sent forth his sons, Boreas, Typhon and the other winds, to toss the ocean. A terrible storm ensued, and the Trojan ships were driven out of their course towards the coast of Africa. They were in imminent danger of being wrecked, and were separated, so that AEneas thought that all were lost except his own. At this crisis, Neptune, hearing the storm raging, and knowing that he had given no orders for one, raised his head above the waves, and saw the fleet of AEneas driving before the gale. Knowing the hostility of Juno, he was at no loss to account for it, but his anger was not the less at this interference in his province. He called the winds, and dismissed them with a severe reprimand. He then soothed the waves, and brushed away the clouds from before the face of the sun. Some of the ships which had got on the rocks he pried off with his own trident, while Triton and a sea-nymph, putting their shoulders under others, set them afloat again. The Trojans, when the sea became calm, sought the nearest shore, which was the coast of Carthage, where AEneas was so happy as to find that one by one the ships all arrived safe, though badly shaken. Waller, in his Panegyric to the Lord Protector (Cromwell), alludes to this stilling of the storm by Neptune: "Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face, To chide the winds and save the Trojan race, So has your Highness, raised above the rest, Storms of ambition tossing us repressed.." DIDO Carthage, where the exiles had now arrived, was a spot on the coast of Africa opposite Sicily, where at that time a Tyrian colony under Dido their queen, were laying the foundations of a state destined in later ages to be the rival of Rome itself. Dido was the daughter of Belus, king of Tyre, and sister of Pygmalion who succeeded his father on the throne. Her husband was Sichaeus, a man of immense wealth, but Pygmalion, who coveted his treasures, caused him to be put to death. Dido, with a numerous body of followers, both men and women, succeeded in effecting their escape from Tyre in several vessels, carrying with them the treasures of Sichaeus. On arriving at the spot which they selected as the seat of their future home, they asked of the natives only so much land as they could enclose with a bull's hide. When this was readily granted, she caused the hide to be cut into strips, and with them enclosed a spot on which she built a citadel, and called it Byrsa (a hide). Around this fort the city of Carthage rose, and soon became a powerful and flourishing place. Such was the state of affairs when AEneas with his Trojans arrived there. Dido received the illustrious exiles with friendliness and hospitality. "Not unacquainted with distress," she said, "I have learned to succor the unfortunate." The queen's hospitality displayed itself in festivities at which games of strength and skill were exhibited. The strangers contended for the palm with her own subjects on equal terms, the queen declaring that whether the victor were "Trojan or Tyrian should make no difference to her." At the feast which followed the games, AEneas gave at her request a recital of the closing events of the Trojan history and his own adventures after the fall of the city. Dido was charmed with his discourse and filled with admiration of his exploits. She conceived an ardent passion for him, and he for his part seemed well content to accept the fortunate chance which appeared to offer him at once a happy termination of his wanderings, a home, a kingdom, and a bride. Months rolled away in the enjoyment of pleasant intercourse, and it seemed as if Italy and the empire destined to be founded on its shores were alike forgotten. Seeing which, Jupiter dispatched Mercury with a message to AEneas recalling him to a sense of his high destiny, and commanding him to resume his voyage. AEneas, under this divine command, parted from Dido, though she tried every allurement and persuasion to detain him. The blow to her affection and her pride was too much for her to endure, and when she found that he was gone, she mounted a funeral-pile which she had caused to be prepared, and, having stabbed herself, was consumed with the pile. The flames rising over the city were seen by the departing Trojans, and, though the cause was unknown, gave to AEneas some intimation of the fatal event. We find in "Elegant Extracts" the following epigram: From the Latin "Unhappy, Dido, was thy fate In first and second married state! One husband caused thy flight by dying, Thy death the other caused by flying." Dr. Johnson was once challenged to make an epigram on the syllables di,do,dum. He immediately replied in these lines: "When Dido found Aeneas would not come, She wept in silence, and was Dido dumb. PALINURUS After touching at the island of Sicily, where Acestes, a prince of Trojan lineage, bore sway, who gave them a hospitable reception, the Trojans re-embarked, and held on their course for Italy. Venus now interceded with Neptune to allow her son at last to attain the wished-for goal, and find an end of his perils on the deep. Neptune consented, stipulating only for one life as a ransom for the rest. The victim was Palinurus, the pilot. As he sat watching the stars, with his hand on the helm, Somnus, sent by Neptune, approached in the guise of Phorbas and said, "Palinurus, the breeze is fair, the water smooth, and the ship sails steadily on her course. Lie down a while and take needful rest. I will stand at the helm in your place." Palinurus replied, "Tell me not of smooth seas or favoring winds, me who have seen so much of their treachery. Shall I trust AEneas to the chances of the weather and winds?" And he continued to grasp the helm and to keep his eyes fixed on the stars. But Somnus waved over him a branch moistened with Lethaean dew, and his eyes closed in spite of all his efforts. Then Somnus pushed him overboard and he fell; but keeping his hold upon the helm it came away with him. Neptune was mindful of his promise, and kept the ship on her track without helm or pilot, till Aeneas discovered his loss, and, sorrowing deeply for his faithful steersman, took charge of the ship himself. There is a beautiful allusion to the story of Palinurus in Scott's Marmion, Introduction to Canto I., where the poet, speaking of the recent death of William Pitt, says: "Oh, think how, to his latest day, When death just hovering claimed his prey, With Palinure's unaltered mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, Till in his fall, with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way." The ships at last reached the shores of Italy, and joyfully did the adventurers leap to land. While his people were employed in making their encampment AEneas sought the abode of the Sibyl. It was a cave connected with a temple and grove, sacred to Apollo and Diana. While Aeneas contemplated the scene, the Sibyl accosted him. She seemed to know his errand, and under the influence of the deity of the place burst forth in a prophetic strain, giving dark intimations of labors and perils through which he was destined to make his way to final success. She closed with the encouraging words which have become proverbial: "Yield not to disasters, but press onward the more bravely." AEneas replied that he had prepared himself for whatever might await him. He had but one request to make. Having been directed in a dream to seek the abode of the dead in order to confer with his father Anchises to receive from him a revelation of his future fortunes and those of his race, he asked her assistance to enable him to accomplish the task. The Sibyl replied, "The descent to Avernus is easy; the gate of Pluto stands open night and day; but to retrace one's steps and return to the upper air, that is the toil, that the difficulty. She instructed him to seek in the forest a tree on which grew a golden branch. This branch was to be plucked off, to be borne as a gift to Proserpine, and if fate was propitious, it would yield to the hand and quit its parent trunk, but otherwise no force could rend it away. If torn away, another would succeed. AEneas followed the directions of the Sibyl. His mother Venus sent two of her doves to fly before him and show him the way, and by their assistance he found the tree, plucked the branch, and hastened back with it to the Sibyl. Chapter XXV The Infernal Regions The Sibyl At the commencement of our series we have given the pagan account of the creation of the world, so as we approach its conclusion, we present a view of the regions of the dead, depicted by one of their most enlightened poets, who drew his doctrines from their most esteemed philosophers. The region where Virgil places the entrance into this abode, is perhaps the most strikingly adapted to excite ideas of the terrific and preternatural of any on the face of the earth. It is the volcanic region near Vesuvius, where the whole country is cleft with chasms from which sulphurous flames arise, while the ground is shaken with pent-up vapors, and mysterious sounds issue from the bowels of the earth. The lake Avernus is supposed to fill the crater of an extinct volcano. It is circular, half a mile wide, and very deep, surrounded by high banks, which in Virgil's time were covered with a gloomy forest. Mephitic vapors rise from its waters, so that no life is found on its banks, and no birds fly over it. Here, according to the poet, was the cave which afforded access to the infernal regions, and here AEneas offered sacrifices to the infernal deities, Proserpine, Hecate, and the Furies. Then a roaring was heard in the earth, the woods on the hill-tops were shaken, and the howling of dogs announced the approach of the deities. "Now," said the Sibyl, "summon up your courage, for you will need it." She descended into the cave, and AEneas followed. Before the threshold of Hades they passed through a group of beings who are Griefs and avenging Cares, pale Diseases and melancholy Age, Fear and Hunger that tempt to crime, Toil, Poverty, and Death, forms horrible to view. The Furies spread their couches there, and Discord, whose hair was of vipers tied up with a bloody fillet. Here also were the monsters, Briareus with his hundred arms, Hydras hissing, and Chimaeras breathing fire. AEneas shuddered at the sight, drew his sword and would have struck, had not the Sibyl restrained him. They then came to the black river Cocytus, where they found the ferryman, Charon, old and squalid, but strong and vigorous, who was receiving passengers of all kinds into his boat, high-souled heroes, boys and unmarried girls as numerous as the leaves that fall at autumn, or the flocks that fly southward at the approach of winter. They stood pressing for a passage, and longing to touch the opposite shore. But the stern ferryman took in only such as he chose, driving the rest back. AEneas, wondering at the sight, asked the Sibyl, "Why this discrimination?: She answered, "Those who are taken on board the bark are the souls of those who have received due burial rites; the host of others who have remained unburied, are not permitted to pass the flood, but wander a hundred years, and flit to and fro about the shore, till at last they are taken over." AEneas grieved at recollecting some of his own companions who had perished in the storm. At that moment he beheld Palinurus, his pilot, who fell overboard and was drowned. He addressed him and asked him the cause of his misfortune. Palinurus replied that the rudder was carried away, and he, clinging to it, was swept away with it. He besought Aeneas most urgently to extend to him his hand and take him in company to the opposite shore. But the Sibyl rebuked him for the wish thus to transgress the laws of Pluto, but consoled him by informing him that the people of the shore where his body had been wafted by the waves, should be stirred up by the prodigies to give it the burial, and that the promontory should bear the name of Cape Palinurus, which it does to this day. Leaving Palinurus consoled by these words, they approached the boat. Charon, fixing his eyes sternly upon the advancing warrior, demanded by what right he, living and armed, approached the shore. To which the Sibyl replied that they would commit no violence, that AEneas's only object was to see his father, and finally exhibited the golden branch, at sight of which Charon's wrath relaxed, and he made haste to turn his back to the shore, and receive them on board. The boat, adapted only to the light freight of bodiless spirits, groaned under the weight of the hero. They were soon conveyed to the opposite shore. There they were encountered by the three- headed dog Cerberus, with his necks bristling with snakes. He barked with all his three throats till the Sibyl threw him a medicated cake, which he eagerly devoured, and then stretched himself out in his den and fell asleep. AEneas and the Sibyl sprang to land. The first sound that struck their ears was the wailing of young children, who had died on the threshold of life, and near to these were they who had perished under false charges. Minos presides over them as judge, and examines the deeds of each. The next class was of those who had died by their own hand, hating life and seeking refuge in death. Oh, how willingly would they now endure poverty, labor, and any other infliction, if they might but return to life! Next were situated the regions of sadness, divided off into retired paths, leading through groves of myrtle. Here roamed those who had fallen victims to unrequited love, not freed from pain even by death itself. Among these, AEneas thought he descried the form of Dido, with a wound still recent. In the dim light he was for a moment uncertain, but approaching perceived it was indeed herself. Tears fell from his eyes, and he addressed her in the accents of love. "Unhappy Dido! Was then the rumor true that you had perished? And was I, alas! the cause! I call the gods to witness that my departure from you was reluctant, and in obedience to the commands of Jove; nor could I believe that my absence would have cost you so dear. Stop, I beseech you, and refuse me not a last farewell." She stood for a moment with averted countenance, and eyes fixed on the ground, and then silently passed on, as insensible to his pleadings as a rock. AEneas followed for some distance; then, with a heavy heart, rejoined his companion and resumed his route. They next entered the fields where roam the heroes who have fallen in battle. Here they saw many shades of Grecian and Trojan warriors. The Trojans thronged around him, and could not be satisfied with the sight. They asked the cause of his coming, and plied him with innumerable questions. But the Greeks, at the sight of his armor glittering through the murky atmosphere, recognized the hero, and filled with terror turned their backs and fled, as they used to flee on the plains of Troy. AEneas would have lingered long with his Trojan friends but the Sibyl hurried him away. They next came to a place where the road divided, the one leading to Elysium, the other to the regions of the condemned. AEneas beheld on one side the walls of a mighty city, around which Phlegethon rolled its fiery waters. Before him was the gate of adamant that neither gods nor men can break through. An iron tower stood by the gate, on which Tisiphone, the avenging Fury, kept guard. From the city were heard groans, and the sound of the scourge, the creaking of iron, and the clanking of chains. AEneas, horror-struck, inquired of his guide what crimes were those whose punishments produced the sounds he hear? The Sibyl answered, "Here is the judgment-hall of Rhadamanthus, who brings to light crimes done in life, which the perpetrator vainly thought impenetrably hid. Tisiphone applies her whip of scorpions, and delivers the offender over to her sister Furies. At this moment with horrid clang the brazen gates unfolded, and AEneas saw within, a Hydra with fifty heads, guarding the entrance. The Sibyl told him that the Gulf of Tartarus descended deep, so that its recesses were as far beneath their feet as heaven was high above their heads. In the bottom of this pit, the Titan race, who warred against the gods, lie prostrate; Salmoneus, also, who presumed to vie with Jupiter, and built a bridge of brass over which he drove his chariot that the sound might resemble thunder, launching flaming brands at his people in imitation of lightning, till Jupiter struck him with a real thunderbolt, and taught him the difference between mortal weapons and divine. Here, also, is Tityus, the giant, whose form is so immense that as he lies, he stretches over nine acres, while a vulture preys upon his liver, which as fast as it is devoured grows again, so that his punishment will have no end. AEneas saw groups seated at tables loaded with dainties, while near by stood a Fury who snatched away the viands from their lips, as fast as they prepared to taste them. Others beheld suspended over their heads huge rocks, threatening to fall, keeping them in a state of constant alarm. These were they who had hated their brothers, or struck their parents, or defrauded the friends who trusted them, or who having grown rich, kept their money to themselves, and gave no share to others; the last being the most numerous class. Here also were those who had violated the marriage vow, or fought in a bad cause, or failed in fidelity to their employers. Here was one who had sold his country for gold, another who perverted the laws, making them say one thing today and another tomorrow. Ixion was there fastened to the circumference of a wheel ceaselessly revolving; and Sisyphus, whose task was to roll a huge stone up to a hill-top, but when the steep was well-nigh gained, the rock, repulsed by some sudden force, rushed again headlong down to the plain. Again he toiled at it, while the sweat bathed all his weary limbs, but all to no effect. There was Tantalus, who stood in a pool, his chin level with the water, yet he was parched with thirst, and found nothing to assuage it; for when he bowed his hoary head, eager to quaff, the water fled away, leaving the ground at his feet all dry. Tall trees laden with fruit stooped their heads to him, pears, pomegranates, apples and luscious figs; but when with a sudden grasp he tried to seize them, winds whirled them high above his reach. The Sibyl now warned AEneas that it was time to turn from these melancholy regions and seek the city of the blessed. They passed through a middle tract of darkness, and came upon the Elysian fields, the groves where the happy reside. They breathed a freer air, and saw all objects clothed in a purple light. The region has a sun and stars of its own. The inhabitants were enjoying themselves in various ways, some in sports on the grassy turf, in games of strength or skill, others dancing or singing. Orpheus struck the chords of his lyre, and called forth ravishing sounds. Here AEneas saw the founders of the Trojan state, high-souled heroes who lived in happier times. He gazed with admiration on the war-chariots and glittering arms now reposing in disuse. Spears stood fixed in the ground, and the horses, unharnessed, roamed over the plain. The same pride in splendid armor and generous steeds which the old heroes felt in life, accompanied them here. He saw another group feasting, and listening to the strains of music. They were in a laurel grove, whence the great river Po has its origin, and flows out among men. Here dwelt those who fell by wounds received in their country's cause, holy priests, also, and poets who have uttered thoughts worthy of Apollo, and others who have contributed to cheer and adorn life by their discoveries in the useful arts, and have made their memory blessed by rendering service to mankind. They wore snow- white fillets about their brows. The Sibyl addressed a group of these, and inquired where Anchises was to be found. They were directed where to seek him, and soon found him in a verdant valley, where he was contemplating the ranks of his posterity, their destinies and worthy deeds to be achieved in coming times. When he recognized AEneas approaching, he stretched out both hands to him, while tears flowed freely. "Have you come at last," said he, "long expected and do I behold you after such perils past? O my son, how have I trembled for you as I have watched your career!" To which AEneas replied, O father! Your image was always before me to guide and guard me. Then he endeavored to enfold his father in his embrace, but his arms enclosed only an unsubstantial image. AEneas perceived before him a spacious valley, with trees gently waving to the wind, a tranquil landscape, through which the river Lethe flowed. Along the banks of the stream wandered a countless multitude, numerous as insects in the summer air. AEneas, with surprise, inquired who were these. Anchises answered, "They are souls to which bodies are to be given in due time. Meanwhile they dwell on Lethe's bank, and drink oblivion of their former lives." "Oh, father!" said AEneas, "is it possible that any can be so in love with life, as to wish to leave these tranquil seats for the upper world?" Anchises replied by explaining the plan of creation. The Creator, he told him, originally made the material of which souls are composed, of the four elements, fire, air, earth, and water, all which, when united, took the form of the most excellent part, fire, and became FLAME. This material was scattered like seed among the heavenly bodies, the sun, moon, and stars. Of this seed the inferior gods created man and all other animals, mingling it with various proportions of earth, by which its purity was alloyed and reduced. Thus the more earth predominates in the composition, the less pure is the individual; and we see men and women with their full-grown bodies have not the purity of childhood. So in proportion to the time which the union of body and soul has lasted, is the impurity contracted by the spiritual part. This impurity must be purged away after death, which is done by ventilating the souls in the current of winds, or merging them in water, or burning out their impurities by fire. Some few, of whom Anchises intimates that he is one, are admitted at once to Elysium, there to remain. But the rest, after the impurities of earth are purged away, are sent back to life endowed with new bodies, having had the remembrance of their former lives effectually washed away by the waters of Lethe. Some, however, there still are, so thoroughly corrupted, that they are not fit to be entrusted with human bodies, and these are made into brute animals, lions, tigers, cats, dogs, monkeys, etc. This is what the ancients called Metempsychosis, or the transmigration of souls; a doctrine which is still held by the natives of India, who scruple to destroy the life, even of the most insignificant animal, not knowing but it may be one of their relations in an altered form. Anchises, having explained so much, proceeded to point out to AEneas individuals of his race, who were hereafter to be born, and to relate to him the exploits they should perform in the world. After this he reverted to the present, and told his son of the events that remained to him to be accomplished before the complete establishment of himself and his followers in Italy. Wars were to be waged, battles fought, a bride to be won, and in the result a Trojan state founded, from which should rise the Roman power, to be in time the sovereign of the world. AEneas and the Sybil then took leave of Anchises, and returned by some short cut, which the poet does not explain, to the upper world. The Egyptian name of Hades was Amenti. In the Revision of the Scriptures the Revising Commission has substituted the word Hades where "hell" was used in the version of King James. ELYSIUM Virgil, we have seen, places his Elysium under the earth, and assigns it for a residence to the spirits of the blessed. But in Homer Elysium forms no part of the realms of the dead. He places it on the west of the earth, near Ocean, and described it as a happy land, where there is neither snow, nor cold, nor rain, and always fanned by the delightful breezes of Zephyrus. Hither favored heroes pass without dying, and live happy under the rule of Rhadamanthus. The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar is in the Isles of the Blessed, or Fortunate Islands, in the Western Ocean. From these sprang the legend of the happy island Atlantis. This blissful region may have been wholly imaginary, but possibly may have sprung from the reports of some storm-driven mariners who had caught a glimpse of the coast of America. James Russell Lowell, in one of his shorter poems, claims for the present age some of the privileges of that happy realm. Addressing the Past, he says, "Whatever of true life there was in thee, Leaps in our age's veins. . . . . . . "Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife and care, Float the green 'Fortunate Isles,' Where all thy hero-spirits dwell and share Our martyrdoms and toils. The present moves attended With all of brave and excellent and fair That made the old time splendid." Milton alludes to the same fable in Paradise Lost, Book III., 1.568. "Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old, Fortunate fields and groves and flowery vales, Thrice happy isles." And in Book II. he characterizes the rivers of Erebus according to the meaning of their names in the Greek language: "Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate, Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep; Cocytus named of lamentation loud Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage. Far off from these a slow and silent stream. Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks Forthwith his former state and being forgets, Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain." THE SIBYL As AEneas and the Sibyl pursued their way back to earth, he said to her, "Whether thou be a goddess or a mortal beloved by the gods, by me thou shalt always be held in reverence. When I reach the upper air, I will cause a temple to be built to thy honor, and will myself bring offerings." "I am no goddess," said the Sibyl; "I have no claim to sacrifice or offering. I am mortal; yet if I could have accepted the love of Apollo, I might have been immortal. He promised me the fulfilment of my wish, if I would consent to be his. I took a handful of sand, and holding it forth, said, 'Grant me to see as many birthdays as there are sand-grains in my hand.' Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring youth. This also he would have granted, could I have accepted his love, but offended at my refusal, he allowed me to grow old. My youth and youthful strength fled long ago. I have lived seven hundred years, and to equal the number of the sand-grains, I have still to see three hundred springs and three hundred harvests. My body shrinks up as years increase, and in time, I shall be lost to sight, but my voice will remain, and future ages will respect my sayings." These concluding words of the Sibyl alluded to her prophetic power. In her cave she was accustomed to inscribe on leaves gathered from the trees the names and fates of individuals. The leaves thus inscribed were arranged in order within the cave, and might be consulted by her votaries. But if perchance at the opening of the door the wind rushed in and dispersed the leaves, the Sibyl gave no aid to restoring them again, and the oracle was irreparably lost. The following legend of the Sibyl is fixed at a later date. In the reign of one of the Tarquins there appeared before the king a woman who offered him nine books for sale. The king refused to purchase them, whereupon the woman went away and burned three of the books, and returning offered the remaining books for the same price she had asked for the nine. The king again rejected them; but when the woman, after burning three books more, returned and asked for the three remaining the same price which she had before asked for the nine, his curiosity was excited, and he purchased the books. They were found to contain the destinies of the Roman state. They were kept in the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, preserved in a stone chest, and allowed to be inspected only by especial officers appointed for that duty, who on great occasions consulted them and interpreted their oracles to the people. There were various Sibyls; but the Cumaean Sibyl, of whom Ovid and Virgil write, is the most celebrated of them. Ovid's story of her life protracted to one thousand years may be intended to represent the various Sibyls as being only reappearances of one and the same individual. It is now believed that some of the most distinguished Sibyls took the inspiration of their oracles from the Jewish scripture. Readers interested in this subject will consult, "Judaism," by Prof. F. Huidekoper. Young, in the Night Thoughts, alludes to the Sibyl. Speaking of worldly Wisdom, he says: "If future fate she plans 'tis all in leaves, Like Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss; At the first blast it vanishes in air. . . . . . As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl's leaves, The good man's days to Sibyl's books compare, The price still rising as in number less." Chapter XXVI Camilla Evander Nisus and Euryalus Mezentius Turnus AEneas, having parted from the Sibyl and rejoined his fleet, coasted along the shores of Italy and cast anchor in the mouth of the Tiber. The poet Virgil, having brought his hero to this spot, the destined termination of his wanderings, invokes his Muse to tell him the situation of things at that eventful moment. Latinus, third in descent from Saturn, ruled the country. He was now old and had no male descendant, but had one charming daughter, Lavinia, who was sought in marriage by many neighboring chiefs, one of whom, Turnus, king of the Rutulians, was favored by the wishes of her parents. But Latinus had been warned in a dream by his father Faunus, that the destined husband of Lavinia should come from a foreign land. From that union should spring a race destined to subdue the world. Our readers will remember that in the conflict with the Harpies, one of those half-human birds had threatened the Trojans with dire sufferings. In particular she predicted that before their wanderings ceased they should be pressed by hunger to devour their tables. This portent now came true; for as they took their scanty meal, seated on the grass, the men placed their hard biscuit on their laps, and put thereon whatever their gleanings in the woods supplied. Having dispatched the latter they finished by eating the crusts. Seeing which, the boy Iulus said playfully, "See, we are eating our tables." AEneas caught the words and accepted the omen. "All hail, promised land!" he exclaimed, "this is our home, this our country!" He then took measures to find out who were the present inhabitants of the land, and who their rulers. A hundred chosen men were sent to the village of Latinus, bearing presents and a request for friendship and alliance. They went and were favorably received. Latinus immediately concluded that the Trojan hero was no other than the promised son-in-law announced by the oracle. He cheerfully granted his alliance and sent back the messengers mounted on steeds from his stables, and loaded with gifts and friendly messages. Juno, seeing things go thus prosperously for the Trojans, felt her old animosity revive, summoned the Fury Alecto from Erebus, and sent her to stir up discord. The Fury first took possession of the queen, Amata, and roused her to oppose in every way the new alliance. Alecto then sped to the city of Turnus, and assuming the form of an old priestess, informed him of the arrival of the foreigners and of the attempts of their prince to rob him of his bride. Next she turned her attention to the camp of the Trojans. There she saw the boy Iulus and his companions amusing themselves with hunting. She sharpened the scent of the dogs, and led them to rouse up from the thicket a tame stag, the favorite of Silvia, the daughter of Tyrrheus, the king's herdsman. A javelin from the hand of Iulus wounded the animal, and he had only strength left to run homewards, and died at his mistress' feet. Her cries and tears roused her brothers and the herdsmen, and they, seizing whatever weapons came to hand, furiously assaulted the hunting party. These were protected by their friends, and the herdsmen were finally driven back with the loss of two of their number. These things were enough to rouse the storm of war, and the queen, Turnus, and the peasants, all urged the old king to drive the strangers from the country. He resisted as long as he could, but finding his opposition unavailing, finally gave way and retreated to his retirement. OPENING THE GATES OF JANUS It was the custom of the country, when war was to be undertaken, for the chief magistrate, clad in his robes of office, with solemn pomp to open the gates of the temple of Janus, which were kept shut as long as peace endured. His people now urged the old king to perform that solemn office, but he refused to do so. While they contested, Juno herself, descending from the skies, smote the doors with irresistible force and burst them open. Immediately the whole country was in a flame. The people rushed from every side breathing nothing but war. Turnus was recognized by all as leader; others joined as allies, chief of whom was Mezentius, a brave and able soldier, but of detestable cruelty. He had been the chief of one of the neighboring cities, but his people drove him out. With him was joined his son Lausus, a generous youth worthy of a better sire. CAMILLA Camilla, the favorite of Diana, a huntress and warrior, after the fashion of the Amazons, came with her band of mounted followers, including a select number of her own sex, and ranged herself on the side of Turnus. This maiden had never accustomed her fingers to the distaff or the loom, but had learned to endure the toils of war, and in speed to outstrip the wind. It seemed as if she might run over the standing corn without crushing it, or over the surface of the water without dipping her feet. Camilla's history had been singular from the beginning. Her father, Metabus, driven from his city by civil discord, carried with him in his flight his infant daughter. As he fled through the woods, his enemies in hot pursuit, he reached the bank of the river Amazenus, which, swelled by rains, seemed to debar a passage. He paused for a moment, then decided what to do. He tied the infant to his lance with wrappers of bark, and, poising the weapon in his upraised hand, thus addressed Diana: "Goddess of the woods! I consecrate this maid to you;" then hurled the weapon with its burden to the opposite bank. The spear flew across the roaring water. His pursuers were already upon him, but he plunged into the river and swam across, and found the spear with the infant safe on the other side. Thenceforth he lived among the shepherds, and brought up his daughter in woodland arts. While a child she was taught to use the bow and throw the javelin. With her sling she could bring down the crane or the wild swan. Her dress was a tiger's skin. Many mothers sought her for a daughter-in-law, but she continued faithful to Diana, and repelled the thought of marriage. There is an allusion to Camilla in those well-known lines of Pope, in which, illustrating the rule that "the sound should be an echo to the sense," he says, "When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labors and the words move slow. Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th'unbendng corn or skims along the main." Essay on Criticism EVANDER Such were the formidable allies that ranged themselves against AEneas. It was night, and he lay stretched in sleep on the bank of the river, under the open heavens. The god of the stream, Father Tiber, seemed to raise his head above the willows, and to say, "O goddess-born, destined possessor of the Latin realms, this is the promised land, here is to be your home, here shall terminate the hostility of the heavenly powers, if only you faithfully persevere. There are friends not far distant. Prepare your boats and row up my stream; I will lead you to Evander the Arcadian chief. He has long been at strife with Turnus and the Rutulians, and is prepared to become an ally of yours. Rise! Offer your vows to Juno, and deprecate her anger. When you have achieved your victory then think of me." AEneas woke and paid immediate obedience to the friendly vision. He sacrificed to Juno, and invoked the god of the river and all its tributary fountains to lend their aid. Then, for the first time, a vessel filled with armed warriors floated on the stream of the Tiber. The river smoothed its waves and bade its current flow gently, while, impelled by the vigorous strokes of the rowers, the vessel shot rapidly up the stream. About the middle of the day they came in sight of the scattered buildings of the infant town where in after times the proud city of Rome grew, whose glory reached the skies. By chance the old king, Evander, was that day celebrating annual solemnities in honor of Hercules and all the gods. Pallas, his son, and all the chiefs of the little commonwealth stood by. When they saw the tall ship gliding onward through the wood, they were alarmed at the sight, and rose from the tables. But Pallas forbade the solemnities to be interrupted, and seizing a weapon, stepped forward to the river's bank. He called aloud, demanding who they were and what was their object. AEneas, holding forth an olive- branch, replied, "We are Trojans, friends to you and enemies to the Rutulians. We seek Evander, and offer to join our arms with yours." Pallas, in amazement at the sound of so great a name, invited them to land, and when AEneas touched the shore he seized his hand and held it long in friendly grasp. Proceeding through the wood they joined the king and his party, and were most favorably received. Seats were provided for them at the tables, and the repast proceeded. When the solemnities were ended all moved towards the city. The king, bending with age, walked between his son and AEneas, taking the arm of one or the other of them, and with much variety of pleasing talk shortening the way. AEneas looked and listened with delight, observing all the beauties of the scene, and learning much of heroes renowned in ancient times. Evander said, "These extensive groves were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs, and a rude race of men who sprang from the trees themselves, and had neither laws nor social culture. They knew not how to yoke the cattle nor raise a harvest, nor provide from present abundance for future want; but browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, or fed voraciously on their hunted prey. Such were they when Saturn, expelled from Olympus by his sons, came among them and drew together the fierce savages, formed them into society, and gave them laws. Such peace and plenty ensued that men ever since have called his reign the golden age; but by degrees far other times succeeded, and the thirst of gold and the thirst of blood prevailed. The land was a prey to successive tyrants, till fortune and resistless destiny brought me hither, an exile from my native land, Arcadia." Having thus said, he showed him the Tarpeian rock, and the rude spot then overgrown with bushes where in after times the Capitol rose in all its magnificence. He next pointed to some dismantled walls, and said, "Here stood Janiculum, built by Janus, and there Saturnia, the town of Saturn." Such discourse brought them to the cottage of poor Evander, whence they saw the lowing herds roaming over the plain where now the proud and stately Forum stands. They entered, and a couch was spread for AEneas, well stuffed with leaves and covered with the skin of the Libyan bear. Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves of his low mansion, old Evander rose. Clad in a tunic, and a panther's skin thrown over his shoulders, with sandals on his feet, and his good sword girded to his side, he went forth to seek his guest. Two mastiffs followed him, his whole retinue and body-guard. He round the hero attended by his faithful Achates, and, Pallas soon joining them, the old king spoke thus: "Illustrious Trojan, it is but little we can do in so great a cause. Our state is feeble, hemmed in on one side by the river, on the other by the Rutulians. But I propose to ally you with a people numerous and rich, to whom fate has brought you at the propitious moment. The Etruscans hold the country beyond the river. Mezentius was their king, a monster of cruelty, who invented unheard-of torments to gratify his vengeance. He would fasten the dead to the living, hand to hand and face to face, and leave the wretched victims to die in that dreadful embrace. At length the people cast him out, him and his house. They burned his palace and slew his friends. He escaped and took refuge with Turnus, who protects him with arms. The Etruscans' demand that he shall be given up to deserved punishment, and would ere now have attempted to enforce their demand; but their priests restrain then, telling them that it is the will of heaven that no native of the land shall guide them to victory, and that their destined leader must come from across the sea. They have offered the crown to me, but I am too old to undertake such great affairs, and my son is native-born, which precludes him from the choice. You, equally by birth and time of life, and fame in arms, pointed out by the gods, have but to appear to be hailed as their leader. With you I will join Pallas, my son, my only hope and comfort. Under you he shall learn the art of war, and strive to emulate your great exploits." Then the king ordered horses to be furnished for the Trojan chiefs, and AEneas, with a chosen band of followers and Pallas accompanying, mounted and took the way to the Etruscan city, having sent back the rest of his party in the ships. AEneas and his band safely arrived at the Etruscan camp and were received with open arms by Tarchon, the Etruscan leader, and his countrymen. NISUS AND EURYALUS In the meanwhile Turnus had collected his bands and made all necessary preparations for the war. Juno sent Iris to him with a message inciting him to take advantage of the absence of AEneas and surprise the Trojan camp. Accordingly the attempt was made, but the Trojans were found on their guard, and having received strict orders from AEneas not to fight in his absence, they lay still in their intrenchments, and resisted all the efforts of the Rutulians to draw them in to the field. Night coming on, the army of Turnus in high spirits at their fancied superiority, feasted and enjoyed themselves, and finally stretched themselves on the field and slept secure. In the camp of the Trojans things were far otherwise. There all was watchfulness and anxiety, and impatience for AEneas's return. Nisus stood guard at the entrance of the camp, and Euryalus, a youth distinguished above all in the army for graces of person and fine qualities, was with him. These two were friends and brothers in arms. Nisus said to his friend, "Do you perceive what confidence and carelessness the enemy display? Their lights are few and dim, and the men seem all oppressed with wine or sleep. You know how anxiously our chiefs wish to send to AEneas, and to get intelligence from him. Now I am strongly moved to make my way through the enemy's camp and to go in search of our chief. If I succeed, the glory of the deed will be enough reward for me, and if they judge the service deserves anything more, let them pay it to you." Euryalus, all on fire with the love of adventure, replied, "Would you then, Nisus, refuse to share your enterprise with me? And shall I let you go into such danger alone? Not so my brave father brought me up, nor so have I planned for myself when I joined the standard of AEneas, and resolved to hold my life cheap in comparison with honor." Nisus replied, "I doubt it not, my friend; but you know the uncertain event of such an undertaking, and whatever may happen to me, I wish you to be safe. You are younger than I and have more of life in prospect. Nor can I be the cause of such grief to your mother, who has chosen to be here in the camp with you rather than stay and live in peace with the other matrons in Acestes' city." Euryalus replied, "Say no more. In vain you seek arguments to dissuade me. I am fixed in the resolution to go with you. Let us lose no time." They called the guard, and committing the watch to them, sought the general's tent. They found the chief officers in consultation, deliberating how they should send notice to AEneas of their situation. The offer of the two friends was gladly accepted, they themselves were loaded with praises and promised the most liberal rewards in case of success. Iulus especially addressed Euryalus, assuring him of his lasting friendship. Euryalus replied, "I have but one boon to ask. My aged mother is with me in the camp. For me she left the Trojan soil, and would not stay behind with the other matrons at the city of Acestes. I go now without taking leave of her. I could not bear her tears nor set at nought he entreaties. But do thou, I beseech thee, comfort her in her distress. Promise me that, and I shall go more boldly into whatever dangers may present themselves." Iulus and the other chiefs were moved to tears, and promised to do all his request. "Your mother shall be mine," said Iulus, "and all that I have promised to you shall be made good to her, if you do not return to receive it." The two friends left the camp and plunged at once into the midst of the enemy. They found no watch, no sentinels posted, but all about, the sleeping soldiers strewn on the grass and among the wagons. The laws of war at that early day did not forbid a brave man to slay a sleeping foe, and the two Trojans slew, as they passed, such of the enemy as they could without exciting alarm. In one tent Euryalus made prize of a helmet brilliant with gold and plumes. They had passed through the enemy's ranks without being discovered, but now suddenly appeared a troop directly in front of them, which, under Volscens, their leader, were approaching the camp. The glittering helmet of Euryalus caught their attention, and Volscens hailed the two, and demanded who and whence they were. They made no answer, but plunged into the wood. The horsemen scattered in all directions to intercept their flight. Nisus had eluded pursuit and was out of danger, but Euryalus being missing he turned back to seek him. He again entered the wood and soon came within sound of voices. Looking through the thicket he saw the whole band surrounding Euryalus with noisy questions. What should he do? How extricate the youth? Or would it be better to die with him? Raising his eyes to the moon which now shone clear, he said, "Goddess! Favor my effort!" And aiming his javelin at one of the leaders of the troop, struck him in the back and stretched him on the plain with a death-blow. In the midst of their amazement another weapon flew, and another of the party fell dead. Volscens, the leader, ignorant whence the darts came, rushed sword in hand upon Euryalus. "You shall pay the penalty of both," he said, and would have plunged the sword into his bosom, when Nisus, who from his concealment saw the peril of his friend, rushed forward, exclaiming, "'Twas I, 'twas I; turn your swords against me, Rutulians; I did it; he only followed me as a friend." While he spoke the sword fell, and pierced the comely bosom of Euryalus. His head fell over on his shoulder, like a flower cut down by the plough. Nisus rushed upon Volscens and plunged his sword into his body, and was himself slain on the instant by numberless blows. MEZENTIUS AEneas, with his Etrurian allies, arrived on the scene of action in time to rescue his beleaguered camp; and now the two armies being nearly equal in strength, the war began in good earnest. We cannot find space for all the details, but must simply record the fate of the principal characters whom we have introduced to our readers. The tyrant Mezentius, finding himself engaged against his revolted subjects, raged like a wild beast. He slew all who dared to withstand him, and put the multitude to flight wherever he appeared. At last he encountered AEneas, and the armies stood still to see the issue. Mezentius threw his spear, which striking AEneas's shield glanced off and hit Anthor. He was a Grecian by birth, who had left Argos, his native city, and followed Evander into Italy. The poet says of him, with simple pathos which has made the words proverbial, "He fell, unhappy, by a wound intended for another, looked up to the skies, and dying remembered sweet Argos." AEneas now in turn hurled his lance. It pierced the shield of Mezentius, and wounded him in the thigh. Lausus, his son, could not bear the sight, but rushed forward and interposed himself, while the followers pressed round Mezentius and bore him away. AEneas held his sword suspended over Lausus and delayed to strike, but the furious youth pressed on and he was compelled to deal the fatal blow. Lausus fell, and AEneas bent over him in pity. "Hapless youth," he said, "what can I do for you worthy of your praise? Keep those arms in which you glory, and fear not but that your body shall be restored to your friends, and have due funeral honors." So saying, he called the timid followers, and delivered the body into their hands. Mezentius meanwhile had been borne to the river-side, and washed his wound. Soon the news reached him of Lausus's death, and rage and despair supplied the place of strength. He mounted his horse and dashed into the thickest of the fight, seeking AEneas. Having found him, he rode round him in a circle, throwing one javelin after another, while Aeneas stood fenced with his shield, turning every way to meet them. At last, after Mezentius had three times made the circuit, AEneas threw his lance directly at the horse's head. It pierced his temples and he fell, while a shout from both armies rent the skies. Mezentius asked no mercy, but only that his body might be spared the insults of his revolted subjects, and be buried in the same grave with his son. He received the fatal stroke not unprepared, and poured out his life and his blood together. While these things were doing in one part of the field, in another Turnus encountered the youthful Pallas. The contest between champions so unequally matched could not be doubtful. Pallas bore himself bravely, but fell by the lance of Turnus. The victor almost relented when he saw the brave youth lying dead at his feet, and spared to use the privilege of a conqueror in despoiling him of his arms. The belt only, adorned with studs and carvings of gold, he took and clasped round his own body. The rest he remitted to the friends of the slain. After the battle there was a cessation of arms for some days to allow both armies to bury their dead. In this interval AEneas challenged Turnus to decide the contest by single combat, but Turnus evaded the challenge. Another battle ensued, in which Camilla, the virgin warrior, was chiefly conspicuous. Her deeds of valor surpassed those of the bravest warriors, and many Trojans and Etruscans fell pierced with her darts or struck down by her battle-axe. At last an Etruscan named Aruns, who had watched her long, seeking for some advantage, observed her pursuing a flying enemy whose splendid armor offered a tempting prize. Intent on the chase she observed not her danger, and the javelin of Aruns struck her and inflicted a fatal wound. She fell and breathed her last in the arms of her attendant maidens. But Diana, who beheld her fate, suffered not her slaughter to be unavenged. Aruns, as he stole away, glad but frightened, was struck by a secret arrow, launched by one of the nymphs of Diana's train, and died ignobly and unknown. At length the final conflict took place between AEneas and Turnus. Turnus had avoided the contest as long as he could, but at last impelled by the ill success of his arms, and by the murmurs of his followers, he braced himself to the conflict. It could not be doubtful. On the side of AEneas were the expressed decree of destiny, the aid of his goddess-mother at every emergency, and impenetrable armor fabricated by Vulcan, at Venus' request, for her son. Turnus, on the other hand, was deserted by his celestial allies, Juno having been expressly forbidden by Jupiter to assist him any longer. Turnus threw his lance, but it recoiled harmless from the shield of AEneas. The Trojan hero then threw his, which penetrated the shield of Turnus, and pierced his thigh. Then Turnus' fortitude forsook him and he begged for mercy; and AEneas would have given him his life, but at the instant his eye fell on the belt of Pallas, which Turnus had taken from the slaughtered youth. Instantly his rage revived, and exclaiming, "Pallas immolates thee with this blow," he thrust him through with his sword. Here the AEneid closes, but the story goes that AEneas, having triumphed over his foes, obtained Lavinia as his bride. His son Iulus founded the city of Alba Longa. He, and his descendants after him, reigned over the town for many years. At length Numitor and Amulius, two brothers, quarrelled about the kingdom. Amulius seized the crown by force, cast out Numitor, and made his daughter, Rhea Silvia, a Vestal Virgin. The Vestal Virgins, the priestesses of the goddess Vesta, were sworn to celibacy. But Rhea Silvia broke her vow, and gave birth, by the god Mars, to the twins, Romulus and Remus. For this offence she was buried alive, the usual punishment accorded to unfaithful Vestals, while the children were exposed on the river Tiber. Romulus and Remus, however, were rescued by a herdsman, and were educated among the shepherds in ignorance of their parentage. But chance revealed it to them. They collected a band of friends, and took revenge on their granduncle for the murder of their mother. Afterwards they founded, by the side of the river Tiber, where they had been exposed in infancy, the city of Rome. Chapter XXVII Pythagoras. Egyptian Deities. Oracles The teachings of Anchises to AEneas, respecting the nature of the human soul, were in conformity with the doctrines of the Pythagoreans. Pythagoras (born, perhaps, about five hundred and forty years B.C.) was a native of the island of Samos, but passed the chief portion of his life at Crotona in Italy. He is therefore sometimes called "the Samian," and sometimes "the philosopher of Crotona." When young he travelled extensively and is said to have visited Egypt, where he was instructed by the priests in all their learning, and afterwards journeyed to the East, and visited the Persian and Chaldean Magi, and the Brahmins of India. But Pythagoras left no writings which have been preserved. His immediate disciples were under a pledge of secrecy. Though he is referred to by many writers, at times not far distant from his own, we have no biography of him written earlier than the end of the second century of our era. In the interval between his life and this time, every sort of fable collected around what was really known of his life and teaching. At Crotona, where he finally established himself, it is said that his extraordinary qualities collected round him a great number of disciples. The inhabitants were notorious for luxury and licentiousness, but the good effects of his influence were soon visible. Sobriety and temperance succeeded. Six hundred of the inhabitants became his disciples and enrolled themselves in a society to aid each other in the pursuit of wisdom; uniting their property in one common stock, for the benefit of the whole. They were required to practise the greatest purity and simplicity of manners. The first lesson they learned was SILENCE; for a time they were required to be only hearers. "He (Pythagoras) said so," (Ipse dixit,) was to be held by them as sufficient, without any proof. It was only the advanced pupils, after years of patient submission, who were allowed to ask questions and to state objections. Pythagoras is said to have considered NUMBERS as the essence and principle of all things, and attributed to them a real and distinct existence; so that, in his view, they were the elements out of which the universe was constructed. How he conceived this process has never been satisfactorily explained. He traced the various forms and phenomena of the world to numbers as their basis and essence. The "Monad," or UNIT, he regarded as the source of all numbers. The number TWO was imperfect, and the cause of increase and division. THREE was called the number of the whole, because it had a beginning, middle, and end; FOUR, representing the square, is in the highest degree perfect; and TEN, as it contains the sum of the first three prime numbers (2+3+5=10. ONE is not counted, as being rather the source of number than a number itself) comprehends all musical and arithmetical proportions, and denotes the system of the world. As the numbers proceed frm the Monad, so he regarded the pure and simple essence of the Deity as the source of all the forms of nature. Gods, demons, and heroes are emanations of the Supreme; and there is a fourth emanation, the human soul. This is immortal, and when freed from the fetters of the body, passes to the habitation of the dead, where it remains till it returns to the world to dwell in some other human or animal body, and at last, when sufficiently purified, it returns to the source from which it proceeded. This doctrine of the transmigration of souls (metempsychosis), which was first Indian and Egyptian, and connected with the doctrine of reward and punishment of human actions, was the chief cause why the Pythagoreans killed no animals. Ovid represents Pythagoras addressing his disciples in these words: "Souls never die, but always on quitting one abode pass to another. I myself can remember that in the time of the Trojan was I was Euphorbus, the son of Panthus, and fell by the spear of Menelaus. Lately, being in the temple of Juno, at Argos, I recognized my shield hung up there among the trophies. All things change, nothing perishes. The soul passes hither and thither, occupying now this body, now that, passing from the body of a beast into that of a man, and thence to a beast's again. As wax is stamped with certain figures, then melted, then stamped anew with others, yet is always the same wax, so the soul, being always the same, yet wears at different times different forms. Therefore, if the love of kindred is not extinct in your bosoms, forbear, I entreat you, to violate the life of those who may haply be your own relatives." Shakespeare, in the Merchant of Venice, makes Gratiano allude to the metempsychosis, where he says to Shylock: "Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men; thy currish spirit Governed a wolf; who hanged for human slaughter Infused his soul in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous." The relation of the notes of the musical scale to numbers, whereby harmony results from vibrations in equal times, and discord from the reverse, led Pythagoras to apply the word "harmony" to the visible creation, meaning by it the just adaptation of parts to each other. This is the idea which Dryden expresses in the beginning of his song for St. Cecilia's Day: "From harmony, from heavenly harmony This everlasting frame began; From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The Diapason closing full in Man." In the centre of the universe (as Pythagoras taught) there was a central fire, the principle of life. The central fire was surrounded by the earth, the moon, the sun, and the five planets. The distances of the various heavenly bodies from one another were conceived to correspond to the proportions of the musical scale. The heavenly bodies, with the gods who inhabited them, were supposed to perform a choral dance round the central fire, "not without song." It is this doctrine which Shakespeare alludes to when he makes Lorenzo teach astronomy to Jessica in this fashion: "Sit, Jessica, look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold! There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st But in this motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim; Such harmony is in immortal souls! But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in we cannot hear it." Merchant of Venice The spheres were conceived to be crystalline or glassy fabrics arranged over one another like a nest of bowls reversed. In the substance of each sphere one or more of the heavenly bodies was supposed to be fixed, so as to move with it. As the spheres are transparent, we look through them, and see the heavenly bodies which they contain and carry round with them. But as these spheres cannot move on one another without friction, a sound is thereby produced which is of exquisite harmony, too fine for mortal ears to recognize. Milton, in his Hymn to the Nativity, thus alludes to the music of the spheres: "Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears; (If ye have power to charm our senses so); And let your silver chime Move in melodious time, And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow: And with your nine-fold harmony Make up full concert with the angelic symphony." Pythagoras is said to have invented the lyre, of which other fables give the invention to Mercury. Our own poet, Longfellow, in Verses to a Child, thus relates the story: "As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers as they smote The Anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire, A nd formed the seven-chorded lyre." See also the same poet's Occultation of Orion: "The Samian's great AEolian lyre." SYBARIS AND CROTONA Sybaris, a neighboring city to Crotona, was as celebrated for luxury and effeminacy as Crotona for the reverse. The name has become proverbial. Lowell uses it in this sense in his charming little poem To the Dandelion: "Not in mild June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, (His conquered Sybaris) than I when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst." A war arose between the two cities, and Sybaris was conquered and destroyed. Milo, the celebrated athlete, led the army of Crotona. Many stories are told of Milo's vast strength, such as his carrying a heifer of four years old upon his shoulders, and afterwards eating the whole of it in a single day. The mode of his death is thus related: As he was passing through a forest he saw the trunk of a tree which had been partially split open by wood-cutters, and attempted to rend it further; but the wood closed upon his hands and held him fast, in which state he was attacked and devoured by wolves. Byron, in his Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte, alludes to the story of Milo: "He who of old would rend the oak Deemed not of the rebound; Chained by the trunk he vainly broke, Alone, how looked he round!" EGYPTIAN DEITIES The remarkable discovery by which Champollion the younger (so called to distinguish him from his older brother, Champollion Figeac, who also studied the hieroglyphics)) first opened to modern times the secret of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, has been followed up by laborious studies, which tell us more of Egyptian worship and mythology, with more precision, than we know of any other ancient religion but that of the Hebrews. We have even great numbers of copies of the liturgies, or handbooks of worship, of funeral solemnities, and other rituals, which have been diligently translated. And we have a sufficient body of the literature written and used by the priesthood. These discoveries give to writers of this generation a much fuller knowledge of the Egyptian religion, of its forms, and of the names of its gods, than they had before. It is impossible, and probably always will be, to state with precision the theology on which it rested. It is impossible, because that theology was different in one time and with one school from what it was at other times. Mr. S. Birch, of the British Museum, says, "The religion of the Egyptians consisted of an extended polytheism represented by a system of local groups." But Mr. Pierret says, "The polytheism of the monuments is but an outward show. The innumerable gods of the Pantheon are but manifestations of the One Being in his various capacities. Mariette Bey says, "The one result is that according to the Egyptians, the universe was God himself, and that Pantheism formed the foundation of their religion." In this book it is not necessary to reconcile views so diverse, nor indeed to enter on studies so profound as those which should decide between them. For our purpose here it is enough to know that the Sun was the older object of worship, and in his various forms rising, midday, or setting was adored under different names. Frequently his being and these names were united to the types of other deities. Mr. Birch believes that the worship of Osiris prevailed largely beside the worship of the Sun, and is not to be confounded with it. To Osiris, Set, the Egyptian devil, was opposed. The original God, the origin of all things, manifests himself to men, in lesser forms, according to this mythology, more and more human and less and less intangible. These forms are generally triads, and resolve themselves into a male deity, a female deity, and their child. Triad after triad brings the original Divinity into forms more and more earthly, till at last we find "that we have no longer to do with the infinite and intangible God of the earliest days, but rather with a God of flesh and blood, who lives upon earth, and has so abased himself as to be no more than a human king. It is no longer the God of whom no man knew either the form or the substance: it is Kneph at Esneh, Hathor at Durderah, Horus, king of the divine dynasty at Edfoo." These words are M. Maspero's. The Greek and Latin poets and philosophers, as they made some very slight acquaintance with Egyptian worship, give Greek or Latin names to the divinities worshipped. Thus we sometimes hear Osiris spoken of as the Egyptian Hermes. But such changes of names are confusing, and are at best but fanciful (In the same way Plutarch, a Greek writer, says of the Jews' Feast of Tabernacles, "I know that their God is our Bacchus." This was merely from the vines, vine leaves and wine used in the ceremonies.) It would happen sometimes, in later times, that a fashion of religion would carry the worship of one God or Goddess to a distance. Thus the worship of Isis became fashionable in Rome in the time of Nero and Paul, as readers of Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii will remember. The latest modern literature occasionally uses the Egyptian names, as the last two centuries have disinterred them from the inscriptions on the monuments, and from the manuscripts in the tombs. Earlier English writers generally use the names like Osiris, Anubis, and others found in Latin and Greek writers. The following statement as to these deities and their names is from Mr. Birch: "The deities of ancient Egypt consist of celestial, terrestrial, and infernal gods, and of many inferior personages, either representatives of the greater gods or attendants on them. Most of the gods were connected with the sun, and represented that luminary through the upper hemisphere or Heaven and the lower hemisphere or Hades. To the deities of the solar cycle belonged the great gods of Thebes and Heliopolis. In the local worship of Egypt the deities were arranged in local triads; thus at Memphis, Ptah, his wife Merienptah, and their son Nefer Atum, formed a triad, to which was sometimes added the goddess Bast or Bubastis. At Abydos the local triad was Osiris, Isis, and Horus, with Nephthys; at Thebes, Amen Ra or Ammon, Mut and Chons, with Neith; at Elephantine, Kneph, Anuka, Sati, and Hak. In most instances the names of the gods are Egyptian; thus, Ptah meant 'the opener'; Amen, 'the concealed'; Ra, 'the sun or day'; Athor, 'the house of Horus';' but some few, especially of later times, were introduced from Semitic sources, as Bal or Baal, Astaruta or Astarte, Khen or Kiun, Respu or Reseph. Besides the principal gods, several inferior or parhedral gods, sometimes personifications of the faculties, senses, and other objects, are introduced into the religious system, and genii, spirits or personified souls of deities formed part of the same. At a period subsequent to their first introduction the gods were divided into three orders. The first or highest comprised eight deities, who were different in the Memphian and Theban systems. They were supposed to have reigned over Egypt before the time of mortals. The eight gods of the first order at Memphis were 1. Ptah; 2. Shu; 3. Tefnu; 4. Seb; 5. Nut; 6. Osiris; 7. Isis and Horus; 8. Athor. Those of Thebes were 1. Amen Ra; 2. Mentu; 3. Atum; 4. Shu and Tefnu; 5. Seb; 6. Osiris; 7. Set and Nepthys; 8. Horus and Athor. The gods of the second order were twelve in number, but the name of one only, an Egyptian Hercules, has been preserved. The third order is stated to have comprised Osiris, who, it will be seen, belonged to the first order." GUIDE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND EGYPTIAN ROOMS, BRITISH MUSEUM. S. Birch Miss Edwards gives the following convenient register of the names most familiar among the Egyptian gods (in her very interesting book, "A Thousand Miles up the Nile"). PHTAH or PTAH: In form a mummy, holding the emblem called by some the Nilometer, by others the emblem of Stability, called "the father of the Beginning, the Creator of the Egg of the Sun and Moon," Chief Deity of Memphis. KNEPH, KNOUM or KNOUPHIS: Ram-headed, called the Maker of gods and men, the Soul of the gods. Chief Deity of Elephantine and the Cataracts. RA: Hawk-headed, and crowned with the sun-disc, encircled by an asp. The divine disposer and organizer of the world; adored throughout Egypt. AMEN RA: Of human form, crowned with a flat-topped cap and two long, straight plumes; clothed in the schenti; his flesh sometimes painted blue. There are various forms of this god (there were almost as many varieties of Ammon in Egypt as there are varieties of the Madonna in Italy or Spain), but he is most generally described as King of the Gods, chief deity of Thebes. KHEM: Of human form, mummified; wears head-dress of Amen Ra; his right hand uplifted, holding a flail. The god of productiveness and generation. Chief deity of Khemmis, or Ekhmeem. OSIRIS: Of human form, mummified, crowned with a mitre, and holding the flail and crook. Called the Good; the Lord above all; the one lord. Was the god of the lower world; judge of the dead; and representative of the sun below the horizon. Adored through Egypt. Local deity of Abydos. NEFER ATUM: Human-headed, and crowned with the pschent. This god represented the nocturnal sun, or the sun lighting the lower world. Local deity of Heliopolis. THOTH: In form a man, ibis-headed, generally depicted with the pen and palette of a scribe. Was the god of the moon, and of letters. Local deity of Sesoon, or Hermopolit. SEB: The "Father of the Gods," and deity of terrestrial vegetation. In form like a man with a goose upon his head. SET: Represented by a symbolic animal, with a muzzle and ears like a jackal, the body of an ass, and an upright tail, like the tail of a lion. Was originally a warlike god, and became in later times the symbol of evil and the enemy of Osiris. KHONS: Hawk-headed, crowned with the sun-disc and horns. Is sometimes represented as a youth with the side-lock, standing on a crocodile. HORUS: Horus appears variously as Horus, Horus Aroeris, and Horus Harpakhrat (Hippocrates), or Horus the child. Is represented under the first two forms as a man, hawk-headed, wearing the double crown of Egypt; in the latter as a child with the side- lock. Local deity of Edfoo (Apollinopolis Magna). MAUT: A woman draped, and crowned with the pschent (the pschent was a double crown, worn by the king at his coronation), representing a vulture. Adored at Thebes. NEITH: A woman draped, holding sometimes a bow and arrows, crowned with the crown of Lower Egypt. She presided over war, and the loom. Worshipped at Thebes. ISIS: A woman crowned with the sun-disc surmounted by a throne, and sometimes enclosed between horns. Adored at Abydos. Her soul resided in Sothis on the Dog-star. NUT: A woman so bent that her hands touched the earth. She represents the vault of heaven, and is the mother of the gods. HATHOR: Cow-headed, and crowned with the disc and plumes. Deity of Amenti, or the Egyptian Hades. Worshipped at Denderah. PASHT: Pasht and Bast appear to be two forms of the same goddess. As Bast she is represented as a woman, lion-headed, with the disc and uroeus; as Pasht she is cat-headed, and holds a sistrum. Adored at Bubastis. Observe the syllable BAST. The highest visible deity of the Egyptians was Amun Ra, or Amen Ra, the concealed sun; the word Ra signifying the sun. This name appears in the Greek and Latin writers as Zeus Ammon and Jupiter Ammon. When Amun manifests himself by his word, will or spirit, he is known as Nu, Num, Noub, Nef, Neph, or Kneph, and this word Kneph through the form Cnuphis is, perhaps, the Anubis of the Greek and Latin authors. That word has not been found earlier than the time of Augustus. Anubis was then worshipped as the guardian god, and represented with a dog's head. The soul of Osiris was supposed to exist in some way in the sacred bull Apis, of which Serapis or Sarapis is probably another name. "Apis," says Herodotus, "is a young bull, whose hair is black, on his forehead a white triangle, -- on his back an eagle, with a beetle under his tongue and with the hair of his tail double." Ovid says he is of various colors. Plutarch says he has a crescent on his right side. These superstitions varied from age to age. Apis was worshipped in Memphis. It must be observed, in general, that the names in the Latin classics belong to a much later period of the Egyptian religion than the names found on most of the monuments. It will be found, that, as in the change from Nu to Anubis, it is difficult to trace the progress of a name from one to the other. In the cases where an ox, a ram, or a dog is worshipped with, or as a symbol of, a god, we probably have the survival of a very early local idolatry. Horus or Harpocrates, named above, was the son of Osiris. He is sometimes represented, seated on a Lotus-flower, with his finger on his lips, as the god of silence. In one of Moore's Irish Melodies is an allusion to Harpocrates: - "Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: Like him, the boy, who born among The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits over thus, his only song To Earth and Heaven, "Hush, all, hush!" MYTH OF OSIRIS AND ISIS Osiris and Isis were at one time induced to descend to the earth to bestow gifts and blessings on its inhabitants. Isis showed them first the use of wheat and barley, and Osiris made the instruments of agriculture and taught men the use of them, as well as how to harness the ox to the plough. He then gave men laws, the institution of marriage, a civil organization, and taught them how to worship the gods. After he had thus made the valley of the Nile a happy country, he assembled a host with which he went to bestow his blessings upon the rest of the world. He conquered the nations everywhere, but not with weapons, only with music and eloquence. His brother Typhon (Typhon is supposed to be the Seth of the monuments) saw this, and filled with envy and malice sought, during his absence, to usurp his throne. But Isis, who held the reins of government, frustrated his plans. Still more embittered, he now resolved to kill his brother. This he did in the following manner: Having organized a conspiracy of seventy-two members, he went with them to the feast which was celebrated in honor of the king's return. He then caused a box or chest to be brought in, which had been made to fit exactly the size of Osiris, and declared that he would give that chest of precious wood to whosoever could get into it. The rest tried in vain, but no sooner was Osiris in it than Typhon and his companions closed the lid and flung the chest into the Nile. When Isis heard of the cruel murder she wept and mourned, and then with her hair shorn, clothed in black and beating her breast, she sought diligently for the body of her husband. In this search she was assisted by Anubis, the son of Osiris and Nephthys. They sought in vain for some time; for when the chest, carried by the waves to the shores of Byblos, had become entangled in the reeds that grew at the edge of the water, the divine power that dwelt in the body of Osiris imparted such strength to the shrub that it grew into a mighty tree, enclosing in its trunk the coffin of the god. This tree, with its sacred deposit, was shortly afterward felled, and erected as a column in the palace of the king of Phoenicia. But at length, by the aid of Anubis and the sacred birds, Isis ascertained these facts, and then went to the royal city. There she offered herself at the palace as a servant, and being admitted, threw off her disguise and appeared as the goddess, surrounded with thunder and lightning. Striking the column with her wand, she caused it to split open and give up the sacred coffin. This she seized and returned with it, and concealed it in the depth of a forest, but Typhon discovered it, and cutting the body into fourteen pieces, scattered them hither and thither. After a tedious search, Isis found thirteen pieces, the fishes of the Nile having eaten the other. This she replaced by an imitation of sycamore wood, and buried the body at Philoe, which became ever after the great burying place of the nation, and the spot to which pilgrimages were made from all parts of the country. A temple of surpassing magnificence was also erected there in honor of the god, and at every place where one of his limbs had been found, minor temples and tombs were built to commemorate the event. Osiris became after that the tutelar deity of the Egyptians. His soul was supposed always to inhabit the body of the bull Apis, and at his death to transfer itself to his successor. Apis, the Bull of Memphis, was worshipped with the greatest reverence by the Egyptians. As soon as a bull marked with the marks which have been described, was found by those sent in search of him, he was placed in a building facing the east, and was fed with milk for four months. At the expiration of this term the priests repaired at new moon with great pomp, to his habitation, and saluted him Apis. He was placed in a vessel magnificently decorated and conveyed down the Nile to Memphis, where a temple, with two chapels and a court for exercise, was assigned to him. Sacrifices were made to him, and once every year, about the time when the Nile began to rise, a golden cup was thrown into the river, and a grand festival was held to celebrate his birthday. The people believed that during this festival the crocodiles forgot their natural ferocity and became harmless. There was however one drawback to his happy lot; he was not permitted to live beyond a certain period; and if when he had attained the age of twenty-five years, he still survived, the priests drowned him in the sacred cistern, and then buried him in the temple of Serapis. On the death of this bull, whether it occurred in the course of nature or by violence, the whole land was filled with sorrow and lamentations, which lasted until his successor was found. A new Apis was found as late as the reign of Hadrian. A mummy made from one of the Sacred Bulls may be seen in the Egyptian collection of the Historical Society, New York. Milton, in his Hymn of the Nativity, alludes to the Egyptian deities, not as imaginary beings, but as real demons put to flight by the coming of Christ: "The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Horus and the dog Anubis haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green Trampling the unshowered* grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud. In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark." *(There being no rain in Egypt, the grass is "unshowered," and the country depends for its fertility upon the overflowings of the Nile. The ark alluded to in the last line is shown by pictures still remaining on the walls of the Egyptian temples to have been borne by the priests in their religious processions. It probably represented the chest in which Osiris was placed.) Isis was represented in statuary with the head veiled, a symbol of mystery. It is this which Tennyson alludes to in Maud, 0V.8 "For the drift of te Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil." ORACLES Oracle was the name used to denote the place where answers were supposed to be given by any of the divinities to those who consulted them respecting the future. The word was also used to signify the response which was given. The most ancient Grecian oracle was that of Jupiter at Dodona. According to one account it was established in the following manner. Two black doves took their flight from Thebes in Egypt. One flew to Dodona in Epirus and alighting in a grove of oaks, it proclaimed in human language to the inhabitants of the district that they must establish there an oracle of Jupiter. The other dove flew to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the Libyan oasis, and delivered a similar command there. Another account is, that they were not doves, but priestesses, who were carried off from Thebes in Egypt by the Phoenicians, and set up oracles at Oasis and Dodona. The responses of the oracle were given from the trees, by the branches rustling in the wind, the sounds being interpreted by the priests. But the most celebrated of the Grecian oracles was that of Apollo at Delphi, a city built on the slopes of Parnassus in Phocis. It had been observed at a very early period that the goats feeding on Parnassus were thrown into convulsions when they approached a certain long deep cleft in the side of the mountain. This was owing to a peculiar vapor arising out of the cavern, and one of the goatherds was induced to try its effects upon himself. Inhaling the intoxicating air he was affected in the same manner as the cattle had been, and the inhabitants of the surrounding country, unable to explain the circumstance, imputed the convulsive ravings to which he gave utterance while under the power of the exhalations, to a divine inspiration. The fact was speedily circulated widely, and a temple was erected on the spot. The prophetic influence was at first variously attributed to the goddess Earth, to Neptune, Themis, and others, but it was at length assigned to Apollo, and to him alone. A priestess was appointed whose office it was to inhale the hallowed air, and who was named the Pythia. She was prepared for this duty by previous ablution at the fountain of Castalia, and being crowned with laurel was seated upon a tripod similarly adorned, which was placed over the chasm whence the divine afflatus proceeded. Her inspired words while thus situated were interpreted by the priests. ORACLE OF TROPHONIUS Besides the oracles of Jupiter and Apollo, at Dodona and Delphi, that of Trophonius in Boeotia was held in high estimation. Trophonius and Agamedes were brothers. They were distinguished architechts, and built the temple of Apollo at Delphi, and a treasury for King Hyrieus. In the wall of the treasury they placed a stone, in such a manner that it could be taken out; and by this means from time to time purloined the treasure. This amazed Hyrieus, for his locks and seals were untouched, and yet his wealth, continually diminished. At length he set a trap for the thief and Agamedes was caught. Trophonius unable to extricate him, and fearing that when found he would be compelled by torture to discover his accomplice, cut off his head. Trophonius himself is said to have been shortly afterwards swallowed up by the earth. The oracle of Trophonius was at Lebadea in Boeotia. During a great drought the Boeotians, it is said, were directed by the god at Delphi to seek aid of Trophonius at Lebadea. They came thither, but could find no oracle. One of them, however, happening to see a swarm of bees, followed them to a chasm in the earth, which proved to be the place sought. Peculiar ceremonies were to be performed by the person who came to consult the oracle. After these preliminaries, he descended into the cave by a narrow passage. This place could be entered only in the night. The person returned from the cave by the same narrow passage, but walking backwards. He appeared melancholy and dejected; and hence the proverb which was applied to a person low-spirited and gloomy, "He has been consulting the oracle of Trophonius." ORACLE OF AESCULAPIUS There were numerous oracles of Aesculapius, but the most celebrated one was at Epidaurus. Here the sick sought responses and the recovry of their health by sleeping in the temple. It has been inferred from the accounts that have come down to us, that the treatment of the sick resembled what is now called Animal Magnetism or Mesmerism. Serpents were sacred to Aesculapius, probably because of a superstition that those animals have a faculty of renewing their youth by a change of skin. The worship of Aesculapius was introduced into Rome in a time of great sickness, and an embassy sent to the temple of Epidaurus to entreat the aid of the god. Aesculapius was propitious, and on the return of the ship accompanied it in the form of a serpent. Arriving in the river Tiber, the serpent glided from the vessel and took possession of an island in the river, and a temple was there erected to his honor. ORACLE OF APIS At Memphis the sacred bull Apis gave answer to those who consulted him, by the manner in which he received or rejected what was presented to him. If the bull refused food from the hand of the inquirer it was considered an unfavorable sign, and the contrary when he received it. It has been a question whether oracular responses ought to be ascribed to mere human contrivance or to the agency of evil spirits. The latter opinion has been most general in past ages. A third theory has been advanced since the phenomena of Mesmerism have attracted attention, that something like the mesmeric trance was induced in the Pythoness, and the faculty of clairvoyance really called into action. Another question is as to the time when the Pagan oracles ceased to give responses. Ancient Christian writers assert that they became silent at the birth of Christ, and were heard no more after that date. Milton adopts this view in his Hymn of the Nativity, and in lines of solemn and elevated beauty pictures the consternation of the heathen idols at the advent of the Saviour. "The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Rings through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell." In Cowper's poem of Yardley Oak there are some beautiful mythological allusions. The former of the two following is to the fable of Castor and Pollux; the latter is more appropriate to our present subject. Addressing the acorn he says, "Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod, Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins Now stars; two lobes protruding, paired exact; A leaf succeeded and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becam'st a twig. Who lived when thou was such? Oh, couldst thou speak As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past." Tennyson in his Talking Oak alludes to the oaks of Dodona in these lines: "And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has honored beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth In which the swarthy ring-dove sat And mystic sentence spoke." Byron alludes to the oracle of Delphi where, speaking of Rousseau, whose writings he conceives did much to bring on the French revolution, he says, "For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more." Chapter XXVIII Origin of Mythology Statues of Gods and Goddesses Poets of Mythology Having reached the close of our series of stories of Pagan mythology, an inquiry suggests itself. "Whence came these stories? Have they a foundation in truth, or are they simply dreams of the imagination?" Philosophers have suggested various theories on the subject of which we shall give three or four. 1. The Scriptural theory; according to which all mythological legends are derived from the narratives of Scripture, though the real facts have been disguised and altered. Thus Deucalion is only another name for Noah, Hercules for Samson, Arion for Jonah, etc. Sir Walter Raleigh, in his History of the World, says, "Jubal, Tubal, and Tubal-Cain were Mercury, Vulcan, and Apollo, inventors of Pasturage, Smithing, and Music. The Dragon which kept the golden apples was the serpent that beguiled Eve. Nimrod's tower was the attempt of the Giants against Heaven. There are doubtless many curious coincidences like these, but the theory cannot without extravagance be pushed so far as to account for any great proportion of the stories. 2. The Historical theory; according to which all the persons mentioned in mythology were once real human beings, and the legends and fabulous traditions relating to them are merely the additions and embellishments of later times. Thus the story of AEolus, the king and god of the winds, is supposed to have risen from the fact that AEolus was the ruler of some islands in the Tyrrhenian Sea, where he reigned as a just and pious king, and taught the natives the use of sails for ships, and how to tell from the signs of the atmosphere the changes of the weather and the winds. Cadmus, who, the legend says, sowed the earth with dragon's teeth, from which sprang a crop of armed men, was in fact an emigrant from Phoenicia, and brought with him into Greece the knowledge of the letters of the alphabet, which he taught to the natives. From these rudiments of learning sprung civilization, which the poets have always been prone to describe as a deterioration of man's first estate, the Golden Age of innocence and simplicity. 3. The Allegorical theory supposes that all the myths of the ancients were allegorical and symbolical, and contained some moral, religious, or philosophical truth or historical fact, under the form of an allegory, but came in process of time to be understood literally. Thus Saturn, who devours his own children, is the same power whom the Greeks called Kronos (Time), which may truly be said to destroy whatever it has brought into existence. The story of Io is interpreted in a similar manner. Io is the moon, and Argus the starry sky, which, as it were, keeps sleepless watch over her. The fabulous wanderings of Io represent the continual revolutions of the moon, which also suggested to Milton the same idea. "To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray In the heaven's wide, pathless way." Il Penseroso 4. The Astronomical theory supposes that the different stories are corrupted versions of astronomical statements, of which the true meaning was forgotten. This theory is pushed to its extreme by Dupuis, in his treatise "Sur tous les cultes." 5. The Physical theory, according to which the elements of air, fire, and water, were originally the objects of religious adoration, and the principal deities were personifications of the powers of nature. The transition was easy from a personification of the elements to the notion of supernatural beings presiding over and governing the different objects of nature. The Greeks, whose imagination was lively, peopled all nature with invisible beings, and supposed that every object, from the sun and sea to the smallest fountain and rivulet, was under the care of some particular divinity. Wordsworth, in his Excursion, has beautifully developed this view of Grecian mythology. "In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched On the soft grass through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose; And, in some fit of weariness, if he, When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear A distant strain far sweeter than the sounds Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched Even from the blazing chariot of the sun A beardless youth who touched a golden lute, And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. The mighty hunter, lifting up his eyes Toward the crescent Moon, with grateful heart Called on the lovely Wanderer who bestowed That timely light to share his joyous sport; And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs Across the lawn and through the darksome grove (Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes By echo multiplied from rock or cave) Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked The Naiad. Sunbeams upon distant hills Gliding apace with shadows in their train, Might with small help from fancy, be transformed Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings, Lacked not for love fair objects whom they wooed With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque, Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth In the low vale, or on steep mountain side; And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard; These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god." All the theories which have bene mentioned are true to a certain extent. It would therefore be more correct to say that the mythology of a nation has sprung from all these sources combined than from any one in particular. We may add also that there are many myths which have risen from the desire of man to account for those natural phenomena which he cannot understand; and not a few have had their rise from a similar desire of giving a reason for the names of places and persons. STATUES OF THE GODS Adequately to represent to the eye the ideas intended to be conveyed to the mind under the several names of deities, was a task which called into exercise the highest powers of genius and art. Of the many attempts FOUR have been most celebrated, the first two known to us only by the descriptions of the ancients, and by copies on gems, which are still preserved; the other two still extant and the acknowledged masterpieces of the sculptor's art. THE OLYMPIAN JUPITER The statue of the Olympian Jupiter by Phidias was considered the highest achievement of this department of Grecian art. It was of colossal dimensions, and was what the ancients called "chryselephantine;" that is, composed of ivory and gold; the parts representing flesh being of ivory laid on a core of wood or stone, while the drapery and other ornaments were of gold. The height of the figure was forty feet, on a pedestal twelve feet high. The god was represented seated on this throne. His brows were crowned with a wreath of olive, and he held in his right hand a sceptre, and in his left a statue of Victory. The throne was of cedar, adorned with gold and precious stones. The idea which the artist essayed to embody was that of the supreme deity of the Hellenic (Grecian) nation, enthroned as a conqueror, in perfect majesty and repose, and ruling with a nod the subject world. Phidias avowed that he took his idea from the representation which Homer gives in the first book of the Iliad, in the passage thus translated by Pope: "He spoke and awful bends his sable brows, Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod, The stamp of fate and sanction of the god. High heaven with reverence the dread signal took, A nd all Olympus to the centre shook." (Cowper's version is less elegant, but truer to the original. "He ceased, and under his dark brows the nod Vouchsafed of confirmation. All around The sovereign's everlasting head his curls Ambrosial shook, and the huge mountain reeled." It may interest our readers to see how this passage appears in another famous version, that which was issued under the name of Tickell, contemporaneously with Pope's, and which, being by many attributed to Addison, led to the quarrel which ensued between Addison and Pope. "This said, his kingly brow the sire inclined; The large black curls fell awful from behind, Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god; Olympus trembled at the almighty nod.") THE MINERVA OF THE PARTHENON This was also the work of Phidias. It stood in the Parthenon, or temple of Minera at Athens. The goddess was represented standing. In one hand she held a spear, in the other a statue of Victory. Her helmet, highly decorated, was surmounted by a Sphinx. The statue was forty feet in height, and, like the Jupiter, composed of ivory and gold. The eyes were of marble, and probably painted to represent the iris and pupil. The Parthenon in which this statue stood was also constructed under the direction and superintendence of Phidias. Its exterior was enriched with sculptures, many of them from the hand of Phidias. The Elgin marbles now in the British Museum are a part of them. Both the Jupiter and Minerva of Phidias are lost, but there is good ground to believe that we have, in several extant statues and busts, the artist's conceptions of the countenances of both. They are characterized by grave and dignified beauty, and freedom from any transient expression, which in the language of art is called REPOSE. THE VENUS DE' MEDICI The Venus of the Medici is so called from its having been in the possession of the princes of that name in Rome when it first attracted attention, about two hundred years ago. An inscription on the base records it to be the work of Cleomenes, an Athenian sculptor of 200 B.C., but the authenticity of the inscription is doubtful. There is a story that the artist was employed by public authority to make a statue exhibiting the perfection of female beauty, and to aid him in his task, the most perfect forms the city could supply were furnished him for models. It is this which Thomson alludes to in his Summer. "So stands the statue that enchants the world; So bending tries to veil the matchless boast, The mingled beauties of exulting Greece." Byron also alludes to this statue. Speaking of the Florence Museum, he says: "There too the goddess loves in stone, and fills The air around with beauty;" And in the next stanza, "Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan shepherd's prize." This last allusion is explained in Chapter XX. THE APOLLO BELVEDERE The most highly esteemed of all the remains of ancient sculpture is the statue of Apollo, called the Belvedere, from the name of the apartment of the Pope's palace at Rome, in which it is placed. The artist is unknown. It is supposed to be a work of Roman art, of about the first century of our era. It is a standing figure, in marble, more than seven feet high, naked except for the cloak which is fastened around the neck and hangs over the extended left arm. It is supposed to represent the god in the moment when he has shot the arrow to destroy the monster Python (See Chapter II). The victorious divinity is in the act of stepping forward. The left arm which seems to have held the bow is outstretched, and the head is turned in the same direction. In attitude and proportion the graceful majesty of the figure is unsurpassed. The effect is completed by the countenance, where, on the perfection of youthful godlike beauty there dwells the consciousness of triumphant power. THE DIANA A LA BICHE The Diana of the hind, in the palace of the Louvre, may be considered the counterpart to the Apollo Belvedere. The attitude much resembles that of the Apollo, the sizes correspond and also the style of execution. It is a work of the highest order, though by no means equal to the Apollo. The attitude is that of hurried and eager motion, the face that of a huntress in the excitement of the chase. The left hand is extended over the forehead of the Hind which runs by her side, the right arm reaches backward over the shoulder to draw an arrow from the quiver. THE VENUS OF MELOS Of the Venus of Melos, perhaps the most famous of our statues of mythology, very little is known. There are many indeed who believe that it is not a statue of Venus at all. It was found in the year 1820 in the Island of Melos by a peasant, who sold it to the French consul at the place. The statue was standing in the theatre, which had been filled up with rubbish in the course of centuries, and when discovered was broken in several places, and some of the pieces were gone. These missing pieces, notably the two arms, have been restored in various ways by modern artists. As has been said above, there is a controversy as to whether the statue represents Venus or some other goddess. Much has been written on each side, but the question still remains unsettled. The general opinion of those who contend that it is not Venus is that it is a statue or Nike or Victory. THE POETS OF MYTHOLOGY Homer, from whose poems of the Iliad and Odyssey we have taken the chief part of our chapters of the Trojan war and the return of the Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the heroes he celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a wandering minstrel, blind and old, who travelled from place to place singing his lays to the music of his harp, in the courts of princes or the cottages of peasants, and dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his hearers for support. Byron calls him "The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," and a well-known epigram, alluding to the uncertainty of the fact of his birthplace, says, "Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead, Through which the living Homer begged his bread." An older version is, "Seven cities warred for Homer being dead, Who living had no roof to shroud his head." These lines are by Thomas Heywood; the others are ascribed to Thomas Seward. These seven cities were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis, Argos, and Athens. Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the work of any single mind. This arises from the difficulty of believing that poems of such length could have been committed to writing at so early an age as that usually assigned to these, an age earlier than the date of any remaining inscriptions or coins, and when no materials, capable of containing such long productions were yet introduced into use. On the other hand it is asked how poems of such length could have been handed down from age to age by means of the memory alone. This is answered by the statement that there was a professional body of men, called Rhapsodists, who recited the poems of others, and whose business it was to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the national and patriotic legends. The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to be that the framework and much of the structure of the poems belong to Homer, but that there are numerous interpolations and additions by other hands. The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850 B.C., but a range of two or three centuries must be given for the various conjectures of critics. VIRGIL Virgil, called also by his surname, Maro, from whose poem of the AEneid we have taken the story of AEneas, was one of the great poets who made the reign of the Roman emperor, Augustus, so celebrated, under the name of the Augustan age. Virgil was born in Mantua in the year 70 B.C. His great poem is ranked next to those of Homer, in the highest class of poetical composition, the Epic. Virgil is far inferior to Homer in originality and invention, but superior to him in correctness and elegance. To critics of English lineage Milton alone of modern poets seems worthy to be classed with these illustrious ancients. His poem of Paradise Lost, from which we have borrowed so many illustrations, is in many respects equal, in some superior, to either of the great works of antiquity. The following epigram of Dryden characterizes the three poets with as much truth as it is usual to find in such pointed criticism: ON MILTON "Three poets in three different ages born. Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of soul surpassed, The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of nature could no further go; To make a third she joined the other two." From Cowper's Table Talk: "Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard. To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, asked ages more. Thus genius rose and set at ordered times, And shot a dayspring into distant climes, Ennobling every region that he chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose, And, tedious years of Gothic darkness past, Emerged all splendor in our isle at last. Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again." OVID Often alluded to in poetry by his other name of Naso, was born in the year 43 B.C. He was educated for public life and held some offices of considerable dignity, but poetry was his delight, and he early resolved to devote himself to it. He accordingly sought the society of the contemporary poets, and was acquainted with Horace and saw Virgil, though the latter died when Ovid was yet too young and undistinguished to have formed his acquaintance. Ovid spent an easy life at Rome in the enjoyment of a competent income. He was intimate with the family of Augustus, the emperor, and it is supposed that some serious offence given to some member of that family was the cause of an event which reversed the poet's happy circumstances and clouded all the latter portion of his life. At the age of fifty he was banished from Rome, and ordered to betake himself to Tomi, on the borders of the Black Sea. Here, among the barbarous people and in a severe climate, the poet, who had been accustomed to all the pleasures of a luxurious capital and the society of his most distinguished contemporaries, spent the last ten years of his life, worn out with grief and anxiety. His only consolation in exile was to address his wife and absent friends, and his letters were all poetical. Though these poems (The Tristia and Letters from Pontus) have no other topic than the poet's sorrows, his exquisite taste and fruitful invention have redeemed them from the charge of being tedious, and they are read with pleasure and even with sympathy. The two great works of Ovid are his Metamorphoses and his Fasti. They are both mythological poems, and from the former we have taken most of our stories of Grecian and Roman mythology. A late writer thus characterizes these poems: "The rich mythology of Greece furnished Ovid, as it may still furnish the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, with materials for his art. With exquisite taste, simplicity, and pathos he has narrated the fabulous traditions of early ages, and given to them that appearance of reality which only a master-hand could impart. His pictures of nature are striking and true; he selects with care that which is appropriate; he rejects the superfluous; and when he has completed his work, it is neither defective nor redundant. The Metamorphoses are read with pleasure by youth, and are re-read in more advanced age with still greater delight. The poet ventured to predict that his poem would survive him, and be read wherever the Roman name was known." The prediction above alluded to is contained in the closing lines of the Metamorphoses, of which we give a literal translation below: "And now I close my work, which not the ire Of Jove, nor tooth of time, nor sword, nor fire Shall bring to nought. Come when it will that day Which o'er the body, not the mind, has sway, A nd snatch the remnant of my life away, My better part above the stars shall soar, And my renown endure for evermore. Where'er the Roman arms and arts shall spread, There by the people shall my book be read; And, if aught true in poet's visions be, My name and fame have immortality." Chapter XXIX Modern Monsters: The Phoenix Basilisk Unicorn Salamander There is a set of imaginary beings which seem to have been the successors of the "Gorgons, Hydras, and Chimeras dire" of the old superstitions, and, having no connection with the false gods of Paganism, to have continued to enjoy an existence in the popular belief after Paganism was superseded by Christianity. They are mentioned perhaps by the classical writers, but their chief popularity and currency seem to have been in more modern times. We seek our accounts of them not so much in the poetry of the ancients, as in the old natural history books and narrations of travellers. The accounts which we are about to give are taken chiefly from the Penny Cyclopedia. THE PHOENIX Ovid tells the story of the Phoenix as follows: "Most beings spring from other individuals; but there is a certain kind which reproduces itself. The Assyrians call it the Phoenix. It does not live on fruit or flowers, but on frankincense and odoriferous gums. When it has lived five hundred years, it builds itself a nest in the branches of an oak, or on the top of a palm-tree. In this it collects cinnamon, and spikenard, and myrrh, and of these materials builds a pile on which it deposits itself, and dying, breathes out its last breath amidst odors. From the body of the parent bird a young Phoenix issues forth, destined to live as long a life as its predecessor. When this has grown up and gained sufficient strength, it lifts its nest from the tree (its own cradle and its parent's sepulchre) and carries it to the city of Heliopolis in Egypt, and deposits it in the temple of the Sun." Such is the account given by a poet. Now let us see that of a philosophic historian. Tacitus says, "In the consulship of Paulus Fabius (A.D. 34), the miraculous bird known to the world by the name of Phoenix, after disappearing for a series of ages, revisited Egypt. It was attended in its flight by a group of various birds, all attracted by the novelty, and gazing with wonder at so beautiful an appearance." He then gives an account of the bird, not varying materially from the preceding, but adding some details. "The first care of the young bird as soon as fledged and able to trust to his wings is to perform the obsequies of his father. But this duty is not undertaken rashly. He collects a quantity of myrrh, and to try his strength makes frequent excursions with a load on his back. When he has gained sufficient confidence in his own vigor, he takes up the body of his father and flies with it to the altar of the Sun, where he leaves it to be consumed in flames of fragrance." Other writers add a few particulars. The myrrh is compacted in the form of an egg, in which the dead Phoenix is enclosed. From the mouldering flesh of the dead bird a worm springs, and this worm, when grown large, is transformed into a bird. Herodotus DESCRIBES the bird, though he says, "I have not seen it myself, except in a picture. Part of his plumage is gold-colored, and part crimson; and he is for the most part very much like an eagle in outline and bulk." The first writer who disclaimed a belief in the existence of the Phoenix was Sir Thomas Browne, in his Vulgar Errors, published in 1646. He was replied to a few years later by Alexander Ross, who says, in answer to the objection of the Phoenix so seldom making his appearance, "His instinct teaches him to keep out of the way of the tyrant of the creation, MAN, for if he were to be got at some wealthy glutton would surely devour him, though there were no more in the world." Dryden, in one of his early poems, has this allusion to the Phoenix: "So when the new-born Phoenix first is seen, Her feathered subjects all adore their queen, And while she makes her progress through the East, From every grove her numerous train's increased; Each poet of the air her glory sings, And round him the pleased audience clap their wings." Milton, in Paradise lost, Book V, compares the angel Raphael descending to earth to a Phoenix: "Down thither, prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing, Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan Winnows the buxom air; till within soar Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems A Phoenix, gazed by all; as that sole bird When, to enshrine his relics in the Sun's Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies." THE COCKATRICE, OR BASILISK This animal was called the king of the serpents. In confirmation of his royalty, he was said to be endowed with a crest or comb upon the head, constituting a crown. He was supposed to be produced from the egg of a cock hatched under toads or serpents. There were several species of this animal. One species burned up whatever they approached; a second were a kind of wandering Medusa's heads, and their look caused an instant horror, which was immediately followed by death. In Shakespeare's play of Richard the Third, Lady Anne, in answer to Richard's compliment on her eyes, says, "Would they were basilisk's, to strike thee dead!" The basilisks were called kings of serpents because all other serpents and snakes, behaving like good subjects, and wisely not wishing to be burned up or struck dead, fled the moment they heard the distant hiss of their king, although they might be in full feed upon the most delicious prey, leaving the sole enjoyment of the banquet to the royal monster. The Roman naturalist Pliny thus describes him: "He does not impel his body like other serpents, by a multiplied flexion, but advances lofty and upright. He kills the shrubs, not only by contact but by breathing on them, and splits the rocks, such power of evil is there in him. It was formally believed that if killed by a spear from on horseback the power of the poison conducted through the weapon killed not only the rider but the horse also. To this Lucan alludes in these lines: "What though the Moor the basilisk hath slain, And pinned him lifeless to the sandy plain, Up through the spear the subtle venom flies, The hand imbibes it, and the victor dies." Such a prodigy was not likely to be passed over in the legends of the saints. Accordingly we find it recorded that a certain holy man going to a fountain in the desert suddenly beheld a basilisk. He immediately raised his eyes to heaven, and with a pious appeal to the Deity, laid the monster dead at his feet. These wonderful powers of the basilisk are attested by a host of learned persons, such as Galen, Avicenna, Scaliger, and others. Occasionally one would demur to some part of the tale while he admitted the rest. Jonston, a learned physician, sagely remarks, "I would scarcely believe that it kills with its look, for who could have seen it and lived to tell the story?" The worthy sage was not aware that those who went to hunt the basilisk of this sort, took with them a mirror, which reflected back the deadly glare upon its author, and by a kind of poetical justice slew the basilisk with his own weapon. But what was to attack this terrible and unapproachable monster? There is an old saying that "everything has its enemy," and the cockatrice quailed before the weasel. The basilisk might look daggers, the weasel cared not, but advanced boldly to the conflict. When bitten, the weasel retired for a moment to eat some rue, which was the only plant the basilisks could not wither, returned with renewed strength and soundness to the charge, and never left the enemy till he was stretched dead on the plain. The monster, too, as if conscious of the irregular way in which he came into the world, was supposed to have a great antipathy to a cock; and well he might, for as soon as he heard the cock crow he expired. The basilisk was of some use after death. Thus we read that its carcass was suspended in the temple of Apollo, and in private houses, as a sovereign remedy against spiders, and that it was also hung up in the temple of Diana, for which reason no swallow ever dared enter the sacred place. The reader will, we apprehend, by this time have had enough of absurdities, but still he may be interested to know that these details come from the work of one who was considered in his time an able and valuable writer on Natural History. Ulysses Aldrovandus was a celebrated naturalist of the sixteenth century, and his work on natural history, in thirteen folio volumes, contains with much that is valuable a large proportion of fables and inutilities. In particular he is so ample on the subject of the cock and the bull, that from his practice all rambling, gossiping tales of doubtful credibility are called COCK AND BULL STORIES. Still he is to be remembered with respect as the founder of a botanic garden, and one of the leaders in the modern habit of making scientific collections for research and inquiry. Shelley, in his Ode to Naples, full of the enthusiasm excited by the intelligence of the proclamation of a Constitutional Government at Naples, in 1820, thus uses an allusion to the basilisk: "What though Cimmerian anarchs dare blaspheme Freedom and thee? A new Actaeon's error Shall theirs have been, devoured by their own bounds! Be thou like the imperial basilisk, Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds! Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk, Aghast she pass from the earth's disk. Fear not, but gaze, for freemen mightier grow, And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe." THE UNICORN Pliny, the Roman naturalist, out of whose account of the unicorn most of the modern unicorns have been described and figured, records it as "a very ferocious beast, similar in the rest of its body to a horse, with the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, the tail of a boar, a deep bellowing voice, and a single black horn, two cubits in length, standing out in the middle of its forehead." He adds that "it cannot be taken alive;" and some such excuse may have been necessary in those days for not producing the living animal upon the arena of the amphitheatre. The unicorn seems to have been a sad puzzle to the hunters, who hardly knew how to come at so valuable a piece of game. Some described the horn as moveable at the will of the animal, a kind of small sword in short, with which ho hunter who was not exceedingly cunning in fence could have a chance. Others maintained that all the animal's strength lay in its horn, and that when hard pressed in pursuit, it would throw itself from the pinnacle of the highest rocks horn foremost, so as to pitch upon it, and then quietly march off not a whit the worse for its fall. But it seems they found out how to circumvent the poor unicorn at last. They discovered that it was a great lover of purity and innocence, so they took the field with a young VIRGIN, who was placed in the unsuspecting admirer's way. When the unicorn spied her, he approached with all reverence, couched beside her, and laying his head in her lap, fell asleep. The treacherous virgin then gave a signal, and the hunters made in and captured the simple beast. Modern zoologists, disgusted as they well may be with such fables as these, disbelieve generally the existence of the unicorn. Yet there are animals bearing on their heads a bony protuberance more or less like a horn, which may have given rise to the story. The rhinoceros horn, as it is called, is such a protuberance, though it does not exceed a few inches in height, and is far from agreeing with the descriptions of the horn of the unicorn. The nearest approach to a horn in the middle of the forehead is exhibited in the bony protuberance on the forehead of the giraffe; but this also is short and blunt, and is not the only horn of the animal, but a third horn standing in front of the two others. In fine, though it would be presumptuous to deny the existence of a one-horned quadruped other than the rhinoceros, it may be safely stated that the insertion of a long and solid horn in the living forehead of a horse-like or deer-like animal, is as near an impossibility as any thing can be. THE SALAMANDER The following is from the Life of Benvenuto Cellini, an Italian artist of the sixteenth century, written by himself, "When I was about five years of age, my father happening to be in a little room in which they had been washing, and where there was a good fire of oak burning, looked into the flames and saw a little animal resembling a lizard, which could live in the hottest part of that element. Instantly perceiving what it was he called for my sister and me, and after he had shown us the creature, he gave me a box on the ear. I fell a crying, while he, soothing me with caresses, spoke these words: 'My dear child, I do not give you that blow for any fault you have committed, but that you may recollect that the little creature you see in the fire is a salamander; such a one as never was beheld before to my knowledge.' So saying he embraced me, and gave me some money." It seems unreasonable to doubt a story of which signor Cellini was both an eye and ear witness. Add to which the authority of numerous sage philosophers, at the head of whom are Aristotle and Pliny, affirms this power of the salamander. According to them, the animal not only resists fire, but extinguishes it, and when he sees the flame, charges it as an enemy which he well knows how to vanquish. That the skin of an animal which could resist the action of fire should be considered proof against that element, is not to be wondered at. We accordingly find that a cloth made of the skins of salamanders (for there really is such an animal, a kind of lizard) was incombustible, and very valuable for wrapping up such articles as were too precious to be intrusted to any other envelopes. These fire-proof cloths were actually produced, said to be made of salamander's wool, though the knowing ones detected that the substance of which they were composed was Asbestos, a mineral, which is in fine filaments capable of being woven into a flexible cloth. The foundation of the above fables is supposed to be the fact that the salamander really does secrete from the pores of his body a milky juice, which, when he is irritated, is produced in considerable quantity, and would doubtless, for a few moments, defend the body from fire. Then it is a hibernating animal, and in winter retires to some hollow tree or other cavity, where it coils itself up and remains in a torpid state till the spring again calls it forth. It may therefore sometimes be carried with the fuel to the fire, and wake up only time enough to put forth all its faculties for its defence. Its viscous juice would do good service, and all who profess to have seen it acknowledge that it got out of the fire as fast as its legs could carry it; indeed too fast for them ever to make prize of one, except in one instance, and in that one, the animal's feet and some parts of its body were badly burned. Dr. Young, in the Night Thoughts, with more quaintness than good taste, compares the sceptic who can remain unmoved in the contemplation of the starry heavens, to a salamander unwarmed in the fire: "An undevout astronomer is mad! * * * * * * Oh, what a genius must inform the skies! And is Lorenzo's salamander-heart Cold and untouched amid these sacred fires?" Chapter XXX Eastern Mythology Zoroaster Hindu Mythology Castes Buddha Grand Lama During the last fifty years new attention has been paid to the systems of religion of the Eastern world, especially to that of Zoroaster among the Persians, and that which is called Brahmanism and the rival system known as Buddhism in the nations farther east. Especial interest belongs to these inquiries for us, because these religions are religions of the great Aryan race to which we belong. The people among whom they were introduced all used some dialect of the family of language to which our own belongs. Even young readers will take an interest in such books as Clarke's Great Religions and Johnson's Oriental Religions, which are devoted to careful studies of them. Our knowledge of the religion of the ancient Persians is principally derived from the Zendavesta, or sacred books of that people. Zoroaster was the founder of their religion, or rather the reformer of the religion which preceded him. The time when he lived is doubtful, but it is certain that his system became the dominant religion of Western Asia from the time of Cyrus (550 B.C.) to the conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great. Under the Macedonian monarchy the doctrines of Zoroaster appear to have been considerably corrupted by the introduction of foreign opinions, but they afterwards recovered their ascendancy. Zoroaster taught the existence of a supreme being, who created two other mighty beings, and imparted to them so much of his own nature as seemed good to him. Of these, Ormuzd (called by the Greeks Oromasdes) remained faithful to his creator, and was regarded as the source of all good, while Ahriman (Arimanes) rebelled, and became the author of all evil upon the earth. Ormuzd created man, and supplied him with all the materials of happiness; but Ahriman marred this happiness by introducing evil into the world, and creating savage beasts and poisonous reptiles and plants. In consequence of this, evil and good are now mingled together in every part of the world, and the followers of good and evil the adherents of Ormuzd and Ahriman carry on incessant war. But this state of things will not last forever. The time will come when the adherents of Ormuzd shall everywhere be victorious, and Ahriman and his followers be consigned to darkness forever. The religious rites of the ancient Persians were exceedingly simple. They used neither temples, altars, nor statues, and performed their sacrifices on the tops of mountains. They adored fire, light, and the sun, as emblems of Ormuzd, the source of all light and purity, but did not regard them as independent deities. The religious rites and ceremonies were regulated by the priests, who were called Magi. The learning of the Magi was connected with astrology and enchantment, in which they were so celebrated that their name was applied to all orders of magicians and enchanters. "As to the age of the books of the Zendavesta, and the period at which Zoroaster lived, there is the greatest difference of opinion. He is mentioned by Plato, who speaks of 'the magic (or religious doctrines) of Zoroaster the Ormazdian.' As Plato speaks of his religion as something established in the form of Magism, or the system of the Medes in West Iran, which the Avesta appears to have originated in Bactria, or East Iran, this already carries the age of Zoroaster back to at least the sixth or seventh century before Christ. * * * * * * * * * * * * "Professor Whitney of New Haven places the epoch of Zoroaster at 'least B.C. 1000,' and adds that all attempts to reconstruct Persian chronology or history prior to the reign of the first Sassanid have been relinquished as futile. Dollinger thinks he may have been 'somewhat later than Moses, perhaps about B.C. 1300,' but says 'it is impossible to fix precisely' when he lived. Rawlinson merely remarks that Berosus places him anterior to B.C. 2234. Haug is inclined to date the Gathas, the oldest songs of the Avesta, as early as the time of Moses. Rapp, after a thorough comparison of ancient writers, concludes that Zoroaster lived B.C. 1200 or 1300. In this he agrees with Duncker, who, as we have seen, decided upon the same date. It is not far from the period given by the oldest Greek writer who speaks of Zoroaster, Xanthus of Sardis, a contemporary of Darius. It is the period given by Cephalion, a writer of the second century, who takes it from three independent sources. We have no sources now open to us which enable us to come nearer than this to the time in which he lived. "Nor is anything known with certainty of the place where he lived, or the events of his life. Most modern writers suppose that he resided in Bactria. Haug maintains that the language of the Zend books is Bactrian. A highly mythological and fabulous life of Zoroaster, translated by Anquetil du Perron, called the Zartrisht-Namah, describes him as going to Iran in his thirtieth year, spending twenty years in the desert, working miracles during ten years, and giving lessons of philosophy in Babylon, with Pythagoras as his pupil. All this is based on the theory (now proved to be false) of his living in the time of Darius. 'The language of the Avesta,' says Max Muller, 'is so much more primitive than the inscriptions of Darius, that many centuries must have passed between the two periods represented by these two strata of language. These inscriptions are in the Achaemenian dialect, which is the Zend in a later stage of linguistic growth.;" J. Freeman Clarke - Ten Great Religions Wordsworth thus alludes to the worship of the Persians: "the Persian, zealous to reject Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls And roofs of temples built by human hands, The loftiest heights ascending from their tops, With myrtle-wreathed Tiara on his brows, Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars And to the Winds and mother Elements, And the whole circle of the Heavens, for him A sensitive existence and a God." Excursion, Book IV In Childe Harold, Byron speaks thus of the Persian worship: "Not gainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, Upreared of human hands. Come and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer." III., 91. The religion of Zoroaster continued to flourish even after the introduction of Christianity, and in the third century was the dominant faith of the East, till the rise of the Mahometan power and the conquest of Persia by the Arabs in the seventh century, who compelled the greater number of the Persians to renounce their ancient faith. Those who refused to abandon the religion of their ancestors fled to the deserts of Kerman and to Hindustan, where they still exist under the name of Parsees, a name derived from Pars, the ancient name of Persia. The Arabs call them Guebers, from an Arabic word signifying unbelievers. At Bombay the Parsees are at this day a very active, intelligent, and wealthy class. For purity of life, honesty, and conciliatory manners, they are favorably distinguished. They have numerous temples to Fire, which they adore as the symbol of the divinity. The Persian religion makes the subject of the finest tale in Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Fire Worshippers. The Gueber chief says: "Yes! I am of that impious race, Those slaves of Fire, that moan and even Hail their creator's dwelling place Among the living lights of heaven; Yes! I am of that outcast crew To lean and to vengeance true, Who curse the hour your Arabs came To desecrate our shrines of flame, And swear before God's burning eye, To break our country's chains or die." HINDU MYTHOLOGY The religion of the Hindus is professedly founded on the Vedas. To these books of their scripture they attach the greatest sanctity, and state that Brahma himself composed them at the creation. But the present arrangement of the Vedas is attributed to the sage Vyasa, about five thousand years ago. The Vedas undoubtedly teach the belief of one supreme God. The name of this deity is Brahma. His attributes are represented by the three personified powers of CREATION, PRESERVATION, and DESTRUCTION, which, under the respective names of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, form the TRIMURTI or triad of principal Hindu gods. Of the inferior gods the most important are, 1. Indra, the god of heaven, of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain; 2. Agni, the god of fire; 3. Yana, the god of the infernal regions; 4. Surya, the god of the sun. Brahma is the creator of the universe, and the source from which all the individual deities have sprung, and into which all will ultimately be absorbed. "As milk changes to curd, and water to ice, so is Brahma variously transformed and diversified, without aid of exterior means of any sort. The human soul, according to the Vedas, is a portion of the supreme ruler, as a spark is of the fire. "BRAHMA, at first a word meaning prayer and devotion, becomes in the laws of Manu the primal God, first-born of the creation, from the self-existent being, in the form of a golden egg. He became the creator of all things by the power of prayer. In the struggle for ascendancy, which took place between the priests and the warriors, Brahma naturally became the deity of the former. But, meantime, as we have seen, the worship or Vishnu had been extending itself in one region, and that of Siva in another. Then took place those mysterious wars between the kings of the Solar and Lunar races, of which the great epics contain all that we know. And at the close of these wars a compromise was apparently accepted, by which Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva were united in one supreme God, as creator, preserver, and destroyer, all in one. It is almost certain that this Hindoo Triad was the result of an ingenious and successful attempt, on the part of the Brahmans, to unite all classes of worshippers in India against the Buddhists. In this sense the Brahmans edited anew the Mahabharata, inserting in that epic passages extolling Vishnu in the form of Krishna. The Greek accounts of India which followed the invasion of Alexander speak of the worship of Hercules as prevalent in the East, and by Hercules they apparently mean the god Krishna. The struggle between the Brahmans and Buddhists lasted during nine centuries (from A.D. 500 to A.D. 1400), ending with the total expulsion of Buddhism and the triumphant establishment of the Triad as the worship of India. "Before this Triad or Trimurti (of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva) there seems to have been another, consisting of Agni, Indra, and Surya. This may have given the hint of the second Triad, which distributed among the three gods the attributes or Creation, Destruction, and Renovation. Of these Brahma, the creator, ceased soon to be popular, and the worship of Siva and Vishnu as Krishna remain as the popular religion of India. . . .. "But all the efforts of Brahmanism could not arrest the natural development of the system. It passed on into polytheism and idolatry. The worship of India for many centuries has been divided into a multitude of sects. While the majority of the Brahmans still profess to recognize the equal divinity of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, the mass of the people worship Krishna, Rama, the Singam, and many other gods and idols. There are Hindoo Atheists, who revile the Vedas; there are the Kabirs, who are a sort of Hindoo Quakers, and oppose all worship; the RAMANUJAS, an ancient sect of Vishnu worshippers; the RAMAVATS, living in monasteries; the PANTHIS, who oppose all austerities; the MAHARAJAS, whose religion consists with great licentiousness. Most of these are worshippers of Vishnu or of Siva, for Brahma- worship has wholly disappeared." J. Freeman Clarke. TEN GREAT RELIGIONS. VISHNU Vishnu occupies the second place in the triad of the Hindus, and is the personification of the preserving principle. To protect the world in various epochs of danger, Vishnu descended to the earth in different incarnations, or bodily forms, which descents are called Avatars. They are very numerous, but ten are more particularly specified. The first Avatar was as Matsya, the Fish, under which form Vishnu preserved Manu, the ancestor of the human race, during a universal deluge. The second Avatar was in the form of a Tortoise, which form he assumed to support the earth when the gods were churning the sea for the beverage of immortality, Amrita. We may omit the other Avatars, which were of the same general character, that is, interpositions to protect the right or to punish wrong-doers, and come to the ninth, which is the most celebrated of the Avatars of Vishnu, in which he appeared in the human form of Krishna, an invincible warrior, who by his exploits relieved the earth from the tyrants who oppressed it. Buddha is by the followers of the Brahmanical religion regarded as a delusive incarnation of Vishnu, assumed by him in order to induce the Asuras, opponents of the gods, to abandon the sacred ordinances of the Vedas, by which means they lost their strength and supremacy. Kalki is the name of the TENTH Avatar, in which Vishnu will appear at the end of the present age of the world to destroy all vice and wickedness, and to restore mankind to virtue and purity. SIVA Siva is the third person of the Hindu triad. He is the personification of the destroying principle. Though the third named, he is, in respect to the number of his worshippers and the extension of his worship, before either of the others. In the Puranas (the scriptures of the modern Hindu religion) no allusion is made to the original power of this god as a destroyer; as that power is not to be called into exercise till after the expiration of twelve millions of years, or when the universe will come to an end; and Mahadeva (another name for Siva) is rather the representative of regeneration than of destruction. The worshippers of Vishnu and Siva form two sects, each of which proclaims the superiority of its favorite deity, denying the claims of the other, and Brahma, the creator, having finished his work, seems to be regarded as no longer active, and has now only one temple in India, while Mahadeva and Vishnu have many. The worshippers of Vishnu are generally distinguished by a greater tenderness for life and consequent abstinence from animal food, and a worship less cruel than that of the followers of Siva. JUGGERNAUT Whether the worshippers of Juggernaut are to be reckoned among the followers of Vishnu or Siva, our authorities differ. The temple stands near the shore, about three hundred miles southwest of Calcutta. The idol is a carved block of wood, with a hideous face, painted black, and a distended blood-red mouth. On festival days the throne of the image is placed on a tower sixty feet high, moving on wheels. Six long ropes are attached to the tower, by which the people draw it along. The priests and their attendants stand round the throne on the tower, and occasionally turn to the worshippers with songs and gestures. While the tower moves along numbers of the devout worshippers throw themselves on the ground, in order to be crushed by the wheels, and the multitude shout in approbation of the act, as a pleasing sacrifice to the idol. Every year, particularly at two great festivals in March and July, pilgrims flock in crowds to the temple. Not less than seventy or eighty thousand people are said to visit the place on these occasions, when all castes eat together. CASTES The division of the Hindus into classes or castes, with fixed occupations, existed from the earliest times. It is supposed by some to have been founded upon conquest, the first three castes being composed of a foreign race, who subdued the natives of the country and reduced them to an inferior caste. Others trace it to the fondness of perpetuating, by descent from father to son, certain offices or occupations. The Hindu tradition gives the following account of the origin of the various castes. At the creation Brahma resolved to give the earth inhabitants who should be direct emanations from his own body. Accordingly from his mouth came forth the eldest born, Brahma (the priest), to whom he confided the four Vedas; from his right arm issued Shatriya (the warrior), and from his left, the warrior's wife. His thighs produced Vaissyas, male and female (agriculturists and traders), and lastly from his feet sprang Sudras (mechanics and laborers). The four sons of Brahma, so significantly brought into the world, became the fathers of the human race, and heads of their respective castes. They were commanded to regard the four Vedas as containing all the rules of their faith, and all that was necessary to guide them in their religious ceremonies. They were also commanded to take rank in the order of their birth, the Brahmans uppermost, as having sprung from the head of Brahma. A strong line of demarcation is drawn between the first three castes and the Sudras. The former are allowed to receive instruction from the Vedas, which is not permitted to the Sudras. The Brahmans possess the privilege of teaching the Vedas, and were in former times in exclusive possession of all knowledge. Though the sovereign of the country was chosen from the Shatriya class, also called Rajputs, the Brahmans possessed the real power, and were the royal counsellors, the judges and magistrates of the country; their persons and property were inviolable; and though they committed the greatest crimes, they could only be banished from the kingdom. They were to be treated by sovereigns with the greatest respect, for "a Brahman, whether learned or ignorant, is a powerful divinity." When the Brahman arrives at years of maturity it becomes his duty to marry. He ought to be supported by the contributions of the rich, and not to be obliged to gain his subsistence by any laborious or productive occupation. But as all the Brahmans could not he maintained by the working classes of the community, it was found necessary to allow them to engage in productive employments. We need say little of the two intermediate classes, whose rank and privileges may be readily inferred from their occupations. The Sudras or fourth class are bound to servile attendance on the higher classes, especially the Brahmans, but they may follow mechanical occupations and practical arts, as painting and writing, or become traders or husbandmen. Consequently they sometimes grow rich, and it will also sometimes happen that Brahmans become poor. That fact works its usual consequence, and rich Sudras sometimes employ poor Brahmans in menial occupations. There is another class lower even than the Sudras, for it is not one of the original pure classes, but springs from an unauthorized union of individuals of different castes. These are the Pariahs, who are employed in the lowest services and treated with the utmost severity. They are compelled to do what no one else can do without pollution. They are not only considered unclean themselves, but they render unclean every thing they touch. They are deprived of all civil rights, and stigmatized by particular laws, regulating their mode of life, their houses and their furniture. They are not allowed to visit the pagodas or temples of the other castes, but have their own pagodas and religious exercises. They are not suffered to enter the houses of the other castes; if it is done incautiously or from necessity, the place must be purified by religious ceremonies. They must not appear at public markets, and are confined to the use of particular wells, which they are obliged to surround with bones of animals, to warn others against using them. They dwell in miserable hovels, distant from cities and villages, and are under no restrictions in regard to food, which last is not a privilege, but a mark of ignominy, as if they were so degraded that nothing could pollute them. The three higher castes are prohibited entirely the use of flesh. The fourth is allowed to eat all kinds except beef, but only the lowest caste is allowed every kind of food without restrictions. BUDDHA Buddha, whom the Vedas represent as a delusive incarnation of Vishnu, is said by his followers to have been a mortal sage, whose name was Gautama, called also by the complimentary epithets of Sakyasinha, the Lion, and Buddha, the Sage. By a comparison of the various epochs assigned to his birth, it is inferred that he lived about one thousand years before Christ. He was the son of a king; and when in conformity to the usage of the country he was, a few days after his birth, presented before the altar of a deity, the image is said to have inclined its head, as a presage of the future greatness of the new-born prophet. The child soon developed faculties of the first order, and became equally distinguished by the uncommon beauty of his person. No sooner had he grown to years of maturity than he began to reflect deeply on the depravity and misery of mankind, and he conceived the idea of retiring from society and devoting himself to meditation. His father in vain opposed this design. Buddha escaped the vigilance of his guards, and having found a secure retreat, lived for six years undisturbed in his devout contemplations. At the expiration of that period he came forward at Benares as a religious teacher. At first some who heard him doubted of the soundness of his mind; but his doctrines soon gained credit, and were propagated so rapidly that Buddha himself lived to see them spread all over India. The young prince distinguished himself by his personal and intellectual qualities, but still more by his early piety. It appears from the laws of Manu that it was not unusual, in the earliest periods of Brahmanism, for those seeking a superior piety to turn hermits, and to live alone in the forest, engaged in acts of prayer, meditation, abstinence, and the study of the Vedas. This practice, however, seems to have been confined to the Brahmans. It was, therefore, a grief to the king, when his son, in the flower of his youth and highly accomplished in every kingly faculty of body and mind, began to turn his thoughts toward the life of an anchorite. * * * * * * * * * * * * He first visited the Brahmans, and listened to their doctrines, but found no satisfaction therein. The wisest among them could not teach him true peace, that profound inward rest, which was already called Nirvana. He was twenty-nine years old. Although disapproving of the Brahmanic austerities as an end, he practised them during six years, in order to subdue the senses. He then became satisfied that the path to perfection did not lie that way. He therefore resumed his former diet and a more comfortable mode of life, and so lost many disciples who had been attracted by his amazing austerity. Alone in his hermitage, he came at last to that solid conviction, that KNOWLEDGE never to be shaken, of the laws of things, which had seemed to him the only foundation of a truly free life. The spot where, after a week of constant meditation, he at last arrived at this beatific vision, became one of the most sacred places in India. He was seated under a tree, his face to the east, not having moved for a day and night, when he attained the triple science, which was to rescue mankind from its woes. Twelve hundred years after the death of the Buddha, a Chinese pilgrim was shown what then passed for the sacred tree. * * * * * * * * * * * * Having attained this inward certainty of vision, he decided to teach the world his truth. He knew well what it would bring him, what opposition, insult, neglect, scorn. But he thought of three classes of men: those who were already on the way to the truth and did not need him; those who were fixed in error and whom he could not help; and the poor doubters, uncertain of their way. It was to help these last, the doubters, that the Buddha went forth to preach. On his way to the holy city of India, Benares, a serious difficulty arrested him at the Ganges, namely, his having no money to pay the boatman for his passage. At Benares he made his first converts, "turning the wheel of the law" for the first time. His discourses are contained in the sacred books of the Buddhists. He converted great numbers, his father among the rest, but met with fierce opposition from the Hindu Scribes and Pharisees, the leading Brahmans. So he lived and taught, and died at the age of eighty years. The Buddhists reject entirely the authority of the Vedas, and the religious observances prescribed in them and kept by the Hindus. They also reject the distinction of castes, and prohibit all bloody sacrifices, and allow animal food. Their priests are chosen from all classes; they are expected to procure their maintenance by perambulation and begging, and, among other things, it is their duty to endeavor to turn to some use things thrown aside as useless by others, and to discover the medicinal power of plants. But in Ceylon three orders of priests are recognized; those of the highest order are usually men of high birth and learning, and are supported at the principal temples, most of which have been richly endowed by the former monarchs of the country. For several centuries after the appearance of Buddha, his sect seems to have been tolerated by the Brahmans, and Buddhism appears to have penetrated the peninsula of Hindustan in every direction, and to have been carried to Ceylon, and to the eastern peninsula. But afterwards it had to endure in India a long continued persecution, which ultimately had the effect of entirely abolishing it in the country where it had originated, but to scatter it widely over adjacent countries. Buddhism appears to have been introduced into China about the year 65 of our era. From China it was subsequently extended to Corea, Japan, and Java. The charming poem called the Light of Asia, by Mr. Edwin Arnold, has lately called general attention to Buddhism. The following is an extract from it: "Fondly Siddatha drew the proud head down Patted the shining neck, and said 'Be still, White Kantaka! Be still, and bear me now The farthest journey ever rider rode; For this night take I horse to find the truth, And where my quest will end yet know I not. Save that it shall not end until I find. Therefore to-night, good steed, be fierce and bold! Let nothing stay thee, though a thousand blades Deny the road! Let neither wall nor moat Forbid our flight! Look! If I touch thy flank And cry, "On, Kantaka!" let whirlwinds lag Behind thy course! Be fire and air, my horse! To stead thy lord, so shalt thou share with him The greatness of this deed which helps the world; For therefore ride I, not for men alone, But for all things which, speechless, share our pain, And have no hope, nor wit to ask for hope. Now, therefore, hear thy master valorously!'" THE GRAND LAMA It is a doctrine alike of the Brahminical Hindus and of the Buddhist sect that the confinement of the human soul, an emanation of the divine spirit, in a human body, is a state of misery, and the consequence of frailties and sins committed during former existences. But they hold that some few individuals have appeared on this earth from time to time, not under the necessity of terrestrial existence, but who voluntarily descend to the earth to promote the welfare of mankind. These individuals have gradually assumed the character of reappearances of Buddha himself, in which capacity the line is continued till the present day in the several Lamas of Thibet, China, and other countries where Buddhism prevails. In consequence of the victories of Gengis Khan and his successors, the Lama residing in Thibet was raised to the dignity of chief pontiff of the sect. A separate province was assigned to him as his own territory, and besides his spiritual dignity, he became to a limited extent a temporal monarch. He is styled the Dalai Lama. The first Christian missionaries who proceeded to Thibet were surprised to find there in the heart of Asia a pontifical court and several other ecclesiastical institutions resembling those of the Roman Catholic church. They found convents for priests and nuns; also, processions and forms of religious worship, attended with much pomp and splendor; and many were induced by these similarities to consider Lamaism as a sort of degenerated Christianity. It is not improbable that the Lamas derived some of these practices from the Nestorial Christians, who were settled in Tartary when Buddhism was introduced into Thibet. PRESTER JOHN An early account, communicated probably by travelling merchants, of a Lama or spiritual chief among the Tartars, seems to have occasioned in Europe the report of a Presbyter or Prester John, a Christian pontiff, resident in Upper Asia. The Pope sent a mission in search of him, as did also Louis IX of France, some years later, but both missions were unsuccessful, though the small communities of Nestorial Christians, which they did find, served to keep up the belief in Europe that such a personage did exist somewhere in the East. At last in the fifteenth century, a Portuguese traveller, Pedro Covilham, happening to hear that there was a Christian prince in the country of the Abessines (Abyssinia), not far from the Red Sea, concluded that this must be the true Prester John. He accordingly went thither, and penetrated to the court of the king, whom he calls Negus. Milton alludes to him in Paradise Lost, Book XI, where, describing Adam's vision of his descendants in their various nations and cities, scattered over the face of the earth, he says, "---- Nor did his eyes not ken The empire of Negus, to his utmost port Ercoco, and the less maritime kings, Mombaza and Quiloa and Melind." Chapter XXXI Northern Mythology Valhalla The Valkyrior The stories which have engaged our attention thus far relate to the mythology of southern regions. But there is another branch of ancient superstitions which ought not to be entirely overlooked, especially as it belongs to the nations from which we, through our English ancestors, derive our origin. It is that of the northern nations called Scandinavians, who inhabited the countries now known as Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Iceland. These mythological records are contained in two collections called the Eddas, of which the oldest is in poetry and dates back to the year 1056, the more modern, or prose Edda, being of the date of 1640. According to the Eddas there was once no heaven above nor earth beneath, but only a bottomless deep, and a world of mist in which flowed a fountain. Twelve rivers issued from this fountain, and when they had flowed far from their source, they froze into ice, and one layer accumulating above another, the great deep was filled up. Southward from the world of mist was the world of light. From this flowed a warm wind upon the ice and melted it. The vapors rose in the air and formed clouds, from which sprang Ymir, the Frost giant and his progeny, and the cow Audhumbla, whose milk afforded nourishment and food to the giant. The cow got nourishment by licking the hoar frost and salt from the ice. While she was one day licking the salt stones there appeared at first the hair of a man, on the second day the whole head, and on the third the entire form endowed with beauty, agility, and power. This new being was a god, from whom and his wife, a daughter of the giant race, sprang the three brothers Odin, Vili, and Ve. They slew the giant Ymir, and out of his body formed the earth, of his blood the seas, of his bones the mountains, of his hair the trees, of his skull the heavens, and of his brain clouds, charged with hail and snow. Of Ymir's eyebrows the gods formed Midgard (mid earth), destined to become the abode of man. Odin then regulated the periods of day and night and the seasons by placing in the heavens the sun and moon, and appointing to them their respective courses. As soon as the sun began to shed its rays upon the earth, it caused the vegetable world to bud and sprout. Shortly after the gods had created the world they walked by the side of the sea, pleased with their new work, but found that it was still incomplete, for it was without human beings. They therefore took an ash-tree and made a man out of it, and they made a woman out of an alder, and called the man Aske and the woman Embla. Odin then gave them life and soul, Vili reason and motion, and Ve bestowed upon them the senses, expressive features, and speech. Midgard was then given them as their residence, and they became the progenitors of the human race. The mighty ash-tree Ygdrasil was supposed to support the whole universe. It sprang from the body of Ymir, and had three immense roots, extending one into Asgard (the dwelling of the gods), the other into Jotunheim (the abode of the giants), and the third to Niffleheim (the regions of darkness and cold). By the side of each of these roots is a spring, from which it is watered. The root that extends into Asgard is carefully tended by the three Norns, goddesses who are regarded as the dispensers of fate. They are Urdur (the past), Verdandi (the present), Skuld (the future). The spring at the Jotunheim side is Ymir's well, in which wisdom and wit lie hidden, but that of Niffleheim feeds the adder, Nidhogge (darkness), which perpetually gnaws at the root. Four harts run across the branches of the tree and bite the buds; they represent the four winds. Under the tree lies Ymir, and when he tries to shake off its weight the earth quakes. Asgard is the name of the abode of the gods, access to which is only gained by crossing the bridge, Bifrost (the rainbow). Asgard consists of golden and silver palaces, the dwellings of the gods, but the most beautiful of these is Valhalla, the residence of Odin. When seated on his throne he overlooks all heaven and earth. Upon his shoulders are the ravens Hugin and Munin, who fly every day over the whole world, and on their return report to him all they have seen and heard. At his feet lie his two wolves, Geri, and Freki, to whom Odin gives all the meat that is set before him, for he himself stands in no need of food. Mead is for him both food and drink. He invented the Runic characters, and it is the business of the Norns to engrave the runes of fate upon a metal shield. From Odin's name, spelt Wodin, as it sometimes is, came Wednesday, the name of the fourth day of the week. Odin is frequently called Alfadur (All-father), but this name is sometimes used in a way that shows that the Scandinavians had an idea of a deity superior to Odin, uncreated and eternal. OF THE JOYS OF VALHALLA Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts with his chosen heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the boar Schrimnir is served up to them, and is abundant for all. For although this boar is cooked every morning, he becomes whole again every night. For drink the heroes are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrun. When the heroes are not feasting they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day they ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when meal-time comes, they recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla. THE VALKYRIOR The Valkyrior are warlike virgins, mounted upon horses and armed with helmets, shields, and spears. Odin, who is desirous to collect a great many heroes in Valhalla, to be able to meet the giants in a day when the final contest must come, sends down to every battle-field to make choice of those who shall be slain. The Valkyrior are his messengers, and their name means "Choosers of the slain." When they ride forth on their errand their armor shed a strange flickering light, which flashes up over the northern skies, making what men call the "Aurora Borealis," or "Northern Lights." (Gray's ode, The Fatal Sisters, is founded on this superstition.) The following is by Matthew Arnold: "----He crew at dawn a cheerful note, To wake the gods and heroes to their tasks And all the gods and all the heroes woke. And from their beds the heroes rose and donned Their arms, and led their horses from the stall, And mounted them, and in Valhalla's court Were ranged; and then the daily fray began, And all day long they there are hacked and hewn 'Mid dust and groans, and limbs lopped off, and blood; But all at night return to Odin's hall Woundless and fresh; such lot is theirs in heaven. And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth Toward earth and fights of men; and at their side Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode; And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch, Past Midgard Fortress, down to Earth they came; There through some battle-field, where men fall fast, Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride, And pick the bravest warriors out for death, Whom they bring back with them at night to heaven, To glad the gods, and feast in Odin's hall." BALDER DEAD This description of The Funeral of Balder is by William Morris: "----Guest Gazed through the cool dusk, till his eyes did rest Upon the noble stories, painted fair On the high panelling and roof-boards there; For over the high sea, in his ship, there lay The gold-haired Balder, god of the dead day, The spring-flowers round his high pile, waiting there Until the gods there to the torch should bear; And they were wrought on this side and on that, Drawing on towards him. There was Frey, and sat On the gold-bristled boar, who first they say Ploughed the brown earth, and made it green for Frey; Then came dark-bearded Niod; and after him Freyia, thin-robed, about her ankles slim The grey cats playing. In another place Thor's hammer gleamed o'er Thor's red-bearded face; And Heimdal, with the old horn slung behind, That in the god's dusk he shall surely wind, Sickening all hearts with fear; and last of all, Was Odin's sorrow wrought upon the wall. As slow-paced, weary faced, he went along, Anxious with all the tales of woe and wrong His ravens, Thought and Memory, bring to him." THE EARTHLY PARADISE: THE LOVERS OF GODRUN THOR OF THOR AND THE OTHER GODS Thor, the thunderer, Odin's eldest son, is the strongest of gods and men, and possesses three very precious things. The first is his hammer, Miolnir, which both the Frost and the Mountain giants know to their cost, when they see it hurled against them in the air, for it has split many a skull of their fathers and kindred. When thrown, it returns to his hand of its own accord. The second rare thing he possesses is called the belt of strength. When he girds it about him his divine might is doubled. The third, also very precious, is his iron gloves, which he puts on whenever he would use his mallet efficiently. From Thor's name is derived our word Thursday. This description of Thor is by Longfellow: "I am the God Thor, I am the War God, I am the Thunderer! Here in my Northland, My fastness and fortress, Reign I forever! "Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miolner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it! "These are the gauntlets Wherewith I wield it, And hurl it afar off; This is my girdle; Whenever I brace it Strength is redoubled! "The light thou beholdest Stream through the heavens, In flashes of crimson, Is but my red beard Blown by the night wind, Affrighting the nations! "Jove is my brother; Mine eyes are the lightning; The wheels of my chariot Roll in the thunder, The blows of my hammer Ring in the thunder." TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN Frey is one of the most celebrated of the gods. He presides over rain and sunshine and all the fruits of the earth. His sister Freya is the most propitious of the goddesses. She loves music, spring, and flowers, and is particularly fond of the Elves (fairies). She is very fond of love-ditties, and all lovers would do well to invoke her. Bragi is the god of poetry, and his song records the deeds of warriors. His wife, Iduna, keeps in a box the apples which the gods, when they feel old age approaching, have only to taste of to become young again. Heimdall is the watchman of the gods, and is therefore placed on the borders of heaven to prevent the giants from forcing their way over the bridge Bifrost (the rainbow.) He requires less sleep than a bird, and sees by night as well as by day a hundred miles all around him. So acute is his ear that no sound escapes him, for he can even hear the grass grow and the wool on a sheep's back. OF LOKI AND HIS PROGENY There is another deity who is described as the calumniator of the gods and the contriver of all fraud and mischief. His name is Loki. He is handsome and well made, but of a very fickle mood and most evil disposition. He is of the giant race, but forced himself into the company of the gods, and seems to take pleasure in bringing them into difficulties, and in extricating them out of the danger by his cunning, wit, and skill. Loki has three children. The first is the wolf Fenris, the second the Midgard serpent, the third Hela (Death). The gods were not ignorant that these monsters were growing up, and that they would one day bring much evil upon gods and men. So Odin deemed it advisable to send one to bring them to him. When they came he threw the serpent into that deep ocean by which the earth is surrounded. But the monster has grown to such an enormous size that holding his tail in his mouth he encircles the whole earth. Hela he cast into Niffleheim, and gave her power over nine worlds or regions, into which she distributes those who are sent to her; that is, all who die of sickness or old age. Her hall is called Elvidnia. Hunger is her table, Starvation her knife, Delay her man, Slowness her maid, Precipice her threshold, Care her bed, and Burning-anguish forms the hangings of her apartments. She may easily be recognized for her body is half flesh-color and half blue, and she has a dreadfully stern and forbidding countenance. The wolf Fenris gave the gods a great deal of trouble before they succeeded in chaining him. He broke the strongest fetters as if they were made of cobwebs. Finally the gods sent a messenger to the mountain spirits, who made for them the chain called Gleipnir. It is fashioned of six things, viz., th noise made by the footfall of a cat, the beards of women, the roots of stones, the breath of fishes, the nerves (sensibilities) of bears, and the spittle of birds. When finished it was as smooth and soft as a silken string. But when the gods asked the wolf to suffer himself to be bound with this apparently slight ribbon, he suspected their design, fearing that it was made by enchantment. But Tyr (the sword god), to quiet his suspicions, placed his hand in Fenris' mouth. Then the other gods bound the wolf with Gleipnir. But when the wolf found that he could not break his fetters, and that the gods would not release him, he bit off Tyr's hand, and he has ever since remained one-handed. HOW THOR PAID THE MOUNTAIN GIANT HIS WAGES Once on a time, when the gods were constructing their abodes and had already finished Midgard and Valhalla, a certain artificer came and offered to build them a residence so well fortified that they should be perfectly safe from the incursions of the Frost giants and the giants of the mountains. But he demanded for his reward the goddess Freya, together with the sun and moon. The gods yielded to his terms provided he would finish the whole work himself without any one's assistance, and all within the space of one winter. But if anything remained unfinished on the first day of summer he should forfeit the recompense agreed on. On being told these terms the artificer stipulated that he should be allowed the use of his horse Svadilfari, and this by the advice of Loki was granted to him. He accordingly set to work on the first day of winter, and during the night let his horse draw stone for the building. The enormous size of the stones struck the gods with astonishment, and they saw clearly that the horse did one half more of the toilsome work than his mater. Their bargain, however, had been concluded, and confirmed by solemn oaths, for without these precautions a giant would not have thought himself safe among the gods, especially when Thor should return from an expedition he had then undertaken against the evil demons. As the winter drew to a close, the building was far advanced, and the bulwarks were sufficiently high and massive to render the place impregnable. In short, when it wanted but three days to summer the only part that remained to be finished was the gateway. Then sat the gods on their seats of justice and entered into consultation, inquiring of one another who among them could have advised to give Freya away, or to plunge the heavens in darkness by permitting the giant to carry away the sun and the moon. They all agreed that no one but Loki, the author of so many evil deeds, could have given such bad counsel, and that he should be put to a cruel death if he did not contrive some way to prevent the artificer from completing his task and obtaining the stipulated recompense. They proceeded to lay hands on Loki, who in his fright promised upon oath that, let it cost what it would, he would so manage matters that the man should lose his reward. That very night when the man went with Svadilfari for building- stone, a mare suddenly ran out of a forest and began to neigh. The horse thereat broke loose and ran after the mare into the forest, which obliged the man also to run after his horse, and thus between one and another the whole night was lost, so that at dawn the work had not made the usual progress. The man, seeing that he must fail of completing his task, resumed his own gigantic stature, and the gods now clearly perceived that it was in reality a mountain giant who had come amongst them. Feeling no longer bound by their oaths, they called on Thor, who immediately ran to their assistance, and lifting up his mallet, paid the workman his wages, not with the sun and moon, and not even by sending him back to Jotunheim, for with the first blow he shattered the giant's skull to pieces and hurled him headlong into Niffleheim. THE RECOVERY OF THE HAMMER Once upon a time it happened that Thor's hammer fell into the possession of the giant Thrym, who buried it eight fathoms deep under the rocks of Jotunheim. Thor sent Loki to negotiate with Thrym, but he could only prevail so far as to get the giant's promise to restore the weapon if Freya would consent to be his bride. Loki returned and reported the result of his mission, but the goddess of love was quite horrified at the idea of bestowing her charms on the king of the Frost giants. In this emergency Loki persuaded Thor to dress himself in Freya's clothes and accompany him to Jotunheim. Thrym received his veiled bride with due courtesy, but was greatly surprised at seeing her eat for her supper eight salmon and a full-grown ox, besides other delicacies, washing the whole down with three tuns of mead. Loki, however, assured him that she had not tasted anything for eight long nights, so great was her desire to see her lover, the renowned ruler or Jotunheim. Thrym had at length the curiosity to peep under his bride's veil, but started back in affright, and demanded why Freya's eyeballs glistened with fire. Loki repeated the same excuse and the giant was satisfied. He ordered the hammer to be brought in and laid on the maiden's lap. Thereupon Thor threw off his disguise, grasped his redoubted weapon and slaughtered Thrum and all his followers. Frey also possessed a wonderful weapon, a sword which would of itself spread a field with carnage whenever the owner desired it. Frey parted with this sword, but was less fortunate than Thor and never recovered it. It happened in this way: Frey once mounted Odin's throne, from whence one can see over the whole universe, and looking round saw far off in the giant's kingdom a beautiful maid, at the sight of whom he was struck with sudden sadness, insomuch that from that moment he could neither sleep, nor drink, nor speak. At last Skirnir, his messenger, drew his secret from him, and undertook to get him the maiden for his bride, if he would give him his sword as a reward. Frey consented and gave him the sword, and Skirnir set off on his journey and obtained the maiden's promise that within nine nights she would come to a certain place and there wed Frey. Skirnir having reported the success of his errand, Frey exclaimed, "Long is one night, Long are two nights, But how shall I hold out three? Shorter hath seemed A month to me oft Than of this longing time the half." So Frey obtained Gerda, the most beautiful of all women, for his wife, but he lost his sword. This story, entitled Skirnir For, and the one immediately preceding it, Thrym's Quida, will be found poetically told in Longfellow's Poets and Poetry of Europe. Chapter XXXII Thor's Visit to Jotunheim One day the god Thor, accompanied by his servant Thialfi, and also by Loki, set out on a journey to the giant's country. Thialfi was of all men the swiftest of foot. He bore Thor's wallet, containing their provisions. When night came on they found themselves in an immense forest, and searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the night, and at last came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole edifice. Thor rising up called on his companion to seek with him a place of safety. On the right they found an adjoining chamber, into which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway with his mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself, whatever might happen. A terrible groaning was heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor went out and found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in the way that had alarmed them so. It is said that for once Thor was afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor contented himself with simply asking his name. "My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy name, for I know that thou art the god Tor. But what has become of my glove?" Thor then perceived that what they had taken overnight for a hall was the giant's glove and the chamber where his two companions had sought refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast, and when they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet, threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to keep up with him. So they travelled the whole day, and at dusk, Skrymir close a place for them to pass the night in under a large oak-tree. Skrymir then told them he would lie down to sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, "and prepare your supper."Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly, but when Thor tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he could not untie a single knot. At last Thor became wroth, and grasping his mallet with both hands he struck a furious blow on the giant's head. Skrymir awakening merely asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night to Thor, and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest re-echoed with the noise, he arose, and grasping his mallet launched it with such force at the giant's skull that it made a deep dint in it. Skrymir awakening cried out, "What's the matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree? I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with thee, Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then awoke, and that as it was only midnight, there was still time for sleep. He however resolved that if he had an opportunity of striking a third blow, it should settle all matters between them. A little before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast asleep, and again grasping his mallet, he dashed it with such violence that it forced its way into the giant's skull up to the handle. But Skrymir sat up, and stroking his cheek, said, "An acorn fell on my head. What! Art thou awake, Thor? Methinks it is time for us to get up and dress ourselves; but you have not now a long way before you to the city called Utgard. I have heard you whispering to one another that I am not a man of small dimensions; but if you come to Utgard you will see there many men much taller than I. Wherefore I advise you, when you come there, not to make too much of yourselves, for the followers of Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such little fellows as you are. You must take the road that leads eastward, mine lies northward, so we must part here." Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders, and turned away from them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any more of his company. Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that they were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in order to see to the top of it. On arriving they entered the city, and seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in, and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in the hall. Going further, they came before the king Utgard-Loki, whom they saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor, he said, "Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be. What are the feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in, for no one is permitted to remain here who does not, in some feat or other, excel all other men?" "The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than any one else, and in this I am ready to give a proof against any one here who may choose to compete with me." "That will indeed be a feat," said Utgard-Loki, "if thou performest what thou promisest, and it shall be tried forthwith." He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther end of the bench, and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with Loki. A trough filled with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki placed himself at one end, and Logi at the other, and each of them began to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the middle of the trough. But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished. Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor could perform. Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one who might be matched against him. The king observed that skill in running was something to boast of, but if the youth would win the match he must display great agility. He then arose and went with all who were present to a plain where there was good ground for running on, and calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned back and met him not far from the starting-place. Then they ran a second and a third time, but Thialfi met with no better success. Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor answered that he would try a drinking-match with any one. Utgard-Loki bade his cupbearer bring the large horn which his followers were obliged to empty when they had trespassed in any way against the law of the feast. The cupbearer having presented it to Thor, Utgard- Loki said, "Whoever is a good drinker will empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make two of it, but the most puny drinker can do it in three." Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size though somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips, and without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could, that he might not be obliged to make a second draught of it; but when he set the horn down and looked in, he could scarcely perceive that the liquor was diminished. After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drunk rather less than before, although the horn could now be carried without spilling. "How now, Thor," said Utgard-Loki, "thou must not spare thyself; if thou meanest to drain the horn at the third draught thou must pull deeply; and I must needs say that thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here as thou art at home if thou showest no greater prowess in other feats than methinks will be shown in this." Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips, and did his best to empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so he resolved to make no further attempt, but gave back the horn to the cupbearer. "I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not quite so stout as we thought thee; but wilt thou try any other feat, though methinks thou art not likely to bear any prize away with thee hence." "What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor. "We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki, "in which we exercise none but children. It consists in merely lifting my cat from the ground; nor should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great Thor if I had not already observed that thou art by no means what we took thee for." As he finished speaking, a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor put his hand under the cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from the floor, but the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all Thor's efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made no further attempt. "This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I imagined it would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men." "Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among you will come hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me." "I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the benches, "who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let somebody, however, call hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let Thor wrestle with her if he will. She has thrown to the ground many a man not less strong than this Thor is." A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard-Loki to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The more Thor tightened his hold on the crone the firmer she stood. At length, after a very violent struggle, Thor began to lose his footing, and was finally brought down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki then told them to desist, adding that Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions to their seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer. The next morning at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki ordered a table to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink. After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to the gate of the city, and on parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out, and whether he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him that he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself. "And what grieves me most," he added, is that ye will call me a person of little worth." "Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to enter this time. Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in the forest where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou couldst not untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with the mallet; the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the mountain where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are the dints made by thy mallet. I have made use of similar illusions in the contests you have had with my followers. In the first, Loki, like hunger itself, devoured all that was set before him, but Logi was in reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the meat, but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace with that. When thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the horn, thou didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvellous, that had I not seen it myself, I should never have believed it. For one end of that horn reached the sea, which thou was not aware of, but when thou comest to the shore thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy draughts. Thou didst perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were all of us terror- stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat was in reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and he was so stretched by thee, that he was barely long enough to enclose it between his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing feat, for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for such in fact was Elli, will not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we are going to part, let me tell thee that it will be better for both of us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy labor and get no fame from the contest with me." On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet and would have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor would have returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around him but a verdant plain. On another occasion Thor was more successful in an encounter with the giants. It happened that Thor met with a giant, Hrungnir by name, who was disputing with Odin as to the merits of their respective horses, Gullfaxi and Sleipnir, the eight-legged. Thor and the giant made an agreement to fight together on a certain day. But as the day approached, the giant, becoming frightened at the thought of encountering Thor alone, manufactured, with the assistance of his fellow-giants, a great giant of clay. He was nine miles high and three miles about the chest, and in his heart he had the heart of a mare. Accompanied by the clay giant, Hrungnir awaited Thor on the appointed day. Thor approached preceded by Thialfi, his servant, who, running ahead, shouted out to Hrungnir that it was useless to hold his shield before him, for the god Thor would attack him out of the ground. Hrungnir at this flung his shield on the ground, and, standing upon it, made ready. As Thor approached Hrungnir flung at him an immense club of stone. Thor flung his hammer. Miolnir met the club half way, broke it in pieces, and burying itself in the stone skull of Hrungnir, felled him to the ground. Meanwhile Thialfi had despatched the clay giant with a spade. Thor himself received but a slight wound from a fragment of the giant's hammer. Chapter XXXIII The Death of Baldur The Elves -- Runic Letters -- Scalds -- Iceland Baldur, the Good, having been tormented with terrible dreams indicating that his life was in peril, told them to the assembled gods, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga, the wife of Odin, exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, from stones, trees, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Baldur. Odin, not satisfied with all this, and feeling alarmed for the fate of his son, determined to consult the prophetess Angerbode, a giantess, mother of Fenris, Hela, and the Midgard serpent. She was dead, and Odin was forced to seek her in Hela's dominions. This descent of Odin forms the subject of Gray's fine ode beginning, "Up rose the king of men with speed And saddled straight his coal-black steed." But the other gods, feeling that what Frigga had done was quite sufficient, amused themselves with using Baldur as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes, for do what they would none of them could harm him. And this became a favorite pastime with them and was regarded as an honor shown to Baldur. But when Loki beheld the scene he was sorely vexed that Baldur was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the gods were doing at their meetings. She replied that they were throwing darts and stones at Baldur, without being able to hurt him. "Ay," said Frigga, "neither stones, nor sticks, nor anything else can hurt Baldur, for I have exacted an oath from all of them. " "What," exclaimed the woman, "have all things sworn to spare Baldur?" "All things," replied Frigga, "except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from." As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hodur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness, and going up to him, said, "Why dost thou not also throw something at Baldur?" "Because I am blind," answered Hodur, "and see not where Baldur is, and have moreover nothing to throw." "Come, then," said Loki, "do like the rest and show honor to Baldur by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm towards the place where he stands." Hodur then took the mistletoe, and under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Baldur, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless. Surely never was there witnessed, either among gods or men, a more atrocious deed than this. When Baldur fell, the gods were struck speechless with horror, and then they looked at each other, and all were of one mind to lay hands on him who had done the deed, but they were obliged to delay their vengeance out of respect for the sacred place where they were assembled. They gave vent to their grief by loud lamentations. When the gods came to themselves, Frigga asked who among them wished to gain all her love and good will. "For this," said she, "shall he have who will ride to Hel and offer Hela a ransom if she will let Baldur return to Asgard." Whereupon Hermod, surnamed the Nimble, the son of Odin, offered to undertake the journey. Odin's horse, Sleipnir, which has eight legs, and can outrun the wind, was then led forth, on which Hermod mounted and galloped away on his mission. For the space of nine days and as many nights he rode through deep glens so dark that he could not discern anything until he arrived at the river Gyoll, which he passed over on a bridge covered with glittering gold. The maiden who kept the bridge asked him his name and lineage, telling him that the day before five bands of dead persons had ridden over the bridge, and did not shake it as much as he alone. "But," she added, "thou hast not death's hue on thee; why then ridest thou here on the way to Hel?" "I ride to Hel," answered Hermod, "to seek Baldur. Hast thou perchance seen him pass this way?" She replied, "Baldur hath ridden over Gyoll's bridge, and yonder lieth the way he took to the abodes of death." Hermod pursued his journey until he came to the barred gates of Hel. Here he alighted, girthed his saddle tighter, and remounting clapped both spurs to his horse, who cleared the gate by a tremendous leap without touching it. Hermod then rode on to the palace where he found his brother Baldur occupying the most distinguished seat in the hall, and passed the night in his company. The next morning he besought Hela to let Baldur ride home with him, assuring her that nothing but lamentations were to be heard among the gods. Hela answered that it should now be tried whether Baldur was so beloved as he was said to be. "If, therefore," she added, "all things in the world, both living and lifeless, weep for him, then shall he return to life; but if any one thing speak against him or refuse to weep, he shall be kept in Hel." Hermod then rode back to Asgard and gave an account of all he had heard and witnessed. The gods upon this despatched messengers throughout the world to beg every thing to weep in order that Baldur might be delivered from Hel. All things very willingly complied with this request, both men and every other living being, as well as earths, and stones, and trees, and metals, just as we have all seen these things weep when they are brought from a cold place into a hot one. As the messengers were returning, they found an old hag named Thaukt sitting in a cavern, and begged her to weep Baldur out of Hel. But she answered, "Thaukt will wail With dry tears Baldur's bale-fire. Let Hela keep her own." It was strongly suspected that this hag was no other than Loki himself, who never ceased to work evil among gods and men. So Baldur was prevented from coming back to Asgard. (In Longfellow's Poems, vol. 1, page 379, will be found a poem entitled Tegner's Drapa, upon the subject of Baldur's death.) Among Matthew Arnold's Poems is one called "Balder Death" beginning thus: "So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts and spears, Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clave; But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw; "Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. And all the Gods and all the heroes came And stood round Balder on the bloody floor Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rang Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries; And on the table stood the untasted meats, And in the horns and gold-rimmed skulls the wine; And now would night have fallen and found them yet Wailing; but otherwise was Odin's will." THE FUNERAL OF BALDUR The gods took up the dead body and bore it to the sea-shore where stood Baldur's ship Hringham, which passed for the largest in the world. Baldur's dead body was put on the funeral pile, on board the ship, and his wife Nanna was so struck with grief at the sight that she broke her heart, and her body was burned on the same pile with her husband's. There was a vast concourse of various kinds of people at Baldur's obsequies. First came Odin accompanied by Frigga, the Valkyrior, and his ravens; then Frey in his car drawn by Gullinbursti, the boar; Heimdall rode his horse Gulltopp, and Freya drove in her chariot drawn by cats. There were also a great many Frost giants and giants of the mountain present. Baldur's horse was led to the pile fully caparisoned and consumed in the same flames with his master. But Loki did not escape his deserved punishment. When he saw how angry the gods were, he fled to the mountain, and there built himself a hut with four doors, so that he could see every approaching danger. He invented a net to catch the fishes, such as fishermen have used since his time. But Odin found out his hiding-place and the gods assembled to take him. He, seeing this, changed himself into a salmon, and lay hid among the stones of the brook. But the gods took his net and dragged the brook, and Loki finding he must be caught, tried to leap over the net; but Thor caught him by the tail and compressed it so, that salmons every since have had that part remarkably fine and thin. They bound him with chains and suspended a serpent over his head, whose venom falls upon his face drop by drop. His wife Siguna sits by his side and catches the drops as they fall, in a cup; but when she carries it away to empty it, the venom falls upon Loki, which makes him howl with horror, and twist his body about so violently that the whole earth shakes, and this produces what men call earthquakes. THE ELVES The Edda mentions another class of beings, inferior to the gods, but still possessed of great power; these were called Elves. The white spirits, or Elves of Light, were exceedingly fair, more brilliant than the sun, and clad in garments of delicate and transparent texture. They loved the light, were kindly disposed to mankind, and generally appeared as fair and lovely children. Their country was called Alfheim, and was the domain of Freyr, the god of the sun, in whose light they were always sporting. The black of Night Elves were a different kind of creatures. Ugly, long-nosed dwarfs, of a dirty brown color, they appeared only at night, for they avoided the sun as their most deadly enemy, because whenever his beams fell upon any of them they changed them immediately into stones. Their language was the echo of solitudes, and their dwelling-places subterranean caves and clefts. They were supposed to have come into existence as maggots, produced by the decaying flesh of Ymir's body, and were afterwards endowed by the gods with a human form and great understanding. They were particularly distinguished for a knowledge of the mysterious powers of nature, and for the runes which they carved and explained. They were the most skilful artificers of all created beings, and worked in metals and in wood. Among their most noted works were Thor's hammer, and the ship Skidbladnir, which they gave to Freyr, and which was so large that it could contain all the deities with their war and household implements, but so skilfully was it wrought that when folded together it could be put into a side pocket. RAGNABOK, THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS It was a firm belief of the northern nations that a time would come when all the visible creation, the gods of Valhalla and Niffleheim, the inhabitants of Jotunheim, Alfheim, and Midgard, together with their habitations, would be destroyed. The fearful day of destruction will not, however, be without its forerunners. First will come a triple winter, during which snow will fall from the four corners of the heavens, the frost be very severe, the wind piercing, the weather tempestuous, and the sun impart no gladness. Three such winters will pass away without being tempered by a single summer. Three other similar winters will then follow, during which war and discord will spread over the universe. The earth itself will be frightened and begin to tremble, the sea leave its basin, the heavens tear asunder, and men perish in great numbers, and the eagles of the air feast upon their still quivering bodies. The wolf Fenris will now break his bands, the Midgard serpent rise out of her bed in the sea, and Loki, released from his bonds, will join the enemies of the gods. Amidst the general devastation the sons of Muspelheim will rush forth under their leader Surtur, before and behind whom are flames and burning fire. Onward they ride over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, which breaks under the horses' hoofs. But they, disregarding its fall, direct their course to the battle-field called Vigrid. Thither also repair the wolf Fenris, the Midgard serpent, Loki with all the followers of Hela, and the Frost giants. Heimdall now stands up and sounds the Giallar horn to assemble the gods and heroes for the contest. The gods advance, led on by Odin, who engages the wolf Fenris, but falls a victim to the monster, who is, however, slain by Vidar, Odin's son. Thor gains great renown by killing the Midgard serpent, but recoils and falls dead, suffocated with the venom which the dying monster vomits over him. Loki and Heimdall meet and fight till they are both slain. The Gods and their enemies having fallen in battle, Surtur, who has killed Dreyr, darts fire and flames over the world, and the whole universe is burned up. The sun becomes dim, the earth sinks into the ocean, the stars fall from heaven, and time is no more. After this Alfadur (the almighty) will cause a new heaven and a new earth to arise out of the sea. The new earth, filled with abundant supplies, will spontaneously produce its fruits without labor or care. Wickedness and misery will no more be known, but the gods and men will live happily together. RUNIC LETTERS One cannot travel far in Denmark, Norway, or Sweden, without meeting with great stones, of different forms, engraven with characters called Runic, which appear at first sight very different from all we know. The letters consist almost invariably of straight lines, in the shape of little sticks either singly or put together. Such sticks were in early times used by the northern nations for the purpose of ascertaining future events. The sticks were shaken up, and from the figures that they formed a kind of divination was derived. The Runic characters were of various kinds. They were chiefly used for magical purposes. The noxious, or, as they called them, the BITTER runes, were employed to bring various evils on their enemies; the favorable averted misfortune. Some were medicinal, others employed to win love, etc. In later times they were frequently used for inscriptions, of which more than a thousand have been found. The language is a dialect of the Gothic, called Norse, still in use in Iceland. The inscriptions may therefore be read with certainty, but hitherto very few have been found which throw the least light on history. They are mostly epitaphs on tombstones. Gray's ode on the Descent of Odin contains an allusion to the use of Runic letters for incantation: "Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme; Thrice pronounced, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the dead, Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breathed a sullen sound." THE SKALDS The Skalds were the bards and poets of the nation, a very important class of men in all communities in an early stage of civilization. They are the depositaries of whatever historic lore there is, and it is their office to mingle something of intellectual gratification with the rude feasts of the warriors, by rehearsing, with such accompaniments of poetry and music as their skill can afford, the exploits of their heroes living or dead. The compositions of the Skalds were called Sagas, many of which have come down to us, and contain valuable materials of history, and a faithful picture of the state of society at the time to which they relate. ICELAND The Eddas and Sagas have come to us from Iceland. The following extract from Carlyle's Lectures on Heroes and Hero worship gives an animated account of the region where the strange stories we have been reading had their origin. Let the reader contrast it for a moment with Greece, the parent of classical mythology. "In that strange island, Iceland, burst up, the geologists say, by fire from the bottom of the sea, a wild land of barrenness and lava, swallowed many months of every year in black tempests, yet with a wild, gleaming beauty in summer time, towering up there stern and grim in the North Ocean, with its snow yokuls (mountains), roaring geysers (boiling springs), sulphur pools, and horrid volcanic chasms, like the vast, chaotic battle-field of Frost and Fire, where, of all places, we least looked for literature or written memorials, the record of these things was written down. On the seaboard of this wild land is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can subsist, and men by means of them and of what the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic men these, men who had deep thoughts in them and uttered musically their thoughts. Much would be lost had Iceland not been burst up from the sea, not been discovered by the Northmen!" Chapter XXXIV The Druids Iona The Druids were the priests or ministers of religion among the ancient Celtic nations in Gaul, Britain, and Germany. Our information respecting them is borrowed from notices in the Greek and Roman writers, compared with the remains of Welsh and Gaelic poetry still extant. The Druids combined the functions of the priest, the magistrate, the scholar, and the physician. They stood to the people of the Celtic tribes in a relation closely analogous to that in which the Brahmans of India, the Magi of Persia, and the priests of the Egyptians stood to the people respectively by whom they were revered. The Druids taught the existence of one God, to whom they gave a name "Be'al," which Celtic antiquaries tell us means "the life of everything," or "the source of all beings,:" and which seems to have affinity with the Phoenician Baal. What renders this affinity more striking is that the Druids as well as the Phoenicians identified this, their supreme deity, with the Sun. Fire was regarded as a symbol of the divinity. The Latin writers assert that the Druids also worshipped numerous inferior Gods. They used no images to represent the object of their worship, nor did they meet in temples or buildings of any kind for the performance of their sacred rites. A circle of stones (each stone generally of vast size) enclosing an area of from twenty feet to thirty yards in diameter, constituted their sacred place. The most celebrated of these now remaining is Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, England. These sacred circles were generally situated near some stream, or under the shadow of a grove or wide-spreading oak. In the centre of the circle stood the Cromlech or altar, which was a large stone, placed in the manner of a table upon other stones set up on end. The Druids had also their high places, which were large stones or piles of stones on the summits of hills. These were called Cairns, and were used in the worship of the deity under the symbol of the sun. That the Druids offered sacrifices to their deity there can be no doubt. But there is some uncertainty as to what they offered, and of the ceremonies connected with their religious services we know almost nothing. The classical (Roman) writers affirm that they offered on great occasions human sacrifices; as for success in war or for relief from dangerous diseases. Caesar has given a detailed account of the manner in which this was done. "They have images of immense size, the limbs of which are framed with twisted twigs and filled with living persons. These being set on fire, those within are encompassed by the flames." Many attempts have been made by Celtic writers to shake the testimony of the Roman historians to this fact, but without success. The Druids observed two festivals in each year. The former took place in the beginning of May, and was called Beltane or "fire of God." On this occasion a large fire was kindled on some elevated spot, in honor of the sun, whose returning beneficence they thus welcomed after the gloom and desolation of winter. Of this custom a trace remains in the name given to Whitsunday in parts of Scotland to this day. Sir Walter Scott uses the word in the Boat Song in the Lady of the Lake: "Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane in winter to fade." The other great festival of the Druids was called "Samh'in," or "fire of peace," and was held on Hallow-eve (first of November), which still retains this designation in the Highlands of Scotland. On this occasion the Druids assembled in solemn conclave, in the most central part of the district, to discharge the judicial functions of their order. All questions, whether public or private, all crimes against person or property, were at this time brought before them for adjudication. With these judicial acts were combined certain superstitious usages, especially the kindling of the sacred fire, from which all the fires in the district which had been beforehand scrupulously extinguished, might be relighted. This usage of kindling fires on Hallow-eve lingered in the British Islands long after the establishment of Christianity. Besides these two great annual festivals, the Druids were in the habit of observing the full moon, and especially the sixth day of the moon. On the latter they sought the mistletoe, which grew on their favorite oaks, and to which, as well as to the oak itself, they ascribed a peculiar virtue and sacredness. The discovery of it was an occasion of rejoicing and solemn worship. "They call it," says Pliny, "by a word in their language which means 'heal- all,' and having made solemn preparation for feasting and sacrifice under the tree, they drive thither two milk-white bulls, whose horns are then for the first time bound. The priest then, robed in white, ascends the tree, and cuts off the mistletoe with a golden sickle. It is caught in a white mantle, after which they proceed to slay the victims, at the same time praying that god would render his gift prosperous to those to whom he had given it. They drink the water in which it has been infused, and think it a remedy for all diseases. The mistletoe is a parasitic plant, and is not always nor often found on the oak, so that when it is found it is the more precious." The Druids were the teachers of morality as well as of religion. Of their ethical teaching a valuable specimen is preserved in the Triads of the Welsh Bards, and from this we may gather that their views of moral rectitude were on the whole just, and that they held and inculcated many very noble and valuable principles of conduct. They were also the men of science and learning of their age and people. Whether they were acquainted with letters or not has been disputed, though the probability is strong that they were, to some extent. But it is certain that they committed nothing of their doctrine, their history, or their poetry to writing. Their teaching was oral, and their literature (if such a word may be used in such a case) was preserved solely by tradition. But the Roman writers admit that "they paid much attention to the order and laws of nature, and investigated and taught to the youth under their charge many things concerning the stars and their motions, the size of the world and the lands , and concerning the might and power of the immortal gods." Their history consisted in traditional tales, in which the heroic deeds of their forefathers were celebrated. These were apparently in verse, and thus constituted part of the poetry as well as the history of the Druids. In the poems of Ossian we have, if not the actual productions of Druidical times, what may be considered faithful representations of the songs of the Bards. The Bards were an essential part of the Druidical hierarchy. One author, Pennant, says, "The bards were supposed to be endowed with powers equal to inspiration. They were the oral historians of all past transactions, public and private. They were also accomplished genealogists." Pennant gives a minute account of the Eisteddfods or sessions of the bards and minstrels, which were held in Wales for many centuries, long after the Druidical priesthood in its other departments became extinct. At these meetings none but bards of merit were suffered to rehearse their pieces, and minstrels of skill to perform. Judges were appointed to decide on their respective abilities, and suitable degrees were conferred. In the earlier period the judges were appointed by the Welsh princes, and after the conquest of Wales, by commission from the kings of England. Yet the tradition is that Edward I., in revenge for the influence of the bards, in animating the resistance of the people to his sway, persecuted them with great cruelty. This tradition has furnished the poet Gray with the subject of his celebrated ode, the Bard. There are still occasional meetings of the lovers of Welsh poetry and music, held under the ancient name. Among Mrs. Heman's poems is one written for an Eisteddfod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London May 22, 1822. It begins with a description of the ancient meeting, of which the following lines are a part: "---- midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied The crested Roman in his hour of pride; And where the Druid's ancient cromlech frowned, And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round, There thronged the inspired of yore! On plain or height, In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light, And baring unto heaven each noble head, Stood in the circle, where none else might tread." The Druidical system was at its height at the time of the Roman invasion under Julius Caesar. Against the Druids, as their chief enemies, these conquerors of the world directed their unsparing fury. The Druids, harassed at all points on the main-land, retreated to Anglesey and Iona, where for a season they found shelter, and continued their now-dishonored rites. The Druids retained their predominance in Iona and over the adjacent islands and main-land until they were supplanted and their superstitions overturned by the arrival of St. Columba, the apostle of the Highlands, by whom the inhabitants of that district were first led to profess Christianity. IONA One of the smallest of the British Isles, situated near a ragged and barren coast, surrounded by dangerous seas, and possessing no sources of internal wealth, Iona has obtained an imperishable place in history as the seat of civilization and religion at a time when the darkness of heathenism hung over almost the whole of Northern Europe. Iona or Icolmkill is situated at the extremity of the island of Mull, from which it is separated by a strait of half a mile in breadth, its distance from the main-land of Scotland being thirty-six miles. Columba was a native of Ireland, and connected by birth with the princes of the land. Ireland was at that time a land of gospel light, while the western and northern parts of Scotland were still immersed in the darkness of heathenism. Columba, with twelve friends landed on the island of Iona in the year of our Lord 563, having made the passage in a wicker boat covered with hides. The Druids who occupied the island endeavored to prevent his settling there, and the savage nations on the adjoining shores incommoded him with their hostility, and on several occasions endangered his life by their attacks. Yet by his perseverance and zeal he surmounted all opposition, procured from the king a gift of the island, and established there a monastery of which he was the abbot. He was unwearied in his labors to disseminate a knowledge of the Scriptures throughout the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, and such was the reverence paid him that though not a bishop, but merely a presbyter and monk, the entire province with its bishops was subject to him and his successors. The Pictish monarch was so impressed with a sense of his wisdom and worth that he held him in the highest honor, and the neighboring chiefs and princes sought his counsel and availed themselves of his judgment in settling their disputes. When Columba landed on Iona he was attended by twelve followers whom he had formed into a religious body, of which he was the head. To these, as occasion required, others were from time to time added, so that the original number was always kept up. Their institution was called a monastery, and the superior an abbot, but the system had little in common with the monastic institutions of later times. The name by which those who submitted to the rule were known was that of Culdees, probably from the Latin "cultores Dei" worshippers of God. They were a body of religious persons associated together for the purpose of aiding each other in the common work of preaching the gospel and teaching youth, as well as maintaining in themselves the fervor of devotion by united exercises of worship. On entering the order certain vows were taken by the members, but they were not those which were usually imposed by monastic orders, for of these, which are three, celibacy, poverty, and obedience, the Culdees were bound to none except the third. To poverty they did not bind themselves; on the contrary, they seem to have labored diligently to procure for themselves and those dependent on them the comforts of life. Marriage also was allowed them, and most of them seem to have entered into that state. True, their wives were not permitted to reside with them at the institution, but they had a residence assigned to them in an adjacent locality. Near Iona there is an island which still bears the name of "Eilen nam ban," women's island, where their husbands seem to have resided with them, except when duty required their presence in the school or the sanctuary. Campbell, in his poem of Reullura, alludes to the married monks of Iona: "----The pure Culdees Were Albyn's earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barred from holy wedlock's tie. 'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preached the word with power. And Reullura, beauty's star, Was the partner of his bower." In one of his Irish Melodies, Moore gives the legend of St. Senanus and the lady who sought shelter on the island, but was repulsed: "Oh, haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne'er by woman's foot be trod. In these respects and in others the Culdees departed from the established rules of the Romish Church, and consequently were deemed heretical. The consequence was that as the power of the latter advanced, that of the Culdees was enfeebled. It was not, however, till the thirteenth century that the communities of the Culdees were suppressed and the members dispersed. They still continued to labor as individuals, and resisted the inroads of Papa usurpation as they best might till the light of the Reformation dawned on the world. Ionia, from its position in the western seas, was exposed to the assaults of the Norwegian and Danish rovers by whom those seas were infested, and by them it was repeatedly pillaged, its dwellings burned, and its peaceful inhabitants put to the sword. These unfavorable circumstances led to its gradual decline, which was expedited by the supervision of the Culdees throughout Scotland. Under the reign of Popery the island became the seat of a nunnery, the ruins of which are still seen. At the Reformation, the nuns were allowed to remain, living in community, when the abbey was dismantled. Ionia is now chiefly resorted to by travellers on account of the numerous ecclesiastical and sepulchral remains which are found upon it. The principal of these are the Cathedral or Abbey Church, and the Chapel of the Nunnery. Besides these remains of ecclesiastical antiquity, there are some of an earlier date, and pointing to the existence on the island of forms of worship and belief different from those of Christianity. These are the circular Cairns which are found in various parts, and which seem to have been of Druidical origin. It is in reference to all these remains of ancient religion that Johnson exclaims, "That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer amid the ruins of Iona." In the Lord of the Isles, Scott beautifully contrasts the church on Iona with the Cave of Staffa, opposite: "Nature herself, it seemed, would raise A minister to her Maker's praise! Not for a meaner use ascend Her columns or her arches bend; Nor of a theme less solemn tells The mighty surge that ebbs and swells, And still between each awful pause, From the high vault an answer draws, In varied tone, prolonged and high, That mocks the organ's melody; Nor doth its entrance front in vain To old Iona's holy fane, That Nature's voice might seem to say, Well hast thou done, frail child of clay, Thy humble powers that stately shrine Tasked high and hard but witness mine." SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF GREEK SCULPTURE We have seen throughout the course of this book how the Greek and Norse myths have furnished material for the poets, not only of Greece and Scandinavia, but also of modern times. In the same way these stories have been found capable of artistic treatment by painters, sculptors, and even by musicians. The story of Cupid and Psyche has not only been retold by poets from Apuleius to William Morris, but also drawn out in a series of frescoes by Raphael, and sculptured in marble by Canova. Even to enumerate the works of art of the modern and ancient world which depend for their subject-matter upon mythology would be a task for a book by itself. As we have been able to give only a few illustrations of the poetic treatment of some of the principal myths, so we shall have to content ourselves with a similarly limited view of the part played by them in other fields of art. Of the statues made by the ancients themselves to represent their greater deities, a few have been already commented on. But it must not be thought that these splendid examples of plastic art, the Olympian Jupiter and the Athene of the Parthenon, represent the earliest attempts of the Greeks to give form to their myths in sculpture. Our most primitive sources of knowledge of much of Greek mythology are the Homeric poems, where the stories of Achilles and Ulysses have already taken on a poetic form, almost the highest conceivable. But in the other arts, Greek genius lagged behind. At the time when the Homeric poems were written, we find no traces of columned temples or magnificent statues. Scarcely were the domestic arts sufficiently advanced to allow the poet to describe dwellings glorious enough for his heroes to live in, or articles of common utility fit for their use. Of the two most famous works of art mentioned in the Iliad we must think of the statue of Athene at Troy (the Palladium) as a rude carving perhaps of wood, the arms of the goddess separated from the body only enough to allow her to hold the lance and spindle, which were the signs of her divinity. The splendor of the shield of Achilles must be attributed largely to the rich imagination of the poet. Other works of art of this primitive age we know from descriptions in later classical writers. They attributed the rude statues which had come down to them to Daedalus and his pupils, and beheld them with wonder at their uncouth ugliness. It was long thought that these beginnings of Greek sculpture were to be traced to Egypt, but now-a-days scholars are inclined to take a different view. Egyptian sculpture was closely allied to architecture; the statues were frequently used for the columns of temples. Thus sculpture was subordinated to purely mechanical principles, and human figures were represented altogether in accordance with established conventions. Greek sculpture, on the contrary, even in its primitive forms was eminently natural, capable of developing a high degree of realism. From the first it was decorative in character, and this left the artist free to execute in his own way, provided only that the result should be in accordance with the highest type of beauty which he could conceive. An example of this early decorative art was the chest of Kypselos, on which stories from Homer were depicted in successive bands, the reliefs being partly inlaid with gold and ivory. From the sixth century before Christ date three processes of great importance in the development of sculpture; the art of casting in bronze, the chiselling of marble, and the inlaying of gold and ivory on wood (chryselephantine work). As early Greek literature developed first among the island Greeks, so the invention of these three methods of art must br attributed to the colonists away from the original Hellas. To the Samians is probably due the invention of bronze casting, to the Chians the beginning of sculpture in marble. This latter development opened to Greek sculpture its great future. Marble work was carried on by a race of artists beginning with Melas in the seventh century and coming down to Boupalos and Athenis, the sons of Achermos, whose works survived to the time of Augustus. Chryselephantine sculpture began in Crete. Among the earliest of the Greek sculptors whose names have come down to us was Canachos, the Sicyonian. His masterpiece was the Apollo Philesios, in bronze, made for the temple of Didymas. The statue no longer exists, but there are a number of ancient monuments which may be taken as fairly close copies of it, or at least as strongly suggestive of the style of Canachos, among which are the Payne-Knight Apollo at the British Museum, and the Piombino Apollo at the Louvre. In this latter statue the god stands erect with the left foot slightly advanced, and the hands outstretched. The socket of the eye is hollow and was probably filled with some bright substance. Canachos was undoubtedly an innovator, and in the stronger modelling of the head and neck, the more vigorous posture of the body of his statue, he shows an advance on the more conventional and limited art of his generation. As Greek sculpture progressed, schools of artists arose in various cities, dependent usually for their fame on the ability of some individual sculptor. "Among these schools, those of Aegina and Athens are the most important. Of the former school the works of Onatus are by far the most notable. Onatus was a contemporary of Canachos, and reached the height of his fame in the middle of the fifth century before Christ. His most famous work was the scene where the Greek heroes draw lots for an opponent to Hector. It is not certain whether Onatus sculptured the groups which adorned the pediments of the temple of Athena at Aegina, groups now in the Glyptothek at Munich, but certainly these famous statues are decidedly in his style. Both pediments represent the battle over the body of Patroclus. The east pediment shows the struggle between Heracles and Laomedon. In each group a fallen warrior lies at the feet of the goddess, over whom she extends her protection. The Aeginetan marbles show the traces of dying archaism. The figures of the warriors are strongly moulded, muscular, but without grace. The same type is reproduced again and again among them. Even the wounded scarcely depart from it. The statues of the eastern pediment are probably later in date than those of the western, and in the former the dying warrior exhibits actual weakness and pain. In the western pediment the statue of the goddess is thoroughly archaic, stiff, uncompromisingly harsh, the features frozen into a conventional smile. In the eastern group the goddess, though still ungraceful, is more distinctly in action, and seems about to take part in the struggle. The Heracles of the eastern pediment, a warrior supported on one knee and drawing his bow, is, for the time, wonderfully vivid and strong. All of these statues are evidence of the rapid progress which Greek sculpture was making in the fifth century against the demands of hieratic conventionality. The contemporary Athenian school boasted the names of Hegias, Critios, and Nesiotes. Their works have all perished, but a copy of one of the most famous works of Critios and Nesiotes, the statue of the Tyrannicides, is to be found in the Museum of Naples. Harmodius and Aristogeiton killed, in 514 B.C., the tyrant-ruler of Athens, Hipparchus. In consequence of this Athens soon became a republic, and the names of the first rebels were held in great honor. Their statues were set up on the Acropolis, first a group by Antenor, then the group in question by Critios and Nesiotes after the first had been carried away by Xerxes. The heroes, as we learn from the copies in Naples, were represented as rushing forward, one with a naked sword flashing above his head, the other with a mantle for defence thrown over his left arm. They differ in every detail of action and pose, yet they exemplify the same emotion, a common impulse to perform the same deed. At Argus, contemporary with these early schools of Athens and Aegina, was a school of artists depending on the fame of the great sculptor Ageladas. He was distinguished for his statues in bronze of Zeus and Heracles, but his great distinction is not through works of his own, but is due to the fact that he was the teacher of Myron, Polycleitos, and Pheidias. These names with those of Pythagoras and Calamis bring us to the glorious flowering time of Greek sculpture. Calamis, somewhat older than the others, was an Athenian, at least by residence. He carried on the measure of perfection which Athenian sculpture had already attained, and added grace and charm to the already powerful model which earlier workers had left him. None of his works survive, but from notices of critics we know that he excelled especially in modelling horses and other animals. His two race-horses in memory of the victory of Hiero of Syracuse at Olympia in 468 were considered unsurpassable. However, it is related that Praxiteles removed the charioteer from one of the groups of Calamis and replaced it by one of his own statues "that the men of Calamis might not be inferior to his horses." Thus it would appear that Calamis was less successful in dealing with the human body, though a statue of Aphrodite from his hand was proverbial, under the name Sosandra, for its grace and grave beauty. Pythagoras of Rhegium carried on the realism, truth to nature, which was beginning to appear as an ideal of artistic representation. He is said to have been the first sculptor to mark the veins and sinews on the body. In this vivid naturalness Pythagoras was himself far surpassed by Myron. Pythagoras had seen the importance of showing the effect of action in every portion of the body. Myron carried the minuteness of representation so far that his Statue of Ladas, the runner, was spoken of not as a runner, but as a BREATHER. This statue represented the victor of the foot-race falling, overstrained and dying, at the goal, the last breath from the tired lungs yet hovering upon the lips. More famous than the Ladas is the Discobolos , or disc-thrower, of which copies exist at Rome, one being at the Vatican, the other at the Palazzo Massimi alle Colonne. These, though doubtless far behind the original, serve to show the marvellous power of portraying intense action which the sculptor possessed. The athlete is represented at the precise instant when he has brought the greatest possible bodily strength into play in order to give to the disc its highest force. The body is bent forward, the toes of one foot cling to the ground, the muscles of the torso are strained, the whole body is in an attitude of violent tension which can endure only for an instant. Yet the face is free from contortion, free from any trace of effort, calm and beautiful. This shows that Myron, intent as he was upon reproducing nature, could yet depart from his realistic formulae when the requirements of beautiful art demanded it. The same delight in rapid momentary action which characterized the two statues of Myron already mentioned appears in a third, the statue of Marsyas astonished at the flute which Athene had thrown away, and which was to lead its finder into his fatal contest with Apollo. A copy of this work at the Lateran Museum represents the satyr starting back in a rapid mingling of desire and fear, which is stamped on his heavy face, as well as indicated in the movement of his body. Myron's realism again found expression in the bronze cow, celebrated by the epigrams of contemporary poets for its striking naturalness. "Shepherd, pasture thy flock at a little distance, lest thinking thou seest the cow of Myron breathe, thou shouldst wish to lead it away with thine oxen," was one of them. The value and originality of Myron's contributions to the progress of Greek sculpture were so great that he left behind him a considerable number of artists devoted to his methods. His son Lykios followed his father closely. In statues on the Acropolis representing two boys, one bearing a basin, one blowing the coals in a censer into a flame, he reminds one of the Ladas, especially in the second, where the action of breathing is exemplified in every movement of the body. Another famous work by a follower of Myron was the boy plucking a thorn from his foot, a copy of which is in the Rothschild collection. The frieze of the Temple of Apollo at Phigales has also been attributed to the school of Myron. The remnants of this frieze, now in the British Museum, show the battle of the Centaurs and Amazons. The figures have not the calm stateliness of bearing which characterizes those of the Parthenon frieze, but instead exhibit a wild vehemence of action which is, perhaps, directly due to the influence of Myron. Another pupil of Ageladas, a somewhat younger contemporary of Pheidias, was Polycleitos. He excelled in representations of human, bodily beauty. Perfection of form was his aim, and so nearly did he seem to the ancients to have attained this object that his Doryphoros was taken by them as a model of the human figure. A copy of this statue exists in the Museum of Naples and represents a youth in the attitude of bearing a lance, quiet and reserved. The figure is rather heavily built, firm, powerful, and yet graceful, though hardly light enough to justify the praise of perfection which has been lavished upon it. A companion statue to the Doryphorus of Polycleitos was his statue of the Diadumenos, or boy binding his head with a fillet. A supposed copy of this exists in the British Museum. It presents the same general characteristics as the Doryphorus, a well-modelled but thick-set figure standing in an attitude of repose. What Polycleitos did for the male form in these two statues he did for the female form in his Amazon, which, according to a doubtful story, was adjudged in competition superior to a work by Pheidias. A statue supposed to be a copy of this masterpiece of Polycleitos is now in the Berlin Museum. It represents a woman standing in a graceful attitude beside a pillar, her left arm thrown above her head to free her wounded breast. The sculptor has succeeded admirably in catching the muscular force and firm hard flesh beneath the graceful curves of the woman warrior. Polycleitos won his chief successes in portraying human figures. His statues of divinities are not numerous: a Zeus at Argos, an Aphrodite at Amyclae, and, more famous than either, the chryselephantine Hera for a temple between Argos and Mycenae. The goddess was represented as seated on a throne of gold, with bare head and arms. In her right hand was the sceptre crowned with the cuckoo, symbol of conjugal fidelity; in her left, the pomegranate. There exists no certain copy of the Hera of Polycleitos. The head of Hera in Naples may, perhaps, give us some idea of the type of divine beauty preferred by the sculptor who was preeminent for his devotion to human beauty. Polycleitos was much praised by the Romans Quintilian and Cicero, who nevertheless, held that though he surpassed the beauty of man in nature, yet he did not approach the beauty of the gods. It was reserved for Pheidias to portray the highest conceptions of divinity of which the Greek mind was capable in his statues of Athene in the Parthenon at Athens, and the Zeus of Olympus. Pheidias lived in the golden age of Athenian art. The victory of Greece against Persia had been due in large measure to Athens, and the results of the political success fell largely to her. It is true the Persians had held the ground of Athens for weeks, and when, after the victory of Salamis, the people returned to their city, they found it in ruins. But the spirit of the Athenians had been stirred, and in spite of the hostility of Persia, the jealousy of neighboring states, and the ruin of the city, the people felt new confidence in themselves and their divinity, and were more than ever ready to strive for the leadership of Greece. Religious feeling, gratitude to the gods who had preserved them, and civic pride in the glory of their own victorious city, all inspired the Athenians. After the winter in which the Persians were finally beaten at Plataea, the Athenians began to rebuild. For a while their efforts were confined to rendering the city habitable and defensible, since the activity of the little state was largely political. But when th leadership of Athens in Greece had become firmly established under Theistocles and Cimon, the third president of the democracy, Pericles, found leisure to turn to the artistic development of the city. The time was ripe, for the artistic progress of the people had been no less marked than their political. The same long training in valor and temperance which gave Athens her statesmen, Aristides and Pericles, gave her her artists and poets also. Pericles became president of the city in 444 B.C., just at the time when the decorative arts were approaching perfection under Pheidias. Pheidias was an Athenian by birth, the son of Charmides. He studied first under Hegias, then under Ageladas the Argive. He became the most famous sculptor of his time, and when Pericles wanted a director for his great monumental works at Athens, he summoned Pheidias. Artists from all over Hellas put themselves at his disposal, and under his direction the Parthenon was built and adorned with the most splendid statuary the world has ever known. The Parthenon was fashioned in honor of Athene or Minerva, the guardian deity of Athens, the preserver of Hellas, whom the Athenians in their gratitude sought to make the sovereign goddess of the land which she had saved. The eastern gable of the temple was adorned with a group representing the appearance of Minerva before the gods of Olympus. In the left angle of the gable appeared Helios, the dawn, rising from the sea. In the right angle Selene, evening, sank from sight. Next to Helios was a figure representing either Dionysus or Olympus, and beside were seated two figures, perhaps Persephone and Demeter, perhaps two Horae. Approaching these as a messenger was Iris. Balancing these figures on the side next Selene were two figures, representing Aphrodite in the arms of Peitho, or perhaps Thalassa, goddess of the sea, leaning against Gaia, the earth. Nearer the centre on this side was Hestia, to whom Hermes brought the tidings. The central group is totally lost, but must have been made up of Zeus, Athene, and Vulcan, with, perhaps, others of the greater divinities. The group of the western pediment represented Athene and Poseidon, contesting for the supremacy of Athens. Athene's chariot is driven by Victory, Poseidon's by Amphitrite. Although the greater part of the attendant deities have disappeared, we know the gods of the rivers of Athens, Eridanas and Ilissos, in reclining postures filled the corners of the pediment. One of these has survived, and remains in its perfection of grace and immortal beauty to attest the wonderful skill that directed the chiselling of the whole group. Although the gable groups have suffered terribly in the historic vicissitudes of the Parthenon, still enough remains of them to show the dignity of their conception, the rhythm of composition, and the splendid freedom of their workmanship. The fragments were purchased by Lord Elgin early in this century and are now in the British Museum. The frieze of the Parthenon, executed under the supervision of Pheidias, represented one of the most glorious religious ceremonies of the Greek, the Pan-Athenaic procession. The deities surround Zeus as spectators of the scene, and toward them winds the long line of virgins bearing incense, herds of animals for sacrifice, players upon the lute and lyre, chariots and riders. On the western front the movement has not yet begun, and the youths and men stand in disorder, some binding their mantles, some mounting their horses. The frieze is noteworthy for its expression of physical and intellectual beauty which marked the highest conceptions of Greek art, and for the studied mingling of forcible action and gracious repose. The larger part of this frieze has been preserved and is to be seen at the British Museum. The third group of Parthenon sculptures, the ornaments of the metope, represents the contest between centaurs and the Lapithae with some scenes interspersed of which the subjects cannot now be determined. The frieze is in low relief, the figures scarcely starting from the background. The sculptures of the metope, on the contrary, are in high relief, frequently giving the impression of marbles detached from the background altogether. They were, moreover, colored. Or course, Pheidias himself cannot have had more than the share of general director in the sculptures of the metope; many of them are manifestly executed by inferior hands. Nevertheless, the mind of a great designer is evident in the wonderful variety of posture and action which the figures show. Indeed, when we consider the immense number of figures employed, it becomes evident that not even all the sculptures of the pediments can have been executed entirely by Pheidias, who was already probably well advanced in life when he began the Parthenon decorations; yet all the sculptures were the work of Pheidias or of pupils working under him, and although traces may be found of the influence of other artists, of Myron, for example, in the freedom and naturalness of the action in the figures of the frieze, yet all the decorations of the Parthenon may fairly be said to belong to the Pheidian school of sculpture. The fame of Pheidias himself, however, rested very largely on three great pieces of art work: The Athene Promachos, the Athene Parthenos, and the Olympian Zeus. The first of these was a work of Pheidias's youth. It represented the goddess standing gazing toward Athens lovingly and protectingly. She held a spear in one hand, the other supported a buckler. The statue was nine feet high. It was dignified and noble, but at the time of its conception Pheidias had not freed himself from the convention and traditions of the earlier school, and the stiff folds of the tunic, the cold demeanor of the goddess, recall the masters whom Pheidias was destined to supersede. No copy of this statue survives, and hence a description of it must be largely conjectural, made up from hints gleaned from Athenian coins. Pheidias sculptured other statues of Athene, but none so wonderful as the Athene Parthenos, which, with the Olympian Zeus, was the wonder and admiration of the Greek world. The Athene Parthenos was designed to stand as an outward symbol of the divinity in whose protecting might the city had conquered and grown strong, in whose honor the temple had been built in which this statue was to shine as queen. The Olympian Zeus was the representative of that greater divinity which all Hellas united in honoring. We may gain from the words of Pausanias some idea of the magnificence of this statue, but of its unutterable majesty we can only form faint images in the mind, remembering the strength and grace of the figures of the pediments of the temple at Athens. "Zeus," says Pausanias, "is seated on a throne of ivory and gold; upon his head is laced a garland made in imitation of olive leaves. He bears a Victory in his right hand, also crowned and made in gold and ivory, and holding in her right hand a little fillet. In his left hand the god holds a sceptre, made of all kinds of metals; the bird perched on the tip of the sceptre is an eagle. The shoes of Zeus are also of gold, and of gold his mantle, and underneath this mantle are figures and lilies inlaid." Both the Olympian Zeus and the Athene were of chryselephantine work offering enormous technical difficulties, but in spite of this both showed almost absolute perfection of form united with beauty of intellectual character to represent the godhead incarnate in human substance. These two statues may be taken as the noblest creations of the Greek imagination when directed to the highest objects of its contemplation. The beauty of the Olympian Zeus, according to Quintilian, "added a new element to religion." In the works of art just mentioned the creative force of the Greeks attained its highest success. After the death of Pheidias his methods were carried on in a way by the sculptors who had worked under him and become subject to his influence; but as years went on, with less and less to remind us of the supreme perfection of the master. Among these pupils of Pheidias were Agoracritos and Colotes in Athens, Paionios, and Alcamenes. Of Paionios fortunately one statue survives in regard to which there can be no doubt. The Victory erected to the Olympian Zeus shows a tall goddess, strongly yet gracefully carved, posed forward with her drapery flattened closely against her body in front as if by the wind, and streaming freely behind. The masterpiece of Alcamenes, an Aphrodite, is known only by descriptions. The pediments of the temple at Olympia have been assigned, by tradition, one to Alcamenes, one to Paionios. They are, however, so thoroughly archaic in style that it seems impossible to reconcile them with what we know of the work of the men to whom they are attributed. The group of the eastern front represented the chariot races of Oinomaos and Pelops; that of the western, the struggle of the Centaurs and Lapithae. In the latter the action is extremely violent, only the Apollo in the midst is calm and commanding. In both pediments there are decided approaches to realism. In Athens, after Pheidias, the greatest sculptures were those used to adorn the Erechtheion. The group of Caryatids, maidens who stand erect and firm, bearing upon their heads the weight of the porch, is justly celebrated as an architectural device. At the same time, the maidens, though thus performing the work of columns, do not lose the grace and charm which naturally belongs to them. Another post-Pheidian work at Athens was the temple of Nike Apteros, the wingless Victory. The bas-reliefs from this temple, now in the Acropolis Museum at Athens, one representing the Victory stooping to tie her sandal, another, the Victory crowning a trophy, recall the consummate grace of the art of Pheidias, the greatest Greek art. Agoracritos left behind him works at Athens which in their perfection could scarcely be distinguished from the works of Pheidias himself, none of which have come down to us. But from the time of the Peloponnesian war, the seeds of decay were in the art of Hellas, and they ripened fast. In one direction Callimachus carried refined delicacy and formal perfection to excess; and in the other Demetrios, the portrait sculptor, put by ideal beauty for the striking characteristics of realism. Thus the strict reserve, the earnest simplicity of Pheidias and his contemporaries, were sacrificed sacrificed partly, it is true, to the requirements of a fuller spiritual life, partly to the demands of a wider knowledge and deeper passion. The legitimate effects of sculpture are strictly limited. Sculpture is fitted to express not temporary, accidental feeling, but permanent character; not violent action, but repose. In the great work of the golden age the thought of the artist was happily limited so that the form was adequate to its expression. One single motive was all that he tried to express a motive uncomplicated by details of specific situation, a type of general beauty unmixed with the peculiar suggestions of special and individual emotion. When the onward impulse led the artist to pass over the severe limits which bounded the thought of the earlier school, he found his medium becoming less adequate to the demands of his more detailed and circumstantial mental conception. The later sculpture, therefore, lacks in some measure the repose and entire assurance of the earlier. The earlier sculpture confines itself to broad, central lines of heroic and divine character, as in the two masterpieces of Pheidias. The latter dealt in great elaboration with the details and elements of the stories and characters that formed its subjects, as in the Niobe group, or the Laocoon, to be mentioned later. These modern tendencies produced as the greatest artists of the later Greek type Scopas and Praxiteles. Between these, however, and the earlier school which they superseded came the Athenian Kephisodotos, the father, it may be supposed of Praxiteles. His fame rests upon a single work, a copy of which has been discovered, the Eirene and Ploutos. In this, while the simplicity and strictness of the Pheidian ideal have been largely preserved, it has been used as the vehicle of deeper feeling and more spiritual life. Scopas was born at Paros, and lived during the fist half of the fourth century. He did much decorative work including the pediments of the temple of Athena at Tegea. He participated also in the decoration of the Mausoleum erected by Artemisia to the memory of her husband. In this latter, the battle of the Amazons, though probably not the work of Scopas himself, shows in the violence of its attitudes and the pathos of its action the new elements of interest in Greek art with the introduction of which Scopas is connected. The fame of Scopas rests principally on the Niobe group which is attributed to him. The sculpture represents the wife of Amphion at the moment when the curse of Apollo and Diana falls upon her, and her children are slain before her eyes. The children, already feeling the arrows of the gods, are flying to her for protection. She tries in vain to shield her youngest born beneath her mantle, and turns as if to hide her face with its motherly pride just giving place to despair and agony. The whole group is free from contortion and grandly tragic. The original exists no longer, but copies of parts of the group are found in the Uffizi Gallery at Florence. The Niobe group shows the distinction between Scopas and Praxiteles and the earlier artists in choice of subject and mode of treatment. The same distinction is shown by the Raging Bacchante of Scopas. The head is thrown back, the hair loosened, the garments floating in the wind, an ecstacy of wild, torrent- like action. Of the work of Praxiteles we know more directly than of the work of any other Greek sculptor of the same remoteness, for one statue has come down to us actually from the master's own hand, and we possess good copies of several others. His statues of Aphrodite, of which there were at least five, are known to us by the figures on coins and by two works in the same style, the Aphrodite in the Glyptothek, and that of the Vatican. The most famous of all was the Aphrodite of Cnidos, which was ranked with the Olympian Zeus and was called one of the wonders of te world. King Nicomedes of Bithynia offered vainly to the people of Cnidos the entire amount of their state debt for its possession. Lucian described the goddess as having a smile somewhat proud and disdainful; yet the eyes, moist and kindly, glowed with tenderness and passion, and the graceful lines of the shoulders, the voluptuous curves of the thighs, are full of sensuous feeling. The goddess, as represented in coins, stood beside a vase, over which her drapery is falling, while with her right hand she shields herself modestly. The head of Aphrodite in the British Museum, with its pure brows, its delicate, voluptuous lips, and sweet, soft skin, is, perhaps, the nearest approach which we possess to the glorious beauty of the original. Other Aphrodites, the draped statue of Cos among them, and several statues of Eros, representing tender, effeminate youths, illustrate further the departure which Praxiteles marks from the restraint of Pheidias. Another of his masculine figures is the graceful Apollo with the Lizard. The god, strong in his youthful suppleness, is leaning against a tree threatening with his darts a small lizard which is seeking to climb up. Still another type of masculine grace left us by Praxiteles is his statue of the Satyr, of which a copy exists in the Capitoline Museum. The Satyr, in the hands of Praxiteles, lost all his ancient uncouthness, and became a strong, graceful youth, with soft, full form. In the Capitoline representation the boy is leaning easily against a tree, throwing his body into the most indolent posture, which brings out the soft, feminine curves of hips and legs. In fact, so thoroughly is the feminine principle worked into the statues of the Apollo, the Eros, and the Satyr, that this characteristic became considered typical of Praxiteles, and when, in 1877, was discovered the one authentic work which we possess of this artist, the great Hermes of Olympia, critics were at a loss to reconcile this figure with what was already known of the sculptor's work, some holding that it must be a work of his youth, when, through his father, Kephisodotos, he felt the force of the Pheidian tradition, others that there must have been two sculptors bearing the great name of Praxiteles. The Hermes was found lacking the right arm and both legs below the knees, but the marvellous head and torso are perfectly preserved. The god is without the traditional symbols of his divinity. He is merely a beautiful man. He stands leaning easily against a tree, supporting on one arm the child Dionysus, to whom he turns his gracious head with the devotion and love of a protector. The face, in its expression of sweet majesty, is distinctly a personal conception. The low forehead, the eyes far apart, the small, playful mouth, the round, dimpled chin, all bear evidence to the individual quality which Praxiteles infused into the ideal thought of the god. The body, though at rest, is instinct with life and activity, in spite of its grace. In short, the form of the god has the superb perfection, as the face has the dignity, which was attributed to Pheidias. Nevertheless, the Hermes illustrates sensual loveliness of the later school. The freedom with which the god is conceived belongs to an age when the chains of religious belief sat lightly upon the artist. The gds of Praxiteles are the gods of human experience, and in his treatment of them he does not always escape the tendency of the age of decline to put pathos and passion in the place of eternal majesty. The influence of Scopas and Praxiteles continued to be felt through a number of artists who worked in sufficient harmony with them to be properly called of their school. To one of these followers of Praxiteles, some say as a copy of a work of the master himself, we must attribute the Demeter now in the British Museum. This is a pathetic illustration of suffering motherhood. There is no exaggeration in the grief, only the calm dignity of a sorrow which in spite of hope refuses to be comforted. Another work of an unknown artist, probably a follower of Scopas, is the splendid Victory of Samothrace, now in the Louvre. The goddess, with her great wings outspread behind her, is being carried forward, her firm rounded limbs striking through the draperies which flutter behind her, and fall about her in soft folds. Vigorous and stately, the goddess poises herself on the prow of the ship, swaying with the impulse of conquering daring and strength. Another statue which belongs, so far as artistic reasoning may carry us, to the period and school of Praxiteles, is the so- called Venus of Milo. The proper title to be given to this statue is doubtful, for the drapery corresponds to that of the Roman type of Victory, and if we could be sure that the goddess once held the shield of conquest in her now broken arms we should be forced to call the figure a Victory and place its date no earlier than the second century B.C. However this may be, the statue is justly one of the most famous in the world. It represents an ideal of purity and sweetness. There is not a trace of coarseness or immodesty in the half-naked woman who stands perfect in the maidenly dignity of her own conquering fairness. Her serious yet smiling face, her graceful form, the delicacy of feeling in attitude and gaze, the tender moulding of breast and limbs, make it a worthy companion of the Hermes or Praxiteles. It seems scarcely possible that it should not have sprung from the inspiration of his example. The last of the great sculptors of Greece was Lysippos of Sikyou. He differed from Pheidias on the one hand and from Polycleitos on the other. Pheidias strove to make his gods all god-like; Lysippos was content to represent them merely as exaggerated human beings; but therein he differed also from Polycleitos, who aimed to model the human body with the beauty only which actually existed in it. Lysippos felt that he must set the standard of human perfection higher than it appears in the average of human examples. Hence we have from him the statues of Heracles, in which the ideal of manly strength was carried far beyond the range of human possibility. A reminiscence of this conception of Lysippos may be found in the Farnese Heracles of Glycon, now in the Museum of Naples. Lysippos also sculptured four statues of Zeus, which depended for their interest largely on their heroic size. Lysippos won much fame by his statues of Alexander the Great, but he is chiefly known to us by his statue of the athlete scraping himself with a strigil, of which an authentic copy is in the Vatican. The figure differs decidedly from the thick-set, rather heavy figures of Polycleitos, being tall, and slender in spite of its robustness. The head is small, the torso is small at the waist, but strong, and the whole body is splendidly active. The changes in the models of earlier sculptors made by Lysippos were of sufficient importance to give rise to a school which was carried on by his sons and others, producing among many famous works the Barberini Faun, now at the Glyptothek, Munich. The enormous Colossus of Rhodes was also the work of a disciple of Lysippos. But from this time the downward tendency in Greek art is only too apparent, and very rapid. The spread of Greek influence over Asia, and later, in consequence of the conquest of Greece by Rome, over Europe, had the effect of widening the market for Greek production, but of drying up the sources of what was vital in that production. Athens and Sikyou became mere provincial cities, and were shorn thenceforth of all artistic significance; and Greek art, thus deprived of the roots of its life, continued to grow for a while with a rank luxuriance of production, but soon became normal and conventional. The artists who followed Lysippos contented themselves chiefly with seeking a merely technical perfection in reproducing the creations of the earlier and more original age. At Pergamon under Attalus, in the last years of the third century, there was something of an artistic revival. This Attalus successfully defended his country against an overwhelming attack of the Gauls from the north. To celebrate this victory, an altar was erected to Zeus on the Acropolis of Pergamon, of which the frieze represented the contest between Zeus and the giants. These sculptures are now to be found in Berlin. They are carved in high relief; the giants with muscles strained and distended, their bodies writhing in the contortions of effort and suffering; the gods, no longer calm and restrained, but themselves overcome with the ardor of battle. Zeus stretches his arms over the battle-field hurling destruction everywhere. Athene turns from the field, dragging at her heels a young giant whom she has conquered, and reaches forward to the crown of victory. The wild, passionate action of the whole work remove it far from the firm, orderly work of Pheidias, and carry it almost to the extreme of pathetic representation in sculpture shown by the Laocoon. The contests with the Gauls, the fear inspired by the huge forms of the barbarians, seem to have influenced powerfully the imaginative conceptions of the sculptors of the school of Pergamon. One of the most famous works which they have left is the figure long known as the Dying Gladiator, of which a copy exists in the Capitoline Museum. This represents a Gaul sinking wounded to the ground, supporting himself on his right arm. It is remarkable for its stern realism. The pain and sense of defeat comes out in every feature. Moreover, the nationality of the fallen warrior is clearly expressed in the deep indentation between the heavy brow and the prominent nose, in the face, shaven, except the upper lip, in the uncouth, fleshy body, in the rough hands and feet. Usually the artist preferred to hint at the race by some peculiarities of costume. Here nothing but uncompromising realism of feature will satisfy the sculptor. A companion piece to the Wounded Gaul, though less famous, is the group of the Villa Ludovisi, which represents a Gaul, who has slain his wife, in the act of stabbing himself in the neck. In addition to inspiring the sculptures at Pergamon, Attalus dedicated to the gods of Athens a votive offering in return for the help which they had given him. This was placed on the Acropolis at Athens. It consisted of four groups, representing the gigantomachia or giant combat, the battle of the Amazons, the battle of Marathon, and the victory of Attalus. Figures from these survive, a dead Amazon at Naples and a kneeling Persian at the Vatican being the best known. Another state which became famous in the declining days of Greek art was the republic of Rhodes. The Rhodian sculptors learned their anatomy from Lysippos, and caught their dramatic instinct from the artists of Pergamon. Two of the most famous sculpture groups in the world were produced at Rhodes, the Laocoon, now at the Vatican, and the Farnese Bull, now at Naples. The former was the work of three artists, given by Pliny as Agesandros, Athanodorus, and Polydorus. It has been accepted as one of the masterpieces of the world, but as we shall see, it is manifestly a work of a time of decadence. The Laocoon illustrates excellently the extreme results of the pathetic tendency. The priest Laocoon is represented at the moment when the serpents of Apollo surround him and his two sons, born through their father's sin, and bear them all three down to destruction. The younger son, fatally bitten, falls back in death agony. The father yields slowly, his desperation giving way before the merciless strength of the serpents. The elder son shrinks away in horror though bound fast by the inevitable coils. The Laocoon shows the pathetic tendency at its utmost. The technical difficulties have been overcome with astonishing success, and though the combination of figures is impossible in life, it is marvellously effective in art. But the group depends for its interest purely on the accidental horror of the situation. There is no hint in the sculpture of the motive of the tragedy, no suggestion of ethical significance in the suffering portrayed. It does not connect itself with any principle of life. In this way the work became a superb piece of display, a TOUR DE FORCE of surprising composition but with little serious meaning. The same judgment may be extended to the Farnese Bull, the work of Apollonius and Tauriscos, artists from Tralles who lived at Rhodes. This group represents the punishment of the cruel Dirke at the hands of the sons of Antiope. The beautiful queen clasps the knee of one of the sons praying for grace, while the other boy is about to throw over her the noose which is to bind her to the bull. Antiope stands in the background, a mere lay figure, and scattered about are numerous small symbolical figures. Like the Laocoon the Farnese Bull exhibits surprising mastery of technical obstacles, but, like the Laocoon, it falls short of true tragic grandeur. In a greater degree than the Laocoon it trenches upon the province of painting. It is more complicated in its subject-matter; and the appearance in the group of many small subsidiary figures, which in a painting might have been given their proper value, being in the marble of the same relief and distinction as the major characters, give a somewhat absurd effect. The little goddess who sits in the foreground, for instance, is smaller than the dog. Again, there is less of the motive shown than in the Laocoon. The group is seized at the moment preceding the frightful catastrophe, but that moment is as full of agony as the succeeding ones, and in addition there is the feeling of suspense and oppression that comes from the unfinished tragedy. Altogether, the group, in spite of the marvellous technical skill shown in details, is a failure when judged on general lines. Its interest lies in momentary and apparently ummotived suffering, not in any truly serious conception of life. With the conquest of Greece by Rome, the final stage of Greek art begins. But the vigor and originality had departed. The sculptors aimed at and attained technical correctness, academic beauty of form, sensuous feeling, perfection of details, but they lost all imaginative power. A good example of the work of this period is found in the Apollo Belvidere now in the Vatican. This famous statue is an early Roman copy of a Greek original. It represents the god advancing easily, full of vigor and grace. It is marvellously correct in drawing, but quite without feeling of any kind. Another work of this period is the sleeping Ariadne of the Vatican. This represents a woman reclining in a studied sentimental attitude, her arms thrown about her head, her body swathed in its protecting drapery. To the same period also belongs almost the last notable work of Greek art, the degenerate and sensuous conception of the Venus de Medici. In this statue the goddess stands as if rising from the sea, her attitude reserved, yet coquettish and self-conscious. The form is technically perfect, graceful, and soft in its refinement, but compared with the earlier Aphrodites it is an unworthy successor. Still another famous statue is the Borghese Gladiator, of Agasius of Ephesus, now in the Louvre. The statue is merely a bit of display, an effort to parade technical skill and anatomical knowledge. The gladiator throws his weight strongly on his right leg, and holds one arm high above his head, giving to his whole body an effect of straining. The figure is strong and wiry. Agasius was distinctly an imitator, as were most of the artists of this age, among whom must be reckoned the skilful sculptor of the crouching Venus, also in the Louvre. The goddess is shown as bending down in graceful curves until her body is supported on the right leg, which is bent double. The form is strong and healthy, graceful and easy in its somewhat constrained posture. During all of this final period Greek art was very largely influenced by the relations which existed between Greece and Rome. About the year 200 B.C. the Roman conquest of Greece led to an important traffic in works of art between Rome and the Greek cities. For a time, indeed, statues formed a recognized part of the booty which graced every Roman triumph. M. Fulvius Nobilior carried away not less than five hundred and fifteen. After the period of conquest the importation of Greek statues continued at Rome, and in time Greek artists also began to remove thither, so that Rome became not only the centre for the collection of Greek works of art, but the chief seat of their production. At this time the Roman religious conceptions were identified with those of Greece, and the Greek gods received the Latin names by which we now know them. The influence of the Greeks upon Rome was very marked, but the reflex influence of the material civilization of Italy upon Greek art was altogether bad, and thus the splendor of classical art went out in dilletantism and weakness. The destruction of the Roman Empire by the barbarians makes a break in the artistic history of the world. Not for many centuries was there a vestige of artistic production. Even when in Italy and France the monks began to make crude attempts to reach out for and represent in painting and sculpture imaginative conceptions of things beautiful, they took their material exclusively from Christian sources. The tradition of classical stories had nearly vanished from the mind of Europe. Not until the Renaissance restored the knowledge of classical culture to Europe do we find artists making any use of the wealth of imaginative material stored up in the myths of Greece. Then, indeed, by the discovery and circulation of the poets of mythology, the Greek stories and conceptions of characters, divine and human, became known once more and were used freely, remaining until the present day one chief source of material and subject-matter for the use of the painter and sculptor. 
46063	----	[Illustration: LEMNIAN ATHENA] THE CLASSIC MYTHS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND IN ART BASED ORIGINALLY ON BULFINCH'S "AGE OF FABLE" (1855) ACCOMPANIED BY AN INTERPRETATIVE AND ILLUSTRATIVE COMMENTARY BY CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY, LITT.D., LL.D. PROFESSOR OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA _NEW EDITION_ _REVISED AND ENLARGED_ GINN AND COMPANY BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO COPYRIGHT, 1893, 1911, BY CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 817.6 +The Athenæum Press+ GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS · BOSTON · U.S.A. TO THE MUSES Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas'd; Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forc'd, the notes are few! WILLIAM BLAKE O antique fables! beautiful and bright And joyous with the joyous youth of yore; O antique fables! for a little light Of that which shineth in you evermore, To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes, And bathe our old world with a new surprise Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore. JAMES THOMSON PREFACE In this new edition of "The Classic Myths in English Literature" the former order of materials has been altered in accordance with the advice of the teachers who have had longest experience with the use of the book; the old material has been thoroughly revised; and much new material has been added. Since most people prefer to begin a story at its beginning, and not with the career of its author and his genealogy, I have reserved the history of the myths for the conclusion of the text. Some of the myths have been restated in more careful form. Some short narratives, before omitted, have been included. The sketches of the Iliad and the Odyssey have been considerably expanded; and an outline--which, I hope, will be deemed adequate--of Wagner's version of the Ring of the Nibelung has been appended to the account of Norse and German mythology. That version is, of course, not English literature; but it has come to be received as the classic modern version of the story; and the story is needed, at some time or other, by every lover of music. Fresh examples of the employment of myth in English verse have, where practicable, been incorporated in the text; and some new references will be found in the Commentary. I have thoroughly revised the list of illustrative cuts, have interpreted the more difficult of the ancient figures, and indicated the sources. The pictures themselves are a decided improvement upon those in the former edition. In the determination of sources for reproduction, I have had the valuable assistance of Dr. E. von Mach, the author of more than one well-known work on ancient art; and to him I am indebted, in addition, for the section on The Classic Myths in Art, which is included in my Introduction. With this new equipment the book should prove more useful to those who here make their first acquaintance with art, especially the art of the ancients, as well as to those who have been in the habit of using it as a guide to paintings and sculptures of mythological subjects in foreign galleries. Much of our best English poetry lies beyond the imaginative reach of many readers because of their unfamiliarity with the commonplaces of literary allusion, reference, and tradition. Of such commonplaces few are more frequently recurrent than those furnished by the literature of myth. In view of this consideration, the Academic Council of the University of California, some twenty years ago, introduced into its requirements for entrance in English the subject of Classical Mythology in its relation to English Literature, and recommended, as a textbook for preparation, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable." The experience of English and classical teachers in the schools of the state attested the wisdom of the requirement; but the demand for some textbook adapted to the needs of the classroom made necessary the preparation of this volume. For while "The Age of Fable" offered a tempting collection of Greek, Norse, and Oriental narratives, it was designed neither as a schoolbook nor as a systematized presentation and interpretation of the myths that have most influenced English literature. At the request of my publishers I undertook at that time such a revision and rearrangement of the materials of "The Age of Fable" as might adapt it to the purposes of teacher and pupil, and to the taste of readers somewhat more advanced in years than those addressed by the original work or by the edition which bore the name of the Reverend Edward Everett Hale. But after a year's work I found that half my material for copy was new, and that the remainder differed in many important respects from the book upon which it was based. Consequently, while the obligation to "The Age of Fable" was acknowledged in full, a different title was selected for the resulting volume. For neither my publishers nor I desired that the scholarship or the taste of Mr. Bulfinch should be held accountable for liberties that were taken with his work. In "The Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art," Chapters XXIII-XXVII, containing sketches of the Fall of Troy, the Odyssey, the Æneid, and of certain Norse lays, are a revision of corresponding chapters in "The Age of Fable." Chapters VII-XX, and XXII, comprising Myths of the Greater Divinities of Heaven, Earth, the Underworld, and the Waters, Myths of the Lesser Divinities of the same regions, Myths of the Older Heroes and Myths of the Younger Heroes, and the outline of the Trojan War, represent a total rearrangement and recomposition of the original material, section by section, and frequently paragraph by paragraph,--such portions of "The Age of Fable" as have been retained being abridged or rewritten, and, in places too frequent to enumerate, supplemented by new and necessary sentences, paragraphs, and sections. The Introduction, the first six chapters (on the Greek Myths of the Creation, and the attributes of Greek and Roman divinities), Chapters XXI and XXVIII-XXXII (on the Houses concerned in the Trojan War, the Saga of the Volsungs, the Lay of the Nibelungs, Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung, and on the origin, elements, distribution, and preservation of myth), the choice of poetic and artistic illustration, the footnotes referring to sources, and the Commentary are wholly, or essentially, my own. In fact, there is little but the scaffolding of "The Age of Fable" now remaining in the book. Although in the Index of Mythological Subjects and their Sources the more common myths of some other nations are briefly stated, no myths save those known to the Greeks, Romans, Norsemen, or Germans have been included in the body of the text. The scope of selection has been thus confined for three reasons: first, the regard for necessary limits; second, the desirability of emphasizing only such myths as have actually acclimated themselves in English-speaking lands and have influenced the spirit, form, and habit of English imaginative thought; third, the necessity of excluding all but the unquestionably classic. The term _classic_, however, is, of course, not restricted to the products of Greece and Rome; nor is it employed as synonymous with Classical or as antithetical to Romantic. From the extreme Classical to the extreme Romantic is a far cry; but as human life knows no divorce of necessity from freedom, so genuine art knows neither an unrelieved Classical nor an unrestrained Romantic. Classical and Romantic are relative terms. The Classical and the Romantic of one generation may merit equally to be the classics of the next. Therefore certain Hellenic myths of romantic spirit or construction have been included in this work, and certain Norse and German myths have not been excluded. Whatever is admitted, is admitted as first-class: first-class, because simple, spontaneous, and beautiful; because fulfilling the requirements of perennial freshness, of æsthetic potency, and of ideal worth. In the matter of illustrative English and American poems the principle of selection has been that the verses shall translate a myth from the classic original, or exemplify the poetic idealization and embellishment of the subject, or suggest the spirit and mien of ancient art. But in each case regard has been had to the æsthetic value of the poem or the citation. In the search for suitable examples I have derived valuable assistance from Mr. E.C. Guild's "Bibliography of Greek Mythology in English Poetry of the Nineteenth Century" (Bowdoin College, _Library Bulletin No. 1_). The student is also referred to A.E. Sawtelle's "Sources of Spenser's Mythology," C.G. Osgood's' "Classical Mythology of Milton," and R.K. Root's "Classical Mythology in Shakespeare" (Holt, 1896, 1900, and 1903, respectively). In the Commentary four things have been attempted: first, an explanation, under each section, of ordinary textual difficulties; second, an unpretentious exposition of the myth or a brief statement of the more evident interpretations advanced by philologists or ethnologists; third, an indication of certain additional poems or verses that illustrate the myth; fourth, special mention of such masterpieces of ancient and modern sculpture and painting as may serve to introduce the student or the general reader to a field of æsthetic profit neglected by the great mass of our people. For the poetic conception of most of the myths contained in Chapters I-XXIV, we are indebted to the Greek imagination; but since this book is intended for students of English poetry, and since in English poetry Latin names of mythological characters are much more frequently employed than Greek, the Latin designations or Latinized forms of Greek names have been, so far as possible, retained; and such variations as Jupiter, Jove--Proserpina, Proserpine, freely used. In the chapters, however, on the attributes of the Greek gods, names exclusively Greek have been placed in parentheses after the usual Roman equivalents, Latin appellations, or designations common to both Greek and Roman usage. In the transliteration of Greek names I have followed, also, the prevalent practice of our poets, which is, generally speaking, the practice of the Romans. The diphthong #ei#, for instance, is transliterated according to the accepted English pronunciation, which in individual words perpetuates the preference of the Latins for the _e_ sound or the _i_ sound respectively. So #Atreidês# becomes Atr[=i]des; #Iphimedeia#, Iphimed[=i]a. But, on the other hand, #Kythereia# becomes Cyther[=e]a; #Pêneios#, Pen[=e]us; and #Mêdeia#, Med[=e]a; while owing to purely popular English custom, such a name as #Pheidias# has become, not Pheidias nor even Ph[=i]dias, but--_Ph[)i]dias_. A few names of islands, towns, persons, etc., that even in Latin retain their Greek forms,--such as Delos, Naxos, Argos, Aglauros, Pandrosos,--have been transferred without modification. So also has Poseidon, because that is the common English spelling. In short, the practice aimed at has been not that of scientific uniformity, but of acknowledged poetic usage. In the titles of the illustrative cuts, Greek names have been used for works of Greek origin, Latin for the Roman. For the benefit of readers who do not know the fundamental rules for the pronunciation of Greek and Latin proper names in English, a brief statement of rules is prefixed to the Index; and in the Index of Mythological Subjects and their Sources names are not only accented, but, when necessary, diacritically marked. In the preparation of the Text and Commentary more or less use has been made of: Roscher's Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie (Lieferungen 1-21, Teubner, Leipzig); Preller's Griechische Mythologie (2 Bde., Berlin, 1861); Max Müller's Chips from a German Workshop, Science of Religion (London, 1873), Science of Language (7th ed., 2 vols., London, 1873), Oxford Essays (1856); Sir G. W. Cox's Mythology of the Aryan Nations (2 vols., London, 1878); Frazer's Golden Bough; W. Warde Fowler's Roman Festivals (London, 1899); Welcker's Griechische Götterlehre; Baumeister's Denkmäler des klassischen Alterthums; Murray's Manual of Mythology (New York, 1880); Smith's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology; Duruy's Histories of Rome and Greece; Keightley's Greek and Roman Mythology; Kelsey's Outline of Greek and Roman Mythology (Boston, 1889); Horn's Geschichte der Literatur des skandinavischen Nordens (Leipzig, 1880); Cleasby and Vigfusson's Icelandic Dictionary; Lüning's Die Edda (Zürich, 1859); Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale (2 vols., Oxford, 1883); Paul's Grundriss der germanischen Philologie, 1 Bd., 5 Lfg. (article _Mythologie_, by E. Mogk); Grimm's Teutonic Mythology (translated by Stallybrass, 3 vols.); Werner Hahn's Das Nibelungenlied; Lang's Myth, Ritual, and Religion (2 vols., London, 1887), and _Mythology_ (Encyc. Brit., Vol. 9); Tylor's Anthropology (New York, 1881) and Primitive Culture (2 vols.); J. W. Powell's Annual Reports of the Bureau of Ethnology (7 vols., beginning 1879-1880, Washington, D.C.); Keary's Outlines of Primitive Belief; Fiske's Myths and Myth-makers (Boston); Whitney's Oriental and Linguistic Studies; W. P. Johnston's The Origin of Myth; and of other works to which due reference is made in the footnotes and Commentary. The student is also referred to F. B. Jevons' edition of Plutarch's Romane Questions, translated by Philemon Holland (London, 1892) (introduction on Roman Mythology); and to C.G. Leland's Etruscan-Roman Remains in Popular Tradition (London, 1892). The Maps, furnished by Messrs. Ginn and Company from other of their publications, have, with the kind consent of the authors of those works, in some instances been adapted by me to suit the present purpose. The principal authorities used in the selection of the illustrations of this new edition are: Baumeister, Denkmäler des klassischen Alterthums (3 vols., Munich, 1888); Furtwängler, Masterpieces of Greek Sculpture (London, 1905); Ernest Gardner, Ancient Athens (New York and London, 1902); Percy Gardner, A Grammar of Greek Art (New York and London, 1905); and Sculptured Tombs of Hellas (London, 1896); Percy Gardner and Jevons, A Manual of Greek Antiquities (London, 1895); Gerhard, Auserlesene griechische Vasenbilder (1840-1858); Gusman, Pompeii (London, 1900); Harrison and Maccoll, Greek Vase Paintings (London, 1894); E. von Mach, Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture (Boston, 1905); and Greek Sculpture, Its Spirit and Principles (Boston, 1903); A. S. Murray, Handbook of Greek Archæology (London, 1892); History of Greek Sculpture (2 vols., London, 1883); and Sculptures of the Parthenon (London, 1903); A. S. Murray and C. A. Hutton, Greek Bronzes and Terra Cotta Statuettes (London, 1898); C. O. Müller, Denkmäler der alten Kunst (Göttingen, 1832); Overbeck, Griechische Kunstmythologie (1871 ----); Emil Presuhn, Pompeii, 1874-1881 (Leipzig, 1882); Salomon Reinach, Peintures de vases antiques (including the collections of Millin, 1808, and Millingen, 1813 (Paris, 1891)), and Apollo (Paris, 1907); H. Roux Ainé, Herculaneum and Pompeii; Roscher, Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie (1884 ----) (Lieferungen 1-17 in Vol. I, 18 on in Vol. II); Anton Springer, Handbuch der Kunstgeschichte (I _Alterthum_, Leipzig, 1904); Charles Waldstein, The Argive Heræum (2 vols.); and the archæological periodicals as cited in the List of Illustrations. The acknowledgment of assistance made in the former edition is here renewed. CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION xxix PART I MYTHS OF DIVINITIES AND HEROES CHAPTER I. GREEK MYTHS OF THE CREATION 1 Purpose of the Study. The Fable and the Myth. Origin of the World. Origin of the Gods. The Rule of Cronus. The War of the Titans. The Division of Empire. The Reign of Jupiter. The Origin of Man. Prometheus, a Creator. The Age of Gold. The Silver Age. Prometheus, Champion of Man. Pandora. Prometheus Bound. Longfellow's Prometheus. The Brazen Age. The Iron Age. The Flood. Deucalion and Pyrrha. The Demigods and Heroes. CHAPTER II. THE GODS OF HEAVEN 18 Olympus. The Great Gods. Jupiter (Zeus). Conceptions of Jupiter. Juno (Hera). Minerva (Athene or Athena). Mars (Ares). Vulcan (Hephæstus). Apollo. Shelley's Hymn of Apollo. Diana (Artemis). Jonson's Hymn to Cynthia. Venus (Aphrodite). The "Venus of Milo." Mercury (Hermes). Vesta (Hestia). The Lesser Divinities of Heaven. CHAPTER III. THE GODS OF EARTH 42 Conception of the World. Ceres (Demeter). Gæa (Ge). Bacchus (Dionysus). The Lesser Divinities of Earth. CHAPTER IV. THE GODS OF THE UNDERWORLD 47 The Underworld. Tartarus and the Elysian Fields. The Islands of the Blest. Pluto (Hades). Proserpina (Persephone). The Lesser Divinities of the Underworld. CHAPTER V. THE GODS OF THE WATERS 55 The Older Dynasty. The Younger Dynasty. The Lesser Divinities of the Waters. CHAPTER VI. THE ROMAN DIVINITIES 59 Gods Common to Greece and Italy. Italian Gods. CHAPTER VII. MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN 64 Myths of Jupiter and Juno. Love Affairs of Jupiter. Io. Callisto. Europa. Semele. Ægina. Antiope. Jupiter, a Friend of Man. Juno's Best Gift. Myths of Minerva. Arachne. Myths of Mars. Mars and Diomede. Mars and Minerva. The Fortunes of Cadmus. Myths of Vulcan. Myths of Apollo. The Wanderings of Latona. Apollo, the Light Triumphant. Hyacinthus. Phaëthon. The Plague sent upon the Greeks before Troy. The Punishment of Niobe. The Lamentation for Linus. Æsculapius. Apollo in Exile. Lowell's Shepherd of King Admetus. Admetus and Alcestis. Apollo, the Musician. Apollo, Pan, and Midas. Shelley's Hymn of Pan. Marsyas. The Loves of Apollo. Daphne. Marpessa. Clytie. Myths of Diana. The Flight of Arethusa. Shelley's Arethusa. The Fate of Actæon. The Fortunes and Death of Orion. The Pleiads. Endymion. Myths of Venus. Adonis. Cupid and Psyche. Keats' Ode to Psyche. Atalanta's Race. Hero and Leander. Pygmalion and the Statue. Pyramus and Thisbe. Phaon. The Vengeance of Venus. Myths of Mercury. CHAPTER VIII. MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF EARTH 152 Myths of Bacchus. The Wanderings of Bacchus. The Story of Acetes. The Choice of King Midas. CHAPTER IX. FROM THE EARTH TO THE UNDERWORLD 159 Myths of Ceres, Pluto, and Proserpine. The Rape of Proserpine. The Wanderings of Ceres. Triptolemus and the Eleusinian Mysteries. Orpheus and Eurydice. CHAPTER X. MYTHS OF NEPTUNE, RULER OF THE WATERS 169 Lord of the Sea. Lord of Streams and Fountains. Pelops and Hippodamia. CHAPTER XI. MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN 172 Myths of Stars and Winds. Cephalus and Procris. Dobson's The Death of Procris. Ceyx and Halcyone. Aurora and Tithonus. Tennyson's Tithonus. Memnon. CHAPTER XII. MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF EARTH, ETC. 181 Pan, and the Personification of Nature. Stedman's Pan in Wall Street. Other Lesser Gods of Earth. Echo and Narcissus. Echo, Pan, Lyde, and the Satyr. The Naiads. The Dryads, or Hamadryads. Erysichthon. Dryope. Rh[oe]cus. Pomona and Vertumnus. The Cranes of Ibycus. CHAPTER XIII. MYTHS OF LESSER DIVINITIES OF THE WATERS 198 Galatea and Polyphemus. Glaucus and Scylla. Nisus and Scylla. Leucothea. Proteus and Aristæus. Acheloüs and Hercules. Milton's Sabrina Fair. CHAPTER XIV. MYTHS OF THE OLDER HEROES: THE HOUSE OF DANAÜS, AND ITS CONNECTIONS 206 The Older and the Younger Heroes. The Genealogy of Danaüs. The Danaïds. The Doom of King Acrisius. Perseus and Medusa. Perseus and Atlas. Perseus and Andromeda. Bellerophon and the Chimæra. Hercules (Heracles): His Youth. His Labors. His Later Exploits. The Loss of Hylas. The Rescue of Daphnis. The Expedition against Laomedon. The Death of Hercules. CHAPTER XV. THE FAMILY OF ÆOLUS 229 Descendants of Deucalion. The Quest of the Golden Fleece. The Return of the Argonauts. Medea and Æson. Pelias. CHAPTER XVI. THE FAMILY OF ÆTOLUS AND ITS CONNECTIONS 237 The Calydonian Hunt. Merope. Castor and Pollux. The Twin Brethren among the Romans. CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE OF MINOS 246 Minos of Crete. Dædalus and Icarus. CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOUSE OF CECROPS AND ERICHTHONIUS 249 From Cecrops to Philomela. Matthew Arnold's Philomela. Theseus. Theseus and Ariadne. Bacchus and Ariadne. The Amazons. Theseus and Pirithoüs. Phædra and Hippolytus. CHAPTER XIX. THE HOUSE OF LABDACUS 261 The Misfortunes of Thebes. [OE]dipus and the Sphinx. [OE]dipus, the King. [OE]dipus at Colonus. CHAPTER XX. MYTHS OF THE YOUNGER HEROES: THE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES 265 Their Exploits. The Seven against Thebes. Antigone. The Epigoni. CHAPTER XXI. HOUSES CONCERNED IN THE TROJAN WAR 269 Three Families. Peleus. Achilles, Son of Peleus. Atreus. Tyndareus. CHAPTER XXII. THE TROJAN WAR 277 Its Origin. Iphigenia in Aulis. Protesilaüs and Laodamia. Homer's Iliad. The Wrath of Achilles. The Enlistment of the Gods. Thetis intercedes for Achilles. Agamemnon calls a Council. Paris plays the Champion. Helen surveys the Grecian Host. Menelaüs defeats Paris. The Two Days' Battle. Hector and Andromache. Neptune aids the Discouraged Greeks. Jupiter inspirits the Trojans. Achilles and Patroclus. Patroclus in the Armor of Achilles. The Deaths of Sarpedon and Patroclus. The Remorse of Achilles. The Reconciliation of Agamemnon and Achilles. The Death of Hector. Achilles drags the Body of Hector. Priam in the Tent of Achilles. CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALL OF TROY 307 The Fall of Troy. The Death of Achilles. Contest for the Arms of Achilles. Paris and [OE]none. The Palladium. The Wooden Horse. Laocoön and the Serpents. The Death of Priam. The Survivors. Helen, Menelaüs, and Agamemnon. Electra and Orestes. Orestes pursued by the Furies. His Purification. CHAPTER XXIV. THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES 318 From Troy to Phæacia. The Lotos-eaters. The Cyclopes. The Bag of Winds. The Læstrygonians. The Isle of Ææa. Ulysses visits Hades. The Sirens. Scylla and Charybdis. The Cattle of the Sun. Calypso's Island. The Land of the Phæacians. Fate of the Suitors. Tennyson's Ulysses. CHAPTER XXV. ADVENTURES OF ÆNEAS 346 From Troy to Italy. The Departure from Troy. The Promised Empire. The Harpies. Epirus. The Cyclopes Again. The Resentment of Juno. The Sojourn at Carthage. Dido. Palinurus. Italy at Last. The Sibyl of Cumæ. The Infernal Regions. The Elysian Fields. The Valley of Oblivion. CHAPTER XXVI. THE WAR BETWEEN TROJANS AND LATINS 362 The Fulfillment of Prophecy. The Gates of Janus Opened. Camilla. Alliance with Evander. The Site of Future Rome. Turnus attacks the Trojan Camp. Nisus and Euryalus. The Death of Mezentius. The Deaths of Pallas and Camilla. The Final Conflict. CHAPTER XXVII. MYTHS OF THE NORSE GODS 373 The Creation. Yggdrasil. Odin and his Valhalla. The Valkyries. Thor and the Other Gods. Loki and his Progeny. The Conflict with the Mountain Giants. The Recovery of Thor's Hammer. Thor's Visit to Jötunheim. The Sword of Freyr. The Death of Balder. The Funeral of Balder. The Elves. Ragnarok. CHAPTER XXVIII. MYTHS OF NORSE AND OLD GERMAN HEROES 398 The Saga of the Volsungs. The Lay of the Nibelungs. CHAPTER XXIX. THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG 410 Wagner's Tetralogy. The Rhine-gold. The Valkyrie. Siegfried. The Twilight of the Gods. PART II THE HISTORY OF MYTH CHAPTER XXX. THE ORIGIN AND ELEMENTS OF MYTH 431 Kinds of Myth. Divisions of Inquiry. Elements of the Myth. Reasonable Myths. Unreasonable Myths. Theory of Deterioration. Theory of Progress. CHAPTER XXXI. THE DISTRIBUTION OF MYTHS 447 Theories of Resemblance. CHAPTER XXXII. THE PRESERVATION OF MYTHS 450 Traditional History. In Greece. Roman Poets of Mythology. Records of Norse Mythology. Records of German Mythology. Records of Oriental Mythology: Egyptian. Indian Records. Persian Records. COMMENTARY 465 RULES FOR PRONUNCIATION 541 INDEX OF MYTHOLOGICAL SUBJECTS AND SOURCES 543 INDEX OF MODERN AUTHORS AND ARTISTS 582 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FIGURE PAGE 1. Jupiter surveying the World. Roman Wall Painting, Naples: _Herculaneum and Pompeii, by H. Roux Ainé_ 3 2. Athena and Giant. Greek Bronze, Mus. Kircherianum: _Journal of Hellenic Studies, 4, 90_ 7 3. Zeus and Giants. Ancient Gem: _Baumeister 3, 1791_ 8 4. Prometheus making Man. Roman Sarcophagus in the Capitoline: _Baumeister 3, 1568_ 9 Upper row, from left to right: Oceanus, the Sun-god, Clotho, Lachesis, etc. Lower row: Cupid and Psyche, Gæa (Tellus), Prometheus, the newly created Man to whom Minerva gives life (the butterfly). Death, Cupid with down-turned torch, the first man dead, Atropos, Mercury. 5. Poseidon (Neptune), Dionysus (Bacchus) and Goddess. East Frieze, Parthenon, in the British Museum: _Photograph_ 17 6. Two Hours. Greek Vase Painting, St. Petersburg: _Roscher 1, 2727_ 18 7. Zeus from Dodona. Greek Bronze: _Photograph_ 20 8. Zeus after Phidias. Coin of Elis: _A. S. Murray, Greek Bronzes, opp. p. 81_ 21 9. Hera of Argos. Greek Marble: _Argive Heræum, 1_ 22 10. Athena Velletri. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: _Photograph_ 23 11. Ares Ludovisi. Ancient Marble in Rome: _Photograph_ 24 12. Ares (Mars). Painting by Raphael: _Photograph_ 25 13. The Forge of Vulcan. Roman Relief: _Baumeister 3, 1640_ 25 14. Apollo (so-called Adonis). Ancient Marble in the Vatican: _Photograph_ 26 15. Apollo Belvedere. Ancient Marble in the Vatican: _Photograph_ 27 16. Apollo. Greek Bronze from Thessaly, British Museum: _Murray, Greek Bronzes, Fig. 28_ 28 17. Diana. Painting by Correggio: _Photograph_ 29 18. Diana (Artemis) of Versailles. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: _Photograph_ 30 19. Artemis Knagia. Ancient Silver Medallion from Herculaneum: _Roscher 1, 566_ 31 20. Hermes Psychopompos. Greek Stele of Myrrhina: _P. Gardner, Sculptured Tombs, Fig. 72_ 34 Hermes (Mercury) leading to the underworld the spirit of a lady, Myrrhina, who has just died. From a relief on her tomb. 21. Eros (Cupid). Ancient Marble, Naples: _Photograph_ 36 22. Rape of Ganymede. Ancient Marble in the Vatican: _Baumeister 2, 891_ 37 23. Polyhymnia. Ancient Marble, Berlin: _Baumeister 2, 1185_ 37 24. The Three Fates. Painting attributed to Michelangelo, but recently conjectured to be by Rosso Fiorentino. Florence: _Photograph_ 38 25. Boreas. Greek Reliefs, Athens: _Baumeister 3, 2370_ 39 26. Zephyros. Greek Reliefs, Athens: _Baumeister 3, 2370_ 39 27. Boreas carrying off Orithyia. Greek Vase Painting, Munich: _Baumeister 1, 373_ 40 28. Iris carrying Child. Vase Painting: _Gerhard, Auserlesene Vasenbilder, 2, 83_ 41 29. Demeter of Knidos. Greek Marble in the British Museum: _E. von Mach, Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 247_ 42 30. Ceres. Roman Wall Painting: _I. Weir, Greek Painting, p. 343_ 43 31. Dionysus and the Vine. Ancient Marble in the British Museum: _Roscher 1, 292_ 44 32. Pan the Hunter. Ancient Terra Cotta: _Murray and Hutton, Plate VI_ 45 33. A Satyr with Grafting Materials. Ancient Gem: _Pine's Virgil_ 46 34. The Greek Underworld. Ancient Vase Painting from Canusium: _Baumeister 3, 2042 B_ 48 Center: Hades and Persephone. Above, left: Megara, wife of Heracles, and two of her children, slain by Heracles when mad. Above, right: a Fury guarding Pirithoüs and Theseus. Middle, left: Orpheus playing and dancing, and an unknown family group. Middle, right: the three judges of the dead. Below: Sisyphus, a Fury, Hermes, Heracles with Cerberus, a Fury, Tantalus. 35. Hermes conducting a Soul to Charon. Ancient Terra Cotta: _Archäologische Zeitung, Berlin_ 49 36. Hypnos (_Somnus_, Sleep). _Murray, Greek Bronzes, opp. p. 72_ 50 37. A Fury. Ancient Vase Painting: _Roscher 1, 1334_ 51 38. Hades. Ancient Marble in the Villa Borghese, Rome: _Baumeister 1, 690_ 53 39. Death, Sleep, and Hermes laying a Body in the Tomb. Ancient Vase Painting: _P. Gardner, Sculptured Tombs, Fig. 5_ 54 40. Poseidon from Dodona. Greek Bronze in the British Museum: _Murray, Greek Bronzes, Fig. 32_ 55 41. Wedding of Poseidon and Amphitrite. Ancient Marble Frieze, Munich: _Baumeister 3, 1744 B_ 56 42. Triton carrying off a Nymph. Ancient Marble in the Vatican: _Baumeister 3, 1964_ 57 43. Bearded Janus. Roman Coin: _Baumeister 2, 1166 A_ 60 44. Genius Loci. Wall Painting from Herculaneum in the Naples Museum: _Gusman, Pompeii, p. 107_ 62 45. Ganymede feeding the Eagle. Ancient Relief: _Pietro Santi Bartoli, Gli. Antichi Sepolcri_ 64 46. Hermes (Mercury) kills Argus in presence of Zeus. Ancient Vase Painting: _Roscher 2, 279_ 65 47. Io, Argus, and Mercury. Wall Painting from Herculaneum in the Naples Museum: _Baumeister 1, 802_ 66 48. Europa on the Bull. Greek Vase Painting: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate IV_ 69 49. Nereïds on Sea Beasts. Ancient Marble Frieze in Munich: _Baumeister 3, 1744 A_ 70 50. Youthful Bacchus embracing Semele in presence of Apollo and a Satyr. Etruscan Mirror, Berlin: _Baumeister 1, 557_ 71 51. Amphion and Zethus. Ancient Relief in the Palazzo Spada, Rome: _Roscher 2, 311_ 76 52. Contest of Athena and Poseidon for the Supremacy of Athens. Ancient Vase Painting, St. Petersburg: _Baumeister 3, 1542_ 83 53. Athena. Ancient Marble in Hope Collection: _Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Fig. 27_ 85 54. Cadmus slaying the Dragon. Ancient Vase Painting, Naples: _Baumeister 2, 822_ 87 Athena counseling. Above: river-god Ismenos, fountain-nymph Krene, and personification of Thebes. 55. Harmonia in Company of Deities. Greek Vase Painting: _Ephemeris, 1897-1898, Plate X_ 89 Aphrodite, Eros, Harmonia standing, Peitho (Persuasion) sitting, and Koré, Hebe, Himeros (Desire). 56. The Forge of Vulcan. Painting by Velasquez: _Photograph_ 90 57. A Sacrifice to Apollo. Greek Vase Painting: _Gardner-Jevons Manual, p. 249, Fig. 16_ 91 58. Apollo with Hyacinthus. Ancient Marble in Hope Collection: _Roscher 16-17, 2765_ 93 59. The Fall of Phaëthon. Roman Relief in the Louvre: _Baumeister 3, 1449_ 97 Upper left-hand corner: Phaëthon making his request of Helios (Ph[oe]bus). Below: the Heliades turning into trees. Center: the maddened horses, one chariot wheel, and Phaëthon falling into the arms of Eridanus. The horsemen left and right of the four horses are Castor and Pollux. Earth-gods, sea-gods, and other figures. 60. A Son of Niobe. Ancient Marble in Florence: _Baumeister 3, 1751_ 100 61. The Children of Niobe. Ancient Relief, St. Petersburg: _Baumeister 3, 1759_ 101 62. Niobe and her Youngest Daughter. Ancient Marble, Florence: _Baumeister 3, 1746_ 102 63. Æsculapius (Asklepios). Ancient Marble, Florence: _Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Fig. 87_ 104 64. Admetus must Die. Wall painting from Herculaneum in Naples: _Baumeister 1, 53_ 106 65. Heracles. Ancient Marble in Lansdowne House: _Photograph_ 108 66. The Palatine Apollo. Ancient Marble in Vatican: _Baumeister 1, 104_ 110 67. Daphne. Ancient Marble: _Springer, Kunstgeschichte, 1, 336_ 113 68. Artemis (Diana). Ancient Marble, Dresden: _Furtwängler, Masterpieces, p. 325_ 117 69. Arethusa. Ancient Coin: _Baumeister 2, 1140_ 118 70. A Young River-god. Ancient Bronze Head: _Roscher 9, 1489_ 119 71. Actæon. Ancient Marble Relief: _Baumeister 1, 41_ 121 72. The Pleiades. Painting by Elihu Vedder: _Photograph_ 123 73. Endymion. Ancient Relief in the Capitoline, Rome: _E. von Mach, Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 306_ 124 74. The Death of Adonis. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: _Baumeister 1, 17_ 127 Right: Adonis leaves Venus. Center: he is wounded. Left: he is cared for by Venus, Cupid, and attendants. 75. Psyche at the Couch of Cupid. Painting by Thumann: _Photograph_ 130 76. Psyche and Cupid on Mount Olympus. Painting by Thumann: _Photograph_ 136 77. Artemis of Gabii. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: _E. von Mach, Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 207_ 139 78. Atalanta's Race. Painting by Poynter: _Photograph_ 140 79. Hero and Leander. Painting by Keller: _Photograph_ 144 80. Thisbe. Painting by Edward Burne-Jones: _Photograph_ 148 81. Hermes and Dog disguised as Pig. Ancient Vase Painting, Vienna: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXXIIIa_ 151 82. Silenus taking Dionysus (Bacchus) to School. Ancient Terra Cotta: _Murray and Hutton, Fig. 36_ 152 83. Bearded Dionysus on Mule, attended by Satyr. Old Greek Terra Cotta Relief: _Baumeister 1, 481_ 153 84. Satyr and Mænad with Child Dionysus. Ancient Relief: _Baumeister 2, 932_ 154 85. Dionysus at Sea. Greek Vase Painting in the Pinakothek, Munich: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate I_ 155 86. Bacchic Procession. Greek Vase Painting: _Arch. Zeit._ 156 87. Dionysus visiting a Poet. Ancient Relief, Naples: _Baumeister 3, 1849_ 157 88. Rape of Proserpina. Ancient Relief: _Baumeister 1, 461_ 159 89. Hades and Persephone. Ancient Terra Cotta: _P. Gardner, Sculptured Tombs, Fig. 29_ 161 90. Sacrifice to Demeter and Persephone. Greek Relief in Paris: _Baumeister 1, 457_ 162 91. Triptolemus and the Eleusinian Deities. Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 3, 1958_ 164 Demeter behind the chariot and Persephone and the nymph Eleusis in front. 92. Demeter (Ceres), Triptolemus, and Proserpina. Greek Relief: _E. von Mach, Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 178_ 165 93. Orpheus and Eurydice. Painting by Lord Leighton: _Photograph_ 166 94. Farewell of Orpheus and Eurydice (Mercury ready to lead her away). Ancient Marble Relief in Villa Albani, Rome: _Photograph_ 167 95. Isthmian Poseidon. Ancient Marble in Lateran: _Springer, Kunstgeschichte, 1, Fig. 495_ 169 96. Pelops winning the Race; Hippodamia looking on. Ancient Vase Painting: _Baumeister 2, 1395_ 171 97. Phosphor, Eos, and Helios (the Sun) rising from the Sea. Ancient Vase Painting: _Gerhard, Akademische Abhandlungen_ 172 98. Sun, rising, preceded by Dawn. Painting by Guido Reni: _Photograph_ 173 99. Sunrise; Eos (Dawn) pursuing Cephalus. Greek Vase Painting: _P. Gardner, Grammar of Greek Art, Fig. 71_ 174 The young stars descending; to the left, the moon (Selene) riding over the hills. 100. The God of Sleep. Ancient Relief: _Baumeister 1, 770_ 176 101. The Death of Memnon (Aurora lifting his body). Greek Vase Painting in the Louvre: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XVIII_ 180 102. Pan blowing his Pipe, Echo answering. Ancient Earthenware Lamp: _Baumeister 1, 514_ 182 103. The Music Lesson (Pan teaching a Boy). Ancient Marble, Florence: _Baumeister 2, 1340_ 184 104. Bacchic Dance (Nymph and Satyrs). Ancient Relief: _Baumeister 3, 1931_ 184 105. Silenus. From an ancient candelabrum in Munich: _Baumeister 2, 895_ 185 106. Satyr (Marble Faun). Ancient Marble in the Capitoline, Rome: _Photograph_ 186 107. Satyr swinging Maiden. Greek Vase Painting in Berlin: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXXII_ 186 108. Satyr drinking from Amphora. Ancient Vase Painting in Baltimore: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate IX_ 187 109. Narcissus gazing at his Reflection. Wall Painting from Pompeii, Naples: _Baumeister 2, 1213_ 188 110. A Rustic. Wall Painting from Herculaneum 195 111. A Rustic. Wall Painting from Herculaneum 196 112. Galatea and Polyphemus. Wall Painting in House of Germanicus, Rome: _Roscher 9, 1587_ 199 113. A Sea-god, perhaps Glaucus. Ancient Marble in Vatican: _Baumeister 2, 987_ 200 114. Nereïds and Sea Monsters. Ancient Relief: _Baumeister 2, 1216_ 204 115. The Danaïds. Ancient Marble Relief in Vatican: _Roscher 6, 951_ 207 116. Danaë and Perseus and the Chest. Greek Vase Painting in St. Petersburg: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXXIV_ 208 117. Medusa Rondanini (Front View). Ancient Marble in Munich: _Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Fig. 63_ 209 118. Medusa Rondanini (Profile). Ancient Marble in Munich: _Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Fig. 63_ 209 119. Perseus. Marble by Cellini in Florence: _Photograph_ 210 120. Perseus with the Head of Medusa. Ancient Vase Painting: _Gerhard_ 211 121. Perseus finds Andromeda. Ancient Vase Painting in Museum, Berlin: _Jahrbuch des D. Arch. Instituts XI (1896), Plate II_ 212 Right: Aphrodite holding wreath over Perseus' head. Left: Cepheus seated, Hermes with his wand, and an Æthiopian inhabitant. 122. Bellerophon and Pegasus. Ancient Relief: _Baumeister 1, 317_ 215 123. Heracles strangling the Nemean Lion. Greek Vase Painting in British Museum: _Baumeister 1, 722_ 217 Left: Iolaiis and the local nymph Nemea. Right: Athena and Hermes. 124. Heracles killing the Hydra (behind him Athena and Iolaiis). Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 1, 724_ 217 125. Heracles bringing Home the Boar (Eurystheus hiding in a wine jar). Greek Vase Painting: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XII_ 218 126. Heracles with the Bull: Metope of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia: _Baumeister 2, 1285_ 219 127. Heracles and Cerberus. Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 1, 730_ 220 Left: Athena and Hermes. Right: Goddess of the Underworld. 128. Heracles and Antæus. Greek Vase Painting in Athens: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXIV_ 221 129. Hercules and Nessus (Dejanira in Chariot). Wall Painting from Pompeii: _Baumeister 1, 733_ 226 130. The Building of the Argo, Athene directing. Ancient Terra Cotta Relief in the British Museum: _Baumeister 1, 127_ 229 131. Jason conquers the Bulls and steals the Fleece. Ancient Relief in Vienna: _Baumeister 2, 981_ 231 Center: Æetes seated. Right: Medea assists her lover. 132. Medea deliberating upon the Murder of her Children. Wall Painting from Herculaneum: _Baumeister 2, 948_ 234 133. Medea and Daughters of Pelias preparing the Caldron. Ancient Marble Relief, Berlin: _Photograph_ 235 134. Meleager on the Boar Hunt. Roman Relief: _Baumeister 2, 990_ 238 Atalanta appears twice,--as before the hunt to the left of the central figures, as during the hunt in front of Meleager, and shooting an arrow into the boar. 135. The Death of Meleager. Roman Sarcophagus in the Louvre: _Baumeister 2, 991_ 241 Right: the contest between Meleager and his uncles. Left: Althæa putting the fateful brand into the fire; behind her a Fury whose torch has lighted the fire. Center: the dying Meleager, and Atalanta seated mourning. 136, 137. Castor and Pollux capturing the Giant Talus. Ancient Vase Painting: _Baumeister 3, 1804_ 244, 245 Pollux on foot in front of Medea. Seated Deities on right, Poseidon and Amphitrite. 138. Dædalus and Icarus. Ancient Relief in the Villa Albani, Rome: _Roscher 6, 934_ 247 139. So-called Theseus. Greek Marble in the Parthenon: _Baumeister 2, 1370_ 249 140. Æthra caresses Theseus and sends him forth with his Father's Sword. Greek Vase Painting, St. Petersburg: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXII_ 251 141. Theseus receiving Thanks from the Rescued after killing the Minotaur. Campanian Wall Painting in Naples: _Baumeister 3, 1876_ 252 142. The Sleeping Ariadne. Ancient Marble in Vatican: _Baumeister 1, 130_ 254 143. Head of Dionysus. Ancient Marble, Leyden: _Roscher 7, 1128_ 256 144. The Revels of Bacchus and Ariadne. Roman Sarcophagus: _Baumeister 1, 492_ 257 Large figures from left to right: Priest, Satyr, Mænad, Mercury, Bacchus and Ariadne seated, Satyr, Mænad, priest. Small figures: Desire (Himeros) and Love leading Pan captive, followed by Silenus. 145. Lapith and Centaur fighting. Greek Metope from the Parthenon, British Museum: _Photograph_ 259 146. [OE]dipus and the Sphinx. Greek Vase Painting: _P. Gardner, Grammar of Greek Art, Fig. 70_ 261 147. Eteocles and Polynices kill each other. Etruscan Relief, Florence: _Baumeister 3, 1841_ 266 148. The Gods bring Wedding Gifts. Ancient Relief from the Villa Albani, Rome: _Baumeister 1, 759_ 271 From right to left, married couple, Vulcan, Minerva, the four seasons (Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn) Hymen with torch, Comus, Amor pushing jealous deity away. 149. Map of the Troad and the Hellespont 273 150. Helen persuaded by Aphrodite; Paris (Alexander) held by Love. Ancient Relief in Naples: _E. von Mach, Handbook, Plate 312_ 277 151. Achilles taken from Scyros by Ulysses (to the right) and Diomedes (to the left). Pompeian Wall Painting, Naples: _Roscher 1, 27_ 279 152. The Sacrifice of Iphigenia. Pompeian Wall Painting, Naples: _Baumeister 1, 807_ 281 153. The Surrender of Briseïs. Relief by Thorwaldsen: _Photograph_ 284 154. Hector's Farewell. Relief by Thorwaldsen: _Photograph_ 291 155, 156. The Embassy to Achilles. Greek Vase Painting: _P. Gardner, Grammar of Greek Art, Fig. 72_ 294, 295 Left section: Briseïs is led away. Right section: Ajax and Ulysses, leaning on staff, plead with Achilles; at the right, Ph[oe]nix. 157. The Battle by the Ships. Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 1, 783_ 296 Perhaps the moment when Ajax retreats. Hector presses upon him followed by a youth with a torch. At the extreme right, Paris drawing a bow. 158. Supposed Menelaüs with the Body of Patroclus. Ancient Marble, Florence: _Baumeister 1, 785_ 298 159. Contest of Achilles and Hector. Ancient Vase Painting: _Baumeister 1, 788_ 302 Left: Athene. Right: Apollo. 160. Achilles over the Body of Hector at the Tomb of Patroclus (whose shade is running above the tomb). Greek Vase Painting: _P. Gardner, Sculptured Tombs, Fig. 40_ 303 161. Priam's Visit to Achilles (under whose couch lies the body of Hector). Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 1, 791_ 304 Achilles has been taking his dinner. Servants bear gifts behind Priam. 162. Achilles and the Amazon Penthesilea. Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 3, 2123_ 307 163. [OE]none warning Paris not to sail for Greece. Ancient Relief, in the Villa Ludovisi, Rome: _Baumeister 2, 1360_ 309 164. The Wooden Horse. Ancient Gem: _Baumeister 1, 794_ 310 165, 166. The Sack of Troy. Greek Vase Painting, Naples: _Baumeister 1, 795_ 312, 313 Priam on altar, Astyanax on his lap, and Polites, whom Pyrrhus has just killed, at his feet. Pyrrhus is about to strike Priam. Behind him rushes Andromache to strike a kneeling soldier. Below, under the palm tree, sits Hecuba facing the statue of Minerva (a Palladium) behind which Helen is seen to cower. In front Cassandra clings to the statue, while Ajax, striding over the body of her dead lover, tries to drag her away by the hair. To the left, Æneas, with Anchises in his arms, and little Ascanius are hastening away. 167. Orestes and Electra at the Tomb of Agamemnon. Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 3, 1939_ 315 168. Orestes pursued by Furies. Greek Vase Painting: _Baumeister 2, 1313_ 316 169. Orestes and Pylades before the King of the Tauri (Iphigenia as a priestess on the steps of the temple). Wall Painting from Pompeii, Naples: _Springer, Kunstgeschichte, 1, 529_ 316 170. Ulysses offering the Cyclops Wine. Ancient Statuette in the Vatican: _Baumeister 2, 1251_ 318 171. Boring out the Cyclops' Eye. From an Attic Vase: _P. Gardner, Grammar of Greek Art, p. 225_ 322 172. Ulysses and Two Companions under the Rams. Greek Vase Painting: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXIX_ 323 173. The Castle of Circe. Sicilian Vase Painting: _Baumeister 2, 839_ 325 174. Ulysses and the Sirens. Greek Vase Painting in the British Museum: _P. Gardner, Grammar of Greek Art, p. 227, Fig. 78_ 329 175. Ulysses and Scylla. Etruscan Relief: _Baumeister 3, 1762_ 330 176. Penelope at the Loom, and Telemachus. Greek Vase Painting in Museum, Chiusi: _Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XLI_ 339 177. Ulysses recognized by Euryclea (behind him Eumæus). Ancient Terra Cotta Relief: _Baumeister 2, 1257_ 341 178, 179. Ulysses kills the Suitors. Greek Vase Painting, Berlin: _Baumeister 3, 2139_ 342, 343 It will be seen that the suitors are defending themselves. 180. The Nike (Victory) of Samothrace. Greek Statue in the Louvre: _Von Mach, Greek Sculpture, Plate facing p. 30_ 345 181. Æneas, Anchises, and Iulus. Ancient Gem, Uffizi, Florence 347 182. Scylla (carved end of ancient table). _Chefs d'[OE]uvres de l'Art Antique_, Paris, 1867 349 183. The Cumæan Sibyl. Painting by Michelangelo in the Vatican: _Photograph_ 353 184. Ixion on the wheel. Ancient Vase Painting, Berlin: _Baumeister 1, Fig. 821_ 358 Below, right: Vulcan looking at his handiwork; a Fury and Hermes. Above: winged forms, perhaps the Hours, to see that the motion is perpetual. One is even now shoving the wheel; the other has just taken off her hand to point "your turn." 185. Amazon. Ancient Marble Statue: _Guhl and Koner_ 364 186. Valkyrie bearing a Hero to Valhalla. Painting by Dielitz: _Photograph_ 375 187. Loki and Siguna. Painting by Gebhardt: _Photograph_ 393 188. Gunther and Brunhild. Fresco by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld: _Photograph_ 406 189. Siegfried and Kriemhild. Fresco by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld: _Photograph_ 407 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS PAGE Lemnian Athena Frontispiece Statue, possibly after Phidias, reconstructed by Furtwängler from torso in Dresden and head in Bologna: _Photograph_. Hera of the Vatican 22 Ancient Marble in the Vatican: _Photograph_. Venus (Aphrodite) of Melos 32 Greek Marble in the Louvre: _Photograph_. Greece in the Fifth Century B.C. 64 The Farnese Bull Group: Amphion, Zethus, Dirce, and Antiope 74 Ancient Marble in Naples: _E. von Mach, Handbook, Fig. 44_. Apollo and Daphne 112 Marble Group by Bernini, Villa Borghese, Rome: _Photograph_. Aphrodite (Petworth Head) 126 Ancient Marble in London: _Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Plate XVII_. Eros with Bow 136 Ancient Marble in the Capitoline Museum: _Baumeister 1, 539_. Hermes of Praxiteles 150 Greek Marble in Olympia: _Photograph_. Perseus freeing Andromeda 212 Ancient Relief in the Capitoline Museum: _Roscher 2, 346_. The Wedding of Hercules and Hebe 226 Ancient Apulian Vase Painting in Berlin: _Baumeister 1, 700_. Amazon 306 Ancient Marble in Lansdowne House: _Photograph_. Laocoön 310 Greek Marble in the Vatican: _Photograph_. The Outer Geography of the Odyssey 318 Flying Mercury 330 Statue by Giovanni di Bologna in Florence: _Photograph_. Italy before the Growth of the Roman Empire 346 The Victory (Nike) of Brescia 372 Ancient Bronze Statue: _E. von Mach, Greek Sculpture, Plate XXXV, No. 4_. INTRODUCTION THE STUDY OF MYTHOLOGY IN CONNECTION WITH ENGLISH POETRY AND WITH ART Our American educational methods too frequently seek to produce the effect of polish upon a kind of sandstone information that will not stand polishing. With such fatuity many of our teachers in the secondary schools exercise their pupils in the study of English masterpieces and in the critical estimate of æsthetic qualities before acquainting them with the commonplace facts and fables that, transmitted through generations, are the material of much of our poetry because the material of daily converse, imagination, and thought. These commonplaces of tradition are to be found largely in the literature of mythology. Of course the evil would be neither so widespread nor so dangerous if more of the guardians and instructors of our youth were at home even among the Greek and Latin classics. But for various reasons,--some valid, as, for instance, the importance of increased attention to the modern languages and the natural sciences; others worthless, as the so-called utilitarian protest against the cultivation of "dead" languages,--for various reasons the study of the classics is at present considerably impaired. It is, therefore, incumbent upon our universities and schools, recognizing this fact and deploring it, to abate so far as possible the unfortunate consequences that proceed therefrom, until, by a readjustment of subjects of instruction and of the periods allotted them, the Greek and Latin classics shall be reinstated in their proper place as a means of discipline, a humanizing influence, the historic background against which our present appears. For, cut off from the intellectual and imaginative sources of Greece and Rome, the state and statesmanship, legislation and law, society and manners, philosophy, religion, literature, art, and even artistic appreciation, run readily shallow and soon dry. Now, one evident means of tempering the consequence of this neglect of the classics is the study of them through translations and summaries. Such secondhand study must indeed be ever a makeshift; for the literature of a people inheres in its language, and loses its seeming and often its characteristic when caparisoned in the trappings of another speech,--an utterance totally dissimilar, the outcome of diverse conditions of physical environment, history, social and intellectual tradition. But in dealing with the purely imaginative products of antiquity, the inefficacy of translation may be somewhat offset if those products be reproduced, so far as possible, not in the prosaic but in the poetic atmosphere and in the imaginative garb of art. For though the phenomena of plastic art are not the same in one continent as in another, or from one century to the next, and though the fashion of poetry itself varies from age to age and from clime to clime, the genesis of imagination is universal, its products are akin, and its process is continuous. For this reason the study of the imaginative thought of the ancients through the artistic creations of the moderns is commended to students and readers as feasible and profitable. The study of the classic myths stimulates to creative production, prepares for the appreciation of poetry and other kinds of art, and furnishes a clew to the spiritual development of the race. 1. Classic mythology has been for succeeding poetry, sculpture, and painting, a treasure house replete with golden tales and glimmering thoughts, passions in the rough and smooth, and fancies rich bejeweled. Like Virgil's Shadows that flit by the Lethean stream until at beck of Fate they revisit upper day and the ever-tranquil stars, these ghosts of "far-off things and battles long ago," peopling the murmurous glades of myth, await the artist who shall bestow on each his new and predetermined form and restore them, purified and breathing of Elysian air, to the world of life and ever-young mankind. 2. For the reader the study of mythology does, in this respect, as much as for poet, sculptor, or painter. It assists him to thrid the labyrinth of art, not merely with the clew of tradition, but with a thread of surer knowledge whose surest strand is sympathy. The knowledge of mythic lore has led men in the past broadly to appreciate the motives and conditions of ancient art and literature, and the uniform and ordered evolution of the æsthetic sense. And, beside enriching us with heirlooms of fiction and pointing us to the sources of imaginative joy from which early poets of Hellenic verse, or Norse, or English, drank, the classic myths quicken the imaginative and emotional faculties to-day, just as of old. How many a man held by the sorrows of the Labdacidæ or the love of Alcestis, by some curious wonder in Pausanias, or some woe in Hyginus, has waked to the consciousness of artistic fancy and creative force within himself! How many, indifferent to the well-known round, the trivial task, the nearest care of home, have read the Farewell to Andromache and lived a new sympathy, an unselfish thrill, a purified delight! And not only as an impulse toward artistic output, or patriotic devotion, or domestic altruism, but as a restraining influence, a chastener of æsthetic excess, a moderator of the "unchartered freedom" that knows no mean between idolatry and loathing, of the foolish frenzy that affects new things, abnormal and sensational, in literature, music, and the plastic arts,--as such a tutor and governor is the study of beautiful myths invaluable. Long familiarity with the sweet simplicity, the orderly restraint, the severe regard, the filial awe that pervade the myths of Greece and Rome,--or with the newness of life and fullness and wonder of it, the naïveté and the romance, of Eddic lore,--cannot but graciously temper our modern estimate of artistic worth. The study, when illustrated by masterpieces of literature and art, should lead to the appreciation of concrete artistic productions of both these kinds. It goes without saying that a rational series of somewhat consecutive stories is more serviceable to the reader than a congeries of data acquired by spasmodic consultation of the classical dictionary,--a mass of information bolted, as it were, but by no means digested. If, moreover, these stories are narrated in genealogical and realistic sequence and are illustrated by lyric, narrative, and descriptive passages of modern literature, there is furnished not only that material of allusion and reference for which the student nowadays trusts to meager and disjointed textbook notes, but a potentiality that should render the general reading of _belles-lettres_ more profitable. For a previous acquaintance with the material of literary tradition heightens the appreciation of each allusive passage as it is encountered; it enables the reader to sympathize with the mood and to enter into the purpose of the poet, the essayist, the novelist, the orator; it expands the intellectual lungs for the atmosphere breathed by the artist, at any rate for a literary and social atmosphere less asthmatic than that to which so many of us are unconsciously habituated. Of course all this advantage would far better result from the first-hand nutriment and discipline of the Greek and Latin classics; of course direct familiarity with the writers of Greece and Rome is the _sine qua non_ of level-headed criticism and broad evaluation of modern literature; and, of course, a sympathy with the imaginings of old is the best incentive to an æsthetic estimate not only of art but of nature to-day; but if our American pupils and many of their teachers cannot quaff Massic and Falernian, they do well to scent the bouquet. In time a sense of flavor may perchance be stimulated, and ultimately a desire for nearer acquaintance with the literatures that we inherit. The study of these ancient tales serves, then, much more than the purpose of special information. It refines the æsthetic judgment in general, and heightens the enjoyment of such works of literature as, not treating of mythical or classical subjects, still possess the characteristics of the classic: the unconscious simplicity, the inevitable charm, and the noble ideality. The Lycidas, the Adonais, the Thyrsis, the In Memoriam, the Ode to Duty, the Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich, the Hymn of Man, Love is Enough, Prospice, Festus, the Ode of Life, the Dream of Gerontius, Lying in the Grass, and Simmenthal must mean little to one devoid of the spirit of classicism. In respect of art a similar inspiration, aid, instruction, are afforded by the study. This volume is liberally supplied with cuts of famous paintings and sculptures of mythical subjects. Familiarity with specimens of ancient art, even through the medium of photography and engraving, must not only cultivate the historic sense but stimulate the æsthetic. The cruder efforts of the ancients, no less than the more refined, are windows through which we view the ancient mind. The frequent contemplation of their nobler efforts and of the modern masterpieces here reproduced may avail to lift some from the level of apathy or provinciality in matters of imagination; some it may spur to a study of the originals, some to artistic creation. A public which, from year to year, displays a deeper interest in the art of foreign lands will despise no auxiliary to a more intelligent appreciation of that art. A country whose future in artistic achievement cannot be prophesied in a paragraph will more and more truly recognize the value of a study that is an introduction to much that is best in art as it exists. 3. Furthermore, it must be borne in mind that the myths of the ancients, as the earliest literary crystallization of social order and religious fear, record the incipient history of religious ideals and of moral conduct. For though ethnologists may insist that to search for truth _in_ mythology is vain, the best of them will grant that to search for truth _through_ mythology is wise and profitable. If we accept the statement (often stretched beyond its proper limit) that mythology is primitive philosophy, and the other statement that an ancient philosophy never dies, but by process of internal growth, of modification, and of accretion acquires a purer spirit and a new and higher form,--then, since truth was never yet conceived of error (_ex nihilo nihil fit_), the truth now recognized, while it did not exist in that fraction of myth which happens to be irrational, existed as an archetypal impulse,--set the myth in motion, and, as a process refining the mind of man, tended steadily to eliminate from primitive philosophy (that is, from the myths that embodied primitive philosophy) the savage, ephemeral, and irrational element. For all myths spring from the universal and inalienable desire to know, to enjoy, to teach. These impulses of knowledge, of imaginative relaxation, of conduct, are the throbbing of the heart of reason; the first or the second is the primal pulse of every myth, and to the life of every myth each impulse may be, at some period, contributory. This study has led men to trace soberly the progress of their kind from the twilight of gray conjecture to the dawn of spiritual conviction and rational individuality; to discern a continuity of thought, an outward reach of imagination, an upward lift of moral and religious ideas; to confess the brotherhood of humanity and an inspiring purpose which holds good for every race and through all time. SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS 1. _Of the Classic Myths in their Relation to Literature._ It is essential that the teacher of mythology, no matter what textbook or system he uses or what classic epic he proposes to present, should first make himself acquainted with the meaning of myth, its origin and elements; the difference between myth and fable, between myths explanatory and myths æsthetic, myths reasonable and myths unreasonable, the theories of myth-making as a process of deterioration or as a process of development. He should also inform himself concerning the ways in which the leading myths have been disseminated, and how the survivors have been preserved. Materials for this preparation he will find in Chapters XXX-XXXII of this book as readily, perhaps, as elsewhere; but no matter where he obtains this information he should in a simple and interesting talk pass on the cream of it to the pupils about to begin the study of the stories themselves. He will in that way bring them to a reasonable appreciation of the value of myths and their relation to our civilization, and awaken in them anticipatory interest in the proposed reading. It is a great mistake to plunge students of high-school age, without preliminary orientation and a justification of the study, into a world which may otherwise appear to them unreasonable in conception and unrelated in experience. Pupils may, if time permits, read these concluding chapters, and so obtain a systematic outlook upon the subject, during a brief review in the senior year, but not earlier. This book should be studied for its materials and the inspiration that it affords,--not word by word for its style, or as a dictionary or scientific authority; nor paragraph by paragraph with a painful committing to memory of each myth and each episode in the myth. Discrimination must be made. Some of these myths, and especially the episodes from the epics (Chapters XXII-XXIX), are to be read rapidly and in large assignments, sometimes at home with reports in class, sometimes in class and at sight, but always for the enjoyment. Others are to be studied in detail, but solely when they are of special and vital significance, historically, morally, or æsthetically. Emphasis should be laid only occasionally and sparingly upon interpretations of mythical materials. What both teacher and student should aim at is the picture--manners, morals, ideals, heroic figures, epic events, broad and vivid against the canvas of antiquity: that, and the reality of classic order, grandeur, and restraint. The myths are here presented in a logical and genealogical arrangement; and they should be studied in this order, so that the pupil may carry away, not a jumble of sporadic recollections, but some conception of the systems of creative imagination which obtained in earlier civilizations. The knowledge of the myths and the proper perspective of their relation, one to another, may further be fixed by the study of the family ties that motivate many of the incidents of mythical adventure, and that must have been commonplaces of information to the inventors and narrators of these stories. The myths may well be reproduced as exercises in narration, comparison, description; and they may be regarded as stimulus for imaginative invention concerning local wonders and beauties of nature. Pupils may also be encouraged to consider, and to comment upon, the moral qualities of the heroes and heroines of mythology. Thus they may be led to recognize the difference between ancient and modern standards of right and wrong. To this end, and for the supply of further nutriment, it is important that teachers collect from their reading of the classic originals, or from translations of the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Greek dramatists, the Æneid, the Metamorphoses, etc., material supplementary to the text, and give it freely to their classes. To facilitate this practice the sources of the myths have been indicated in the footnotes of this volume, and a few of the best translations have been mentioned in the Commentary. Instructors should also read to the classes illustrative English poems, or portions of them based upon the myths under consideration; and they should encourage the pupils to collect from their English reading additional examples of the literary survival or adaptation of ancient story. For this purpose special sections of the Commentary have been prepared, indicating some of the best known literary applications of each myth. The Commentary is numbered in sections corresponding to those of the text. The Textual Notes should be studied in connection with each lesson, the Interpretative more sparingly, as I have said. They should not be suffered to spoil the interest in the stories as such. They are of interest in themselves only to maturer minds. Allusions and interpretations which the younger pupil does not appreciate will, if the book is used for purposes of reference in his further English, Latin, or Greek studies, be clear before the end of his course. From the outset care should be taken that pupils give to the classical names their proper accent, and that they anglicize both vowels and consonants according to the recognized rules laid down in the Latin grammars, the English dictionaries, and the pages preceding the Index of this book. Mythological and classical geography should not be neglected. The maps accompanying this volume will be serviceable; but there should be in the classroom one of Kiepert's maps of the World as Known to the Ancients (Orbis Veteribus Notus), or maps of Ancient Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor. The teacher will find the International Atlas (G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York), A. Keith Johnston's School and College Atlas of Ancient Geography, or the new edition of the same by James Cranstoun, issued as Ginn and Company's Classical Atlas, indispensable in the prosecution of general reading. When it is the intention to study, in connection with the book, an Homeric epic or a portion of it, the teacher should first make sure that the class has an adequate preliminary training in general mythology (such, for instance, as may be provided by the first twenty-one chapters); he should then outline rapidly and entertainingly the epic as a whole, emphasizing its position in the literature of the world and its relation to the world of its own times, before proceeding to read it in detail with the class. Excellent suggestions as to this method of study are offered in the Introduction to Maxwell & Chubb's Pope's Homer's Iliad, Books I, VI, XXII, and XXIV (Longmans), and in the Introduction to the Riverside Edition of the Odyssey: Ulysses among the Phæacians (Houghton Mifflin Company). The more important myths and the best illustrative poems should provide not only nutriment for thought, but material for memory. Our youth in the push for hasty achievement bolt their meals; they masticate little, swallow everything, digest nothing,--and having agonized, forget. If fewer things were dispatched, especially in the study of literature, and if more were intrusted to the memory, there would be something to assimilate and time to assimilate it; there would be less dyspepsia and more muscle. Teachers and parents are over-considerate, nowadays, of the memory in children: they approach it gingerly; they have feared so much to wring its withers that in most children the memory has grown too soft for saddling. In our apprehension lest pupils may turn out parrots, we have too often turned them out loons. It is better that a few of the facts in their heads be wrong than that no facts be there at all. With all our study of children and our gabble about methods of teaching them, while we insist, properly enough, that youth is the seedtime of observation, we seem to have forgotten that it is also the harvest-time of memory. It is easy for children to remember what they learn, it is a delight for them to commit to memory; we act criminally when we send them forth with hardly a fact or a date or a glorious verse in the memory of one out of ten of them. Such, unfortunately, is the case in many of our schools; and such was not the case in the day of our fathers. Pupils should be encouraged to recite _memoriter_ the best poems and verses that accompany the myths here given; and they should not be allowed to pass allusions already explained without recalling verses that contain them. But above all things should be cultivated, by means of this study, the spiritual capabilities of our youth. _Pabulum_ for thought, accurate habits of memory, critical judgment, simplicity and directness of oral and written expression, may all be furnished or developed by other educative agencies; but what stimulus to fancy, to poetic sensitiveness and reflection, to a near kinship with the spirit of nature humanized, can be found more cogent than the contemplation of the poetic traditions that abide in verse? Mythology, fraught with the fire of imagination, kindles the present from the past. In this new world of ours, shall slopes and mountains, gorges, cañons, flowery fields and forests, rivers, bays, Titanic lakes, and shoreless reach of ocean be seen of eyes that lack insight, be known of men for whom nature does not live? Surely the age of myth is not wholly past; surely the beauties and the wonders of nature are a fable of things never fully revealed; surely this new republic of ours, no less than her prototypes by Tyrrhenian and Ægean seas, utters, in her queenly form and flowing robes, a spirit, a truth, a potential poetry, and a beauty of art, the grace of which we Americans, with deeper imaginative training and sympathy and awe, may yet more highly value and more clearly comprehend. 2. _Of the Classic Myths in their Relation to Art._[1] The illustration of a book on ancient mythology offers great difficulties, because the modern reader expects one thing and the ancient artist, on whose works one must rely, intentionally offers a very different thing. We have grown to be a reading people, forming our ideas largely on the written word, while in antiquity the spoken word opened the door to understanding. A story which has been committed to writing is fixed for all time, having lost its power of growth; whereas a tale that passes from mouth to mouth, with no record by which to check its accuracy in particulars, is free to expand. It changes with the moods of those who tell it, and the intellectual and moral standards of those who listen. People to-day are unimaginative and literal. They also expect that the pictures which illustrate their books shall follow the individual conceptions of the author closely. When the story is dramatized a certain latitude is granted to the actor; the artist, however, who illustrates the book has no such freedom. He is expected to take precisely the author's view of a fictitious character, and, consequently, his individuality may show itself only in the technique. In antiquity there were no standard books of fiction or of myths. When writing came into use with the sixth century before Christ, the individual versions of this or that great epic poem or drama were preserved; but the great mass of the people knew them, not because they had read the manuscripts, but because they had heard them acted or recited. Book illustrations, therefore, were unknown. Yet so powerful was the impression which the myths made on the people that most of the artists drew their inspiration from them. Artists and poets alike wished to make real the powerful characters of Greek tradition. To make a literally true illustration of any one version of a great myth was not the aim of a classic artist. Another difficulty is found in the fact that few ancient myths continued to be equally interesting to the people all the time. It is therefore necessary for us, in choosing illustrations, to draw on all periods of ancient art, the crude beginning and the decline as well as the brief span of fine art. The comparatively meager store of genuinely classic works of art acts as one of the greatest obstacles to the compilation of a continuous record of classic myths in classic art. To give such a record, however, rather than to _illustrate_ his book, must be the aim of the author who publishes to-day a version of ancient mythology together with such pictures or reliefs or statues as are preserved. The modern reader of such a book should therefore appreciate this fact: he must make allowance for the gradual development of ancient art. The picture is not there for the sake of strengthening the written work, but for its own sake. It often offers an independent version of the myth which he reads, and at all times may give him an insight into the mental make-up of the classic people. Sculpture was the finest art of the Greeks, if one may judge by the remains. In this province the artists worked according to the best principles of art, making their appeal directly to the nobler side of man. Before an ancient statue one feels the power of an idea immediately, and not by the circuitous route of remembering a sequence of words which may have aimed to suggest a similar idea. The Greeks were the least literal in their sculpture. Their marbles, therefore, cannot yield _illustrations_ which the modern editor can use, except when they embody, like the Demeter of Knidos (Fig. 29) or the Athena of Velletri (Fig. 10), a well-defined character-conception. The modern reader, on the other hand, cannot fail to notice that this conception never does justice to the character of the goddess as it appears in all the myths, and very rarely even to that characteristic which may dominate the particular version of any one myth. If such pictures, however, were entirely omitted from the book, the best means of appreciating the essential nobility of the Greek mind would be lost. None of the Greek masterpieces of painting are extant. Their attenuated influence, however, may be traced in the Italian wall paintings from Pompeii and elsewhere. Painting permits greater literalness than sculpture. The picture from Herculaneum, for instance,--Io, Argus, and Mercury (Fig. 47),--tells a definite story and one which is also told by the poets. But the painter has considered the making of a pleasing picture first, and given only a secondary thought to accuracy of tradition. This must be so; for while we may without displeasure listen to the description of a monster, we cannot see his actual representation without discomfort. When we hear how the companions of Ulysses were turned into swine, the tragic note is never lost. To paint this scene, however, and not to border on the ridiculous or the burlesque is given only to the greatest artist--if it is at all possible. Fortunately for our purposes of illustration, there was a class of secondary artists in Greece which did not always shrink from selecting subjects ill adapted for art, and from rendering them with slight variations so that they are neither bad to look at nor altogether untrue. These were the painters of vases. Some of them were masters of their craft (cf. Fig. 116), others were of only mediocre skill. All, however, like their nobler brethren, were primarily concerned with the decorative and technical side of their art and but secondarily with their subject. If the story, for instance, called for four persons and their space for five, they unhesitatingly added the fifth person, and, vice versa, removed one without compunction if they had place for fewer figures than the story demanded. Being, moreover, commercial people, they painted according to fashion. Whatever version of a myth happened to be popular, that they selected, so that it has been possible to trace by their vases the changes which several myths underwent from the sixth century onward. A careful student notices the similarity of types in many of these pictures and realizes that the ancient painter of vases started out with a certain stock-in-trade which he altered as little as possible, adding something new only where it was absolutely necessary. From these observations it is clear that the works of men who were least gifted artistically are the best adapted for the purposes of book illustrations; for a painter is literal in the inverse ratio of his worth as artist. Nothing, therefore, could be less fair than to judge Greek vase painting by the collection of pictures here offered. Only paintings like Figures 85 and 101, for instance, can give a hint of the best that these men produced. Going gradually down the scale of artists one finally comes to the level of the makers of Roman sarcophagi, in whose honor it can only be said that to descend lower is impossible. Several myths, however,--the story of the fall of Phaëthon (Fig. 59), for instance,--are not illustrated in art before the decadent period of imperial Roman sculpture. It is therefore necessary to draw also upon this source. Of course unity of art or school or excellence cannot be preserved in a set of pictures which groups the Demeter of Knidos (Fig. 29), the blinding of Polyphemus (Fig. 171), and the fall of Phaëthon (Fig. 59). But individually the pictures help to fix in memory the particular stories that they are chosen to illustrate; and collectively they show how strongly the myths here retold influenced the noblest fancy of the great artists as well as the receptive minds of mediocre artisans. The suggestive power of classic myths, moreover, was not confined to antiquity. When learning and culture returned to the world in the Renaissance, this power also returned. Raphael (see Fig. 12) and Michelangelo (see Fig. 183) were under its sway, and so are many modern artists (see Figs. 72 and 154). They did not all understand the classic spirit equally, therefore some of their pictures are modern in everything save the title, while others have caught the truth with singular accuracy and are modern only in technique. Adding these Italian and more recent pictures to the collection further destroys mere unity, but it insures, on the other hand, a full appreciation of the abiding and ennobling power of ancient mythology. FOOTNOTES: [1] See Preface. THE CLASSIC MYTHS PART I MYTHS OF DIVINITIES AND HEROES CHAPTER I GREEK MYTHS OF THE CREATION =1. Purpose of the Study.= Interwoven with the fabric of our English literature, of our epics, dramas, lyrics, and novels, of our essays and orations, like a golden warp where the woof is only too often of silver, are the myths of certain ancient nations. It is the purpose of this work to relate some of these myths, and to illustrate the uses to which they have been put in English literature, and, incidentally, in art. =2. The Fable and the Myth.= Careful discrimination must be made between the fable and the myth. A fable is a story, like that of King Log, or the Fox and the Grapes, in which characters and plot, neither pretending to reality nor demanding credence, are fabricated confessedly as the vehicle of moral or didactic instruction. Dr. Johnson narrows still further the scope of the fable: "It seems to be, in its genuine state, a narrative in which _beings_ _irrational, and sometimes inanimate_, are, for the purpose of moral instruction, feigned to act and speak with human interests and passions." Myths, on the other hand, are stories of anonymous origin, prevalent among primitive peoples and by them accepted as true, concerning supernatural beings and events, or natural beings and events influenced by supernatural agencies. Fables are made by individuals; they may be told in any stage of a nation's history,--by a Jotham when the Israelites were still under the Judges, 1200 years before Christ, or by Christ himself in the days of the most critical Jewish scholarship; by a Menenius when Rome was still involved in petty squabbles of plebeians and patricians, or by Phædrus and Horace in the Augustan age of Roman imperialism and Roman letters; by an Æsop, well-nigh fabulous, to fabled fellow-slaves and Athenian tyrants, or by La Fontaine to the Grand Monarch and the most highly civilized race of seventeenth-century Europe. Fables are vessels made to order into which a lesson may be poured. Myths are born, not made. They are born in the infancy of a people. They owe their features not to any one historic individual, but to the imaginative efforts of generations of story-tellers. The myth of Pandora, the first woman, endowed by the immortals with heavenly graces, and of Prometheus, who stole fire from heaven for the use of man; the myth of the earthborn giants that in the beginning contested with the gods the sovereignty of the universe; of the moon-goddess who, with her buskined nymphs, pursues the chase across the azure of the heavens, or descending to earth cherishes the youth Endymion,--these myths, germinating in some quaint and childish interpretation of natural events or in some fireside fancy, have put forth unconsciously, under the nurture of the simple folk that conceived and tended them, luxuriant branches and leaves of narrative, and blossoms of poetic comeliness and form. The myths that we shall relate present wonderful accounts of the creation, histories of numerous divine beings, adventures of heroes in which magical and ghostly agencies play a part, and where animals and inanimate nature don the attributes of men and gods. Many of these myths treat of divinities once worshiped by the Greeks and the Romans, and by our Norse and German forefathers in the dark ages. Myths, more or less like these, may be found in the literatures of nearly all nations; many are in the memories and mouths of savage races at this time existent. But the stories here narrated are no longer believed by any one. The so-called divinities of Olympus and of Asgard have not a single worshiper among men. They dwell only in the realm of memory and imagination; they are enthroned in the palace of art. The stories of Greek, Roman, Norse, and German mythology that have most influenced our English literature will follow in the order named. The Romans, being by nature a practical, not a poetic, people, incorporated in their literature the mythology of the Greeks. We shall, however, append to our description of the Greek gods a brief account of the native Latin divinities that retained an individuality in Roman literature. [Illustration: FIG. 1. JUPITER SURVEYING THE WORLD] =3. Origin of the World.=[2] There were among the Greeks several accounts of the beginning of things. Homer tells us that River Ocean, a deep and mighty flood, encircling land and sea like a serpent with its tail in its mouth, was the source of all. According to other myths Night and Darkness were the prime elements of Nature, and from them sprang Light. Still a third theory, attributed to Orpheus, asserts that Time was in the beginning, but had himself no beginning; that from him proceeded Chaos, a yawning abyss wherein brooded Night and Mist and fiery air, or Æther; that Time caused the mist to spin round the central fiery air till the mass, assuming the form of a huge world egg, flew, by reason of its rapid rotation, into halves. Of these, one was Heaven, the other Earth. From the center of the egg proceeded Eros (Love) and other wondrous beings. But the most consistent account of the origin of the world and of the gods is given by the poet Hesiod, who tells us that Chaos, the yawning abyss, composed of Void, Mass, and Darkness in confusion, preceded all things else. Next came into being broad-bosomed Earth, and beautiful Love who should rule the hearts of gods and men. But from Chaos itself issued Erebus,[3] the mysterious darkness that is under Earth,--and Night, dwelling in the remote regions of sunset. From Mother Earth proceeded first the starry vault of Heaven, durable as brass or iron, where the gods were to take up their abode. Earth brought forth next the mountains and fertile fields, the stony plains, the sea, and the plants and animals that possess them. =4. Origin of the Gods.= So far we have a history of the throes and changes of the physical world; now begins the history of gods and of men. For in the heart of creation Love begins to stir, making of material things creatures male and female, and bringing them together by instinctive affinity. First Erebus and Night, the children of Chaos, are wedded, and from them spring Light and Day; then _Uranus_, the personified Heaven, takes _Gæa_, the Earth, to wife, and from their union issue Titans and hundred-handed monsters and Cyclopes. The _Titans_[4] appear to be the personification of mighty convulsions of the physical world, of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. They played a quarrelsome part in mythical history; they were instigators of hatred and strife. Homer mentions specially two of them, Iapetus and Cronus; but Hesiod enumerates thirteen. Of these, the more important are Oceanus and Tethys, Hyperion and Thea, Cronus and Rhea, Iapetus, Themis, and Mnemosyne. The three _Cyclopes_ represented the terrors of rolling thunder, of the lightning-flash, and of the thunderbolt; and, probably, for this reason, one fiery eye was deemed enough for each. The hundred-handed monsters, or _Hecatonchires_, were also three in number. In them, probably, the Greeks imaged the sea with its multitudinous waves, its roar, and its breakers that seem to shake the earth. These lightning-eyed, these hundred-handed monsters, their father Uranus feared, and attempted to destroy by thrusting them into Tartarus, the profound abysm of the earth. Whereupon Mother Earth, or Gæa, indignant, called for help upon her elder children, the Titans. None dared espouse her cause save Cronus, the crafty. With an iron sickle he lay in wait for his sire, fell upon him, and drove him, grievously wounded, from the encounter. From the blood of the mutilated Uranus leaped into being the Furies, whose heads writhe with serpents; the Giants, a novel race of monsters; and the Melic Nymphs, invidious maidens of the ashen spear. =5. The Rule of Cronus.= Now follows the reign of Cronus, lord of Heaven and Earth. He is, from the beginning, of incalculable years. In works of art his head is veiled, to typify his cunning and his reserve; he bears the sickle not only as memento of the means by which he brought his father's tyranny to end, but as symbol of the new period of growth and golden harvests that he ushered in. For unknown ages Cronus and Rhea, his sister-queen, governed Heaven and Earth. To them were born three daughters, Vesta, Ceres, and Juno, and three sons, Pluto, Neptune, and Jupiter. Cronus, however, having learned from his parents that he should be dethroned by one of his own children, conceived the well-intentioned but ill-considered device of swallowing each as it was born. His queen, naturally desirous of discouraging the practice,--when it came to the turn of her sixth child, palmed off on the insatiable Cronus a stone carefully enveloped in swaddling clothes. Jupiter (or Zeus), the rescued infant, was concealed in the island of Crete, where, nurtured by the nymphs Adrastea and Ida, and fed on the milk of the goat Amalthea, he in due season attained maturity. Then, assisted by his grandmother Gæa, he constrained Cronus to disgorge the burden of his cannibal repasts. First came to light the memorable stone, which was placed in safe keeping at Delphi; then the five brothers and sisters of Jupiter, ardent to avenge themselves upon the unnatural author of their existence and their captivity. =6. The War of the Titans.= In the war which ensued Iapetus and all the Titans, except Oceanus, ranged themselves on the side of their brother Cronus against Jupiter and his recently recovered kinsfolk. Jupiter and his hosts held Mount Olympus. For ages victory wavered in the balance. Finally Jupiter, acting again under the advice of Gæa, released from Tartarus, where Uranus had confined them, the Cyclopes and the Hecatonchires. Instantly they hastened to the battle-field of Thessaly, the Cyclopes to support Jupiter with their thunders and lightnings, the hundred-handed monsters with the shock of the earthquake. Provided with such artillery, shaking earth and sea, Jupiter issued to the onslaught. With the gleam of the lightning the Titans were blinded, by the earthquake they were laid low, with the flames they were well-nigh consumed: overpowered and fettered by the hands of the Hecatonchires, they were consigned to the yawning cave of Tartarus. Atlas, the son of Iapetus, was doomed to bear the heavens on his shoulders. But a more famous son of the same Titan, Prometheus, who had espoused the cause of Jove, acquired dignity hereafter to be set forth. =7. The Division of Empire.= In the council of the gods that succeeded, Jupiter was chosen Sovereign of the World. He delegated to his brother Neptune (or Poseidon) the kingdom of the sea and of all the waters; to his brother Pluto (or Hades), the government of the underworld, dark, unseen, mysterious, where the spirits of the dead should dwell, and of Tartarus, wherein were held the fallen Titans. For himself Jupiter retained Earth and the Heaven, into whose broad and sunny regions towered Olympus, the favored mountain of the greater gods.[5] =8. The Reign of Jupiter.= New conflicts, however, awaited this new dynasty of Heaven--conflicts, the subject of many a tale among the ancients. Gæa, though she had aided her grandson Jupiter in the war against Cronus, was soon seized with compunctions of conscience; and contemplating the cruel fate of her sons the Titans, she conceived schemes of vengeance upon their conqueror. Another son was born to her--_Typhon_, a monster more awful than his predecessors--whose destiny it was to dispute the sway of the almighty Zeus. From the neck of Typhon dispread themselves a hundred dragon-heads; his eyes shot fire, and from his black-tongued chaps proceeded the hissing of snakes, the bellowing of bulls, the roaring of lions, the barking of dogs, pipings and screams, and, at times, the voice and utterance of the gods themselves. Against Heaven this horror lifted himself; but quailing before the thunderbolt of Jove, he too descended to Tartarus, his own place and the abode of his brethren. To this day, however, he grumbles and hisses, thrusts upward a fiery tongue through the crater of a volcano, or, breathing siroccos, scorches trees and men. [Illustration: FIG. 2. ATHENA AND GIANT] Later still, the _Giants_, offspring of the blood that fell from the wounded Uranus, renewed the revolt against the Olympian gods. They were creatures nearer akin to men than were the Titans, or the Cyclopes, or Typhon. They clothed themselves in the skins of beasts, and armed themselves with rocks and trunks of trees. Their bodies and lower limbs were of snakes. They were awful to encounter or to look upon. They were named, like men, the _earthborn_; and their characteristics would suggest some prehistoric brutish race, hotheaded, not amenable to reason.[6] Of the Giants, the more mighty were Alcyoneus of the winter storms and icebergs, Pallas, and Enceladus, and Porphyrion the fire-king,--leader of the crew. In the war against them, Juno and Minerva, divinities of the new dynasty of Heaven, took active part,--and Hercules, an earthly son of Jupiter, whose arrows aided in their defeat. It was from the overthrow of Pallas that Athena (or Minerva) derived, according to certain records, her proud designation of Pallas-Athena.[7] In due course, like the Titans and Typhon, the Giants were buried in the abyss of eternal darkness. What other outcome can be expected when mere physical or brute force joins issue with the enlightened and embattled hosts of heaven? [Illustration: FIG. 3. ZEUS AND GIANTS] =9. The Origin of Man= was a question which the Greeks did not settle so easily as the Hebrews. Greek traditions do not trace all mankind to an original pair. On the contrary, the generally received opinion was that men grew out of trees and stones, or were produced by the rivers or the sea. Some said that men and gods were both derived from Mother Earth, hence both _autochthonous_; and some, indeed, claimed an antiquity for the human race equal to that of the divinities. All narratives, however, agree in one statement,--that the gods maintained intimate relations with men until, because of the growing sinfulness and arrogance of mankind, it became necessary for the immortals to withdraw their favor. =10. Prometheus, a Creator.= There is a story which attributes the making of man to Prometheus, whose father Iapetus had, with Cronus, opposed the sovereignty of Jupiter. In that conflict, Prometheus, gifted with prophetic wisdom, had adopted the cause of the Olympian deities. To him and his brother Epimetheus was now committed the office of making man and providing him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for their preservation. Prometheus was to overlook the work of Epimetheus. Epimetheus 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. But Prometheus himself made a nobler animal than these. Taking some earth and kneading it with water, he made man in the image of the gods. He gave him an upright stature, so that while other animals turn their faces toward the earth, man gazes on the stars. Then since Epimetheus, always rash, and thoughtful when too late, had been so prodigal of his gifts to other animals that no blessing was left worth conferring upon the noblest of creatures, Prometheus ascended to heaven, lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down fire. With fire in his possession man would be able to win her secrets and treasures from the earth, to develop commerce, science, and the arts. [Illustration: FIG. 4. PROMETHEUS MAKING MAN] =11. The Age of Gold.= Whether in this or in other ways the world was furnished with inhabitants, the first age was an age of innocence and happiness. Truth and right prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was there any in authority to threaten or to punish. The forest had not yet been robbed of its trees to yield 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 labor in plowing or sowing. Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up without seed, the rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey distilled from the oaks. This Golden Age had begun in the reign of Cronus.[8] And when these heroes fell asleep in death, they were translated in a pleasant dream to a spiritual existence, in which, unseen by mortal eyes, they still attended men as monitors and guardians. =12. The Silver Age= came next, inferior to the golden. Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the year into seasons. Then, first, men suffered the extremes of heat and cold, and houses became necessary. Caves were their dwellings,--and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of twigs. Crops would no longer grow without planting. The farmer was constrained to sow the seed, and the ox to draw the plow. This was a race of manly men, but insolent and impious. And when they died, Jupiter made them ghosts of the underworld, but withheld the privilege of immortal life. =13. Prometheus, Champion of Man.= During this age when, as Hesiod says, the altars of the blessed were neglected, and the gods were denied their due, Prometheus stood forth--the champion of man against the Olympians.[9] For the son of Cronus had grudged mortals the use of fire, and was, in fact, contemplating their annihilation and the creation of a new race. Therefore, once upon a time, when gods and men were in dispute at Sicyon concerning the prerogatives of each, Prometheus, by an ingenious trick, attempted to settle the question in favor of man. Dividing into two portions a sacrificial bull, he wrapped all the eatable parts in the skin, cunningly surmounted with uninviting entrails; but the bones he garnished with a plausible mass of fat. He then offered Jupiter his choice. The king of Heaven, although he perceived the intended fraud, took the heap of bones and fat, and, forthwith availing himself of this insult as an excuse for punishing mankind, deprived the race of fire. But Prometheus regained the treasure, stealing it from Heaven in a hollow tube. =14. Pandora.= Doubly enraged, Jupiter, in his turn, had recourse to stratagem. He is declared to have planned for man a curse in the shape of woman. How the race had persisted hitherto without woman is a mystery; but that it had done so, with no slight degree of happiness, the experience of the Golden Age would seem to prove. However, the bewitching evil was fashioned,--in Heaven, properly enough,--and every god and goddess contributed something to her perfection. One gave her beauty, another persuasive charm, a third the faculty of music. And they named her Pandora, "the gift of all the gods." Thus equipped, she was conveyed to earth and presented to Epimetheus, who, without hesitation, accepted the gift, though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and all his ways. And the caution was not groundless. In the hand of Pandora had been placed by the immortals a casket or vase which she was forbidden to open. Overcome by an unaccountable curiosity to know what this vessel contained, she one day lifted the cover and looked in. Forthwith there escaped a multitude of plagues for hapless man--gout, rheumatism, and colic for his body; envy, spite, and revenge for his mind--and scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the lid; but one thing only remained in the casket, and that was _hope_. =15. Prometheus Bound.= Because of his unselfish devotion to the cause of humanity, Prometheus drew down on himself the anger of Olympian Jove, by whose order he was chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus, and subjected to the attack of an eagle (or a vulture) which, for ages, preyed upon his liver, yet succeeded not in consuming it. 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. This was that by a certain woman Jove would beget a son who should displace him and end the sway of the Olympians. The god naturally desired more accurate information of this decree of Fate. But to reveal the secret Prometheus disdained. In this steadfastness the Titan was supported by the knowledge that in the thirteenth generation there should arrive a hero,--sprung from Jove himself,--to release him.[10] And in fullness of time the hero did arrive: none other than the mighty Hercules desirous of rendering the highest service to mankind. No higher service, thinks this radiant and masterful personage,--who, as we shall see, had already cleared the world of many a monster,--remains to be performed than to free the champion of mankind, suffering through the ages because he had brought light into the world. "The soul of man," says Hercules to the Titan-- The soul of man can never be enslaved Save by its own infirmities, nor freed Save by its very strength and own resolve And constant vision and supreme endeavor! You will be free? Then, courage, O my brother! O let the soul stand in the open door Of life and death and knowledge and desire And see the peaks of thought kindle with sunrise! Then shall the soul return to rest no more, Nor harvest dreams in the dark field of sleep-- Rather the soul shall go with great resolve To dwell at last upon the shining mountains In liberal converse with the eternal stars.[11] And he kills the vulture; and sets Jove's victim free. By his demeanor Prometheus has become the ensample of magnanimous endurance, and of resistance to oppression. 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, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless.... 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. But, 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[12].... =16. Longfellow's Prometheus.= A happy application of the story of Prometheus is made by Longfellow in the following verses:[13] Of Prometheus, how undaunted On Olympus' shining bastions His audacious foot he planted, Myths are told, and songs are chanted, Full of promptings and suggestions. Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals, The old classic superstition Of the theft and the transmission Of the fire of the Immortals! First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture,--the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. All is but a symbol painted Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; Only those are crowned and sainted Who with grief have been acquainted, Making nations nobler, freer. In their feverish exultations, In their triumph and their yearning, In their passionate pulsations, In their words among the nations, The Promethean fire is burning. Shall it, then, be unavailing, All this toil for human culture? Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing, Must they see above them sailing O'er life's barren crags the vulture? Such a fate as this was Dante's, By defeat and exile maddened; Thus were Milton and Cervantes, Nature's priests and Corybantes, By affliction touched and saddened. But the glories so transcendent That around their memories cluster, And, on all their steps attendant, Make their darkened lives resplendent With such gleams of inward lustre! All the melodies mysterious, Through the dreary darkness chanted; Thoughts in attitudes imperious, Voices soft, and deep, and serious, Words that whispered, songs that haunted! All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating! Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling! In such hours of exultation Even the faintest heart, unquailing, Might behold the vulture sailing Round the cloudy crags Caucasian! Though to all there is not given Strength for such sublime endeavor, Thus to scale the walls of heaven, And to leaven with fiery leaven All the hearts of men forever; Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted Honor and believe the presage, Hold aloft their torches lighted, Gleaming through the realms benighted, As they onward bear the message! =17. The Brazen Age.= Next to the Age of Silver came that of brass,[14] more savage of temper and readier for the strife of arms, yet not altogether wicked. =18. The Iron Age.= Last came the hardest age and worst,--of iron. Crime burst in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor fled. The gifts of the earth were put only to nefarious uses. Fraud, violence, war at home and abroad were rife. The world was wet with slaughter; and the gods, one by one, abandoned it, Astræa, following last, goddess of innocence and purity. =19. The Flood.= Jupiter, observing the condition of things, burned with anger. He summoned the gods to council. Obeying the call, they traveled the Milky Way to the palace of Heaven. There, Jupiter set forth to the assembly the frightful condition of the earth, and announced his intention of destroying its inhabitants, and providing a new race, unlike the present, which should be worthier of life and more reverent toward the gods. Fearing lest a conflagration might set Heaven itself on fire, he proceeded to drown the world. Not satisfied with his own waters, he called his brother Neptune to his aid. Speedily the race of men, and their possessions, were swept away by the deluge. =20. Deucalion and Pyrrha.= Parnassus alone, of the mountains, overtopped the waves; and there Deucalion, son of Prometheus, and his wife Pyrrha, daughter of Epimetheus, found refuge--he a just man and she a faithful worshiper of the gods. Jupiter, remembering the harmless lives and pious demeanor of this pair, caused the waters to recede,--the sea to return to its shores, and the rivers to their channels. Then Deucalion and Pyrrha, entering a temple defaced with slime, approached the unkindled altar and, falling prostrate, prayed for guidance and aid. The oracle[15] 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 woods, and revolved the oracle in their minds. At last Deucalion spoke: "Either my wit fails 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; this, I think, the oracle means. At least, to try will harm us not." They veiled their faces, unbound their garments, and, picking up stones, cast them behind them. The stones began to grow soft and to assume shape. By degrees they put on a rude resemblance to the human form. Those thrown by Deucalion became men; those by Pyrrha, women. It was a hard race that sprang up, and well adapted to labor. =21. The Demigods and Heroes.= As preceding the Age of Iron, Hesiod mentions an _Age of Demigods and Heroes_. Since, however, these demigods and heroes were, many of them, reputed to have been directly descended from Deucalion, their epoch must be regarded as subsequent to the deluge. The hero, Hellen, son of Deucalion and Pyrrha, became the ancestor of the Hellenes, or Greeks. The Æolians and Dorians were, according to legend, descended from his sons Æolus and Dorus; from his son Xuthus, the Achæans and Ionians derived their origin. Another great division of the Greek people, the Pelasgic, resident in the Peloponnesus or southern portion of the peninsula, was said to have sprung from a different stock of heroes, that of Pelasgus, son of Phoroneus of Argos and grandson of the river-god Inachus. The demigods and heroes were of matchless worth and valor. Their adventures form the subject of many of the succeeding chapters. The Older Heroes, especially, were endowed with godlike qualities, which they devoted to the service of mankind in the destruction of monsters, the founding of cities, or the introduction of civilization. Such were Perseus, the hero of Argos and his descendant Hercules, who came to be worshiped as the national hero of the Greeks. Such, too, Cadmus, the founder of Thebes, and Cecrops of Athens, and one of his successors, Theseus, a "second Hercules." Each city of Greece had its patron hero, to whom it accorded the honors of divinity. The Younger Heroes were chieftains in the Theban and the Trojan wars and in numerous other military or predatory expeditions. [Illustration: FIG. 5. POSEIDON, DIONYSUS, AND GODDESS] FOOTNOTES: [2] Supplementary information concerning many of the myths may be found in the corresponding sections of the Commentary. For the pronunciation of names see Index, and Rules preceding the Index. [3] So far as possible, Latin designations, or Latinized forms of Greek names, are used. [4] On the Titans, etc., Preller's Griech. Mythol. 1, 37. [5] On signification of Uranus, Cronus, Zeus, see Preller, 1, 37, 38, and Commentary, §§ 4, 24. [6] Roscher, Ausf. Lex., Article _Giganten_ [J. Ilberg]. [7] The name more probably signifies Brandisher [of the Lance]. [8] Consequently the creation of these men could not be assigned to Prometheus,--unless they were made by him before the war of the Titans. [9] There is uncertainty as to the mythical period of these events. The order here given seems to me well grounded. Hes. Works and Days, 180; Theog. 790-910. [10] §§ 156, 161, 191 and Commentary, § 10. [11] From Herakles, a drama by George Cabot Lodge. [12] From Byron's Prometheus. See also his translation from the Prometheus Vinctus of Æschylus, and his Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte. [13] Prometheus, or The Poet's Forethought. See Commentary. [14] Compare Byron's political satire, The Age of Bronze. [15] Oracles, see §§ 24, 30, and Commentary. CHAPTER II THE GODS OF HEAVEN[16] [Illustration: FIG. 6. TWO HOURS] =22. Olympus.= The heaven of the Greek gods was the summit of an ideal mountain called Olympus.[17] A gate of clouds, kept by goddesses, the Hours or 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,--even the deities whose usual abode was the earth, the waters, or the underworld. In the great hall of the Olympian king the gods feasted each day on ambrosia and nectar. Here they conversed of the affairs of heaven and earth; and as they quaffed the nectar that Hebe poured, Apollo made melody with his lyre and the Muses sang in responsive strain. When the sun was set, the gods withdrew to their respective dwellings for the night. The following lines from the Odyssey express the conception of Olympus entertained by Homer: 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 Forever.[18] =23. The Great Gods.= The gods of Heaven were the following:[19] Jupiter (Zeus).[20] His daughter, Minerva (Athena), who sprang from his brain, full-grown and full-armed. His sister and wife, Juno (Hera). His children by Juno,--Mars (Ares), Vulcan (Hephæstus), and Hebe. His children by Latona,--Apollo, or Ph[oe]bus, and Diana (Artemis). His daughter by Dione,--Venus (Aphrodite).[21] His son by Maia,--Mercury (Hermes). His sister, Vesta (Hestia), the oldest born of Cronus and Rhea. Of these all were deities of the highest order save Hebe, who must be ranked with the lesser gods. With the remaining ten "Great Gods" are sometimes reckoned the other sister of Jupiter, Ceres (Demeter), properly a divinity of earth, and Neptune (Poseidon), ruler of the sea. =24. Jupiter[22] (Zeus).= The Greek name signifies the radiant light of heaven. Jupiter was the supreme ruler of the universe, wisest of the divinities and most glorious. In the Iliad he informs the other gods that their united strength would not budge him: that, on the contrary, he could draw them and earth and the seas to himself, and suspend all from Olympus by a golden chain. Throned in the high, clear heavens, Jupiter was the gatherer of clouds and snows, the dispenser of gentle rains and winds, the moderator of light and heat and the seasons, the thunderer, the wielder of the thunderbolt. Bodily strength and valor were dear to him. He was worshiped with various rites in different lands, and to him were sacred everywhere the loftiest trees and the grandest mountain peaks. He required of his worshipers cleanliness of surroundings and person and heart. Justice was his; his to repay violation of duty in the family, in social relations, and in the state. Prophecy was his; and his will was made known at the oracle of Dodona, where answers were given to those who inquired concerning the future. This oracular shrine was the most ancient in Greece. According to one account two black doves had taken wing from Thebes in Egypt. One flew to Dodona in Epirus, and, alighting in a grove of oaks, proclaimed to the inhabitants of the district that they should establish there an oracle of Jupiter. The other dove flew to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the Libyan oasis, and delivered a similar command. According to another account, these were not doves but priestesses who, carried off from Thebes by the Ph[oe]nicians, set up oracles at Oasis and Dodona. The responses of the oracle were given by the rustling of the oak trees in the wind. The sounds were interpreted by priests. [Illustration: FIG. 7. ZEUS] That Jupiter himself, though wedded to the goddess Juno, should be charged with numerous other love affairs, not only in respect of goddesses but of mortals, is, in part, explained by the fact that to the supreme divinity of the Greeks have been ascribed attributes and adventures of numerous local and foreign divinities that were gradually identified with him. It is, therefore, not wise to assume that the love affairs of Jupiter and of other divinities always symbolize combinations of natural or physical forces that have repeated themselves in ever-varying guise. It is important to understand that the more ideal Olympian religion absorbed features of inferior religions, and that Jupiter, when represented as appropriating the characteristics of other gods, was sometimes, also, accredited with their wives. Beside the children of Jupiter already enumerated, there should here be mentioned, as of peculiar consequence, Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine, a deity of earth,--Proserpine, the wife of Pluto and queen of the underworld,--and Hercules, the greatest of the heroes. [Illustration: FIG. 8. ZEUS AFTER PHIDIAS] =25. Conceptions of Jupiter.= The Greeks usually conceived the Jupiter of war as riding in his thunder-car, hurling the thunderbolt or lashing his enemies with a scourge of lightning. He wore a breastplate or shield of storm-cloud like the skin of a gray goat (the _Ægis_), fearful to behold, and made by the god of fire. His special messenger was the eagle. It was, however, only with the passage of generations that the Greeks came to represent their greatest of the gods by the works of men's hands. The statue of Olympian Jove by Phidias was considered the highest achievement of Grecian sculpture. It was of colossal dimensions and, like other statues of the period, "chryselephantine," that is, composed of ivory and gold. For the parts representing flesh were of ivory laid on a framework of wood, while the drapery and ornaments were of gold. The height of the figure was forty feet, of the pedestal twelve. The god was represented as seated on his throne. His brows were crowned with a wreath of olive; he held in his right hand a scepter, and in his left a statue of Victory. The throne was of cedar, adorned with gold and precious stones. The idea which the artist essayed to embody was that of the supreme deity of the Hellenic race, enthroned as a conqueror, in perfect majesty and repose, and ruling with a nod the subject world. Phidias informs us that the idea was suggested by Homer's lines in the first book of the Iliad: Jove said, and nodded with his shadowy brows; Waved on th' immortal head th' ambrosial locks,-- And all Olympus trembled at his nod.[23] Unfortunately, our knowledge of this famous statue is confined to literary descriptions, and to copies on coins. Other representations of Jove have been obtained from Greek bronze statuettes, or the wall-paintings of Herculaneum and Pompeii. =26. Juno[24] (Hera)=, sister and wife of Jupiter. According to some, the name _Hera_ means Splendor of Heaven, according to others, the Lady. Some think it approves her goddess of earth; others, goddess of the air; still others, for reasons by no means final, say that it signifies Protectress, and applies to Juno in her original function of moon-goddess, the chosen guardian of women, their aid in seasons of distress. Juno's union with Jupiter was the prototype of earthly marriages. She is the type of matronly virtues and dignity. [Illustration: FIG. 9. HERA OF ARGOS] She was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, but was brought up by Oceanus and Tethys in their dwelling in the remote west beyond the sea. Without the knowledge of her parents, she was wedded to Jupiter in this garden of the gods where ambrosial rivers flowed, and where Earth sent up in honor of the rite a tree of life, heavy with apples golden like the sunset. Juno was the most worthy of the goddesses, the most queenly; ox-eyed, says Homer; says Hesiod, golden-sandaled and golden-throned. Glorious beyond compare was her presence, when she had harnessed her horses, and driven forth the golden-wheeled chariot that Hebe made ready, and that the Hours set aside. Fearful, too, could be her wrath. For she was of a jealous disposition, which was not happily affected by the vagaries of her spouse; and she was, moreover, prone to quarrels, self-willed, vengeful, proud, even on occasion deceitful. Once, indeed, she conspired with Minerva and Neptune to bind the cloud-compeller himself. More than once she provoked him to blows; and once to worse than blows,--for her lord and master swung her aloft in the clouds, securing her wrists in golden handcuffs and hanging anvils to her feet. The cities that the ox-eyed goddess favored were Argos, Sparta, and Mycenæ. To her the peacock and the cow were dear, and many a grove and pasture rejoiced her sacred herds. [Illustration: HERA OF THE VATICAN] [Illustration: FIG. 10. ATHENA VELLETRI] =27. Minerva= (=Athene= or =Athena=), the virgin goddess. She sprang from the brain of Jove, agleam with panoply of war, brandishing a spear and with her battle-cry awakening the echoes of heaven and earth. She is goddess of the lightning that leaps like a lance from the cloud-heavy sky, and hence, probably, the name _Athene_.[25] She is goddess of the storms and of the rushing thunderbolt, and is, therefore, styled Pallas. She is the goddess of the thundercloud, which is symbolized by her tasseled breastplate of goatskin, the _ægis_, whereon is fixed the head of Medusa, the Gorgon, that turns to stone all beholders. She is also the goddess of war, rejoicing in martial music and protecting the war horse and the warship. On the other hand, she is of a gentle, fair, and thoughtful aspect. Her Latin name _Minerva_ is connected with the Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin words for _mind_. She is eternally a virgin, the goddess of wisdom, of skill, of contemplation, of spinning and weaving, of horticulture and agriculture. She is protectress of cities, and was specially worshiped in her own Athens, in Argos, in Sparta, and in Troy. To her were sacrificed oxen and cows. The olive tree, created by her, was sacred to her, and also the owl, the cock, the serpent, and the crow. =28. Mars (Ares)=,[26] the war-god, son of Jupiter and Juno. The meaning of the name _Ares_ is uncertain; the most probable significations are the _Slayer_, the _Avenger_, the _Curse_. The Roman god of war, Mars, is the _bright_ and _burning_ one. Homer, in the Iliad, represents Ares as the insatiable warrior of the heroic age, who, impelled by rage and lust of violence, exults in the noise of battle, revels in the horror of carnage. Strife and slaughter are the condition of his existence. Where the fight is thickest, there he rushes in without hesitation, without question as to which side is right. In battle array he is resplendent,--on his head the gleaming helmet and floating plume, on his arm the leathern shield, in his hand the redoubtable spear of bronze. Well-favored, stately, swift, unwearied, puissant, gigantic, he is still the foe of wisdom, the scourge of mortals. Usually he fights on foot, sometimes from a chariot drawn by four horses,--the offspring of the North Wind and a Fury. In the fray his sons attend him,--Terror, Trembling, Panic, and Fear,--also his sister Eris, or Discord (the mother of Strife), his daughter Enyo, ruiner of cities, and a retinue of bloodthirsty demons. As typifying the chances of war, Mars is, of course, not always successful. In the battles before Troy, Minerva and Juno bring him more than once to grief; and when he complains to Jupiter, he is snubbed as a renegade most hateful of all the gods.[27] His loved one and mistress is the goddess of beauty herself. In her arms the warrior finds repose. Their daughter Harmonia is the ancestress of the unquiet dynasty of Thebes. The favorite land of Mars was, according to Homer, the rough, northerly Thrace. His emblems are the spear and the burning torch; his chosen animals are haunters of the battle field,--the vulture and the dog. [Illustration: FIG. 11. ARES LUDOVISI] =29. Vulcan (Hephæstus)=, son of Jupiter and Juno, was the god of fire, especially of terrestrial fire,--volcanic eruption, incendiary flame, the glow of the forge or the hearth. But as the fires of earth are derived from that of heaven, perhaps the name _Hephæstus_ (burning, shining, flaming) referred originally to the marvelous brilliance of the lightning. Vulcan was the blacksmith of the gods, the finest artificer in metal among them. His forge in Olympus was furnished not only with anvils and all other implements of the trade, but with automatic handmaidens of silver and gold, fashioned by Vulcan himself. Poets later than Homer assign to Vulcan workshops under various volcanic islands. From the crater of Mount Ætna poured forth the fumes and flames of his smithy. He built the dwellings of the gods; he made the scepter of Jove, the shields and spears of the Olympians, the arrows of Apollo and Diana, the breastplate of Hercules, the shield of Achilles. [Illustration: FIG. 12. ARES (MARS)] He was lame of gait,--a figurative suggestion, perhaps, of the flickering, unsteady nature of fire. According to his own story,[28] he was born halt; and his mother, chagrined by his deformity, cast him from Heaven out of the sight of the gods. Yet, again,[29] he says that, attempting once to save his mother from Jupiter's wrath, he was caught by the foot and hurled by the son of Cronus from the heavenly threshold: "All day I flew; and at the set of sun I fell in Lemnos, and little life was left in me." Had he not been lame before, he had good reason to limp after either of these catastrophes. He took part in the making of the human race, and in the special creation of Pandora. He assisted also at the birth of Minerva, to facilitate which he split Jupiter's head open with an ax. [Illustration: FIG. 13. THE FORGE OF VULCAN] His wife, according to the Iliad and Hesiod's Theogony, is Aglaia, the youngest of the Graces; but in the Odyssey it is Venus. He is a glorious, good-natured god, loved and honored among men as the founder of wise customs and the patron of artificers; on occasion, as a god of healing and of prophecy. He seems to have been, when he chose, the cause of "inextinguishable laughter" to the gods, but he was by no means a fool. The famous god of the strong arms could be cunning, even vengeful, when the emergency demanded. [Illustration: FIG. 14. APOLLO IN THE VATICAN] =30. Apollo=, or Ph[oe]bus Apollo, the son of Jupiter and Latona, was preëminently the god of the sun. His name _Ph[oe]bus_ signifies the radiant nature of the sunlight; his name _Apollo_, perhaps, the cruel and destructive heat of noonday. Soon after his birth, Jupiter would have sent him to Delphi to inculcate righteousness and justice among the Greeks; but the golden god Apollo chose first to spend a year in the land of the Hyperboreans, where for six continuous months of the year there is sunshine and spring, soft climate, profusion of herbs and flowers, and the very ecstasy of life. During this delay the Delphians sang pæans,--hymns of praise,--and danced in chorus about the tripod (or three-legged stool), where the expectant priestess of Apollo had taken her seat. At last, when the year was warm, came the god in his chariot drawn by swans,--heralded by songs of springtide, of nightingales and swallows and crickets. Then the crystal fount of Castalia and the stream Cephissus overflowed their bounds, and mankind made grateful offerings to the god. But his advent was not altogether peaceful. An enormous serpent, Python, had crept forth from the slime with which, after the flood, the Earth was covered; and in the caves of Mount Parnassus this terror of the people lurked. Him Apollo encountered and after fearful combat slew, with arrows, weapons which the god of the silver bow 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, should be crowned with a wreath of beech leaves. Apollo brought not only the warm spring and summer, but also the blessings of the harvest. He warded off the dangers and diseases of summer and autumn; and he healed the sick. He was patron of music and of poetry. Through his oracle at Delphi, on the slopes of Parnassus in Phocis, the Pythian god made known the future to those who consulted him. He was a founder of cities, a promoter of colonization, a giver of good laws, the ideal of fair and manly youth,--a pure and just god, requiring clean hands and pure hearts of those that worshiped him. But though a god of life and peace, the far-darter did not shun the weapons of war. When presumption was to be punished, or wrong righted, he could bend his bow and slay with the arrows of his sunlight. As in the days of his youth he slew the Python, so, also, he slew the froward Tityus, and so the children of Niobe. While Ph[oe]bus Apollo is the Olympian divinity of the sun, fraught with light and healing, spiritual, creative, and prophetic, he must not be confounded with a god of the older dynasty, Helios (offspring of Hyperion, Titanic deity of light), who represented the sun in its daily and yearly course, in its physical rather than spiritual manifestation. The bow of Apollo was bound with laurel in memory of Daphne, whom he loved. To him were sacred, also, many creatures,--the wolf, the roe, the mouse, the he-goat, the ram, the dolphin, and the swan.[30] [Illustration: FIG. 15. APOLLO BELVEDERE] =31. Shelley's Hymn of Apollo.= The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries, From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes,-- Waken me when their mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. [Illustration: FIG. 16. APOLLO] Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare. The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day; All men who do or even imagine ill Fly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might, Until diminished by the reign of night. I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers With their ethereal colors; the moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine, Are portions of one power, which is mine. I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even; For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle? I am the eye with which the universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medicine, are mine, All light of art or nature;--to my song, Victory and praise in their own right belong. [Illustration: FIG. 17. DIANA. After Correggio] =32. Diana (Artemis)=, twin sister of Apollo, was born on Mount Cynthus in the island of Delos. Latona, the future mother of Diana and Apollo, flying from the wrath of Juno, had besought, one after another, the islands of the Ægean to afford her a place of rest; but they feared too much the potent queen of heaven. Delos alone consented to become the birthplace of the future deities. This isle was then floating and unstable; but on Latona's arrival, Jupiter fastened it with adamantine chains to the bottom of the sea, that it might be a secure resting-place for his beloved. The daughter of Latona is, as her name _Artemis_ indicates, a virgin goddess, the ideal of modesty, grace, and maidenly vigor. She is associated with her brother, the prince of archery, in nearly all his adventures, and in attributes she is his feminine counterpart. As he is identified with sunlight, so is she, his fair-tressed sister, with the chaste brilliance of the moon. Its slender arc is her bow; its beams are her arrows with which she sends upon womankind a speedy and painless death. In her prerogative of moon-goddess she is frequently identified with Selene, daughter of Hyperion, just as Apollo is with Helios. Despising the weakness of love, Diana imposed upon her nymphs vows of perpetual maidenhood, any violation of which she was swift and severe to punish. Graceful in form and free of movement, equipped for the chase, and surrounded by a bevy of fair companions, the swift-rushing goddess was wont to scour hill, valley, forest, and plain. She was, however, not only huntress, but guardian, of wild beasts,--mistress withal of horses and kine and other domestic brutes. She ruled marsh and mountain; her gleaming arrows smote sea as well as land. Springs and woodland brooks she favored, for in them she and her attendants were accustomed to bathe. She blessed with verdure the meadows and arable lands, and from them obtained a meed of thanks. When weary of the chase she turned to music and dancing; for the lyre and flute and song were dear to her. Muses, Graces, nymphs, and the fair goddesses themselves thronged the rites of the chorus-leading queen. But ordinarily a woodland chapel or a rustic altar sufficed for her worship. There the hunter laid his offering--antlers, skin, or edible portions of the deer that Artemis of the golden arrows had herself vouchsafed him. The holy maid, however, though naturally gracious, gentle, and a healer of ills, was, like her brother, quick to resent injury to her sacred herds or insult to herself. To this stern temper Agamemnon, Orion, and Niobe bore regretful testimony. They found that the "fair-crowned queen of the echoing chase," though blithe and gracious, was by no means a frivolous personage. [Illustration: FIG. 18. DIANA (ARTEMIS) OF VERSAILLES] Diana was mistress of the brute creation, protectress of youth, patron of temperance in all things, guardian of civil right. The cypress tree was sacred to her; and her favorites were the bear, the boar, the dog, the goat, and specially the hind. [Illustration: FIG. 19. ARTEMIS] =33. Jonson's Hymn to Cynthia (Diana).= Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wishèd sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.[31] =34. Venus (Aphrodite)=, goddess of love and beauty, was, according to the more ancient Greek conception, a daughter of Jupiter and Dione;[32] but Hesiod says that she arose from the foam of the sea at the time of the wounding of Uranus, and therefore was called, by the Greeks, Aphrodite, _the foam-born_.[33] Wafted by the west wind, and borne upon the surge, she won first the island of Cythera; thence, like a dream, she passed to Cyprus, where the grace and blossom of her beauty conquered every heart. Everywhere, at the touch of her feet the herbage quivered into flower. The Hours and Graces surrounded her, twining odorous garlands and weaving robes for her that reflected the hues and breathed the perfume of crocus and hyacinth, violet, rose, lily, and narcissus. To her influence is ascribed the fruitfulness of the animal and of the vegetable creation. She is goddess of gardens and flowers, of the rose, the myrtle, and the linden. The heaths and slumberous vales, pleasant with spring and vernal breezes, are hers. In her broidered girdle lurk "love and desire, and loving converse that steals the wits even of the wise." For she is the mistress of feminine charm and beauty, the golden, sweetly smiling Aphrodite, who rules the hearts of men. She lends to mortals seductive form and fascination. To a few, indeed, her favor is a blessing; but to many her gifts are treacherous, destructive of peace. Her various influence is exemplified in the stories of Pygmalion and Adonis, Paris and Æneas, Helen, Ariadne, Psyche, Procris, Pasiphaë, and Phædra. Her power extended over sea as well as land, and her temples rose from many a shore. On the waters swan and dolphin were beloved of her; in air, the sparrow and the dove. She was usually attended by her winged son Cupid, of whom much is to be told. Especially dear to her were Cyprus, Cnidos, Paphos, Cythera, Abydos, Mount Eryx, and the city of Corinth. =35. The "Venus of Milo."= Of artistic conceptions of Aphrodite, the most famous are the statues called the Venus of Melos and the Venus of the Medici.[34] A comparison of the two conceptions is instituted in the following poem.[35] The worshiper apostrophizes the Venus of Melos, that "inner beauty of the world," whose tranquil smile he finds more fair than "The Medicean's sly and servile grace": [Illustration: VENUS OF MELOS] From our low world no gods have taken wing; Even now upon our hills the twain are wandering:[36] The Medicean's sly and servile grace, And the immortal beauty of thy face. One is the spirit of all short-lived love And outward, earthly loveliness: The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth's smile, The sky, her laughing azure eyes above; And, waiting for caress. Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the while Her thrilling voice is heard In song of wind and wave, and every flitting bird. Not plainly, never quite herself she shows: Just a swift glance of her illumined smile Along the landscape goes; Just a soft hint of singing, to beguile A man from all his toil; Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, to spoil A morning's task with longing, wild and vain. Then if across the parching plain He seek her, she with passion burns His heart to fever, and he hears The west wind's mocking laughter when he turns, Shivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears. It is the Medicean: well I know The arts her ancient subtlety will show,-- The stubble field she turns to ruddy gold; The empty distance she will fold In purple gauze; the warm glow she has kissed Along the chilling mist: Cheating and cheated love that grows to hate And ever deeper loathing, soon or late. Thou, too, O fairer spirit, walkest here Upon the lifted hills: Wherever that still thought within the breast The inner beauty of the world hath moved; In starlight that the dome of evening fills; On endless waters rounding to the west: For them who thro' that beauty's veil have loved The soul of all things beautiful the best. For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn, Staring against the dark, the blank of space Opens immeasurably, and thy face Wavers and glimmers there and is withdrawn. And many days, when all one's work is vain, And life goes stretching on, a waste gray plain, With even the short mirage of morning gone, No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nigh Where a weary man might lay him down and die, Lo! thou art there before me suddenly, With shade as if a summer cloud did pass, And spray of fountains whispering to the grass. Oh, save me from the haste and noise and heat That spoil life's music sweet: And from that lesser Aphrodite there-- Even now she stands Close as I turn, and O my soul, how fair! [Illustration: FIG. 20. HERMES PSYCHOPOMPOS] =36. Mercury (Hermes)=, born in a cave of Mount Cyllene in Arcadia, was the son of Jupiter and Maia (the daughter of Atlas). According to conjecture, his name _Hermes_ means the _Hastener_. Mercury, swift as the wind, was the servant and herald of Jupiter and the other gods. On his ankles (in plastic art), and his low-crowned, broad-brimmed _petasus_, or hat, were wings. As messenger of Heaven, he bore a wand (_caduceus_) of wood or of gold, twined with snakes and surmounted by wings, and possessed of magical powers over sleeping, waking, and dreams. He was beautiful and ever in the prime of youthful vigor. To a voice sweet-toned and powerful, he added the persuasiveness of eloquence. But his skill was not confined to speech; he was also the first of inventors--to him are ascribed the lyre and the flute. He was the forerunner, too, of mathematicians and astronomers. His agility and strength made him easily prince in athletic pursuits. His cunning rendered him a dangerous foe; he could well play the trickster and the thief, as Apollo found out to his vexation, and Argus, and many another unfortunate. His methods, however, were not always questionable; although the patron of gamblers and the god of chance, he, at the same time, was the furtherer of lawful industry and of commerce by land and sea. The gravest function of the Messenger was to conduct the souls of the dead, "that gibber like bats as they fare, down the dank ways, past the streams of Oceanus, past the gates of the sun and the land of dreams, to the mead of asphodel in the dark realm of Hades, where dwell the souls, the phantoms of men outworn."[37] =37. Vesta (Hestia)=, goddess of the hearth, public and private, was the first-born child of Cronus and Rhea and, accordingly, the elder sister of Jupiter, Juno, Neptune, Pluto, and Ceres. Vesta was an old maid by choice. Averse to Venus and all her ways, she scorned the flattering advances of both Neptune and Apollo, and resolved to remain single. Whereupon Jupiter gave her to sit in the middle of his palace, to receive in Olympus the choicest morsels of the feast, and, in the temples of the gods on earth, reverence as the oldest and worthiest of Olympian divinities. As goddess of the burning hearth, Vesta is the divinity of the home: of settled, in opposition to nomadic, habits of life. She was worshiped first of the gods at every feast. Before her shrine in city and state the holy flame was religiously cherished. From her altars those of the other gods obtained their fires. No new colony, no new home, was duly consecrated till on its central hearth there glowed coals from her ancestral hearth. In her temple at Rome a sacred fire, tended by six virgin priestesses called Vestals, was kept religiously aflame. As the safety of the city was held to be connected with its conservation, any negligence, by which it might go out, was severely punished. Whenever the fire did die, it was rekindled from the rays of the sun. =38.= Of the =Lesser Divinities of Heaven= the most worthy of mention are: 1. _Cupid (Eros)_, small but mighty god of love, the son of Venus and her constant companion. He was often represented with eyes covered because of the blindness of his actions. With his bow and arrows, he shot the darts of desire into the bosoms of gods and men. Another deity named _Anteros_, reputed the brother of Eros, was sometimes represented as the avenger of slighted love, and sometimes as the symbol of reciprocal affection. Venus was also attended at times by another brother of Eros, _Himeros_, or Longing, and by _Hymen_, a beautiful youth of divine descent, the personification of the wedding feast and leader of the nuptial chorus. Of Eros the poet Gosse writes: [Illustration: FIG. 21. EROS] Within a forest, as I strayed Far down a somber autumn glade, I found the god of love; His bow and arrows cast aside, His lovely arms extended wide, A depth of leaves above, Beneath o'erarching boughs he made A place for sleep in russet shade. His lips, more red than any rose, Were like a flower that overflows With honey pure and sweet; And clustering round that holy mouth, The golden bees in eager drouth Plied busy wings and feet; They knew, what every lover knows, There's no such honey-bloom that blows.[38] 2. _Hebe_, daughter of Jupiter and Juno, goddess of youth and cupbearer to the gods. According to one story, she resigned that office on becoming the wife of Hercules. According to another, Hebe was dismissed from her position in consequence of a fall which she met with one day when in attendance on the gods. Her successor was _Ganymede_, a Trojan boy whom Jupiter, in the disguise of an eagle, seized and carried off from the midst of his playfellows on Mount Ida, bore up to Heaven, and installed in the vacant place. 3. _The Graces_, daughters of Jove by Eurynome, daughter of Oceanus. They were goddesses presiding over the banquet, the dance, all social pleasures, and polite accomplishments. They were three in number,--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-favored 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. [Illustration: FIG. 22. RAPE OF GANYMEDE] 4. _The Muses_, daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory). They presided over song and prompted the memory. They are ordinarily cited as nine in number; and to each of them was assigned patronage in some 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. [Illustration: FIG. 23. POLYHYMNIA] 5. _Themis_, one of the Titans, a daughter of Uranus. She sat, as goddess of justice, beside Jupiter on his throne. She was beloved of the father of gods and men, and bore him the Hours, goddesses who regulated the seasons, and the Fates. [Illustration: FIG. 24. THE THREE FATES From the painting by Michelangelo(?)] 6. _The Fates_, three in number,--Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their office was to spin the thread of human destiny, and they were provided with shears with which they cut it off when they pleased.[39] According to Hesiod, they were daughters of Night. 7. _Nemesis_, daughter of Night. She represented the righteous anger and vengeance of the gods, particularly toward the proud, the insolent, and breakers of the law. 8. _Æsculapius_, son of Apollo. By his skill in medicine he restored the dead to life. Being killed by the lightning of Jove, he was translated to the ranks of Heaven. His function was the art of healing. 9. _The Winds_,--Boreas, or Aquilo, the north wind; Zephyrus, or Favonius, the west; Notus, or Auster, the south; and Eurus, the east. The first two, chiefly, have been celebrated by the poets, the former as the type of rudeness, the latter of gentleness. It is said that Boreas loved the nymph Orithyia and tried to play the lover's part, but met with poor success; for it was hard for him to breathe gently, and sighing was out of the question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavors, he acted out his true character, seized the maiden and bore her off. Their children were Zetes and Calaïs, winged warriors, who accompanied the Argonautic expedition and did good service in an encounter with those monstrous birds, the Harpies. Zephyrus was the lover of Flora (Chloris). [Illustration: FIG. 25. BOREAS] Here, too, may be mentioned Æolus, the king of the winds, although he is not a lesser divinity of Heaven. His palace was on the precipitous isle of Æolia, where, with his six sons and six daughters, he kept eternal carouse. The winds, which he confined in a cavern, he let loose as he saw fit or as he was bidden by superior deities. He is sometimes called Hippotades.[40] [Illustration: FIG. 26. ZEPHYROS] 10. _Helios_, _Selene_, and _Eos_, children of the Titan Hyperion. Helios and Selene were the more ancient Greek divinities of Sun and Moon respectively. Helios, the charioteer of the sun, is, as has been already said, frequently identified with his successor, Apollo. The attributes and adventures of Selene were merged in those of the more modern Diana. Eos, or, in Latin nomenclature, Aurora, the rosy-fingered goddess of the Morn, was mother of the stars and of the morning and evening breezes. Saffron-robed she rises from the streams of Ocean, to bring light to gods and men. [Illustration: FIG. 27. BOREAS CARRYING OFF ORITHYIA] 11. _Phosphor_, the morning-star, the star of Venus, son of Aurora and the hunter Cephalus. _Hesper_, the evening-star, was sometimes identified with Phosphor. He was king of the Western Land, and, say some, father of the Hesperides, who guarded the golden apples of the sunset. The Spirit in Milton's Comus tells of ... the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. Along the crispèd shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund Spring; The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours Thither all their bounties bring. There eternal Summer dwells, And west winds with musky wing About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can shew. And Tennyson taking the lines as a text has written the melodious and mystic song of the Hesperides, beginning-- The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charmèd root. Round about all is mute, As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks, As the sandfield at the mountain-foot. Crocodiles in briny creeks Sleep and stir not: all is mute. If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, We shall lose eternal pleasure, Worth eternal want of rest. Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure Of the wisdom of the West. Readers of this poem will notice that Tennyson follows the tradition by which a sleepless dragon is introduced among the guardians of the Hesperian fruit. Still other versions substitute for Hesperus, the Titan Atlas. 12. _Various Other Personifications._ The constellation Orion, whose story will be narrated; Victoria (Nike), the goddess of Victory; Discors (Eris), the goddess of Strife; and Iris, goddess of the rainbow, who is represented frequently as a messenger of the gods. [Illustration: FIG. 28. IRIS CARRYING CHILD] FOOTNOTES: [16] Consult, in general, corresponding sections of the Commentary. [17] Symbolized on earth by Mount Olympus in Thessaly. [18] Cowper's translation. [19] See Commentary, § 23, for Gladstone's latest utterance on the number of the Olympians. [20] The names included in parentheses represent the Greek, the others being Roman equivalents, Latin names, or names common to both Greek and Roman usage. [21] See Commentary, § 34. [22] On the Latin name, see Commentary, § 24. [23] Iliad, I, 622-625, Earl of Derby's translation. See also the passage in Chapman's translation. [24] On the name _Juno_, see Commentary. [25] For the names _Athene_ and _Minerva_, see Commentary. [26] See Commentary. [27] Iliad, 5, 590. See also 21, 395. [28] Iliad, 18, 395. [29] Iliad, 1, 390. [30] On the birth of Apollo, his adventures, names, festivals, oracles, and his place in literature and art, see Commentary. For other particulars, see sections on _Myths of Apollo_. [31] From Cynthia's Revels. [32] Iliad, 5, 370, etc. [33] A popular etymology. [34] For Venus in poetry and art, see Commentary. [35] From the Venus of Milo, by E. R. Sill, formerly professor of English Literature in the University of California. [36] The references are to the Berkeley Hills, the Bay of San Francisco, and the glimpses of the Pacific. [37] Lang, Odyssey, 24, 1; adapted. [38] Eros, by Edmund Gosse. For verses on the blindness of Cupid, see Lyly's Cupid and Campaspe in Commentary. [39] For description of their spinning, see translation of Catullus, LXIV, in § 191. [40] See Commentary. CHAPTER III THE GODS OF EARTH[41] [Illustration: FIG. 29. DEMETER OF KNIDOS] =39. Conception of the World.= The Greek poets believed the earth to be flat and circular. In their opinion their own country occupied the middle of it, and the central point was either Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods, or Delphi, 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 _River_ _Ocean_, from south to north on the western side, in a contrary direction on the eastern. 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 inhabited by the Hyperboreans, dwelling in bliss and everlasting spring beyond the mountains whose caverns sent forth the piercing blasts of the north wind. Their country was inaccessible by land or sea. They lived exempt from disease or old age, from toils and warfare. "I come" sings one of them,[42]-- 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. [Illustration: FIG. 30. CERES] On the south side of the earth, close to the stream of Ocean, dwelt the Æthiopians, whom the gods held in such favor that they left at times the Olympian abodes to partake of the Æthiopian sacrifices and banquets. On the western margin of the earth, by the stream of Ocean, lay the Elysian Plain, where certain mortals enjoyed an immortality of bliss. The Dawn, the Sun, and the Moon were supposed to rise out of 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 out of and sank into the stream of Ocean. There the sun-god embarked in a winged boat, which conveyed him by the northern part of the earth back to his place of rising in the east. =40. Ceres (Demeter)=, the goddess of sowing and reaping, of harvest festivals, and of agriculture in general, was sister of Jupiter and daughter of Cronus and Rhea. She is connected through her daughter Proserpine, queen of Hades, with the holy ceremonies and rites of death and of the lower world. Of the institutions founded or favored by her the most important were the mysteries celebrated at Eleusis, concerning which we know that, in the presence of individuals initiated in the secret ritual and perhaps with their coöperation, scenes were enacted which represented the alternation of death and life in nature and, apparently, forecast the resurrection and immortality of man. Sacred to Ceres and to Proserpine were golden sheaves of corn and soporific poppies; while, among animals, cows, sheep, and pigs were acceptable to them. [Illustration: FIG. 31. DIONYSUS AND THE VINE] =41. Gæa (Ge)=, the Mother Earth, wife of Uranus, belongs to the older order of gods; so also, another goddess of the earth, _Rhea_, the wife of Cronus and mother of Jupiter. In Phrygia, Rhea became identified with _Cybele_, whose worship, as mother of the gods, was at a later period introduced into Rome. The Greek mother, Rhea, was attended by the Curetes; the Phrygian mother by the Corybantes, who celebrated her orgies with enthusiastic din of trumpets, drums, and cymbals. Cybele presided over mountain fastnesses and fortified places. =42. Bacchus (Dionysus)=, the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and Semele, daughter of Cadmus of Thebes. He was especially the god of animal life and vegetation. He represented not only the intoxicating power of wine but its social and beneficent influences, and was looked upon as a promoter of civilization, a lawgiver, and a lover of peace. His forehead was crowned with vine leaves or ivy. He rode upon the tiger, the panther, or the lynx, or was drawn by them in a car. His worshipers were Bacchanals, or Bacchantes. He was attended by Satyrs and Sileni and by women called Mænads, who, as they danced and sang, waved in the air the _thyrsus_, a staff entwined with ivy and surmounted by a pine cone. Ordinarily, as in the following verses by Dryden, the convivial qualities of the god overshadow all the rest: The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.[43] [Illustration: FIG. 32. PAN THE HUNTER] =43. The Lesser Divinities of Earth= were: 1. _Pan_, son of Mercury and a wood-nymph or Dryad. He was the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds. He dwelt in caves, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, amused himself with the chase, led the dances of the Dryads, and made love to them. But his suit was frequently of no avail, for though good-natured he was not prepossessing; his hoofs and horns did not enhance his comeliness. He was fond of music and was himself inventor of the syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he played in a masterly manner. Like other gods who dwelt in forests, he was dreaded by those whose occupations caused them to pass through the woods by night; for gloom and loneliness oppress and appall the mind. Hence sudden unreasonable fright was ascribed to Pan and called a Panic terror. 2. _The Nymphs._ Pan's partners in the dance, the Dryads, were but one of several classes of nymphs. There were, beside them, the Oreads, nymphs of mountains and grottoes; and the Water-Nymphs, who are mentioned in later sections. 3. _The Satyrs_, deities of the woods and fields. In early art they appear as bearded creatures with snub noses, goats' ears, and horses' tails. Later they resemble youths, sometimes with sprouting horns. The goat-legged satyr is found in Roman poetry. [Illustration: FIG. 33. A SATYR] FOOTNOTES: [41] For references to poetry and works of art, see corresponding sections in Commentary. [42] According to Thomas Moore's Song of a Hyperborean. [43] From Alexander's Feast. CHAPTER IV THE GODS OF THE UNDERWORLD[44] =44. The Underworld= was the region of darkness inhabited by the spirits of the dead and governed by Pluto (Hades) and Proserpina, his queen. According to the Iliad, this realm lay "beneath the secret places of the earth."[45] And from the Odyssey we gather that it is not in the bowels of the earth, but on the under side at the limits of the known world, across the stream Oceanus, where is a waste shore, the land of the Cimmerians, shrouded in mist and cloud, never lighted by the sun "neither when he climbs up the starry heavens nor when again he turns earthward from the firmament."[46] From that land one goes beside the stream till he reaches the dank house of Hades. The realm of darkness is bounded by awful rivers: the Styx, sacred even among the gods, for by it they sealed their oaths, and the Acheron, river of woe,--with its tributaries, Phlegethon, river of fire, and Cocytus, river of wailing. Hither past the White Rock, which perhaps symbolizes the bleaching skeletons of the dead, and past the gates of the sun, it is the duty of Hermes (Mercury) to conduct the outworn ghosts of mortals. One of the Greek dramatists, Sophocles, tells us that this shore of death is "down in the darkling west."[47] In later poems we read that Charon, a grim boatman, received the dead at the River of Woe, and ferried them across, if the money requisite for their passage had been placed in their mouths and their bodies had been duly buried in the world above.[48] Otherwise he left them gibbering on the hither bank. The abode of Pluto is represented as wide-gated and thronged with guests. At the gate Cerberus, a three-headed, serpent-tailed dog, lay on guard,--friendly to the spirits entering, but inimical to those who would depart. The palace itself is dark and gloomy, set in the midst of uncanny fields haunted by strange apparitions. The groves of somber trees about the palace,--the meads of Asphodel, barren or, at best, studded with futile bushes and pale-flowered weeds, where wander the shades,--and the woods along the waste shore "of tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit before the season" are, without any particular discrimination, celebrated by the poets as the _Garden of Proserpine_. [Illustration: FIG. 34. THE GREEK UNDERWORLD] [Illustration: FIG. 35. HERMES CONDUCTING A SOUL TO CHARON] Here life has death for neighbor, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labor, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. * * * * * Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's, who fears to greet her, To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. [Illustration: FIG. 36. HYPNOS] She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow, And flowers are put to scorn. * * * * * We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light; Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight; Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal: Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.[49] [Illustration: FIG. 37. A FURY] =45. Tartarus and the Elysian Fields.= With the ghosts of Hades the living might but rarely communicate, and only through certain oracles of the dead, situate by cavernous spots and sheer abysms, deep and melancholy streams, and baleful marshes. These naturally seemed to afford access to the world below, which with the later poets, such as Virgil, comes to be regarded as under the ground. One of these descents to the Underworld was near Tænarum in Laconia; another, near Cumæ in Italy, was Lake Avernus, so foul in its exhalations that, as its name portends, no bird could fly across it.[50] Before the judges of the lower world,--Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamanthus,--the souls of the dead were brought to trial. The condemned were assigned to regions where all manner of torment awaited them at the hands of monsters dire,--the fifty-headed Hydra and the avenging Furies. Some evildoers, such as the Titans of old, were doomed to languish in the gulf of Tartarus immeasurably below. But the souls of the guiltless passed to the Elysian Fields, where each followed the chosen pursuit of his former life in a land of spring, sunlight, happiness, and song. And by the Fields there flowed the river Lethe, from which the souls of those that were to return to the earth in other bodies drank oblivion of their former lives. =46. The Islands of the Blest.= Homer mentions, elsewhere, an Elysium of the western seas, which is a happy land, "where life is easiest for men: no snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill West to blow cool on men."[51] Hither favored heroes pass without dying, and live under the happy rule of Rhadamanthus. The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar is likewise in the Western Ocean, on the Islands of the Blessed, the Fortunate Isles. From this dream of a western Elysium may have sprung the legend of the island Atlantis. That blissful region may have been wholly imaginary. It is, however, not impossible that the myth had its origin in the reports of storm-driven mariners who had caught a glimpse of occidental lands. In these Islands of the Blest, the Titans, released from Tartarus after many years, dwelt under the golden sway of the white-haired Cronus.[52] There was no heavy heat, no cold, The dwellers there wax never old, Nor wither with the waning time, But each man keeps that age he had When first he won the fairy clime. The night falls never from on high, Nor ever burns the heat of noon; But such soft light eternally Shines, as in silver dawns of June Before the sun hath climbed the sky! * * * * * All these their mirth and pleasure made Within the plain Elysian, The fairest meadow that may be, With all green fragrant trees for shade, And every scented wind to fan, And sweetest flowers to strew the lea; The soft winds are their servants fleet To fetch them every fruit at will And water from the river chill; And every bird that singeth sweet, Throstle, and merle, and nightingale, Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,-- Lily, and rose, and asphodel,-- With these doth each guest twine his crown And wreathe his cup, and lay him down Beside some friend he loveth well.[53] =47. Pluto (Hades)= was brother of Jupiter. To him fell the sovereignty of the lower world and the shades of the dead. In his character of Hades, the viewless, he is hard and inexorable. By virtue of the helmet or cap given him by the Cyclopes, he moved hither and yon, dark, unseen,--hated of mortals. He was, however, lord not only of all that descends to the bowels of the earth, but of all that proceeds from the earth; and in the latter aspect he was revered as Pluto, or the giver of wealth. At his pleasure he visited the realms of day,--as when he carried off Proserpina; occasionally he journeyed to Olympus; but otherwise he ignored occurrences in the upper world, nor did he suffer his subjects, by returning, to find them out. Mortals, when they called on his name, beat the ground with their hands and, averting their faces, sacrificed black sheep to him and to his queen. Among the Romans he is known also as Dis, Orcus, and Tartarus. But Orcus is rather Death, or the Underworld, than ruler of the shades. [Illustration: FIG. 38. HADES] =48. Proserpina (Persephone)= was the daughter of Ceres and Jupiter. She was queen of Hades,--a name applied both to the ruler of the shades and to his realm. When she is goddess of spring, dear to mankind, Proserpina bears a cornucopia overflowing with flowers, and revisits the earth in duly recurring season. But when she is goddess of death, sitting beside Pluto, she directs the Furies, and, like her husband, is cruel, unyielding, inimical to youth and life and hope. In the story of her descent to Hades will be found a further account of her attributes and fortunes. =49. The Lesser Divinities of the Underworld= were: 1. _Æacus_, _Rhadamanthus_, and _Minos_, sons of Jupiter and judges of the shades in the lower world. Æacus had been during his earthly life a righteous king of the island of Ægina. Minos had been a famous lawgiver and king of Crete. The life of Rhadamanthus was not eventful. 2. _The Furies_ (_Erinyes_ or _Eumenides_), Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megæra, born of the blood of the wounded Uranus. They were attendants of Proserpina. They punished with the frenzies of remorse the crimes of those who had escaped from or defied public justice. The heads of the Furies were wreathed with serpents. 3. _Hecate_, a mysterious divinity sometimes identified with Diana and sometimes with Proserpina. As Diana represents the moonlight splendor of night, so Hecate represents its darkness and terrors. She haunted crossroads and graveyards, was the goddess of sorcery and witchcraft, and wandered by night, seen only by the dogs whose barking told of her approach. [Illustration: FIG. 39. DEATH, SLEEP, AND HERMES LAYING A BODY IN THE TOMB] 4. _Sleep_, or _Somnus (Hypnos)_, and _Death (Thanatos)_, sons of Night.[54] They dwell in subterranean darkness. The former brings to mortals solace and fair dreams, and can lull the shining eyes of Jove himself; the latter closes forever the eyes of men. _Dreams_, too, are sons of Night.[55] They dwell beside their brother Death, along the Western Sea. Their abode has two gates,--one of ivory, whence issue false and flattering visions; the other of horn, through which true dreams and noble pass to men.[56] FOOTNOTES: [44] For interpretation and illustration, see corresponding sections of Commentary. [45] Iliad, 22, 482; 9, 568; 20, 61. [46] Odyssey, 10, 508; 11, 20; 24, 1. [47] Sophocles, [OE]dipus Rex, 177. [48] Æneid, 6, 295. [49] From The Garden of Proserpine, by A. C. Swinburne. [50] Æneid, 6. [51] Odyssey, 4, 561. [52] Hes. Works and Days, 169. [53] From The Fortunate Islands, by Andrew Lang. [54] Iliad, 14, 231; 16, 672. [55] Odyssey, 24, 12; 19, 560. Æneid, 6, 893. Ovid, Metam. 11, 592. [56] For genealogical table, see Commentary. CHAPTER V THE GODS OF THE WATERS[57] [Illustration: FIG. 40. POSEIDON] =50. The Older Dynasty.= There were two dynasties of the sea. The Older, which flourished during the rule of Cronus, was founded by the Titans, _Oceanus_ and _Tethys_, from whom sprang three thousand rivers and ocean-nymphs unnumbered. The palace of Oceanus was beyond the limits of the bountiful earth,[58] surrounded by gardens and all things fair. From ages immemorial another dweller in the glimmering caves of Ocean was _Pontus_ (the _deep sea_ or the _waterway_), who became, by Mother Earth, father of Nereus. This _Nereus_, a genial old man of the sea, was distinguished for his prophetic gifts, his knowledge, his love of truth and justice. Taking to wife one of the daughters of Oceanus, the nymph Doris, he was blessed with a family of fifty fair daughters, the _Nereïds_.[59] Of these daughters the most famous are Panope, Galatea, Thetis, and Amphitrite; the last of whom gave her hand to Neptune (Poseidon), brother of Jove, and thus united the Older and the Younger dynasties of the sea. =51.= Of the =Younger Dynasty= of the waters _Neptune_ and _Amphitrite_ were the founders. Neptune's palace was in the depths of the sea, near Ægæ in Eub[oe]a; but he made his home on Olympus when he chose. The symbol of his power was the trident, or three-pronged spear, with which he could shatter rocks, call forth or subdue storms, and shake the shores of earth. He created the horse and was the patron of horse races. His own steeds were brazen-hoofed and golden-maned. They drew his chariot over the sea, which became smooth before him, while dolphins and other monsters of the deep gamboled about his path. In his honor black and white bulls, white boars, and rams were sacrificed. [Illustration: FIG. 41. WEDDING OF POSEIDON AND AMPHITRITE] =52. The Lesser Divinities of= =the Waters=[60] were: 1. _Triton_, the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, trumpeter of Ocean. By his blast on the sea-shell he stirred or allayed the waves. 2. _Proteus_, an attendant and, according to certain traditions, a son of Neptune. Like Nereus, he was a little old man of the sea. He possessed the prophetic gift and the power of changing his shape at will. 3. _The Harpies_, foul creatures, with heads of maidens, bodies, wings, and claws of birds, and faces pale with hunger. They are the offspring of Thaumas, a son of Pontus and Gæa. 4. The uncanny offspring of Phorcys and Ceto,--children of Pontus,--who rejoiced in the horrors of the sea: _a. The Grææ_, three hoary witches, with one eye between them which they used in turn. _b. The Gorgons_, whose glance was icy death. _c. The Sirens_, muses of the sea and of death, who by their sweet singing enticed seafarers to destruction. _d. Scylla_, also destructive to mariners, a six-headed monster whose lower limbs were serpents and ever-barking dogs. [Illustration: FIG. 42. TRITON CARRYING OFF A NYMPH] 5. _Atlas_, who stood in the far west, bearing on his shoulders the vault of heaven. He was once regarded as a divinity of the sea, but later as a mountain. He was the son of Iapetus and the father of three classes of nymphs,--the Pleiads, the Hyads, and, according to some stories, the Hesperids. The last-mentioned, assisted by their mother Hesperis and a dragon, guarded the golden apples of the tree that had sprung up to grace the wedding of Jove and Juno. The daughters of Atlas were not themselves divinities of the sea. 6. _The Water-Nymphs._ Beside the _Oceanids_ and the _Nereïds_, who have already been mentioned, of most importance were the _Naiads_, daughters of Jupiter. They presided over brooks and fountains. Other lesser powers of the Ocean were Glaucus, Leucothea, and Melicertes, of whom more is said in another section. In the following statement of the difference between ancient and modern conceptions of nature, the poet lends new charm to the fabled rulers of the sea. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are upgathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.[61] FOOTNOTES: [57] For references to poetry and works of art, see corresponding sections of Commentary. [58] Iliad, 14, 303. [59] Iliad, 18, 30-50. [60] For genealogical table, see Commentary. [61] Wordsworth, Miscellaneous Sonnets. CHAPTER VI THE ROMAN DIVINITIES =53. Gods Common to Greece and Italy.= Of the deities already mentioned, the following, although they were later identified with certain Greek gods and goddesses[62] whose characteristics and adventures they assumed, had developed an independent worship in Italy: Jupiter (Zeus); Juno (Hera); Minerva (Athene); Diana (Artemis); Mars (Ares); Venus (Aphrodite); Vulcanus, or Mulciber (Hephæstus); Vesta (Hestia); Mercurius (Hermes); Neptunus (Poseidon); Ceres (Demeter); Liber (Bacchus); Libera (Persephone); Magna Mater, the great mother of the gods (Rhea, Cybele); Orcus (Pluto, Hades); Tellus, the Earth (Gæa). =54. Italian Gods.= There were also divinities always peculiar to Roman mythology.[63] Of these the more important are: 1. _Saturn_, an ancient Italian deity (as his name indicates) of seeds and sowing, the introducer of agriculture. Fanciful attempts were made to identify him with the Grecian god Cronus; and it was fabled that after his dethronement by Jupiter he fled to Italy, where he reigned during the Golden Age. In memory of his 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 even slaves were indulged with great liberties. A feast was given them at which they sat at table while their masters served, to show the natural equality of men, and that all things belonged equally to all in the reign of Saturn. The wife of Saturn was _Ops_, goddess of sowing and harvest (later confounded with Rhea). Another Roman deity of earth was _Consus_, whose name means "the keeper of the stores." He is the god of the stored-up harvest; and his altar is said to have been discovered underground by Romulus. It was in the Circus Maximus and was uncovered only on the days of his festivals, the harvest home of August and the granary feast of December. The underground altar is a reminiscence of the ancient custom of storing corn underground or at any rate of burying the sacrifices offered to deities of the earth. The harvest festival was celebrated with horse races, which, originating in a very simple way with the primitive farmers, became in time the distinctive feature of the Circus Maximus. [Illustration: FIG. 43. BEARDED JANUS] 2. _Janus_, whose name is derived from the Latin root which means "going" and is connected with _janua_, a passage or door, is the most distinctive and most important of the native Italic deities. He is not only the god of doors, or material openings, but more truly of beginnings,--especially of good beginnings which insure good endings. Hence undoubtedly he is represented as facing both ways; for the Romans very properly believed that beginning and ending were of the same piece, and that an undertaking ill begun could not achieve success. His temple, or covered passage, in the Forum had doors facing east and west for the beginning and ending of the day; and between stood his two-faced statue. In every home the morning prayer was addressed to him; in every domestic enterprise his assistance was implored. He was the god, also, of the opening year; hence his month, January, on the first day of which words only of good omen were uttered, and gifts were given (_strenae_, a name still preserved in the French word for New Year's presents, _étrennes_), and, for good luck, some stroke of work was bestowed on every undertaking planned for the year. He was publicly invoked not only on New Year's day, but on the first day of each month, by priests and people alike; and in these prayers his name was mentioned even before that of Jupiter. He is the god of civilization, and is sometimes called Consivius, or the Sower.[64] Of course he was invoked when wars were commenced. And during their progress the doors of his temple stood always open. In peace they were closed; but they were shut only once between the reign of Numa and that of Augustus. It was natural that his worship should gradually absorb that of Sol, the Sun, who opens the day and completes the year and blesses with his rays the seeds that are sown; and such was the case. But Janus and his wife Jana were not originally connected even in name with Dianus (Sol, Apollo) and Diana (the moon). 3. _Quirinus_, a war-god, said to be no other than Romulus, the founder of Rome, exalted after his death to a place among the immortals. 4. _Bellona_, a war-goddess. 5. _Lucina_, the goddess who brings to light, hence the goddess of childbirth: a title bestowed upon both Juno and Diana. 6. _Terminus_, the god of landmarks. His statue was a rude stone or post, set in the ground to mark the boundaries of fields. 7. _Faunus_, the grandson of Saturn. He was worshiped as a god of fields and shepherds and also of prophecy. His name in the plural, Fauni, expressed a class of gamesome deities, like the Satyrs of the Greeks. There was also a goddess called _Fauna_, or _Bona Dea_ (good goddess). To Maia, wife of Vulcan, this designation, _Bona Dea_, was sometimes applied. 8. _Sylvanus_, presiding over forest-glades and plowed fields. 9. _Pales_, the goddess presiding over cattle and pastures. _Flora_, the goddess of flowers. _Pomona_, presiding over fruit trees. _Vertumnus_, the husband of Pomona, was guardian of fruit trees, gardens, and vegetables. 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.[65] 10. _The Penates_, gods who were supposed to attend to the welfare and prosperity of the family. Their name is derived from Penus, the storehouse or inner chamber, which was sacred to them. Every master of a family was the priest to the Penates of his own house. The _Lares_, or _Lars_, were also tutelary deities, but they differed from the Penates since they were regarded as the deified spirits of ancestors, who watched over and protected their descendants. The Lares were more particularly divinities presiding over the household or family; but there were also public Lares, or guardian spirits of the city, Lares of the precincts, Lares of the fields, Lares of the highways, and Lares of the sea. To the Penates, to the domestic Lares (whose images were preserved in a private shrine), and to the _Manes_ (shades that hovered over the place of burial), the family prayers of the Romans were addressed. Other spirits, the _Lemures_ and _Larvæ_, more nearly correspond to our ghosts. [Illustration: FIG. 44. GENIUS LOCI] 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 a protector through life. On birthdays men made offerings to their Genius, women to their Juno. 11. Other Italian deities were the gods of the rivers, such as _Father Tiber_, and the goddesses of the springs and brooks, such as _Juturna_, whose pool in the Forum was sacred. This nymph was also a goddess of healing and, according to later tradition, was beloved by Jupiter. Earlier stories, however, make her the wife of Janus and the mother of _Fontus_, the god of flowing waters, who had an altar on the Janiculan hill and was worshiped at an annual festival called the Fontinalia, when the wells were wreathed with garlands. Held in especial honor were the _Camenæ_, fountain-nymphs, goddesses of prophecy and healing (later identified with the Muses). The leader of them was _Carmenta_, who sang both the future and the past. With her is sometimes associated the nymph _Egeria_, from whom the Roman king Numa is said to have received instruction concerning the forms of worship which he introduced. 12. The Romans worshiped, also, _Sol_, the Sun; _Luna_, the Moon; _Mater Matuta_, the Dawn; _Juventus_, Youth; _Fides_, Honesty; _Feronia_, goddess of groves and freedmen; and a great number of personified abstractions of conduct and experience, such as Fortune and Health. Many of these Latin divinities were derived from the earlier cult and ritual of the Etruscan inhabitants of Italy. FOOTNOTES: [62] Names of the corresponding Greek divinities are in parentheses. [63] For illustrative material, see Commentary. [64] Gellius, 5, 12. Ovid, Fasti, 1, 179. Macrobius, Sat. 1, 9-15. [65] From Macaulay's Prophecy of Capys. CHAPTER VII MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN =55. Myths of Jupiter and Juno.= Not a few of the adventures of Jupiter turn upon his love affairs. Among the immortals his queen had rivals in his affection; for instance, Latona, a goddess of darkness, daughter of the Titans C[oe]us and Ph[oe]be. This goddess became, as we have already seen, the mother of Apollo and Diana. The ire of Juno against her was never appeased. In consequence of it, numerous trials were visited upon Latona, some of which find a place among the adventures of her children. [Illustration: FIG. 45. GANYMEDE] =56. Love Affairs of Jupiter.= Not only with immortals but with mortals were Jupiter's relations sometimes of a dubious character. His devotion to the beautiful daughters of men involved him in frequent altercations with his justly jealous spouse. Of his fondness for Danaë, whom he approached in a shower of gold, particulars are given in the story of her son Perseus; of his love for Alcmene, the granddaughter of that Perseus, we are informed in the myths of her son Hercules; and of his attentions to Leda, whom he wooed in guise of a swan, we learn in the accounts of their children Pollux and Helen. Other love passages, upon which narratives depend, concern Io, Callisto, Europa, Semele, Ægina, and Antiope. [Illustration: GREECE IN THE FIFTH CENTURY B.C.] =57. Io=[66] was of divine ancestry. Her father was the river-god Inachus, son of Oceanus. It is said that Juno one day, perceiving the skies suddenly overcast, surmised that her husband had raised a cloud to hide some escapade. She brushed away the darkness and saw him on the banks of a glassy river with a beautiful heifer standing near. Juno suspected, with reason, that the heifer's form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mold. It was Io, whom Jupiter, when he became aware of the approach of his wife, had changed into that form. [Illustration: FIG. 46. HERMES KILLS ARGUS] The ox-eyed goddess joined her husband, noticed 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 begged it as a gift. What could the king of gods and men do? He was loath to surrender his sweetheart to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a heifer? He could not, without exciting suspicion, and he therefore consented. The goddess delivered the heifer to Argus, to be strictly watched. Now Argus had 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 graze through the day and at night tied a rope round her neck. She would have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but that she had no arms to stretch out and her voice was a bellow. She yearned in vain to make herself known to her father. 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. While he thus lamented, Argus, observing, drove her away and took his seat on a bank from whence he could see in every direction. [Illustration: FIG. 47. IO, ARGUS, AND MERCURY] Jupiter, grieved by the sufferings of his mistress, sent Mercury to dispatch Argus. Mercury took his sleep-producing wand and presented himself on earth as a shepherd driving his flock. As he strolled, he blew upon his syrinx or Pandean pipes. Argus listened with delight. "Young man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on this stone. There is no better place for your flock to graze in than hereabouts, and here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love." Mercury sat down, talked, told stories till it grew late, and played upon his pipes his most soothing strains, hoping to lull the watchful eyes to sleep, but in vain; for Argus still contrived to keep some of his eyes open, though he shut the rest. But among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which he played was invented. "There was a certain nymph," said he, "whose name was Syrinx,--much beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the wood. She would have none of them, but was a faithful worshiper of Diana and followed the chase. Pan, meeting her one day, wooed her with many compliments, likening her to Diana of the silver bow. Without stopping to hear him she ran away. But on the bank of the river he overtook her. She called 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. Whereupon the god, charmed with the novelty and with the sweetness of the music, said, 'Thus, then, at least, you shall be mine.' Taking some of the reeds of unequal lengths and placing them together, side by side, he made an instrument and called it Syrinx, in honor of the nymph." Before Mercury had finished his story he saw the eyes of Argus all asleep. At once he slew him and set Io free. The eyes of Argus Juno took and scattered 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, in her flight, swam through the sea, named after her, Ionian. Afterward, roaming over many lands, she reached at last the banks of the Nile. Then Jupiter interceded for her; and upon his engaging not to pay her any further attention, Juno consented to restore her to her form. 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 boughs 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. =58. Callisto= of Arcadia was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno. Her the goddess changed into a bear. Often, frightened by the dogs, Callisto, though lately a huntress, fled in terror from the hunters. Often, too, she fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that she was now a wild beast herself; and, bear as she was, she feared the bears. One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and recognized him as her son Arcas, grown to manhood. She stopped and felt inclined to embrace him. He, alarmed, raised his hunting spear and was on the point of transfixing her, but Jupiter arrested the crime and, snatching away both of them, placed them in the heavens as the Great and Little Bear. Juno, enraged at seeing her rival so set in honor, hastened to ancient Tethys and Oceanus and, complaining that she was supplanted in Heaven, cried, "So do my punishments result--such is the extent of my power! I forbade her to wear human form,--she and her hateful son are placed among the stars. Better that she should have resumed her former shape, as I permitted Io to do. Perhaps my husband means to take her to wife, 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 guilty 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 the neighborhood of the pole, but never sink, as do the other stars, beneath the Ocean.[67] =59. Europa= was the daughter of Agenor, king of Ph[oe]nicia, son of the god Neptune. The story of Jupiter's love for her is thus told by the idyllic poet, Moschus: To Europa, princess of Asia, once on a time, a sweet dream was sent by Cypris.... Then she beheld two continents at strife for her sake, Asia and the further shore, both in the shape of women. Of these one had the guise of a stranger, the other of a lady of that land, and closer still she clung about her maiden, and kept saying how she was her mother, and herself had nursed Europa. But that other with mighty hands, and forcefully, kept haling the maiden, nothing loth; declaring that, by the will of ægis-bearing Jupiter, Europa was destined to be her prize. But Europa leaped forth from her strown bed in terror, with beating heart, in such clear vision had she beheld the dream.... And she said, "Ah! who was the alien woman that I beheld in my sleep? How strange a longing for her seized my heart, yea, and how graciously she herself did welcome me, and regard me as it had been her own child! Ye blessed gods, I pray you, prosper the fulfillment of the dream!" Therewith she arose, and began to seek the dear maidens of her company, girls of like age with herself, born in the same year, beloved of her heart, the daughters of noble sires, with whom she was always wont to sport, when she was arrayed for the dance, or when she would bathe her bright body at the mouths of the rivers, or would gather fragrant lilies on the leas.... Now the girls, so soon as they were come to the flowering meadows, took great delight in various sorts of flowers, whereof one would pluck sweet-breathed narcissus, another the hyacinth, another the violet, a fourth the creeping thyme; and on the ground there fell many petals of the meadows rich with spring. Others, again, were emulously gathering the fragrant tresses of the yellow crocus; but in the midst of them all the princess culled with her hand the splendor of the crimson rose, and shone preëminent among them all like the foam-born goddess among the Graces. Verily, she was not for long to set her heart's delight upon the flowers.... For of a truth, the son of Cronus, so soon as he beheld her, was troubled, and his heart was subdued by the sudden shafts of Cypris, who alone can conquer even Jupiter. Therefore, both to avoid the wrath of jealous Juno, and being eager to beguile the maiden's tender heart, he concealed his godhead, and changed his shape, and became a bull.... [Illustration: FIG. 48. EUROPA ON THE BULL] He came into the meadow, and his coming terrified not the maidens, nay, within them all wakened desire to draw nigh the lovely bull, and to touch him, and his heavenly fragrance was scattered afar, exceeding even the sweet perfume of the meadows. And he stood before the feet of fair Europa, and kept licking her neck, and cast his spell over the maiden. And she still caressed him, and gently with her hands she wiped away the deep foam from his lips, and kissed the bull. Then he lowed so gently, ye would think ye heard the Mygdonian flute uttering a dulcet sound. He bowed himself before her feet, and bending back his neck, he gazed on Europa, and showed her his broad back. Then she spake among her deep-tressed maidens, saying,-- "Come, dear playmates, maidens of like age with me, let us mount the bull here and take our pastime, for, truly, he will bear us on his back, and carry all of us! And how mild he is, and dear, and gentle to behold, and no whit like other bulls! A mind as honest as a man's possesses him, and he lacks nothing but speech." So she spake, and smiling, she sat down on the back of the bull, and the others were about to follow her. But the bull leaped up immediately, now he had gotten her that he desired, and swiftly he sped to the deep. The maiden turned, and called again and again to her dear playmates, stretching out her hands, but they could not reach her. The strand he gained, and forward he sped like a dolphin, faring with unwetted hooves over the wide waves. And the sea, as he came, grew smooth, and the sea monsters gamboled around, before the feet of Jupiter; and the dolphin rejoiced, and rising from the deeps, he tumbled on the swell of the sea. The Nereïds arose out of the salt water, and all of them came on in orderly array, riding on the backs of sea beasts. And himself, the thunderous shaker of the world, appeared above the sea, and made smooth the wave, and guided his brother on the salt sea path, and round him were gathered the Tritons, these hoarse trumpeters of the deep, blowing from their long conchs a bridal melody. Meanwhile, Europa, riding on the back of the divine bull, with one hand clasped the beast's great horn, and with the other caught up the purple fold of her garment, lest it might trail and be wet in the hoar sea's infinite spray. And her deep robe was swelled out by the winds, like the sail of a ship, and lightly still did waft the maiden onward. But when she was now far off from her own country, and neither sea-beat headland nor steep hill could now be seen, but above, the air, and beneath, the limitless deep, timidly she looked around, and uttered her voice, saying,-- [Illustration: FIG. 49. NEREÏDS ON SEA BEASTS] "Whither bearest thou me, bull god? What art thou? How dost thou fare on thy feet through the path of the sea beasts, nor fearest the sea? The sea is a path meet for swift ships that traverse the brine, but bulls dread the salt sea ways. What drink is sweet to thee, what food shalt thou find from the deep? Nay, art thou then some god, for godlike are these deeds of thine." ... So spake she, and the horned bull made answer to her again: "Take courage, maiden, and dread not the swell of the deep. Behold, I am Jupiter, even I, though, closely beheld, I wear the form of a bull, for I can put on the semblance of what thing I will. But 'tis love of thee that has compelled me to measure out so great a space of the salt sea, in a bull's shape. So Crete shall presently receive thee, Crete that was mine own foster-mother, where thy bridal chamber shall be."[68] According to tradition, from this princess the continent of Europe acquired its name. Her three sons are famous in Greek myth: Minos, who became king of Crete, and after his death a judge in the lower world; Rhadamanthus, who also was regarded as king and judge in the world of ghosts; and Sarpedon, who was ancestor of the Lycians. The adventures of Europa's brother Cadmus, who by the command of his father went forth in quest of the lost maiden, fall under the myths of Mars.[69] [Illustration: FIG. 50. BACCHUS EMBRACING SEMELE] =60. Semele= was the daughter of Cadmus, founder of Thebes. She was descended, through both parents, from the gods; for her mother Harmonia was daughter to Mars and the laughter-loving Venus. To Semele Jupiter had appeared, and had paid court in unostentatious manner and simple guise. But Juno, to gratify her resentment against this new rival for her lord's affections, contrived a plan for her destruction. Assuming the form of Beroë, the aged nurse of Semele, she insinuated doubts whether it was indeed Jove himself who came as a lover. Heaving a sigh, she said, "I hope it will turn out so, but I can't help being afraid. People are not always what they pretend to be. If he is indeed Jove, make him give some proof of it. Ask him to come arrayed in all his splendors, such as he wears in Heaven. That will put the matter beyond a doubt." Semele was persuaded to try the experiment. She asks a favor, without naming what it is. Jove gives his promise, and confirms it with the irrevocable oath, attesting the river Styx, terrible to the gods themselves. Then she made known her request. The god would have stopped her as she spake, but she was too quick for him. The words escaped, and he could neither unsay his promise nor her request. In deep distress he left her and returned to the upper regions. There he clothed himself in his splendors, not putting on all his terrors, as when he overthrew the giants, but what is known among the gods as his lesser panoply. With thunders and lightnings he entered the chamber of Semele. Her mortal frame could not endure the splendors of the immortal radiance. She was consumed to ashes.[70] Her son was the god Bacchus.[71] Semele, in the blissful seats of Heaven, whither she was transported by the sorrowful Jove, has been represented as recounting thus the story of her doom: What were the garden-bowers of Thebes to me? What cared I for their dances and their feasts, Whose heart awaited an immortal doom? The Greek youths mocked me, since I shunned in scorn Them and their praises of my brows and hair. The light girls pointed after me, who turned Soul-sick from their unending fooleries.... There came a change: a glory fell to me. No more 'twas Semele, the lonely girl, But Jupiter's Beloved, Semele. With human arms the god came clasping me: New life streamed from his presence; and a voice, That scarce could curb itself to the smooth Greek, Now and anon swept forth in those deep nights, Thrilling my flesh with awe; mysterious words-- I knew not what; hints of unearthly things That I had felt on solemn summer noons, When sleeping Earth dreamed music, and the heart Went crooning a low song it could not learn, But wandered over it, as one who gropes For a forgotten chord upon a lyre. Yea, Jupiter! But why this mortal guise, Wooing as if he were a milk-faced boy? Did I lack lovers? Was my beauty dulled, The golden hair turned dross, the lithe limbs shrunk? The deathless longings tamed, that I should seethe My soul in love like any shepherd girl? One night he sware to grant whate'er I asked: And straight I cried, "To know thee as thou art! To hold thee on my heart as Juno does! Come in thy thunder--kill me with one fierce Divine embrace!--Thine oath!--Now, Earth, at last!" The Heavens shot one swift sheet of lurid flame; The world crashed: from a body scathed and torn The soul leapt through, and found his breast, and died. Died?--So the Theban maidens think, and laugh, Saying, "She had her wish, that Semele!" But sitting here upon Olympus' height, I look down, through that oval ring of stars, And see the far-off Earth, a twinkling speck-- Dust-mote whirled up from the Sun's chariot wheel-- And pity their small hearts that hold a man As if he were a god; or know the god-- Or dare to know him--only as a man! O human love! art thou forever blind?[72] =61. Ægina.= The extent to which those who were concerned only indirectly in Jupiter's love affairs might yet be involved in the consequences of them is illustrated by the fortunes of Ægina. This maiden, the daughter of Asopus, a river-god, attracted the attention of Jupiter, who straightway ran off with her. Now, on the one hand, Sisyphus, king of Corinth, having witnessed the intrigue, was indiscreet enough to disclose it. Forthwith the vengeance of the king of gods and men fell upon him. He was condemned to Hades and, attempting to escape thence, had resort to a series of deceptions that resulted in his eternal punishment.[73] On the other hand, the inhabitants of the island that had the misfortune to bear Ægina's name incurred the displeasure of Juno, who devastated their land with a plague. The following account of this calamity is placed in the mouth of Æacus, king of the island:[74] "At the beginning the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth and thick clouds shut in the heated air. For four months together a deadly south wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells and springs. Thousands of snakes crept over the land and shed their poison in the fountains. The force of the disease was first spent on the lower animals,--dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The oxen fell in the midst of their work. The wool dropped from the bleating sheep. The horse groaned at his stall and died an inglorious death. Everything languished; dead bodies lay in the roads, the fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned by them. Next the disease attacked the country people, and then the dwellers in the city. At first the cheek was flushed and the breath drawn with difficulty. The tongue grew rough and swelled, and the dry mouth stood open, with its veins enlarged, and gasped for the air. Men could not bear the heat of their clothes or their beds, but preferred to lie on the bare ground. Nor could the physicians help, for the disease attacked them also. At last men learned to look upon death as the only deliverer from disease. All restraint laid aside, they crowded round the wells and fountains, and drank, without quenching thirst, till they died. On all sides lay my people strewn like over-ripened apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak. You see yonder a temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter. Often, while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell, struck down by disease without waiting for the blow. At length all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown out unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought with one another for the possession of them. Finally there were none left to mourn; sons and husbands, old men and youths, perished alike unlamented. [Illustration: FARNESE BULL] "Standing before the altar, I raised my eyes to Heaven. 'O Jupiter,' I said, 'if thou art indeed my father, give me back my people, or take me also away!' At these words a clap of thunder was heard. 'I accept the omen,' I cried. By chance there grew by the place where I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to Jupiter. I observed on it a troop of ants busy with their labor. Observing their numbers with admiration, I said, 'Give me, O father, citizens as numerous as these, and replenish my empty city.' The tree shook, and the branches rustled, though no wind agitated them. Night came on. The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous branches all covered with living, moving creatures, which, falling to the ground, appeared to gain in size, and by and by to stand erect, and finally to assume the human form. Then I awoke. My attention was caught by the sound of many voices without. While I began to think I was yet dreaming, Telamon, my son, throwing open the temple gates, exclaimed, 'Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your hopes!' I went forth; I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my dream. While I gazed with wonder and delight, they approached and, kneeling, hailed me as their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and proceeded to allot the vacant city to the new-born race. I called them Myrmidons from the ant (_myrmex_), from which they sprang. They are a diligent and industrious race, eager to gain, and tenacious of their gains." The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles, the grandson of King Æacus, in the Trojan War. =62. Antiope= was, according to the Odyssey, another daughter of Asopus, therefore a sister of Ægina. But later poets make this darling of Jove daughter of Nycteus, king of Thebes. While she was engaged in the Mænad dances, Jupiter as a satyr wooed and won her. She bore him two sons, Amphion and Zethus, who, being exposed at birth on Mount Cithæron, grew up among the shepherds, not knowing their parentage. After various adventures Antiope fell into the hands of her uncle Lycus, the usurping king of Thebes, who, egged on by his wife Dirce, treated her with extreme cruelty. Finally, when doomed by Dirce to be dragged to death behind a bull, Antiope found means to inform her children of her kinship to them. As it happened, they had been ordered to execute the cruel sentence upon their mother. But with a band of their fellow herdsmen, they attacked and slew Lycus instead, and, tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let her perish by her own device.[75] While among the herdsmen, _Amphion_ had been the special care of Mercury, who gave him a lyre and taught him to play upon it. His brother Zethus had occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks. Amphion himself is one of the most famous of mythical musicians. Having become king of Thebes, it is said that when he played on his lyre, stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the wall with which he was fortifying the city. [Illustration: FIG. 51. AMPHION AND ZETHUS] ... 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirred its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle, buzz! she went With all her bees behind her: The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows, two and two, By rivers gallopaded. Came wet-shot alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie; Each plucked his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree: Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine streamed out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plumped the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Looked down, half-pleased, half-frightened, As dashed about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lightened.[76] The musician's life was, however, not all harmony and happiness. Owing to the pride of his wife Niobe, daughter of King Tantalus, there befell him and his house a crushing calamity, which is narrated among the exploits of Apollo and Diana. =63. Jupiter, a Friend of Man.= The kindly interest evinced by the Thunderer toward mortals is displayed in the story of Baucis and Philemon. Once on a time Jupiter, in human shape, visited the land of Phrygia, and with him Mercury, without his wings. They presented themselves as weary travelers 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 small thatched cottage received them, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband Philemon had grown old together. Not ashamed of their poverty, they made it endurable by moderate desires and kind dispositions. When the two 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, kindled a fire, and prepared some pot-herbs and bacon for them. A beechen bowl was filled with warm water, that their guests might wash. While all was doing, they beguiled the time with conversation. The old woman with trembling hand set the table. One leg was shorter than the rest, but a piece of slate put under restored the level. When it was steady she rubbed the table down with 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. The meal was 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. 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 honor of their guests. But the goose, too nimble for the old folk, with the aid of feet and wings 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. The country behind them was speedily sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing. While they gazed with wonder at the sight, that old house of theirs was changed. 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 gold. Then spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes. What favor have you to ask of us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few moments, then declared to the gods their common wish. "We ask to be priests and guardians of this thy temple, and that one and the same hour may take us both from life." Their prayer was granted. When they had attained a great age, 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 Philemon saw Baucis changing in like manner. While still they exchanged parting words, a leafy crown grew over their heads. "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,--an oak and a linden, standing side by side.[77] 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: ... They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft, The roof 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. =64. Juno's Best Gift.= What the queen of heaven deemed the greatest blessing reserved for mortals is narrated in the beautiful myth of Biton and Cleobis. One Cydippe, an ancient priestess of the white-armed goddess, had desired to behold the famous new statue of Hera at Argos. Her sons testified their affection for their mother by yoking themselves, since no oxen were at hand, to her chariot, and so dragging her through heat and dust many a weary league till they reached the temple, where stood the gold and ivory masterwork of Polyclitus. With admiration the devoted priestess and her pious sons were received by the populace crowding round the statue. The priest officiating in the solemn rites thought meet that so reverend a worshiper should herself approach the goddess,--ay, should ask of Hera some blessing on her faithful sons: ... Slowly old Cydippe rose and cried: "Hera, whose priestess I have been and am, Virgin and matron, at whose angry eyes Zeus trembles, and the windless plain of heaven With hyperborean echoes rings and roars, Remembering thy dread nuptials, a wise god, Golden and white in thy new-carven shape, Hear me! and grant for these my pious sons, Who saw my tears, and wound their tender arms Around me, and kissed me calm, and since no steer Stayed in the byre, dragged out the chariot old, And wore themselves the galling yoke, and brought Their mother to the feast of her desire, Grant them, O Hera, thy best gift of gifts!" Whereat the statue from its jeweled eyes Lightened, and thunder ran from cloud to cloud In heaven, and the vast company was hushed. But when they sought for Cleobis, behold, He lay there still, and by his brother's side Lay Biton, smiling through ambrosial curls, And when the people touched them they were dead.[78] =65. Myths of Minerva.= Minerva, as we have seen,[79] presided over the useful and ornamental arts, both those of men--such as agriculture and navigation--and those of women--spinning, weaving, and needlework. She was also a warlike divinity, but favored only defensive warfare. With Mars' savage love of violence and bloodshed she, therefore, had no sympathy. Athens, her chosen seat, her own city, was awarded to her as the prize of a peaceful contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it. In the reign of Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities had contended for the possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to the one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods awarded the city to the goddess, and after her Greek appellation, Athena, it was named. =66. Arachne.= In another contest, a mortal dared to come into competition with the gray-eyed daughter of Jove. This was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such skill in the arts of carding and spinning, of weaving and embroidery, that the Nymphs themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her one would have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a goddess. "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she. "If beaten, I will pay the penalty." Minerva heard this and was displeased. Assuming the form of an old woman, she appeared to Arachne and kindly advised her to challenge her fellow mortals if she would, but at once to ask forgiveness of the goddess. Arachne bade the old dame to keep her counsel for others. "I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if she dare venture." "She comes," said Minerva, and dropping her disguise, stood confessed. The Nymphs bent low in homage and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified. A sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale; but she stood to her resolve and rushed on her fate. They proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the woof into its place and compacts the web. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. And the effect is like the bow whose long arch tinges the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower,[80] in which, where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are wholly different. Minerva wove the scene of her contest with Neptune (Poseidon). Twelve of the heavenly powers were represented, Jupiter, with august gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, held his trident and appeared to have just smitten the earth, from which a horse had leaped forth. The bright-eyed goddess depicted herself with helmed head, her ægis covering her breast, as when she had created the olive tree with its berries and its dark green leaves. [Illustration: FIG. 52. CONTEST OF ATHENA AND POSEIDON] Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly, With excellent device and wondrous slight, Fluttering among the olives wantonly, That seemed to live, so like it was in sight; The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie, The silken down with which his back is dight, His broad outstretchèd horns, his hairy thighs, His glorious colors, and his glistering eyes. Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid And masterèd with workmanship so rare, She stood astonished long, ne aught gainsaid; And with fast-fixèd eyes on her did stare.[81] So wonderful was the central circle of Minerva's web; and in the four corners were represented incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These were meant as warnings from Minerva to her rival to give up the contest before it was too late. But Arachne did not yield. She filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda caressing the swan; and another, Danaë and the golden shower. Still another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Its appearance was that of a real bull, so naturally was it wrought and so natural the water in which it swam. With such subjects Arachne filled her canvas, wonderfully well done but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet was indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle and rent it in pieces; then, touching the forehead of Arachne, she made her realize her guilt. It was more than mortal could bear; and forthwith Arachne hanged herself. "Live, guilty woman," said Minerva, "but that thou mayest preserve the memory of this lesson continue to hang, both thou and thy descendants, to all future times." Then, sprinkling her with the juices of aconite, the goddess transformed her into a spider, forever spinning the thread by which she is suspended.[82] =67. Myths of Mars.= The relations of Mars to other deities may be best illustrated by passages from the Iliad, which, generally speaking, presents him in no very favorable light. =68. Mars and Diomede.= In the war of the Greeks and the Trojans,[83] the cause of the former was espoused by Minerva, of the latter by Mars. Among the chieftains of the Greeks in a certain battle, Diomede, son of Tydeus, was prominent. Now when Mars, scourge of mortals, beheld noble Diomede, he made straight at him. ... And when they were come nigh in onset on one another, first Mars thrust over the yoke and horses' reins with spear of bronze, eager to take away his life. But the bright-eyed goddess Minerva with her hand seized the spear and thrust it up over the car, to spend itself in vain. Next Diomede of the loud war cry attacked with spear of bronze; and Minerva drave it home against Mars' nethermost belly, where his taslets were girt about him. There smote he him and wounded him, rending through his fair skin,--and plucked forth the spear again. Then brazen Mars bellowed loud as nine thousand warriors or ten thousand cry in battle as they join in strife and fray. Thereat trembling gat hold of Achæans and Trojans for fear, so mightily bellowed Mars insatiate of battle. [Illustration: FIG. 53. ATHENA] Even as gloomy mist appeareth from the clouds when after heat a stormy wind ariseth, even so to Tydeus' son Diomede brazen Mars appeared amid clouds, faring to wide Heaven. Swiftly came he to the gods' dwelling, steep Olympus, and sat beside Jupiter, son of Cronus, with grief at heart, and showed the immortal blood flowing from the wound, and piteously spake to him winged words: "Father Jupiter, hast thou no indignation to behold these violent deeds? For ever cruelly suffer we gods by one another's devices, in showing men grace. With thee are we all at variance, because thou didst beget that reckless maiden and baleful, whose thought is ever of iniquitous deeds. For all the other gods that are in Olympus hearken to thee, and we are subject every one; only her thou chaste-nest not, neither in deed nor word, but settest her on, because this pestilent one is thine own offspring. Now hath she urged on Tydeus' son, even overweening Diomede, to rage furiously against the immortal gods. The Cyprian first he wounded in close fight, in the wrist of her hand, and then assailed he me, even me, with the might of a god. Howbeit my swift feet bare me away; else had I long endured anguish there amid the grisly heaps of dead, or else had lived strengthless from the smitings of the spear." Then Jupiter the cloud-gatherer looked sternly at him, and said: "Nay, thou renegade, sit not by me and whine. Most hateful to me art thou of all gods that dwell in Olympus; thou ever lovest strife and wars and battles. Truly thy mother's spirit is intolerable, unyielding, even Juno's; her can I scarce rule with words. Therefore I deem that by her prompting thou art in this plight. Yet will I no longer endure to see thee in anguish; mine offspring art thou, and to me thy mother bare thee. But wert thou born of any other god unto this violence, long ere this hadst thou been lower than the sons of Heaven." So spake he and bade Pæan heal him. And Pæan laid assuaging drugs upon the wound, and healed him, seeing he was in no wise of mortal mold. Even as fig juice maketh haste to thicken white milk, that is liquid but curdleth speedily as a man stirreth, even so swiftly healed he impetuous Mars. And Hebe bathed him and clothed him in gracious raiment, and he sate down by Jupiter, son of Cronus, glorying in his might. Then fared the twain back to the mansion of great Jupiter, even Juno and Minerva, having stayed Mars, scourge of mortals, from his man-slaying.[84] =69. Mars and Minerva.= It would seem that the insatiate son of Juno should have learned by this sad experience to avoid measuring arms with the ægis-bearing Minerva. But he renewed the contest at a later period in the fortunes of the Trojan War: ... Jupiter knew what was coming as he sat upon Olympus, and his heart within him laughed pleasantly when he beheld that strife of gods. Then no longer stood they asunder, for Mars, piercer of shields, began the battle and first made for Minerva with his bronze spear, and spake a taunting word: "Wherefore, O dogfly, dost thou match gods with gods in strife, with stormy daring, as thy great spirit moveth thee? Rememberest thou not how thou movedst Diomede, Tydeus' son, to wound me, and thyself didst take a visible spear and thrust it straight at me and pierce through my fair skin? Therefore deem I now that thou shalt pay me for all that thou hast done." Thus saying, he smote on the dread tasseled ægis that not even the lightning of Jupiter can overcome--thereon smote blood-stained Mars with his long spear. But she, giving back, grasped with stout hand a stone that lay upon the plain, black, rugged, huge, which men of old time set to be the landmark of a field; this hurled she, and smote impetuous Mars on the neck, and unstrung his limbs. Seven roods he covered in his fall, and soiled his hair with dust, and his armor rang upon him. And Minerva laughed, and spake to him winged words exultingly: "Fool, not even yet hast thou learnt how far better than thou I claim to be, that thus thou matchest thy might with mine. Thus shalt thou satisfy thy mother's curses, who deviseth mischief against thee in her wrath, for that thou hast left the Achæans and givest the proud Trojans aid." Thus having said, she turned from him her shining eyes. Him did Venus, daughter of Jupiter, take by the hand and lead away, groaning continually, for scarce gathered he his spirit back to him.[85] =70. The Fortunes of Cadmus.= Toward mortals Mars could show himself, on occasion, as vindictive as his fair foe, the unwearied daughter of Jove. This fact not only Cadmus, who slew a serpent sacred to Mars, but all the family of Cadmus found out to their cost. [Illustration: FIG. 54. CADMUS SLAYING THE DRAGON] When Europa was carried away by Jupiter in the guise of a bull, her father Agenor commanded his son Cadmus to go in search of her and not to return without her. Cadmus sought long and far; then, not daring to return unsuccessful, consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what country he should settle in. The oracle informed him that he would find a cow in the field, should follow her wherever she might wander, and where she stopped should build a city and call it Thebes. Cadmus had hardly left the Castalian cave, from which the oracle was delivered, when he saw a young cow slowly walking before him. He followed her close, offering at the same time his prayers to Ph[oe]bus. The cow went on till she passed the shallow channel of Cephissus and came out into the plain of Panope. There she stood still. Cadmus gave thanks, and stooping down kissed the foreign soil, then lifting his eyes, greeted the surrounding mountains. Wishing to offer a sacrifice to his protecting deity, Minerva, he sent his servants to seek pure water for a libation. Near by there stood an ancient grove which had never been profaned by the ax, in the midst of which was a cave thick covered with the growth of bushes, its roof forming a low arch from beneath which burst forth a fountain of purest water. But in the cave lurked a serpent with crested head, and scales glittering like gold; his eyes shone like fire; his body was swollen with venom; he vibrated a triple tongue and showed a triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians dipped their pitchers in the fountain and the in-gushing waters had made a sound, than the monster, twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, darted upon them and destroyed some with his fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous breath. Cadmus, having waited for the return of his men till midday, went in search of them. When he entered the wood and saw their lifeless bodies and the dragon with his bloody jaws, not knowing that the serpent was sacred to Mars, scourge of mortals, he lifted a huge stone and threw it with all his force at the monster. The blow made no impression. Minerva, however, was present, unseen, to aid her worshiper. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which penetrated the serpent's scales and pierced through to his entrails. The monster attempted to draw out the weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron point rankling in his flesh. His neck swelled with rage, bloody foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his nostrils poisoned the air around. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding his spear opposite to the serpent's opened jaws. At last, watching his chance, the hero thrust the spear at a moment when the animal's head thrown back came against the trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in pinning him to its side. While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast size, a voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but it was Minerva's) commanding him to take the dragon's teeth and sow them in the earth. Scarce had he done so when the clods began to move and the points of spears to appear above the surface. Next, helmets with their nodding plumes came up; next, the shoulders and breasts and limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed warriors. Cadmus prepared to encounter a new enemy, but one of them said to him, "Meddle not with our civil war." With that he who had spoken smote one of his earthborn brothers with a sword, and he himself fell pierced with an arrow from another. The latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner the whole crowd dealt with each other till all but five fell slain. These five joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the name appointed. [Illustration: FIG. 55. HARMONIA IN COMPANY OF DEITIES] As penance for the destruction of this sacred serpent, Cadmus served Mars for a period of eight years. After he had been absolved of his impiety, Minerva set him over the realm of Thebes, and Jove gave him to wife Harmonia, the daughter of Venus and Mars. The gods left Olympus to honor the occasion with their presence; and Vulcan presented the bride with a necklace of surpassing brilliancy, his own workmanship. Of this marriage were born four daughters, Semele, Ino, Autonoë, and Agave, and one son, Polydorus. But in spite of the atonement made by Cadmus, a fatality hung over the family. The very necklace of Vulcan seemed to catch the spirit of ill luck and convey a baleful influence to such as wore it. Semele, Ino, Actæon the son of Autonoë, and Pentheus the son of Agave, all perished by violence. Cadmus and Harmonia quitted Thebes, grown odious to them, and emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who received them with honor and made Cadmus their king. But the misfortunes of their children still weighing upon their minds, Cadmus one day exclaimed, "If a serpent's life is so dear to the gods, I would I were myself a serpent." No sooner had he uttered the words than he began to change his form. Harmonia, beholding it, prayed the gods to let her share his fate. Both became serpents. It is said that, mindful of their origin, they neither avoid the presence of man nor do they injure any one. But the curse appears not to have passed from their house until the sons of their great-great-grandson [OE]dipus had by fraternal strife ended themselves and the family.[86] [Illustration: FIG. 56. THE FORGE OF VULCAN From the painting by Velasquez] =71. Myths of Vulcan.= The stories of Vulcan are few, although incidents illustrating his character are sufficiently numerous. According to an account already given, Vulcan, because of his lameness, was cast out of Heaven by his mother Juno. The sea-goddesses Eurynome and Thetis took him mercifully to themselves, and for nine years cared for him, while he plied his trade and gained proficiency in it. In order to revenge himself upon the mother who had so despitefully used him, he fashioned in the depths of the sea a throne of cunning device, which he sent to his mother. She, gladly accepting the glorious gift, sat down upon it, to find out that straightway all manner of invisible chains and fetters wound and clasped themselves about her so that she could not rise. The assistance of the gods was of no avail to release her. Then Mars sought to bring Vulcan to Heaven by force that he might undo his trickery; but before the flames of the fire-god, the impetuous warrior speedily retreated. One god, however, the jovial Bacchus, was dear to the blacksmith. He drenched Vulcan with wine, conducted him to Olympus, and by persuasion caused him to set the queen of gods and men at liberty. [Illustration: FIG. 57. A SACRIFICE TO APOLLO] That Vulcan was not permanently hostile to Juno is shown by the services that on various occasions he rendered her. He forged the shield of her favorite Achilles; and, at her instance, he undertook a contest against the river Xanthus. Homer[87] describes the burning of elms and willow trees and tamarisks, the parching of the plains, the bubbling of the waters, that signalized the fight, and how the eels and other fish were afflicted by Vulcan till Xanthus in anguish cried for quarter. =72. Myths of Apollo.= The myths which cluster about the name of Ph[oe]bus Apollo illustrate, first, his birth and the wanderings of his mother, Latona; secondly, his victory over darkness and winter; thirdly, his gifts to man,--youth and vigor, the sunshine of spring, and the vegetation of early summer; fourthly, his baleful influence,--the sunstroke and drought of midsummer, the miasma of autumn; fifthly, his life on earth, as friend and counselor of mankind,--healer, soothsayer, and musician, prototype of manly beauty, and lover of beautiful women. =73. The Wanderings of Latona.= Persecuted by the jealousy of the white-armed Juno, Latona fled from land to land. At last, bearing in her arms the infant progeny of Jove, she reached Lycia, weary with her burden and parched with thirst. There the following adventure ensued. By chance the persecuted goddess espied in the bottom of the valley a pond of clear water, where the country people were at work gathering willows and osiers. She 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. Yet I ask it of you as a favor. I have no intention of washing my limbs in it, weary though they be, but only of quenching my thirst. A draft of water would be nectar to 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." But the clowns persisted in their rudeness; they added jeers, and threatened violence if she did not leave the place. They waded into the pond and stirred up the mud with their feet, so as to make the water unfit to drink. Enraged, the goddess 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 still live in the water, sometimes totally submerged, then raising their heads above the surface or swimming upon it; sometimes coming out upon the bank, but soon leaping back again into the water. Their voices are harsh, their throats bloated, their mouths distended 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. They dwell as frogs in the slimy pool.[88] =74. Apollo, the Light Triumphant.= Soon after his birth the sun-god spent a year among the Hyperboreans, whose shining land has been already described.[89] On his return, slaying with his golden arrows the Python that had infested the slopes near Delphi, he sang for the first time that song of victory which, as _the Pæan_, is still among all nations synonymous with jubilation, praise, and thanksgiving. In his conflict with another monster of darkness and winter, the god of the silver bow had the assistance of his sister Diana. By their unerring fiery darts they subdued the giant Tityus, who not only had obstructed the peaceful ways to the oracle of Delphi, but had ventured to insult the mother of the twin deities. They overthrew also the Aloadæ, Otus and Ephialtes, sons of Iphimedia and Neptune. These monsters, the reputed sons of Aloeus, represent, perhaps, the unregulated forces of vegetation; they were renowned for their strength, stature, and courage. They grew at the rate of three cubits in height and one in breadth every year; and, when nine years of age, they attempted, by piling Mount Ossa upon Olympus, and Mount Pelion on top, to scale the skies and dethrone the immortals. It is reported that not Apollo and Diana, but Jupiter himself with his lightning slew them. They atoned for their presumption in Hades, where, bound by serpents to a pillar, they were tormented by the perpetual hooting of a screech owl.[90] [Illustration: FIG. 58. APOLLO WITH HYACINTHUS] =75. Hyacinthus.= The fiery force of the Far-darter was not felt by the monsters of darkness alone. His friendship for the young and the vigorous was frequently as dangerous as it was dear to the objects of it. He was, for instance, passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. The god of the silver bow accompanied the lad in his sports, carried the nets when he went fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him both lyre and arrows. One day they played a game of quoits; Apollo, heaving aloft the discus with strength mingled with skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus, excited with the sport and eager to make his throw, ran forward to seize the missile; but it bounded from the earth and struck him in the forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and retain the flitting life, but in vain. As when one has broken the stem of a lily in the garden it hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," spake Ph[oe]bus, "robbed of thy youth by me. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not be, my lyre shall celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a flower inscribed with my regret." While the golden god spoke, the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the herbage ceased to be blood; and a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang up, resembling the lily, save that this is purple and that silvery white. Ph[oe]bus then, to confer still greater honor, marked the petals with his sorrow, inscribing "Ai! ai!" upon them. The flower bears the name of Hyacinthus, and with returning spring revives the memory of his fate.[91] It was said that Zephyrus (the west wind), who was also fond of Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus. While this youth met his death by accident, another of Apollo's favorites, his own son, brought death upon himself by presumption. The story is as follows: =76. Phaëthon=[2] was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day Epaphus, the son of Jupiter and Io,[92] scoffed at the idea of Phaëthon's being the son of a god. Phaëthon complained of the insult to his mother Clymene. She sent him to Ph[oe]bus to ask for himself whether he had not been truly informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaëthon traveled toward the regions of sunrise and gained at last the palace of the Sun. He approached his father's presence, but stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear. Ph[oe]bus Apollo, arrayed in purple, sat on a throne that glittered with diamonds. Beside him stood the Day, the Month, the Year, the Hours, and the Seasons. Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless world, Ph[oe]bus, my father--if thou dost yield me that name--give me some proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as thine!" He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around his head, bade him approach, embraced him, owned him for his son, and swore by the river Styx[93] that whatever proof he might ask should be granted. Phaëthon immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of the sun. The father repented of his promise and tried to dissuade the boy by telling him the perils of the undertaking. "None but myself," he said, "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 this that the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it. Couldst thou keep thy course while the sphere revolved beneath thee? The road, also, is through the midst of frightful monsters. Thou must 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 wilt thou find it easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall the request while yet thou canst." He ended; but the youth rejected admonition and held to his demand. So, having resisted as long as he might, Ph[oe]bus at last led the way to where stood the lofty chariot. It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan,--the axle of gold, the pole and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of chrysolites and diamonds, reflecting 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, marshaled by the Daystar, 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 led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the father, smearing the face of his son with a powerful unguent, made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set the rays on the lad's head, and, with a foreboding sigh, told him to spare the whip and hold tight the reins; not to take the straight road between the five circles, but to turn off to the left; to keep within the limit of the middle zone and avoid the northern and the southern alike; finally, to keep in the well-worn ruts and to drive neither too high nor too low, for the middle course was safest and best.[94] Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant parent. But 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, the chariot, without its accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. The horses rushed headlong and left the traveled road. Then, for the first time, the Great and Little Bears were scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive. Boötes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his plow and unused to rapid motion. When hapless Phaëthon looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He lost his self-command and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven,--the Scorpion extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space of two signs of the zodiac,--when the boy beheld him, reeking with poison and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands. The horses, 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 began to smoke. The forest-clad mountains burned,--Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and [OE]te; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses' mountain Helicon, and Hæmus; Ætna, 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. [Illustration: FIG. 59. THE FALL OF PHAËTHON] Phaëthon beheld the world on fire and felt the heat intolerable. Then, too, it is said, the people of Æthiopia became black because the blood was called by the heat 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 disheveled hair, mourned their waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanaïs smoked, and Caïcus, Xanthus, and Mæander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus, with golden sands, and Ca[:y]ster, 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, 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. Even Nereus and his wife Doris with the Nereïds, 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 husky voice prayed Jupiter, if it were his will that she should perish by fire, to end her agony at once by his thunderbolts, or else to consider his own Heaven, how both the poles were smoking that sustained his palace, and that all must fall if they were destroyed. Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Jupiter, calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy were applied, thundered, brandished 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. Phaëthon, 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. 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. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him and inscribed these words upon the stone: Driver of Ph[oe]bus' chariot, Phaëthon, 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.[95] =77. The Plague sent upon the Greeks before Troy.= It was not, however, only by accident, or by the ill-advised action of those whom he loved, that Apollo's gifts of light and heat were turned into misfortunes. Mortals who offended him were leveled by the cruel sunstroke, by arrows of malarial venom, of manifold sickness and death. When the host of the Achæans was encamped before Troy, the king of men, Atrides, unjustly declined to restore his captive, Chryseïs of the fair cheeks, to her father Chryses, the priest of far-darting Apollo. Then the aged Chryses went apart and prayed aloud, "Hear me, god of the silver bow, ... let the Danaans pay by thine arrows for my tears!" So spake he in prayer; and Ph[oe]bus Apollo heard him, and came down from the peaks of Olympus wroth at heart, bearing on his shoulders his bow and covered quiver. And the arrows clanged upon his shoulders in his wrath, as the god moved; and he descended like to night. Then he sate him aloof from the ships, and let an arrow fly; and there was heard a dread clanging of the silver bow. First did he assail the mules and fleet dogs, but afterward, aiming at the men his piercing dart, he smote; and the pyres of the dead burnt continually in multitude. Nor until Agamemnon had sent back his winsome captive to her father did Apollo remove from the Danaans the loathsome pestilence.[96] =78. The Punishment of Niobe= is another illustration of the swift and awful vengeance of Apollo, and also of his sister Diana. This Niobe was the daughter of a certain Tantalus, king of Phrygia, who had been received at the table of the gods by his father Jupiter. But there was a strain of ingratitude and conceit in both father and daughter. The father not only betrayed the secrets of the gods, but, to ridicule their reputed omniscience, attempted at a banquet to deceive them into eating the roasted flesh of his own son Pelops. The gods were not deceived. Pelops was restored to life,--Tantalus consigned to Tartarus. The daughter Niobe, although she owed her happy marriage with Jupiter's son Amphion, and her seven stalwart sons and seven blooming daughters, to the favor of the gods and of Latona in particular, boasted of her birth, her marriage, and her offspring, bragged of her superiority to Latona, and, on one occasion, scoffed at the annual celebration in honor of the goddess and her two children. Surveying the people of Thebes with haughty glance, she said, "What folly to prefer beings whom you have never seen to those who stand before your eyes! Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many. Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Put off the laurel from your brows,--have done with this worship!" The people left the sacred services uncompleted. [Illustration: FIG. 60. A SON OF NIOBE] The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I who have been so proud of you both and have been used to hold myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no more," said he; "speech only delays punishment." So said Diana also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain where the youth of the city pursued their warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest,--some mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds was struck by an arrow from above. "Ah me!" he cried,--dropped the reins and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow, gave the rein to his horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger, stood wrestling breast to breast: one arrow pierced them both. Alphenor, an elder brother, hastened to the spot to render assistance, but fell in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all of them, in his ignorance that all needed not his supplication; and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late. [Illustration: FIG 61. THE CHILDREN OF NIOBE] When Niobe was acquainted with what had taken place, she was indignant that the gods had dared, and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. But the mother knelt over the lifeless bodies and kissed them. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "satiate thy hard heart while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is thy triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than thou, my conqueror." Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone. She was brave from excess of grief. Her daughters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One after another they fell, struck by arrows, beside the corpses that they were bewailing. Only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms and covered, as it were, with her whole body. "Spare me one and that the youngest! Oh, spare me one of so many!" she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth and her veins ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to flow; and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.[97] [Illustration: FIG. 62. NIOBE AND HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER] Amid nine daughters slain by Artemis Stood Niobe; she rais'd her head above Those beauteous forms which had brought down the scath Whence all nine fell, rais'd it, and stood erect, And thus bespake the goddess enthroned on high: "Thou heardest, Artemis, my daily prayer That thou wouldst guide these children in the pass Of virtue, through the tangling wilds of youth, And thou didst ever guide them: was it just To smite them for a beauty such as thine? Deserv'd they death because thy grace appear'd In ever modest motion? 'twas thy gift, The richest gift that youth from heaven receives. True, I did boldly say they might compare Even with thyself in virgin purity: May not a mother in her pride repeat What every mortal said? One prayer remains For me to offer yet. Thy quiver holds More than nine arrows: bend thy bow; aim here! I see, I see it glimmering through a cloud. Artemis, thou at length art merciful: My children will not hear the fatal twang."[98] =79. The Lamentation for Linus.= How the people of Argos fell under the displeasure of Apollo is told in the story of Linus, a beautiful son of Apollo and Psamathe. In fear of her father the king, Psamathe exposed the child on the mountains where, brought up by shepherds among the lambs, he was in tender youth torn to pieces by dogs. Meanwhile, Psamathe herself was driven from her father's home; wherefore Apollo sent against the land of the Argives a monster that for a season destroyed the children, but at last was slain by a noble youth named Cor[oe]bus. To appease the wrathful deity, a shrine was erected midway between Argos and Delphi; and every year Linus and his mother were bewailed in melancholy lays by the mothers and children of Argos, especially by such as had lost by death their own beloved. The fate of Linus, like that of Hyacinthus and others who succumb in the springtime of life under the excessive love of some shining deity,[99] typifies the sudden withering of herbs and flowers and of animal life,--the calves and lambs, young children too, under the fierce shafts of summer. The very name of Linus is taken from the refrain _ai-linon_, or "woe is me," of the lament anciently sung by the country people when thus afflicted by the unhealthy heats, because of which the crops fail and the dogs go mad and tear the little lambs to pieces. In the Iliad there is a beautiful picture which shows us that the song was not reserved completely for the dog days. It is of a vineyard teeming plenteously with clusters: And there was a pathway through it by which the vintagers might go. And maidens and striplings in childish glee bare the sweet fruit in plaited baskets. And in the midst of them a boy made pleasant music on a clear-toned viol, and sang thereto a sweet Linos-song with delicate voice; while the rest with feet falling together kept time with the music and song.[100] [Illustration: FIG. 63. ÆSCULAPIUS] =80. Æsculapius.= The Thessalian princess Coronis (or the Messenian, Arsinoë) bore to Apollo a child who was named Æsculapius. On his mother's death the infant was intrusted to the charge of Chiron, most famous of the Centaurs, himself instructed by Apollo and Diana in hunting, medicine, music, and the art of prophecy. When the sage returned to his home bearing the infant, his daughter Ocyrrhoë came forth to meet him, and at sight of the child burst into a prophetic strain, foretelling, the glory that he should achieve. Æsculapius, when grown up, became a renowned physician; in one instance he even succeeded in restoring the dead to life. Pluto resented this, and, at his request, Jupiter struck the bold physician with lightning and killed him, but after his death received him into the number of the gods.[101] =81. Apollo in Exile.= Apollo, indignant at the destruction of this son, wreaked his vengeance on the innocent workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who had their workshop under Mount Ætna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing. Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, a deed which so incensed Jupiter that he condemned him to serve a mortal for the space of one year. Accordingly, Apollo went into the service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for him on the verdant banks of the river Amphrysus. How the god lived among men, and what they thought of him, is well told in the following verses. =82. Lowell's Shepherd of King Admetus.= There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plow, or reap, or sow. Upon an empty tortoise-shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine: And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low. Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law. They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower. It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs He found a healing power profuse. Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. Yet after he was dead and gone And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him. And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god. [Illustration: FIG. 64. ADMETUS MUST DIE] =83. Admetus and Alcestis.=[102] Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made happy in the possession of Alcestis. But Admetus falling ill and being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him on condition that some one should consent to die in his stead. Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the ransom, and, perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents, fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was not so. Brave warriors, who would willingly have periled their lives for their prince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him on the bed of sickness; and old servants who had experienced his bounty and that of his house from their childhood up were not willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show their gratitude. Men asked, "Why does not one of his parents do it? They cannot in the course of nature live much longer, and who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave from an untimely end?" But the parents, distressed though they were at the thought of losing him, shrunk from the call. Then Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the substitute. Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have submitted to receive it at such a cost; but there was no remedy. The condition imposed by the Fates had been met, and the decree was irrevocable. As Admetus revived, Alcestis sickened, rapidly sank, and died. Just after the funeral procession had left the palace, Hercules, the son of Jupiter and Alcmena, arrived. He, to whom no labor was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. Said he: "I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled King of the corpses![103] I shall find him, sure, Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice: And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap Out of my lair, and seize--encircle him Till one hand join the other round about-- There lives not who shall pull him out from me, Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go! But even say I miss the booty,--say, Death comes not to the boltered blood,--why, then, Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place Of Koré[104] and the king there,--make demand, Confident I shall bring Alkestis back, So as to put her in the hands of him My host, that housed me, never drove me off: Though stricken with sore sorrow hid the stroke, Being a noble heart and honoring me! Who of Thessalians, more than this man, loves The stranger? Who that now inhabits Greece? Wherefore he shall not say the man was vile Whom he befriended,--native noble heart!" So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laugh Approval of his human progeny,-- One summons of the whole magnific frame, Each sinew to its service,--up he caught, And over shoulder cast the lion-shag, Let the club go,--for had he not those hands? And so went striding off, on that straight way Leads to Larissa and the suburb tomb. Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world! I think this is the authentic sign and seal Of Godship that it ever waxes glad, And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts Into a rage to suffer for mankind, And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed After the blossom, ultimate of all. Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun? Surely it has no other end and aim Than to drop, once more die into the ground, Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there: And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy, More joy and most joy,--do man good again. So to the struggle off strode Herakles. [Illustration: FIG. 65. HERACLES] Long time the Thessalians waited and mourned. As for Herakles, no doubt they supposed him dead. When--but can it be? ... Ay, he it was advancing! In he strode, And took his stand before Admetos,--turned Now by despair to such a quietude, He neither raised his face nor spoke, this time, The while his friend surveyed him steadily. That friend looked rough with fighting: had he strained Worst brute to breast was ever strangled yet? Somehow, a victory--for there stood the strength, Happy, as always; something grave, perhaps; The great vein-cordage on the fret-worked front, Black-swollen, beaded yet with battle-dew The golden hair o' the hero!--his big frame A-quiver with each muscle sinking back Into the sleepy smooth it leaped from late. Under the great guard of one arm, there leant A shrouded something, live and woman-like, Propped by the heartbeats 'neath the lion-coat. When he had finished his survey, it seemed, The heavings of the heart began subside, The helpful breath returned, and last the smile Shone out, all Herakles was back again, As the words followed the saluting hand. "Admetus," said he, "take and keep this woman, my captive, till I come thy way again." But Admetus would admit no woman into the hall that Alcestis had left empty. Then cried Herakles, "Take hold of her. See now, my friend, if she look not somewhat like that wife thou hast lost." Ah, but the tears come, find the words at fault! There is no telling how the hero twitched The veil off; and there stood, with such fixed eyes And such slow smile, Alkestis' silent self! It was the crowning grace of that great heart, To keep back joy: procrastinate the truth Until the wife, who had made proof and found The husband wanting, might essay once more, Hear, see, and feel him renovated now-- Able to do now all herself had done, Risen to the height of her: so, hand in hand, The two might go together, live and die. Beside, when he found speech, you guess the speech. He could not think he saw his wife again: It was some mocking God that used the bliss To make him mad! Till Herakles must help: Assure him that no specter mocked at all; He was embracing whom he buried once, Still,--did he touch, might he address the true, True eye, true body of the true live wife? ... And Herakles said little, but enough-- How he engaged in combat with that king O' the dæmons: how the field of contest lay By the tomb's self: how he sprang from ambuscade, Captured Death, caught him in that pair of hands. But all the time, Alkestis moved not once Out of the set gaze and the silent smile; And a cold fear ran through Admetos' frame: "Why does she stand and front me, silent thus?" Herakles solemnly replied, "Not yet Is it allowable thou hear the things She has to tell thee; let evanish quite That consecration to the lower Gods, And on our upper world the third day rise! Lead her in, meanwhile; good and true thou art, Good, true, remain thou! Practice piety To stranger-guests the old way! So, farewell! Since forth I fare, fulfill my urgent task Set by the king, the son of Sthenelos."[105] [Illustration: FIG. 66. THE PALATINE APOLLO] =84. Apollo, the Musician.= Not only in Arcadia, Laconia, and Thessaly did Apollo care as a herdsman for the cattle of a mortal master; in Mount Ida, too, by the order of Jupiter he herded for a year the "shambling, crook-horned kine" of King Laomedon, and, playing on the lyre, aided Neptune to build the walls of Troy, just as Amphion, in his turn, had aided in the building of Thebes. Apollo's life as herdsman was spent in establishing wise laws and customs, in musical contests on the flute and the lyre, or in passages of love with nymphs and maidens of mortal mold. =85. Apollo, Pan, and Midas.=[106] It is said that 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. Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the lyric god, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo promptly transformed his depraved pair of ears into those of an ass. King Midas tried to hide his misfortune under an ample turban. But his hair-dresser found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; he dug a hole in the ground and, stooping down, whispered the story, and covered it up. But a thick bed of reeds springing up in the meadow began whispering the story, and has continued to do so from that day to this, every time a breeze passes over the place. =86. Shelley's Hymn of Pan.= In the following verses Pan taunts Apollo as he might have done when Midas was sitting contentedly by: From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was Listening to my sweet pipings. Liquid Peneüs was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay, In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the dædal Earth, And of Heaven--and the giant wars, And Love, and Death, and Birth,-- And then I changed my pipings,-- Singing how down the vale of Menalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. =87. Marsyas= also was unfortunate enough to underrate Apollo's musical ability. It seems that the flute, an invention of Minerva's, had been thrown away by that goddess because Cupid laughed at the grimaces which she made while playing it. Marsyas found the instrument, blew upon it, and elicited such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god, of course, triumphed, and he punished Marsyas by flaying him alive. =88. The Loves of Apollo.= Beside Psamathe of Argos, Coronis of Thessaly, and the nymph Clymene, who have been already mentioned, Apollo loved the muse Calliope, who bore him Orpheus,[107] and the nymph Cyrene, whose son was Aristæus.[108] Of his relations with other maidens the following myths exist. =89. Daphne.=[109] The lord of the silver bow was not always prosperous in his wooing. His first love, which, by the way, owed its origin to the malice of Cupid, was specially unfortunate. It appears that Apollo, seeing the boy playing with his bow and arrows, had tauntingly advised him to leave warlike weapons for hands worthy of them and content himself with the torch of love. Whereupon the son of Venus had rejoined, "Thine arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike thee." [Illustration: APOLLO AND DAPHNE] 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 sharp pointed, the latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneüs, and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart. Forthwith the god was seized with love for the maiden, but she, more than ever, abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase. Spurning all lovers, she prayed her father that she might remain always unmarried, like Diana. He consented, but, at the same time, warned her that her beauty would defeat her purpose. It was the face of this huntress maiden that Apollo saw. He saw the charming disorder of her hair, and would have arranged it; he saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing them. He longed for Daphne. He followed her; she fled swifter than the wind, nor delayed a moment at his entreaties. "Stay," said he, "daughter of Peneüs; I am not a foe. It is for love I pursue thee. I am no clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter is my father. I am lord of Delphi and Tenedos. I 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." [Illustration: FIG. 67. DAPHNE] The nymph continues her flight and leaves his plea half-uttered. But even as she flies she charms him. The wind catches her garments, and her unbound hair streams loose behind her. The god, sped by Cupid, gains upon her in the race. 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, Peneüs! open the earth to inclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had she spoken when a stiffness seized her limbs; and little by little she took on the appearance of a laurel tree. Apollo embraced the branches and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his lips. "Since thou canst not be my wife," said he, "thou shalt assuredly be my tree. I will wear thee for my crown. I will decorate with thee my harp and my quiver. When the Roman conquerors conduct the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, thou shalt be woven into wreaths for their brows. And, as eternal youth is mine, thou also shalt be always green, and thy leaf know no decay." The laurel tree bowed its head in grateful acknowledgment. The delicious humor of Lowell's extravaganza upon the story amply justifies the following citation: Ph[oe]bus, sitting one day in a laurel tree's shade, Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made, For the god being one day too warm in his wooing, She took to the tree to escape his pursuing; Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk, And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk; And, though 't was a step into which he had driven her, He somehow or other had never forgiven her; Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic, Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic, And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her. "My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remarked; "When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked In a laurel, as _she_ thought--but (ah, how Fate mocks!) She has found it by this time a very bad box; Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-- You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it. Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress! What romance would be left?--who can flatter or kiss trees? And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-- Not to say that the thought would forever intrude That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood? Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves, To see those loved graces all taking their leaves; Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now, As they left me forever, each making its bough! If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right, Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite."[110] =90. Marpessa.= Another maiden who declined Apollo's love was Marpessa.[1] She is called by Homer "the fair-ankled daughter of Evenus." The god Apollo from the heaven of heavens Her mortal sweetness through the air allured;[2] but Idas, "that was strongest of men that were then on earth,"[111] carried her off, assisted by Poseidon who gave him a winged chariot. Her father Evenus vainly tried to catch up with the fleeing lovers; but Apollo found them in Messene, and wrested the maiden away. Then Jupiter, while the lovers were engaged in combat, separated them, saying, "Let her decide." They three together met; on the one side, Fresh from diffusing light on all the world Apollo; on the other without sleep Idas, and in the midst Marpessa stood. Just as a flower after drenching rain, So from the falling of felicity Her human beauty glowed, and it was new; The bee too near her bosom drowsed and dropped.[2] According to the story as romantically told by the English poet Phillips, first spoke Apollo. The god told her that he dreaded that one so fair should ever taste of sorrow and death; how, if she lived with him, she should bide In mere felicity above the world In peace alive and moving, where to stir Is ecstasy, and thrilling is repose,[112] immortal, scattering joy without intermission, lighting the world, bringing bliss to struggling men and sorrowing women, dispelling shadows and shadowy fear. Then Idas, humbly,-- "After such argument what can I plead? Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is In women to pity rather than to aspire, A little will I speak." And he tells her simply that he _loves_ her,--loves her not only for her beauty, but "Because Infinity upon thee broods; And thou art full of whispers and of shadows;--" and because her voice is music, her face mystery beyond his power to comprehend; "O beauty lone and like a candle clear In this dark country of the world! Thou art My woe, my early light, my music dying." And Marpessa?-- As he was speaking, she with lips apart Breathed, and with dimmer eyes leaned through the air As one in dream, and now his human hand Took in her own; and to Apollo spoke,-- saying that she knew how sweet it might be forever with a god to aid suffering men and women and "gild the face that from its dead looks up"; but still she feared immortality, for, though dying not, she must grow old, and her god lover would tire of her when once her youth was faded. And as for that "existence without tears for evermore" which he promised,-- "Yet I being human, human sorrow miss. The half of music, I have heard men say, Is to have grieved." To sorrow she was born. It is out of sadness that men have made this world beautiful. If she chooses Idas, then they two will prosper together, grow old together, and last descend into the "natural ground," and "leave behind a wholesome memory on the earth." When she had spoken, Idas with one cry Held her, and there was silence; while the god In anger disappeared. Then slowly they, He looking downward, and she gazing up, Into the evening green wandered away. =91. Clytie.=[113] In the story of Clytie the conditions are reversed. She was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold ground with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders. Nine days she sat, and tasted neither food nor drink,--her own tears and the chilly dew her only sustenance. She gazed on the sun when he rose; and as he passed through his daily course to his setting, she saw no other object,--her eyes fixed constantly on him. At last, they say, her limbs took root in the ground and her face became a flower, turning on its stem to follow the journeying sun. In the following lines, Thomas Moore uses the flower as an emblem of constancy: The heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets The same look that she turned when he rose. [Illustration: FIG. 68. ARTEMIS] =92. Myths of Diana.= In company with her radiant brother, we find Diana subduing Tityus and the Python and assisting in the punishment of Niobe. The speedy transformation of Daphne has been attributed to this goddess, the champion of maidenhood. According to some, it was she, too, that changed Callisto into a bear, when for love of Jupiter that nymph deserted the huntress-band. Numerous are the myths that celebrate the severity of the goddess of the unerring bow toward those who offended her. How she served Agamemnon for slaying one of her hinds is told in the story of Troy;[114] how she punished [OE]neus for omitting a sacrifice to her is narrated in the episode of the Calydonian hunt.[115] Similar attributes of the goddess are exemplified in the myths of Arethusa, Actæon, and Orion. It is only when she is identified with Selene, the peaceful moonlight, that we perceive a softer side of character, such as that displayed in her relations with Endymion. =93. The Flight of Arethusa.=[116] A woodland nymph of Elis was this Arethusa; she delighted not in her comeliness, but in the joys of the chase. One day, returning from the wood heated with exercise, she descended to a stream silently flowing, so clear that you might count the pebbles on the bottom. She laid aside her garments; but while she sported in the water, she heard an indistinct murmur rising as out of the depths of the stream. She made haste to reach the nearest bank. A voice followed her, "Why flyest thou, Arethusa? Alpheüs am I, the god of this stream." The nymph ran, the god pursued. Arethusa, at last exhausted, cried for help to Diana, who, hearing, wrapped her votary in a thick cloud. Perplexed, the river-god still sought the trembling maiden. But a cold sweat came over her. In less time than it takes to tell, she had become a fountain. Alpheüs attempted then to mingle his stream with hers. But the Cynthian queen cleft the ground, and Arethusa, still endeavoring to escape, plunged into the abyss and, passing through the bowels of the earth, came out in Sicily, still followed by the passionate river-god. [Illustration: FIG 69. ARETHUSA] =94. Shelley's Arethusa.= In the following version of the pursuit, Arethusa was already a river when Alpheüs espied her. Arethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains,-- From cloud and from crag, With many a jag, Shepherding her bright fountains, She leapt down the rocks, With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams;-- Her steps paved with green The downward ravine Which slopes to the western gleams: And gliding and springing She went, ever singing, In murmurs as soft as sleep; The Earth seemed to love her, And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep. Then Alpheüs bold On his glacier cold, With his trident the mountain strook And opened a chasm In the rocks;--with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south wind It concealed behind The urns of the silent snow, And earthquake and thunder Did rend in sunder The bars of the springs below; The beard and the hair Of the River-god were Seen through the torrent's sweep, As he followed the light Of the fleet nymph's flight To the brink of the Dorian deep. [Illustration: FIG. 70. A YOUNG RIVER-GOD] "Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! And bid the deep hide me, For he grasps me now by the hair!" The loud Ocean heard, To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam; Behind her descended Her billows unblended With the brackish Dorian stream:-- Like a gloomy stain On the emerald main, Alpheüs rushed behind,-- As an eagle pursuing A dove to its ruin Down the streams of the cloudy wind. Under the bowers Where the Ocean Powers Sit on their pearlèd thrones, Through the coral woods Of the weltering floods, Over heaps of unvalued stones; Through the dim beams Which amid the streams Weave a network of colored light; And under the caves, Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night: Outspeeding the shark, And the swordfish dark, Under the ocean foam, And up through the rifts Of the mountain clifts They past to their Dorian home. And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks, Like friends once parted Grown single-hearted, They ply their watery tasks. At sunrise they leap From their cradles steep In the cave of the shelving hill; At noontide they flow Through the woods below And the meadows of Asphodel: And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore;-- Like spirits that lie In the azure sky When they love but live no more. =95. The Fate of Actæon.=[117] Diana's severity toward young Actæon, grandson of Cadmus whose kindred fell under the curse of Mars, is thus narrated. [Illustration: FIG. 71. ACTÆON] One day, having repaired to a valley inclosed by cypresses and pines, where gushed a fountain of sparkling water, the chaste Diana handed her javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one nymph, her robe to another, while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the most skillful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the huntress queen was thus employed in the labors of the toilet, Actæon, the son of Autonoë and Aristæus, having quitted his companions of the chase 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 color 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, saying, "Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana unappareled." Immediately a pair of branching stag's horns grew out of the huntsman's head, his neck gained in length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms, his long legs, and his body were covered with a hairy spotted hide. Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero fled. What should he do?--go home to the palace or lie hid in the woods? While he hesitated his dogs saw him. Over rocks and cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he fled, and they followed. The air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on his back, another seized his shoulder; the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in his flesh. His friends and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and, looking everywhere for Actæon, called 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. But Diana had no pity for him, nor was her anger appeased till the dogs had torn his life out. =96. The Fortunes and Death of Orion.= Orion, the son of Neptune, was a giant and a mighty hunter, whose prowess and manly favor gained for him the rare good will of Diana. It is related that he loved Merope, the daughter of [OE]nopion, king of Chios, and sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved; but as [OE]nopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at his conduct, made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight, and cast him out on the seashore. The blinded hero, instructed by an oracle to seek the rays of morning, followed the sound of a Cyclops' hammer till he reached Lemnos, where Vulcan, taking pity on him, gave him Cedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun. Placing Cedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam.[118] After this he dwelt as a hunter with the queen of the echoing chase; and it was even hinted that she loved him. Her brother, highly displeased, often chid her, but to no purpose. One day, therefore, observing Orion as he waded through the sea with his head just above the water, Apollo pointed out the black object to his sister, and maintained that she could not hit it. The archer goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim: the waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land. Then bewailing her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion's skin, and club. Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him.[119] In the beginning of winter, all through the night, Orion follows the chase across the heavens; but with dawn he sinks toward the waters of his father Neptune. In the beginning of summer, he may be seen with daybreak in the eastern sky, where, beloved by Aurora, he remains gradually paling before the light of day till, finally, Diana, jealous of his happiness, draws her gentle darts and slays him. [Illustration: FIG. 72. THE PLEIADES From the painting by Vedder] =97. The Pleiads=,[120] who still fly before Orion in the heavens, were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train. One day Orion saw them in B[oe]otia, became enamored of them, and gave pursuit. In their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form. Jupiter, accordingly, turned them into pigeons, and made them a constellation. Though their number was seven, only six stars are visible; for Electra, it is said, left her place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy, which had been founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an effect on her sisters that they blanched, and have been pale ever since. But Electra became a comet; her hair floating wildly behind her, she still inconsolably ranges the expanse of heaven. According to some, the lost Pleiad is Merope, who was vested with mortality in consequence of her marriage with the mortal Sisyphus, king of Corinth. Tennyson's reference to the Pleiads, in "Locksley Hall," is of course familiar to all readers. [Illustration: FIG. 73. ENDYMION] =98. Endymion.= The frequent absence of Diana from her duties in heaven is said to have awakened suspicion among the deities of Olympus, who doubted whether she actually occupied these intervals with hunting. It is easy to imagine the satisfaction with which Venus, who so often had been reproached by Diana with her undue fondness of beautiful youths, would welcome news of a corresponding weakness on the part of the cold-hearted and apparently unyielding huntress queen. And such satisfaction Venus once enjoyed, if we may trust the later classical and the modern poets who have identified Diana with Selene, the more ancient goddess of the moon. For, one calm, clear night Selene looked down upon the beautiful Endymion, who fed his flock on Mount Latmos, and saw him sleeping. The heart of the goddess was unquestionably warmed by his surpassing beauty. She came down to him; she kissed him; she watched over him while he slept. She visited him again and again. But her secret could not long be hidden from the company of Olympus. For more and more frequently she was absent from her station in the sky, and toward morning she was ever paler and more weary with her watching. When, finally, her love was discovered, Jupiter gave Endymion, who had been thus honored, a choice between death in any manner that was preferable, or perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Endymion chose the latter. He still sleeps in his Carian cave, and still the mistress of the moon slips from her nocturnal course to visit him. She takes care, too, that his fortunes shall not suffer by his inactive life: she yields his flock increase, and guards his sheep and lambs from beasts of prey.[121] Keats, whose Endymion journeys on a mission under sea, thus describes a meeting of the goddess and her lover: On gold sand impearled With lily shells and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light Against his pallid face: he felt the charm To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stayed His wandering steps, and half-entrancèd laid His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. And so he kept, until the rosy veils, Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand Were lifted from the water's breast, and fanned Into sweet air; and sobered morning came Meekly through billows:--when like taper-flame Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Along his fated way.[122] =99. Myths of Venus.= Round the goddess of love cluster romances of her own tender passion, of the affairs of the winged Cupid, and of the loves of the worshipers at her shrine. Of the affection of Venus for Mars and of her relations with Anchises,[123] the father of Æneas, mention is elsewhere made. The following is the myth of Venus and Adonis. =100. Adonis.=[124] The sweetly smiling goddess, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with one of his arrows. Before the wound healed, she looked upon Adonis, the son of Cinyras and Myrrha, and was captivated by him. She no longer took any interest in her favorite resorts,--Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathus, rich in metals. She absented herself even from Olympus, for Adonis was dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed and bore him company. She who loved to recline in the shade, with no care but to cultivate her charms, now rambled through the woods and over the hills, girt like the huntress Diana. She chased game that is safe to hunt, but kept clear of the wolves and bears. She charged Adonis, too, to beware of dangerous animals. "Be brave toward the timid," she would say, "courage against the courageous is not safe." Having thus, on one occasion, warned him, she mounted her chariot drawn by swans and drove away through the air. But Adonis was too noble to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from his lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the animal with a sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws, and, rushing after Adonis, buried his tusks in the lad's side, and stretched him dying upon the plain. The rest of the story is thus recounted: THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS[125] ... Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh with the boar's tusk, his white thigh with the boar's tusk, is wounded; and sorrow on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes his life away. His dark blood drips down his skin of snow; beneath his brows his eyes wax heavy and dim; and the rose flees from his lip, and thereon the very kiss is dying, the kiss that Cypris will never forego. [Illustration: PETWORTH APHRODITE] ... She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost her sacred beauty. Fair was the form of Cypris while Adonis was living, but her beauty has died with Adonis! _Woe, woe for Cypris_, the mountains all are saying. And the oak trees answer, _Woe for Adonis!_ And the rivers bewail the sorrows of Aphrodite, and the wells are weeping Adonis on the mountains. The flowers flush red for anguish, and Cytherea through all the mountain-knees, through every dell, doth shrill the piteous dirge: _Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath_ _perished, the lovely Adonis!_ ... When she saw, when she marked the unstanched wound of Adonis, when she saw the bright red blood about his languid thigh, she cast her arms abroad, and moaned, "Abide with me, Adonis, hapless Adonis, abide!... Awake, Adonis, for a little while, and kiss me yet again, the latest kiss!... This kiss will I treasure, even as thyself, Adonis, since, ah, ill-fated, thou art fleeing me, thou art fleeing far, Adonis, and art faring to Acheron, to that hateful king and cruel, while wretched I yet live, being a goddess, and may not follow thee! Persephone, take thou my lover, my lord, for thyself art stronger than I, and all lovely things drift down to thee. But I am ill-fated, inconsolable is my anguish; and I lament mine Adonis, dead to me, and I have no rest for sorrow. "Thou diest, oh, thrice-desired, and my desire hath flown away as a dream! Nay, widowed is Cytherea, and idle are the Loves along the halls! With thee has the girdle of my beauty perished. For why, ah, overbold, didst thou follow the chase, and being so fair, why wert thou thus overhardy to fight with beasts?" So Cypris bewailed her, the Loves join in the lament: _Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath_ _perished, the lovely Adonis!_ [Illustration: FIG. 74. THE DEATH OF ADONIS] A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears and blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings forth the rose; the tears, the wind-flower. _Woe, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!_ ... Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy dirges. Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him another year. =101. Cupid and Psyche.=[126] A certain king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the two elder were more than common, but the beauty of the youngest was such that the poverty of language is unable to express its praise. In fact, Venus found her altars deserted, while men paid their vows to this virgin. When Psyche passed, the people sang her praises and strewed her way with chaplets and flowers. This perversion of homage gave great offense to Venus, who complained that Paris might just as well not have yielded her the palm of beauty over Pallas and Juno, if a mortal were thus to usurp her honors. Wherefore she called Cupid and, pointing out Psyche to him, bade him infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some low, unworthy being. There were in Venus's garden two fountains,--one of sweet waters, the other of bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity; and then he touched her side with the point of his arrow. She awoke, and opening her eyes upon Cupid (himself invisible), so startled him that in his confusion he wounded himself with his arrow. Heedless of his wound, his thought now was to repair the mischief he had done. He poured, at once, the waters of joy over her silken ringlets. But Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from her charms. Her two elder sisters had long been married to princes; but Psyche's beauty failed to awaken love. Consequently her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, consulted the oracle of Apollo. They received answer, "The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover. Her husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist." This dreadful decree of the oracle filled the people with dismay; but, at Psyche's request, preparations for her fate were made. The royal maid took her place in a procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp, and with her parents, amid the lamentations of their subjects, ascended the mountain, where she was left alone. While Psyche stood there, panting with fear and with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr lifted her and, with an easy motion, bore her to a flowery dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself down on the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she beheld near by a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees. Entering, she discovered in the midst a fountain, and fast by a palace whose august front showed that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some god. She approached the building and entered. Every object she met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with carvings and paintings that represented beasts of the chase and rural scenes. Other apartments were filled with still other beautiful and precious productions of nature and art. While her eyes were thus occupied, the voice of an invisible being addressed her: "Sovereign lady, all that thou beholdest is thine. We whose voices thou dost hear are thy servants. Retire, we pray thee, to thy chamber, repose on thy bed of down, and when it may please thee repair to the bath. Food awaits in the adjoining alcove." After repose and the refreshment of the bath, Psyche seated herself in the alcove, where, without any visible aid, a table immediately presented itself, covered with delicacies and nectareous wines. Her ears, too, were delighted with music from invisible performers. For a long time she did not see her husband. He came in the hours of darkness and fled before the dawn of morning; but his accents were full of love and inspired a like passion in her. Often she begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would not consent. "Having looked upon me," he said, "mayhap thou wouldst fear, mayhap adore, me; but all I ask of thee is love. I would rather thou shouldst love me as an equal than adore me as a god." This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time. But the thought of her parents and of her sisters, left in ignorance of her fate, preyed on her mind to such a degree that at last, telling her distress to her lord, she drew from him an unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her. [Illustration: FIG. 75. PSYCHE AT THE COUCH OF CUPID From the painting by Thumann] Zephyr, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the mountain down to their sister's valley. They embraced her. She returned their caresses, and then committed them to the care of her attendant voices, who should refresh them in her bath and at her table, and show them her treasures. The view of these delights caused envy to enter their bosoms. They plied their fortunate sister with questions about her husband. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the mountains. The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess that she had never seen him. Then they proceeded to fill her bosom with dark suspicions. Probably her husband was a dreadful monster, such as the Pythian oracle had prophesied. Probably he was a direful serpent, who nourished her now to devour her by and by. They advised her to provide herself against the night with a lamp and a sharp knife, told her what to do if her husband turned out the monster that they surmised, and, so saying, departed. These persuasions Psyche resisted as well as she could, but they did not fail to have their effect on her mind. She prepared a lamp and a sharp knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. That night, when he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her lamp-- Scarce kept back a cry At what she saw; for there before her lay The very Love brighter than dawn of day; And as he lay there smiling, her own name His gentle lips in sleep began to frame, And, as to touch her face, his hand did move; O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love, And she began to sob, and tears fell fast Upon the bed.--But as she turned at last To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing That quenched her new delight, for flickering The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there The meaning of that sad sight knew full well, Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.[127] Without a word, Cupid spread his white wings, and flew out of window. Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow, fell to the earth. For but an instant Cupid, staying, reproached her with distrust of him. "No other punishment inflict I than to leave thee forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion." And so he flew away. When Psyche had recovered some degree of composure, she looked around her. The palace and gardens had vanished. She found herself not far from the city where her sisters dwelt. Thither she repaired, and told them the story of her misfortunes, whereat they inwardly rejoiced. "For now," thought they, "he will perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, they rose early the next morning and, ascending the mountain, each called upon Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then, leaping up, failed of the support of Zephyr, fell down the precipice, and was dashed to pieces. Psyche, meanwhile, wandered day and night, without food or repose, in search of her husband. But he was lying heartsick in the chamber of his mother; and that goddess was absent upon her own affairs. Then the white sea gull which floats over the waves dived into the middle deep, And rowing with his glistening wings arrived At Aphrodite's bower beneath the sea. She, as yet unaware of her son's mischance, was joyously consorting with her handmaidens; but he, the sea gull, But he with garrulous and laughing tongue Broke up his news; how Eros fallen sick Lay tossing on his bed, to frenzy stung By such a burn as did but barely prick: A little bleb, no bigger than a pease, Upon his shoulder 'twas, that killed his ease, Fevered his heart, and made his breathing thick. "For which disaster hath he not been seen This many a day at all in any place: And thou, dear mistress," said he, "hast not been Thyself among us now a dreary space: And pining mortals suffer from a dearth Of love; and for this sadness of the earth Thy family is darkened with disgrace.... "'Tis plain that, if thy pleasure longer pause, Thy mighty rule on earth hath seen its day: The race must come to perish, and no cause But that thou sittest with thy nymphs at play, While on the Cretan hills thy truant boy Has with his pretty mistress turned to toy, And, less for pain than love, now pines away."[128] And Venus cried angrily, "My son, then, has a mistress! And it is Psyche, who witched away my beauty and was the rival of my godhead, whom he loves!" Therewith she issued from the sea, and, returning to her golden chamber, found there the lad sick, as she had heard, and cried from the doorway, "Well done, truly! to trample thy mother's precepts under foot, to spare my enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay, unite her to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a daughter-in-law who hates me! I will make thee repent of thy sport, and the savor of thy marriage bitter. There is one who shall chasten this body of thine, put out thy torch, and unstring thy bow. Not till she has plucked forth that hair, into which so oft these hands have smoothed the golden light, and sheared away thy wings, shall I feel the injury done me avenged." And with this she hastened in anger from the doors. And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her troubled countenance. "Ye come in season," she cried; "I pray you, find for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace of my house." And they, ignorant of what was done, would have soothed her anger, saying, "What fault, Mistress, hath thy son committed, that thou wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou not that he is now of age? Because he wears his years so lightly must he seem to thee ever to be a child? Wilt thou forever thus pry into the pastimes of thy son, always accusing his wantonness, and blaming in him those delicate wiles which are all thine own?" Thus, in secret fear of the boy's bow, did they seek to please him with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry at their light taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them, and with hasty steps made her way once more to the sea.[129] And soon after, Psyche herself reached the temple of Ceres, where she won the favor of the goddess by arranging in due order the heaps of mingled grain and ears and the carelessly scattered harvest implements that lay there. The holy Ceres then counseled her to submit to Venus, to try humbly to win her forgiveness, and, mayhap, through her favor regain the lover that was lost. Obeying the commands of Ceres, Psyche took her way to the temple of the golden-crowned Cypris. That goddess received her with angry countenance, called her an undutiful and faithless servant, taunted her with the wound given to her husband, and insisted that for so ill-favored a girl there was no way of meriting a lover save by dint of industry. Thereupon she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of the temple, where was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and lentils prepared for food for her pigeons, and gave order, "Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind in a parcel by themselves,--and see that thou get it done before evening." This said, Venus departed and left the girl to her task. But Psyche, in perfect consternation at the enormous task, sat stupid and silent; nor would the work have been accomplished had not Cupid stirred up the ants to take compassion on her. They separated the pile, sorting each kind to its parcel and vanishing out of sight in a moment. At the approach of twilight, Cytherea returned from the banquet of the gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she promptly exclaimed, "This is no work of thine, wicked one, but his, whom to thine own and his misfortune thou hast enticed,"--threw the girl a piece of black bread for her supper, and departed. Next morning, however, the goddess, ordering Psyche to be summoned, commanded her to fetch a sample of wool gathered from each of the golden-shining sheep that fed beyond a neighboring river. Obediently the princess went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to execute the command. But the god of that stream inspired the reeds with harmonious murmurs that dissuaded her from venturing among the golden rams while they raged under the influence of the rising sun. Psyche, observing the directions of the compassionate river-god, crossed when the noontide sun had driven the cattle to the shade, gathered the woolly gold from the bushes where it was clinging, and returned to Venus with her arms full of the shining fleece. But, far from commending her, that implacable mistress said, "I know very well that by the aid of another thou hast done this; not yet am I assured that thou hast skill to be of use. Here, now, take this box to Proserpine and say, 'My mistress Venus entreats thee to send her a little of thy beauty, for in tending her sick son she hath lost some of her own.'" Psyche, satisfied that her destruction was at hand, doomed as she was to travel afoot to Erebus, thought to shorten the journey by precipitating herself at once from the summit of a tower. But a voice from the tower, restraining her from this rash purpose, explained how by a certain cave she might reach the realm of Pluto; how she might avoid the peril of the road, pass by Cerberus, and prevail on Charon to take her across the black river and bring her back again. The voice, also, especially cautioned her against prying into the box filled with the beauty of Proserpine. So, taking heed to her ways, the unfortunate girl traveled safely to the kingdom of Pluto. She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine, where, contenting herself with plain fare instead of the delicious banquet that was offered her, she delivered her message from Venus. Presently the box, filled with the precious commodity, was restored to her; and glad was she to come out once more into the light of day. But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a desire seized her to examine the contents of the box, and to spread the least bit of the divine beauty on her cheeks that she might appear to more advantage in the eyes of her beloved husband. Therewith down by the wayside did she sit And turned the box round, long regarding it; But at the last, with trembling hands, undid The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid; But what was there she saw not, for her head Fell back, and nothing she rememberèd Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had, The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad; For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress She would have cried, but in her helplessness Could open not her mouth, or frame a word.[130] But Cupid, now recovered from his wound, slipped through a crack in the window of his chamber, flew to the spot where his beloved lay, gathered up the sleep from her body and inclosed it again in the box, then waked Psyche with the touch of an arrow. "Again," said he, "hast thou almost perished by thy curiosity. But now perform the task imposed upon thee by my mother, and I will care for the rest." [Illustration: FIG. 76. PSYCHE AND CUPID ON MOUNT OLYMPUS From the painting by Thumann] Then Cupid, swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven, presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a favoring ear and pleaded the cause of the lovers with Venus. Gaining her consent, he ordered Mercury to convey Psyche to the heavenly abodes. On her advent, the king of the immortals, handing her a cup of ambrosia, said, "Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal. Thy Cupid shall never break from the knot in which he is tied; these nuptials shall indeed be perpetual." Thus Psyche was at last united to Cupid; and in due season a daughter was born to them whose name was Pleasure. The allegory of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the following lines: They wove bright fables in the days of old, When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings; When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold, And told in song its high and mystic things! And such the sweet and solemn tale of her The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given, That led her through the world,--Love's worshiper,-- To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven! [Illustration: EROS WITH BOW] In the full city,--by the haunted fount,-- Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars,-- 'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount, Where silence sits to listen to the stars; In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove, The painted valley, and the scented air, She heard far echoes of the voice of Love, And found his footsteps' traces everywhere. But never more they met! since doubts and fears, Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth, Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears, And that bright spirit of immortal birth; Until her pining soul and weeping eyes Had learned to seek him only in the skies; Till wings unto the weary heart were given, And she became Love's angel bride in heaven![131] The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more recent date than most of the classic myths. =102. Keats' Ode to Psyche.= To this fact allusion is made in the following poem: O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof Of leaves and tumbled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied! 'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embracèd, and their pinions, too; Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love: The wingèd boy I knew: But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Ph[oe]be's sapphire-regioned star, Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heaped with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. O brightest! though too late for antique vows Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retired From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swingèd censer teeming, Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark clustered trees Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathèd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in! The loves of the devotees of Venus are as the sands of the sea for number. Below are given the fortunes of a few: Hippomenes, Hero, Pygmalion, Pyramus, and Phaon. The favor of the goddess toward Paris, who awarded her the palm of beauty in preference to Juno and Minerva, will occupy our attention in connection with the story of the Trojan War. [Illustration: FIG. 77. ARTEMIS OF GABII] =103. Atalanta's Race.=[132] Atalanta, the daughter of Sch[oe]neus of B[oe]otia, had been warned by an oracle that marriage would be fatal to her happiness. Consequently she fled the society of men and devoted herself to the sports of the chase. Fair, fearless, swift, and free, in beauty and in desire she was a Cynthia,--of mortal form and with a woman's heart. To all suitors (for she had many) she made answer: "I will be the prize of him only who shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Of one such race Hippomenes was to be judge. It was his thought, at first, that these suitors risked too much for a wife. But when he saw Atalanta lay aside her robe for the race with one of them, he changed his mind and began to swell with envy of whomsoever seemed likely to win. The virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than ever. The breezes gave wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. Her competitor was distanced and was put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixed his eyes on the virgin and said, "Why boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at him with pity in her face and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer so goodly a youth or not. While she hesitated, the spectators grew impatient for the contest and her father prompted her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Cypris: "Help me, Venus, for thou hast impelled me." Venus heard and was propitious. [Illustration: FIG. 78. ATALANTA'S RACE From the painting by Poynter] She gathered three golden apples from the garden of her temple in her own island of Cyprus and, unseen by any, gave them to Hippomenes, telling him how to use them. Atalanta and her lover were ready. The signal was given. They both started; he, by one stride, first, For she half pitied him so beautiful, Running to meet his death, yet was resolved To conquer: soon she near'd him, and he felt The rapid and repeated gush of breath Behind his shoulder. From his hand now dropt A golden apple: she lookt down and saw A glitter on the grass, yet on she ran. He dropt a second; now she seem'd to stoop: He dropt a third; and now she stoopt indeed: Yet, swifter than a wren picks up a grain Of millet, rais'd her head: it was too late, Only one step, only one breath, too late. Hippomenes had toucht the maple goal With but two fingers, leaning pronely forth. She stood in mute despair; the prize was won. Now each walkt slowly forward, both so tired, And both alike breathed hard, and stopt at times. When he turn'd round to her, she lowered her face Cover'd with blushes, and held out her hand, The golden apple in it. "Leave me now," Said she, "I must walk homeward." He did take The apple and the hand. "Both I detain," Said he, "the other two I dedicate To the two Powers that soften virgin hearts, Eros and Aphrodite; and this one To her who ratifies the nuptial vow." She would have wept to see her father weep; But some God pitied her, and purple wings (What God's were they?) hovered and interposed.[133] But the oracle was yet to be fulfilled. The lovers, full of their own happiness, after all, forgot to pay due honor to Aphrodite, and the goddess was provoked at their ingratitude. She caused them to give offense to Cybele. That powerful goddess took from them their human form: the huntress heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness; her lord and master a lion,--and yoked them to her car, where they are still to be seen in all representations in statuary or painting of the goddess Cybele. =104 Hero and Leander= were star-crossed lovers of later classical fiction.[134] Although their story is not of supernatural beings, or of events necessarily influenced by supernatural agencies, and therefore not mythical in the strict sense of the word, it deserves to be included here both because of its pathetic beauty and its long literary tradition. The poet Marlowe puts the story into English thus: On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, In view and opposite two cities stood, Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, Whom young Apollo courted for her hair, And offer'd as a dower his burning throne, Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon.... Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd, And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. But this is true: so like was one the other, As he imagined Hero was his mother; And oftentimes into her bosom flew, About her naked neck his bare arms threw, And laid his childish head upon her breast, And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest. In Abydos dwelt the manly Leander, who, as luck would have it, bethought himself one day of the festival of Venus in Sestos, and thither fared to do obeisance to the goddess. On this feast-day,--O cursèd day and hour!-- Went Hero through Sestos, from her tower To Venus' temple, where unhappily, As after chanc'd, they did each other spy. So fair a church as this had Venus none; The walls were of discolored jasper-stone, ... And in the midst a silver altar stood: There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood, Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close; And modestly they opened as she rose: Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; And thus Leander was enamourèd. Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd, Till with the fire, that from his countenance blaz'd, Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook: Such power and virtue hath an amorous look. It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is overrul'd by fate. When two are stript long e'er the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win; And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows; let it suffice, What we behold is censur'd by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? He kneel'd; but unto _her_ devoutly prayed: Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said, "Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him"; And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him. He started up; she blush'd as one asham'd; Wherewith Leander much more was inflam'd. He touch'd her hand; in touching it she trembled: Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.... So they conversed by touch of hands, till Leander, plucking up courage, began to plead with words, with sighs and tears. These arguments he us'd, and many more; Wherewith she yielded, that was won before. Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war: Women are won when they begin to jar. Thus having swallow'd Cupid's golden hook, The more she striv'd, the deeper was she strook: Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still, And would be thought to grant against her will. So having paus'd awhile, at last she said, "Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid? Ay me! such words as these should I abhor, And yet I like them for the orator." With that Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her, But from his spreading arms away she cast her, And thus bespake him: "Gentle youth, forbear To touch the sacred garments which I wear." ... Then she told him of the turret by the murmuring sea where all day long she tended Venus' swans and sparrows: "Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd, For unawares, "Come thither," from her slipp'd; And suddenly her former color chang'd, And here and there her eyes through anger rang'd; And, like a planet moving several ways At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays, Loving, not to love at all, and every part Strove to resist the motions of her heart: And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch, Did she uphold to Venus, and again Vow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain; Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings.... [Illustration: FIG. 79. HERO AND LEANDER From the painting by Keller] For a season all went well. Guided by a torch which his mistress reared upon the tower, he was wont of nights to swim the strait that he might enjoy her company. But one night a tempest arose and the sea was rough; his strength failed and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself into the sea and perished. A picture of the drowning Leander is thus described by Keats:[135] Come hither all sweet maidens soberly, Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light, Hid in the fringe of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joinèd be, As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death; Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. O horrid dream! see how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile; He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath! =105. Pygmalion and the Statue.=[136] Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women, that he came at last to abhor the sex and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman was to compare with it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive and that was prevented from moving only by modesty. His art was so perfect that it concealed itself, and its product looked like the workmanship of nature. Pygmalion at last fell in love with his counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it as if to assure himself whether it were living or not, and could not even then believe that it was only ivory. The festival of Venus was at hand,--a festival celebrated with great pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar and, according to one of our poets, timidly said: O Aphrodite, kind and fair, That what thou wilt canst give, Oh, listen to a sculptor's prayer, And bid mine image live! For me the ivory and gold That clothe her cedar frame Are beautiful, indeed, but cold; Ah, touch them with thy flame! Oh, bid her move those lips of rose, Bid float that golden hair, And let her choose me, as I chose, This fairest of the fair! And then an altar in thy court I'll offer, decked with gold; And there thy servants shall resort, Thy doves be bought and sold![137] According to another version of the story, he said not, "bid mine image live," but "one like my ivory virgin." At any rate, with such a prayer he threw incense on the flame of the altar. Whereupon Venus, as an omen of her favor, caused the flame to shoot up thrice a fiery point into the air. When Pygmalion reached his home, to his amazement he saw before him his statue garlanded with flowers. Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, A shaft of new desire now pierced him through, And therewithal a soft voice called his name, And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame, He saw betwixt him and the setting sun The lively image of his lovèd one. He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, Her very lips, were such as he had made, And though her tresses fell but in such guise As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed In that fair garment that the priests had laid Upon the goddess on that very morn, Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn. Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear, Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, And once again her silver voice rang clear, Filling his soul with great felicity, And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me, O dear companion of my new-found life, For I am called thy lover and thy wife?... "My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise, Or stored with words aright the tale to tell, But listen: when I opened first mine eyes I stood within the niche thou knowest well, And from my hand a heavy thing there fell Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear, But with a strange, confusèd noise could hear. "At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, But awful as this round white moon o'erhead, So that I trembled when I saw her there, For with my life was born some touch of dread, And therewithal I heard her voice that said, 'Come down and learn to love and be alive, For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'"[138] A fuller account of Venus' address to the statue is the following: O maiden, in mine image made! O grace that shouldst endure! While temples fall, and empires fade, Immaculately pure: Exchange this endless life of art For beauty that must die, And blossom with a beating heart Into mortality! Change, golden tresses of her hair, To gold that turns to gray; Change, silent lips, forever fair, To lips that have their day! Oh, perfect arms, grow soft with life, Wax warm, ere cold ye wane; Wake, woman's heart, from peace to strife, To love, to joy, to pain![139] The maiden was called Galatea. Venus blessed the nuptials, and from the union Paphos was born, by whose name the city, sacred to Venus, is known. =106. Pyramus and Thisbe.=[140] Pyramus was the handsomest youth and Thisbe the fairest maiden in Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining houses. Propinquity brought the young people together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, parents could not forbid (for Venus and Cupid favored the match),--that love should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned the more intensely that it was covered. In the wall between the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in the structure. It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages passed back and forth through the gap. When night came and they must say farewell, the lovers pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side, he on his. [Illustration: FIG. 80. THISBE From the painting by Edward Burne-Jones] One morning, when Aurora had put out the stars and the sun had melted the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot and arranged a meeting for that night at a well-known edifice, standing without the city's bounds,--the Tomb of Ninus. The one who first arrived should await the other at the foot of a white mulberry tree near a cool spring. Evening came. Thisbe, arriving first, sat alone by the monument in the dim light of the evening. Suddenly she descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. The maiden fled at the sight, dropping her veil as she ran. The lioness, after drinking at the spring, turned toward the woods, and, seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth. Now Pyramus approached the place of meeting. He saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion. He found the veil all rent and bloody. "O, hapless girl," cried he, "I have been the cause of thy death; but I follow thee!" So saying, he drew his sword and 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 sanguine hue 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 color of the mulberries, she doubted whether it was the same place. While she hesitated, she saw the form of her lover struggling in the agonies of death. She screamed and beat her breast, she embraced the lifeless body, poured tears into its wounds, and imprinted kisses on the cold lips. "O, Pyramus," she cried, "what has done this? It is thine own Thisbe that speaks." At the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again. She saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword. "Thine 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. But 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. The two bodies were buried in one sepulcher, and the tree henceforth produced purple berries. =107. Phaon= ferried a boat between Lesbos and Chios. One day the queen of Paphos and Amathus,[141] in the guise of an ugly crone, begged a passage, which was so good-naturedly granted that in recompense she bestowed on the ferryman a salve possessing magical properties of youth and beauty. As a consequence of the use made of it by Phaon, the women of Lesbos went wild for love of him. None, however, admired him more than the poetess Sappho, who addressed to him some of her warmest and rarest love-songs. =108. The Vengeance of Venus.= Venus did not fail to follow with her vengeance those who dishonored her rites or defied her power. The youth Hippolytus who, eschewing love, preferred Diana to her, she brought miserably to his ruin. Polyphonte she transformed into an owl, Arsinoë into a stone, and Myrrha into a myrtle tree.[142] Her influence in the main was of mingled bane and blessing, as in the cases of Helen, [OE]none, Pasiphaë, Ariadne, Procris, Eriphyle, Laodamia, and others whose stories are elsewhere told.[143] =109. Myths of Mercury.= According to Homer,[144] Maia bore Mercury at the peep of day,--a schemer subtle beyond all belief. He began playing on the lyre at noon; for, wandering out of the lofty cavern of Cyllene, he found a tortoise, picked it up, bored the life out of the beast, fitted the shell with bridge and reeds, and accompanied himself therewith as he sang a strain of unpremeditated sweetness. At evening of the same day he stole the oxen of his half brother Apollo from the Pierian mountains, where they were grazing. He covered their hoofs with tamarisk twigs, and, still further to deceive the pursuer, drove them backward into a cave at Pylos. There rubbing laurel branches together, he made fire and sacrificed, as an example for men to follow, two heifers to the twelve gods (himself included). Then home he went and slept, innocent as a new-born child! To his mother's warning that Apollo would catch and punish him, this innocent replied, in effect, "I know a trick better than that!" And when the puzzled Apollo, having traced the knavery to this babe in swaddling clothes, accused him of it, the sweet boy swore a great oath by his father's head that he stole not the cows, nor knew even what cows might be, for he had only that moment heard the name of them. Apollo proceeded to trounce the baby, with scant success, however, for Mercury persisted in his assumption of ignorance. So the twain appeared before their sire, and Apollo entered his complaint: he had not seen nor ever dreamed of so precocious a cattle-stealer, liar, and full-fledged knave as this young rascal. To all of which Mercury responded that he was, on the contrary, a veracious person, but that his brother Apollo was a coward to bully a helpless little new-born thing that slept, nor ever had thought of "lifting" cattle. The wink with which the lad of Cyllene accompanied this asseveration threw Jupiter into uncontrollable roars of laughter. Consequently, the quarrel was patched up: Mercury gave Apollo the new-made lyre; Apollo presented the prodigy with a glittering whiplash and installed him herdsman of his oxen. Nay even, when Mercury had sworn by sacred Styx no more to try his cunning in theft upon Apollo, that god in gratitude invested him with the magic wand of wealth, happiness, and dreams (the _caduceus_), it being understood, however, that Mercury should indicate the future only by signs, not by speech or song as did Apollo. It is said that the god of gain avenged himself for this enforced rectitude upon others: upon Venus, whose girdle he purloined; upon Neptune, whose trident he filched; upon Vulcan, whose tongs he borrowed; and upon Mars, whose sword he stole. [Illustration: HERMES OF PRAXITELES] [Illustration: FIG. 81. HERMES AND DOG] The most famous exploit of the Messenger, the slaughter of Argus, has already been narrated. FOOTNOTES: [66] Ovid, Metam. I, 700 _et seq._ [67] Ovid, Metam. 2, 410 _et seq._ [68] Translated by Andrew Lang: Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus, London, 1880. [69] § 70. [70] Ovid, Metam. 3, 260 _et seq._ [71] §§ 42, 110-113. [72] From E. R. Sill's Semele. [73] Commentary, §§ 118, 255. [74] Ovid, Metam. 7, 172 _et seq._ [75] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 3, 379 [Schirmer]. Originals in Pausanias, Apollodorus, and Hyginus. [76] From Tennyson's Amphion. See Horace, Ars Poet. 394. [77] Ovid, Metam. 8, 620-724. [78] From The Sons of Cydippe, by Edmund Gosse in his On Viol and Flute. [79] § 27, and Commentary. [80] From Ovid. [81] From Spenser's Muiopotmos. [82] Ovid, Metam. 6, 1-145. [83] § 200. [84] Iliad, 5, 850 _et seq._ (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). In accordance with the system of nomenclature adopted in this work, Latin equivalents are given, wherever possible, for Greek names. [85] Iliad, 21, 390 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). [86] Ovid, Metam. 3, 1-137; 4, 563-614. [87] Iliad, 2, 1335. [88] Ovid, Metam. 6, 313-381. [89] § 30. [90] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 2, 254, Article _Aloadæ_ [Schultz]. [91] Ovid, Metam. 10, 162-219. [92] Ovid, Metam. 2, 1-400. [93] § 44. [94] _Medio tutissimus ibis._--OVID. [95] _Hic situs est Phaëthon, currus auriga paterni,_ _Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis._--OVID. [96] Iliad, 1, 43-52 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). [97] Ovid, Metam. 6, 165-312. [98] From W. S. Landor's Niobe. [99] See Commentary, §§ 64, 80. [100] Iliad, 18, 564 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). [101] Cicero, Natura Deorum, 3, 22. [102] See Commentary. [103] From Browning's Balaustion's Adventure. The Greek form of the proper names has been retained. [104] Proserpine. [105] For the originals, see Iliad, 2, 715, and the Alcestis of Euripides. [106] Ovid, Metam. 11, 146-193. [107] § 118. [108] § 145. [109] Ovid, Metam. 1, 452-567. [110] From the Fable for Critics. [111] Iliad, 9, 561; Apollodorus, 1, 7, § 8. [112] Stephen Phillips, Marpessa. [113] Ovid, Metam. 4, 256-270. [114] § 196. [115] § 168. [116] Ovid, Metam. 5, 585-641. [117] Ovid, Metam. 3, 138-252. [118] Apollodorus, 1, 4, § 3. [119] Ovid, Fasti, 5, 537; Iliad, 18, 486, and 22, 29; Odyssey, 5, 121, 274. [120] The story is told by Hyginus in his Fables, and in his Poetical Astronomy. [121] Authorities are Pausanias, 5, 1, §§ 2-4; Ovid, Ars. Am. 3, 83; Tristia, 2, 299; Apollonius, and Apollodorus. [122] From the Endymion, Bk. 3. [123] § 194. [124] Ovid, Metam. 10, 503-559, 708-739. [125] From an elegy intended to be sung at one of the spring celebrations in memory of Adonis. Translated from Bion by Andrew Lang. _Cypris_, _Cytherea_, and the _Paphian_ refer to Venus. See Commentary. This elegy is also translated by Mrs. Browning and by Sir Edwin Arnold. [126] Apuleius, Metam. Golden Ass, 4, 28, etc. [127] William Morris, The Story of Cupid and Psyche, in The Earthly Paradise. [128] Robert Bridges, Eros and Psyche. [129] The last three paragraphs are from Pater's version in Marius the Epicurean. [130] William Morris, The Earthly Paradise. [131] By T. K. Hervey. [132] Ovid, Metam. 10, 560-680. [133] From W. S. Landor's Hippomenes and Atalanta. [134] The poetical passages are from Marlowe's Hero and Leander, First Sestiad. Marlowe's narrative was completed by Chapman. See Musæus of Alexandria, De Amore Herois et Leandri; Virg. Georg. 3, 258; Ovid, Her. 18, 19; Stat. Theb. 6, 770. [135] Sonnet, On a Picture of Leander. [136] Ovid, Metam. 10, 243-297. [137] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion. [138] From William Morris, Pygmalion and the Image, in The Earthly Paradise. [139] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion, or The Statue's Choice. A witty and not unpoetic bit of burlesque. [140] Ovid, Metam. 4, 55-166. [141] § 100, and Commentary. [142] Murray, Manual of Mythology, p. 87; Ovid, Metam. 10, 298-502. [143] See Index for sections. [144] Hymn to Mercury (Hermes). CHAPTER VIII MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF EARTH =110. Myths of Bacchus.= Since the adventures of Ceres, although she was a goddess of earth, are intimately connected with the life of the underworld, they will be related in the sections pertaining to Proserpine and Pluto. The god of vernal sap and vegetation, of the gladness that comes of youth or of wine, the golden-curled, sleepy-eyed Bacchus (Dionysus),--his wanderings, and the fortunes of mortals brought under his influence (Pentheus, Acetes, Ariadne, and Midas), here challenge our attention. [Illustration: FIG. 82. SILENUS TAKING DIONYSUS TO SCHOOL] =111. The Wanderings of Bacchus.= After the death of Semele,[145] Jove took the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the Nysæan nymphs, who nourished his infancy and childhood and for their care were placed by Jupiter, as the Hyades, among the stars. Another guardian and tutor of young Bacchus was the pot-bellied, jovial Silenus, son of Pan and a nymph, and oldest of the Satyrs. Silenus was probably an indulgent preceptor. He was generally tipsy and would have broken his neck early in his career, had not the Satyrs held him on his ass's back as he reeled along in the train of his pupil. After Bacchus was of age, he discovered the culture of the vine and the mode of extracting its precious juice; but Juno struck him with madness and drove him forth a wanderer through various parts of the earth. In Phrygia the goddess Rhea cured him and taught him her religious rites; and then he set out on a progress through Asia, teaching the people the cultivation of the vine. The most famous part of his wanderings is his expedition to India, which is said to have lasted several years. Returning in triumph, he undertook to introduce his worship into Greece, but was opposed by certain princes who dreaded the disorders and madness it brought with it. Finally, he approached his native city Thebes, where his own cousin, Pentheus, son of Agave and grandson of Harmonia and Cadmus, was king. Pentheus, however, had no respect for the new worship and forbade its rites to be performed.[146] But when it was known that Bacchus was advancing, men and women, young and old, poured forth to meet him and to join his triumphal march. [Illustration: FIG. 83. BEARDED DIONYSUS AND SATYR] Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow, supernal As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal. Round about him fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses.[147] It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded, and threatened. His nearest friends and wisest counselors begged him not to oppose the god. Their remonstrances only made him the more violent. =112. The Story of Acetes.= Soon the attendants returned who had been dispatched to seize Bacchus. They had succeeded in taking one of the Bacchanals prisoner, whom, with his hands tied behind him, they brought before the king. Pentheus, threatening him with death, commanded him to tell who he was and what these new rites were that he presumed to celebrate. [Illustration: FIG. 84. SATYR AND MÆNAD WITH CHILD DIONYSUS] The prisoner, unterrified, replied that he was Acetes of Mæonia; that his parents, being poor, had left him their fisherman's trade, which he had followed till he had acquired the pilot's art of steering his course by the stars. It once happened that he had touched at the island of Dia and had sent his men ashore for fresh water. They returned, bringing with them a lad of delicate appearance whom they had found asleep. Judging him to be a noble youth, they thought to detain him in the hope of liberal ransom. But Acetes suspected that some god was concealed under the youth's exterior, and asked pardon for the violence done. Whereupon the sailors, enraged by their lust of gain, exclaimed, "Spare thy prayers for us!" and, in spite of the resistance offered by Acetes, thrust the captive youth on board and set sail. Then Bacchus (for the youth was indeed he), as if shaking off his drowsiness, asked what the trouble was and whither they were carrying him. One of the mariners replied, "Fear nothing; tell us where thou wouldst go, and we will convey thee thither." "Naxos is my home," said Bacchus; "take me there, and ye shall be well rewarded." They promised so to do; but, preventing the pilot from steering toward Naxos, they bore away for Egypt, where they might sell the lad into slavery. Soon the god looked out over the sea and said in a voice of weeping, "Sailors, these are not the shores ye promised me; yonder island is not my home. It is small glory ye shall gain by cheating a poor boy." Acetes wept to hear him, but the crew laughed at both of them and sped the vessel fast over the sea. All at once it stopped in mid-sea, as fast as if it were fixed on the ground. The men, astonished, pulled at their oars and spread more sail, but all in vain. Ivy twined round the oars and clung to the sails, with heavy clusters of berries. A vine laden with grapes ran up the mast and along the sides of the vessel. The sound of flutes was heard, and the odor of fragrant wine spread all around. The god himself had a chaplet of vine leaves and bore in his hand a spear wreathed with ivy. Tigers crouched at his feet, and forms of lynxes and spotted panthers played around him. The whole crew became dolphins and swam about the ship. Of twenty men Acetes alone was left. "Fear not," said the god; "steer towards Naxos." The pilot obeyed, and when they arrived there, kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred rites of Bacchus. [Illustration: FIG. 85. DIONYSUS AT SEA] So far had Acetes advanced in his narrative, when Pentheus, interrupting, ordered him off to his death. But from this fate the pilot, rendered invisible by his patron deity, was straightway rescued. Meanwhile, the mountain Cithæron seemed alive with worshipers, and the cries of the Bacchanals resounded on every side. Pentheus, angered by the noise, penetrated through the wood and reached an open space where the chief scene of the orgies met his eyes. At the same moment the women saw him, among them his mother Agave, and Autonoë and Ino, her sisters. Taking him for a wild boar, they rushed upon him and tore him to pieces,--his mother shouting, "Victory! Victory! the glory is ours!" So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece. It was on the island of Naxos that Bacchus afterward found Ariadne, the daughter of Minos, king of Crete, who had been deserted by her lover, Theseus. How Bacchus comforted her is related in another section. How the god himself is worshiped is told by Edmund Gosse in the poem from which the following extracts are taken: [Illustration: FIG. 86. BACCHIC PROCESSION] Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose, And down the vales a lyric people flows; Dancing to music, in their dance they fling Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir; Tossing on high the symbol of their rite, The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire; Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, With ivy circling their abundant hair; Onward, with even pace, in stately rows, With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. ... But oh! within the heart of this great flight, Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre? What form is this of more than mortal height? What matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire! The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, And harmonize their steps with stately care; Bent to the morning, like a living rose, The immortal splendor of his face he shows, And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing....[148] [Illustration: FIG. 87. DIONYSUS VISITING A POET] =113. The Choice of King Midas.=[149] Once Silenus, having wandered from the company of Bacchus in an intoxicated condition, was found by some peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas entertained him royally and on the eleventh day restored him in safety to his divine pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of a reward. The king asked that whatever he might touch should be changed into gold. Bacchus consented. Midas hastened to put his new-acquired power to the test. A twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold in his hand. He took up a stone; it changed to gold. He touched a sod with the same result. He took an apple from the tree; you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the Hesperides. He ordered his servants, then, to set an excellent meal on the table. But, to his dismay, when he touched bread, it hardened in his hand; when he put a morsel to his lips, it defied his teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his throat like melted gold. He strove to divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted. He raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to be delivered from this glittering destruction. The merciful deity heard and sent him to wash away his fault and its punishment in the fountainhead of the river Pactolus. Scarce had Midas touched the waters, before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river sands became golden, as they remain to this day. Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country and became a worshiper of Pan, the god of the fields. But that he had not gained common sense is shown by the decision that he delivered somewhat later in favor of Pan's superiority, as a musician, over Apollo.[150] FOOTNOTES: [145] § 60. [146] Ovid, Metam. 3, 511-733. [147] Longfellow, Drinking Song. [148] From The Praise of Dionysus. [149] Ovid, Metam. 11, 85-145. [150] See § 85. [Illustration: FIG. 88. RAPE OF PROSERPINA] CHAPTER IX FROM THE EARTH TO THE UNDERWORLD =114. Myths of Ceres, Pluto, and Proserpine.= The search of Ceres for Proserpine, and of Orpheus for Eurydice, are stories pertaining both to Earth and Hades. =115. The Rape of Proserpine.=[151] When the giants were imprisoned by Jupiter under Mount Ætna, Pluto (Hades) feared lest the shock of their fall might expose his kingdom to the light of day. Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot drawn by black horses, and made 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 thy darts which subdue all, even Jove himself, and send one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Dost thou not see that even in heaven some despise our power? Minerva and Diana defy us; and there is that daughter of Ceres, goddess of earth, who threatens to follow their example. Now, if thou regardest thine own interest or mine, join these two in one." The boy selected his sharpest and truest arrow, and sped it right to the heart of Pluto. In the vale of Enna is a lake embowered in woods, where Spring reigns perpetual. Here Proserpine (Persephone) was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and violets, and singing, one may imagine, such words as our poet Shelley puts into her mouth: Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth, Thou from whose immortal bosom, Gods, and men, and beasts, have birth, Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child, Proserpine. If with mists of evening dew Thou dost nourish these young flowers Till they grow, in scent and hue, Fairest children of the hours, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child, Proserpine.[152] Pluto saw her, loved her, and carried her off. She screamed for help to her mother and her companions; but the ravisher urged on his steeds and outdistanced pursuit. When he reached the river Cyane, it opposed his passage, whereupon he struck the bank with his trident, and the earth opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus. =116. The Wanderings of Ceres.=[153] Ceres (Demeter) 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. At length, weary and sad, she sat down upon a stone, and remained 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, near the home of an old man named Celeus. His little girl, pitying the old woman, said to her, "Mother,"--and the name was sweet to the ears of Ceres,--"why sittest thou here alone upon the rocks?" The old man begged her to come into his cottage. She declined. He urged her. "Go in peace," she replied, "and be happy in thy daughter; I have lost mine." But their compassion finally prevailed. Ceres rose from the stone and went with them. As they walked, Celeus said that his only son lay sick of a fever. The goddess stooped and gathered some poppies. Then, entering the cottage, where all was in distress,--for the boy Triptolemus seemed past recovery,--she restored the child to life and health with a kiss. In grateful happiness the family 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, she arose and, taking the sleeping boy, molded 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 splendor shone all around. While they were overcome with astonishment, she said, "Mother, thou hast been cruel in thy fondness; for I would have made thy son immortal. Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men the use of the plow and the rewards which labor can win from the soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her and mounting her chariot rode away. [Illustration: FIG. 89. HADES AND PERSEPHONE] Ceres continued her search for her daughter till at length she returned to Sicily, whence she first had set out, and stood by the banks of the river Cyane. The river nymph would have told the goddess all she had witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she ventured merely to take up the girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her flight, and float it to the feet of the mother. Ceres, seeing this, laid her curse on the innocent earth in which her daughter had disappeared. Then succeeded drought and famine, flood and plague, until, at last, the fountain Arethusa made intercession for the land. For she had seen that it opened only unwillingly to the might of Pluto; and she had also, in her flight from Alpheüs through the lower regions of the earth, beheld the missing Proserpine. She said that the daughter of Ceres seemed sad, but no longer showed 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. [Illustration: FIG. 90. SACRIFICE TO DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE] When Ceres heard this, she stood awhile like one stupefied; then she implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the restitution of her daughter. Jupiter consented on condition 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. A compromise, however, was effected by which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and the rest with the lord of Hades. Of modern poems upon the story of the maiden seized in the vale of Enna, none conveys a lesson more serene of the beauty of that dark lover of all fair life, Death, than the Proserpine of Woodberry, from which we quote the three following stanzas. "I pick," says the poet wandering through the vale of Enna, I pick the flowers that Proserpine let fall, Sung through the world by every honeyed muse: Wild morning-glories, daisies waving tall, At every step is something new to choose; And oft I stop and gaze Upon the flowery maze; By yonder cypresses on that soft rise, Scarce seen through poppies and the knee-deep wheat, Juts the dark cleft where on her came the fleet Thunder-black horses and the cloud's surprise And he who filled the place. Did marigolds bright as these, gilding the mist, Drop from her maiden zone? Wert thou last kissed, Pale hyacinth, last seen, before his face? * * * * * Oh, whence has silence stolen on all things here, Where every sight makes music to the eye? Through all one unison is singing clear; All sounds, all colors in one rapture die. Breathe slow, O heart, breathe slow! A presence from below Moves toward the breathing world from that dark deep, Whereof men fabling tell what no man knows, By little fires amid the winter snows, When earth lies stark in her titanic sleep And doth with cold expire; He brings thee all, O Maiden flower of earth, Her child in whom all nature comes to birth, Thee, the fruition of all dark desire. * * * * * O Proserpine, dream not that thou art gone Far from our loves, half-human, half-divine; Thou hast a holier adoration won In many a heart that worships at no shrine. Where light and warmth behold me, And flower and wheat infold me, I lift a dearer prayer than all prayers past: He who so loved thee that the live earth clove Before his pathway unto light and love, And took thy flower-full bosom,--who at last Shall every blossom cull,-- Lover the most of what is most our own, The mightiest lover that the world has known, Dark lover, Death,--was he not beautiful?[154] [Illustration: FIG. 91. TRIPTOLEMUS AND THE ELEUSINIAN DEITIES] =117. Triptolemus and the Eleusinian Mysteries.= Ceres, pacified with this arrangement, restored the earth to her favor. Now she remembered, also, Celeus and his family, and her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. She taught the boy the use of the plow and how to sow the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged dragons, through all the countries of the earth; and under her guidance he imparted to mankind valuable grains and the knowledge of agriculture. After his return Triptolemus built a temple to Ceres in Eleusis and established the worship of the goddess under the name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which in the splendor and solemnity of their observance surpassed all other religious celebrations among the Greeks. [Illustration: FIG. 92. DEMETER, TRIPTOLEMUS, AND PROSERPINA] =118. Orpheus and= =Eurydice.=[155] Of mortals who have visited Hades and returned, none has a sweeter or sadder history than Orpheus, son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. Presented by his father with a lyre and taught to play upon it, he became the most famous of musicians, and not only his fellow mortals but even the wild beasts were softened by his strains. The very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. And so also was Eurydice,--whom he loved and won. [Illustration: FIG. 93. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE From the painting by Lord Leighton] Hymen was called to bless with his presence the nuptials of Orpheus with Eurydice, but he conveyed no happy omens with him. His torch smoked and brought tears into the eyes. In keeping with such sad prognostics, Eurydice, shortly after her marriage, was seen by the shepherd Aristæus, who was struck with her beauty and made advances to her. As she fled she trod upon a snake in the grass, and was bitten in the foot. She died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and men, and finding his complaint of no avail, resolved to seek his wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave situated on the side of the promontory of Tænarus, and arrived in the Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts and presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying his words with the lyre, he sang his petition for his wife. Without her he would not return. In such tender strains he sang that the very ghosts shed tears. Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his efforts for water, Ixion's wheel stood still, the vulture ceased to tear the giant's liver, the daughters of Danaüs rested from their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen.[156] Then for the first time, it is said, the cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist and Pluto himself gave way. Eurydice was called. She came from among the new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot. Orpheus was permitted to take her away with him on condition that he should not turn round to look at her till they should have reached the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded on their way, he leading, she following. Mindful of his promise, without let or hindrance the bard passed through the horrors of hell. All Hades held its breath. [Illustration: FIG. 94. FAREWELL OF ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE] ... On he slept, And Cerberus held agape his triple jaws; On stept the bard. Ixion's wheel stood still. Now, past all peril, free was his return, And now was hastening into upper air Eurydice, when sudden madness seized The incautious lover; pardonable fault, If they below could pardon: on the verge Of light he stood, and on Eurydice (Mindless of fate, alas! and soul-subdued) Lookt back. There, Orpheus! Orpheus! there was all Thy labor shed, there burst the Dynast's bond, And thrice arose that rumor from the lake. "Ah, what!" she cried, "what madness hath undone Me! and, ah, wretched! thee, my Orpheus, too! For lo! the cruel Fates recall me now; Chill slumbers press my swimming eyes.... Farewell! Night rolls intense around me as I spread My helpless arms ... thine, thine no more ... to thee." She spake, and, like a vapor, into air Flew, nor beheld him as he claspt the void And sought to speak; in vain; the ferry-guard Now would not row him o'er the lake again, His wife twice lost, what could he? whither go? What chant, what wailing, move the Powers of Hell? Cold in the Stygian bark and lone was she. Beneath a rock o'er Strymon's flood on high, Seven months, seven long-continued months, 'tis said, He breath'd his sorrows in a desert cave, And sooth'd the tiger, moved the oak, with song.[157] The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their advances. Finally, excited by the rites of Bacchus, one of them exclaimed, "See yonder our despiser!" and threw at him her javelin. The weapon, as soon as it came within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless at his feet; so also the stones that they threw at him. But the women, raising a scream, drowned the voice of the music, and overwhelmed him with their missiles. Like maniacs they tore him limb from limb; then cast his head and lyre into the river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music to which the shores responded. The Muses buried the fragments of his body at Libethra, where the nightingale is said to sing over his grave more sweetly than in any other part of Greece. His lyre was placed by Jupiter among the stars; but the shade of the bard passed a second time to Tartarus and rejoined Eurydice. Other mortals who visited the Stygian realm and returned were Hercules, Theseus, Ulysses, and Æneas.[158] FOOTNOTES: [151] Ovid, Metam. 5, 341-347. [152] Song of Proserpine, while gathering flowers on the plain of Enna. [153] Ovid, Metam. 5. 440, 642; Apollodorus, 1, 5, § 2; Hyginus, Fab. 147. [154] From Proserpine, stanzas written by Lake Pergusa; by George E. Woodberry (_Century_ _Magazine_, July, 1909). [155] Ovid, Metam. 10, 1-77. [156] See Commentary [157] From W. S. Landor's Orpheus and Eurydice in Dry Sticks. [158] See Index. CHAPTER X MYTHS OF NEPTUNE, RULER OF THE WATERS [Illustration: FIG. 95. POSEIDON] =119. Lord of the Sea.= Neptune (Poseidon) was lord both of salt waters and of fresh. The myths that turn on his life as lord of the sea illustrate his defiant invasions of lands belonging to other gods, or his character as earth shaker and earth protector. Of his contests with other gods, that with Minerva for Athens has been related. He contested Corinth with Helios, Argos with Juno, Ægina with Jove, Naxos with Bacchus, and Delphi with Apollo. That he did not always make encroachments in person upon the land that he desired to possess or to punish, but sent some monster instead, will be seen in the myth of Andromeda[159] and in the following story of Hesione,[160] the daughter of Laomedon of Troy. Neptune and Apollo had fallen under the displeasure of Jupiter after the overthrow of the giants. They were compelled, it is said, to resign for a season their respective functions and to serve Laomedon, then about to build the city of Troy. They aided the king in erecting the walls of the city but were refused the wages agreed upon. Justly offended, Neptune ravaged the land by floods and sent against it a sea monster, to satiate the appetite of which the desperate Laomedon was driven to offer his daughter Hesione. But Hercules appeared upon the scene, killed the monster, and rescued the maiden. Neptune, however, nursed his wrath; and it was still warm when the Greeks marched against Troy. Of a like impetuous and ungovernable temper were the sons of Neptune by mortal mothers. From him were sprung the savage Læstrygonians, Orion, the Cyclops Polyphemus, the giant Antæus whom Hercules slew, Procrustes, and many another redoubtable being whose fortunes are elsewhere recounted.[161] =120. Lord of Streams and Fountains.= As earth shaker, the ruler of the deep was known to effect convulsions of nature that made Pluto leap from his throne lest the firmament of the underworld might be falling about his ears. But as god of the streams and fountains, Neptune displayed milder characteristics. When Amymone, sent by her father Danaüs to draw water, was pursued by a satyr, Neptune gave ear to her cry for help, dispatched the satyr, made love to the maiden, and boring the earth with his trident called forth the spring that still bears the Danaïd's name. He loved the goddess Ceres also, through whose pastures his rivers strayed; and Arne the shepherdess, daughter of King Æolus, by whom he became the forefather of the B[oe]otians. His children, Pelias and Neleus, by the princess Tyro, whom he wooed in the form of her lover Enipeus, became keepers of horses--animals especially dear to Neptune. Perhaps it was the similarity of horse-taming to wave-taming that attracted the god to these quadrupeds; perhaps it was because they increased in beauty and speed on the pastures watered by his streams. It is said, indeed, that the first and fleetest of horses, Arion, was the offspring of Neptune and Ceres, or of Neptune and a Fury. =121. Pelops and Hippodamia.=[162] To Pelops, brother of Niobe, Neptune imparted skill in training and driving horses,--and with good effect. For it happened that Pelops fell in love with Hippodamia, daughter of [OE]nomaüs, king of Elis and son of Mars,--a girl of whom it was reported that none could win her save by worsting the father in a chariot race, and that none might fail in that race and come off alive. Since an oracle, too, had warned [OE]nomaüs to beware of the future husband of his daughter, he had provided himself with horses whose speed was like the cyclone. But Pelops, obtaining from Neptune winged steeds, entered the race and won it,--whether by the speed of his horses or by the aid of Hippodamia, who, it is said, bribed her father's charioteer, Myrtilus, to take a bolt out of the chariot of [OE]nomaüs, is uncertain. At any rate, Pelops married Hippodamia. He was so injudicious, however, as to throw Myrtilus into the sea; and from that treachery sprang the misfortunes of the house of Pelops. For Myrtilus, dying, cursed the murderer and his race. [Illustration: FIG. 96. PELOPS WINNING THE RACE, HIPPODAMIA LOOKING ON] FOOTNOTES: [159] § 154. [160] Iliad, 5, 649; Apollodorus, 3, 12, § 7. [161] See Index. [162] Hyginus, Fab. 84, 253; Pindar, Olymp. 1, 114. CHAPTER XI MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN =122. Myths of Stars and Winds.= The tales of Stars and Winds and the other lesser powers of the celestial regions are closely interwoven. That the winds which sweep heaven should kiss the stars is easy to understand. The stories of Aurora (Eos) and of Aura, of Phosphor and of Halcyone, form, therefore, a ready sequence. [Illustration: FIG. 97. PHOSPHOR, EOS, AND HELIOS (THE SUN) RISING FROM THE SEA] =123. Cephalus and Procris.=[163] Aurora, the goddess of the dawn, fell in love with Cephalus, a young huntsman. She stole him away, lavished her love upon him, tried to content him, but in vain. He cared for his young wife Procris more than for the goddess. Finally, Aurora dismissed him in displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful mortal, keep thy wife; but thou shalt one day be sorry that thou didst ever see her again." Cephalus returned and was as happy as before in his wife. She, being a favorite of Diana, had received from her for the chase a dog and a javelin, which she handed over to her husband. Of the dog it is told that when about to catch the swiftest fox in the country, he was changed with his victim into stone. For the heavenly powers, who had made both and rejoiced in the speed of both, were not willing that either should conquer. The javelin was destined to a sad office. It appears that Cephalus, when weary of the chase, was wont to stretch himself in a certain shady nook to enjoy the breeze. Sometimes he would say aloud, "Come, gentle Aura, sweet goddess of the breeze, come and allay the heat that burns me." Some one, foolishly believing that he addressed a maiden, told the secret to Procris. Hoping against hope, she stole out after him the next morning and concealed herself in the place which the informer had indicated. Cephalus, when tired with sport, stretched himself on the green bank and summoned fair Aura as usual. Suddenly he heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in the bushes. Supposing it to proceed from some wild animal, he threw his javelin at the spot. A cry told him that the weapon had too surely met its mark. He rushed to the place and raised his wounded Procris from the earth. She, at last, opened her feeble eyes and forced herself to utter these words: "I implore thee, if thou hast ever loved me, if I have ever deserved kindness at thy hands, my husband, grant me this last request; marry not that odious Breeze!" So saying, she expired in her lover's arms. [Illustration: FIG. 98. SUN, RISING, PRECEDED BY DAWN From the painting by Guido Reni] [Illustration: FIG. 99. SUNRISE; EOS PURSUING CEPHALUS] =124. Dobson's The Death of= =Procris.= A different version of the story is given in the following: Procris, the nymph, had wedded Cephalus;-- He, till the spring had warmed to slow-winged days Heavy with June, untired and amorous, Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways, His heart was gone; and evermore his gaze Turned from her own, and even farther ranged His woodland war; while she, in dull amaze, Beholding with the hours her husband changed, Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged. So, on a day, she rose and found him not. Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade; Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast Her crimson weed; with faltering fingers made Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast. And all day long her slight spear devious flew, And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim, For ever, as the ivory bow she drew, Before her ran the still unwounded game. Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came, And, lo! a hart that panted with the chase. Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame, And swift she gat her to a leafy place, Thinking, "I yet may chance unseen to see his face." Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus, Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare, Supple he was, round-limbed and vigorous, Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair. He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair Move in the covert, deeming that apart Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there; Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart, Bounding above the fern, fast following up the hart. But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers, Shot in the throat. From out the little wound The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground. None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound, That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear, Till, at the dawn, the hornèd wood-men found And bore her gently on a sylvan bier, To lie beside the sea,--with many an uncouth tear. =125. Ceyx and Halcyone.= The son of Aurora and Cephalus was Phosphor, the Star of Morning. His son Ceyx, king of Trachis in Thessaly, had married Halcyone, daughter of Æolus.[164] Their reign was happy until the brother of Ceyx met his death. The direful prodigies that followed this event made Ceyx feel that the gods were hostile to him. He thought best therefore to make a voyage to Claros in Ionia to consult the oracle of Apollo. In spite of his wife's entreaties (for as daughter of the god of winds she knew how dreadful a thing a storm at sea was), Ceyx set sail. He was shipwrecked and drowned. His last prayer was that the waves might bear his body to the sight of Halcyone, and that it might receive burial at her hands. In the meanwhile, Halcyone counted the days till her husband's promised return. To all the gods she offered frequent incense, but more than all to Juno. The goddess, at last, could not bear to be further pleaded with for one already dead. Calling Iris, she enjoined her to approach the drowsy dwelling of Somnus and bid him send a vision to Halcyone in the form of Ceyx, to reveal the sad event. [Illustration: FIG. 100. THE GOD OF SLEEP] Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tinging the sky with her bow, seeks the cave near the Cimmerian country, which is the abode of the dull god, Somnus. Here Ph[oe]bus dare not come. Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The cock never there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchdog nor goose disturbs the silence. No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation breaks the stillness. From the bottom of the rock the river Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies grow before the door of the cave, from whose juices Night distills slumbers which she scatters over the darkened earth. There is no gate to creak on its hinges, nor any watchman. In the midst, on a couch of black ebony adorned with black plumes and black curtains the god reclines, his limbs relaxed in sleep. Around him lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore sand grains. Brushing away the dreams that hovered around her, Iris lit up the cave and delivered her message to the god, who, scarce opening his eyes, had great difficulty in shaking himself free from himself. Then Iris hasted away from the drowsiness creeping over her, and returned by her bow as she had come. But Somnus called one of his sons, Morpheus, the most expert in counterfeiting forms of men, to perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself again to grateful repose. Morpheus flew on silent wings to the Hæmonian city, where he assumed the form of Ceyx. Pale like a dead man, naked and dripping, he stood before the couch of the wretched wife and told her that the winds of the Ægean had sunk his ship, that he was dead. Weeping and groaning, Halcyone sprang from sleep and, with the dawn, hastening to the seashore, descried an indistinct object washed to and fro by the waves. As it floated nearer she recognized the body of her husband. In despair, leaping from the mole, she was changed instantly to a bird, and poured forth a song of grief as she flew. By the mercy of the gods Ceyx was likewise transformed. For seven days before and seven days after the winter solstice, Jove forbids the winds to blow. Then Halcyone broods over her nest; then the way is safe to seafarers. Æolus confines the winds that his grandchildren may have peace. =126. Aurora and Tithonus.=[165] Aurora seems frequently to have been inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite, and almost her latest, was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old. When his hair was white she left his society; but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was clad in celestial raiment. In time he lost the power of using his limbs; and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally, she turned him into a grasshopper. =127. Tennyson's Tithonus.= The following is, according to a fine poetic conception, the lament of the old man when but a white-haired shadow: The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man-- So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd To his great heart none other than a God! I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give; But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills, And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt them ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? "The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch--if I be he that watched-- The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not forever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave: Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. =128. Memnon=, the son of Aurora and Tithonus, was king of the Æthiopians. He went with warriors to assist his kindred in the Trojan War, and was received by King Priam with honor. He fought bravely, slew Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, and held the Greeks at bay until Achilles appeared. Before that hero he fell. Then Aurora, seeing her son's fate, directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks of the river Æsepus in Mysia. In the evening Aurora, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, bewept her son. Night spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the Dawn. The Æthiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the flame. Every year at the anniversary of his death they celebrated his obsequies in like manner. Aurora remained inconsolable. The dewdrops are her tears.[166] [Illustration: FIG. 101. THE DEATH OF MEMNON] The kinship of Memnon to the Dawn is certified even after his death. On the banks of the Nile are two colossal statues, one of which is called Memnon's; and it was said that when the first rays of morning fell upon this statue, a sound like the snapping of a harp-string issued therefrom.[167] So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain; Touched by his orient beam responsive rings The living lyre and vibrates all its strings; Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong, And holy echoes swell the adoring song.[168] FOOTNOTES: [163] Ovid, Metam. 7, 394 _et seq._ [164] Ovid, Metam. 11, 583-748. [165] Homeric Hymn to Venus; Horace, Odes, 1, 22; 2, 16; Apollodorus, 3, 12, § 4. [166] Ovid, Metam. 13, 622, etc. Odyssey, 4, 188; 11, 522. Pindar, Pyth. 6, 30. [167] Pausanias, 1, 42, § 2. [168] Darwin, Botanic Garden. CHAPTER XII MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF EARTH, ETC. =129. Pan, and the Personification of Nature.= It was a pleasing trait in the old paganism that it loved to trace in every operation of nature the agency of deity. The imagination of the Greeks peopled the regions of earth and sea with divinities, to whose agency it attributed the phenomena that our philosophy ascribes to the operation of natural law. So Pan, the god of woods and fields,[169] whose name seemed to signify _all_, came to be considered a symbol of the universe and a personification of Nature. "Universal Pan," says Milton in his description of the creation: Universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, Led on the eternal Spring. Later, Pan came to be regarded as a representative of all the Greek gods and of paganism itself. Indeed, according to an early Christian tradition, when the heavenly host announced to the shepherds the birth of Christ, a deep groan, heard through the isles of Greece, told that great Pan was dead, that the dynasty of Olympus was dethroned, and the several deities sent wandering in cold and darkness. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.[170] Many a poet has lamented the change. For even if the head did profit for a time by the revolt against the divine prerogative of nature, it is more than possible that the heart lost in due proportion. His sorrow at this loss of imaginative sympathy among the moderns Wordsworth expresses in the sonnet, already cited, beginning "The world is too much with us." Schiller, also, by his poem, The Gods of Greece, has immortalized his sorrow for the decadence of the ancient mythology. [Illustration: FIG. 102. PAN BLOWING HIS PIPE, ECHO ANSWERING] Ah, the beauteous world while yet ye ruled it,-- Yet--by gladsome touches of the hand; Ah, the joyous hearts that still ye governed, Gods of Beauty, ye, of Fable-land! Then, ah, then, the mysteries resplendent Triumphed.--Other was it then, I ween, When thy shrines were odorous with garlands, Thou, of Amathus the queen. Then the gracious veil, of fancy woven, Fell in folds about the fact uncouth; Through the universe life flowed in fullness, What we feel not now was felt in sooth: Man ascribed nobility to Nature, Rendered love unto the earth he trod, Everywhere his eye, illuminated, Saw the footprints of a God. * * * * * Lovely world, where art thou? Turn, oh, turn thee, Fairest blossom-tide of Nature's spring! Only in the poet's realm of wonder Liv'st thou, still,--a fable vanishing. Reft of life the meadows lie deserted; Ne'er a godhead can my fancy see: Ah, if only of those living colors Lingered yet the ghost with me![171] * * * * * It was the poem from which these stanzas are taken that provoked the well-known reply of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, contained in The Dead Pan. Her argument may be gathered from the following stanzas: By your beauty which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, By our grand heroic guesses Through your falsehood at the True, We will weep _not_! earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole, And Pan is dead. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth; And those debonair romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Ph[oe]bus' chariot course is run! Look up, poets, to the sun! Pan, Pan is dead. =130. Stedman's Pan in Wall Street.=[172] That Pan, however, is not yet dead but alive even in the practical atmosphere of our western world, the poem here appended, written by one of our recently deceased American poets, would indicate. Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations; Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations; Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple,-- Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. [Illustration: FIG. 103. THE MUSIC LESSON] And as it still'd the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ play'd, The other held a Pan's pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'T was Pan himself had wandered here, A-strolling through the sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had cross'd the seas,-- From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times,--to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head: But--hidden thus--there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were cross'd, as on some frieze you see them. And trousers, patched of divers hues, Conceal'd his crooked shanks beneath them. [Illustration: FIG. 104. BACCHIC DANCE] He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stay'd to list,-- A boxer Ægon, rough and merry,-- Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Naïs at the Brooklyn Ferry. [Illustration: FIG. 105. SILENUS] A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tatter'd cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng,-- A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus stagger'd out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up "Yankee Doodle Dandy!" A newsboy and a peanut girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper. And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. O heart of Nature! beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,-- Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands,-- Enchantress of the souls of mortals! So thought I,--but among us trod A man in blue with legal baton; And scoff'd the vagrant demigod, And push'd him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry-- "Great Pan is dead!"--and all the people Went on their ways:--and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. [Illustration: FIG. 106. SATYR] =131. Other Lesser Gods of Earth.= Of the company of the lesser gods of earth, besides Pan, were the Sileni, the Sylvans, the Fauns, and the Satyrs, all male; the Oreads and the Dryads or Hamadryads, female. To these may be added the Naiads, for, although they dwelt in the streams, their association with the deities of earth was intimate. Of the nymphs, the Oreads and the Naiads were immortal. The love of Pan for Syrinx has already been mentioned, and his musical contest with Apollo. Of Silenus we have seen something in the adventures of Bacchus. What kind of existence the Satyr enjoyed is conveyed in the following soliloquy: [Illustration: FIG. 107. SATYR SWINGING MAIDEN] The trunk of this tree, Dusky-leaved, shaggy-rooted, Is a pillow well suited To a hybrid like me, Goat-bearded, goat-footed; For the boughs of the glade Meet above me, and throw A cool, pleasant shade On the greenness below; Dusky and brown'd Close the leaves all around; And yet, all the while, Thro' the boughs I can see A star, with a smile, Looking at me.... [Illustration: FIG. 108. SATYR DRINKING] Why, all day long, I run about With a madcap throng, And laugh and shout. Silenus grips My ears, and strides On my shaggy hips, And up and down In an ivy crown Tipsily rides; And when in doze His eyelids close, Off he tumbles, and I Can his wine-skin steal, I drink--and feel The grass roll--sea high; Then with shouts and yells, Down mossy dells, I stagger after The wood-nymphs fleet, Who with mocking laughter And smiles retreat; And just as I clasp A yielding waist, With a cry embraced, --Gush! it melts from my grasp Into water cool, And--bubble! trouble! Seeing double! I stumble and gasp In some icy pool![173] =132. Echo and Narcissus.=[174] Echo was a beautiful Oread, fond of the woods and hills, a favorite of Diana, whom she attended in the chase. But by her chatter she came under the displeasure of Juno, who condemned her to the loss of voice save for purposes of reply. [Illustration: FIG. 109. NARCISSUS] Subsequently having fallen in love with Narcissus, the beautiful son of the river-god Cephissus, Echo found it impossible to express her regard for him in any way but by mimicking what he said; and what he said, unfortunately, did not always convey her sentiments. When, however, he once called across the hills to her, "Let us join one another," the maid, answering with all her heart, hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would rather die than thou shouldst have me!" "Have me," said she; but in vain. From that time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs, and faded away till there was nothing left of her but her voice. But through his future fortunes she was constant to her cruel lover. This Narcissus was the embodiment of self-conceit. He shunned the rest of the nymphs as he had shunned Echo. One maiden, however, uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging goddess heard. Narcissus, stooping over a river brink, fell in love with his own image in the water. He talked to it, tried to embrace it, languished for it, and pined until he died. Indeed, even after death, it is said that when his shade passed the Stygian river it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for Narcissus, especially the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts, Echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found. In its place had sprung up a flower, purple within and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of the son of Cephissus. =133. Echo, Pan, Lyde, and the Satyr.= Another interesting episode in the life of Echo is given by Moschus:[175] Pan loved his neighbor Echo; Echo loved A gamesome Satyr; he, by her unmoved, Loved only Lyde; thus through Echo, Pan, Lyde, and Satyr, Love his circle ran. Thus all, while their true lovers' hearts they grieved, Were scorned in turn, and what they gave received. O all Love's scorners, learn this lesson true: Be kind to love, that he be kind to you. =134. The Naiads.= These nymphs guarded streams and fountains of fresh water and, like the Naiad who speaks in the following verses, kept them sacred for Diana or some other divinity. Dian white-arm'd has given me this cool shrine Deep in the bosom of a wood of pine: The silver-sparkling showers That hive me in, the flowers That prink my fountain's brim, are hers and mine; And when the days are mild and fair, And grass is springing, buds are blowing, Sweet it is, 'mid waters flowing, Here to sit and know no care, 'Mid the waters flowing, flowing, flowing, Combing my yellow, yellow hair. The ounce and panther down the mountain side Creep thro' dark greenness in the eventide; And at the fountain's brink Casting great shades, they drink, Gazing upon me, tame and sapphire-eyed; For, awed by my pale face, whose light Gleameth thro' sedge and lilies yellow They, lapping at my fountain mellow, Harm not the lamb that in affright Throws in the pool so mellow, mellow, mellow, Its shadow small and dusky-white. Oft do the fauns and satyrs, flusht with play, Come to my coolness in the hot noonday. Nay, once indeed, I vow By Dian's truthful brow, The great god Pan himself did pass this way, And, all in festal oak-leaves clad, His limbs among these lilies throwing, Watch'd the silver waters flowing, Listen'd to their music glad, Saw and heard them flowing, flowing, flowing, And ah! his face was worn and sad! Mild joys like silvery waters fall; But it is sweetest, sweetest far of all, In the calm summer night, When the tree-tops look white, To be exhaled in dew at Dian's call, Among my sister-clouds to move Over the darkness, earth bedimming, Milky-robed thro' heaven swimming, Floating round the stars above, Swimming proudly, swimming proudly, swimming, And waiting on the Moon I love. So tenderly I keep this cool, green shrine, Deep in the bosom of a wood of pine; Faithful thro' shade and sun, That service due and done May haply earn for me a place divine Among the white-robed deities That thread thro' starry paths, attending My sweet Lady, calmly wending Thro' the silence of the skies, Changing in hues of beauty never ending, Drinking the light of Dian's eyes.[176] =135. The Dryads=, or =Hamadryads=, assumed at times the forms of peasant girls, shepherdesses, or followers of the hunt. But they were believed to perish with certain trees which had been their abode and with which they had come into existence. Wantonly to destroy a tree was therefore an impious act, sometimes severely punished, as in the cases of Erysichthon and Dryope. =136. Erysichthon=,[177] a despiser of the gods, presumed to violate with the ax a grove sacred to Ceres. A venerable oak, whereon votive tablets had often been hung inscribed with the gratitude of mortals to the nymph of the tree,--an oak round which the Dryads hand in hand had often danced,--he ordered his servants to fell. When he saw them hesitate, he snatched an ax from one, and boasting that he cared not whether it were a tree beloved of the goddess or not, addressed himself to the task. The oak seemed to shudder and utter a groan. When the first blow fell upon the trunk, blood flowed from the wound. Warned by a bystander to desist, Erysichthon slew him; warned by a voice from the nymph of the tree, he redoubled his blows and brought down the oak. The Dryads invoked punishment upon Erysichthon. The goddess Ceres, whom they had supplicated, nodded her assent. She dispatched an Oread to ice-clad Scythia, where Cold abides, and Fear and Shuddering and Famine. At Mount Caucasus, the Oread stayed the dragons of Ceres that drew her chariot; for afar off she beheld Famine, forespent with hunger, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage from a stony field. To her the nymph delivered the commands of Ceres, then returned in haste to Thessaly, for she herself began to be an hungered. The orders of Ceres were executed by Famine, who, speeding through the air, entered the dwelling of Erysichthon and, as he slept, enfolded him with her wings and breathed herself into him. In his dreams the caitiff craved food; and when he awoke, his hunger raged. The more he ate, the more he craved, till, in default of money, he sold his daughter into slavery for edibles. Neptune, however, rescued the girl by changing her into a fisherman; and in that form she assured the slave-owner that she had seen no woman or other person, except herself, thereabouts. Then, resuming her own appearance, she was again and again sold by her father; while by Neptune's favor she became on each occasion a different animal, and so regained her home. Finally, increasing demands of hunger compelled the father to devour his own limbs; and in due time he finished himself off. =137. Dryope=, the wife of Andræmon, purposing with her sister Iole to gather flowers for the altars of the nymphs, plucked the purple blossoms of a lotus plant that grew near the water, and offered them to her child. Iole, about to do the same thing, perceived that the stem of the plant was bleeding. Indeed, the plant was none other than a nymph, Lotis, who, escaping from a base pursuer, had been thus transformed. Dryope would have hastened from the spot, but the displeasure of the nymph had fallen upon her. While protesting her innocence, she began to put forth branches and leaves. Praying her husband to see that no violence was done to her, to remind their child that every flower or bush might be a goddess in disguise, to bring him often to be nursed under her branches, and to teach him to say "My mother lies hid under this bark,"--the luckless woman assumed the shape of a lotus. =138. Rh[oe]cus.=[178] The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish injuries. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still, As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.[179] Rh[oe]cus, happening to see an oak just ready to fall, propped it up. The nymph, who had been on the point of perishing with the tree, expressed her gratitude to him and bade him ask what reward he would. Rh[oe]cus boldly asked her love, and the nymph yielded to his desire. At the same time charging him to be mindful and constant, she promised to expect him an hour before sunset and, meanwhile, to communicate with him by means of her messenger,--a bee: Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourn Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart. So Rh[oe]cus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings, Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. But the day was past its noon. Joining some comrades over the dice, Rh[oe]cus forgot all else. A bee buzzed about his ear. Impatiently he brushed it aside: Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rh[oe]cus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain peak of Thessaly Against the red disk of the setting sun,-- And instantly the blood sank from his heart.... ... Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur, "Rh[oe]cus!" close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sighed the voice, "O Rh[oe]cus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger And sent'st him back to me with bruisèd wings. We spirits only show to gentle eyes, We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Farewell! for thou canst never see me more." Then Rh[oe]cus beat his breast, and groaned aloud, And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!" "Alas!" the voice returned, "'tis thou art blind, Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; Only the soul hath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured, "Nevermore!" And Rh[oe]cus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze: Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth. According to the older tradition, the nymph deprived Rh[oe]cus of his physical sight; but the superior insight of Lowell's interpretation is evident. =139. Pomona and Vertumnus.=[180] Pomona was a Hamadryad of Roman mythology, guardian especially of the apple orchards, but presiding also over other fruits. "Bear me, Pomona," sings one of our poets,-- Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves, To where the lemon and the piercing lime, With the deep orange, glowing through the green, Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined Beneath the spreading tamarind that shakes, Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit.[181] [Illustration: FIG. 110. A RUSTIC] This nymph had scorned the offers of love made her by Pan, Sylvanus, and innumerable Fauns and Satyrs. Vertumnus, too, she had time and again refused. But he, the deity of gardens and of the changing seasons, unwearied, wooed her in as many guises as his seasons themselves could assume. Now as a reaper, now as haymaker, now as plowman, now as vinedresser, now as apple-picker, now as fisherman, now as soldier,--all to no avail. Finally, as an old woman, he came to her, admired her fruit, admired especially the luxuriance of her grapes, descanted on the dependence of the luxuriant vine, close by, upon the elm to which it was clinging; advised Pomona, likewise, to choose some youth--say, for instance, the young Vertumnus--about whom to twine _her_ arms. Then he told how the worthy Iphis, spurned by Anaxarete, had hanged himself to her gatepost; and how the gods had turned the hard-hearted virgin to stone even as she gazed on her lover's funeral. "Consider these things, dearest child," said the seeming old woman, "lay aside thy scorn and thy delays, and accept a lover. So may neither the vernal frosts blight thy young fruits, nor furious winds scatter thy blossoms!" When Vertumnus had thus spoken, he dropped his disguise and stood before Pomona in his proper person,--a comely youth. Such wooing, of course, could not but win its just reward. =140. The Cranes of Ibycus=.[182] The Furies, called also Diræ (the terrible ones), Erinyes (the persecutors, or the angered ones), and finally, by way of euphemism, Eumenides (the well-meaning), though they were spirits of the underworld, visited earth to punish filial disobedience, irreverence to old age, perjury, murder, treachery to guests, even unkindness toward beggars. They avenged the ghosts of such as, dying violent deaths, possessed on earth no representatives either by law or by kindred to avenge them. Therefore, as we shall see, they persecuted Orestes, who had slain his mother. Therefore, like the accusing voice of conscience, they marshaled to punishment the murderers of Ibycus. [Illustration: FIG. 111. A RUSTIC] This poet, beloved of Apollo, was, while journeying to the musical contest of the Isthmus at Corinth, attacked by two robbers in the Corinthian grove of Neptune. Overcome by them, he commended his cause as he fell to a flock of cranes that happened to be screaming hoarsely overhead. But when his body was found, all Greece, then gathered at the festival, demanded vengeance on the murderer. Soon afterward, the vast assemblage in the amphitheater sat listening to a play in which the Chorus personated the Furies. The Choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Advancing with measured step, they formed ranks in the orchestra. Their cheeks were bloodless, and in place of hair writhing serpents curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their hymn. High it swelled, overpowering the sound of the instruments: "Happy the man whose heart is pure from guilt and crime! Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us. But woe! woe! to him who has done the deed of secret murder. We, the fearful brood of Night, fasten ourselves upon him, soul and flesh. Thinks he by flight to escape us? Fly we still faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet, and bring him to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course; still on, still on to the end of life, we give no peace, no rest." Stillness like the stillness of death sat over the assembly. Suddenly a cry burst from one of the uppermost benches,--"Lo, comrade, the avengers of Ibycus!" A flock of cranes crossed the sky. "The murderer has informed against himself," shouted the assemblage. The inference was correct. The criminals, straightway seized, confessed the crime and suffered the penalty. FOOTNOTES: [169] His name is not derived from the Greek _p[=a]n_, all, but from the root _p[)a]_, to feed, to pasture (i.e. the flocks and herds). [170] Milton, Hymn on the Nativity. [171] Translated by C. M. Gayley. [172] By Edmund Clarence Stedman. [173] From The Satyr, by Robert Buchanan. [174] Ovid, Metam. 3, 339-510. [175] Idyl VI (Lang's translation). For Moschus, see Commentary, § 298. [176] From The Naiad, by Robert Buchanan. [177] Ovid, Metam. 8, 738-884. [178] See note (Scholium) on the Argonautics of Apollonius, B 477. Keil's edition, p. 415, l. 32. [179] J. R. Lowell, Rh[oe]cus. The student should read the whole poem. [180] Ovid, Metam. 14, 623-771. [181] Thomson, Seasons. [182] Cf. Cicero, Tusculan Disputations, 4. 33, 71; and Statius, Silvæ, 5. 3, 152. CHAPTER XIII MYTHS OF LESSER DIVINITIES OF THE WATERS =141. Galatea and Polyphemus.= The water-gods may be roughly classed as dwellers in the sea and dwellers in the streams. Of the former, daughters of Nereus and Doris, none was fairer than Galatea, sister of Amphitrite and Thetis. She loved Acis, the son of Faunus by a Naiad, and was loved in return; but her happiness was disturbed and finally ruined by the persistent and jealous attentions of the Cyclops Polyphemus. For the first time in his life the Cyclops began to care for his appearance; he harrowed his coarse locks with a currycomb, mowed his beard with a sickle, and, looking into the sea when it was calm, soliloquized, "Beautiful seems my beard, beautiful my one eye,--as I count beauty,--and the sea reflects the gleam of my teeth whiter than the Parian stone."[183] ... He loved, not with apples, not roses, nor locks of hair, but with fatal frenzy; and all things else he held but trifles by the way. Many a time from the green pastures would his ewes stray back, self-shepherded, to the fold. But he was singing of Galatea; and pining in his place, he sat by the seaweed of the beach from the dawn of day with the direst hurt beneath his breast of mighty Cypris' sending,--the wound of her arrow in his heart! Yet this remedy he found, and sitting on the crest of the tall cliff and looking to the deep, 'twas thus he would sing: "Oh, milk-white Galatea, why cast off him that loves thee? More white than is pressed milk to look upon, more delicate than the lamb art thou, than the young calf wantoner, more sleek than the unripened grape! Here dost thou resort, even so, when sweet sleep possesses me, and home straightway dost thou depart when sweet sleep lets me go, fleeing me like an ewe that has seen the gray wolf. I fell in love with thee, maiden, I, on the day when first thou camest, with my mother, and didst wish to pluck the hyacinths from the hill, and I was thy guide on the way. But to leave loving thee when once I had seen thee, neither afterward, nor now at all, have I the strength, even from that hour. But to thee all this is as nothing, by Zeus, nay, nothing at all! "I know, thou gracious maiden, why it is that thou dost shun me. It is all for the shaggy brow that spans my forehead, from this to the other ear, one long, unbroken eyebrow. And but one eye is on my forehead, and broad is the nose that overhangs my lip. Yet I (even such as thou seest me) feed a thousand cattle, and from these I draw and drink the best milk in the world. And cheese I never lack, in summer time or autumn, nay, nor in the dead of winter, but my baskets are always overladen. [Illustration: FIG. 112. GALATEA AND POLYPHEMUS] "Also I am skilled in piping, as none other of the Cyclopes here, and of thee, my love, my sweet apple, and of myself, too, I sing, many a time, deep in the night. And for thee I tend eleven fawns, all crescent browed, and four young whelps of the bear. Nay, come thou to me and thou shalt lack nothing that now thou hast.... "But if thou dost refuse because my body seems shaggy and rough, well, I have faggots of oak-wood, and beneath the ashes is fire unwearied, and I would endure to let thee burn my very soul, and this my one eye, the dearest thing that is mine. "Ah me, that my mother bore me not a finny thing, so would I have gone down to thee, and kissed thy hand, if thy lips thou would not suffer me to kiss! And I would have brought thee either white lilies or the soft poppy with its scarlet petals. Nay, these are summer's flowers, and those are flowers of winter, so I could not have brought thee them all at one time. "Now, verily, maiden, now and here will I learn to swim, if perchance some stranger come hither, sailing with his ship, that I may see why it is so dear to thee to have thy dwelling in the deep. Come forth, Galatea, and forget as thou comest, even as I that sit here have forgotten, the homeward way!... "Oh, Cyclops, Cyclops, whither are thy wits wandering? Ah, that thou wouldst go and weave thy wickerwork and gather broken boughs to carry to thy lambs: in faith, if thou didst this, far wiser wouldst thou be! "Milk the ewe that thou hast; why pursue the thing that shuns thee? Thou wilt find, perchance, another, and a fairer, Galatea. Many be the girls that bid me stay with them, and softly they all laugh, if perchance I answer them. On land it is plain that I, too, seem to be somebody!"[184] Having, one day, in such wise sung, Polyphemus wandered, beside himself for passion, into the woods. On a sudden he came in sight of Galatea and Acis in the hollow of a rock, where they had hearkened to the strains of the Cyclops. The monster, infuriate, crying that this should be the last of their love-meetings, overwhelmed his rival with a tremendous rock. Purple blood spirted from under the stone, by degrees grew paler, and finally became the stream that still bears the name of the unfortunate youth. But Galatea remained inconsolable.[185] [Illustration: FIG. 113. A SEA-GOD] =142. Glaucus and Scylla.=[186] Another deity of the sea was Glaucus, the son of that Sisyphus who was punished in Hades for his treachery to the gods. Glaucus had been a comely young fisherman; but having noticed that a certain herb revived fishes after they were brought to land, he ate of it and suffered metamorphosis into something new and strange, half man, half fish, and after the fashion of a sea-god. Of his experience during this "sea change" the following is an account: I plunged for life or death. To interknit One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain; so not enough Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; Forgetful utterly of self-intent, Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 'Twas freedom! and at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean bed.[187] He became guardian of fishes and divers and of those who go down to the sea in ships. Later, being infatuated of the fair virgin Scylla (daughter of the sea-god Phorcys and granddaughter of Pontus), he paid his court to her, but the maiden rejected him. Whereupon, in desperation, Glaucus sought the aid of Circe, an enchantress. She, because she coveted for herself the handsome sea-green god, transformed her rival into a monster hideously fashioned of serpents and barking dogs.[188] In this shape Scylla thereafter infested the shore of Sicily and worked evil to mariners,[189] till finally she was petrified as a reef, none the less perilous to all seafarers. A modern version of the fate of Glaucus and Scylla is given by Keats in the Endymion. Glaucus consents to Circe's blandishments for a season, but becoming disgusted with her treachery and cruelty, he endeavors to escape from her. The attempt proving unsuccessful, he is brought back and sentenced to pass a thousand years in decrepitude and pain. Consequently, returning to the sea, he there discovers the body of Scylla, whom the goddess has not transformed, but drowned, and learns that if he passes his thousand years in collecting the bodies of drowned lovers, a youth beloved of the gods will, in time, appear and help him. This prophecy is fulfilled by Endymion, who aids in restoring Glaucus to youth, and Scylla and the drowned lovers to life. =143. Nisus and Scylla.=[190] The daughter of Phorcys is frequently confounded with another Scylla, daughter of King Nisus of Megara. Scylla of Megara betrayed her father to his enemy, Minos II of Crete, with whom, although the kings were at war, she had fallen violently in love. It seems that Nisus had on his head a purple lock of hair, upon which depended his fortune and his life. This lock his daughter clipped and conveyed to Minos. But recoiling from the treacherous gift, that king, after he had conquered Megara, bound Scylla to the rudder of his ship and so dragged her through the waves toward Crete. The girl was ultimately transformed into the monster of the barking dogs, or, according to another authority, into a bird continually the prey of the sea eagle, whose form her father Nisus had assumed. =144. Leucothea.=[191] Another sea change was that of Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, who, flying from her frantic husband, sprang, with her child Melicertes in her arms, from a cliff into the sea. The gods, out of compassion, made her a goddess of the sea under the name of Leucothea, and her son a god under that of Palæmon. Both were held powerful to save from shipwreck and were invoked by sailors. Palæmon was usually represented as riding on a dolphin. In his honor the Isthmian games were celebrated. By the Romans he was called Portumnus, and had jurisdiction of ports and shores. =145. Proteus and Aristæus.=[192] Though Aristæus, the lover of Eurydice, was son of Apollo and guardian himself of herds and flocks, protector of vine and olive, and keeper of bees, still he was son of Cyrene, a water-nymph, and his most interesting adventure brought him into contact with another deity of the sea. His bees having perished, Aristæus resorted for aid to his mother. She, surrounded by her maidens in the crystalline abode under her river, overheard his complaints and ordered that he should be brought into her presence. The stream at her command opened itself and let him enter, while it stood heaped like a mountain on either side. Cyrene and her nymphs, having poured out libations to Neptune, gave the youth to eat and listened to his complaint, then informed him that an aged prophet named Proteus, who dwelt in the sea and pastured the sea calves of Neptune, could explain the cause of the mortality among the bees and how to remedy it; but that the wizard would have to be chained and compelled to answer, and that even when chained, he would try to escape by assuming a series of dreadful forms. "Still, thou hast but to keep him fast bound," concluded Cyrene, "and at last, when he finds his arts of no avail, he will obey thy behest." The nymph then sprinkled her son with nectar, whereupon an unusual vigor filled his frame and courage his heart. Cyrene led her son to the prophet's cave, which was in the island of Pharos, or of Carpathos,[193] and concealed him. At noon issued Proteus from the water, followed by his herd of sea calves, which spread themselves along the shore. He, too, stretched himself on the floor of the cave and went to sleep. Aristæus immediately clapped fetters on him and shouted at the top of his voice. Proteus, finding himself captured, resorted to his craft, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a horrible wild beast, in rapid succession; nor did he succumb till all schemes had failed to set him free. Then he resumed his old form and, in response to the questioning of Aristæus, said: "Thou receivest the merited reward of thy deed, by which Eurydice met her death. To avenge her, the nymphs have sent this destruction on thy bees. Their anger thou must appease. Four bulls shalt thou select, of perfect form and size, and four cows of equal beauty; and four altars shalt thou build to the nymphs, and shalt sacrifice the animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove. To Orpheus and Eurydice thou shalt pay such funeral honors as may allay their resentment. Returning after nine days, examine the bodies of the cattle slain and see what has befallen." Aristæus faithfully obeyed these directions. Returning to the grove on the ninth day he found that a swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses and were pursuing their labors there as in a hive.[194] =146. Acheloüs and Hercules.=[195] A similar contest took place between Hercules and the river-god Acheloüs. The cause of the strife was Dejanira of Calydon, whom both heroes loved. Hercules boasted his divine descent. Acheloüs, not content with advancing his claim as lord of the mightiest and most ancient river of Greece, insinuated suspicions with regard to the value of Hercules' pretensions. Then began a mighty struggle. Finding he was no match for Hercules in the wrestler's art, Acheloüs glided away in the form of a serpent. Hercules, remarking that it was the labor of his infancy to strangle snakes,[196] clasped the neck of Acheloüs and choked him. Then Acheloüs assumed the seeming of a bull. Whereupon Hercules, seizing him by the horns, dragged his head to the ground, overthrew him, and rent one horn away. This trophy the Naiads consecrated and filled with flowers for the goddess of Plenty, who, adopting it as her symbol, named it Cornucopia. [Illustration: FIG. 114. NEREÏDS AND SEA MONSTERS] =147. Milton's Sabrina Fair.= No writer in modern times has made more graceful poetic use of the divinities of the streams than has Milton. The following song, chanted by a Spirit in invocation of "the gentle nymph" (of the poet's invention) "that with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream," is but one refrain of many caught by the poet from the far-echoing chorus of classical verse: Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; Listen for dear honor's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save. Listen and appear to us In name of great Oceanus. By th' earth-shaking Neptune's mace, And Tethys' grave, majestic pace, By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look, And the Carpathian wizard's hook, By scaly Triton's winding shell, And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell, By Leucothea's lovely hands, And her son that rules the strands, By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet, And the songs of Sirens sweet, By dead Parthenope's[1] dear tomb And fair Ligea's[197] golden comb, Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks, Sleeking her soft, alluring locks, By all the nymphs that nightly dance Upon thy streams with wily glance; Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head From thy coral-paven bed, And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have. Listen and save.[198] FOOTNOTES: [183] Theocritus, Idyl VI. See Andrew Lang's translation. [184] Theocritus, Idyl XI (Lang's translation). [185] Ovid, Metam. 13, 750-867. [186] Ovid, Metam. 13, 898; 14, 74; Tibullus, 3, 4-89. [187] From Keats' Endymion. [188] §§ 50, 52, and Commentary. [189] See §§ 239, 250, Adventures of Ulysses and Æneas. [190] Apollodorus, 3, 15, § 8. [191] Ovid, Metam. 4, 432-542. [192] Cf. Odyssey, 4, 410; Ovid, Fasti, 1, 369; Virgil, Georgics, 4, 317. [193] Cf. § 147, Milton's Carpathian Wizard. [194] See Commentary. [195] Ovid, Metam. 9, 1-100. [196] § 156. [197] See Commentary. [198] Milton, Comus, 859-889. CHAPTER XIV MYTHS OF THE OLDER HEROES: THE HOUSE OF DANAÜS, AND ITS CONNECTIONS =148. The Older and the Younger Heroes.= We have already narrated the adventures of certain demigods and heroes, such as Prometheus, Deucalion, Cadmus, Amphion, Orpheus. Others of importance were Perseus, Hercules, Minos, [OE]dipus, Theseus, Jason, Meleager, Peleus, Pelops, Castor and Pollux. These and their contemporaries may be called the _Older Heroes_. They are renowned either for individual exploits or for the part played by them in one or more of three great expeditions,--the War against Laomedon of Troy, the Voyage for the Golden Fleece, and the Hunt of the Calydonian Boar. The _Younger Heroes_ were of a later generation, which was concerned in four important enterprises,--the War of the Seven against Thebes, the Trojan War, the Wanderings of Ulysses, and the Adventures of Æneas. The exploits of the Older Heroes may be arranged in respect of their probable sequence in time, and of their grouping according to families of heroes. If we observe the principle of genealogy, one race, that of Inachus of Argos, attracts our notice in the heroes descended from Pelasgus,[199] Belus, and Agenor. The family of Belus gives us the famous House of Danaüs, the family of Agenor the Houses of Minos and Labdacus. Another race, that of Deucalion, gives us the heroes of the Hellenic branch, most notably those descended from Æolus. With these families most of the Older Heroes are, by blood or by adventure, to some extent connected. Bearing this fact in mind and at the same time observing the chronological sequence of adventures, we obtain an arrangement of myths as illustrating the races, families, or houses--(1) of Danaüs of Argos, (2) of Æolus of Thessaly, (3) of Ætolus, (4) of Minos of Crete, (5) of Cecrops and of Erichthonius of Attica, (6) of Labdacus of Thebes.[200] =149. The Genealogy of Danaüs.= As the Hellenes, in the north, traced their descent from Deucalion and Pyrrha of Thessaly, so the Pelasgic races of the south from the river-god Inachus, son of Oceanus. The son of Inachus, Phoroneus, lived in the Peloponnesus and founded the town of Argos. This Phoroneus conferred upon the Argives the benefits attributed by other Greeks to Prometheus. He was succeeded by his son Pelasgus, from whom a division of the Greek people derive their name. With the love of Jupiter for the sister of Phoroneus, the fair Io, we are already acquainted. Her son was Epaphus, king of Egypt, from whom were descended (1) Agenor of Ph[oe]nicia, father of Europa and Cadmus, and (2) Belus of Egypt, father of Ægyptus and Danaüs. To the family of Agenor we shall return in the history of Minos, son of Europa, and of [OE]dipus, descendant of Cadmus. [Illustration: FIG. 115. THE DANAÏDS] =150. The Danaïds.=[201] Ægyptus and his fifty sons drove Danaüs and his fifty daughters back to Argos, the ancestral home of the race. Finally, a reconciliation was arranged by means of a fiftyfold marriage between the sons of Ægyptus and the Danaïds. But in accordance with a treacherous command of Danaüs, all his daughters save Hypermnestra slew their husbands on the wedding night. For this crime the forty-nine Danaïds were condemned to spend eternity in Tartarus, trying to fill with water a vessel full of holes. From Hypermnestra and her husband, Lynceus, was sprung the royal house of Argos. Their son was Abas, their grandson, Acrisius,--of whom the following narrative is told. [Illustration: FIG. 116. DANAË AND PERSEUS AND THE CHEST] =151. The Doom of King Acrisius.=[202] The daughter of Acrisius was Danaë, of surpassing loveliness. In consequence of an oracle which had prophesied that the son of Danaë would be the means of his grandfather's death, the hapless girl was shut in an underground chamber, that no man might love or wed her. But Jupiter, distilling himself into a shower of gold, flooded the girl's prison, wooed, and won her. Their son was Perseus. King Acrisius, in dismay, ordered mother and child to be boxed up in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The two unfortunates were, however, rescued at Seriphus by a fisherman, who conveyed the mother and infant to Polydectes, king of the country, by whom they were treated at first with kindness, but afterwards with cruelty. =152. Perseus and Medusa.=[203] When Perseus was grown up, Polydectes sent him to attempt the conquest of the Gorgon Medusa,[204] a terrible monster who had laid waste the country. She had once been a maiden whose hair was her chief glory, but as she dared to vie in beauty with Minerva, the goddess deprived her of her charms and changed her ringlets into hissing serpents. She became a monster of so frightful an aspect that no living thing could behold her without being turned into stone. All around the cavern where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men and animals that had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified at the sight. Perseus, favored by Minerva and Mercury, set out against the Gorgon, and approached first the cave of the three Grææ: [Illustration: FIG. 117. MEDUSA] There sat the crones that had the single eye, Clad in blue sweeping cloak and snow-white gown; While o'er their backs their straight white hair hung down In long thin locks; dreadful their faces were, Carved all about with wrinkles of despair; And as they sat they crooned a dreary song, Complaining that their lives should last so long, In that sad place that no one came anear, In that wan place desert of hope and fear; And singing, _still they rocked_ their bodies bent, And ever each to each the eye they sent.[205] [Illustration: FIG. 118. MEDUSA] Snatching the eye, Perseus compelled the Grææ, as the price of its restoration, to tell him how he might obtain the helmet of Hades that renders its wearer invisible, and the winged shoes and pouch that were necessary. With this outfit, to which Minerva added her shield and Mercury his knife, Perseus sped to the hall of the Gorgons. In silence sat two of the sisters,-- But a third woman paced about the hall, And ever turned her head from wall to wall And moaned aloud, and shrieked in her despair; Because the golden tresses of her hair Were moved by writhing snakes from side to side, That in their writhing oftentimes would glide On to her breast, or shuddering shoulders white; Or, falling down, the hideous things would light Upon her feet, and crawling thence would twine Their slimy folds about her ankles fine.[206] [Illustration: FIG. 119. PERSEUS From the sculpture by Cellini] This was Medusa. Her, while she was praying the gods to end her misery, or, as some say, while she was sleeping, Perseus approached, and, guided by her image reflected in the bright shield which he bore, cut off her head, and so ended her miserable existence. Thus are described the horror and the grace of her features in death: It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky, Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine; Below, far lands are seen tremblingly; Its horror and its beauty are divine. Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine, Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, The agonies of anguish and of death. Yet it is less the horror than the grace Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone; Whereon the lineaments of that dead face Are graven, till the characters be grown Into itself, and thought no more can trace; 'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain, Which humanize and harmonize the strain.[207]... =153. Perseus and Atlas.= From the body of Medusa sprang the winged horse Pegasus, of whose rider, Bellerophon, we shall presently be informed. [Illustration: FIG. 120. PERSEUS WITH HEAD OF MEDUSA] After the slaughter of Medusa, Perseus, bearing with him the head of the Gorgon, flew far and wide, over land and sea. As night came on, he reached the western limit of the earth, and would gladly have rested till morning. Here was the realm of Atlas, whose bulk surpassed that of all other men. He was rich in flocks and herds, but his chief pride was his garden of the Hesperides, whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden branches, half hid with golden leaves. Perseus said to him, "I come as a guest. If thou holdest in honor illustrious descent, I claim Jupiter for my father; if mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of the Gorgon. I seek rest and food." But Atlas, remembering an ancient prophecy that had warned him against a son of Jove who should one day rob him of his golden apples, attempted to thrust the youth out. Whereupon Perseus, finding the giant too strong for him, held up the Gorgon's head. Atlas, with all his bulk, was changed into stone. His beard and hair became forests, his arms and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones rocks. Each part increased in mass till the giant became the mountain upon whose shoulders rests heaven with all its stars. =154. Perseus and Andromeda.= On his way back to Seriphus, the Gorgon-slayer arrived at the country of the Æthiopians, over whom Cepheus was king. His wife was Cassiopea-- That starred Æthiope queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended.[208] These nymphs had consequently sent a sea monster to ravage the coast. To appease the deities, Cepheus was directed by the oracle to devote his daughter Andromeda to the ravening maw of the prodigy. As Perseus looked down from his aërial height, he beheld the virgin chained to a rock. Drawing nearer he pitied, then comforted her, and sought the reason of her disgrace. At first from modesty she was silent; but when he repeated his questions, for fear she might be thought guilty of some offense which she dared not tell, she disclosed her name and that of her country, and her mother's pride of beauty. Before she had done speaking, a sound was heard upon the water, and the monster appeared. The virgin shrieked; the father and mother, who had now arrived, poured forth lamentations and threw their arms about the victim. But the hero himself undertook to slay the monster, on condition that, if the maiden were rescued by his valor, she should be his reward. The parents consented. Perseus embraced his promised bride; then-- Loosing his arms from her waist he flew upward, awaiting the sea beast. Onward it came from the southward, as bulky and black as a galley, Lazily coasting along, as the fish fled leaping before it; Lazily breasting the ripple, and watching by sand bar and headland, Listening for laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song of the fisher, Children at play on the pebbles, or cattle that passed on the sand hills. Rolling and dripping it came, where bedded in glistening purple Cold on the cold seaweeds lay the long white sides of the maiden, Trembling, her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat on the water.[209] [Illustration: FIG. 121. PERSEUS FINDS ANDROMEDA] [Illustration: PERSEUS FREEING ANDROMEDA] The youth darted down upon the back of the monster and plunged his sword into its shoulder, then eluded its furious attack by means of his wings. Wherever he could find a passage for his sword, he plunged it between the scales of flank and side. The wings of the hero were finally drenched and unmanageable with the blood and water that the brute spouted. Then alighting on a rock and holding by a projection, he gave the monster his deathblow. The joyful parents, with Perseus and Andromeda, repaired to the palace, where a banquet was opened for them. But in the midst of the festivities a noise was heard of warlike clamor, and Phineus, who had formerly been betrothed to the bride, burst in, demanding her for his own. In vain, Cepheus remonstrated that all such engagements had been dissolved by the sentence of death passed upon Andromeda, and that if Phineus had actually loved the girl, he would have tried to rescue her. Phineus and his adherents, persisting in their intent, attacked the wedding party and would have broken it up with most admired disorder, but Mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood Perseus in stern tranquillity of wrath, Half stood, half floated on his ankle plumes Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield Looked into stone the raging fray.[210] Leaving Phineus and his fellows in merited petrifaction, and conveying Andromeda to Seriphus, the hero there turned into stone Polydectes and his court, because the tyrant had rendered Danaë's life intolerable with his attentions. Perseus then restored to their owners the charmed helmet, the winged shoes, and the pouch in which he had conveyed the Gorgon's head. The head itself he bestowed upon Minerva, who bore it afterward upon her ægis or shield. Of that Gorgon shield no simpler moral interpretation can be framed than the following: What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin, Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone, But rigid looks of chaste austerity, And noble grace that dashed brute violence With sudden adoration and blank awe![211] With his mother and his wife Perseus returned to Argos to seek his grandfather. But Acrisius, still fearing his doom, had retired to Larissa in Thessaly. Thither Perseus followed him, and found him presiding over certain funeral games. As luck would have it, the hero took part in the quoit throwing, and hurled a quoit far beyond the mark. The disk, falling upon his grandfather's foot, brought about the old man's death, and in that way the prophecy was fulfilled. Of Perseus and Andromeda three sons were born, through one of whom, Electryon, they became grandparents of the famous Alcmene, sweetheart of Jove and mother of Hercules. =155. Bellerophon and the Chimæra.=[212] The horse Pegasus, which sprang from the Gorgon's blood, found a master in Bellerophon of Corinth. This youth was of the Hellenic branch of the Greek nation, being descended from Sisyphus and through him from Æolus, the son of Hellen.[213] His adventures should therefore be recited with those of Jason and other descendants of Æolus in the next chapter, but that they follow so closely on those of Perseus. His father, Glaucus, king of Corinth, is frequently identified with Glaucus the fisherman. This Glaucus of Corinth was noted for his love of horse racing, his fashion of feeding his mares on human flesh, and his destruction by the fury of his horses; for having upset his chariot, they tore their master to pieces. As to his son, Bellerophon, the following is related: In Lycia a monster, breathing fire, made great havoc. The fore part of his body was a compound of the lion and the goat; the hind part was a dragon's. The king, Iobates, sought a hero to destroy this Chimæra, as it was called. At that time Bellerophon arrived at his court. The gallant youth brought letters from Pr[oe]tus, the son-in-law of Iobates, recommending Bellerophon in the warmest terms as an unconquerable hero, but adding a request to his father-in-law to put him to death. For Pr[oe]tus, suspecting that his wife Antea looked with too great favor on the young warrior, schemed thus to destroy him. Iobates accordingly determined to send Bellerophon against the Chimæra. Bellerophon accepted the proposal, but before proceeding to the combat, consulted the soothsayer Polyidus, who counseled him to procure, if possible, the horse Pegasus for the conflict. Now this horse had been caught and tamed by Minerva and by her presented to the Muses. Polyidus, therefore, directed Bellerophon to pass the night in the temple of Minerva. While he slept, Minerva brought him a golden bridle. When he awoke, she showed him Pegasus drinking at the well of Pirene. At sight of the bridle, the winged steed came willingly and suffered himself to be taken. Bellerophon mounted him, sped through the air, found the Chimæra, and gained an easy victory. [Illustration: FIG. 122. BELLEROPHON AND PEGASUS] After the conquest of this monster, Bellerophon was subjected to further trials and labors by his unfriendly host, but by the aid of Pegasus he triumphed over all. At length Iobates, seeing that the hero was beloved of the gods, gave him his daughter in marriage and made him his successor on the throne. It is said that Bellerophon, by his pride and presumption, drew upon himself the anger of the Olympians; that he even attempted to fly to heaven on his winged steed; but the king of gods and men sent a gadfly, which, stinging Pegasus, caused him to throw his rider, who wandered ever after lame, blind, and lonely through the Aleian field, and perished miserably. =156. Hercules (Heracles): His Youth.=[214] Alcmene, daughter of Electryon and granddaughter of Perseus and Andromeda, was beloved of Jupiter. Their son, the mighty Hercules, born in Thebes, became the national hero of Greece. Juno, always hostile to the offspring of her husband by mortal mothers, declared war against Hercules from his birth. She sent two serpents to destroy him as he lay in his cradle, but the precocious infant strangled them with his hands. In his youth he passed for the son of his stepfather Amphitryon, king of Thebes, grandson of Perseus and Andromeda, and son of Alcæus. Hence his patronymic, Alcides. Rhadamanthus trained him in wisdom and virtue, Linus in music. Unfortunately the latter attempted one day to chastise Hercules; whereupon the pupil killed the master with a lute. After this melancholy breach of discipline, the youth was rusticated,--sent off to the mountains, where among the herdsmen and the cattle he grew to mighty stature, slew the Thespian lion, and performed various deeds of valor. To him, while still a youth, appeared, according to one story, two women at a meeting of the ways,--Pleasure and Duty. The gifts offered by Duty were the "Choice of Hercules." Soon afterward he contended with none other than Apollo for the tripod of Delphi; but reconciliation was effected between the combatants by the gods of Olympus, and from that day forth Apollo and Hercules remained true friends, each respecting the prowess of the other. Returning to Thebes, the hero aided his half brother Iphicles and his reputed father Amphitryon in throwing off the yoke of the city of Orchomenus, and was rewarded with the hand of the princess Megara. A few years later, while in the very pride of his manhood, he was driven insane by the implacable Juno. In his madness he slew his children, and would have slain Amphitryon, also, had not Minerva knocked him over with a stone and plunged him into a deep sleep, from which he awoke in his right mind. Next, for expiation of the bloodshed, he was rendered subject to his cousin Eurystheus and compelled to perform his commands. This humiliation, Juno, of course, had decreed. =157. His Labors.= Eurystheus enjoined upon the hero a succession of desperate undertakings, which are called the twelve "Labors of Hercules." The first was the combat with the lion that infested the valley of Nemea, the skin of which Hercules was ordered to bring to Mycenæ. After using in vain his club and arrows against the lion, Hercules strangled the animal with his hands and returned, carrying its carcass on his shoulders; but Eurystheus, frightened at the sight and at this proof of the prodigious strength of the hero, ordered him to deliver the account of his exploits, in future, outside the town. [Illustration: FIG. 123. HERACLES AND THE NEMEAN LION] His second labor was the slaughter of the Hydra, a water serpent that ravaged the country of Argos and dwelt in a swamp near the well of Amymone. It had nine heads, of which the middle one was immortal. Hercules struck off the heads with his club; but in the place of each dispatched, two new ones appeared. At last, with the assistance of his faithful nephew Iolaüs, he burned away the other heads of the Hydra and buried the ninth, which was immortal, under a rock. [Illustration: FIG. 124. HERACLES AND THE HYDRA] His third labor was the capture of a boar that haunted Mount Erymanthus in Arcadia. The adventure was, in itself, successful. But on the same journey Hercules made the friendship of the centaur Pholus, who, receiving him hospitably, poured out for him without stint the choicest wine that the centaurs possessed. As a consequence, Hercules became involved in a broil with the other centaurs of the mountain. Unfortunately his friend Pholus, drawing one of the arrows of Hercules from a brother centaur, wounded himself therewith and died of the poison. The fourth labor of Hercules was the capture of a wonderful stag of golden antlers and brazen hoofs, that ranged the hills of Cerynea, between Arcadia and Achaia. His fifth labor was the destruction of the Stymphalian birds, which with cruel beaks and sharp talons harassed the inhabitants of the valley of Stymphalus, devouring many of them. His sixth labor was the cleaning of the Augean stables. Augeas, king of Elis, had a herd of three thousand oxen, whose stalls had not been cleansed for thirty years. Hercules, bringing the rivers Alpheüs and Peneüs through them, purified them thoroughly in one day. [Illustration: FIG. 125. HERACLES BRINGING HOME THE BOAR] His seventh labor was the overthrow of the Cretan bull,--an awful but beautiful brute, at once a gift and a curse bestowed by Neptune upon Minos of Crete.[215] This monster Hercules brought to Mycenæ. His eighth labor was the removal of the horses of Diomedes, king of Thrace. These horses subsisted on human flesh, were swift and fearful. Diomedes, attempting to retain them, was killed by Hercules and given to the horses to devour. They were then delivered to Eurystheus; but, escaping, they roamed the hills of Arcadia, till the wild beasts of Apollo tore them to pieces. His ninth labor was of a more delicate character. Admeta, the daughter of Eurystheus, desired the girdle of the queen of the Amazons, and Eurystheus ordered Hercules to get it. The Amazons were a nation dominated by warlike women, and in their hands were many cities. It was their custom to bring up only the female children, whom they hardened by martial discipline; the boys were either dispatched to the neighboring nations or put to death. Hippolyta, the queen, received Hercules kindly and consented to yield him the girdle; but Juno, taking the form of an Amazon, persuaded the people that the strangers were carrying off their queen. They instantly armed and beset the ship. Whereupon Hercules, thinking that Hippolyta had acted treacherously, slew her and, taking her girdle, made sail homeward. [Illustration: FIG. 126. HERACLES WITH THE BULL] The tenth task enjoined upon him was to capture for Eurystheus the oxen of Geryon, a monster with three bodies, who dwelt in the island Erythea (the red),--so called because it lay in the west, under the rays of the setting sun. This description is thought to apply to Spain, of which Geryon was king. After traversing various countries, Hercules reached at length the frontiers of Libya and Europe, where he raised the two mountains of Abyla and Calpe as monuments of his progress,--the Pillars of Hercules; or, according to another account, rent one mountain into two and left half on each side, forming the Strait of Gibraltar. The oxen were guarded by the giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog, but Hercules killed the warders and conveyed the oxen in safety to Eurystheus. One of the most difficult labors was the eleventh,--the robbery of the golden apples of the Hesperides. Hercules did not know where to find them; but after various adventures, arrived at Mount Atlas in Africa. Since Atlas was the father of the Hesperides, Hercules thought he might through him obtain the apples. The hero, accordingly, taking the burden of the heavens on his own shoulders,[216] sent Atlas to seek the apples. The giant returned with them and proposed to take them himself to Eurystheus. "Even so," said Hercules; "but, pray, hold this load for me a moment, while I procure a pad to ease my shoulders." Unsuspectingly the giant resumed the burden of the heavens. Hercules took the apples. [Illustration: FIG. 127 HERACLES AND CERBERUS] His twelfth exploit was to fetch Cerberus from the lower world. To this end he descended into Hades, accompanied by Mercury and Minerva. There he obtained permission from Pluto to carry Cerberus to the upper air, provided he could do it without the use of weapons. In spite of the monster's struggling he seized him, held him fast, carried him to Eurystheus, and afterward restored him to the lower regions. While in Hades, Hercules also obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and imitator, who had been detained there for an attempt at abducting Proserpine.[217] After his return from Hades to his native Thebes, he renounced his wife Megara, for, having slain his children by her in his fit of madness, he looked upon the marriage as displeasing to the gods. Two other exploits not recorded among the twelve labors are the victories over Antæus and Cacus. Antæus, the son of Poseidon and Gæa, was a giant and wrestler whose strength was invincible so long as he remained in contact with his mother Earth. He compelled all strangers who came to his country to wrestle with him, on condition that if conquered, they should suffer death. Hercules encountered him and, finding that it was of no avail to throw him,--for he always rose with renewed strength from every fall,--lifted him up from the earth and strangled him in the air. Later writers tell of an army of Pygmies which, finding Hercules asleep after his defeat of Antæus, made preparations to attack him, as if they were about to attack a city. But the hero, awakening, laughed at the little warriors, wrapped some of them up in his lion's skin, and carried them to Eurystheus. [Illustration: FIG. 128. HERACLES AND ANTÆUS] Cacus was a giant who inhabited a cave on Mount Aventine and plundered the surrounding country. When Hercules was driving home the oxen of Geryon, Cacus stole part of the cattle while the hero slept. That their footprints might not indicate where they had been driven, he dragged them backward by their tails to his cave. Hercules was deceived by the stratagem and would have failed to find his oxen, had it not happened that while he was driving the remainder of the herd past the cave where the stolen ones were concealed, those within, beginning to low, discovered themselves to him. Hercules promptly dispatched the thief. Through most of these expeditions Hercules was attended by Iolaüs, his devoted friend, the son of his half brother Iphicles. =158. His Later Exploits.= On the later exploits of the hero we can dwell but briefly. Having, in a fit of madness, killed his friend Iphitus, he was condemned for the offense to spend three years as the slave of Queen Omphale. He lived effeminately, wearing at times the dress of a woman and spinning wool with the handmaidens of Omphale, while the queen wore his lion's skin. But during this period he contrived to engage in about as many adventures as would fill the life of an ordinary hero. He rescued Daphnis from Lityerses and threw the bloodthirsty king[218] into the river Mæander; he discovered the body of Icarus[219] and buried it; he joined the company of Argonauts, who were on their way to Colchis to secure the golden fleece, and he captured the thievish gnomes, called Cercopes. Two of these grotesque rascals had made off with the weapons of Hercules while he was sleeping. When he had caught them he strapped them, knees upward, to a yoke and so bore them away. Their drollery, however, regained them their liberty. It is said that some of them having once deceived Jupiter were changed to apes. =159. The Loss of Hylas.=[220] In the Argonautic adventure Hercules was attended by a lad, Hylas, whom he tenderly loved and on whose account he deserted the expedition in Mysia; for Hylas had been stolen by the Naiads. ... Never was Heracles apart from Hylas, not when midnoon was high in heaven, not when Dawn with her white horses speeds upwards to the dwelling of Zeus, not when the twittering nestlings look towards the perch, while their mother flaps her wings above the smoke-browned beam; and all this that the lad might be fashioned to his mind, and might drive a straight furrow, and come to the true measure of man.... And Hylas of the yellow hair, with a vessel of bronze in his hand, went to draw water against supper-time for Heracles himself and the steadfast Telamon, for these comrades twain supped ever at one table. Soon was he ware of a spring in a hollow land, and the rushes grew thickly round it, and dark swallowwort, and green maidenhair, and blooming parsley, and deer grass spreading through the marshy land. In the midst of the water the nymphs were arranging their dances,--the sleepless nymphs, dread goddesses of the country people, Eunice, and Malis, and Nycheia, with her April eyes. And now the boy was holding out the wide-mouthed pitcher to the water, intent on dipping it; but the nymphs all clung to his hand, for love of the Argive lad had fluttered the soft hearts of all of them. Then down he sank into the black water, headlong all, as when a star shoots flaming from the sky, plumb in the deep it falls; and a mate shouts out to the seamen, "Up with the gear, my lads, the wind is fair for sailing." Then the nymphs held the weeping boy on their laps, and with gentle words were striving to comfort him. But the son of Amphitryon was troubled about the lad, and went forth, carrying his bended bow in Scythian fashion, and the club that is ever grasped in his right hand. Thrice he shouted, "Hylas!" as loud as his deep throat could call, and thrice again the boy heard him, and thrice came his voice from the water, and, hard by though he was, he seemed very far away. And as when a bearded lion, a ravening lion on the hills, hears the bleating of a fawn afar off and rushes forth from his lair to seize it, his readiest meal, even so the mighty Heracles, in longing for the lad, sped through the trackless briars and ranged over much country. Reckless are lovers: great toils did Heracles bear, in hills and thickets wandering; and Jason's quest was all postponed to this.... Thus loveliest Hylas is numbered with the Blessed; but for a runaway they girded at Heracles--the heroes--because he roamed from Argo of the sixty oarsmen. But on foot he came to Colchis and inhospitable Phasis. =160. The Rescue of Daphnis.=[221] Daphnis was the ideal Sicilian shepherd and to him was ascribed the invention of pastoral story and song. His father was Hermes (Mercury); his mother, a nymph who laid him when an infant in a charming valley in a laurel grove from which he received his name,[222] and on account of which Apollo loved him and endowed him with the gift of idyllic verse. He was brought up by nymphs and shepherds, and, avoiding the noisy haunts of men, he tended his flocks on Mount Ætna, winter and summer. He loved a maiden named Piplea, but she was borne away by robbers. He followed them to Phrygia, and there found his sweetheart in the power of the king of that realm, Lityerses. This Lityerses had a pleasant custom of making strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn. If he overcame them, he cut off their heads in the evening and concealed their bodies in the sheaves, singing a comfortable song meanwhile. In order to win back Piplea, Daphnis entered upon the reaping contest with the king and made himself comfortable, too, by singing a harvest song meanwhile. But Lityerses surpassed him at the work and was about to put him to death, singing no doubt a comfortable song of the reaper, Death, meanwhile,--when suddenly Hercules appeared upon the scene. He doesn't seem to have spent much time singing: he assured Daphnis of his head by cutting off that of the pleasant king; and then he threw the body into the river Mæander. Daphnis regained his Piplea and one would suppose that they lived happy ever after. Another story, unfortunately, relates events in which Piplea's name does not occur. A Naiad fell in love with the handsome shepherd and made him promise eternal fidelity to her, threatening him with blindness if he violated his vow. It was hard for poor Daphnis, for nearly every lass he met made love to him. At last a princess intoxicated him and he forgot his vow. Immediately the Naiad showed the quality of her love by striking him blind. He consoled himself for a while by singing his songs and playing the flute as he wandered from place to place. Then weary, he called on his father for aid. Mercury accordingly transported him to heaven and caused a well to gush forth on the spot from which he ascended. Here the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifice in his honor. Theocritus gives us a Lityerses song as he undoubtedly used to hear it sung by the harvesters of the country-side in Sicily:[223] Demeter, rich in fruit and rich in grain, may this corn be easy to win and fruitful exceedingly! Bind, ye binders, the sheaves, lest the wayfarer should cry, "Men of straw were the workers here; aye, and their hire was wasted!" See that the cut stubble faces the North wind, or the West;--'tis thus that the grain waxes richest. They that thresh corn should shun the noonday sleep; at noon the chaff parts easiest from the straw. As for the reapers, let them begin when the crested lark is waking, and cease when he sleeps, but take holiday in the heat. Lads, the frog has a jolly life: he is not cumbered about a butler to his drink; for he has liquor by him unstinted! Boil the lentils better, thou miserly steward; take heed lest thou chop thy fingers, when thou'rt splitting cummin seed. When Matthew Arnold is writing of the death of his dear friend, the poet, Arthur Hugh Clough, who died in Italy,[224] he says: And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's train divine.... Within a folding of the Apennine, Thou hearest the immortal chants of old! Putting his sickle to the perilous grain In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, For thee the Lityerses song again Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes:-- And how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang,-- And all the marvel of the golden skies! =161. The Expedition against Laomedon.= After his servitude under Omphale was ended, Hercules sailed with eighteen ships against Troy. For Laomedon, king of that realm, had refused to give Hercules the horses of Neptune, which he had promised in gratitude for the rescue of his daughter Hesione from the sea-monster.[225] The hero, overcoming Troy, placed a son of Laomedon, Priam, upon the throne, and gave Hesione to Telamon, who, with Peleus, Oïcles, and other Greek heroes, had accompanied him. Also worthy of mention among the exploits of Hercules were his successful expeditions against Pylos and Sparta, his victory over the giants, his struggle with Death for the body and life of Alcestis,[226] and his delivery, according to prophecy, of Prometheus, who until that time had remained in chains upon the Caucasian Mountains.[227] =162. The Death of Hercules.= Finally, the hero married Dejanira, daughter of [OE]neus of Calydon and sister of Meleager of the Calydonian hunt. With her he lived three prosperous years. But on one occasion, as they journeyed together, they came to a river across which the centaur Nessus carried travelers for a stated fee. Hercules proceeded to ford the river and gave Dejanira to Nessus to be carried across. Nessus, however, attempted to make off with her; whereupon Hercules, hearing her cries, shot an arrow into his heart. The centaur, as he died, bade Dejanira take a portion of his blood and keep it, saying that it might be used as a charm to preserve the love of her husband. Dejanira did so. Before long, jealous of Hercules' fondness for Iole of [OE]chalia, a captive maiden, she steeped a sacrificial robe of her husband's in the blood of Nessus. As soon as the garment became warm on the body of Hercules, the poison penetrated his limbs. In his frenzy he seized Lichas, who had brought him the fatal robe, and hurled him into the sea; then tried to wrench off the garment, but it stuck to his flesh and tore away whole pieces of his body. [Illustration: FIG. 129. HERCULES AND NESSUS] Alcides, from [OE]chalia crowned With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore, Through pain, up by the roots Thessalian pines, And Lichas from the top of [OE]ta threw Into the Euboic Sea.[228] [Illustration: THE WEDDING OF HERCULES AND HEBE] In this state he embarked on board a ship and was conveyed home. Dejanira, on seeing what she had unwittingly done, hanged herself. Hercules, prepared to die, ascended Mount [OE]ta, where he built a funeral pile of trees, gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes,[229] and laid himself upon the pile, his head resting on his club and his lion's skin spread over him. With a countenance as serene as if he were taking his place at a festal board, he commanded Philoctetes to apply the torch. The flames spread apace, and soon invested the whole mass.[230] The gods themselves grieved to see the champion of the earth so brought to his end. But Jupiter took care that only his mother's part in him should perish by the flames. The immortal element, derived from Jupiter himself, was translated to heaven; and by the consent of the gods--even of reluctant Juno--Hercules was admitted as a deity to the ranks of the immortals. The white-armed queen of heaven was finally reconciled to the offspring of Alcmene. She adopted him for her son and gave him in marriage her daughter Hebe. Deep degraded to a coward's slave, Endless contests bore Alcides brave, Through the thorny path of suffering led; Slew the Hydra, crushed the lion's might, Threw himself, to bring his friend to light, Living, in the skiff that bears the dead. All the torments, every toil of earth, Juno's hatred on him could impose, Well he bore them, from his fated birth To life's grandly mournful close. Till the god, the earthly part forsaken, From the man in flames asunder taken, Drank the heavenly ether's purer breath. Joyous in the new unwonted lightness, Soared he upwards to celestial brightness, Earth's dark heavy burden lost in death. High Olympus gives harmonious greeting To the hall where reigns his sire adored; Youth's bright goddess, with a blush at meeting, Gives the nectar to her lord.[231] In the tragedy called The Maidens of Trachis, Sophocles describes this hero as "The noblest man of all the earth, of whom thou ne'er shalt see the like again." To some of us the manner of his earthly end may seem unworthy; but the Greek poets teach that, in the unabated vigor of one's powers, serenely to meet and accept one's doom is the happiest death. This view is well expressed by Matthew Arnold in the following fragment of a Greek chorus sung with reference to the death of Hercules: O frivolous mind of man, Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts! Though man bewails you not, How _I_ bewail you!... For you will not put on New hearts with the inquirer's holy robe, And purged, considerate minds. And him on whom, at the end Of toil and dolor untold, The Gods have said that repose At last shall descend undisturb'd-- Him you expect to behold In an easy old age, in a happy home; No end but this you praise. But him, on whom, in the prime Of life, with vigor undimm'd, With unspent mind, and a soul Unworn, undebased, undecay'd, Mournfully grating, the gates Of the city of death have forever closed-- _Him_, I count _him_, well-starr'd.[232] Here we take leave for a time of the descendants of Inachus. We shall revert to them in the stories of Minos of Crete and of the house of Labdacus. FOOTNOTES: [199] § 21, and Commentary, § 57. [200] For references to genealogical tables, see Commentary, § 148. [201] Apollodorus, 2, 1, § 5, etc.; Pausanias; Ovid, Heroides, 14; Horace, Odes, 3; 11; 23. [202] Simonides of Ceos, also Apollodorus, Pausanias, and Hyginus (Fables). [203] Ovid, Metam. 4, 608-739; 5, 1-249. [204] For Gorgons and Grææ, see § 52. [205] William Morris, The Doom of King Acrisius, in The Earthly Paradise. [206] William Morris, The Doom of King Acrisius, in The Earthly Paradise. [207] From Shelley's lines On the Medusa of Leonardo Da Vinci in the Florentine Gallery. [208] Milton, Il Penseroso, l. 19. [209] From Charles Kingsley's Andromeda. [210] Milman, Samor. [211] Milton, Comus. [212] Iliad, 6, 155-202; Apollodorus, 1, 9, § 3; Horace, Odes, 4; 11; 26. [213] See Commentary, §§ 103, 155. [214] Authorities are Homer,--Iliad and Odyssey; Theocritus 24; 25, etc.; Apollodorus, 2, 4, § 7, etc.; Sophocles, Women of Trachis; Euripides, Hercules Furens; Ovid, Metam. 9, 102-272; Seneca,--Hercules Furens and [OE]tæus; Hyginus, etc. [215] § 172. [216] Atlas and the heavens, § 153. [217] § 180. [218] § 160. [219] § 173. [220] Theocritus. Idyl XIII (Lang's translation). [221] Theocritus, Idyl X, 41, and the Scholia; Virgil, Bucol. 5; 8; 10; and Comments. [222] See the story of Daphne. [223] Theocritus, Idyl X (Lang's translation). [224] Thyrsis. [225] § 119. [226] § 83. [227] § 15. [228] Milton. [229] See § 220. According to Sophocles, Philoctetes' father P[oe]as applied the torch. [230] See the spirited poems, Deïaneira and Herakles, in the classical, but too little read, Epic of Hades, by Lewis Morris. [231] Schiller's Ideal and Life. Translated by S. G. Bulfinch, brother of Thomas Bulfinch. [232] From Fragment of Chorus of a "Dejaneira." [Illustration: FIG. 130. THE BUILDING OF THE ARGO] CHAPTER XV THE FAMILY OF ÆOLUS =163. Descendants of Deucalion.= Athamas, brother of Sisyphus, was descended from Æolus, whose father, Hellen, was the son of Deucalion of Thessaly. Athamas had by his wife Nephele two children, Phrixus and Helle. After a time, growing indifferent to his wife, Athamas put her away and took Ino, the daughter of Cadmus. The unfortunate sequel of this second marriage we have already seen.[233] Nephele, apprehending danger to her children from the influence of their stepmother, took measures to put them out of her reach. Mercury gave her a ram with a golden fleece, on which she set the two children. Vaulting into the air, the animal took his course to the east; but when he was crossing the strait that divides Europe and Asia, the girl Helle fell from his back into the sea, which from her was afterward called the Hellespont--now the Dardanelles. The ram safely landed the boy Phrixus in Colchis, where he was hospitably received by Æetes, the king of that country. Phrixus sacrificed the ram to Jupiter, but the fleece he gave to Æetes, who placed it in a consecrated grove under the care of a sleepless dragon.[234] =164. The Quest of the Golden Fleece.=[235] Another realm in Thessaly, near to that of Athamas, was ruled over by his nephew Æson. Æson, although he had a son Jason, surrendered the crown to a half brother, Pelias,[236] on condition that he should hold it only during the minority of the lad. This young Jason was, by the way, a second cousin of Bellerophon and of the Atalanta who ran against Hippomenes, and a first cousin of Admetus, the husband of Alcestis.[237] When, however, Jason, being grown up, came to demand the crown, his uncle Pelias with wily intent suggested to him the glorious quest of the golden fleece. Jason, pleased with the thought, forthwith made preparations for the expedition. At that time the only species of navigation known to the Greeks consisted of small boats or canoes hollowed out from trunks of trees; when, accordingly, Jason employed Argus to build a vessel capable of containing fifty men, it was considered a gigantic undertaking. The vessel was named _Argo_, probably after its builder. Jason soon found himself at the head of a bold band of comrades, many of whom afterward were renowned among the heroes and demigods of Greece. From every region of Ægea's shore The brave assembled; those illustrious twins Castor and Pollux; Orpheus, tuneful bard; Zetes and Calaïs, as the wind in speed; Strong Hercules and many a chief renowned. On deep Iolcos' sandy shore they thronged, Gleaming in armor, ardent of exploits,-- And soon, the laurel cord and the huge stone Uplifting to the deck, unmoored the bark; Whose keel of wondrous length the skillful hand Of Argus fashioned for the proud attempt; And in the extended keel a lofty mast Upraised, and sails full swelling; to the chiefs Unwonted objects. Now first, now they learned Their bolder steerage over ocean wave, Led by the golden stars, as Chiron's art Had marked the sphere celestial.[238] Theseus, Meleager, Peleus, and Nestor were also among these Argonauts, or sailors of the _Argo_. The ship with her crew of heroes left the shores of Thessaly, and touching at the island of Lemnos, thence crossed to Mysia and thence to Thrace. Here they found the sage Phineus, who instructed the Argonauts how they might pass the Symplegades, or Clashing Islands, at the entrance of the Euxine Sea. When they reached these islands they, accordingly, let go a dove, which took her way between the rocks and passed in safety, only losing some feathers of her tail. Jason and his men, seizing the favorable moment of the rebound, plied their oars with vigor and passed safe through, though the islands closed behind them and actually grazed the stern of the vessel. They then rowed along the shore till they arrived at the eastern end of the sea, and so landed in the kingdom of Colchis. [Illustration: FIG. 131. JASON CONQUERS THE BULLS AND STEALS THE FLEECE] Jason made known his message to the Colchian king, Æetes, who consented to give up the golden fleece on certain conditions, namely, that Jason should yoke to the plow two fire-breathing bulls with brazen feet, and that he then should sow the teeth of the dragon that Cadmus had slain. Jason, although it was well known that a crop of armed men would spring up from the teeth, destined to turn their weapons against their producer, accepted the conditions, and a time was set for the undertaking. The hero, however, wisely spent the interval in wooing Medea, the daughter of Æetes; and with such success that they plighted troth before the altar of Hecate. The princess then furnished her hero with a charm which should aid him in the contest to come. Accordingly, when the momentous day was arrived, Jason with calmness encountered the fire-breathing monsters and speedily yoked them to the plow. The Colchians stood in amazement; the Greeks shouted for joy. Next, the hero proceeded to sow the dragon's teeth and plow them in. Up sprang, according to prediction, the crop of armed men, brandished aloft their weapons, and rushed upon Jason. The Greeks trembled for their hero. Medea herself grew pale with fear. The hero himself for a time, with sword and shield, kept his assailants at bay; but he surely would have been overwhelmed by the numbers, had he not resorted to a charm which Medea had taught him: seizing a stone, he threw it in the midst of his foes. Immediately they turned their arms against one another, and soon there was not one of the dragon's brood alive. It remained only to lull to sleep the dragon that guarded the fleece. This was done by scattering over him a few drops of a preparation which, again, Medea had supplied. Jason then seized the fleece, and, with his friends and his sweetheart accompanying, hastened to the vessel. It is said that, in order to delay the pursuit of her father Æetes, Medea tore to pieces her young brother Absyrtus and strewed fragments of him along the line of their flight. The ruse succeeded. =165. The Return of the Argonauts.= On their way home the Argonauts beat a devious course, sailing after other dangers had been overcome, by the island that the Sirens infested. And here the heroes would have hung their halsers and remained, had not Orpheus vanquished the seductive strains of the sea-muses with his own more melodious and persuasive song.[239] Oh, happy seafarers are ye And surely all your ills are past, And toil upon the land and sea, Since ye are brought to us at last; chanted the Sirens, promising long rest and the kingdoms of sleep. But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main, How calm shall be your waking smile! Then Orpheus replied, encouraging his men: A little more, a little more, O carriers of the Golden Fleece! A little labor with the oar, Before we reach the land of Greece. E'en now, perchance, faint rumors reach Men's ears of this our victory, And draw them down upon the beach To gaze across the empty sea. Again the Sirens: Alas! and will ye stop your ears, In vain desire to do aught, And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, Until the last fear makes you nought? But Orpheus, reminding the rowers of home and love and joy: Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folks are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May flowers fall? carried them past triumphant. The Argonauts arrived safe in Thessaly. Jason delivered the fleece to Pelias, and dedicated the _Argo_ to Neptune. =166. Medea and Æson.=[240] Medea's career as a sorceress was, by no means, completed. At Jason's request she undertook next to restore his aged father Æson to the vigor of youth. To the full moon she addressed her incantations, to the stars, to Hecate, to Tellus, the goddess of the earth. In a chariot borne aloft by dragons she traversed the fields of air to regions where flourished potent plants, which only she knew how to select. Nine nights she employed in her search, and during that period shunned all intercourse with mortals. [Illustration: FIG. 132. MEDEA] Next she erected two altars, the one to Hecate, the other to Hebe, and sacrificed a black sheep,--pouring libations of milk and wine. She implored Pluto and his stolen bride to spare the old man's life. Then she directed that Æson be led forth; and throwing him into a deep sleep, she laid him on a bed of herbs, like one dead. No eye profane looked upon her mysteries. With streaming hair thrice she moved round the altars, dipped flaming twigs in the blood, and laid them thereon to burn. Meanwhile, the caldron with its contents was preparing. In it she put magic herbs, with seeds and flowers of acrid juice, stones from the distant East, and sand from the shore of all-surrounding ocean, hoar-frost gathered by moonlight, a screech owl's head and wings, and the entrails of a wolf. She added fragments of the shells of tortoises and the liver of stags--animals tenacious of life--and the head and beak of a crow, which outlives nine generations of men. These, with many other things "without a name," she boiled together for her purposed work, stirring them with a dry olive branch. The branch, when taken out, instantly was green and erelong was covered with leaves and a plentiful growth of young olives; and as the liquor boiled and bubbled and sometimes bubbled over, the grass wherever the sprinklings fell leaped into verdure like that of spring. Seeing that all was ready, Medea cut the throat of the old man, let out his blood, and poured into his mouth and his wound the juices of her caldron. As soon as he had completely imbibed them, his hair and beard lost their whiteness and assumed the color of youth; his paleness and emaciation were gone; his veins were full of blood, his limbs of vigor and robustness; and Æson, on awakening, found himself forty years younger. [Illustration: FIG. 133. MEDEA AND DAUGHTERS OF PELIAS] =167. Pelias.=[241] In another instance, Medea made her arts the instrument of revenge. Pelias, the usurping uncle of Jason, still kept him out of his heritage. But the daughters of Pelias wished Medea to restore their father also to youth. Medea simulated consent, but prepared her caldron for him in a new and singular way. She put in only water and a few simple herbs. In the night she persuaded the daughters of Pelias to kill him. They at first hesitated to strike, but Medea chiding their irresolution, they turned away their faces and, giving random blows, smote him with their weapons. Starting from his sleep, the old man cried out, "My daughters, would you kill your father?" Whereat their hearts failed them, and the weapons fell from their hands. Medea, however, struck the fatal blow. They placed him in the caldron, but, as might be expected, with no success. Medea herself had taken care to escape before they discovered the treachery. She had, however, little profit of the fruits of her crime. Jason, for whom she had sacrificed so much, put her away, for he wished to marry Creüsa, princess of Corinth. Whereupon Medea, enraged at his ingratitude, called on the gods for vengeance; then, sending a poisoned robe as a gift to the bride, killing her own children, and setting fire to the palace, she mounted her serpent-drawn chariot and fled to Athens. There she married King Ægeus, the father of Theseus; and we shall meet her again when we come to the adventures of that hero.[242] The incantation of Medea readily suggests that of the witches in Macbeth: Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmèd pot.... Fillet of a fenny snake In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.... Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches' mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digged i' the dark.... Make the gruel thick and slab.[243] FOOTNOTES: [233] § 144. [234] Apollodorus, 1, 9, § 1; Apollonius Rhodius, 1, 927. [235] Ovid, Metam. 6, 667; 7, 143. The Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes. [236] See § 120. [237] See Table G, Commentary, § 103. [238] Dyer, The Fleece. [239] William Morris, Life and Death of Jason. [240] Ovid, Metam. 7, 143-293. [241] Ovid, Metam. 7, 297-353. [242] § 176. [243] Macbeth, IV, i. Consult. CHAPTER XVI THE FAMILY OF ÆTOLUS AND ITS CONNECTIONS =168. The Calydonian Hunt.=[244] One of the heroes of the Argonautic expedition had been Meleager, a son of [OE]neus and Althæa, rulers of Calydon in Ætolia. His parents were cousins, descended from a son of Endymion named Ætolus, who had colonized that realm. By ties of kinship and marriage they were allied with many historic figures. Their daughter Dejanira had become, as we have already noted, the wife of Hercules; while Leda, the sister of Althæa, was mother of Castor and Pollux,[245] and of Clytemnestra and Helen, intimately concerned in the Trojan War. When her son Meleager was born, Althæa had beheld the three Destinies, who, as they spun their fatal thread, foretold that the life of the child should last no longer than a certain brand then burning upon the hearth. Althæa seized and quenched the brand, and carefully preserved it while Meleager grew to boyhood, youth, and man's estate. It chanced, then, that [OE]neus, offering sacrifices to the gods, omitted to pay due honors to Diana; wherefore she, indignant at the neglect, sent a boar of enormous size to lay waste the fields of Calydon. Meleager called on the heroes of Greece to join in a hunt for the ravenous monster. Theseus and his friend Pirithoüs,[246] Jason, Peleus the father of Achilles, Telamon the father of Ajax, Nestor, then a youth, but who in his age bore arms with Achilles and Ajax in the Trojan War,[247]--these and many more joined in the enterprise. With them came, also, Atalanta, the daughter of Iasius, of the race of Callisto,-- Arcadian Atalanta, snowy-souled, Fair as the snow and footed as the wind.[248] A buckle of polished gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver hung on her left shoulder, and her left hand bore the bow. Her face blended feminine beauty with the graces of martial youth. Meleager saw and, with chivalric reverence, somewhat thus addressed her: For thy name's sake and awe toward thy chaste head, O holiest Atalanta! no man dares Praise thee, though fairer than whom all men praise, And godlike for thy grace of hallowed hair And holy habit of thine eyes, and feet That make the blown foam neither swift nor white, Though the wind winnow and whirl it; yet we praise Gods, found because of thee adorable And for thy sake praiseworthiest from all men: Thee therefore we praise also, thee as these, Pure, and a light lit at the hands of gods.[249] [Illustration: FIG. 134. MELEAGER ON THE BOAR HUNT] But there was no time then for love; on to the hunt they pushed. To the hunt went also Plexippus and Toxeus, brothers of Queen Althæa, braggarts, envious of Meleager. Speedily the hunters drew near the monster's lair. They stretched strong nets from tree to tree; they uncoupled their dogs; they sought the footprints of their quarry in the grass. From the wood was a descent to marshy ground. Here the boar, as he lay among the reeds, heard the shouts of his pursuers and rushed forth against them. One and another is thrown down and slain. Jason, Nestor, Telamon open the attack, but in vain. ... Then all abode save one, The Arcadian Atalanta: from her side Sprang her hounds, laboring at the leash, and slipped, And plashed ear-deep with plunging feet; but she Saying, "Speed it as I send it for thy sake, Goddess," drew bow and loosed; the sudden string Rang, and sprang inward, and the waterish air Hissed, and the moist plumes of the songless reeds Moved as a wave which the wind moves no more. But the boar heaved half out of ooze and slime, His tense flank trembling round the barbèd wound, Hateful; and fiery with invasive eyes, And bristling with intolerable hair, Plunged, and the hounds clung, and green flowers and white Reddened and broke all round them where they came.[1] It was a slight wound, but Meleager saw and joyfully proclaimed it. The attack was renewed. Peleus, Amphiaraüs, Theseus, Jason, hurled their lances. Ancæus was laid low by a mortal wound. But Meleager,-- Rock-rooted, fair with fierce and fastened lips, Clear eyes and springing muscle and shortening limb-- With chin aslant indrawn to a tightening throat, Grave, and with gathered sinews, like a god,-- Aimed on the left side his well-handled spear, Grasped where the ash was knottiest hewn, and smote, And with no missile wound, the monstrous boar Right in the hairiest hollow of his hide, Under the last rib, sheer through bulk and bone, Deep in; and deeply smitten, and to death, The heavy horror with his hanging shafts Leapt, and fell furiously, and from raging lips Foamed out the latest wrath of all his life.[250] Then rose a shout from those around; they glorified the conqueror,--crowded to touch his hand. But he, placing his foot upon the head of the slain boar, turned to Atalanta, and bestowed on her the head and the rough hide--trophies of his success. Thereat she laughed-- Lit with a low blush to the braided hair, And rose-colored and cold like very dawn, Golden and godlike, chastely with chaste lips, A faint grave laugh; and all they held their peace, And she passed by them. Then one cried, "Lo now, Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us, Saying all we were despoiled by this one girl?" And all they rode against her violently And cast the fresh crown from her hair, and now They had rent her spoil away, dishonoring her, Save that Meleager, as a tame lion chafed, Bore on them, broke them, and as fire cleaves wood, So clove and drove them, smitten in twain; but she Smote not nor heaved up hand; and this man first, Plexippus, crying out, "This for love's sake, Sweet," Drove at Meleager, who with spear straightening Pierced his cheek through; then Toxeus made for him, Dumb, but his spear shake; vain and violent words, Fruitless; for him, too, stricken through both sides The earth felt falling.... ... And these being slain, None moved, nor spake.[251] Of this fearful sequel to the hunt, Althæa has heard nothing. As she bears thank offering to the temples for the victory of her son, the bodies of her murdered brothers meet her sight. She shrieks, and beats her breast, and hastens to change the garments of joy for those of mourning. But when the author of the deed is known, grief gives way to the stern desire of vengeance on her son. The fatal brand, which the Destinies have linked with Meleager's life, she brings forth. She commands a fire to be prepared. Four times she essays to place the brand upon the pile; four times draws back, shuddering before the destruction of her son. The feelings of the mother and the sister contend within her. Now she is pale at the thought of the purposed deed, now flushed again with anger at the violence of her offspring. Finally, the sister prevails over the mother:--turning away her face, she throws the fatal wood upon the burning pile. Meleager, absent and unconscious of the cause, feels a sudden pang. He burns; he calls upon those whom he loves, Atalanta and his mother. But speedily the brand is ashes, and the life of Meleager is breathed forth to the wandering winds. When at last the deed was done, the mother laid violent hands upon herself. [Illustration: FIG. 135. THE DEATH OF MELEAGER] =169. Merope.= A heroine connected by blood with Atalanta was Merope,[252] daughter of king Cypselus of Arcadia, and descended from Arcas, the son of Callisto and Jupiter. On account of her relationship to Atalanta her story may be told here, though she is not a member of the family of Ætolus. Her husband, Cresphontes the Heraclid, king of Messenia, had been slain with two of his sons by rebellious nobles; and one Polyphontes, leader of the revolt, reigned in his stead and took Merope to wife. But her third son by Cresphontes, Æpytus, had been concealed by her in Arcadia. Thence, in due season, he returned unknown to her, with the purpose of wreaking vengeance on the murderers of his sire. He pretended to have slain Æpytus, and so as a stranger won the favor of Polyphontes, but came near losing his life at his mother's hands. A recognition being happily effected, Æpytus, aided by his mother, put Polyphontes to death and took possession of the kingdom. This story has been frequently dramatized, first by Euripides in a lost play called Cresphontes, and most recently by Matthew Arnold, whose Merope is a masterpiece of classical invention and of poetic execution. =170. Castor and Pollux.= Leda, the sister of Althæa and aunt of Meleager, bore to Tyndareus, king of Sparta, Castor and Clytemnestra. To Jove she bore Pollux and Helen. Pollux and Castor--one, the son of a god and immortal, the other, of mortal breed and destiny--are famous for their fraternal affection. Endowed with various manly virtues,--Castor a horse-tamer, Pollux a boxer,--they made all expeditions in common. Together they joined the Calydonian hunt. Together they accompanied the Argonauts. During the voyage to Colchis it is said that, a storm arising, Orpheus prayed to the Samothracian gods and played on his harp, and that when the storm ceased, stars appeared on the heads of the brothers. Hence they came to be honored as patrons of voyagers. They rendered, indeed, noteworthy service to the Argonauts returning from Colchis with Medea and the Golden Fleece. For when the voyagers attempted a landing at Crete they were confronted by the gigantic warder of the island. This was Talus, a form of living brass, fashioned by Hephæstus (Vulcan) and presented to King Minos, about whose Cretan domain he made his rounds three times a day. Ordinarily when Talus saw voyagers nearing the coast he fired himself red-hot and embraced them as they landed. For some reason he did not welcome the Argonauts in this warm fashion, but Whirling with resistless sway Rocks sheer uprent, repels them from the bay.[1] Medea, objecting to the volley of stones, resorts to necromantic spells: Thrice she applies the power of magic prayer, Thrice, hellward bending, mutters charms in air; Then, turning toward the foe, bids Mischief fly, And looks Destruction as she points her eye.[253] Maddened, as might be surmised, by so insidious and unaccustomed a form of attack, the Man of Brass "tears up whole hills to crush his foes"; then fleeing in sudden panic, he is overcome by the stupor of the enchantment and taken captive by Castor and Pollux. He had in his body only one vein, and that plugged on the crown of his head with a nail. Medea drew out the stopper. At a later period when Theseus and his friend Pirithoüs had carried off Helen from Sparta, the youthful heroes, Castor and Pollux, with their followers hasted to the rescue. Theseus being absent from Attica, the brothers recovered their sister. Later still, we find Castor and Pollux engaged in a combat with Idas and Lynceus of Messene, some say over the daughters of Leucippus, others, over a herd of oxen. Castor was slain; but Pollux, inconsolable for the loss of his brother, besought Jupiter to be permitted to give his own life as a ransom for him. Jupiter so far consented as to allow the two brothers to enjoy the boon of life alternately, each spending one day under the earth and the next in the heavenly abodes. According to another version, Jupiter rewarded the attachment of the brothers by placing them among the stars as Gemini, the Twins. They received heroic honors as the _Tyndaridæ_ (sons of Tyndareus); divine honors they received under the name of _Dioscuri_ (sons of Jove).[254] =171. The Twin Brethren among the Romans.= In Rome they were honored with a temple in the Forum and made the patrons of knighthood because of the assistance they rendered in the battle of Lake Regillus. In the moment of dire distress they had appeared, a princely pair: So like they were, no mortal Might one from other know; White as snow their armor was, Their steeds were white as snow. Never on earthly anvil Did such rare armor gleam, And never did such gallant steeds Drink of an earthly stream. And all who saw them trembled, And pale grew every cheek; And Aulus the Dictator Scarce gathered voice to speak: "Say by what name men call you? What city is your home? And wherefore ride ye in such guise Before the ranks of Rome?" [Illustration: FIG. 136. CASTOR AND POLLUX CAPTURING THE GIANT TALUS (Left portion)] "By many names," they answered,-- "By many names men call us; In many lands we dwell: Well Samothracia knows us; Cyrene knows us well; Our house in gay Tarentum Is hung each morn with flowers; High o'er the masts of Syracuse Our marble portal towers; But by the brave Eurotas Is our dear native home; And for the right we come to fight Before the ranks of Rome." After the battle was won they were the first to bear the tidings to the city. With joy the people acclaimed them,-- But on rode these strange horsemen, With slow and lordly pace; And none who saw their bearing Durst ask their name or race. On rode they to the Forum, While laurel boughs and flowers, From housetops and from windows, Fell on their crests in showers. When they drew nigh to Vesta, They vaulted down amain, And washed their horses in the well That springs by Vesta's fane. And straight again they mounted, And rode to Vesta's door; Then, like a blast, away they passed, And no man saw them more.... And Sergius the High Pontiff Alone found voice to speak: "The gods who live forever Have fought for Rome to-day! These be the Great Twin Brethren To whom the Dorians pray. Back comes the chief in triumph Who, in the hour of fight, Hath seen the Great Twin Brethren In harness on his right. Safe comes the ship to haven, Through billows and through gales If once the Great Twin Brethren Sit shining on the sails.... Here, hard by Vesta's temple, Build we a stately dome Unto the Great Twin Brethren Who fought so well for Rome!"[255] [Illustration: FIG. 137. CASTOR AND POLLUX CAPTURING THE GIANT TALUS (Right portion)] For many a year the procession, in which the knights, olive-wreathed and purple-robed, marched in honor of the Twin Brethren, continued to be held; and still there stand three columns of their temple above the pool of Juturna and Vesta's ruined shrine. FOOTNOTES: [244] Ovid, Metam. 8, 260-546. [245] § 170. [246] § 180. [247] Chapter XXI. [248] From Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon. [249] From Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon. [250] From Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon. [251] From Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon. [252] Hyginus, Fab. 184; Apollodorus, 2, 8; Pausanias, 2, 18; 4, 3, etc.; Aristotle, Poetics, 14, 9. [253] Apollonius Rhodius, 4, 1629 (Broome's translation). See also Apollodorus, 1; 9, 26. [254] Hyginus, Fab. 80; Ovid, Fasti, 100. Theocritus, Idyl XXII, gives a different version. [255] Macaulay, Lays of Ancient Rome, The Battle of Lake Regillus. CHAPTER XVII THE HOUSE OF MINOS =172. Minos of Crete= was a descendant of Inachus in the sixth generation. A son of Jupiter and Europa, he was, after death, transferred, with his brother Rhadamanthus and with King Æacus, to Hades, where the three became judges of the Shades. This is the Minos mentioned by Homer and Hesiod,--the eminent lawgiver. Of his grandson, Minos II, it is related that when aiming at the crown of Crete, he boasted of his power to obtain by prayer whatever he desired, and as a test, he implored Neptune to send him a bull for sacrifice. The bull appeared, but Minos, astonished at its great beauty, declined to sacrifice the brute. Neptune, therefore incensed, drove the bull wild,--worse still, drove Pasiphaë, the wife of Minos, wild with love of it. The wonderful brute was finally caught and overcome by Hercules, who rode it through the waves to Greece. But its offspring, the Minotaur, a monster bull-headed and man-bodied, remained for many a day a terror to Crete, till finally a famous artificer, Dædalus, constructed for him a labyrinth, with passages and turnings winding in and about like the river Mæander, so that whoever was inclosed in it might by no means find his way out. The Minotaur, roaming therein, lived upon human victims. For it is said that, after Minos had subdued Megara,[256] a tribute of seven youths and seven maidens was sent every year from Athens to Crete to feed this monster; and it was not until the days of Theseus of Athens that an end was put to both tribute and Minotaur.[257] =173. Dædalus and Icarus.=[258] Dædalus, who abetted the love of Pasiphaë for the Cretan bull, afterwards lost the favor of Minos and was imprisoned by him. Seeing no other way of escape, the artificer made, out of feathers, wings for his son Icarus and himself, which he fastened on with wax. Then poising themselves in the air, they flew away. Icarus had been warned not to approach too near the sun, and all went well till they had passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the right. But then the boy, exulting in his career, soared upward. The blaze of the torrid sun softened the waxen fastening of his wings. Off they came, and down the lad dropped into the sea which after him is named Icarian, even to this day. [Illustration: FIG. 138. DÆDALUS AND ICARUS] ... With melting wax and loosened strings Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings; Headlong he rushed through the affrighted air, With limbs distorted and disheveled hair; His scattered plumage danced upon the wave, And sorrowing Nereïds decked his watery grave; O'er his pale corse their pearly sea flowers shed, And strewed with crimson moss his marble bed; Struck in their coral towers the passing bell, And wide in ocean tolled his echoing knell.[259] The story, save for its tragic conclusion, reads like a remarkable anticipation of the exploits of the Wright brothers, Blériot, and Latham with the aëroplane to-day, or of Count Zeppelin with his airships. Dædalus, mourning his son, arrived finally in Sicily where, being kindly received by King Cocalus, he built a temple to Apollo and hung up his wings, an offering to the god. But Minos, having learned of the hiding place of the artificer, followed him to Sicily with a great fleet; and Dædalus would surely have perished, had not one of the daughters of Cocalus disposed of Minos by scalding him to death while he was bathing. It is said that Dædalus could not bear the idea of a rival. His sister had placed her son Perdix under his charge to be taught the mechanical arts. He was an apt scholar and gave striking evidences of ingenuity. Walking on the seashore, he picked up the spine of a fish, and, imitating it in iron, invented the saw. He invented, also, a pair of compasses. But Dædalus, envious of his nephew, pushed him off a tower and killed him. Minerva, however, in pity of the boy, changed him into a bird, the partridge, which bears his name. To the descendants of Inachus we shall again return in the account of the house of Labdacus. FOOTNOTES: [256] § 143. [257] § 177. Apollodorus, 3, 1, § 3; 15, § 8; Pausanias, 1, 27, § 9, etc.; Ovid, Metam. 7, 456. [258] Virgil, Æneid, 6, 14-36; Ovid, Metam. 8, 152-259; Hyginus, Fab. 40, 44. [259] Erasmus Darwin. CHAPTER XVIII THE HOUSE OF CECROPS AND ERICHTHONIUS [Illustration: FIG. 139. THESEUS] =174. From Cecrops[260] to Philomela.= Cecrops, half-snake, half-man, came from Crete or Egypt into Attica, founded Athens, and chose Minerva rather than Neptune as its guardian. His successor was Erichthonius,[261] or Erechtheus, a snake-formed genius of the fertile soil of Attica. This Erichthonius[262] was a special ward of the goddess Minerva, who brought him up in her temple. His son Pandion had two daughters, Procne and Philomela, of whom he gave the former in marriage to Tereus, king of Thrace (or of Daulis in Phocis). This ruler, after his wife had borne him a son Itys (or Itylus), wearied of her, plucked out her tongue by the roots to insure her silence, and, pretending that she was dead, took in marriage the other sister, Philomela. Procne by means of a web, into which she wove her story, informed Philomela of the horrible truth. In revenge upon Tereus, the sisters killed Itylus and served up the child as food to the father; but the gods, in indignation, transformed Procne into a swallow, Philomela into a nightingale, forever bemoaning the murdered Itylus, and Tereus into a hawk, forever pursuing the sisters.[263] =175. Matthew Arnold's Philomela.= Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark!--what pain! O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no calm? Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse, With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes, The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again--thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain! According to another version of this story, it was Philomela who was robbed of her tongue and who wove the web by means of which the queen Procne learned the truth. =176. Theseus.=[264] A descendant of Erechtheus, or of Cecrops, was Ægeus, king of Athens. By Æthra, granddaughter of Pelops, he became the father of the Attic hero, Theseus. Ægeus, on parting from Æthra, before the birth of the child, had placed his sword and shoes under a large stone and had directed her to send the child to him if it should prove strong enough to roll away the stone and take what was under. The lad Theseus was brought up at Tr[oe]zen, of which Pittheus, Æthra's father, was king. When Æthra thought the time had come, she led Theseus to the stone. He removed it with ease and took the sword and shoes. Since at that time the roads were infested with robbers, his grandfather Pittheus pressed him earnestly to take the shorter and safer way to his father's country, by sea; but the youth, feeling in himself the spirit and soul of a hero and eager to signalize himself like Hercules, determined on the more perilous and adventurous journey by land. [Illustration: FIG. 140. ÆTHRA AND THESEUS] His first day's journey brought him to Epidaurus, where dwelt Periphetes, a son of Vulcan. This ferocious savage always went armed with a club of iron, and all travelers stood in terror of his violence; but beneath the blows of the young hero he speedily fell. Several similar contests with the petty tyrants and marauders of the country followed, in all of which Theseus was victorious. Most important was his slaughter of Procrustes, or the Stretcher. This giant had an iron bedstead on which he used to tie all travelers who fell into his hands. If they were shorter than the bed, he stretched them till they fitted it; if they were longer than the bed, he lopped off their limbs. In the course of time Theseus reached Athens, but here new dangers awaited him. For Medea, the sorceress, who had fled from Corinth after her separation from Jason,[265] had become the wife of Ægeus. Knowing by her arts who the stranger was, and fearing the loss of her influence with her husband if Theseus should be acknowledged as his son, she tried to poison the youth; but the sword which he wore discovered him to his father and prevented the fatal draft. Medea fled to Asia, where the country afterwards called Media is said to have received its name from her. Theseus was acknowledged by his sire and declared successor to the throne. [Illustration: FIG. 141. THESEUS AND THE MINOTAUR] =177. Theseus and= =Ariadne.=[266] Now the Athenians were at that time in deep affliction on account of the tribute of youths and maidens which they were forced to send to the Minotaur, dwelling in the labyrinth of Crete,--a penalty said to have been imposed by Minos upon the Athenians because Ægeus had sent Androgeüs, the son of Minos, against the Marathonian bull and so had brought about the young man's death. From this calamity Theseus resolved to deliver his countrymen or to die in the attempt. He, therefore, in spite of the entreaties of his father, presented himself as champion of Athens and of her fair sons and daughters, to do battle against the Minotaur, and departed with the victims in a vessel bearing black sails, which he promised his father to change for white in the event of his returning victorious. So,-- Rather than cargo on cargo of corpses undead should be wafted[267] Over the ravening sea to the pitiless monster of Creta,-- Leaving the curvèd strand Piræan, and wooing the breezes, Theseus furrowed the deep to the dome superb of the tyrant. Then as the maid Ariadne beheld him with glances of longing,-- Princess royal of Creta Minoan, tender, sequestered,-- Locked in a mother's embrace, in seclusion virginal, fragrant, Like some myrtle set by streaming ways of Eurotas, Like to the varied tints that Spring invites with her breezes,-- Then, as with eager gaze she looked her first upon Theseus, Never a whit she lowered her eyes nor ceased to consume him, Ere to the core profound her breast with love was enkindled. --God-born boy, thou pitiless heart, provoker of madness, Mischievous, mingling care with the fleeting pleasure of mortals,-- Goddess of Golgi, thou, frequenter of coverts Idalian, In what wildering seas ye tossed the impassionate maiden Ever a-sighing,--aye for the fair-haired stranger a-sighing! Ah, what ponderous fears oppressed her languishing bosom, How, more pallid than gold her countenance flashed into whiteness, What time Theseus marched unto death or to glory undying, Manful, minded to quell the imbruted might of the monster! Not unaided, however, did he undertake the task; for Ariadne, apprehensive lest he might lose his way in the dædalian labyrinth, furnished him with a thread, the gift of Vulcan, which, unrolled by Theseus as he entered the maze, should enable him on his return to retrace his former path. Meanwhile-- Offering artless bribes, Ariadne invoked the Immortals, Kindled voiceless lip with unvoicèd tribute of incense, Suppliant, not in vain: for, like to an oak upon Taurus, Gnarlèd, swinging his arms,--like some cone-burthenèd pine tree Oozing the life from his bark, that, riven to heart by the whirlwind, Wholly uprooted from earth, falls prone with extravagant ruin, Perishes, dealing doom with precipitate rush of its branches,-- So was the Cretan brute by Theseus done to destruction, E'en so, tossing in vain his horns to the vacuous breezes. Then with abundant laud he turned, unscathed from the combat, Theseus,--guiding his feet unsure by the filament slender, Lest as he threaded paths circuitous, ways labyrinthine, Some perverse, perplexing, erratic alley might foil him. Why should I tarry to tell how, quitting her sire, Ariadne Quitting the sister's arms, the infatuate gaze of the mother,-- She whose sole delight, whose life, was her desperate daughter,-- How Ariadne made less of the love of them all than of Theseus? Why should I sing how sailing they came to the beaches of Dia,-- White with the foam,--how thence, false-hearted, the lover departing Left her benighted with sleep, the Minoïd, princess of Creta? [Illustration: FIG. 142. THE SLEEPING ARIADNE] Gazing amain from the marge of the flood-reverberant Dia, Chafing with ire, indignant, exasperate,--lo, Ariadne, Lorn Ariadne, beholds swift craft, swift lover retreating. Nor can be sure she sees what things she sees of a surety, When upspringing from sleep, she shakes off treacherous slumber, Lone beholds herself on a shore forlorn of the ocean. Carelessly hastens the youth, meantime, who, driving his oar-blades Hard in the waves, consigns void vows to the blustering breezes. But as, afar from the sedge, with sad eyes still the Minoïd Mute as a Mænad in stone unmoving stonily gazes-- Heart o'erwhelmed with woe--ah, thus, while thus she is gazing,-- Down from her yellow hair slips, sudden, the weed of the fine-spun Snood, and the vesture light of her mantle down from the shoulders Slips, and the twisted scarf encircling her womanly bosom; Stealthily gliding, slip they downward into the billow, Fall, and are tossed by the buoyant flood at the feet of the fair one. Nothing she recks of the coif, of the floating garment as little, Cares not a moment then, whose care hangs only on Theseus,-- Wretched of heart, soul-wrecked, dependent only on Theseus,-- Desperate, woe-unselfed with a cureless sorrow incessant, Frantic, bosoming torture of thorns Erycina had planted.... Then, they say, that at last, infuriate out of all measure, Once and again she poured shrill-voicèd shrieks from her bosom; Helpless, clambered steeps, sheer beetling over the surges, Whence to enrange with her eyes vast futile regions of ocean;-- Lifting the folds, soft folds of her garments, baring her ankles, Dashed into edges of upward waves that trembled before her; Uttered, anguished then, one wail, her maddest and saddest,-- Catching with tear-wet lips poor sobs that shivering choked her:-- "Thus is it far from my home, O traitor, and far from its altars-- Thus on a desert strand,--dost leave me, treacherous Theseus? Thus is it thou dost flout our vow, dost flout the Immortals,-- Carelessly homeward bearest, with baleful ballast of curses? Never, could never a plea forfend thy cruelly minded Counsel? Never a pity entreat thy bosom for shelter?... Hence, let never a maid confide in the oath of a lover, Never presume man's vows hold aught trustworthy within them! Verily, while in anguish of heart his spirit is longing, Nothing he spares to assever, nor aught makes scruple to promise: But, an his dearest desire, his nearest of heart be accorded-- Nothing he recks of affiance, and reckons perjury,--nothing. "Oh! what lioness whelped thee? Oh! what desolate cavern? What was the sea that spawned, that spat from its churning abysses, Thee,--what wolfish Scylla, or Syrtis, or vasty Charybdis, Thee,--thus thankful for life, dear gift of living, I gave thee?... Had it not liked thee still to acknowledge vows that we plighted, Mightest thou homeward, yet, have borne me a damsel beholden, Fain to obey thy will, and to lave thy feet like a servant, Fain to bedeck thy couch with purple coverlet for thee. "But to the hollow winds why stand repeating my quarrel,-- I, for sorrow unselfed,--they, but breezes insensate,-- Potent neither voices to hear nor words to re-echo?... Yea, but where shall I turn? Forlorn, what succor rely on? 'Haste to the Gnossian hills?' Ah, see how distantly surging Deeps forbid, distending their gulfs abhorrent before me! 'Comfort my heart, mayhap, with the loyal love of my husband?' Lo, the reluctant oar, e'en now, he plies to forsake me!-- Nought but the homeless strand of an isle remote of the ocean! No, no way of escape, where the circling sea without shore is,-- No, no counsel of flight, no hope, no sound of a mortal; All things desolate, dumb, yea, all things summoning deathward! Yet mine eyes shall not fade in death that sealeth the eyelids, Nor from the frame outworn shall fare my lingering senses, Ere, undone, from powers divine I claim retribution-- Ere I call--in the hour supreme, on the faith of Immortals! "Come, then, Righters of Wrong, O vengeful dealers of justice, Braided with coil of the serpents, O Eumenides, ye of Brows that blazon ire exhaling aye from the bosom, Haste, oh, haste ye, hither and hear me, vehement plaining, Destitute, fired with rage, stark-blind, demented for fury!-- As with careless heart yon Theseus sailed and forgot me, So with folly of heart, may he slay himself and his household!" ... Then with a nod supreme Olympian Jupiter nodded: Quaked thereat old Earth,--quaked, shuddered the terrified waters, Ay, and the constellations in Heaven that glitter were jangled. Straightway like some cloud on the inward vision of Theseus Dropped oblivion down, enshrouding vows he had cherished, Hiding away all trace of the solemn behest of his father. [Illustration: FIG. 143. HEAD OF DIONYSUS] For, as was said before, Ægeus, on the departure of his son for Creta, had given him this command: "If Minerva, goddess of our city, grant thee victory over the Minotaur, hoist on thy return, when first the dear hills of Attica greet thy vision, white canvas to herald thy joy and mine, that mine eyes may see the propitious sign and know the glad day that restores thee safe to me." ... Even as clouds compelled by urgent push of the breezes Float from the brow uplift of a snow-envelopèd mountain, So from Theseus passed all prayer and behest of his father. Waited the sire meanwhile, looked out from his tower over ocean, Wasted his anxious eyes in futile labor of weeping, Waited expectant,--saw to the southward sails black-bellied-- Hurled him headlong down from the horrid steep to destruction,-- Weening hateful Fate had severed the fortune of Theseus. Theseus, then, as he paced that gloom of the home of his father, Insolent Theseus knew himself what manner of evil He with a careless heart had aforetime dealt Ariadne,-- Fixed Ariadne that still, still stared where the ship had receded,-- Wounded, revolving in heart her countless muster of sorrows. [Illustration: FIG. 144. THE REVELS OF BACCHUS AND ARIADNE] =178. Bacchus and Ariadne.= But for the deserted daughter of Minos a happier fate was yet reserved. This island, on which she had been abandoned, was Naxos, loved and especially haunted by Bacchus, where with his train of reeling devotees he was wont to hold high carnival. ... Sweeping over the shore, lo, beautiful, blooming Iacchus,-- Chorused of Satyrs in dance and of Nysian-born Sileni,-- Seeking fair Ariadne,--afire with flame of a lover! Lightly around him leaped Bacchantès, strenuous, frenzied, Nodding their heads, "Euhoe!" to the cry, "Euhoe, O Bacchus!" Some--enwreathèd spears of Iacchus madly were waving; Some--ensanguined limbs of the bullock, quivering, brandished; Some--were twining themselves with sinuous snakes that twisted; Some--with vessels of signs mysterious, passed in procession-- Symbols profound that in vain the profane may seek to decipher; Certain struck with the palms--with tapered fingers on timbrels, Others the tenuous clash of the rounded cymbals awakened;-- Brayed with a raucous roar through the turmoil many a trumpet, Many a stridulous fife went, shrill, barbarian, shrieking.[268] So the grieving, much-wronged Ariadne was consoled for the loss of her mortal spouse by an immortal lover. The blooming god of the vine wooed and won her. After her death, the golden crown that he had given her was transferred by him to the heavens. As it mounted the ethereal spaces, its gems, growing in brightness, became stars; and still it remains fixed, as a constellation, between the kneeling Hercules and the man that holds the serpent. =179. The Amazons.= As king of Athens, it is said that Theseus undertook an expedition against the Amazons. Assailing them before they had recovered from the attack of Hercules, he carried off their queen Antiope; but they in turn, invading the country of Athens, penetrated into the city itself; and there was fought the final battle in which Theseus overcame them. =180. Theseus and Pirithoüs.= A famous friendship between Theseus and Pirithoüs of Thessaly, son of Jupiter, originated in the midst of arms. Pirithoüs had made an irruption into the plain of Marathon and had carried off the herds of the king of Athens. Theseus went to repel the plunderers. The moment the Thessalian beheld him, he was seized with admiration, and stretching out his hand as a token of peace, he cried, "Be judge thyself,--what satisfaction dost thou require?"--"Thy friendship," replied the Athenian; and they swore inviolable fidelity. Their deeds corresponding to their professions, they continued true brothers in arms. When, accordingly, Pirithoüs was to marry Hippodamia, daughter of Atrax, Theseus took his friend's part in the battle that ensued between the Lapithæ (of whom Pirithoüs was king) and the Centaurs. For it happened that at the marriage feast, the Centaurs were among the guests; and one of them, Eurytion, becoming intoxicated, attempted to offer violence to the bride. Other Centaurs followed his example; combat was joined; Theseus leaped into the fray, and not a few of the guests bit the dust. [Illustration: FIG. 145. LAPITH AND CENTAUR] Later, each of these friends aspired to espouse a daughter of Jupiter. Theseus fixed his choice on Leda's daughter Helen, then a child, but afterwards famous as the cause of the Trojan War; and with the aid of his friend he carried her off, only, however, to restore her at very short notice. As for Pirithoüs, he aspired to the wife of the monarch of Erebus; and Theseus, though aware of the danger, accompanied the ambitious lover to the underworld. But Pluto seized and set them on an enchanted rock at his palace gate, where fixed they remained till Hercules, arriving, liberated Theseus but left Pirithoüs to his fate. =181. Phædra and Hippolytus.= After the death of Antiope, Theseus married Phædra, sister of the deserted Ariadne, daughter of Minos. But Phædra, seeing in Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, a youth endowed with all the graces and virtues of his father and of an age corresponding to her own, loved him. When, however, he repulsed her advances, her love was changed to despair and hate. Hanging herself, she left for her husband a scroll containing false charges against Hippolytus. The infatuated husband, filled, therefore, with jealousy of his son, imprecated the vengeance of Neptune upon him. As Hippolytus one day drove his chariot along the shore, a sea monster raised himself above the waters and frightened the horses so that they ran away and dashed the chariot to pieces. Hippolytus was killed, but by Æsculapius was restored to life, and then, removed by Diana from the power of his deluded father, was placed in Italy under the protection of the nymph Egeria. In his old age, Theseus, losing the favor of his people, retired to the court of Lycomedes, king of Scyros, who at first received him kindly, but afterwards treacherously put him to death. FOOTNOTES: [260] Ovid, Metam. 2, 555; Apollodorus, 3, 14, § 1; Pausanias; and Hyginus, Fab. 48. [261] Ovid, Metam. 2, 554; 6, 676; Homer, Iliad, 2, 547; Odyssey, 7, 81; Hyginus, Poet. Astr. 2, 13. [262] For Ruskin's interpretation, see Queen of the Air, § 38. [263] Hyginus, Fab. 45; Apollodorus, 3, 14, § 8; Ovid, Metam. 6, 412-676. See Commentary. [264] Ovid, Metam. 7, 350-424; Plutarch, Theseus. [265] § 167. [266] Odyssey, 11, 321; Plutarch, Theseus; Catullus, LXIV. [267] Catullus, LXIV. From The Wedding of Peleus and Thetis. A Translation in Hexameters, by Charles Mills Gayley. [268] Catullus, LXIV (Charles Mills Gayley's translation). CHAPTER XIX THE HOUSE OF LABDACUS [Illustration: FIG. 146. [OE]DIPUS AND THE SPHINX] =182. The Misfortunes of Thebes.= Returning to the descendants of Inachus, we find that the curse which fell upon Cadmus when he slew the dragon of Mars followed nearly every scion of his house. His daughters, Semele, Ino, Autonoë, Agave,--his grandsons, Melicertes, Actæon, Pentheus,--lived sorrowful lives or suffered violent deaths. The misfortunes of one branch of his family, sprung from his son Polydorus, remain to be told. The curse seems to have spared Polydorus himself. His son Labdacus, also, lived a quiet life as king of Thebes and left a son, Laïus, upon the throne. But erelong Laïus was warned by an oracle that there was danger to his throne and life if his son, new-born, should reach man's estate. He, therefore, committed the child to a herdsman with orders for its destruction; but the herdsman, moved with pity yet not daring entirely to disobey, pierced the child's feet, purposing to expose him to the elements on Mount Cithæron. =183. [OE]dipus and the Sphinx.=[269] In this plight the infant was given to a tender-hearted fellow-shepherd, who carried him to King Polybus of Corinth and his queen, by whom he was adopted and called [OE]dipus, or Swollen-foot. Many years afterward, [OE]dipus, learning from an oracle that he was destined to be the death of his father, left the realm of his reputed sire, Polybus. It happened, however, that Laïus was then driving to Delphi, accompanied only by one attendant. In a narrow road he met [OE]dipus, also in a chariot. On the refusal of the youthful stranger to leave the way at their command, the attendant killed one of his horses. [OE]dipus, consumed with rage, slew both Laïus and the attendant, and thus unknowingly fulfilled both oracles. Shortly after this event, the city of Thebes, to which [OE]dipus had repaired, was afflicted with a monster that infested the high-road. She was called the Sphinx. She had the body of a lion and the upper part of a woman. She lay crouched on the top of a rock and, arresting all travelers who came that way, propounded to them a riddle, with the condition that those who could solve it should pass safe, but those who failed should be killed. Not one had yet succeeded in guessing it. [OE]dipus, not daunted by these alarming accounts, boldly advanced to the trial. The Sphinx asked him, "What animal is it that in the morning goes on four feet, at noon on two, and in the evening upon three?" [OE]dipus replied, "Man, who in childhood creeps on hands and knees, in manhood walks erect, and in old age goes with the aid of a staff." The Sphinx, mortified at the collapse of her riddle, cast herself down from the rock and perished. =184. [OE]dipus, the King.= In gratitude for their deliverance, the Thebans made [OE]dipus their king, giving him in marriage their queen, Jocasta. He, ignorant of his parentage, had already become the slayer of his father; in marrying the queen he became the husband of his mother. These horrors remained undiscovered till, after many years, Thebes being afflicted with famine and pestilence, the oracle was consulted, and, by a series of coincidences, the double crime of [OE]dipus came to light. At once, Jocasta put an end to her life by hanging herself. As for [OE]dipus, horror-struck,-- When her form He saw, poor wretch! with one wild fearful cry, The twisted rope he loosens, and she fell, Ill-starred one, on the ground. Then came a sight Most fearful. Tearing from her robe the clasps, All chased with gold, with which she decked herself, He with them struck the pupils of his eyes, With words like these: "Because they had not seen What ills he suffered, and what ills he did, They in the dark should look, in time to come, On those whom they ought never to have seen, Nor know the dear ones whom he fain had known." With suchlike wails, not once or twice alone, Raising his eyes he smote them, and the balls, All bleeding, stained his cheek.[270] =185. [OE]dipus at Colonus.= After these sad events [OE]dipus would have left Thebes, but the oracle forbade the people to let him go. Jocasta's brother, Creon, was made regent of the realm for the two sons of [OE]dipus. But after [OE]dipus had grown content to stay, these sons of his, with Creon, thrust him into exile. Accompanied by his daughter Antigone, he went begging through the land. His other daughter, Ismene, at first stayed at home. Cursing the sons who had abandoned him, but bowing his own will in submission to the ways of God, [OE]dipus approached the hour of his death in Colonus, a village near Athens. His friend Theseus, king of Athens, comforted and sustained him to the last. Both his daughters were also with him: And then he called his girls, and bade them fetch Clear water from the stream, and bring to him For cleansing and libation. And they went, Both of them, to yon hill we look upon, Owned by Demeter of the fair green corn, And quickly did his bidding, bathed his limbs, And clothed them in the garment that is meet. And when he had his will in all they did, And not one wish continued unfulfilled, Zeus from the dark depths thundered, and the girls Heard it, and shuddering, at their father's knees, Falling they wept; nor did they then forbear Smiting their breasts, nor groanings lengthened out; And when he heard their bitter cry, forthwith Folding his arms around them, thus he spake: "My children, on this day ye cease to have A father. All my days are spent and gone; And ye no more shall lead your wretched life, Caring for me. Hard was it, that I know, My children! Yet one word is strong to loose, Although alone, the burden of these toils, For _love_ in larger store ye could not have From any than from him who standeth here, Of whom bereaved ye now shall live your life."[271] There was sobbing, then silence. Then a voice called him,--and he followed. God took him from his troubles. Antigone returned to Thebes,--where, as we shall see, her sisterly fidelity showed itself as true as, aforetime, her filial affection. Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had meanwhile agreed to share the kingdom between them and to reign alternately year by year. The first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother. Polynices, accordingly, fled to Adrastus, king of Argos, who gave him his daughter in marriage and aided him with an army to enforce his claim to the kingdom. These causes led to the celebrated expedition of the "Seven against Thebes," which furnished ample materials for the epic and tragic poets of Greece. And here the younger heroes of Greece make their appearance. FOOTNOTES: [269] Sophocles, [OE]dipus Rex, [OE]dipus Coloneus, Antigone; Euripides, Ph[oe]nissæ; Apollodorus, 3, 5, §§ 7, 8. [270] Sophocles, [OE]dipus, the King (E. H. Plumptre's translation). [271] Sophocles, [OE]dipus at Colonus, ll. 1600, etc. (E. H. Plumptre's translation). CHAPTER XX MYTHS OF THE YOUNGER HEROES: THE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES =186. Their Exploits.= The exploits of the sons and grandsons of the chieftains engaged in the Calydonian Hunt and the Quest of the Golden Fleece are narrated in four stories,--the Seven against Thebes, the Siege of Troy, the Wanderings of Ulysses, and the Adventures of Æneas. =187. The Seven against Thebes.=[272] The allies of Adrastus and Polynices in the enterprise against Thebes were Tydeus of Calydon, half brother of Meleager, Parthenopæus of Arcadia, son of Atalanta and Mars, Capaneus of Argos, Hippomedon of Argos, and Amphiaraüs, the brother-in-law of Adrastus. Amphiaraüs opposed the expedition for, being a soothsayer, he knew that none of the leaders except Adrastus would live to return from Thebes; but on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king's sister, he had agreed that whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion, the decision should be left to Eriphyle. Polynices, knowing this, gave Eriphyle the necklace of Harmonia and thereby gained her to his interest. This was the selfsame necklace that Vulcan had given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus; Polynices had taken it with him on his flight from Thebes. It seems to have been still fraught with the curse of the house of Cadmus. But Eriphyle could not resist so tempting a bribe. By her decision the war was resolved on, and Amphiaraüs went to his fate. He bore his part bravely in the contest, but still could not avert his destiny. While, pursued by the enemy, he was fleeing along the river, a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter opened the ground, and he, his chariot, and his charioteer were swallowed up. It is unnecessary here to detail all the acts of heroism or atrocity which marked this contest. The fidelity, however, of Evadne stands out as an offset to the weakness of Eriphyle. Her husband, Capaneus, having in the ardor of the fight declared that he would force his way into the city in spite of Jove himself, placed a ladder against the wall and mounted; but Jupiter, offended at his impious language, struck him with a thunderbolt. When his obsequies were celebrated, Evadne cast herself on his funeral pile and perished. [Illustration: FIG. 147. ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES KILL EACH OTHER] It seems that early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias as to the issue. Now, this Tiresias in his youth had by chance seen Minerva bathing, and had been deprived by her of his sight, but afterwards had obtained of her the knowledge of future events. When consulted by Eteocles, he declared that victory should fall to Thebes if Men[oe]ceus, the son of Creon, gave himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth, learning the response, threw away his life in the first encounter. The siege continued long, with varying success. At length both hosts agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel by single combat. They fought, and fell each by the hand of the other. The armies then renewed the fight; and at last the invaders were forced to yield, and fled, leaving their dead unburied. Creon, the uncle of the fallen princes, now became king, caused Eteocles to be buried with distinguished honor, but suffered the body of Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding any one, on pain of death, to give it burial. =188. Antigone=,[273] the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the revolting edict which, consigning her brother's body to the dogs and vultures, deprived it of the rites that were considered essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading counsel of her affectionate but timid sister, and unable to procure assistance, she determined to brave the hazard and to bury the body with her own hands. She was detected in the act. When Creon asked the fearless woman whether she dared disobey the laws, she answered: Yes, for it was not Zeus who gave them forth, Nor justice, dwelling with the gods below, Who traced these laws for all the sons of men; Nor did I deem thy edicts strong enough, That thou, a mortal man, should'st overpass The unwritten laws of God that know no change. They are not of to-day nor yesterday, But live forever, nor can man assign When first they sprang to being. Not through fear Of any man's resolve was I prepared Before the gods to bear the penalty Of sinning against these. That I should die I knew (how should I not?), though thy decree Had never spoken. And before my time If I shall die, I reckon this a gain; For whoso lives, as I, in many woes, How can it be but he shall gain by death? And so for me to bear this doom of thine Has nothing fearful. But, if I had left My mother's son unburied on his death, In that I should have suffered; but in this I suffer not.[274] Creon, unyielding and unable to conceive of a law higher than that he knew, gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having deliberately set at nought the solemn edict of the city. Her lover, Hæmon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate, would not survive her, and fell by his own hand. It is only after his son's death and as he gazes upon the corpses of the lovers, that the aged Creon recognizes the insolence of his narrow judgment. And those that stand beside him say: Man's highest blessedness In wisdom chiefly stands; And in the things that touch upon the gods, 'T is best in word or deed, To shun unholy pride; Great words of boasting bring great punishments, And so to gray-haired age Teach wisdom at the last.[275] =189. The Epigoni.=[276] Such was the fall of the house of Labdacus. The bane of Cadmus expires with the family of [OE]dipus. But the wedding gear of Harmonia has not yet fulfilled its baleful mission. Amphiaraüs had, with his last breath, enjoined his son Alcmæon to avenge him on the faithless Eriphyle. Alcmæon engaged his word, but before accomplishing the fell purpose, he was ordered by an oracle of Delphi to conduct against Thebes a new expedition. Thereto his mother Eriphyle, influenced by Thersander, the son of Polynices, and bribed this time by the gift of Harmonia's wedding garment, impelled not only Alcmæon but her other son, Amphilochus. The descendants (_Epigoni_) of the former Seven thus renewed the war against Thebes. They leveled the city to the ground. Its inhabitants, counseled by Tiresias, took refuge in foreign lands. Tiresias himself perished during the flight. Alcmæon, returning to Argos, put his mother to death but, in consequence, repeated in his own experience the penalty of Orestes. The outfit of Harmonia preserved its malign influence until, at last, it was devoted to the temple at Delphi and removed from the sphere of mortal jealousies. FOOTNOTES: [272] Æschylus, Seven against Thebes; Euripides, Ph[oe]nissæ; Apollodorus, 3. 6 and 7; Hyginus, Fab. 69, 70; Pausanias, 8 and 9; Statius, Thebaid. [273] Sophocles, Antigone; Euripides, Suppliants. [274] Sophocles, Antigone, ll. 450-470 (E. H. Plumptre's translation). [275] Sophocles, Antigone, closing chorus. [276] Pausanias, 9, 9, §§ 2, 3; Herodotus, 5, 61; Apollodorus. CHAPTER XXI HOUSES CONCERNED IN THE TROJAN WAR =190. Three Families.= Before entering upon the causes of the war against Troy, we must notice the three Grecian families that were principally concerned,--those of Peleus, Atreus, and Tyndareus. =191. Peleus=[277] was the son of Æacus and grandson of Jove. It was for his father Æacus, king of Phthia in Thessaly, that, as we have seen, an army of Myrmidons was created by Jupiter. Peleus joined the expedition of the Argonauts, and on that journey beheld and fell in love with the sea-nymph Thetis, daughter of Nereus and Doris. Such was the beauty of the nymph that Jupiter himself had sought her in marriage; but having learned from Prometheus, the Titan, that Thetis should bear a son who should be greater than his father, the Olympian desisted from his suit and decreed that Thetis should be the wife of a mortal. By the aid of Chiron, the Centaur, Peleus succeeded in winning the goddess for his bride. In this marriage, to be productive of momentous results for mortals, the immortals manifested a lively interest. They thronged with the Thessalians to the wedding in Pharsalia; they honored the wedding feast with their presence and, reclining on ivory couches, gave ear while the three Sisters of Fate, in responsive strain, chanted the fortunes of Achilles,--the future hero of the Trojan War,--the son that should spring from this union of a goddess with a mortal. The following is from a translation of the famous poem, The Wedding of Peleus and Thetis:[278] ... Now, on the day foreset, Aurora forsaking the ocean Crimsons the orient sky: all Thessaly, seeking the palace, Fares to the royal seat, in populous muster exultant, Heavy of hand with gifts, but blithesome of cheer for the joyance. Scyros behind they leave, they leave Phthiotican Tempe, Crannon's glittering domes and the battlements Larissæan, Cumber Pharsalia, throng the abodes and the streets of Pharsalus. Fields, meanwhile are untilled, grow tender the necks of the oxen, None with the curving teeth of the harrow cleareth the vineyard, None upturneth the glebe with bull and the furrowing plowshare, None with gardener's knife lets light through the branches umbrageous; Squalid the rust creeps up o'er plows forgotten of plowmen. Bright is the palace, ay, through far retreating recesses Blazing for sheen benign of the opulent gold and the silver: Ivory gleams on the thrones, great goblets glint on the tables, Glitters the spacious home, made glad with imperial splendor,-- Ay, but most--in the hall midmost--is the couch of the goddess, Glorious, made of the tusk of the Indian elephant--polished-- Spread with a wonder of quilt empurpled with dye of the sea-shell. On this coverlet of purple were embroidered various scenes illustrating the lessons of heroism and justice that the poet would inculcate: to the good falleth good; to the evil, evil speedily. Therefore, the story of Theseus and Ariadne, which has already been recounted, was here displayed in cunning handiwork. For Theseus, the false lover, bold of hand but bad of heart, gained by retributive justice undying ruth and misery; whereas Ariadne, the injured and innocent, restored to happiness, won no less a reward than Bacchus himself. Gorgeously woven with such antique and heroic figures was the famous quilt upon the couch of Thetis. For a season the wedding guests feasted their eyes upon it. Then when Thessaly's youth, long gazing, had of the wonder Their content, they gan give place to the lords of Olympus. As when Zephyr awakes the recumbent billows of ocean, Roughens the placid deep with eager breath of the morning, Urges the waves, and impels, to the threshold of journeying Ph[oe]bus,-- They, at first, blown outward unroughly when Dawn is a-rising, Limp slow-footed, and loiter with laughter lightsomely plashing, But, with the freshening gale, creep quicker and thicker together, Till on horizon they float refulgent of luminous purple,-- So from the portal withdrawing the pomp Thessalian departed Faring on world-wide ways to the far-off homes of their fathers. Now when they were aloof, drew nigh from Pelion's summit Chiron bearing gifts from copses and glades of the woodland-- Gifts that the meadows yield: what flowers on Thessaly's mountains, Or, by waves of the stream, the prolific breath of the West Wind, Warming, woos to the day, all such in bunches assorted Bore he. Flattered with odors the whole house brake into laughter. Came there next Peneüs, abandoning verdurous Tempe-- Tempe embowered deep mid superimpendent forests. And after the river-god, who bore with him nodding plane trees and lofty beeches, straight slim laurels, the lithe poplar, and the airy cypress to plant about the palace that thick foliage might give it shade, followed Prometheus, the bold and cunning of heart, wearing still the marks of his ancient punishment on the rocks of Caucasus. Finally the father of the gods himself came, with his holy spouse and his offspring,--all, save Ph[oe]bus and his one sister, who naturally looked askance upon a union to be productive of untold misfortune to their favored town of Troy. [Illustration: FIG. 148. THE GODS BRING WEDDING GIFTS] ... When now the gods had reclined their limbs on the ivory couches, Viands many and rare were heaped on the banqueting tables, Whilst the decrepit Sisters of Fate, their tottering bodies Solemnly swayed, and rehearsed their soothfast vaticination. --Lo, each tremulous frame was wrapped in robe of a whiteness, Down to the ankles that fell, with nethermost border of purple, While on ambrosial brows there rested fillets like snowflakes. They, at a task eternal their hands religiously plying, Held in the left on high, with wool enfolded, a distaff, Delicate fibers wherefrom, drawn down, were shaped by the right hand-- Shaped by fingers upturned,--but the down-turned thumb set a-whirling, Poised with perfected whorl, the industrious shaft of the spindle. Still, as they span, as they span, was the tooth kept nipping and smoothing, And to the withered lip clung morsels of wool as they smoothed it-- Filaments erstwhile rough that stood from the twist of the surface. Close at their feet, meantime, were woven baskets of wicker Guarding the soft white balls of the wool resplendent within them. Thus then, parting the strands, these Three with resonant voices Uttered, in chant divine, predestined sooth of the future-- Prophecy neither in time, nor yet in eternity, shaken. "Thou that exaltest renown of thy name with the name of thy valor, Bulwark Emathian, blest above sires in the offspring of promise, Hear with thine ears this day what oracles fall from the Sisters Chanting the fates for thee;--but you, ye destiny-drawing Spindles, hasten the threads of the destinies set for the future! "Rideth the orb upon high that heralds boon unto bridegrooms-- Hesperus,--cometh anon with star propitious the virgin, Speedeth thy soul to subdue--submerge it with love at the flood tide. Hasten, ye spindles, and run, yea, gallop, ye thread-running spindles! "Erstwhile, never a home hath roofed like generous loving, Never before hath Love conjoinèd lovers so dearly,-- Never with harmony such as endureth for Thetis and Peleus. Hasten, ye spindles, and run, yea, gallop, ye thread-running spindles! "Born unto you shall be the undaunted heart of Achilles, Aye by his brave breast known, unknown by his back to the foeman,-- Victor in onslaught, victor in devious reach of the race-course, Fleeter of foot than feet of the stag that lighten and vanish,-- Hasten, ye spindles, and run, yea, gallop, ye thread-running spindles!" =192. Achilles, Son of Peleus.= So the sisters prophesied the future of the hero, Achilles,--from his father called Pelides; from his grandfather, Æacides. How by him the Trojans should fall, as fall the ears of corn when they are yellow before the scythe; how because of him Scamander should run red, warm with blood, choked with blind bodies, into the whirling Hellespont; how finally he himself, in his prime, should fall, and how on his tomb should be sacrificed the fair Polyxena, daughter of Priam, whom he had loved. "So," says Catullus, "sang the Fates. For those were the days before piety and righteous action were spurned by mankind, the days when Jupiter and his immortals deigned to consort with zealous man, to enjoy the sweet odor of his burnt-offering, to march beside him to battle, to swell his shout in victory and his lament in defeat, to smile on his peaceful harvests, to recline at his banquets, and to bless the weddings of fair women and goodly heroes. But now, alas," concludes Catullus, "godliness and chastity, truth, wisdom, and honor have departed from among men": [Illustration: FIG. 149] Wherefore the gods no more vouchsafe their presence to mortals, Suffer themselves no more to be touched by the ray of the morning. But there were gods in the pure,--in the golden prime of the Ages. The hero of the Trojan War, here prophesied, =Achilles=, fleet of foot, the dauntless, the noble, the beloved of Zeus, the breaker of the ranks of men, is the ideal hero of the Greeks,--the mightiest of the Achæans far. Of his youth many interesting stories are told: how his mother, endeavoring to make him invulnerable, plunged him in the river Styx, and succeeded save with regard to his ankles by which she held him; and how he was educated in eloquence and the arts of war by his father's friend Ph[oe]nix, and by his father's other friend Chiron, the centaur, in riding and hunting and music and the art of healing. One of the most Greek-minded of our English poets, Matthew Arnold,[279] singing of a beauteous dell by Etna, tells how In such a glen, on such a day, On Pelion, on the grassy ground, Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay, The young Achilles standing by. The Centaur taught him to explore The mountains; where the glens are dry And the tired Centaurs come to rest, And where the soaking springs abound And the straight ashes grow for spears, And where the hill goats come to feed And the sea eagles build their nest. He showed him Phthia far away. And said, "O boy, I taught this lore To Peleus, in long distant years!" He told him of the gods, the stars, The tides;--and then of mortal wars, And of the life which heroes lead Before they reach the Elysian place And rest in the immortal mead; And all the wisdom of his race. Upon the character of Achilles, outspoken, brave, impulsive; to his friends passionately devoted, to his foes implacable; lover of war and lover of home; inordinately ambitious but submissive to divine decree;--upon this handsome, gleaming, terrible, glooming, princely warrior of his race, the poet of the Iliad delights to dwell, and the world has delighted in the portraiture from that day to this. =193. Atreus= was the son of Pelops and Hippodamia and grandson of Tantalus, therefore great-grandson of Jove. Both by blood and by marriage he was connected with Theseus. He took to wife Aërope, granddaughter of Minos II, king of Crete, and by her had two sons, Agamemnon, the general of the Grecian army in the Trojan War, and Menelaüs, at whose solicitation the war was undertaken. Of Atreus it may be said that with cannibal atrocity like that of his grandsire, Tantalus, he on one occasion wreaked his vengeance on a brother, Thyestes, by causing him to eat the flesh of two of his own children. A son of this Thyestes, Ægisthus by name, revived in due time against Agamemnon the treacherous feud that had existed between their fathers. =194. Tyndareus= was king of Lacedæmon (Sparta). His wife was Leda, daughter of Thestius of Calydon, and sister of Althæa, the mother of Meleager and Dejanira. To Tyndareus Leda bore Castor and Clytemnestra; to Jove she bore Pollux and Helen. The two former were mortal; the two latter, immortal. Clytemnestra was married to Agamemnon of Mycenæ, to whom she bore Electra, Iphigenia, Chrysothemis, and Orestes. Helen, the fair immediate cause of the Trojan War, became the wife of Menelaüs, who with her obtained the kingdom of Sparta. Of the families of Peleus, Atreus, and Tyndareus, the genealogies will be found in the Commentary corresponding with these sections of the story; also the genealogy of Ulysses, one of the leaders of the Greek army during the war and the hero of the Odyssey, which narrates his subsequent adventures; and that of the royal family of Troy against whom the war was undertaken. A slight study of these family trees will reveal interesting relationships between the principal participants in the war. For instance: that the passionate Achilles and the intolerant Ajax, second only to Achilles in military prowess, are first cousins; and that the family of Ajax is connected by marriage with that of the Trojan Hector, whom he meets in combat. That Ulysses is a distant cousin of his wife Penelope and of Clytemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon; and that he is a kinsman of Patroclus, the bosom friend of Achilles. In the family of Tyndareus we note most the tragic and romantic careers of the women,--Clytemnestra, who murdered her husband and married his cousin Ægisthus; Helen, whose beauty provoked war between her two husbands and their races; Penelope, whose fidelity to her absent lord is the marvel of the Odyssey. It will be noticed, too, that the daughter of Helen, Hermione, is strangely enough married first by the son of Achilles and, afterwards, by the son of Agamemnon, and so becomes sister-in-law to her noble cousins, Electra and Iphigenia. The kinsmen and descendants of Peleus--Telamon, Ajax, Teucer, Achilles, Neoptolemus--are characterized by their personal valor, their intolerant and resentful temper. In the family of Atreus, the men are remarkable for their kingly attributes; the principal women for their unwavering devotion to religious duty. The members of the royal family of Troy are of richly varied and most unusual individuality: like Tithonus and Memnon, Paris, Hesione, Cassandra and Polyxena, poetic and pathetic; like Laomedon, Priam, Hector and Troilus, patriotic, persistent in the face of overwhelming odds; but all fated to a dolorous end. Of those engaged in the Trojan War, Æneas and his aged father, Anchises, beloved of Venus, are practically the only survivors to a happier day. FOOTNOTES: [277] Ovid, Metam. 11, 221-265; Catullus, LXIV; Hyginus, Fab. 14; Apollonius Rhodius. Argon. 1, 558; Valerius Flaccus, Argon.; Statius, Achilleid. [278] Catullus, LXIV (Charles Mills Gayley's translation). [279] Empedocles on Etna. [Illustration: FIG. 150. HELEN PERSUADED] CHAPTER XXII THE TROJAN WAR ... At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisel'd marble, standing there: A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face The starlike sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. "I had great beauty; ask thou not my name: No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity."[280] =195. Its Origin.= At the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis all the gods had been invited with the exception of Eris, or Discord. Enraged at her exclusion, the goddess threw a golden apple among the guests, with the inscription, "For the fairest." Thereupon Juno, Venus, and Minerva each claimed the apple. Not willing to decide so delicate a matter, Jupiter sent the goddesses to Mount Ida where Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy, was tending his flocks. Till that moment the shepherd-prince had been happy. He was young and beautiful and beloved,--"White-breasted like a star," says [OE]none, the nymph whom he had wedded: White-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Dropp'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a god's: And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.[1] But to him was now committed the judgment between the goddesses. They appeared: And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarlèd boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.[281] Juno promised him power and riches, Minerva glory and renown in war, Venus the fairest of women for his wife,--each attempting to bias the judge in her own favor. Paris, forgetting the fair nymph to whom he owed fealty, decided in favor of Venus, thus making the two other goddesses his enemies. Under the protection of the goddess of love, he soon afterwards sailed to Greece. Here he was hospitably received by Menelaüs, whose wife, Helen, as fairest of her sex, was unfortunately the prize destined for Paris. This fair queen had in time past been sought by numerous suitors; but before her decision was made known, they all, at the suggestion of Ulysses, son of Laërtes, king of Ithaca, had taken an oath that they would sustain her choice and avenge her cause if necessary. She was living happily with Menelaüs when Paris, becoming their guest, made love to her, and then, aided by Venus, persuaded her to elope with him, and carried her to Troy. From this cause arose the famous Trojan War,--the theme of the greatest poems of antiquity, those of Homer and Virgil. [Illustration: FIG. 151. ACHILLES TAKEN FROM SCYROS] Menelaüs called upon the chieftains of Greece to aid him in recovering his wife. They came forward with a few exceptions. Ulysses, for instance, who had married a cousin of Helen's, Penelope, daughter of Icarius, was happy in his wife and child, and loth to embark in the troublesome affair. Palamedes was sent to urge him. But when Palamedes arrived at Ithaca, Ulysses pretended madness. He yoked an ass and an ox together to the plow and began to sow salt. The ambassador, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the plow, whereupon the father, turning the plow aside, showed that his insanity was a mere pretense. Being himself gained for the undertaking, Ulysses lent his aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs, especially Achilles, son of Peleus and Thetis. Thetis being herself one of the immortals, and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if he went on the expedition, endeavored to prevent his going. She, accordingly, sent him to the court of King Lycomedes of the island of Scyros, and induced him to conceal himself in the garb of a maiden among the daughters of the king. Hearing that the young Achilles was there, Ulysses went disguised as a merchant to the palace and offered for sale female ornaments, among which had been placed some arms. Forgetting the part he had assumed, Achilles handled the weapons and thereby betrayed himself to Ulysses, who found no great difficulty in persuading him to disregard his mother's counsels and join his countrymen in the war. It seems that from early youth Paris had been reared in obscurity, because there were forebodings that he would be the ruin of the state. These forebodings appeared, at last, likely to be realized; for the Grecian armament now in preparation was the greatest that had ever been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenæ and brother of Menelaüs, was chosen commander in chief. Preëminent among the warriors was the swift-footed Achilles. After him ranked his cousin Ajax, the son of Telamon, gigantic in size and of great courage, but dull of intellect; Diomede, the son of Tydeus, second only to Achilles in all the qualities of a hero; Ulysses, famous for sagacity; and Nestor, the oldest of the Grecian chiefs, to whom they all looked up for counsel. But Troy was no feeble enemy. Priam the king, son of Laomedon and brother of Tithonus and Hesione, was now old; but he had been a wise prince and had strengthened his state by good government at home and powerful alliances with his neighbors. By his wife Hecuba he had a numerous family; but the principal stay and support of his throne was his son Hector, one of the noblest figures of antiquity. The latter had, from the first, a presentiment of the ruin of Troy, but still he persevered in heroic resistance, though he by no means justified the wrong which brought this danger upon his country. He was united in marriage with the noble Andromache, and as husband and father his character was not less admirable than as warrior. The principal leaders on the side of the Trojans, beside Hector, were his relative, Æneas, the son of Venus and Anchises, Deiphobus, Glaucus, and Sarpedon. =196. Iphigenia in Aulis.= After two years of preparation, the Greek fleet and army assembled in the port of Aulis in B[oe]otia. Here Agamemnon, while hunting, killed a stag that was sacred to Diana. The goddess in retribution visited the army with pestilence and produced a calm which prevented the ships from leaving the port. Thereupon, Calchas the soothsayer announced that the wrath of the virgin goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin, and that none other but the daughter of the offender would be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, submitted to the inevitable and sent for his daughter Iphigenia, under the pretense that her marriage to Achilles was to be at once performed. But, in the moment of sacrifice, Diana, relenting, snatched the maiden away and left a hind in her place. Iphigenia, enveloped in a cloud, was conveyed to Tauris, where Diana made her priestess of her temple.[282] [Illustration: FIG. 152. THE SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENIA] Iphigenia is represented as thus describing her feelings at the moment of sacrifice: "I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which men call'd Aulis in those iron years: My father held his hand upon his face; I, blinded with my tears, "Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes Waiting to see me die. "The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore; The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat; Touch'd; and I knew no more."[283] =197. Protesilaüs and Laodamia.= The wind now proving fair, the fleet made sail and brought the forces to the coast of Troy. The Trojans opposed their landing, and at the first onset one of the noblest of the Greeks, Protesilaüs, fell by the hand of Hector. This Protesilaüs had left at home his wife Laodamia (a niece of Alcestis),--who was most tenderly attached to him. The story runs that when the news of his death reached her, she implored the gods for leave to converse with him if but for three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led Protesilaüs back to the upper world; and when the hero died a second time Laodamia died with him. It is said that the nymphs planted elm trees round his grave, which flourished till they were high enough to command a view of Troy, then withered away, giving place to fresh branches that sprang from the roots. Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaüs and Laodamia for a poem invested with the atmosphere of the classics. The oracle, according to the tradition, had declared that victory should be the lot of that party from which should fall the first victim in the war. The poet represents Protesilaüs, on his brief return to earth, relating to Laodamia the story of his fate: "The wished-for wind was given:--I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,-- Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. "Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, belovèd Wife! On thee too fondly did my memory hang, And on the joys we shared in mortal life,-- The paths which we had trod--these fountains, flowers, My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. "But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 'Behold they tremble!--haughty their array, Yet of their number no one dares to die'? In soul I swept the indignity away: Old frailties then recurred:--but lofty thought, In act embodied, my deliverance wrought."... ... Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight! =198. Homer's Iliad.= The war continued without decisive result for nine years. Then an event occurred which seemed likely to prove fatal to the cause of the Greeks,--a quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. It is at this point that the great poem of Homer, the Iliad, begins. Of this and the other epics from which the story is drawn an account will be found in Chapter XXXII below; and a list of the best English translations, in the corresponding sections of the Commentary. What delight one may derive from reading the Greek epics even in translation is nowhere better expressed than in the following sonnet of John Keats, "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer": Much have I travel'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien. =199. The Wrath of Achilles.= The Greeks, though unsuccessful against Troy, had taken the neighboring and allied cities; and in the division of the spoil a female captive, by name Chryseïs, daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of Agamemnon. Chryses came bearing the sacred emblems of his office and begged the release of his daughter. Agamemnon refused. Thereupon Chryses implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks till they should be forced to yield their prey. Apollo granted the prayer of his priest and sent such pestilence upon the Grecian camp, that a council was called to deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the plague. Achilles boldly charged the misfortunes upon Agamemnon as caused by his withholding Chryseïs. Agamemnon, in anger, consented, thereupon, to relinquish his captive, but demanded that Achilles should yield to him in her stead Briseïs, a maiden who had fallen to that hero's share in the division of the spoil. Achilles submitted, but declared that he would take no further part in the war,--withdrew his forces from the general camp and avowed his intention of returning to Greece. [Illustration: FIG. 153. THE SURRENDER OF BRISEÏS From the relief by Thorwaldsen] =200. The Enlistment of the Gods.= The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this famous siege as did the parties themselves. It was well known in heaven that fate had decreed the fall of Troy, if her enemies only persevered. Yet there was room for chance sufficient to excite by turns the hopes and fears of the powers above who took part with either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence of the slight put upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans; Venus for the opposite cause favored them; she enlisted, also, her admirer Mars on the same side. Neptune favored the Greeks. Apollo was neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the other. Jove himself, though he loved Priam, exercised a degree of impartiality,--not, however, without exceptions. =201. Thetis intercedes for Achilles.= Resenting the injury done by Agamemnon to her son, Thetis, the silver-footed, repaired to Jove's palace, and besought him to grant success to the Trojan arms and so make the Greeks repent of their injustice to Achilles. The father of the gods, wavering at first, finally sighed and consented, saying, "Go thou now, but look to it that Juno see thee not, for oft she taunts me that I aid the Trojan cause." Vain precaution: the jealous queen had seen only too well, and quickly she confronted the Thunderer with her suspicions,-- "Fateful favor to Achilles, hast thou granted now I trow!" said she. Zeus that rolls the clouds of heaven, her addressing answered then: "Moonstruck! thou art ever _trowing_; never I escape thy ken. After all, it boots thee nothing; leaves thee of my heart the less,-- So thou hast the worser bargain. What if I the fact confess? It was done because I willed it. Hold thy place--my word obey, Lest if I come near, and on thee these unconquered hands I lay, All the gods that hold Olympus naught avail thee here to-day."[284] =202. Agamemnon calls a Council.= In the events which immediately follow we are introduced to the more important human personages on both sides. To begin with, Agamemnon, king of men, deceived by a dream sent by Jupiter, calls a council of the Greeks in which, desiring to arouse them to fresh onslaught upon the Trojans, he tests their patience first by depicting the joys of the return home to Greece, and nearly overreaches himself in his cunning; for had it not been for the wise Nestor, king of sandy Pylos, and Ulysses of many devices, peer of Jove in wisdom, the common soldiers, fired with hope of viewing their dear native land and wives and little children once more, would have launched the ships and sailed forthwith. Among the murmuring host of those who clamor for retreat the leader is Thersites, uncontrolled of speech, full of disorderly words, striving idly against the chieftains, aiming ever to turn their authority into ridicule. He is the one ludicrous character of the Iliad, this boaster and scandalmonger, sneering and turbulent of tongue: His figure such as might his soul proclaim; One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame; His mountain shoulders half his breast o'erspread, Thin hairs bestrewed his long misshapen head. Spleen to mankind his envious heart possest, And much he hated all, but most the best. Ulysses or Achilles still his theme; But royal scandal his delight supreme.[1] Him Ulysses hearing rebukes, raising his scepter to strike: "Peace, factious monster, born to vex the state, With wrangling talents formed for foul debate.... Have we not known thee, slave of all our host, The man who acts the least, upbraids the most?..." He said, and cowering as the dastard bends, The weighty scepter on his back descends: On the round bunch the bloody tumors rise; The tears spring starting from his haggard eyes: Trembling he sat, and, shrunk in abject fears, From his wild visage wiped the scalding tears.[285] The revolt is thus stayed. A banquet of the Greek chieftains is then held, merely of the greatest--Nestor, Idomeneus of Crete, Ajax the son of Telamon and cousin of Achilles, and Ajax the less, son of Oïleus, Ulysses, also, and Agamemnon himself. Menelaüs comes, unbid but not unwelcome. Sacrifices are offered, but in vain; Jove heeds them not. Finally, a muster of the Greek troops, by nations and by kings, is determined upon; and so the army is set in array. =203. Paris plays the Champion.= Likewise the army of the Trojans; and battle is about to be joined when forth from the Trojan ranks steps Paris himself to challenge some champion of the opposing host to single combat,--the beauteous Paris, In form a god! The panther's speckled hide Flowed o'er his armor with an easy pride,-- His bended bow across his shoulders flung, His sword beside him negligently hung, Two pointed spears he shook with gallant grace, And dared the bravest of the Grecian race.[1] Him, Menelaüs whom he had betrayed, Menelaüs loved of Mars, raging like a lion, swift espies and, leaping from his chariot, hastens to encounter. But Paris, smitten with a sense of his own treachery, fearful, trembling, pale at sight of the avenger, betakes himself to his heels and hides in the thick of the forces behind. Upbraided, however, by the generous Hector, noblest of Priam's sons, the handsome Trojan recovers his self-possession and consents to meet Menelaüs in formal combat between the opposing hosts: Helen and the wealth she brought to be the prize; and, thus, the long war to reach its termination. The Greeks accept the proposal, and a truce is agreed upon that sacrifices may be made on either side for victory, and the duel proceed. =204. Helen surveys the Grecian Host.= Meantime, Iris, the goddess of the rainbow, summons Helen to view the impending duel. At her loom in the Trojan palace the ill-starred daughter of Leda is sitting, weaving in a golden web her own sad story. At memory of her former husband's love, her home, her parents, the princess drops a tear; then, softly sighing, turns her footsteps to the Scæan gate. No word is said of her matchless beauty, but what it was Homer shows us by its effect. For as she approaches the tower where aged Priam and his gray-haired chieftains sit, these cry,-- "No wonder such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms; What winning graces! what majestic mien! She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen. Yet hence, oh Heaven! convey that fatal face, And from destruction save the Trojan race."[286] --Words reëchoed by our English Marlowe, two thousand years later: Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-- Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies! Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again! Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena.... Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appeared to hapless Semele;... And none but thou shalt be my paramour![287] Priam, receiving his daughter-in-law tenderly, inquires of her the names of one and another of the Greeks moving on the plain below.-- "Who, that Around whose brow such martial graces shine, So tall, so awful, and almost divine?"[2] "The son of Atreus," answers she, shamefacedly. "Agamemnon, king of kings, my brother once, before my days of shame." "What's he whose arms lie scattered on the plain? Broad is his breast, his shoulders larger spread, Though great Atrides overtops his head. Nor yet appear his care and conduct small; From rank to rank he moves and orders all."[2] "That is Ulysses," replies Helen, "of the barren isle of Ithaca; but his fame for wisdom fills the earth." Old Antenor, seated by Priam's side, thereupon recalls the modesty and the restrained but moving eloquence of the wondrous son of Laërtes. The king then asked, as yet the camp he viewed, "What chief is that, with giant strength endued; Whose brawny shoulders, and whose swelling chest, And lofty stature, far exceed the rest?"[288] "That is Ajax the great," responds the beauteous queen, "himself a host, bulwark of the Achæans." And she points out Idomeneus, also, the godlike king of Crete; then scans the array for her own dear brothers Castor and Pollux;--in vain, for them the life-giving earth held fast there in Lacedæmon, their native land. =205. Menelaüs defeats Paris.= Now from both sides sacrifices have been made to Jove, avenger of oaths, with prayer for victory and vow of fidelity to the contract made. But Jove vouchsafes not yet fulfillment. The lists are measured out by Hector and Ulysses. The duel is on. Paris throws his spear: it strikes, but fails to penetrate the shield of Menelaüs. Menelaüs then breaks his blade upon the helmet of the Trojan, seizes him by the horsehair crest, and drags him toward the Grecian lines. But Aphrodite touches the chin strap of Paris' headpiece so that it breaks and leaves the futile helmet in the victor's hand. Then, wrapping her favorite in a mist, the goddess bears him from the pursuit of the furious Menelaüs, and, laying him safe in Helen's chamber, summons his mistress, who first upbraids, then soothes him with her love. The Greeks claim the victory, and with justice. The Trojans, then and there, would have yielded Helen and her wealth, and the fate of Troy might have been averted, had it not been for the machinations of the goddesses, Juno and Minerva. These could not bear that the hated city should thus escape. Prompted by the insidious urging of Minerva, one of the Trojans, Pandarus, breaks the truce; he shoots his arrow full at the heart of the unsuspecting Menelaüs. Minerva, of course, deflects the fatal shaft. But the treachery has accomplished its purpose; the war is reopened with fresh bitterness. =206. The Two Days' Battle.= The battle which then begins lasts for two whole days. In its progress we witness a series of single combats. Pandarus the archer wounds Diomede, the son of Tydeus. He in turn, raging over the plain, fells Pandarus with his spear and crushes Æneas, Priam's valiant kinsman, to his knees with a great stone. Venus shrouds her fallen son in her shining veil and will rescue him. But Diomedes, clear of vision, spies her out and drives his pointed spear against her hand, grazing the palm of it. Out leaps the ichor, life-stream of the blessed gods, and the goddess shrieking drops her burden and flees from the jeering Diomede;--nay, mounts even to Olympus where, sobbing in the arms of her mother, Dione, she finds solace of her pain, and straightway turns to hopes of vengeance. Æneas, meantime, is wrapped by Ph[oe]bus Apollo in a dusky cloud and borne aloft to that god's temple, where Diana and Latona heal him. To Diomede still breathing slaughter, the god of war himself, Mars, now appears in form of a Thracian captain, opposing him and stirring Hector and the swiftly recovered Æneas and the godlike Sarpedon against the Greeks. And the Greeks give back, but the keen eye of Diomede pierces the disguise of the War-god, and he shouts a warning to his comrades. Then Minerva descends to where Diomede, the son of Tydeus, is resting beside his chariot, and she spurs him afresh to the fray. "Thou joy of my heart," says she, "fear thou neither Mars nor any other of the immortals, for I shall help thee mightily." So she takes the place of his charioteer, and together they drive upon the War-god. And that one cannot come at the son of Tydeus to strike him down, because of the ward that Minerva vouchsafes. But, for his part, Diomede strikes his spear against the nethermost belly of Mars and wounds him, rending his fair skin; and he plucks forth the spear again. Then brazen Mars bellows loud as nine or ten thousand soldiers all at once; and, like Venus before him, betakes himself to Olympus. There, complaining to Jove, he receives stern reprimand for his intolerant and hateful spirit, stirring men ever to strife,--"like thine own mother Juno, after whom, not after me, thou takest." Thus, the father of the gods; and he makes an end, and bids Pæan, the family physician, heal him. Diomedes, still bearing down upon the Trojans, is about to fight with a young warrior when, struck by his appearance, he inquires his name. It is Glaucus, and the youth is grandson of the noble Bellerophon. Then Diomede of the loud war cry is glad and strikes his spear into the earth and declines to fight. "For lo," says he, "our grandfathers were guest-friends, and guest-friends are we. Why slay each other? There are multitudes of Trojans for me to slay, and for thee Achæans in multitude, if thou canst. Let us twain rather exchange arms as a testimony of our good faith." And this they do; and Diomede gets the best of the bargain, his armor being worth but nine oxen, and young Glaucus' five score. =207. Hector and Andromache.= The Trojans being still pushed nearer to their own walls, Hector, bravest of Priam's sons, returns to the city to urge the women to prayer, and to carry the loitering Paris back with him to the defense. Here he meets his brave mother Hecuba, and then the fair Helen; but most to our purpose and his, his wife, the white-armed Andromache, the noblest of the women of the Iliad, for whom he has searched in vain. [Illustration: FIG. 154. HECTOR'S FAREWELL From the relief by Thorwaldsen] But when he had passed through the great city and was come to the Scæan gates, whereby he was minded to issue upon the plain, then came his dear-won wife, running to meet him, even Andromache, daughter of great-hearted Eëtion.... So she met him now; and with her went the handmaid bearing in her bosom the tender boy, the little child, Hector's loved son, like unto a beautiful star. Him Hector called Scamandrius, but all the folk Astyanax, "defender of the city." So now he smiled and gazed at his boy silently, and Andromache stood by his side weeping, and clasped her hand in his, and spake and called upon his name. "Dear my lord, this thy hardihood will undo thee, neither hast thou any pity for thine infant boy, nor for hapless me that soon shall be thy widow; for soon will the Achæans all set upon thee and slay thee. But it were better for me to go down to the grave if I lose thee; for nevermore will any comfort be mine, when once thou, even thou, hast met thy fate,--but only sorrow. Moreover I have no father, now, nor lady mother.... And the seven brothers that were mine within our halls, all these on the selfsame day went within the house of Hades; for fleet-footed, goodly Achilles slew them all amid their kine of trailing gait and white-faced sheep.... Nay, Hector, thou art to me father and lady mother, yea and brother, even as thou art my goodly husband. Come now, have pity and abide here upon the tower, lest thou make thy child an orphan and thy wife a widow." ... Then great Hector of the glancing helm answered her: "Surely I take thought for all these things, my wife; but I have very sore shame of the Trojans and Trojan dames with trailing robes, if like a coward I shrink away from battle. Moreover mine own soul forbiddeth me, seeing I have learnt ever to be valiant and fight in the forefront of the Trojans, winning my father's great glory and mine own. Yea of a surety, I know this in heart and soul; the day shall come for holy Ilios to be laid low, and Priam and the folk of Priam of the good ashen spear. Yet doth the anguish of the Trojans hereafter not so much trouble me, neither Hecuba's own, neither king Priam's, neither my brethren's, the many and brave that shall fall in the dust before their foemen, as doth thine anguish in the day when some mail-clad Achæan shall lead thee weeping, and rob thee of the light of freedom.... But me in death may the heaped-up earth be covering, ere I hear thy crying and thy carrying into captivity."[289] So spoke the great-hearted hero, and stretched his arms out to take his little boy. But The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hasted to relieve his child,-- The glittering terrors from his brows unbound And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods, preferred a father's prayer: "O thou! whose glory fills the ethereal throne, And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country's foes the war to wage. And rise the Hector of the future age! So when, triumphant from successive toils Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame': While, pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."[290] So prayed he, the glorious Hector, foreboding of the future, but little thinking that, when he himself was slain and the city sacked, his starlike son should be cast headlong to death from Troy's high towers, and his dear wife led into captivity as he had dreaded, indeed, and by none other than Neoptolemus, the son of his mortal foe, Achilles. But now Hector laid the boy in the arms of his wife, and she, smiling tearfully, gathered him to her fragrant bosom; and her husband pitied her, and caressed her with his hand, and bade her farewell, saying: "Andromache! my soul's far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. Fixed is the term to all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth, No force can then resist, no flight can save; All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, There guide the spindle, and direct the loom; Me glory summons to the martial scene, The field of combat is the sphere for men. Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, as the first in fame."[291] He took up his horsehair crested helmet; and she departed to her home, oft looking back and letting fall big tears, thinking that he would no more come back from battle. =208. Neptune aids the Discouraged Greeks.= But the end was not to be so soon. Hector, returning to the field, challenged the bravest of the Greeks to combat. Nine accepted the challenge; but the lot fell upon Ajax, the son of Telamon. The duel lasted till night, with deeds of valor on both sides; and the heroes parted, each testifying to his foeman's worth. The next day a truce was declared for the burning of the dead; but, soon after, the conflict was renewed, and before the might of Hector and his troops the Greeks were driven back to their trenches. Then Agamemnon, king of men, called another council of his wisest and bravest chiefs and, grievously discouraged, proposed, this time in earnest, that they reëmbark and sail home to Greece.[292] In the debate that ensued Nestor advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles persuading him to return to the field; and that Agamemnon should yield the maiden, the cause of dispute, with ample gifts to atone for the wrong he had done. Agamemnon assented; and Ulysses, Ajax, and Ph[oe]nix were sent to carry to Achilles the penitent message. They performed that duty, but Achilles was deaf to their entreaties. He positively refused to return to the attack and persisted in his determination to embark for Greece without delay. [Illustration: FIG. 155. THE EMBASSY TO ACHILLES (Left section)] Meanwhile the Greeks, having constructed a rampart around their ships, were now, instead of besieging Troy, in a manner themselves besieged, within their rampart. The next day after the unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, another battle was fought, in which Agamemnon raged mightily with his spear till, wounded, he was forced to retire to the hollow ships; and Ulysses, too, bravely warring, had a narrow escape with life.[293] Then the Trojans, favored by Jove, succeeded in forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart and were about to set fire to the ships. But Neptune, seeing the Greeks hard pressed, came to their rescue.[294] Appearing in the form of Calchas the prophet, he raised the ardor of the warriors to such a pitch that they forced the Trojans to give way. Here Ajax, son of Telamon, performed prodigies of valor. Bearing his massy shield and "shaking his far-shadowing spear," he encountered Hector.[295] The Greek shouted defiance, to which Hector replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior. It was well aimed and struck Ajax where the belts that bore his sword and shield crossed each other on the breast, but the double guard prevented its penetrating, and it fell harmless. Then Ajax, seizing a huge stone, one of those that served to prop the ships, hurled it at Hector. It struck him near the neck and stretched him on the plain. His followers instantly seized him and bore him off stunned and wounded. [Illustration: FIG. 156. THE EMBASSY TO ACHILLES (Right Section)] =209. Jupiter inspirits the Trojans.= While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the Trojans, Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his attention had been drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno.[296] That goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and to crown all had borrowed of Venus her girdle, the Cestus, which enhanced the wearer's charms to such a degree that they were irresistible. So prepared, Juno had joined her husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle. When he beheld her, the fondness of his early love revived and, forgetting the contending armies and all other affairs of state, he gave himself up to her and let the battle go as it would. But this oblivion did not continue long. When, upon turning his eyes downward, the cloud-compeller beheld Hector stretched, almost lifeless, on the plain, he angrily dismissed Juno, commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him.[297] The former bore a peremptory message to Neptune, ordering him to quit the contest. Apollo was dispatched to heal Hector's bruises and to inspirit his heart. These orders were obeyed with such speed that while the battle was still raging, Hector returned to the field and Neptune betook himself to his own dominions. [Illustration: FIG. 157. THE BATTLE BY THE SHIPS] =210. Achilles and Patroclus.= An arrow from the bow of Paris had wounded Machaon, son of Æsculapius, a brave warrior, who, having inherited his father's art, was of great value to the Greeks as their surgeon. Nestor, taking Machaon in his chariot, conveyed him from the field. As they passed the ships of Achilles, that hero, looking over the battle, saw the chariot of Nestor, and recognized the old chief, but could not discern who the wounded warrior was. Calling Patroclus, his companion and dearest friend, he sent him to Nestor's tent to inquire. Patroclus, performing the behest, saw Machaon wounded and, having told the cause of his coming, would have hastened away, but Nestor detained him to tell him the extent of the Grecian calamities. He reminded him also how, at the time of the departure for Troy, Achilles and himself had been charged by their respective sires: the one to aspire to the highest pitch of glory; the other, as the elder, to keep watch over his friend and to guide his inexperience. "Now," said Nestor, "is the time for such guidance. If the gods so please, thou mayest win Achilles back to the common cause; but if not, let him at least send his soldiers to the field, and come thou, Patroclus, clad in his armor. Perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the Trojans."[298] =211. Patroclus in the Armor of Achilles.= Patroclus, strongly moved by this address, hastened to his friend, revolving in his mind what he had seen and heard.[299] He told the prince the sad condition of affairs at the camp of their late associates; Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, all wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships preparing to burn them and thus to cut off all means of return to Greece. While they spoke, the flames burst forth from one of the ships. Achilles, at the sight, relented so far as to intrust Patroclus with the Myrmidons for the onslaught and to lend him his armor that he might thereby strike the more terror into the minds of the Trojans. Without delay the soldiers were marshaled, Patroclus put on the radiant armor, mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth the men ardent for battle. But before his friend went, Achilles strictly charged him to be content with repelling the foe. "Seek not," said he, "to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add still more to the disgrace already mine." Then exhorting the troops to do their best, he dismissed them full of ardor to the fight. Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where it raged hottest. At the sight of them the joyful Grecians shouted, and the ships reëchoed the acclaim; but the Trojans, beholding the well-known armor, struck with terror, looked everywhere for refuge. First those who had got possession of the ship and set it on fire allowed the Grecians to retake it and extinguish the flames. Then the rest fled in dismay. Ajax, Menelaüs, and the two sons of Nestor performed prodigies of valor. Hector was forced to turn his horses' heads and retire from the enclosure, leaving his men encumbered in the fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove all before him, slaying many; nor did one dare to make a stand against him. [Illustration: FIG. 158. MENELAÜS WITH THE BODY OF PATROCLUS] =212. The Deaths of Sarpedon and Patroclus.= At last the grandson of Bellerophon, Sarpedon, son of Jove and Laodamia, ventured to oppose the Greek warrior. The Olympian looked down upon his son and would have snatched him from the fate impending, but Juno hinted that if he did so, the other inhabitants of heaven might be induced to interpose in like manner whenever any of their offspring were endangered,--an argument to which Jove yielded. Sarpedon threw his spear, but missed Patroclus; the spear of the Greek, on the other hand, pierced Sarpedon's breast, and he fell, calling to his friends to save his body from the foe. Then a furious contest arose for the corpse. The Greeks succeeded in stripping Sarpedon of his armor, but Jove would not suffer the body to be dishonored. By his command Apollo snatched it from the midst of the combatants and committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death and Sleep. By them it was transported to Lycia, Sarpedon's native land, and there received due funeral rites. Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to the utmost in repelling the foe and relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted him. Patroclus threw a vast stone at the Trojan, which missed its aim, but smote Cebriones, the charioteer, and felled him from the car. Hector leaped from the chariot to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also descended to complete his victory. Thus the two heroes met face to face. At this decisive moment the poet, as if reluctant to give Hector the glory, records that Ph[oe]bus Apollo, taking part against Patroclus, struck the helmet from his head and the lance from his hand. At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded him in the back, and Hector pressing forward pierced him with his spear. He fell mortally wounded. Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus; but his armor was at once taken possession of by Hector, who, retiring a short distance, divested himself of his own mail, put on that of Achilles, then returned to the fight.[300] Ajax and Menelaüs defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors struggled to capture it. The battle still raged with equal fortune, when Jove enveloped the whole face of heaven in a cloud. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking round for some one whom he might dispatch to Achilles to tell him of the death of his friend and of the imminent danger of his remains falling into the hands of the enemy, could see no suitable messenger. In desperation he exclaimed: "Father of heaven and earth! deliver thou Achaia's host from darkness; clear the skies; Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such, Destruction with it; but, oh, give us day!"[301] Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Ajax sent Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus' death and of the conflict raging for his remains; and the Greeks at last succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely pursued by Hector and Æneas and the rest of the Trojans. =213. The Remorse of Achilles.= Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that Antilochus feared for a while lest he might destroy himself.[302] His groans reached the ears of Thetis, far down in the deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to inquire the cause. She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach that he had suffered his friend to fall a victim to his resentment. His only consolation was the hope of revenge. He would fly instantly in search of Hector. But his mother reminded him that he was now without armor and promised, if he would but wait till the morrow, to procure for him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to that he had lost. He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan's palace. She found him busy at his forge, making tripods for his own use, so artfully constructed that they moved forward of their own accord when wanted, and retired again when dismissed. On hearing the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately laid aside his work and hastened to comply with her wishes. He fabricated a splendid suit of armor for Achilles; first a shield adorned with elaborate devices, of which a noble description is given by Homer, then a helmet crested with gold, then a corselet and greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to the hero's form, and of consummate workmanship. The suit was made in one night, and Thetis, receiving it, descended to earth and laid it at Achilles' feet at the dawn of day. =214. The Reconciliation of Agamemnon and Achilles.= The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death of Patroclus was at the sight of this splendid armor.[303] And now arrayed in it, he went forth to the camp, calling the chiefs to council. When the leaders were assembled, Achilles addressed them. Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly lamenting the miseries that had resulted from it, he called on them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon made a suitable reply, laying the blame on Ate, the goddess of infatuation; and thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the heroes. Then Achilles went forth to battle, heartened by the inspiration of Minerva and filled with a rage and thirst for vengeance that made him irresistible. As he mounted his chariot, one of his immortal coursers was, strange to say, endowed suddenly with speech from on high and, breaking into prophecy, warned the hero of his approaching doom. But, nothing daunted, Achilles pressed upon the foe. The bravest warriors fled before him or fell by his lance.[304] Hector, cautioned by Apollo, kept aloof; but the god, assuming the form of one of Priam's sons, Lycaon, urged Æneas to encounter the terrible warrior. Æneas, though he felt himself unequal, did not decline the combat. He hurled his spear with all his force against the shield, the work of Vulcan. The spear pierced two plates of the shield, but was stopped in the third. Achilles threw his spear with better success. It pierced through the shield of Æneas, but glanced near his shoulder and made no wound. Then Æneas, seizing a stone, such as two men of modern times could hardly lift, was about to throw it,--and Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him,--when Neptune, looking out upon the contest, had pity upon Æneas, who was sure to have the worst of it. The god, consequently, spread a cloud between the combatants and, lifting the Trojan from the ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to the rear of the battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away, looked round in vain for his adversary, and acknowledging the prodigy, turned his arms against other champions. But none dared stand before him; and Priam from his city walls beheld the whole army in full flight toward the city. He gave command to open wide the gates to receive the fugitives, and to shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the enemy should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit that that would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the form of Agenor, Priam's son, first encountered the swift-footed hero, then turned in flight, and taken the way apart from the city. Achilles pursued, and had chased his supposed victim far from the walls before the god disclosed himself.[305] =215. The Death of Hector.= But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without, determined to await the combat. His father called to him from the walls, begging him to retire nor tempt the encounter. His mother, Hecuba, also besought him, but all in vain. "How can I," said he to himself, "by whose command the people went to this day's contest where so many have fallen, seek refuge for myself from a single foe? Or shall I offer to yield up Helen and all her treasures and ample of our own beside? Ah no! even that is too late. He would not hear me through, but slay me while I spoke." While he thus ruminated, Achilles approached, terrible as Mars, his armor flashing lightning as he moved. At that sight Hector's heart failed him and he fled. Achilles swiftly pursued. They ran, still keeping near the walls, till they had thrice encircled the city. As often as Hector approached the walls Achilles intercepted him and forced him to keep out in a wider circle. But Apollo sustained Hector's strength and would not let him sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the form of Deiphobus, Hector's bravest brother, appeared suddenly at his side. Hector saw him with delight, and thus strengthened, stopped his flight, and, turning to meet Achilles, threw his spear. It struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back. He turned to receive another from the hand of Deiphobus, but Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood his doom and said, "Alas! it is plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at hand, but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will not fall inglorious." So saying he drew his falchion from his side and rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secure behind his shield, waited the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his spear, Achilles, choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the armor leaves the neck uncovered, aimed his spear at that part, and Hector fell, death-wounded. Feebly he said, "Spare my body! Let my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites from the sons and daughters of Troy." To which Achilles replied, "Dog, name not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have brought such dire distress. No! trust me, nought shall save thy carcass from the dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were offered, I should refuse it all."[306] [Illustration: FIG. 159. CONTEST OF ACHILLES AND HECTOR] =216. Achilles drags the Body of Hector.= So saying, the son of Peleus stripped the body of its armor, and, fastening cords to the feet, tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body to trail along the ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed the steeds and so dragged the body to and fro before the city. No words can tell the grief of Priam and Hecuba at this sight. His people could scarce restrain the aged king from rushing forth. He threw himself in the dust and besought them each by name to let him pass. Hecuba's distress was not less violent. The citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of the mourning reached the ears of Andromache, the wife of Hector, as she sat among her maidens at work; and anticipating evil she went forth to the wall. When she saw the horror there presented, she would have thrown herself headlong from the wall, but fainted and fell into the arms of her maidens. Recovering, she bewailed her fate, picturing to herself her country ruined, herself a captive, and her son, the youthful Astyanax, dependent for his bread on the charity of strangers. [Illustration: FIG. 160. ACHILLES OVER THE BODY OF HECTOR AT THE TOMB OF PATROCLUS] After Achilles and the Greeks had thus taken their revenge on the slayer of Patroclus, they busied themselves in paying due funeral rites to their friend.[307] A pile was erected, and the body burned with due solemnity. Then ensued games of strength and skill, chariot races, wrestling, boxing, and archery. Later, the chiefs sat down to the funeral banquet, and finally retired to rest. But Achilles partook neither of the feast nor of sleep. The recollection of his lost friend kept him awake,--the memory of their companionship in toil and dangers, in battle or on the perilous deep. Before the earliest dawn he left his tent, and joining to his chariot his swift steeds, he fastened Hector's body to be dragged behind. Twice he dragged him round the tomb of Patroclus, leaving him at length stretched in the dust. But Apollo would not permit the body to be torn or disfigured with all this abuse; he preserved it free from taint or defilement.[308] [Illustration: FIG. 161. PRIAM'S VISIT TO ACHILLES] While Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing Hector, Jupiter in pity summoned Thetis to his presence. Bidding her prevail on Achilles to restore the body of Hector to the Trojans, he sent Iris to encourage Priam to beg of Achilles the body of his son. Iris delivered her message, and Priam prepared to obey. He opened his treasuries and took out rich garments and cloths, with ten talents in gold and two splendid tripods and a golden cup of matchless workmanship. Then he called to his sons and bade them draw forth his litter and place in it the various articles designed for a ransom to Achilles. When all was ready, the old king with a single companion as aged as himself, the herald Idæus, drove forth from the gates, parting there with Hecuba his queen, and all his friends, who lamented him as going to certain death. =217. Priam in the Tent of Achilles.=[309] But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king, sent Mercury to be his guide and protector. Assuming the form of a young warrior, Mercury presented himself to the aged couple; and, when at the sight of him they hesitated whether to fly or yield, approaching he grasped Priam's hand and offered to be their guide to Achilles' tent. Priam gladly accepted his service, and Mercury, mounting the carriage, assumed the reins and conveyed them to the camp. Then having cast the guards into a heavy sleep, he introduced Priam into the tent where Achilles sat, attended by two of his warriors. The aged king threw himself at the feet of Achilles and kissed those terrible hands which had destroyed so many of his sons. "Think, O Achilles," he said, "of thine own father, full of days like me, and trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Even now, mayhap, some neighbor chief oppresses him and there is none at hand to succor him in his distress. Yet, knowing that Achilles lives, he doubtless still rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy face again. But me no comfort cheers, whose bravest sons, so late the flower of Ilium, all have fallen. Yet one I had, one more than all the rest the strength of my age, whom fighting for his country thou hast slain. His body I come to redeem, bringing inestimable ransom with me. Achilles! reverence the gods! recollect thy father! for his sake show compassion to me!" These words moved Achilles, and he wept, remembering by turns his absent father and his lost friend. Moved with pity of Priam's silver locks and beard, he raised him from the earth and spake: "Priam, I know that thou hast reached this place conducted by some god, for without aid divine no mortal even in his prime of youth had dared the attempt. I grant thy request, for I am moved thereto by the manifest will of Jove." So saying he arose, went forth with his two friends, and unloaded of its charge the litter, leaving two mantles and a robe for the covering of the body. This they placed on the litter and spread the garments over it, that not unveiled it should be borne back to Troy. Then Achilles dismissed the old king, having first pledged himself to a truce of twelve days for the funeral solemnities. As the litter approached the city and was descried from the walls, the people poured forth to gaze once more on the face of their hero. Foremost of all, the mother and the wife of Hector came, and at the sight of the lifeless body renewed their lamentations. The people wept with them, and to the going down of the sun there was no pause or abatement of their grief. The next day, preparations were made for the funeral solemnities. For nine days the people brought wood and built the pile; and on the tenth they placed the body on the summit and applied the torch, while all Troy, thronging forth, encompassed the pyre. When it had completely burned, they quenched the cinders with wine, and, collecting the bones, placed them in a golden urn, which they buried in the earth. Over the spot they reared a pile of stones. Such honors Ilium to her hero paid, And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade.[310] FOOTNOTES: [280] From Tennyson's Dream of Fair Women. [281] From Tennyson's [OE]none. [282] Euripides, Iphigenia at Aulis, Iphigenia among the Tauri. [283] From Tennyson's Dream of Fair Women. [284] Gladstone's Translations from the Iliad. [285] Iliad, 2 (Pope's translation). [286] Iliad, 3 (Pope's translation). [287] Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus. [288] Iliad, 3 (Pope's translation). [289] Iliad, 6, 390 _et seq._ (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). [290] Iliad, 6, 470-490 (Pope's translation). [291] Iliad, 6 (Pope's translation). [292] Iliad, 9. [293] Iliad, 11. [294] Iliad, 13. [295] Iliad, 14, 400-440. [296] Iliad, 14, 150-350. [297] Iliad, 15. [298] Iliad, 11. [299] Iliad, 16. [300] Iliad, 17. [301] Cowper's translation. The lines are often quoted. [302] Iliad, 18. [303] Iliad, 19. [304] Iliad, 20. [305] Iliad, 21. [306] Iliad, 22, 350. [307] Iliad, 23. [308] Iliad, 24, 15. [309] Iliad, 24, 330-804. [310] Iliad, 24, 804 (Pope's translation). [Illustration: AMAZON] CHAPTER XXIII THE FALL OF TROY [Illustration: FIG. 162. ACHILLES AND PENTHESILEA] =218. The Fall of Troy.= The story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector, and it is from the Odyssey and later poems that we learn the fate of the other heroes. After the death of Hector, Troy did not immediately fall, but receiving aid from new allies, still continued its resistance. One of these allies was Memnon, the Ethiopian prince, whose story has been already told.[311] Another was Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, who came with a band of female warriors. All the authorities attest the valor of these women and the fearful effect of their war cry. Penthesilea, having slain many of the bravest Greeks, was at last slain by Achilles. But when the hero bent over his fallen foe and contemplated her beauty, youth, and valor, he bitterly regretted his victory. Thersites, the insolent brawler and demagogue, attempting to ridicule his grief, was in consequence slain by the hero.[312] =219. The Death of Achilles.= But Achilles himself was not destined to a long life. Having by chance seen Polyxena, daughter of King Priam,--perhaps on occasion of the truce which was allowed the Trojans for the burial of Hector,--he was captivated with her charms; and to win her in marriage, it is said (but not by Homer) that he agreed to influence the Greeks to make peace with Troy. While the hero was in the temple of Apollo negotiating the marriage, Paris discharged at him a poisoned arrow,[313] which, guided by Apollo, fatally wounded him in the heel. This was his only vulnerable spot; for Thetis, having dipped him when an infant in the river Styx, had rendered every part of him invulnerable except that by which she held him.[314] =220. Contest for the Arms of Achilles.= The body of Achilles so treacherously slain was rescued by Ajax and Ulysses. Thetis directed the Greeks to bestow her son's armor on that hero who of all survivors should be judged most deserving of it. Ajax and Ulysses were the only claimants. A select number of the other chiefs were appointed to award the prize. By the will of Minerva it was awarded to Ulysses,--wisdom being thus rated above valor. Ajax, enraged, set forth from his tent to wreak vengeance upon the Atridæ and Ulysses. But the goddess robbed him of reason and turned his hand against the flocks and herds of the Argives, which he slaughtered or led captive to his tent, counting them the rivals who had wronged him. Then the cruel goddess restored to him his wits. And he, fixing his sword in the ground, prepared to take his own life: "Come and look on me, O Death, O Death,--and yet in yonder world I shall dwell with thee, speak enough with thee; And thee I call, thou light of golden day, Thou Sun, who drivest on thy glorious car, Thee, for this last time,--never more again! O Light, O sacred land that was my home; O Salamis, where stands my father's hearth, Thou glorious Athens, with thy kindred race; Ye streams and rivers here, and Troïa's plains, To you that fed my life I bid farewell; This last, last word does Ajax speak to you; All else, I speak in Hades to the dead."[3] Then, falling upon his sword, he died. So, in the words of his magnanimous foe, Ulysses, passed to the god that ruleth in gloom The best and bravest of the Argive host, Of all that came to Troïa, saving one, Achilles' self.[315] On the spot where his blood sank into the earth a hyacinth sprang up, bearing on its leaves the first two letters of his name, Ai, the Greek interjection of woe.[316] [Illustration: FIG. 163. [OE]NONE WARNING PARIS] It was now discovered that Troy could not be taken but by the aid of the arrows of Hercules. They were in possession of Philoctetes, the friend who had been with Hercules at the last and had lighted his funeral pyre. Philoctetes[317] had joined the Grecian expedition against Troy; but he accidentally wounded his foot with one of the poisoned arrows, and the smell from the wound proved so offensive that his companions carried him to the isle of Lemnos and left him there. Diomede and Ulysses, or Ulysses and Neoptolemus (son of Achilles), were now sent to induce him to rejoin the army. They succeeded. Philoctetes was cured of his wound by Machaon, and Paris was the first victim of the fatal arrows. =221. Paris and [OE]none.= In his distress Paris bethought him of one whom in his prosperity he had forgotten. This was the nymph [OE]none, whom he had married when a youth and had abandoned for the fatal beauty of Helen. [OE]none, remembering the wrongs she had suffered, refused to heal the wound; and Paris went back to Troy and died. [OE]none quickly repented and hastened after him with remedies, but came too late, and in her grief hanged herself. =222. The Palladium.= There was in Troy a celebrated statue of Minerva called the Palladium. It was said to have fallen from heaven, and the belief was that the city could not be taken so long as this statue remained within it. Ulysses and Diomede entered the city in disguise and succeeded in obtaining the Palladium, which they carried off to the Grecian camp. [Illustration: FIG. 164. THE WOODEN HORSE] =223. The Wooden Horse.= But Troy still held out. The Greeks began to despair of subduing it by force, and by advice of Ulysses they resorted to stratagem.[318] They pretended to be making preparations to abandon the siege; and a number of the ships were withdrawn and concealed behind a neighboring island. They then constructed an immense wooden horse, which they gave out was intended as a propitiatory offering to Minerva; but it was, in fact, filled with armed men. The rest of the Greeks then betook themselves to their ships and sailed away, as if for a final departure. The Trojans, seeing the encampment broken up and the fleet gone, concluded that the enemy had abandoned the siege. The gates of the city were thrown open, and the whole population issued forth, rejoicing at the long-prohibited liberty of passing freely over the scene of the late encampment. The great horse was the chief object of curiosity. Some recommended that it be taken into the city as a trophy; others felt afraid of it. While they hesitated, Laocoön, the priest of Neptune, exclaimed, "What madness, citizens, is this! Have you not learned enough of Grecian fraud to be on your guard against it? For my part, I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts."[319] So saying, he threw his lance at the horse's side. It struck, and a hollow sound reverberated like a groan. Then perhaps the people might have taken his advice and destroyed the fatal horse with its contents, but just at that moment a group of people appeared dragging forward one who seemed a prisoner and a Greek. Stupefied with terror, the captive was brought before the chiefs. He informed them that he was a Greek, Sinon by name; and that in consequence of the malice of Ulysses, he had been left behind by his countrymen at their departure. With regard to the wooden horse, he told them that it was a propitiatory offering to Minerva, and had been made so huge for the express purpose of preventing its being carried within the city; for Calchas the prophet had told them that if the Trojans took possession of it, they would assuredly triumph over the Greeks. [Illustration: LAOCOÖN] =224. Laocoön and the Serpents.= This language turned the tide of the people's feelings, and they began to think how they might best secure the monstrous horse and the favorable auguries connected with it, when suddenly a prodigy occurred which left no room for doubt. There appeared advancing over the sea two immense serpents. They came upon the land and the crowd fled in all directions. The serpents advanced directly to the spot where Laocoön stood with his two sons. They first attacked the children, winding round their bodies and breathing pestilential breath in their faces. The father, attempting to rescue them, was next seized and involved in the serpent's coils. ... Vain The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clinch; the long envenomed chain Rivets the living links,--the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.[320] He struggled to tear them away, but they overpowered all his efforts and strangled him and the children in their poisonous folds. The event was regarded as a clear indication of the displeasure of the gods at Laocoön's irreverent treatment of the wooden horse, which they no longer hesitated to regard as a sacred object and prepared to introduce with due solemnity into the city. They did so with songs and triumphal acclamations, and the day closed with festivity. In the night the armed men who were inclosed in the body of the horse, being let out by the traitor Sinon, opened the gates of the city to their friends who had returned under cover of the night. The city was set on fire; the people, overcome with feasting and sleep, were put to the sword, and Troy completely subdued. [Illustration: FIG. 165. THE SACK OF TROY (Left half)] =225. The Death of Priam.= Priam lived to see the downfall of his kingdom and was slain at last on the fatal night when the Greeks took the city. He had armed himself and was about to mingle with the combatants,[321] but was prevailed on by Hecuba to take refuge with his daughters and herself as a suppliant at the altar of Jupiter. While there, his youngest son, Polites, pursued by Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, rushed in wounded and expired at the feet of his father; whereupon Priam, overcome with indignation, hurled his spear with feeble hand against Pyrrhus and was forthwith slain by him. [Illustration: FIG. 166. THE SACK OF TROY (Right half)] =226. The Survivors.=[322] Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to Greece. Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, who gave her the gift of prophecy; but afterwards offended with her, he had rendered the gift unavailing by ordaining that her predictions should never be believed. Polyxena, another daughter, who had been loved by Achilles, was demanded by the ghost of that warrior and was sacrificed by the Greeks upon his tomb. Of the fate of the white-armed Andromache we have already spoken. She was carried off as the wife of Neoptolemus, but he was faithful to her for only a short time. After he had cast her aside she married Helenus, a brother of Hector, and still later returned to Asia Minor. =227. Helen, Menelaüs, and Agamemnon.= On the fall of Troy, Menelaüs recovered possession of his wife, who, it seems, had not ceased to love him, though she had yielded to the might of Venus and deserted him for another.[323] After the death of Paris, she aided the Greeks secretly on several occasions: in particular when Ulysses and Diomede entered the city in disguise to carry off the Palladium. She then saw and recognized Ulysses, but kept the secret and even assisted them in obtaining the image. Thus she became reconciled to Menelaüs, and they were among the first to leave the shores of Troy for their native land. But having incurred the displeasure of the gods, they were driven by storms from shore to shore of the Mediterranean, visiting Cyprus, Ph[oe]nicia, and Egypt. In Egypt they were kindly treated and presented with rich gifts, of which Helen's share was a golden spindle and a basket on wheels. ... Many yet adhere To the ancient distaff at the bosom fixed, Casting the whirling spindle as they walk. ... This was of old, in no inglorious days, The mode of spinning, when the Egyptian prince A golden distaff gave that beauteous nymph, Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly gift.[324] Milton also alludes to a famous recipe for an invigorating draft, called Nepenthe, which the Egyptian queen gave to Helen: Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, Is of such power to stir up joy as this, To life so friendly or so cool to thirst.[325] At last, arriving in safety at Sparta, Menelaüs and Helen resumed their royal dignity, and lived and reigned in splendor; and when Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, in search of his father, arrived at Sparta, he found them celebrating the marriage of their daughter Hermione to Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. Agamemnon[326] was not so fortunate in the issue. During his absence his wife Clytemnestra had been false to him; and when his return was expected, she with her paramour, Ægisthus, son of Thyestes, laid a plan for his destruction. Cassandra warned the king, but as usual her prophecy was not regarded. While Agamemnon was bathing previous to the banquet given to celebrate his return, the conspirators murdered him. [Illustration: FIG. 167. ORESTES AND ELECTRA AT THE TOMB OF AGAMEMNON] =228. Electra and Orestes.= It was the intention of the conspirators to slay his son Orestes also, a lad not yet old enough to be an object of apprehension, but from whom, if he should be suffered to grow up, there might be danger. Electra, the sister of Orestes, saved her brother's life by sending him secretly to his uncle Strophius, king of Phocis. In the palace of Strophius, Orestes grew up with the king's son Pylades, and formed with him a friendship which has become proverbial. Electra frequently reminded her brother by messengers of the duty of avenging his father's death; he, too, when he reached maturity, consulted the oracle of Delphi, which confirmed him in the design. He therefore repaired in disguise to Argos, pretending to be a messenger from Strophius, who would announce the death of Orestes. He brought with him what purported to be the ashes of the deceased in a funeral urn. After visiting his father's tomb and sacrificing upon it, according to the rites of the ancients, he met by the way his sister Electra. Mistaking her for one of the domestics, and desirous of keeping his arrival a secret till the hour of vengeance should arrive, he produced the urn. At once his sister, believing Orestes to be really dead, took the urn from him, and, embracing it, poured forth her grief in language full of tenderness and despair. Soon a recognition was effected, and the prince, with the aid of his sister, slew both Ægisthus and Clytemnestra.[327] [Illustration: FIG. 168. ORESTES PURSUED BY FURIES] =229. Orestes pursued by the Furies.=[328] This revolting act, the slaughter of a mother by her son, though extenuated by the guilt of the victim and the express command of the gods, did not fail to awaken in the breasts of the ancients the same abhorrence that it does in ours. The Eumenides seized upon Orestes and drove him frantic from land to land. In these wanderings Pylades accompanied him and watched over him. At length in answer to a second appeal to the oracle, Orestes was directed to go to the temple of the Tauri in Scythia and to bring thence a statue of Diana which was believed to have fallen from heaven. Accordingly the friends went to the Tauric Chersonese. Since there the barbarous people were accustomed to sacrifice to the goddess all strangers who fell into their hands, the two friends were seized and carried bound to the temple to be made victims. But the priestess of Diana of the Tauri was no other than Iphigenia, the sister of Orestes, who had been snatched away by Diana at the moment when she was about to be sacrificed. Ascertaining from the prisoners who they were, Iphigenia disclosed herself to them; and the three made their escape with the statue of the goddess, and returned to Mycenæ.[329] [Illustration: FIG. 169. ORESTES AND PYLADES BEFORE THE KING OF THE TAURI] =230. His Purification.= But Orestes was not yet relieved from the vengeance of the Erinyes. Finally, he took refuge with Minerva at Athens. The goddess afforded him protection and appointed the court of Areopagus to decide his fate. The Erinyes brought their accusation, and Orestes pleaded the command of the Delphic oracle as his excuse. When the court voted and the voices were equally divided, Orestes was acquitted by the command of Minerva. He was then purified with plentiful blood of swine. FOOTNOTES: [311] § 128. [312] Pausanias, 5, 11, § 2; and Sophocles, Philoctetes, 445. [313] Virgil, Æneid, 6, 57. [314] Statius, Achilleid, 1, 269. [315] Sophocles, Ajax. [316] See Commentary. [317] Servius Honoratus, Commentary on Æneid (3, 402). According to Sophocles (Philoctetes), the wound was occasioned by the bite of a serpent that guarded the shrine of the nymph Chryse, on an islet of the same name near Lemnos. [318] Virgil, Æneid, 2. [319] _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes._--Æneid. 2, 49. [320] Byron, Childe Harold. [321] Hecuba's exclamation, "Not such aid nor such defenders does the time require," has become proverbial. _Non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis_ _Tempus eget._--Æneid, 2, 521. [322] Euripides,--Troades, Hecuba, Andromache. [323] According to Euripides (Helen), and Stesichorus, it was a semblance of Helen that Paris won; the real Helen went to Egypt. [324] Dyer, The Fleece. [325] Milton, Comus. [326] Æschylus, Agamemnon. [327] Æschylus, Choëphori; Sophocles, Electra; Euripides,--Electra, Orestes. [328] Æschylus, Eumenides. [329] Euripides, Iphigenia among the Tauri. CHAPTER XXIV THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES [Illustration: FIG. 170. ULYSSES] As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine,-- As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again, So, gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers; And, through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.[330] =231. From Troy to Phæacia.= The Odyssey of Homer narrates the wanderings of Ulysses (=Odysseus=) in his return from Troy to his own kingdom, Ithaca.[331] From Troy the vessels first made land at Ismarus, city of the Ciconians, where, in a skirmish with the inhabitants, Ulysses lost six men from each ship.[332] [Illustration: THE OUTER GEOGRAPHY OF THE ODYSSEY ACCORDING TO GLADSTONE.] =232. The Lotus-eaters.= Sailing thence they were overtaken by a storm which drove them for nine days till they reached the country of the Lotos-eaters. Here, after watering, Ulysses sent three of his men to discover who the inhabitants were. These men on coming among the Lotos-eaters were kindly entertained by them and were given some of their own food, the lotos plant, to eat. The effect of this food was such that those who partook of it lost all thought of home and wished to remain in that country. It was by main force that Ulysses dragged these men away, and he was even obliged to tie them under the benches of his ship. Tennyson in The Lotos-eaters has fittingly expressed the dreamy, languid feeling which the lotus-food is said to have produced. ... How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos, day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; For surely now our household hearths are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. ... But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill-- To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine-- To watch the emerald-color'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.... =233. The Cyclopes.= They next arrived at the country of the Cyclopes. The Cyclopes[333] inhabited an island of which they were the only possessors. They dwelt in caves and fed on the wild productions of the island and on what their flocks yielded, for they were shepherds. Ulysses left the main body of his ships at anchor, and with one vessel went to the Cyclopes' island to explore for supplies. He landed with his companions, carrying with them a jar of wine for a present. Coming to a large cave they entered it, and, finding no one within, examined its contents. They found it stored with the riches of the flock, quantities of cheese, pails and bowls of milk, lambs and kids in their pens, all in good order. Presently arrived the master of the cave, Polyphemus, bearing an immense bundle of firewood, which he threw down before the cavern's mouth. He then drove into the cave the sheep and goats to be milked, and, entering, rolled to the cave's mouth an enormous rock, that twenty oxen could not draw. Next he sat down and milked his ewes, preparing a part for cheese and setting the rest aside for his customary drink. Then turning round his one huge eye he discerned the strangers, and growled out at them, demanding who they were and where from. Ulysses replied most humbly, stating that they were Greeks from the great expedition that had lately won so much glory in the conquest of Troy, that they were now on their way home, and finished by imploring his hospitality in the name of the gods. Polyphemus deigned no answer, but reaching out his hand seized two of the men, whom he hurled against the side of the cave and dashed out their brains. He proceeded to devour them with great relish, and having made a hearty meal, stretched himself on the floor to sleep. Ulysses was tempted to seize the opportunity and plunge his sword into him as he slept, but recollected that it would only expose them all to certain destruction, as the rock with which the giant had closed up the door was far beyond their power to remove, and they would therefore be in hopeless imprisonment. Next morning the giant seized two more of the men and dispatched them in the same manner as their companions, feasting on their flesh till no fragment was left. He then moved away the rock from the door, drove out his flocks, and went out, carefully replacing the barrier after him. When he was gone Ulysses planned how he might take vengeance for his murdered friends and effect his escape with his surviving companions. He made his men prepare a massive bar of wood cut by the Cyclops for a staff, which they found in the cave. They sharpened the end of the staff and seasoned it in the fire, and hid it under the straw on the cavern floor. Then four of the boldest were selected, with whom Ulysses joined himself as a fifth. The Cyclops came home at evening, rolled away the stone, and drove in his flock as usual. After milking them and making his arrangements as before, he seized two more of Ulysses' companions, dashed their brains out, and made his evening meal upon them as he had on the others. After he had supped, Ulysses approaching him handed him a bowl of wine, saying, "Cyclops, this is wine; taste and drink after thy meal of man's flesh." He took and drank it, and was hugely delighted with it, and called for more. Ulysses supplied him once and again, which pleased the giant so much that he promised him as a favor that he should be the last of the party devoured. He asked his name, to which Ulysses replied, "My name is Noman." After his supper the giant sought his repose, and was soon sound asleep. Then Ulysses with his four select friends held the end of the stake in the fire till it was one burning coal, then poising it exactly above the giant's only eye, they plunged it deep into the socket, twirling it round as a carpenter does his auger. The howling monster with his outcry filled the cavern, and Ulysses with his aids nimbly got out of his way and concealed themselves in the cave. He, bellowing, called aloud on all the Cyclopes dwelling in the caves around him, far and near. They, on his cry, flocked round the den, and inquired what grievous hurt had caused him to sound such an alarm and break their slumbers. He replied, "O friends, I die, and Noman gives the blow." They answered, "If no man hurts thee, it is the stroke of Jove, and thou must bear it." So saying, they left him groaning. [Illustration: FIG. 171. BORING OUT THE CYCLOPS' EYE] Next morning the Cyclops rolled away the stone to let his flock out to pasture, but planted himself in the door of the cave to feel of all as they went out, that Ulysses and his men should not escape with them. But Ulysses had made his men harness the rams of the flock three abreast, with osiers which they found on the floor of the cave. To the middle ram of the three one of the Greeks suspended himself, so protected by the exterior rams on either side. As they passed, the giant felt of the animals' backs and sides, but never thought of their bellies; so the men all passed safe, Ulysses himself being on the last one that passed. When they had got a few paces from the cavern, Ulysses and his friends released themselves from their rams and drove a good part of the flock down to the shore to their boat. They put them aboard with all haste, then pushed off from the shore; and when at a safe distance Ulysses shouted out, "Cyclops, the gods have well requited thee for thy atrocious deeds. Know it is Ulysses to whom thou owest thy shameful loss of sight." The Cyclops, hearing this, seized a rock that projected from the side of the mountain, and rending it from its bed, he lifted it high in the air, then exerting all his force, hurled it in the direction of the voice. Down came the mass, just forward of the vessel. The ocean, at the plunge of the huge rock, heaved the ship toward Polyphemus; but a second rock which he hurled, striking aft, propelled them fortunately in the direction that they desired to take. Ulysses was about to hail the giant again, but his friends besought him not to do so. He could not forbear, however, letting the giant know that they had escaped his missile, but waited till they had reached a safer distance than before. The giant answered them with curses, while Ulysses and his friends, plying their oars vigorously, regained their companions. [Illustration: FIG. 172. ULYSSES AND TWO COMPANIONS UNDER RAMS] =234. The Bag of Winds.= Ulysses next arrived at the island of Æolus.[334] He treated Ulysses hospitably, and at his departure gave him, tied up in a leathern bag with a silver string, such winds as might be hurtful and dangerous, commanding fair winds to blow the barks toward their country. Nine days they sped before the wind, and all that time Ulysses had stood at the helm without sleep. At last quite exhausted he lay down to sleep. While he slept, the crew conferred together about the mysterious bag, and concluded it must contain treasures given by the hospitable King Æolus to their commander. Tempted to secure some portion for themselves, they loosed the string, when immediately the winds rushed forth. The ships were driven far from their course and back again to the island they had just left. Æolus, indignant at their folly, refused to assist them further, and they were obliged to labor over their course once more by means of their oars. =235. The Læstrygonians.= Their next adventure was with the barbarous tribe of Læstrygonians. The vessels all pushed into the harbor, tempted by the secure appearance of the cove, completely landlocked; only Ulysses moored his vessel without. As soon as the Læstrygonians found the ships completely in their power, they attacked them, heaving huge stones which broke and overturned them, while with their spears they dispatched the seamen as they struggled in the water. All the vessels with their crews were destroyed, except Ulysses' own ship which had remained outside. He, finding no safety but in flight, exhorted his men to ply their oars vigorously; and they escaped. =236. The Isle of Ææa.= With grief for their slain companions mixed with joy at their own escape, they pursued their way till they arrived at the Ææan isle, where Circe dwelt, the daughter of the sun. Landing here, Ulysses climbed a hill and, gazing round, saw no signs of habitation except in one spot at the center of the island, where he perceived a palace embowered with trees. He sent forward one half of his crew, under the command of Eurylochus, to see what prospect of hospitality they might find. As they approached the palace, they found themselves surrounded by lions, tigers, and wolves, not fierce, but tamed by Circe's art, for she was a powerful magician. These animals had once been men, but had been changed by Circe's enchantments into the forms of beasts. The sounds of soft music were heard from within, and a sweet female voice singing. Eurylochus called aloud, and the goddess came forth and invited them in; they all gladly entered except Eurylochus, who suspected danger. The goddess conducted her guests to a seat, and had them served with wine and other delicacies. When they had feasted heartily, she touched them one by one with her wand, and they became immediately changed into swine, in "head, body, voice, and bristles," yet with their intellects as before. She shut them in her styes and supplied them with acorns and such other things as swine love. Eurylochus hurried back to the ship and told the tale. Ulysses thereupon determined to go himself and try if by any means he might deliver his companions. As he strode onward alone, he met a youth who addressed him familiarly, appearing to be acquainted with his adventures. He announced himself as Mercury, and informed Ulysses of the arts of Circe and of the danger of approaching her. As Ulysses was not to be dissuaded from his attempt, Mercury provided him with a sprig of the plant Moly, of wonderful power to resist sorceries, and instructed him how to act. [Illustration: FIG. 173. THE CASTLE OF CIRCE] Meanwhile the companions of Ulysses made mournful plaint to their cruel mistress: Huddling they came, with shag sides caked of mire,-- With hoofs fresh sullied from the troughs o'er-turned,-- With wrinkling snouts,--yet eyes in which desire Of some strange thing unutterably burned, Unquenchable; and still where'er She turned They rose about her, striving each o'er each, With restless, fierce importuning that yearned Through those brute masks some piteous tale to teach, Yet lacked the words thereto, denied the power of speech.... ... "If swine we be,--if we indeed be swine, Daughter of Persé, make us swine indeed, Well-pleased on litter-straw to lie supine,-- Well-pleased on mast and acorn-shales to feed, Stirred by all instincts of the bestial breed; But O Unmerciful! O Pitiless! Leave us not thus with sick men's hearts to bleed!-- To waste long days in yearning, dumb distress, And memory of things gone, and utter hopelessness! ... "Make thou us men again,--if men but groping That dark Hereafter which th' Olympians keep; Make thou us men again,--if men but hoping Behind death's doors security of sleep;-- For yet to laugh is somewhat, and to sleep;-- To feel delight of living, and to plow The salt-blown acres of the shoreless deep;-- Better,--yea better far all these than bow Foul faces to foul earth, and yearn--as we do now!" So they in speech unsyllabled. But She, The fair-tressed Goddess, born to be their bane, Uplifting straight her wand of ivory, Compelled them groaning to the styes again; Where they in hopeless bitterness were fain To rend the oaken woodwork as before, And tear the troughs in impotence of pain,-- Not knowing, they, that even at the door Divine Odysseus stood,--as Hermes told of yore.[335] Ulysses, reaching the palace, was courteously received by Circe, who entertained him as she had done his companions, but after he had eaten and drunk, touched him with her wand, saying, "Hence, seek the stye and wallow with thy friends." But he, instead of obeying, drew his sword and rushed upon her with fury in his countenance. She fell on her knees and begged for mercy. He dictated a solemn oath that she would release his companions and practice no further harm against him or them; and she repeated it, at the same time promising to dismiss them all in safety after hospitably entertaining them. She was as good as her word. The men were restored to their shapes, the rest of the crew summoned from the shore, and all magnificently entertained day after day, till Ulysses seemed to have forgotten his native land and to have reconciled himself to an inglorious life of ease and pleasure. =237. Ulysses visits Hades.= At length his companions recalled him to nobler sentiments, and he received their admonition gratefully. Circe, won over by his prayers, consented to send him on his homeward way. But she warned him that first he must perform another journey, must visit the Underworld and there learn from the shade of Tiresias, the blind prophet of Thebes, the way and measure of his path, and how to proceed to Ithaca over the teeming deep. "But who will guide us?" queried Ulysses in amaze; "for no man ever yet sailed to hell in a black ship." "Son of Laërtes," replied the Goddess, "Ulysses of many devices, nay, trouble not thyself for want of a guide, by thy ship abiding, but set up the mast and spread abroad the white sails and sit thee down; and the breeze of the North Wind will bear thy vessel on her way. But when thou hast now sailed in thy ship across the stream Oceanus where is a waste shore and the groves of Persephone, even tall poplar trees and willows that shed their fruit before the season, there beach thy ship by deep-eddying Oceanus, but go thyself to the dank house of Hades. Thereby into Acheron flows Pyriphlegethon, and Cocytus, a branch of the water of the Styx; and there is a rock, and the meeting of the two roaring waters. There dig a trench and pour a drink offering to all the dead, mead and sweet wine and water, sprinkling white meal thereon. And when thou hast prayed to them, offer up a ram and a black ewe. Then will many spirits come to thee of the dead that be departed; but thou shalt draw thy sharp sword and suffer them not to approach the blood, ere thou hast word of Tiresias."[336] So Ulysses and his companions did as they were bid. And the ship came to the limits of the world, to the deep-flowing Oceanus. There is the land and city of the Cimmerians, where no ray of sunshine ever falls, but deadly night is outspread over miserable mortals. And there Ulysses and those with him performed the drink offering and the prayer and the sacrifice; and Ulysses fended off the spirits of the dead from the blood until the soul of the Theban prophet arrived. And that one, having drunk of the dark blood, declared unto Ulysses the future of his way: how the Earthshaker, god of the waters, should oppose him, but how he should win home without further disaster if, when passing the isle Thrinacia, he would but restrain the spirit of his men so that they should do no injury to the cattle of the Sun grazing thereon. If, however, these cattle were not respected but hurt, then there should follow ruin for both ship and men; and Ulysses himself on the ship of strangers should return late in time to his home, to find sorrows there, proud men wasting his patrimony and wooing his godlike wife to wed her. But that he should avenge their violence, and settle his affairs at home, and then betake himself again to wandering; and that from the sea should his own death come,--"the gentlest death that may be, which shall end thee fordone with smooth old age; and the folk shall dwell happily around thee." In the land of Hades, Ulysses saw also the shade of his mother, and spoke with her of his father and of Penelope, his wife, and of his son Telemachus. And he saw also the shades of Antiope and Alcmene and Phædra and Procris; and of Agamemnon, and Achilles, and Ajax, the son of Telamon, and of many others, and spoke with them of their own fates and of the affairs of the upper world. =238. The Sirens.= Returning from the abode of the shades, Ulysses revisited the Ææan isle and recounted to Circe his adventures and the wondrous visions and the laws of Hell. She in return speeded his homeward voyage, instructing him particularly how to pass safely by the coast of the Sirens.[337] These nymphs had the power, as has been already said, of charming by their song all who heard them, so that mariners were impelled to cast themselves into the sea to destruction. Circe directed Ulysses to stop the ears of his seamen with wax, so that they should not hear the strain; to have himself bound to the mast, and to enjoin his people, whatever he might say or do, by no means to release him till they should have passed the Sirens' island. Ulysses obeyed these directions. As they approached the Sirens' island, the sea was calm, and over the waters came notes of music so ravishing and attractive that Ulysses struggled to get loose and, by cries and signs to his people, begged to be released; but they, obedient to his previous orders, sprang forward and bound him still faster. They held on their course, and the music grew fainter till it ceased to be heard, when with joy Ulysses gave his companions the signal to unseal their ears; and they relieved him from his bonds. It is said that one of the Sirens, Parthenope, in grief at the escape of Ulysses drowned herself. Her body was cast up on the Italian shore where now stands the city of Naples, in early times called by the Siren's name. [Illustration: FIG. 174. ULYSSES AND THE SIRENS] =239. Scylla and Charybdis.= Ulysses had been warned by Circe of the two monsters Scylla and Charybdis. We have already met with Scylla in the myth of Glaucus. She dwelt in a cave high up on the cliff, from whence she was accustomed to thrust forth her long necks (for she had six heads), and in each of her mouths to seize one of the crew of every vessel passing within reach. The other terror, Charybdis, was a gulf nearly on a level with the water. Thrice each day the water rushed into a frightful chasm, and thrice was disgorged. Any vessel coming near the whirlpool when the tide was rushing in must inevitably be engulfed; not Neptune himself could save it. On approaching the haunt of the dread monsters, Ulysses kept strict watch to discover them. The roar of the waters as Charybdis engulfed them gave warning at a distance, but Scylla could nowhere be discerned. While Ulysses and his men watched with anxious eyes the dreadful whirlpool, they were not equally on their guard from the attack of Scylla,[338] and the monster, darting forth her snaky heads, caught six of his men and bore them away shrieking to her den. Ulysses was unable to afford any assistance. [Illustration: FIG. 175. ULYSSES AND SCYLLA] =240. The Cattle of the Sun.= Both Tiresias and Circe had warned him of another danger. After passing Scylla and Charybdis the next land he would make was Thrinacia, an island whereon were pastured the cattle of Helios, the Sun, tended by his daughters Lampetia and Phaëthusa. These flocks must not be violated, whatever the wants of the voyagers might be. If this injunction were transgressed, destruction was sure to fall on the offenders. Ulysses would willingly have passed the island of the Sun without stopping, but his companions so urgently pleaded for the rest and refreshment that would be derived from anchoring and passing the night on shore, that Ulysses yielded. He made them swear, however, not to touch the sacred flocks and herds, but to content themselves with what provision they yet had left of the supply which Circe had put on board. So long as this supply lasted the people kept their oath; but contrary winds detained them at the island for a month, and after consuming all their stock of provisions, they were forced to rely upon the birds and fishes they could catch. Famine pressed them, and at last, in the absence of Ulysses, they slew some of the cattle, vainly attempting to make amends for the deed by offering from them a portion to the offended powers. Ulysses, on his return to the shore, was horror-struck at perceiving what they had done, and the more so on account of the portentous signs which followed. The skins crept on the ground, and the joints of meat lowed on the spits while roasting. [Illustration: FLYING MERCURY] The wind becoming fair, they sailed from the island. They had not gone far when the weather changed, and a storm of thunder and lightning ensued. A stroke of lightning shattered their mast, which in its fall killed the pilot. At last the vessel itself went to pieces. The keel and mast floating side by side, Ulysses formed of them a raft to which he clung; and, the wind changing, the waves bore him to Calypso's island. All the rest of the crew perished. =241. Calypso's Island.= Calypso, a sea-nymph, received Ulysses hospitably, entertained him magnificently, became enamored of him, and wished to retain him forever, offering him immortality. He remained with her seven long years. But he persisted in his resolution to return to his country and his wife and son.[339] Calypso at last received the command of Jove to dismiss him. Mercury brought the message to her and found her in her grotto. A garden vine, luxuriant on all sides, Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph, Their sinuous course pursuing side by side, Strayed all around, and everywhere appeared Meadows of softest verdure, purpled o'er With violets; it was a scene to fill A god from heaven with wonder and delight.[340] Calypso, with much reluctance, proceeded to obey the commands of Jupiter. She supplied Ulysses with the means of constructing a raft, provisioned it well for him, and gave him a favoring gale. He sped on his course prosperously for many days, till at last, when in sight of land, a storm arose that broke his mast and threatened to rend the raft asunder. In this crisis he was seen by a compassionate sea-nymph, Leucothea, who, in the form of a cormorant, alighted on the raft and presented him with a girdle, directing him to bind it beneath his breast, that, if he should be compelled to trust himself to the waves, it might buoy him up and enable him to reach the land. =242. The Land of the Phæacians.= Ulysses clung to the raft so long as its timbers held together, and when it no longer yielded him support, binding the girdle around him, he swam. Minerva smoothed the billows before him and sent him a wind that rolled the waves towards the shore. The surf beat high on the rocks and seemed to forbid approach; but at length finding calm water at the mouth of a gentle stream, he landed, spent with toil, breathless and speechless and almost dead. Reviving after some time, he kissed the soil, rejoicing, yet at a loss what course to take. At a short distance he perceived a wood, to which he turned his steps. There finding a covert sheltered by intermingling branches alike from the sun and the rain, he collected a pile of leaves and formed a bed, on which he stretched himself, and, heaping the leaves over him, fell asleep. The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the Phæacians.[341] These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopes; but, being oppressed by that savage race, they migrated to the isle of Scheria under the conduct of Nausithoüs, their king. They were, the poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who appeared manifestly and feasted among them when they offered sacrifices, and did not conceal themselves from solitary wayfarers when they met them. They had abundance of wealth and lived in the enjoyment of it undisturbed by the alarms of war; for as they dwelt remote from gain-seeking man, no enemy ever approached their shores, and they did not even require to make use of bows and quivers. Their chief employment was navigation. Their ships, which went with the velocity of birds, were endued with intelligence; they knew every port and needed no pilot. Alcinoüs, the son of Nausithoüs, was now their king, a wise and just sovereign, beloved by his people. Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast ashore on the Phæacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his bed of leaves, Nausicaa, the daughter of the king, had a dream sent by Minerva, reminding her that her wedding day might not be far distant, and that it would be but a prudent preparation for that event to have a general washing of the clothes of the family. This was no slight affair, for the fountains were at some distance and the garments must be carried thither. On awaking, the princess hastened to her parents to tell them what was on her mind,--not alluding to her wedding day, but finding other reasons equally good. Her father readily assented and ordered the grooms to furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The clothes were put therein, and the queen, her mother, placed in the wagon likewise an abundant supply of food and wine. The princess took her seat and plied the lash, her attendant virgins following her on foot. Arrived at the riverside they turned out the mules to graze, and unlading the carriage, bore the garments down to the water, and, working with cheerfulness and alacrity, soon dispatched their labor. Then having spread the garments on the shore to dry, and having themselves bathed, they sat down to enjoy their meal; after which they rose and amused themselves with a game of ball, the princess singing to them while they played. But when they had refolded the apparel and were about to resume their way to the town, Minerva caused the ball thrown by the princess to fall into the water, whereat they all screamed, and Ulysses awaked at the sound. Utterly destitute of clothing, he discovered that only a few bushes were interposed between him and a group of young maidens, whom, by their deportment and attire, he discovered to be not mere peasant girls, but of a higher class. Breaking off a leafy branch from a tree, he held it before him and stepped out from the thicket. The virgins at sight of him fled in all directions, Nausicaa alone excepted, for her Minerva aided and endowed with courage and discernment. Ulysses, standing respectfully aloof, told his sad case, and besought the fair object (whether queen or goddess he professed he knew not) for food and clothing. The princess replied courteously, promising present relief and her father's hospitality when he should become acquainted with the facts. She called back her scattered maidens, chiding their alarm and reminding them that the Phæacians had no enemies to fear. This man, she told them, was an unhappy wanderer, whom it was a duty to cherish, for the poor and the stranger are from Jove. She bade them bring food, and the garments of some of her brothers that were among the contents of the wagon. When this was done, and Ulysses retiring to a sheltered place had washed his body free from the sea-foam, and clothed himself, and eaten, Pallas dilated his form and diffused grace over his ample chest and manly brows. The princess, seeing him, was filled with admiration and scrupled not to say to her damsels that she wished the gods would send her such a husband. To Ulysses she recommended that he repair to the city, following herself and her train so far as the way lay through the fields; but when they should approach the city, she desired that he no longer be seen in her company, for she feared the remarks which rude and vulgar people might make on seeing her return accompanied by such a gallant stranger. To avoid this she directed him to stop at a grove adjoining the city, in which were a farm and garden belonging to the king. After allowing time for the princess and her companions to reach the city, he was then to pursue his way thither, and should be easily guided by any he might meet to the royal abode. Ulysses obeyed the directions and in due time proceeded to the city, on approaching which he met a young woman bearing forth a pitcher for water.[342] It was Minerva who had assumed that form. Ulysses accosted her and desired to be directed to the palace of Alcinoüs, the king. The maiden replied respectfully, offering to be his guide; for the palace, she informed him, stood near her father's dwelling. Under the guidance of the goddess and, by her power, enveloped in a cloud which shielded him from observation, Ulysses passed among the busy crowd and with wonder observed their harbor, their ships, their forum (the resort of heroes), and their battlements, till they came to the palace, where the goddess, having first given him some information of the country, king, and people he was about to meet, left him. Ulysses, before entering the courtyard of the palace, stood and surveyed the scene. Its splendor astonished him. Brazen walls stretched from the entrance to the interior house, of which the doors were gold, the doorposts silver, the lintels silver ornamented with gold. On either side were figures of mastiffs wrought in gold and silver, standing in rows as if to guard the approach. Along the walls were seats spread through all their length with mantles of finest texture, the work of Phæacian maidens. On these seats the princes sat and feasted, while golden statues of graceful youths held in their hands lighted torches which shed radiance over the scene. Full fifty female menials served in household offices, some employed to grind the corn, others to wind off the purple wool or ply the loom. For the Phæacian women as far exceeded all other women in household arts as the mariners of that country did the rest of mankind in the management of ships. Without the court a spacious garden lay, four acres in extent. In it grew many a lofty tree, pomegranate, pear, apple, fig, and olive. Neither winter's cold nor summer's drought arrested their growth. The languid sunset, mother of roses,[343] Lingers, a light on the magic seas, The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses, Heavy with odor, and loose to the breeze. The red rose clouds, without law or leader, Gather and float in the airy plain; The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, The cedar scatters his scent to the main. The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing, Heard afar over moonlit seas: The Siren's song, grown faint in winging, Falls in scent on the cedar-trees. As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying, Purple, and rosy, and gray, the birds Brighten the air with their wings; their crying Wakens a moment the weary herds. Butterflies flit from the fairy garden, Living blossoms of flying flowers; Never the nights with winter harden, Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours. Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden, Gleam in the green, and droop and fall; Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden, Swing and cling to the garden wall. Deep in the woods as twilight darkens, Glades are red with the scented fire; Far in the dells the white maid hearkens Song and sigh of the heart's desire. Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for the cloud which Minerva spread around him still shielded him. At length having sufficiently observed the scene, he advanced with rapid step into the hall where the chiefs and senators were assembled, pouring libation to Mercury, whose worship followed the evening meal. Just then Minerva dissolved the cloud and disclosed him to the assembled chiefs. Advancing to the place where the queen sat, he knelt at her feet and implored her favor and assistance to enable him to return to his native country. Then withdrawing, he seated himself in the manner of suppliants, at the hearth-side. For a time none spoke. At last an aged statesman, addressing the king, said, "It is not fit that a stranger who asks our hospitality should be kept waiting in suppliant guise, none welcoming him. Let him, therefore, be led to a seat among us and supplied with food and wine." At these words the king, rising, gave his hand to Ulysses and led him to a seat, displacing thence his own son to make room for the stranger. Food and wine were set before him and he ate and refreshed himself. The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the next day he would call them to council to consider what had best be done for the stranger. When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with the king and queen, the queen asked him who he was and whence he came, and (recognizing the clothes which he wore as those which her maidens and herself had made) from whom he received those garments. He told them of his residence in Calypso's isle and his departure thence; of the wreck of his raft, his escape by swimming, and of the relief afforded by the princess. The parents heard approvingly, and the king promised to furnish a ship in which his guest might return to his own land. The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of the king.[344] A bark was prepared and a crew of stout rowers selected, and all betook themselves to the palace, where a bounteous repast was provided. After the feast the king proposed that the young men should show their guest their proficiency in manly sports, and all went forth to the arena for games of running, wrestling, and other exercises. After all had done their best, Ulysses being challenged to show what he could do, at first declined, but being taunted by one of the youths, seized a quoit of weight far heavier than any the Phæacians had thrown, and sent it farther than the utmost throw of theirs. All were astonished and viewed their guest with greatly increased respect. After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led in Demodocus, the blind bard,-- Dear to the Muse, Who yet appointed him both good and ill, Took from him sight, but gave him strains divine. He took for his theme the Wooden Horse, by means of which the Greeks found entrance into Troy. Apollo inspired him, and he sang so feelingly the terrors and the exploits of that eventful time that all were delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears. Observing which, Alcinoüs, when the song was done, demanded of him why at the mention of Troy his sorrows awaked. Had he lost there a father, or brother, or any dear friend? Ulysses replied by announcing himself by his true name, and, at their request, recounted the adventures which had befallen him since his departure from Troy. This narrative raised the sympathy and admiration of the Phæacians for their guest to the highest pitch. The king proposed that all the chiefs should present him with a gift, himself setting the example. They obeyed, and vied with one another in loading the illustrious stranger with costly gifts. The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phæacian vessel, and in a short time arrived safe at Ithaca, his own island.[345] When the vessel touched the strand he was asleep. The mariners, without waking him, carried him on shore, and landed with him the chest containing his presents, and then sailed away. Neptune was so displeased at the conduct of the Phæacians in thus rescuing Ulysses from his hands, that, on the return of the vessel to port, he transformed it into a rock, right opposite the mouth of the harbor. =243. Fate of the Suitors.= Ulysses had now been away from Ithaca for twenty years, and when he awoke he did not recognize his native land: "Some god hath cast me forth upon this land, And O! what land? So thick is the sea mist, All is phantasmal. What king ruleth here? What folk inhabit?--cruel unto strangers, Or hospitable? The gods have lied to me When they foretold I should see Ithaca. This is some swimming and Cimmerian isle, With melancholy people of the mist. Ah! Ithaca, I shall not see thee more!"[346] But Minerva, appearing in the form of a young shepherd, informed him where he was, and told him the state of things at his palace. More than a hundred nobles of Ithaca and of the neighboring islands had been for years suing for the hand of Penelope, his wife, imagining him dead, and lording it over his palace and people as if they were owners of both. Penelope was one of those mythic heroines whose beauties were not those of person only, but of character and conduct as well. She was the niece of Tyndareus,--being the daughter of his brother Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, seeking her in marriage, had won her over all competitors. But, when the moment came for the bride to leave her father's house, Icarius, unable to bear the thoughts of parting with his daughter, tried to persuade her to remain with him and not accompany her husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope her choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but dropped her veil over her face. Icarius urged her no further, but when she was gone erected a statue to Modesty on the spot where they had parted. Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year when it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the Trojan War. During his long absence, and when it was doubtful whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he would ever return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors, from whom there seemed no refuge but in choosing one of them for her husband. She, however, employed every art to gain time, still hoping for Ulysses' return. One of her arts of delay was by engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of Laërtes, her husband's father. She pledged herself to make her choice among the suitors when the web was finished. During the day she worked at it, but in the night she undid the work of the day. [Illustration: FIG. 176. PENELOPE AND TELEMACHUS] That Ulysses on returning might be able to take vengeance upon the suitors, it was important that he should not be recognized. Minerva accordingly metamorphosed him into an unsightly beggar, and as such he was kindly received by Eumæus, the swineherd, a faithful servant of his house.[347] Telemachus, his son, had for some time been absent in quest of his father, visiting the courts of the other kings who had returned from the Trojan expedition. While on the search, he received counsel from Minerva to return home.[348] He arrived at this juncture, and sought Eumæus to learn something of the state of affairs at the palace before presenting himself among the suitors. Finding a stranger with Eumæus, he treated him courteously, though in the garb of a beggar, and promised him assistance. Eumæus was sent to the palace to inform Penelope privately of her son's arrival, for caution was necessary with regard to the suitors, who, as Telemachus had learned, were plotting to intercept and kill him. When the swineherd was gone, Minerva presented herself to Ulysses and directed him to make himself known to his son. At the same time she touched him, removed at once from him the appearance of age and penury, and gave him the aspect of vigorous manhood that belonged to him. Telemachus viewed him with astonishment, and at first thought he must be more than mortal. But Ulysses announced himself as his father, and accounted for the change of appearance by explaining that it was Minerva's doing. Then threw Telemachus His arms around his father's neck and wept. Desire intense of lamentation seized On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged His grief.[349] The father and son took counsel together how they should get the better of the suitors and punish them for their outrages. It was arranged that Telemachus should proceed to the palace and mingle with the suitors as formerly; that Ulysses should also go as a beggar, a character which in the rude old times had different privileges from what we concede to it now. As traveler and storyteller, the beggar was admitted in the halls of chieftains and often treated like a guest; though sometimes, also, no doubt, with contumely. Ulysses charged his son not to betray, by any display of unusual interest in him, that he knew him to be other than he seemed, and even if he saw him insulted or beaten, not to interpose otherwise than he might do for any stranger. At the palace they found the usual scene of feasting and riot going on. The suitors pretended to receive Telemachus with joy at his return, though secretly mortified at the failure of their plots to take his life. The old beggar was permitted to enter and provided with a portion from the table. A touching incident occurred as Ulysses entered the courtyard of the palace. An old dog lay in the yard almost dead with age, and seeing a stranger enter, raised his head, with ears erect. It was Argus, Ulysses' own dog, that he had in other days often led to the chase. Soon as he perceived Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears Clapped close, and with his tail glad sign he gave Of gratulation, impotent to rise, And to approach his master as of old. Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear Unmarked. ... Then his destiny released Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see Ulysses in the twentieth year restored.[350] [Illustration: FIG. 177. ULYSSES RECOGNIZED BY EURYCLEA] As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors soon began to exhibit their insolence to him. When he mildly remonstrated, one of them raised a stool and with it gave him a blow. Telemachus had hard work to restrain his indignation at seeing his father so treated in his own hall; but, remembering his father's injunctions, said no more than what became him as master of the house, though young, and protector of his guests. Once again was the wanderer all but betrayed;--when his aged nurse Euryclea, bathing his feet, recognized the scar of a wound dealt him by a boar, long ago.[351] Grief and joy overwhelmed the crone, and she would have revealed him to Penelope had not Ulysses enjoined silence upon her. Penelope had protracted her decision in favor of any one of her suitors so long that there seemed to be no further pretense for delay. The continued absence of her husband seemed to prove that his return was no longer to be expected. Meanwhile her son had grown up and was able to manage his own affairs. She therefore consented to submit the question of her choice to a trial of skill among the suitors. The test selected was shooting with the bow.[352] Twelve rings were arranged in a line, and he whose arrow was sent through the whole twelve was to have the queen for his prize. A bow that one of his brother heroes had given to Ulysses in former times was brought from the armory and with its quiver full of arrows was laid in the hall. Telemachus had taken care that all other weapons should be removed, under pretense that in the heat of competition there was danger, in some rash moment, of putting them to an improper use. [Illustration: FIG. 178. ULYSSES KILLS THE SUITORS (Left half)] All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to be done was to bend the bow in order to attach the string. Telemachus endeavored to do it, but found all his efforts fruitless; and modestly confessing that he had attempted a task beyond his strength, he yielded the bow to another, _He_ tried it with no better success, and, amidst the laughter and jeers of his companions, gave it up. Another tried it, and another; they rubbed the bow with tallow, but all to no purpose; it would not bend. Then spoke Ulysses, humbly suggesting that he should be permitted to try; for, said he, "beggar as I am, I was once a soldier, and there is still some strength in these old limbs of mine." The suitors hooted with derision and commanded to turn him out of the hall for his insolence. But Telemachus spoke up for him, and, merely to gratify the old man, bade him try. Ulysses took the bow and handled it with the hand of a master. With ease he adjusted the cord to its notch, then fitting an arrow to the bow he drew the string and sped the arrow unerring through the rings. [Illustration: FIG. 179. ULYSSES KILLS THE SUITORS (Right half)] Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he said, "Now for another mark!" and aimed direct at Antinoüs, the most insolent of the suitors.[353] The arrow pierced through his throat and he fell dead. Telemachus, Eumæus, and another faithful follower, well armed, now sprang to the side of Ulysses. The suitors, in amazement, looked round for arms, but found none, neither was there any way of escape, for Eumæus had secured the door. Ulysses left them not long in uncertainty; he announced himself as the long-lost chief, whose house they had invaded, whose substance they had squandered, whose wife and son they had persecuted for ten long years; and told them he meant to have ample vengeance. All but two were slain, and Ulysses was left master of his palace and possessor of his kingdom and his wife. =244. Tennyson's Ulysses.= Tennyson's poem of Ulysses represents the old hero,--his dangers past and nothing left but to stay at home and be happy,--growing tired of inaction and resolving to set forth again in quest of new adventures. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an agèd wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known: cities of men, And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravel'd world, whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the scepter and the isle-- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. * * * * * [Illustration: FIG. 180. THE NIKE OF SAMOTHRACE] There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old; Old age has yet his honor and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. FOOTNOTES: [330] Sonnet by Andrew Lang. [331] For the authorship of the Odyssey, see § 298 (3); and for translations, see corresponding section of the Commentary. [332] Odyssey, 9. [333] § 141. [334] Odyssey, 10. [335] From Austin Dobson's Prayer of the Swine to Circe. [336] Odyssey, 10; adapted from Butcher and Lang's translation. So the following from Odyssey, 11. [337] Odyssey, 12. [338] _Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim._ [339] Odyssey, 1, 10. [340] Odyssey, 5, 64 (Cowper's translation). [341] Odyssey, 6. [342] Odyssey, 7. [343] Andrew Lang, A Song of Phæacia. [344] Odyssey, 8. [345] Odyssey, 13. [346] Stephen Phillips, Ulysses. [347] Odyssey, 14. [348] Odyssey, 15. [349] Odyssey 16, 212 (Cowper's translation). [350] Odyssey, 17, 290 (Cowper's translation). [351] Odyssey, 19. [352] Odyssey, 21. [353] Odyssey, 22. CHAPTER XXV ADVENTURES OF ÆNEAS Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre; Landscape lover, lord of language more than he that sang the Works and Days, All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out from many a golden phrase;... Light among the vanish'd ages; star that gildest yet this phantom shore; Golden branch amid the shadows, kings and realms that pass to rise no more;... Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, and the Rome of freemen holds her place, I, from out the Northern Island sunder'd once from all the human race, I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee since my day began, Wielder of the stateliest measure ever molded by the lips of man.[354] [Illustration: ITALY BEFORE THE GROWTH OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE] =245. From Troy to Italy.= Homer tells the story of one of the Grecian heroes, Ulysses, in his wanderings on his return home from Troy. Virgil in his Æneid[355] narrates the mythical fortunes of the remnant of the _conquered_ people under their chief Æneas, the son of Venus and the Trojan Anchises, in their search for a new home after the ruin of their native city. On that fatal night when the wooden horse disgorged its contents of armed men, and the capture and conflagration of the city were the result, Æneas made his escape from the scene of destruction, with his father and his wife and young son. The father, Anchises, was too old to walk with the speed required, and Æneas took him upon his shoulders. Thus burdened, leading his son and followed by his wife, he made the best of his way out of the burning city; but in the confusion his wife, Creüsa, was swept away and lost. [Illustration: FIG. 181. ÆNEAS, ANCHISES, AND IULIUS] =246. The Departure from Troy.= On arriving at the place of rendezvous, numerous fugitives of both sexes were found, who put themselves under the guidance of Æneas. Some months were spent in preparation, and at length they embarked. They first landed on the neighboring shores of Thrace, and were preparing to build a city, but Æneas was deterred by a prodigy. Preparing to offer sacrifice, he tore some twigs from one of the bushes. To his dismay the wounded part dropped blood. When he repeated the act, a voice from the ground cried out to him, "Spare me, Æneas; I am thy kinsman, Polydore, here murdered with many arrows, from which a bush has grown, nourished with my blood." These words recalled to the recollection of Æneas that Polydore was a young prince of Troy, whom his father had sent with ample treasures to the neighboring land of Thrace, to be there brought up, at a distance from the horrors of war. The king to whom he was sent had murdered him and seized his treasures. Æneas and his companions, considering the land accursed by the stain of such a crime, hastened away. =247. The Promised Empire.= They next landed on the island of Delos. Here Æneas consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received an answer, ambiguous as usual,--"Seek thy ancient mother; there the race of Æneas shall dwell, and reduce all other nations to their sway." The Trojans heard with joy and immediately began to ask one another, "Where is the spot intended by the oracle?" Anchises remembered that there was a tradition that their forefathers came from Crete, and thither they resolved to steer. They arrived at Crete and began to build their city; but sickness broke out among them, and the fields that they had planted, failed to yield a crop. In this gloomy aspect of affairs, Æneas was warned in a dream to leave the country and seek a western land called Hesperia, whence Dardanus, the true founder of the Trojan race, was reported to have migrated. To Hesperia, now called Italy, they therefore directed their future course, and not till after many adventures, and the lapse of time sufficient to carry a modern navigator several times round the world, did they arrive there. =248. The Harpies.= Their first landing was at the island of the Harpies. These were disgusting birds, with the heads of maidens, with long claws, and faces pale with hunger. They were sent by the gods to torment a certain Phineus, whom Jupiter had deprived of his sight in punishment of his cruelty; and whenever a meal was placed before him, the harpies darted down from the air and carried it off. They were driven away from Phineus by the heroes of the Argonautic expedition, and took refuge in the island where Æneas now found them. When the Trojans entered the port they saw herds of cattle roaming over the plain. They slew as many as they wished, and prepared for a feast. But no sooner had they seated themselves at the table than a horrible clamor was heard in the air, and a flock of these odious harpies came rushing down upon them, seizing in their talons the meat from the dishes and flying away with it. Æneas and his companions drew their swords and dealt vigorous blows among the monsters, but to no purpose, for they were so nimble it was almost impossible to hit them, and their feathers were, like armor, impenetrable to steel. One of them, perched on a neighboring cliff, screamed out, "Is it thus, Trojans, ye treat us innocent birds, first slaughter our cattle and then make war on ourselves?" She then predicted dire sufferings to them in their future course, and, having vented her wrath, flew away. =249. Epirus.= The Trojans made haste to leave the country, and next found themselves coasting along the shore of Epirus. Here they landed and to their astonishment learned that certain Trojan exiles, who had been carried there as prisoners, had become rulers of the country. Andromache, the widow of Hector, had borne three sons to Neoptolemus in Epirus. But when he cast her off for Hermione, he left her to her fellow-captive, Helenus, Hector's brother. Now that Neoptolemus was dead she had become the wife of Helenus; and they ruled the realm. Helenus and Andromache treated the exiles with the utmost hospitality, and dismissed them loaded with gifts. [Illustration: FIG. 182. SCYLLA] =250. The Cyclopes Again.= From hence Æneas coasted along the shore of Sicily and passed the country of the Cyclopes. Here they were hailed from the shore by a miserable object, whom by his garments tattered, as they were, they perceived to be a Greek. He told them he was one of Ulysses' companions, left behind by that chief in his hurried departure. He related the story of Ulysses' adventure with Polyphemus, and besought them to take him off with them, as he had no means of sustaining his existence where he was, but wild berries and roots, and lived in constant fear of the Cyclopes. While he spoke Polyphemus made his appearance,--terrible, shapeless, vast, and, of course, blind.[356] He walked with cautious steps, feeling his way with a staff, down to the seaside, to wash his eye-socket in the waves. When he reached the water he waded out towards them, and his immense height enabled him to advance far into the sea, so that the Trojans in terror took to their oars to get out of his way. Hearing the oars, Polyphemus shouted after them so that the shores resounded, and at the noise the other Cyclopes came forth from their caves and woods, and lined the shore, like a row of lofty pine trees. The Trojans plied their oars and soon left them out of sight. Æneas had been cautioned by Helenus to avoid the strait guarded by the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. There Ulysses, the reader will remember, had lost six of his men, seized by Scylla while the navigators were wholly intent upon avoiding Charybdis. Æneas, following the advice of Helenus, shunned the dangerous pass and coasted along the island of Sicily. =251. The Resentment of Juno.= Now Juno, seeing the Trojans speeding their way prosperously towards their destined shore, felt her old grudge against them revive, for she could not forget the slight that Paris had put upon her in awarding the prize of beauty to another. In heavenly minds can such resentment dwell![357] Accordingly she gave orders to Æolus, who sent forth his sons, Boreas, Typhon, and the other winds, to toss the ocean. A terrible storm ensued, and the Trojan ships were driven out of their course towards the coast of Africa. They were in imminent danger of being wrecked, and were separated, so that Æneas thought that all were lost except his own vessel. At this crisis, Neptune, hearing the storm raging, and knowing that he had given no orders for one, raised his head above the waves and saw the fleet of Æneas driving before the gale. Understanding the hostility of Juno, he was at no loss to account for it, but his anger was not the less at this interference in his province. He called the winds and dismissed them with a severe reprimand. He then soothed the waves, and brushed away the clouds from before the face of the sun. Some of the ships which had got on the rocks he pried off with his own trident, while Triton and a sea-nymph, putting their shoulders under others, set them afloat again. The Trojans, when the sea became calm, sought the nearest shore,--the coast of Carthage, where Æneas was so happy as to find that one by one the ships all arrived safe, though badly shaken. =252. The Sojourn at Carthage. Dido.= Carthage, where the exiles had now arrived, was a spot on the coast of Africa opposite Sicily, where at that time a Tyrian colony under Dido, their queen, were laying the foundations of a state destined in later ages to be the rival of Rome itself. Dido was the daughter of Belus, king of Tyre, and sister of Pygmalion, who succeeded his father on the throne. Her husband was Sichæus, a man of immense wealth, but Pygmalion, who coveted his treasures, caused him to be put to death. Dido, with a numerous body of friends and followers, both men and women, succeeded in effecting their escape from Tyre, in several vessels, carrying with them the treasures of Sichæus. On arriving at the spot which they selected as the seat of their future home, they asked of the natives only so much land as they could inclose with a bull's hide. When this was readily granted, the queen caused the hide to be cut into strips, and with them inclosed a spot on which she built a citadel, and called it Byrsa (a hide). Around this fort the city of Carthage rose, and soon became a powerful and flourishing place. Such was the state of affairs when Æneas with his Trojans arrived there. Dido received the illustrious exiles with friendliness and hospitality. "Not unacquainted with distress," she said, "I have learned to succor the unfortunate."[358] The queen's hospitality displayed itself in festivities at which games of strength and skill were exhibited. The strangers contended for the palm with her own subjects on equal terms, the queen declaring that whether the victor were "Trojan or Tyrian should make no difference to her."[359] At the feast which followed the games, Æneas gave at her request a recital of the closing events of the Trojan history and his own adventures after the fall of the city. Dido was charmed with his discourse and filled with admiration of his exploits. She conceived an ardent passion for him, and he for his part seemed well content to accept the fortunate chance which appeared to offer him at once a happy termination of his wanderings, a home, a kingdom, and a bride. Months rolled away in the enjoyment of pleasant intercourse, and it seemed as if Italy and the empire destined to be founded on its shores were alike forgotten. Seeing which, Jupiter dispatched Mercury with a message to Æneas recalling him to a sense of his high destiny, and commanding him to resume his voyage. Æneas parted from Dido, though she tried every allurement and persuasion to detain him. The blow to her affection and her pride was too much for her to endure, and when she found that he was gone, she mounted a funeral pile which she had caused to be prepared, and having stabbed herself was consumed with the pile. The flames rising over the city were seen by the departing Trojans, and, though the cause was unknown, gave to Æneas some intimation of the fatal event. =253. Palinurus. Italy at Last.= After touching at the island of Sicily, where Acestes, a prince of Trojan lineage, bore sway, and gave them a hospitable reception, the Trojans reëmbarked and held on their course for Italy. Venus now interceded with Neptune to allow her son at last to attain the wished-for goal and find an end of his perils on the deep. Neptune consented, stipulating only for one life as a ransom for the rest. The victim was Palinurus, the pilot. As he sat watching the stars with his hand on the helm, Somnus, sent by Neptune, approached in the guise of Phorbas, and said, "Palinurus, the breeze is fair, the water smooth, and the ship sails steadily on her course. Lie down awhile and take needful rest. I will stand at the helm in thy place." Palinurus replied, "Tell me not of smooth seas or favoring winds,--me who have seen so much of their treachery. Shall I trust Æneas to the chances of the weather and the winds?" And he continued to grasp the helm and to keep his eyes fixed on the stars. But Somnus waved over him a branch moistened with Lethæan dew, and his eyes closed in spite of all his efforts. Then Somnus pushed him overboard, and he fell; but as he kept his hold upon the helm, it came away with him. Neptune was mindful of his promise, and held the ship on her track without helm or pilot till Æneas discovered his loss and, sorrowing deeply for his faithful steersman, took charge of the ship himself. Under his guidance the ships at last reached the shores of Italy, and joyfully the adventurers leaped to land. [Illustration: FIG. 183. THE CUMÆAN SIBYL From the painting by Michelangelo] =254. The Sibyl of Cumæ.= While his people were employed in making their encampment, Æneas sought the abode of the Sibyl. It was a cave connected with a temple and grove, sacred to Apollo and Diana. While Æneas contemplated the scene, the Sibyl accosted him. She seemed to know his errand, and, under the influence of the deity of the place, burst forth in a prophetic strain, giving dark intimations of labors and perils through which he was destined to make his way to final success. She closed with the encouraging words which have become proverbial: "Yield not to disasters, but press onward the more bravely."[360] Æneas replied that he had prepared himself for whatever might await him. He had but one request to make. Having been directed in a dream to seek the abode of the dead in order to confer with his father Anchises to receive from him a revelation of his future fortunes and those of his race, he asked her assistance to enable him to accomplish the task. The Sibyl replied: "The descent to Avernus is easy; the gate of Pluto stands open night and day; but to retrace one's steps and return to the upper air, that is the toil, that the difficulty."[361] She instructed him to seek in the forest a tree on which grew a golden branch. This branch was to be plucked off and borne as a gift to Proserpine, and if fate was propitious, it would yield to the hand and quit its parent trunk, but otherwise no force could rend it away. If torn away, another would succeed. Æneas followed the directions of the Sibyl. His mother, Venus, sent two of her doves to fly before him and show him the way, and by their assistance he found the tree, plucked the branch, and hastened back with it to the Sibyl. =255. The Infernal Regions.= The region where Virgil locates the entrance to the infernal regions is, perhaps, the most strikingly adapted to excite ideas of the terrific and preternatural of any on the face of the earth. It is the volcanic region near Vesuvius, where the whole country is cleft with chasms from which sulphurous flames arise, while the ground is shaken with pent-up vapors, and mysterious sounds issue from the bowels of the earth. The lake Avernus is supposed to fill the crater of an extinct volcano. It is circular, half a mile wide and very deep, surrounded by high banks, which in Virgil's time were covered with a gloomy forest. Mephitic vapors rise from its waters, so that no life is found on its banks, and no birds fly over it. Here Æneas offered sacrifices to the infernal deities, Proserpine, Hecate, and the Furies. Then a roaring was heard in the earth, the woods on the hilltops were shaken, and the howling of dogs announced the approach of the deities. "Now," said the Sibyl, "summon thy courage, for thou shalt need it." She descended into the cave of Avernus, and Æneas followed. Before the threshold of hell they passed through a group of beings who are enumerated as Griefs and avenging Cares, pale Diseases, and melancholy Age, Fear and Hunger that tempt to crime, Toil, Poverty, and Death,--forms horrible to view. The Furies spread their couches there, and Discord, whose hair was of vipers tied up with a bloody fillet. Here also were the monsters, Briareus, with his hundred arms, Hydras hissing, and Chimæras breathing fire. Æneas shuddered at the sight, drew his sword and would have struck, but the Sibyl restrained him. They then came to the black river Cocytus, where they found the ferryman Charon, old and squalid, but strong and vigorous, who was receiving passengers of all kinds into his boat, stout-hearted heroes, boys and unmarried girls, as numerous as the leaves that fall at autumn or the flocks that fly southward at the approach of winter. They stood pressing for a passage and longing to touch the opposite shore. But the stern ferryman took in only such as he chose, driving the rest back. Æneas, wondering at the sight, asked the Sibyl, "Why this discrimination?" She answered, "Those who are taken on board the bark are the souls of those who have received due burial rites; the host of others who have remained unburied are not permitted to pass the flood, but wander a hundred years, and flit to and fro about the shore, till at last they are taken over." Æneas grieved at recollecting some of his own companions who had perished in the storm. At that moment he beheld Palinurus, his pilot, who fell overboard and was drowned. He addressed him and asked him the cause of his misfortune. Palinurus replied that the rudder was carried away, and he, clinging to it, was swept away with it. He besought Æneas most urgently to extend to him his hand and take him in company to the opposite shore. The Sibyl rebuked him for the wish thus to transgress the laws of Pluto, but consoled him by informing him that the people of the shore where his body had been wafted by the waves should be stirred up by prodigies to give it due burial, and that the promontory should bear the name of Cape Palinurus,--and so it does to this day. Leaving Palinurus consoled by these words, they approached the boat. Charon, fixing his eyes sternly upon the advancing warrior, demanded by what right he, living and armed, approached that shore. To which the Sibyl replied that they would commit no violence, that Æneas' only object was to see his father, and finally exhibited the golden branch, at sight of which Charon's wrath relaxed, and he made haste to turn his bark to the shore and receive them on board. The boat, adapted only to the light freight of bodiless spirits, groaned under the weight of the hero. They were soon conveyed to the opposite shore. There they were encountered by the three-headed dog Cerberus, with his necks bristling with snakes. He barked with all three throats till the Sibyl threw him a medicated cake, which he eagerly devoured, and then stretched himself out in his den and fell asleep. Æneas and the Sibyl sprang to land. The first sound that struck their ears was the wailing of young children who had died on the threshold of life; and near to these were those who had perished under false charges. Minos presides over them as judge and examines the deeds of each. The next class was of those who had died by their own hand, hating life and seeking refuge in death. How willingly would they now endure poverty, labor, and any other infliction if they might but return to life! Next were situated the regions of sadness, divided off into retired paths, leading through groves of myrtle. Here roamed those who had fallen victims to unrequited love, not freed from pain even by death itself. Among these Æneas thought he descried the form of Dido, with a wound still recent. In the dim light he was for a moment uncertain, but approaching, perceived it was indeed she. Tears fell from his eyes, and he addressed her in the accents of love. "Unhappy Dido! was then the rumor true that thou hadst perished? And was I, alas! the cause? I call the gods to witness that my departure from thee was reluctant and in obedience to the commands of Jove; nor could I believe that my absence would have cost thee so dear. Stop, I beseech thee, and refuse me not a last farewell." She stood for a moment with averted countenance and eyes fixed on the ground, and then silently passed on, as insensible to his pleadings as a rock. Æneas followed for some distance, then with a heavy heart rejoined his companion and resumed his route. They next entered the fields where roam the heroes who have fallen in battle. Here they saw many shades of Grecian and Trojan warriors. The Trojans thronged around him and could not be satisfied with the sight. They asked the cause of his coming and plied him with innumerable questions. But the Greeks, at the sight of his armor glittering through the murky atmosphere, recognized the hero, and, filled with terror, turned their backs and fled, as they used to do on the plains of Troy. Æneas would have lingered long with his Trojan friends, but the Sibyl hurried him away. They next came to a place where the road divided, the one way leading to Elysium, the other to the regions of the condemned. Æneas beheld on one side the walls of a mighty city, around which Phlegethon rolled its fiery waters. Before him was the gate of adamant that neither gods nor men can break through. An iron tower stood by the gate, on which Tisiphone, the avenging Fury, kept guard. From the city were heard groans, and the sound of the scourge, the creaking of iron, and the clanking of chains. Æneas, horror-stricken, inquired of his guide what crimes were those whose punishments produced the sounds he heard. The Sibyl answered, "Here is the judgment hall of Rhadamanthus, who brings to light crimes done in life which the perpetrator vainly thought impenetrably hid. Tisiphone applies her whip of scorpions and delivers the offender over to her sister Furies." At this moment with horrid clang the brazen gates unfolded, and within, Æneas saw a Hydra with fifty heads guarding the entrance. The Sibyl told him that the gulf of Tartarus descended deep, so that its recesses were as far beneath their feet as heaven was high above their heads. In the bottom of this pit the Titan race, who warred against the gods, lie prostrate; Salmoneus also, who presumed to vie with Jupiter, and built a bridge of brass over which he drove his chariot that the sound might resemble thunder, launching flaming brands at his people in imitation of lightning, till Jupiter struck him with a real thunderbolt and taught him the difference between mortal weapons and divine. Here also is Tityus, the giant, whose form is so immense that, as he lies, he stretches over nine acres, while a vulture preys upon his liver, which as fast as it is devoured grows again, so that his punishment will have no end. Æneas saw groups seated at tables loaded with dainties, while near by stood a Fury who snatched away the viands from their lips as fast as they prepared to taste them. Others beheld suspended over their heads huge rocks, threatening to fall, keeping them in a state of constant alarm. These were they who had hated their brothers, or struck their parents, or defrauded the friends who trusted them, or who, having grown rich, kept their money to themselves and gave no share to others,--the last being the most numerous class. Here also were those who had violated the marriage vow, or fought in a bad cause, or failed in fidelity to their employers. Here was one who had sold his country for gold, another who perverted the laws, making them say one thing to-day and another to-morrow. Ixion was there, fastened to the circumference of a wheel ceaselessly revolving; and Sisyphus, whose task was to roll a huge stone up to a hilltop; but when the steep was well-nigh gained, the rock, repulsed by some sudden force, rushed again headlong down to the plain. Again he toiled at it, while the sweat bathed all his weary limbs, but all to no effect. There was Tantalus, who stood in a pool his chin level with the water, yet he was parched with thirst and found nothing to assuage it; for when he bowed his hoary head, eager to quaff, the water fled away, leaving the ground at his feet all dry. Tall trees, laden with fruit, stooped their heads to him,--pears, pomegranates, apples, and luscious figs; but when, with a sudden grasp, he tried to seize them, winds whirled them high above his reach. [Illustration: FIG. 184. IXION ON THE WHEEL] =256. The Elysian Fields.= The Sibyl now warned Æneas that it was time to turn from these melancholy regions and seek the city of the blessed. They passed through a middle tract of darkness and came upon the Elysian Fields, the groves where the happy reside. They breathed a freer air and saw all objects clothed in a purple light. The region had a sun and stars of its own. The inhabitants were enjoying themselves in various ways, some in sports on the grassy turf, in games of strength or skill, others dancing or singing. Orpheus struck the chords of his lyre and called forth ravishing sounds. Here Æneas saw the founders of the Trojan state, great-hearted heroes who lived in happier times. He gazed with admiration on the war chariots and glittering arms now reposing in disuse. Spears stood fixed in the ground, and the horses, unharnessed, roamed over the plain. The same pride in splendid armor and generous steeds which the old heroes felt in life accompanied them here. He saw another group feasting and listening to the strains of music. They were in a laurel grove, whence the great river Po has its origin and flows out among men. Here dwelt those who fell by wounds received in their country's cause, holy priests also, and poets who have uttered thoughts worthy of Apollo, and others who have contributed to cheer and adorn life by their discoveries in the useful arts, and have made their memory blessed by rendering service to mankind. They wore snow-white fillets about their brows. The Sibyl addressed a group of these and inquired where Anchises was to be found. They were directed where to seek him, and soon found him in a verdant valley, where he was contemplating the ranks of his posterity, their destinies and worthy deeds to be achieved in coming times. When he recognized Æneas approaching, he stretched out both hands to him, while tears flowed freely. "Dost thou come at last," said he, "long expected, and do I behold thee after such perils past? O my son, how have I trembled for thee, as I have watched thy course!" To which Æneas replied, "O father! thy image was always before me to guide and guard me." Then he endeavored to infold his father in his embrace, but his arms inclosed only an unsubstantial shade. =257. The Valley of Oblivion.= Æneas perceived before him a spacious valley, with trees gently waving to the wind, a tranquil landscape, through which the river Lethe flowed. Along the banks of the stream wandered a countless multitude, numerous as insects in the summer air. Æneas, with surprise, inquired who were these. Anchises answered: "They are souls to which bodies are to be given in due time. Meanwhile they dwell on Lethe's bank and drink oblivion of their former lives." "O father!" said Æneas, "is it possible that any can be so in love with life as to wish to leave these tranquil seats for the upper world?" Anchises replied by explaining the plan of creation. The Creator, he told him, originally made the material of which souls are composed, of the four elements, fire, air, earth, and water, all which when united took the form of the most excellent part, fire, and became _flame_. This material was scattered like seed among the heavenly bodies, the sun, moon, and stars. Of this seed the inferior gods created man and all other animals, mingling it with various proportions of earth, by which its purity was alloyed and reduced. Thus the more earth predominates in the composition, the less pure is the individual; and we see that men and women with their full-grown bodies have not the purity of childhood. So in proportion to the time which the union of body and soul has lasted, is the impurity contracted by the spiritual part. This impurity must be purged away after death, which is done by ventilating the souls in the current of winds, or merging them in water, or burning out their impurities by fire. Some few, of whom Anchises intimates that he is one, are admitted at once to Elysium, there to remain. But the rest, after the impurities of earth are purged away, are sent back to life endowed with new bodies, having had the remembrance of their former lives effectually washed away by the waters of Lethe. Some souls, however, there still are, so thoroughly corrupted that they are not fit to be intrusted with human bodies, and these pass by metempsychosis into the bodies of brute animals. Anchises, having explained so much, proceeded to point out to Æneas individuals of his race who were hereafter to be born, and to relate to him the exploits they should perform in the world. After this he reverted to the present, and told his son of the events that remained to him to be accomplished before the complete establishment of himself and his followers in Italy. Wars were to be waged, battles fought, a bride to be won, and, in the result, a Trojan state founded, from which should rise the Roman power, to be in time the sovereign of the world. As Æneas and the Sibyl pursued their way back to earth, he said to her: "Whether thou be a goddess or a mortal beloved by the gods, by me thou shalt always be held in reverence. When I reach the upper air, I will cause a temple to be built to thy honor, and will myself bring offerings." "I am no goddess," said the Sibyl; "I have no claims to sacrifice or offering. I am mortal, yet, could I but have accepted the love of Apollo, I might have been immortal. He promised me the fulfillment of my wish, if I would consent to be his. I took a handful of sand and, holding it forth, said, 'Grant me to see as many birthdays as there are sand-grains in my hand.' Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring youth. This also he would have granted could I have accepted his love, but, offended at my refusal, he allowed me to grow old. My youth and youthful strength fled long ago. I have lived seven hundred years, and to equal the number of the sand-grains I have still to see three hundred springs and three hundred harvests. My body shrinks up as years increase, and in time I shall be lost to sight, but my voice will remain, and future ages will respect my sayings." These concluding words of the Sibyl alluded to her prophetic power. In her cave she was accustomed to inscribe on leaves gathered from the trees the names and fates of individuals. The leaves thus inscribed were arranged in order within the cave, and might be consulted by her votaries. But if, perchance, at the opening of the door the wind rushed in and dispersed the leaves, the Sibyl gave no aid to restoring them again, and the oracle was irreparably lost. FOOTNOTES: [354] From Tennyson's To Virgil. [355] For Virgil, see § 299; for translations of his Æneid, see corresponding section in Commentary. [356] _Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum._--Æneid, 3, 658. [357] _Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?_--Æneid, 1, 11. [358] _Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco._--Æneid, 1, 630. [359] _Tros Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur._--Æneid, 1, 574. [360] _Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito._--Æneid, 6, 95. [361] _Facilis descensus Averno;_ _Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis;_ _Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras,_ _Hoc opus, hic labor est._--Æneid, 6, 126-129. CHAPTER XXVI THE WAR BETWEEN TROJANS AND LATINS =258. The Fulfillment of Prophecy.= Æneas, having parted from the Sibyl and rejoined his fleet, coasted along the shores of Italy and cast anchor in the mouth of the Tiber. The poet, having brought his hero to this spot, the destined termination of his wanderings, invokes his Muse to tell him the situation of things at that eventful moment. Latinus, third in descent from Saturn, ruled the country. He was now old and had no male descendant, but had one charming daughter, Lavinia, who was sought in marriage by many neighboring chiefs, one of whom, Turnus, king of the Rutulians, was favored by the wishes of her parents. But Latinus had been warned in a dream by his father, Faunus, that the destined husband of Lavinia should come from a foreign land. From that union should spring a race destined to subdue the world. Our readers will remember that in the conflict with the harpies, one of those half-human birds had threatened the Trojans with dire sufferings. In particular, she predicted that before their wanderings ceased they should be pressed by hunger to devour their tables. This portent now came true; for as they took their scanty meal, seated on the grass, the men placed their hard biscuit on their laps and put thereon whatever their gleanings in the woods supplied. Having dispatched the latter, they finished by eating the crusts. Seeing which, the boy Iulus said playfully, "See! we are eating our tables." Æneas caught the words and accepted the omen. "All hail, promised land!" he exclaimed, "this is our home, this our country!" He then took measures to find out who were the present inhabitants of the land and who their rulers. A hundred chosen men were sent to the village of Latinus, bearing presents and a request for friendship and alliance. They went and were favorably received. Latinus immediately concluded that the Trojan hero was no other than the promised son-in-law announced by the oracle. He cheerfully granted his alliance, and sent back the messengers mounted on steeds from his stables and loaded with gifts and friendly messages. Juno, seeing things go thus prosperously for the Trojans, felt her old animosity revive, summoned Alecto from Erebus, and sent her to stir up discord. The Fury first took possession of the queen, Amata, and roused her to oppose in every way the new alliance. Alecto then sped to the city of Turnus and, assuming the form of an old priestess, informed him of the arrival of the foreigners and of the attempts of their prince to rob him of his betrothed. Next she turned her attention to the camp of the Trojans. There she saw the boy Iulus and his companions amusing themselves with hunting. She sharpened the scent of the dogs and led them to rouse up from the thicket a tame stag, the favorite of Silvia, the daughter of Tyrrheus, the king's herdsman. A javelin from the hand of Iulus wounded the animal, which had only strength left to run homeward and die at its mistress's feet. Her cries and tears roused her brothers and the herdsmen, and they, seizing whatever weapons came to hand, furiously assaulted the hunting party. These were protected by their friends, and the herdsmen were finally driven back with the loss of two of their number. These things were enough to rouse the storm of war, and the queen, Turnus, and the peasants all urged the old king to drive the strangers from the country. He resisted as long as he could, but, finding his opposition unavailing, finally gave way and retreated to his retirement. =259. The Gates of Janus Opened.= It was the custom of the country, when war was to be undertaken, for the chief magistrate, clad in his robes of office, with solemn pomp to open the gates of the temple of Janus, which were kept shut as long as peace endured. His people now urged the old king to perform that solemn office, but he refused to do so. While they contested, Juno herself, descending from the skies, smote the doors with irresistible force and burst them open. Immediately the whole country was in a flame. The people rushed from every side, breathing nothing but war. Turnus was recognized by all as leader; others joined as allies, chief of whom was Mezentius, a brave and able soldier, but of detestable cruelty. He had been the chief of one of the neighboring cities, but his people drove him out. With him was joined his son Lausus, a generous youth worthy of a better sire. [Illustration: FIG. 185. AMAZON] =260. Camilla.= Camilla, the favorite of Diana, a huntress and warrior after the fashion of the Amazons, came with her band of mounted followers, including a select number of her own sex, and ranged herself on the side of Turnus. This maiden had never accustomed her fingers to the distaff or the loom, but had learned to endure the toils of war and in speed to outstrip the wind. It seemed as if she might run over the standing corn without crushing it, or over the surface of the water without dipping her feet. Camilla's history had been singular from the beginning. Her father, Metabus, driven from his city by civil discord, carried with him in his flight his infant daughter. As he fled through the woods, his enemies in hot pursuit, he reached the bank of the river Amasenus, which, swelled by rains, seemed to debar a passage. He paused for a moment, then decided what to do. He tied the infant to his lance with wrappers of bark, and poising the weapon in his upraised hand, thus addressed Diana: "Goddess of the woods! I consecrate this maid to thee"; then hurled the weapon with its burden to the opposite bank. The spear flew across the roaring water. His pursuers were already upon him, but he plunged into the river, and swam across, and found the spear with the infant safe on the other side. Thenceforth he lived among the shepherds and brought up his daughter in woodland arts. While a child she was taught to use the bow and throw the javelin. With her sling she could bring down the crane or the wild swan. Her dress was a tiger's skin. Many mothers sought her for a daughter-in-law, but she continued faithful to Diana and repelled the thought of marriage. =261. Alliance with Evander.= Such were the formidable allies that ranged themselves against Æneas. It was night, and he lay stretched in sleep on the bank of the river under the open heavens. The god of the stream, Father Tiber, seemed to raise his head above the willows and to say: "O goddess-born, destined possessor of the Latin realms, this is the promised land; here is to be thy home, here shall terminate the hostility of the heavenly powers, if only thou faithfully persevere. There are friends not far distant. Prepare thy boats and row up my stream; I will lead thee to Evander, the Arcadian chief. He has long been at strife with Turnus and the Rutulians, and is prepared to become an ally of thine. Rise! offer thy vows to Juno and deprecate her anger. When thou hast achieved thy victory, then think of me." Æneas woke and paid immediate obedience to the friendly vision. He sacrificed to Juno, and invoked the god of the river and all his tributary fountains to lend their aid. Then for the first time a vessel filled with armed warriors floated on the stream of the Tiber. The river smoothed its waves and bade its current flow gently, while, impelled by the vigorous strokes of the rowers, the vessel shot rapidly up the stream. About the middle of the day they came in sight of the scattered buildings of the infant town where in after times the proud city of Rome grew, whose glory reached the skies. By chance the old king, Evander, was that day celebrating annual solemnities in honor of Hercules and all the gods. Pallas, his son, and all the chiefs of the little commonwealth stood by. When they saw the tall ship gliding onward through the wood, they were alarmed at the sight and rose from the tables. But Pallas forbade the solemnities to be interrupted and, seizing a weapon, stepped forward to the river's bank. He called aloud, demanding who the strangers were and what their object. Æneas, holding forth an olive branch, replied: "We are Trojans, friends to you and enemies to the Rutulians. We seek Evander and offer to join our arms with yours." Pallas, in amaze at the sound of so great a name, invited them to land, and when Æneas touched the shore, he seized his hand and held it long in friendly grasp. Proceeding through the wood they joined the king and his party, and were most favorably received. Seats were provided for them at the tables, and the repast proceeded. =262. The Site of Future Rome.= When the solemnities were ended, all moved towards the city. The king, bending with age, walked between his son and Æneas, taking the arm of one or the other of them, and with much variety of pleasing talk shortening the way. Æneas with delight looked and listened, observing all the beauties of the scene and learning much of heroes renowned in ancient times. Evander said: "These extensive groves were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs, and a rude race of men who sprang from the trees themselves and had neither laws nor social culture. They knew not how to yoke the cattle, nor raise a harvest, nor provide from present abundance for future want, but browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs or fed voraciously on their hunted prey. Such were they when Saturn, expelled from Olympus by his sons, came among them and drew together the fierce savages, formed them into society, and gave them laws. Such peace and plenty ensued that men ever since have called his reign the Golden Age; but by degrees far other times succeeded, and the thirst of gold and the thirst of blood prevailed. The land was a prey to successive tyrants till fortune and resistless destiny brought me hither, an exile from my native land, Arcadia." Having thus said, he showed him the Tarpeian rock, and the rude spot, then overgrown with bushes, where in after times the Capitol was to rise in all its magnificence. He next pointed to some dismantled walls and said, "Here stood Janiculum, built by Janus, and there Saturnia, the town of Saturn." Such discourse brought them to the cottage of Evander, whence they saw the lowing herds roaming over the plain where soon should stand the proud and stately Forum. They entered, and a couch, well stuffed with leaves and covered with the skin of a Libyan bear, was spread for Æneas. Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves of his low mansion, old Evander rose. Clad in a tunic, and a panther's skin thrown over his shoulders, with sandals on his feet and his good sword girded to his side, he went forth to seek his guest. Two mastiffs followed him,--his whole retinue and bodyguard. He found the hero attended by his faithful Achates, and Pallas soon joining them, the old king spoke thus: "Illustrious Trojan, it is but little we can do in so great a cause. Our state is feeble, hemmed in on one side by the river, on the other by the Rutulians. But I propose to ally thee with a people numerous and rich, to whom fate has brought thee at the propitious moment. The Etruscans hold the country beyond the river. Mezentius was their king, a monster of cruelty, who invented unheard-of torments to gratify his vengeance. He would fasten the dead to the living, hand to hand and face to face, and leave the wretched victims to die in that dreadful embrace. At length people cast him out, him and his house. They burned his palace, and slew his friends. He escaped and took refuge with Turnus, who protects him with arms. The Etruscans demand that he shall be given up to deserved punishment, and would ere now have attempted to enforce their demand; but their priests restrain them, telling them that it is the will of heaven that no native of the land shall guide them to victory and that their destined leader must come from across the sea. They have offered the crown to me, but I am too old to undertake such great affairs, and my son is native-born, which precludes him from the choice. Thou, equally by birth and time of life and fame in arms pointed out by the gods, hast but to appear to be hailed at once as their leader. With thee I will join Pallas, my son, my only hope and comfort. Under thee he shall learn the art of war and strive to emulate thy great exploits." Then the king ordered horses to be furnished for the Trojan chiefs, and Æneas, with a chosen band of followers and Pallas accompanying, mounted and took the way to the Etruscan city,[362] having sent back the rest of his party in the ships. Æneas and his band safely arrived at the Etruscan camp and were received with open arms by Tarchon and his countrymen. =263. Turnus attacks the Trojan Camp.= In the meanwhile Turnus had collected his bands and made all necessary preparations for the war. Juno sent Iris to him with a message inciting him to take advantage of the absence of Æneas and surprise the Trojan camp. Accordingly the attempt was made; but the Trojans were found on their guard, and having received strict orders from Æneas not to fight in his absence, they lay still in their intrenchments and resisted all the efforts of the Rutulians to draw them into the field. Night coming on, the army of Turnus, in high spirits at their fancied superiority, feasted and enjoyed themselves, and finally stretched themselves on the field and slept secure. =264. Nisus and Euryalus.= In the camp of the Trojans things were far otherwise. There all was watchfulness and anxiety, and impatience for Æneas' return. Nisus stood guard at the entrance of the camp, and Euryalus, a youth distinguished above all in the army for graces of person and fine qualities, was with him. These two were friends and brothers in arms. Nisus said to his friend: "Dost thou perceive what confidence and carelessness the enemy display? Their lights are few and dim, and the men seem all oppressed with wine or sleep. Thou knowest how anxiously our chiefs wish to send to Æneas and to get intelligence from him. Now I am strongly moved to make my way through the enemy's camp and to go in search of our chief. If I succeed, the glory of the deed will be reward enough for me, and if they judge the service deserves anything more, let them pay it thee." Euryalus, all on fire with the love of adventure, replied: "Wouldst thou then, Nisus, refuse to share thy enterprise with me? And shall I let thee go into such danger alone? Not so my brave father brought me up, nor so have I planned for myself when I joined the standard of Æneas and resolved to hold my life cheap in comparison with honor." Nisus replied: "I doubt it not, my friend; but thou knowest the uncertain event of such an undertaking, and whatever may happen to me, I wish thee to be safe. Thou art younger than I and hast more of life in prospect. Nor can I be the cause of such grief to thy mother, who has chosen to be here in the camp with thee rather than stay and live in peace with the other matrons in Acestes' city." Euryalus replied, "Say no more. In vain dost thou seek arguments to dissuade me. I am fixed in the resolution to go with thee. Let us lose no time." They called the guard and, committing the watch to them, sought the general's tent. They found the chief officers in consultation, deliberating how they should send notice to Æneas of their situation. The offer of the two friends was gladly accepted, themselves loaded with praises and promised the most liberal rewards in case of success. Iulus especially addressed Euryalus, assuring him of his lasting friendship. Euryalus replied: "I have but one boon to ask. My aged mother is with me in the camp. For me she left the Trojan soil and would not stay behind with the other matrons at the city of Acestes. I go now without taking leave of her. I could not bear her tears nor set at naught her entreaties. But do thou, I beseech thee, comfort her in her distress. Promise me that and I shall go more boldly into whatever dangers may present themselves." Iulus and the other chiefs were moved to tears and promised to do all his request. "Thy mother shall be mine," said Iulus, "and all that I have promised thee shall be made good to her, if thou dost not return to receive it." The two friends left the camp and plunged at once into the midst of the enemy. They found no watch, no sentinels posted, but, all about, the sleeping soldiers strewn on the grass and among the wagons. The laws of war at that early day did not forbid a brave man to slay a sleeping foe, and the two Trojans slew, as they passed, such of the enemy as they could without exciting alarm. In one tent Euryalus made prize of a helmet brilliant with gold and plumes. They had passed through the enemy's ranks without being discovered, but now suddenly appeared a troop directly in front of them, which, under Volscens, their leader, were approaching the camp. The glittering helmet of Euryalus caught their attention, and Volscens hailed the two and demanded who and whence they were. They made no answer, but plunged into the wood. The horsemen scattered in all directions to intercept their flight. Nisus had eluded pursuit and was out of danger, but, since Euryalus was missing, he turned back to seek him. He again entered the wood and soon came within sound of voices. Looking through the thicket he saw the whole band surrounding Euryalus with noisy questions. What should he do; how extricate the youth; or would it be better to die with him? Raising his eyes to the moon which now shone clear, he said, "Goddess, favor my effort!" and, aiming his javelin at one of the leaders of the troop, struck him in the back and stretched him on the plain with a deathblow. In the midst of their amazement another weapon flew, and another of the party fell dead. Volscens, the leader, ignorant whence the darts came, rushed sword in hand upon Euryalus. "Thou shalt pay the penalty of both," he said, and would have plunged the sword into his bosom, when Nisus, who from his concealment saw the peril of his friend, rushed forward exclaiming, "'T was I! 't was I! Turn your swords against me, Rutulians. I did it; he only followed me as a friend." While he spoke the sword fell and pierced the comely bosom of Euryalus. His head fell over on his shoulder, like a flower cut down by the plow. Nisus rushed upon Volscens and plunged his sword into his body, and was himself slain on the instant by numberless blows. =265. The Death of Mezentius.= Æneas, with his Etrurian allies, arrived on the scene of action in time to rescue his beleaguered camp; and now the two armies being nearly equal in strength, the war began in good earnest. We cannot find space for all the details, but must simply record the fate of the principal characters. The tyrant Mezentius, finding himself engaged against his revolted subjects, raged like a wild beast. He slew all who dared withstand him, and put the multitude to flight wherever he appeared. At last he encountered Æneas, and the armies stood still to see the issue. Mezentius threw his spear, which, striking Æneas' shield, glanced off and hit Antores,--a Grecian by birth who had left Argos, his native city, and followed Evander into Italy. The poet says of him, with simple pathos which has made the words proverbial, "He fell, unhappy, by a wound intended for another, looked up to the skies, and, dying, remembered sweet Argos."[363] Æneas now in turn hurled his lance. It pierced the shield of Mezentius and wounded him in the thigh. Lausus, his son, could not bear the sight, but rushed forward and interposed himself, while the followers pressed round Mezentius and bore him away. Æneas held his sword suspended over Lausus and delayed to strike, but the furious youth pressed on, and he was compelled to deal the fatal blow. Lausus fell, and Æneas bent over him in pity. "Hapless youth," he said, "what can I do for thee worthy of thy praise? Keep those arms in which thou gloriest, and fear not but that thy body shall be restored to thy friends and have due funeral honors." So saying, he called the timid followers and delivered the body into their hands. Mezentius meanwhile had been borne to the riverside, and had washed his wound. Soon the news reached him of Lausus' death, and rage and despair supplied the place of strength. He mounted his horse and dashed into the thickest of the fight, seeking Æneas. Having found him, he rode round him in a circle, throwing one javelin after another, while Æneas stood fenced with his shield, turning every way to meet them. At last after Mezentius had three times made the circuit, Æneas threw his lance directly at the horse's head. The animal fell with pierced temples, while a shout from both armies rent the skies. Mezentius asked no mercy, but only that his body might be spared the insults of his revolted subjects and be buried in the same grave with his son. He received the fatal stroke not unprepared, and poured out his life and his blood together. =266. The Deaths of Pallas and Camilla.= While these things were doing in one part of the field, in another Turnus encountered the youthful Pallas. The contest between champions so unequally matched could not be doubtful. Pallas bore himself bravely, but fell by the lance of Turnus. The victor almost relented when he saw the brave youth lying dead at his feet, and spared to use the privilege of a conqueror in despoiling him of his arms. The belt only, adorned with studs and carvings of gold, he took and clasped round his own body. The rest he remitted to the friends of the slain. After the battle there was a cessation of arms for some days to allow both armies to bury their dead. In this interval Æneas challenged Turnus to decide the contest by single combat, but Turnus evaded the challenge. Another battle ensued, in which Camilla, the virgin warrior, was chiefly conspicuous. Her deeds of valor surpassed those of the bravest warriors, and many Trojans and Etruscans fell pierced with her darts or struck down by her battle-ax. At last an Etruscan named Aruns, who had watched her long, seeking for some advantage, observed her pursuing an enemy whose splendid armor offered a tempting prize. Intent on the chase she observed not her danger, and the javelin of Aruns struck her and inflicted a fatal wound. She fell and breathed her last in the arms of her attendant maidens. But Diana, who beheld her fate, suffered not her slaughter to be unavenged. Aruns, as he stole away glad but frightened, was struck by a secret arrow, launched by one of the nymphs of Diana's train, and he died ignobly and unknown. =267. The Final Conflict.= At length the final conflict took place between Æneas and Turnus. Turnus had avoided the contest as long as he could; but at last, impelled by the ill success of his arms and by the murmurs of his followers, he braced himself to the conflict. The outcome could not be doubtful. On the side of Æneas were the expressed decree of destiny, the aid of his goddess-mother in every emergency, and impenetrable armor fabricated by Vulcan, at her request, for her son. Turnus, on the other hand, was deserted by his celestial allies, Juno having been expressly forbidden by Jupiter to assist him any longer. Turnus threw his lance, but it recoiled harmless from the shield of Æneas. The Trojan hero then threw his, which, penetrating the shield of Turnus, pierced his thigh. Then Turnus' fortitude forsook him, and he begged for mercy; Æneas, indeed, would have spared his opponent's life, but at the instant his eye fell on the belt of Pallas, which Turnus had taken from the slaughtered youth. Instantly his rage revived, and exclaiming, "Pallas immolates thee with this blow," he thrust him through with his sword. Here the poem of the Æneid closes, and we are left to infer that Æneas, having triumphed over his foes, obtained Lavinia for his bride. Tradition adds that he founded a city and called it Lavinium, after her name. His son Iulus founded Alba Longa, which became the birthplace of Romulus and Remus and the cradle of Rome. FOOTNOTES: [362] The poet here inserts a famous line which is thought to imitate in its sound the galloping of horses: _Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum_.--Æneid, 8, 596. [363] _Sternitur infelix alieno volnere, caelumque_ _Aspicit, et dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos._--Æneid 10, 781. [Illustration: NIKE OF BRESCIA] CHAPTER XXVII MYTHS OF THE NORSE GODS[364] =268. The Creation.= According to the Eddas there was once no heaven above nor earth beneath, but only a bottomless deep, Ginungagap, and a world of mist, Niflheim, in which sprang a fountain. Twelve rivers issued from this fountain, Vergelmir, and when they had flowed far from their source, they froze into ice, and one layer accumulating over another, the great deep was filled up. Southward from the world of mist was the world of light, Muspelheim. From this proceeded a warm wind upon the ice and melted it. The vapors rose in the air and formed clouds, from which sprang Ymir, the rime-cold giant and his progeny, and the cow Audhumbla, whose milk afforded nourishment and food to the giant. The cow got nourishment by licking the hoar frost and salt from the ice. While she was one day licking the salt stones there appeared at first the hair of some being, on the second day his whole head, and on the third the entire form endowed with beauty, agility, and power. This new being was a god, Bori, from whom and his wife, a daughter of the giant race, sprang Bor, the father of Odin, Vili, and Ve. These three slew the giant Ymir, and out of his body formed the earth, of his blood the seas, of his bones the mountains, of his hair the trees, of his skull the heavens, and of his brain clouds, charged with hail and snow. Of Ymir's eyebrows the gods built a fence around the Midgard or mid-earth between Niflheim and Muspelheim, destined to become the abode of man. Odin then regulated the periods of day and night and the seasons by placing in the heavens the sun and moon, and appointing to them their respective courses. As soon as the sun began to shed its rays upon the earth, it caused the vegetable world to bud and sprout. Shortly after the gods (the Anse-race, Anses, Æsir, or Asa-folk) had created the world, they walked by the side of the sea, pleased with their new work, but found that it was still incomplete, for it was without human beings. They therefore took an ashen spar and made a man out of it; woman they made out of a piece of elm; and they called the man Ask and the woman Embla. Odin then gave them life and soul, Vili reason and motion, and Ve bestowed upon them the senses, expressive features, and speech. Midgard was given them as their residence, and they became the progenitors of the human race. =269. Yggdrasil.= The mighty ash tree, Yggdrasil, was supposed to support the whole universe. It sprang from the body of Ymir, and had three immense roots, extending one into Midgard (the dwelling of mortals), another into Jötunheim (the abode of the giants), and the third below Niflheim, into the region of Death. By the side of each of these roots is a spring, from which it is watered. The root that extends into Midgard is carefully tended by the three Norns,--goddesses who are regarded as the dispensers of fate. They are Urd (the past), Verdandi (the present), Skuld (the future). The spring at the Jötunheim side is Mimir's well, in which wisdom and wit lie hidden, but that below Niflheim refreshes also the dark dragon of despair, Nidhogg (the back-biter), which perpetually gnaws at the root. Four harts run across the branches of the tree and nip the buds; they represent the four winds. Under the tree lies Ymir, and when he tries to shake off its weight the earth quakes. The boughs overshadow the earth, and the top rises into Asgard in the zenith. =270. Odin and his Valhalla.= To Asgard, the abode of the gods, access is gained only by crossing the bridge, Bifrost (the rainbow). Asgard--Gladsheim for the gods, Vingolf for the goddesses--consists of golden and silver palaces; but the most beautiful of these is Valhalla, the great hall of Odin. When seated on his throne he overlooks heaven and earth. Beside him sits _Frigga_ (or _Fricka_), his wife, who knows all things. Upon his shoulders are the ravens, Hugin and Munin,--Thought and Memory,--who fly every day over the whole world, and on their return report to him what they have seen and heard. At his feet lie his two wolves, Geri and Freki, to whom Odin gives the meat that is set before him, for he himself stands in no need of food. Mead is for him both food and drink. He invented the Runic characters; the decrees of fate, inscribed therein, it is the business of the Norns to engrave upon a metal shield. From Odin's name, spelt Woden, as it sometimes is, comes our English word, Wednesday. [Illustration: FIG. 186. VALKYRIE BEARING A HERO TO VALHALLA From the painting by Dielitz] Odin is frequently called Alfadur (Allfather), but this name is sometimes used in a way that shows that the Scandinavians had an idea of a deity superior to Odin, uncreated and eternal. In Valhalla Odin feasts with his chosen heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the boar Serimnir is served up to them and is abundant for all. For although this boar is cooked every morning, he becomes whole again every night. For drink the heroes are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrun. When the heroes are not feasting, they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day they ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when mealtime comes, they recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla. =271. The Valkyries.= The Valkyries are warlike virgins, mounted upon horses and armed with helmets, shields, and spears. Odin is desirous of gathering many heroes in Valhalla that he may gloriously meet the giants in the day of the final contest; he therefore sends to every battle field for the bravest of those who shall be slain. The Valkyries, Choosers of the Slain, are his messengers. Later they are called his daughters. When they ride forth on their errand, their armor sheds a weird flickering light over the northern skies, making what men call the Aurora Borealis.[365] =272. Thor and the Other Gods.= Of the following, _Thor_, _Vidar_, _Bragi_, _Balder_, and _Höder_ are sons of Odin. _Thor_, the thunderer, Odin's eldest son, is the strongest of gods and men, and possesses three precious things. The first is a hammer, which both the Frost and the Mountain giants (Hrim-thursar and Berg-risar) know to their cost, when they see it hurled against them in the air, for it has split many a skull of their fathers and kindred. When thrown, it returns to his hand of its own accord. The second rare thing he possesses is the belt of strength. When he girds it about him his divine might is doubled. The third is his iron gloves, which he puts on whenever he would use his mallet efficiently. From Thor's name is derived our word Thursday. _Vidar_ comes next in strength to Thor. _Bragi_ is the god of poetry, and his song records the deeds of warriors. His wife, _Iduna_, keeps in a box the apples which the gods, when they feel old age approaching, have only to taste of to become young again. _Balder_, dearest of the Anses, is the god of sunlight, spring, and gladness. _Höder_, his opposite, is the blind god of winter. Of other gods, _Freyr_ presides over rain and sunshine and all the fruits of the earth. His sister _Freya_ (Freia) is the most propitious of the goddesses. She loves music, spring, and flowers, and the fairies of Elfheim. She is the goddess of love. Her day is Friday. _Tyr_ (_Ziu_ or _Tiw_), from whose name is derived our Tuesday, is the wrestler among the gods; and preëminently the "god of battles." _Heimdall_ is the watchman of the gods, and is therefore placed on the borders of heaven to prevent the giants from forcing their way over the bridge Bifrost. He requires less sleep than a bird, and sees by night as well as by day a hundred miles around him. So acute is his ear that no sound escapes him, for he can even hear the grass grow,--and the wool on a sheep's back. =273. Loki and his Progeny.= Loki (or Loge) is described as the calumniator of the gods and the contriver of all fraud and mischief. He is the son of Farbauti, the Charon of Norse mythology. He is handsome and well made, but of fickle mood and evil disposition. Although of the demon race, he forced himself into the company of the gods, and seemed to take pleasure in bringing them into difficulties, and in extricating them out of the danger by his cunning, wit, and skill. Loki has three children. The first is the wolf _Fenris_, the second the _Midgard Serpent_, the third _Hela_ (Death). The gods were not ignorant that these monsters were maturing and that they would one day bring much evil upon gods and men. So Odin deemed it advisable to send one to bring them to him. When they came he threw the serpent in that deep ocean by which the earth is surrounded. But the monster has grown to such an enormous size that, holding his tail in his mouth, he encircles the whole earth. Hela he hurled below Niflheim and gave her power over nine worlds or regions, in which she distributes those who are sent to her,--that is, all who die of sickness or old age. Her hall is called Eliudnir, or Sleet-den. Hunger is her table, Starvation her knife, Delay her man, Slowness her maid, Pale Woe her door, Stumbling-stone her threshold, Care her bed; and Falling-peril forms the hangings of her apartments. She may easily be recognized, for her body is half flesh color and half blue, and she presents a stern and forbidding countenance. The wolf Fenris gave the gods a great deal of trouble before they succeeded in chaining him. He broke the strongest fetters as if they were made of cobwebs. Finally the gods sent a messenger to the mountain spirits, who made for them the chain called Gleipnir. It is fashioned of six things,--the noise made by the footfall of a cat, the beards of women, the roots of stones, the breath of fishes, the nerves (sensibilities) of bears, and the spittle of birds. When finished it was as smooth and soft as a silken string. But when the gods asked the wolf to suffer himself to be bound with this apparently slight ribbon, he suspected their design, fearing that it was made by enchantment. He therefore consented to be bound with it only upon condition that one of the gods put his hand in his (Fenris') mouth as a pledge that the band was to be removed again. Tyr alone had courage enough to do this. But when the wolf found that he could not break his fetters and that the gods would not release him, he bit off Tyr's hand. Tyr, consequently, has ever since remained one-handed. =274. The Conflict with the Mountain Giants.= When the gods were constructing their abodes and had already finished Midgard and Valhalla, a certain artificer came and offered to build them a residence so well fortified that they should be perfectly safe from the incursions of the Frost giants and the giants of the mountains. But he demanded for his reward the goddess Freya, together with the sun and moon. The gods yielded to the terms, provided that the artificer would finish the whole work without any one's assistance, and all within the space of one winter. But if anything remained unfinished on the first day of summer, he should forfeit the recompense agreed on. On being told these terms, the artificer stipulated that he be allowed the use of his horse Svadilfari, and this request, by the advice of Loki, was conceded. He accordingly set to work on the first day of winter, and during the night let his horse draw stone for the building. The enormous size of the stones struck the gods with astonishment, and they saw clearly that the horse did one half more of the toilsome work than his master. Their bargain, however, had been concluded and confirmed by solemn oaths, for without these precautions a giant would not have thought himself safe among the gods,--still less, indeed, if Thor should return from the expedition he had then undertaken against the evil demons. As the winter drew to a close the building was far advanced, and the bulwarks were sufficiently high and massive to render the place impregnable. In short, when it wanted but three days to summer, the only part that remained to be finished was the gateway. Then sat the gods on their seats of justice and entered into consultation, inquiring of one another who among them could have advised the rest to surrender Freya, or to plunge the heavens in darkness by permitting the giant to carry away the sun and the moon. They all agreed that no one but Loki, the author of so many evil deeds, could have given such counsel, and that he should be put to a cruel death unless he contrived some way to prevent the artificer from completing his task and obtaining the stipulated recompense. They proceeded to lay hands on Loki, who in his fright promised upon oath that, let it cost him what it might, he would so manage matters that the man should lose his reward. That night when the man went with Svadilfari for building-stone, a mare suddenly ran out of a forest and began to neigh. The horse thereat broke loose and ran after the mare into the forest, obliging the man also to run after his horse; thus, therefore, between one and another the whole night was lost, so that at dawn the work had not made the usual progress. The man, seeing that he must fail of completing his task, resumed his own gigantic stature, and the gods now clearly perceived that it was in reality a mountain giant who had come amongst them. Feeling no longer bound by their oaths, they called on Thor, who immediately ran to their assistance and, lifting up his mallet, paid the workman his wages, not with the sun and moon, and not even by sending him back to Jötunheim, for with the first blow he shattered the giant's skull to pieces and hurled him headlong into Niflheim. =275. The Recovery of Thor's Hammer.= Soon afterward it happened that Thor's hammer fell into the possession of the giant Thrym, who buried it eight fathoms deep under the rocks of Jötunheim. Thor sent Loki to negotiate with Thrym, but he could only prevail so far as to get the giant's promise to restore the weapon if Freya would consent to be his bride. Loki returned and reported the result of his mission, but the goddess of love was horrified at the idea of bestowing her charms on the king of the Frost giants. In this emergency Loki persuaded Thor to dress himself in Freya's clothes and accompany him to Jötunheim. Thrym received his veiled bride with due courtesy, but was greatly surprised at seeing her eat for her supper eight salmon and a full-grown ox besides other delicacies, washing the whole down with three tuns of mead. Loki, however, assured him that she had not tasted anything for eight long nights, so great was her desire to see her lover, the renowned ruler of Jötunheim. Thrym had at last the curiosity to peep under his bride's veil, but started back in affright, and demanded why Freya's eyeballs glistened with fire. Loki repeated the same excuse, and the giant was satisfied. He ordered the hammer to be brought in and laid on the maiden's lap. Thereupon Thor threw off his disguise, grasped his redoubted weapon, and slaughtered Thrym and all his followers. =276. Thor's Visit to Jötunheim.= One day Thor, with his servant Thialfi and accompanied by Loki, set out for the giants' country. Thialfi was of all men the swiftest of foot. He bore Thor's wallet containing their provisions. When night came on they found themselves in an immense forest, and searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the night. At last they came to a large hall, with an entrance that took the whole breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole edifice. Thor, rising up, called on his companions to seek with him a place of safety. On the right they found an adjoining chamber into which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway with his mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself whatever might happen. A terrible groaning was heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor went out and found lying near him a huge giant, still snoring in the way that had alarmed them. For once Thor was afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor contented himself with simply asking his name. "My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy name, for I know that thou art the god Thor. But what has become of my glove?" Thor then perceived that what they had taken overnight for a hall was the giant's glove, and the chamber where his two companions had sought refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast. When they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet, threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to keep up with him. So they traveled the whole day, and at dusk Skrymir chose a place for them to pass the night in under a large oak tree. Skrymir then told them he would lie down to sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, "and prepare your supper." Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly, but when Thor tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he could not untie a single knot. At last Thor became wroth, and grasping his mallet with both hands, he struck a furious blow on the giant's head. Skrymir, awakening, merely asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night to Thor, and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest reëchoed with the noise, he arose, and, grasping his mallet, launched it with such force at the giant's skull that it made a deep dint in it. Skrymir, awakening, cried out: "What's the matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree? I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with thee, Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then awoke, and, that as it was only midnight, there was still time for sleep. He, however, resolved that if he had an opportunity of striking a third blow, it should settle all matters between them. A little before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast asleep, and again grasping his mallet, he dashed it with such violence that it forced its way into the giant's skull up to the handle. But Skrymir sat up, and, stroking his cheek, said: "An acorn fell on my head. What! Art thou awake, Thor? Methinks it is time for us to get up and dress ourselves; but you have not now a long way before you to the city called Utgard. I have heard you whispering to one another that I am not a man of small dimensions, but if you come to Utgard, you will see there many men much taller than I. Wherefore I advise you, when you come there, not to make too much of yourselves; for the followers of Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such little fellows as you are. You must take the road that leads eastward; mine lies northward, so we must part here." Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders and turned away from them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any more of his company. Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that they were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in order to see to the top of it. On arriving they entered the city, and seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in the hall. Going further, they came before the king Utgard-Loki, whom they saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor, he said: "Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be. What are the feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in?--for no one is permitted to remain here who does not, in some feat or other, excel all other men." "The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than any one else, and in this I am ready to give a proof against any one here who may choose to compete with me." "That will indeed be a feat, if thou performest what thou promisest," said Utgard-Loki, "and it shall be tried forthwith." He then ordered one of his men, who was sitting at the farther end of the bench and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with Loki. A trough filled with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki placed himself at one end and Logi at the other, and each of them began to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the middle of the trough. But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished. Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor could perform. Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one who might be matched against him. The king observed that skill in running was something to boast of, but if the youth would win the match, he must display great agility. He then arose and went, with all who were present, to a plain where there was good ground for running on, and calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned back and met him not far from the starting-place. Then they ran a second and a third time, but Thialfi met with no better success. Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor answered that he would try a drinking-match with any one. Utgard-Loki bade his cupbearer bring the large horn which his followers were obliged to empty when they had trespassed in any way against the law of the feast. The cupbearer having presented it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, "Whoever is a good drinker will empty that horn at a single draft, though most men make two of it; but the most puny drinker can do it in three." Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size, though somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips and, without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could, that he might not be obliged to make a second draft of it; but when he set the horn down and looked in, he could scarcely perceive that the liquor was diminished. After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drank rather less than before, although the horn could now be carried without spilling. "How now, Thor," said Utgard-Loki, "thou must not spare thyself; if thou meanest to drain the horn at the third draft, thou must pull deeply; and I must needs say that thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here as thou art at home if thou showest no greater prowess in other feats than methinks will be shown in this." Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips and did his best to empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so he resolved to make no further attempt, but gave back the horn to the cupbearer. "I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not quite so stout as we thought thee; but wilt thou try any other feat?--though methinks thou art not likely to bear any prize away with thee hence." "What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor. "We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki, "in which we exercise none but children. It consists in merely lifting my cat from the ground; nor should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great Thor if I had not already observed that thou art by no means what we took thee for." As he finished speaking a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor put his hand under the cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from the floor, but the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all Thor's efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made no further attempt. "This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I imagined it would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men." "Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among you will come hither now that I am in wrath and wrestle with me." "I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the benches, "who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let somebody, however, call hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let Thor wrestle with her if he will. She has thrown to the ground many a man not less strong than this Thor is." A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard-Loki to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The more Thor tightened his hold on the crone the firmer she stood. At length, after a very violent struggle, Thor began to lose his footing, and was finally brought down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki then told them to desist, adding that Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions to their seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer. The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki ordered a table to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink. After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to the gate of the city, and on parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out and whether he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him that he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself. "And what grieves me most," he added, "is that ye will call me a person of little worth." "Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near to a great mishap I would not have suffered thee to enter this time. Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in the forest, where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou couldst not untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with thy mallet; the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the mountain, where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are the dints made by thy mallet. I have made use of similar illusions in the contests ye have had with my followers. In the first, Loki, like hunger itself, devoured all that was set before him, but Logi was in reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the meat but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace with that. When thou, in thy turn, didst attempt to empty the horn, thou didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvelous that had I not seen it myself I should never have believed it. For one end of that horn reached the sea, which thou wast not aware of, but when thou comest to the shore thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy drafts. Thou didst perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat was in reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and he was so stretched by thee that he was barely long enough to inclose it between his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing feat, for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for such in fact was Elli, will not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we are going to part, let me tell thee that it will be better for both of us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy labor and get no fame from the contest with me." On hearing these words Thor, in a rage, laid hold of his mallet and would have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor would have returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around him but a verdant plain. =277. The Sword of Freyr.= Freyr also possessed a wonderful weapon, a sword which would of itself spread a field with carnage whenever the owner desired it. Freyr parted with this sword, but was less fortunate than Thor and never recovered it. It happened in this way: Freyr once mounted Odin's throne, from whence one can see over the whole universe, and looking round, saw far off in the giant's kingdom a beautiful maid, at the sight of whom he was struck with sudden sadness, insomuch that from that moment he could neither sleep nor drink nor speak. At last Skirnir, his messenger, drew his secret from him, and undertook to get him the maiden for his bride, if he would give him his sword as a reward. Freyr consented and gave him the sword, and Skirnir set off on his journey and obtained the maiden's promise that within nine nights she would come to a certain place and there wed Freyr. Skirnir having reported the success of his errand, Freyr exclaimed: "Long is one night, Long are two nights, But how shall I hold out three? Shorter hath seemed A month to me oft Than of this longing time the half." So Freyr obtained Gerda, the most beautiful of all women, for his wife, but he lost his sword. =278. The Death of Balder.= Balder the Good, having been tormented with terrible dreams indicating that his life was in peril, told them to the assembled gods, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga, the wife of Odin, exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, from stones, trees, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. Odin, not satisfied with all this, and feeling alarmed for the fate of his son, determined to consult the prophetess Angerbode, a giantess, mother of Fenris, Hela, and the Midgard serpent. She was dead, and Odin was forced to seek her in Hela's dominions. But the other gods, feeling that what Frigga had done was quite sufficient, amused themselves with using Balder as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes, for do what they would, none of them could harm him. And this became a favorite pastime with them, and was regarded as an honor shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld the scene, he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the gods were doing at their meetings. She replied that they were throwing darts and stones at Balder, without being able to hurt him. "Ay," said Frigga, "neither stones, nor sticks, nor anything else can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them." "What," exclaimed the woman, "have all things sworn to spare Balder?" "All things," replied Frigga, "except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla and is called Mistletoe, which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from." As soon as Loki heard this he went away and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Höder standing apart, without partaking of the sports on account of his blindness, and going up to him said, "Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?" "Because I am blind," answered Höder, "and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw." "Come, then," said Loki, "do like the rest and show honor to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands." Höder then took the mistletoe and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless. Never was there witnessed, either among gods or men, a more atrocious deed. So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round[366] Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, Which all the gods in sport had idly thrown At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove; But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough Of mistletoe, which Lok the accuser gave To Höder, and unwitting Höder threw-- 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. And all the gods and all the heroes came, And stood round Balder on the bloody floor, Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rang Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries; And on the tables stood the untasted meats, And in the horns and gold-rimmed skulls the wine. And now would night have fall'n and found them yet Wailing; but otherwise was Odin's will. He bade them not to spend themselves in unavailing grief, for Balder, though the brightest god of heaven and best beloved, had but met the doom ordained at his birth by the Norns. Rather let the funeral pile be prepared, and let vengeance on Loki be left to Odin himself. So speaking, Odin mounted his horse Sleipnir and rode away to Lidskialf, and the gods in Valhalla returned to the feast: And before each the cooks, who served them, placed New messes of the boar Serimnir's flesh, And the Valkyries crowned their horns with mead. So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes, Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank, While twilight fell, and sacred night came on. But the blind Höder, leaving the gods, went by the sea to Fensalir, the house of Frigga, mother of the gods, to ask her what way there might be of restoring Balder to life and heaven. Might Hela perchance surrender Balder if Höder himself should take his place among the shades? "Nay," replied Frigga, "no way is there but one, that the first god thou meetest on the return to Asgard take Sleipnir, Odin's horse, and ride o'er the bridge Bifrost where is Heimdall's watch, past Midgard fortress, down the dark, unknown road to Hel, and there entreat the goddess Hela that she yield Balder back to heaven." Höder, returning cityward, met Hermod, swiftest of the gods,-- Nor yet could Hermod see his brother's face, For it grew dark; but Höder touched his arm. And as a spray of honeysuckle flowers Brushes across a tired traveler's face Who shuffles through the deep dew-moisten'd dust On a May evening, in the darken'd lanes, And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by, So Höder brush'd by Hermod's side, and said: "Take Sleipnir, Hermod, and set forth with dawn To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back; And they shall be thy guides who have the power." He spake, and brush'd soft by and disappear'd. And Hermod gazed into the night, and said: "Who is it utters through the dark his hest So quickly, and will wait for no reply? The voice was like the unhappy Höder's voice. Howbeit I will see, and do his hest; For there rang note divine in that command." So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house; And all the gods lay down in their own homes. And Höder, too, came home distraught with grief, Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other gods; And he went in, and shut the door, and fixt His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose, The throne, from which his eye surveys the world; And mounted Sleipnir, and in darkness rode To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven, High over Asgard, to light home the king. But fiercely Odin gallop'd, moved in heart: And swift to Asgard, to the gate he came, And terribly the hoofs of Sleipnir rang Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets, And the gods trembled on their golden beds Hearing the wrathful father coming home-- For dread, for like a whirlwind Odin came. And to Valhalla's gate he rode, and left Sleipnir; and Sleipnir went to his own stall, And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. That night in a vision appeared Balder to Nanna his wife, comforting her: "Yes, and I fain would altogether ward Death from thy head, and with the gods in heaven Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired-- But right bars this, not only thy desire. Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead In that dim world, in Hela's moldering realm; And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead, Whom Hela with austere control presides. For of the race of gods is no one there Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen; For all the nobler souls of mortal men On battle field have met their death, and now Feast in Valhalla, in my father's hall; Only the inglorious sort are there below-- The old, the cowards, and the weak are there, Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay. But even there, O Nanna, we might find Some solace in each other's look and speech, Wandering together through that gloomy world, And talking of the life we led in heaven, While we yet lived, among the other gods." He spake, and straight his lineaments began To fade; and Nanna in her sleep stretch'd out Her arms towards him with a cry, but he Mournfully shook his head and disappear'd. And as the woodman sees a little smoke Hang in the air, afield, and disappear, So Balder faded in the night away. And Nanna on her bed sank back; but then Frea, the mother of the gods, with stroke Painless and swift, set free her airy soul, Which took, on Balder's track, the way below; And instantly the sacred morn appear'd. With the morn Hermod, mounting Sleipnir, set out on his mission. For the space of nine days and as many nights he rode through deep glens so dark that he could not discern anything, until he arrived at the river Gyoll, which he passed over on a bridge covered with glittering gold. The maiden who kept the bridge asked him his name and lineage, telling him that the day before five bands of dead persons had ridden over the bridge, and did not shake it as much as he alone. "But," she added, "thou hast not death's hue on thee; why then ridest thou here on the way to Hel?" "I ride to Hel," answered Hermod, "to seek Balder. Hast thou perchance seen him pass this way?" She replied, "Balder hath ridden over Gyoll's bridge, and yonder lieth the way he took to the abodes of death." Hermod pursued his journey until he came to the barred gates of Hel. Here he alighted, girthed his saddle tighter, and remounting clapped both spurs to his horse, which cleared the gate by a tremendous leap without touching it. Hermod then rode on to the palace, where he found his brother Balder occupying the most distinguished seat in the hall, and passed the night in his company. The next morning he besought Hela to let Balder ride home with him, assuring her that nothing but lamentations were to be heard among the gods. Hela answered that it should now be tried whether Balder was so beloved as he was said to be. "If, therefore," she added, "all things in the world, both living and lifeless, weep for him, then shall he return to life; but if any one thing speak against him or refuse to weep, he shall be kept in Hel." Hermod then rode back to Asgard and gave an account of all he had heard and witnessed. The gods upon this dispatched messengers throughout the world to beg everything to weep in order that Balder might be delivered from Hel. All things very willingly complied with this request, both men and every other living being, as well as earths, and stones, and trees, and metals, just as we have all seen these things weep when they are brought from a cold place into a hot one. Then the messengers returned,-- ... And they rode home together, through the wood Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron; There in the wood before a cave they came, Where sate in the cave's mouth a skinny hag, Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by. Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape; She greeted them the first, and laughed and said: "Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven That ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron wood? Lovers of change, ye are, fastidious sprites. Look, as in some boor's yard, a sweet-breath'd cow, Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay, Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head To chew the straw, her litter at her feet-- So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!" She spake, but Hermod answered her and said, "Thok, not for gibes we come; we come for tears. Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, But will restore, if all things give him tears. Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear." Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied: "Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears? Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre. Weep him all other things, if weep they will-- I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey." She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled, Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain.[367] So was Balder prevented from returning to Asgard. =279. The Funeral of Balder.= The gods took up the dead body and bore it to the seashore, where stood Balder's ship Hringham, which passed for the largest in the world. Balder's dead body was put on the funeral pile, on board the ship; and the body of Nanna was burned on the same pile with her husband's. There was a vast concourse of various kinds of people at Balder's obsequies. First came Odin accompanied by Frigga, the Valkyries, and his ravens; then Freyr in his car drawn by Gullinbursti, the boar; Heimdall rode his horse Gulltopp, and Freya drove in her chariot drawn by cats. There were also a great many Frost giants and giants of the mountain present. Balder's horse was led to the pile fully caparisoned, and was consumed in the same flames with his master. [Illustration: FIG. 187. LOKI AND SIGUNA From the painting by Gebhardt] But Loki did not escape his merited punishment. When he saw how wroth the gods were, he fled to the mountain and there built himself a hut with four doors, so that he could see every approaching danger. He invented a net to catch the fishes, such as fishermen have used since his time. But Odin found out his hiding place and the gods assembled to take him. He, seeing this, changed himself into a salmon and lay hid among the stones of the brook. But the gods took his net and dragged the brook, and Loki, finding he must be caught, tried to leap over the net; but Thor caught him by the tail, and compressed it so that salmon ever since have had that part remarkably fine and thin. They bound him with chains and suspended a serpent over his head, whose venom falls upon his face drop by drop. His wife, Siguna, sits by his side and catches the drops as they fall, in a cup; but when she carries it away to empty it, the venom falls upon Loki, which makes him howl with horror and writhe so that the whole earth shakes. =280. The Elves.= The Edda mentions another class of beings, inferior to the gods, but still possessed of great power; these were the Elves. The white spirits, or Elves of Light, were exceedingly fair, more brilliant than the sun, and clad in garments of a delicate and transparent texture. They loved the light, were kindly disposed to mankind, and generally appeared as fair and lovely children. Their country was called Elfheim, and was the domain of Freyr, in whose sunlight they always sported. The black elves, ugly, long-nosed dwarfs, of a dirty brown color, appeared only at night. They avoided the sun as their most deadly enemy, because his beams changed them immediately into stones. Their language was the echo of solitudes, and their dwelling places subterranean caves and clefts. They were supposed to have come into existence as maggots produced by the decaying flesh of Ymir's body. They were afterwards endowed by the gods with a human form and great understanding. They were particularly distinguished for a knowledge of the mysterious powers of nature, and for the runes which they carved and explained. They were the most skillful artificers of all created beings, and worked in metals and in wood. Among their most noted works were Thor's hammer, and the ship _Skidbladnir_, which they gave to Freyr. This vessel was so large that it could contain all the deities with their war and household implements, but so skillfully was it wrought that when folded together it could be put into a side pocket. =281. Ragnarok.= It was a firm belief of the Northern nations that a time would come when all the visible creation, the gods of Valhalla and Niflheim, the inhabitants of Jötunheim, Elfheim, and Midgard, together with their habitations, would be destroyed. The fearful day of destruction will not however be without warning. First will come a triple winter, during which snow will fall from the four corners of the heavens, the frost be severe, the wind piercing, the weather tempestuous, and the sun impart no gladness. Three such winters will pass without being tempered by a single summer. Three other like winters will follow, during which war and discord will spread over the universe. The earth itself will be afraid and begin to tremble, the sea leave its basin, the heavens tear asunder; men will perish in great numbers, and the eagles of the air feast upon their still quivering bodies. The wolf Fenris will now break his bands, the Midgard serpent rise out of his bed in the sea, and Loki, released from his bonds, will join the enemies of the gods. Amidst the general devastation the sons of Muspelheim will rush forth under their leader Surter, before and behind whom are flames and burning fire. Onward they ride over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, which breaks under the horses' hoofs. But they, disregarding its fall, direct their course to the battle field called Vigrid. Thither also repair the wolf Fenris, the Midgard serpent, Loki, with all the followers of Hela, and the Frost giants. Heimdall now stands up and sounds the Giallar horn to assemble the gods and heroes for the contest. The gods advance, led on by Odin, who, engaging the wolf Fenris, falls a victim to the monster. Fenris is, in turn, slain by Vidar, Odin's son. Thor wins great renown by killing the Midgard serpent, but, recoiling, falls dead, suffocated with the venom which the dying monster vomits over him. Loki and Heimdall meet and fight till they both are slain. The gods and their enemies having fallen in battle, Surter, who has killed Freyr, darts fire and flames over the world, and the universe is consumed. The sun grows dim, the earth sinks into the ocean, the stars fall from heaven, and time is no more. After this Alfadur (not Odin but the Almighty) will cause a new heaven and a new earth to arise out of the sea. The new earth, filled with abundant supplies, will produce its fruits without labor or care. Wickedness and misery will no more be known, but the gods and men will live happily together. This twilight of the gods is aptly described in a conversation held between Balder and Hermod, after Hermod has a second time ridden to Hel: And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply:[368]-- "Thou hast then all the solace death allows, Esteem and function; and so far is well. Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground, Rusting for ever; and the years roll on, The generations pass, the ages grow, And bring us nearer to the final day When from the south shall march the fiery band And cross the bridge of heaven, with Lok for guide, And Fenris at his heel with broken chain; While from the east the giant Rymer steers His ship, and the great serpent makes to land; And all are marshal'd in one flaming square Against the gods, upon the plains of heaven. I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then." He spake; but Balder answered him, and said:-- "Mourn not for me! Mourn, Hermod, for the gods; Mourn for the men on earth, the gods in heaven, Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day! The day will come, when fall shall Asgard's towers, And Odin, and his sons, the seed of Heaven; But what were I, to save them in that hour? If strength might save them, could not Odin save, My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor, Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr? I, what were I, when these can nought avail? Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, And the two hosts are marshal'd, and in heaven The golden-crested cock shall sound alarm, And his black brother-bird from hence reply, And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour-- Longing will stir within my breast, though vain. But not to me so grievous as, I know, To other gods it were, is my enforced Absence from fields where I could nothing aid; For I am long since weary of your storm Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your life Something too much of war and broils, which make Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail; Mine ears are stunn'd with blows, and sick for calm. Inactive, therefore, let me lie in gloom, Unarm'd, inglorious; I attend the course Of ages, and my late return to light, In times less alien to a spirit mild, In new-recover'd seats, the happier day." He spake; and the fleet Hermod thus replied:-- "Brother, what seats are these, what happier day? Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone." And the ray-crownèd Balder answered him:-- "Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads Another heaven, the boundless--no one yet Hath reach'd it; there hereafter shall arise The second Asgard, with another name. Thither, when o'er this present earth and heavens The tempest of the latter days hath swept, And they from sight have disappear'd and sunk, Shall a small remnant of the gods repair; Höder and I shall join them from the grave. There reassembling we shall see emerge From the bright ocean at our feet an earth More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits Self-springing, and a seed of man preserved, Who then shall live in peace, as now in war. But we in heaven shall find again with joy The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of old, Reënter them with wonder, never fill Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears. And we shall tread once more the well-known plain Of Ida, and among the grass shall find The golden dice wherewith we played of yore; And that shall bring to mind the former life And pastime of the gods--the wise discourse Of Odin, the delights of other days. O Hermod, pray that thou may'st join us then! Such for the future is my hope; meanwhile, I rest the thrall of Hela, and endure Death, and the gloom which round me even now Thickens, and to inner gulf recalls. Farewell, for longer speech is not allow'd." FOOTNOTES: [364] For Records of Norse Mythology, see § 300, and Commentary, §§ 268, 282, and 300. [365] Gray's ode, The Fatal Sisters, is founded on this superstition. [366] From Matthew Arnold's Balder Dead. [367] From Matthew Arnold's Balder Dead. [368] From Matthew Arnold's Balder Dead. CHAPTER XXVIII MYTHS OF NORSE AND OLD GERMAN HEROES =282. The Saga of the Volsungs.=[369] Sigi, son of Odin, was a mighty king of the Huns whom Odin loved and prospered exceedingly. Rerir, also, the son of Sigi, was a man of valor and one who got lordship and land unto himself; but neither Sigi nor Rerir were to compare with _Volsung_, who ruled over Hunland after his father Rerir went home to Odin. To Volsung were born ten sons and one daughter,--Signy by name; and of the sons _Sigmund_ was the eldest and the most valiant. And the Volsungs abode in peace till Siggeir, king of Gothland, came wooing Signy, who, though loath to accept him, was, by her father's desire, betrothed to him. Now on the night of the wedding great fires were made in the hall of the Volsungs, and in the midst stood Branstock, a great oak tree, about which the hall had been built, and the limbs of the tree spread over the roof of the hall; and round about Branstock they sat and feasted, and sang of ancient heroes and heard the music of the harp that went from hand to hand. But e'en as men's hearts were hearkening some heard the thunder pass[370] O'er the cloudless noontide heaven; and some men turned about And deemed that in the doorway they heard a man laugh out. Then into the Volsung dwelling a mighty man there strode, One-eyed and seeming ancient, yet bright his visage glowed; Cloud-blue was the hood upon him, and his kirtle gleaming-gray As the latter morning sun-dog when the storm is on the way; A bill he bore on his shoulder, whose mighty ashen beam Burnt bright with the flame of the sea, and the blended silver's gleam. And such was the guise of his raiment as the Volsung elders had told Was borne by their fathers' fathers, and the first that warred in the wold. So strode he to the Branstock, nor greeted any lord, But forth from his cloudy raiment he drew a gleaming sword, And smote it deep in the tree-bole, and the wild hawks overhead Laughed 'neath the naked heaven as at last he spake and said: "Earls of the Goths, and Volsungs, abiders on the earth, Lo there amid the Branstock a blade of plenteous worth! The folk of the war-wand's forgers wrought never better steel Since first the burg of heaven uprose for man-folk's weal. Now let the man among you whose heart and hand may shift To pluck it from the oak-wood e'en take it for my gift. Then ne'er, but his own heart falter, its point and edge shall fail Until the night's beginning and the ending of the tale. Be merry, Earls of the Goth-folk, O Volsung Sons be wise, And reap the battle-acre that ripening for you lies: For they told me in the wild wood, I heard on the mountain-side That the shining house of heaven is wrought exceeding wide, And that there the Early-comers shall have abundant rest While Earth grows scant of great ones, and fadeth from its best, And fadeth from its midward, and groweth poor and vile:-- All hail to thee, King Volsung! farewell for a little while!" So sweet his speaking sounded, so wise his words did seem That moveless all men sat there, as in a happy dream We stir not lest we waken; but there his speech had end And slowly down the hall-floor, and outward did he wend; And none would cast him a question or follow on his ways, For they knew that the gift was Odin's, a sword for the world to praise. Then all made trial, Siggeir and his earls, and Volsung and his people, to draw forth the sword from Branstock, but with no success, till Sigmund, laying his hand carelessly on the precious hilt, drew forth the naked blade as though it were loose in the oak. Whereupon Siggeir offered money for the sword, but Sigmund scorned the offer. But in time Siggeir had his vengeance. Inviting King Volsung and his sons to Gothland, he fell upon them, slew the king, and suffered the sons, fastened under a log, to be devoured in succession by a she-wolf--all but Sigmund, who through the wile of his sister Signy was rescued. He, driven to the life of an outlaw, sought means to avenge his father, and Signy, on her part, strove to aid him,--without avail, however, till Sinfiotli, the son of herself and Sigmund, was grown to manhood. This youth bore Sigmund company. For a season, as wolves, they scoured the woods; finally resuming the form of men, they slew the children of Siggeir and burned him in his hall. Signy, having helped to avenge her father, died with her husband. Sigmund, thereupon, became king, and took to himself a wife. But she, suffering injury at the hands of Sinfiotli, poisoned him with a horn of ale. Then Sigmund sorrowed nigh to death over his son, and drove away that queen, and soon after she died. He then married Hiordis the fair; but before long, doing battle against Lyngi, the son of Hunding,--a chieftain who also had loved the fair Hiordis,--he got his death wound: For lo, through the hedge of the war-shafts a mighty man there came, One-eyed and seeming ancient, but his visage shone like flame; Gleaming-gray was his kirtle, and his hood was cloudy-blue; And he bore a mighty twibil, as he waded the fight-sheaves through, And stood face to face with Sigmund, and upheaved the bill to smite. Once more round the head of the Volsung fierce glittered the Branstock's light, The sword that came from Odin; and Sigmund's cry once more Rang out to the very heavens above the din of war. Then clashed the meeting edges with Sigmund's latest stroke, And in shivering shards fell earthward that fear of worldly folk. But changed were the eyes of Sigmund, and the war-wrath left his face; For that gray-clad mighty helper was gone, and in his place Drave on the unbroken spear-wood 'gainst the Volsung's empty hands: And there they smote down Sigmund, the wonder of all lands, On the foemen, on the death-heap his deeds had piled that day. To Hiordis, after Sigmund's death, was born _Sigurd_, like whom was never man for comeliness and valor and great-heartedness and might. He was the greatest of the Volsungs. His foster-father was Regin, the son of Rodmar, a blacksmith, who taught him the lore of runes and many tongues; and, by means of a story of ancient wrongs, incited him to the destruction of the dragon Fafnir. For Regin told that while the gods, Odin and H[oe]nir, were wandering with Loki near Rodmar's house, Loki slew one of Rodmar's sons, Otter. Whereupon Rodmar demanded that the gods should fill the Otter-skin with gold and cover it with gold. Now Loki, being sent to procure the gold, caught Andvari the dwarf, and from him procured by force a hoard of the precious metal and with it a magic ring, whose touch bred gold. But Andvari cursed the ring and the gold and all that might possess either. The gods forthwith filled Otter with the dwarf's gold, and surrendered both gold and ring to Rodmar. Immediately the curse began to work. Fafnir, brother of Regin and Otter, slew Rodmar and seized the treasure and, assuming a dragon's form, brooded upon the hoard. With this tale Regin egged on Sigurd to the undoing of Fafnir. He welded him, too, a resistless sword out of the shards of Sigmund's sword, Gram (the wrath). Then Sigurd swore that he would slay the dragon. But first, riding on his horse, Greyfell, of the blood of Odin's Sleipnir, he avenged upon the sons of Hunding the death of his father. This done, Sigurd rode to Glistenheath and slew Fafnir, the dragon, and eating of his heart, learned the language of the birds; and at their advice he slew Regin also, who plotted against him. So, setting the ring of Andvari on his finger and bearing the gold before him on his horse, Greyfell, Sigurd comes to the Hill of Hindfell: And sitteth awhile on Greyfell on the marvelous thing to gaze: For lo, the side of Hindfell inwrapped by the fervent blaze, And naught 'twixt earth and heaven save a world of flickering flame, And a hurrying, shifting tangle, where the dark rents went and came.... Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the Wrath he shifts, And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins he lifts, And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wildfire's heart; But the white wall wavers before him and the flame-flood rusheth apart, And high o'er his head it riseth, and wide and wild is its roar As it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly floor; But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides the rye, When it bows with the wind of the summer and the hid spears draw anigh; The white-flame licks his raiment and sweeps through Greyfell's mane, And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of Fafnir's bane, And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his hair, But naught his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering gear;-- Then it falls and fades and darkens till all seems left behind, And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk stark and blind.... Then before him Sigurd sees a shield-hung castle, surmounted by a golden buckler, instead of a banner, which rings against the flagstaff. And he enters and finds the form of one asleep, in armor cap-a-pie. So he draweth the helm from the head, and, lo, the brow snow-white, And the smooth unfurrowed cheeks, and the wise lips breathing light; And the face of a woman it is, and the fairest that ever was born, Shown forth to the empty heavens and the desert world forlorn: But he looketh, and loveth her sore, and he longeth her spirit to move, And awaken her heart to the world, that she may behold him and love. And he toucheth her breast and her hands, and he loveth her passing sore; And he saith, "Awake! I am Sigurd," but she moveth never the more.... Then with his bright blade Sigurd rends the ring-knit mail that incloses her, "till naught but the rippling linen is wrapping her about,"-- Then a flush cometh over her visage and a sigh upheaveth her breast, And her eyelids quiver and open, and she wakeneth into rest; Wide-eyed on the dawning she gazeth, too glad to change or smile, And but little moveth her body, nor speaketh she yet for a while; And yet kneels Sigurd, moveless, her wakening speech to heed, While soft the waves of the daylight o'er the starless heavens speed, And the gleaming vines of the Shield-burg yet bright and brighter grow, And the thin moon hangeth her horns dead-white in the golden glow. Then she turned and gazed on Sigurd, and her eyes met the Volsung's eyes. And mighty and measureless now did the tide of his love arise, For their longing had met and mingled, and he knew of her heart that she loved, As she spake unto nothing but him and her lips with the speech-flood moved. Brynhild, it was,--the Valkyrie,--who long time had lain in that enchanted sleep that Odin, her father, had poured over her, dooming her to mortal awakening and to mortal love, for the evil she had wrought of old when she espoused the cause in battle of those whom the Norns had predestined to death. Her might none but the fearless awaken; and her had Sigurd awakened; and she loved him, for he was without fear and godlike. And she taught him many wise sayings; and they plighted troth, one to the other, both then and again; and Sigurd gave her the ring of Andvari. But they were not destined to dwell together in wedlock, and Brynhild, foreseeing the future, knew even this. Sigurd was to wed with another than Brynhild, and it fell in this wise. In the land of the Nibelungs (Niblungs, Nibelungen) dwelt Gudrun, daughter of Giuki, the Nibelung king. And Gudrun dreamed a dream in which a fair hawk feathered with feathers of gold alighted upon her wrist. She went to Brynhild for the interpretation of the dream. "The hawk," said Brynhild, "is Sigurd." And so it came to pass. Sigurd, visiting the court of the Nibelungs, was kindly entreated by King Giuki and his three sons, Gunnar, Hogni, and Guttorm; and he performed deeds of valor such that they honored him. But after many days, Grimhild, the mother of Gudrun, administered to Sigurd a magic potion that removed from him all memory of Brynhild. So Sigurd loved and wedded the fair Gudrun. Indeed he soon joined others in urging his wife's brother Gunnar, a doughty warrior, to sue for the hand of Brynhild herself. But Brynhild would have no one that could not ride through the flames drawn up around her hall. After Gunnar had made two unsuccessful attempts, Sigurd, assuming the form of King Gunnar, mounted Greyfell and rode for the second time through the flames of Hindfell. Then, still wearing the semblance of Gunnar, he gained the consent of Brynhild to the union, and exchanged rings with her,--she giving him none other than the ancient ring of Andvari back again. But even this did not recall to Sigurd's memory his former ride and his former love. Returning to the land of the Nibelungs, he announced the success of his undertaking and told all things to Gudrun, giving her the fatal ring that he had regained from Brynhild. In ten days came Brynhild by agreement to the Hall of the Nibelungs, and though she knew well the deceit that had been practiced on her, she made no sign; nay, was wedded, according to her promise, to King Gunnar. But as they sat at the wedding-feast, the charm of Grimhild was outworn,--Sigurd looked upon Gunnar's bride and knew the Brynhild of old, the Valkyrie, whom he had loved; "and Brynhild's face drew near him with eyes grown stern and strange." But, apparently, all went well till the young queens, one day bathing in the Water of the Nibelungs, fell into contention on a matter of privilege. Brynhild claimed precedence in entering the river on the ground that Gunnar was the liege lord of Sigurd. Gudrun, white with wrath, flashed out the true story of the ride through the flames, and thrust in Brynhild's face the Andvari ring. Consumed with jealousy, Brynhild plotted revenge. She loved Sigurd still, and he, since he had regained his memory, could not overcome his love for her. But the insult from Gudrun Brynhild would not brook. By her machinations, Guttorm, the brother of Gudrun, was incited to slay Sigurd. He, accordingly, stabbed the hero while asleep, but Sigurd, throwing Gram at the assassin, cut him in twain before he could escape. Woe me! how the house of the Niblungs by another cry was rent, The awakening wail of Gudrun, as she shrank in the river of blood From the breast of the mighty Sigurd: he heard it and understood, And rose up on the sword of Guttorm, and turned from the country of death, And spake words of loving-kindness as he strove for life and breath; "Wail not, O child of the Niblungs! I am smitten, but thou shalt live, In remembrance of our glory, mid the gifts the gods shall give!... It is Brynhild's deed," he murmured, "and the woman that loves me well; Nought now is left to repent of, and the tale abides to tell. I have done many deeds in my life-days, and all these, and my love, they lie In the hollow hand of Odin till the day of the world go by. I have done and I may not undo, I have given and I take not again; Art thou other than I, Allfather, wilt thou gather my glory in vain?" So ended the life of Sigurd. Brynhild, overcome with sorrow, dealt herself a mortal wound and was burned on the funeral pyre beside Sigurd the Volsung. In time Gudrun became the queen of Atli, the Budlung. He, in order to obtain the hoard of Sigurd, which had passed into the hands of the Nibelungs,--Gudrun's brothers,--bade them visit him in Hunland. Fully warned by Gudrun, they still accepted the invitation and, arriving at the hall of Atli, were after a fearful conflict slain. But they did not surrender the hoard--that lay concealed at the bottom of the Rhine. Gudrun with the aid of Nibelung, her brother Hogni's son, in the end slew Atli, set fire to his hall, and brought ruin on the Budlung folk. Then leaping into the sea, she was borne with Swanhild, her daughter by Sigurd, to the realm of King Jonakr, who became her third husband. Swanhild, "fairest of all women, eager-eyed as her father, so that few durst look under the brows of her," met, by stress of love and treachery, a foul end in a foreign land, trampled under foot of horses. Finally Gudrun sent her sons by Jonakr to avenge their half-sister's death; and so, bereft of all her kin and consumed with sorrow, she called upon her ancient lover, Sigurd, to come and look upon her, as he had promised, from his abiding-place among the dead. And thus had the words of her sorrow an end. Her sons slew Jormunrek, the murderer of Swanhild, but were themselves done to death by the counsel and aid of a certain warrior, seeming ancient and one-eyed,--Odin the forefather of the Volsungs,--the same that had borne Sigi fellowship, and that struck the sword into Branstock of Volsung's hall, and that faced Sigmund and shattered Gram in the hour of Sigmund's need, and that brought to Sigurd the matchless horse Greyfell, and oft again had appeared to the kin of the Volsungs;--the same god now wrought the end of the Nibelungs. The hoard and the ring of Andvari had brought confusion on all into whose hands they fell. =283. The Lay of the Nibelungs.=[371] In the German version of this story--called the Nibelungenlied--certain variations of name, incident, and character appear. Sigurd is Siegfried, dwelling in Xanten near the Rhine, the son of Siegmund and Siegelind, king and queen of the Netherlands. Gudrun is Kriemhild, sister of Gunther (Gunnar), king of the Burgundians, and niece of Hagen (Hogni), a warrior of dark and sullen mien, cunning, but withal loyal and brave, the foe of the glorious Siegfried. Siegfried weds Kriemhild, takes her to the Netherlands and lives happily with her, enjoying the moneys of the Nibelungen hoard, which he had taken not from a dwarf, as in the Norse version, but from two princes, the sons of King Nibelung. Meanwhile Gunther dwells in peace in the Burgundian land, husband of the proud Brunhild, whom Siegfried had won for him by stratagem not altogether unlike that of the Norse story. For the Brunhild of the Yssel-land had declared that she would marry no man save him who should surpass her in athletic contest. This condition Siegfried, wearing the Tarnkappe, a cloak that rendered him invisible, had fulfilled for Gunther. He had also succored poor Gunther after his marriage with Brunhild. For that heroine, in contempt of Gunther's strength, had bound him hand and foot and suspended him from a nail on their bedroom wall. By agreement Siegfried had again assumed Gunther's form and, after a fearful tussle with the queen, had reduced her to submission, taking from her the ring and girdle which were the secret sources of her strength, and leaving her to imagine that she had been conquered by her bridegroom, Gunther. The ring and girdle Siegfried had bestowed upon Kriemhild, unwisely telling her at the same time the story of Brunhild's defeat. Although the Nibelungenlied offers no explanation, it is evident that the injured queen of Yssel-land had recognized Siegfried during this ungallant intrigue; and we are led to infer that there had been some previous acquaintance and passage of love between them. [Illustration: FIG. 188. GUNTHER AND BRUNHILD. From the fresco by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld] At any rate, Siegfried and Kriemhild, retiring to the Netherlands, were ruling happily at Xanten by the Rhine; and all might have continued in peace had not Brunhild resented the lack of homage paid by Siegfried, whom she had been led to regard as a vassal, to Gunther, his reputed overlord. In her heart this thought she fostered, deep in its inmost core;[372] That still they kept such distance, a secret grudge she bore. How came it that their vassal to court declined to go, Nor for his land did homage, she inly yearned to know. She made request of Gunther, and begged it so might be, That she the absent Kriemhild yet once again might see, And told him, too, in secret, whereon her thoughts were bent,-- Then with the words she uttered her lord was scarce content. [Illustration: FIG. 189. SIEGFRIED AND KRIEMHILD From the fresco by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld] But Gunther yielded, and Siegfried and Kriemhild were invited to Worms, nominally to attend a high festival. ... With what joy and gladness welcomed were they there! It seemed when came dame Brunhild to Burgundy whilere, Her welcome by dame Kriemhild less tender was and true; The heart of each beholder beat higher at the view.... Received was bold Sir Siegfried, as fitted well his state, With the highest honors; no man bore him hate. Young Giselher and Gernot proffered all courtly care; Never met friend or kinsman reception half so fair. One day at the hour of vespers certain knights proved themselves at tilting in the regal courtyard. Conspicuous among these was Siegfried. And the proud queens sitting together were thinking each on the good knight that she loved full well. Then outspoke fair Kriemhild, "My husband is of such might that surely he should rule these realms"; Brunhild answered, "So long as Gunther lives that can never be." ... Thereto rejoined fair Kriemhild, "See'st thou how proud he stands, How proud he stalks, conspicuous among those warrior bands, As doth the moon far-beaming the glimmering stars outshine? Sure have I cause to pride me when such a knight is mine." Thereto replied queen Brunhild, "How brave soe'er he be, How stout soe'er or stately, one greater is than he. Gunther, thy noble brother, a higher place may claim, Of knights and kings the foremost in merit and in fame." So began the altercation. It attained its climax the same day, when each queen attempted to take precedence of the other in entering the cathedral for the celebration of the mass. Both met before the minster in all the people's sight; There at once the hostess let out her deadly spite. Bitterly and proud she bade fair Kriemhild stand; "No vassaless precedeth the lady of the land." Then, full of wrath, Kriemhild, in terms anything but delicate, acquainted her haughty sister-in-law with the deception that had twice been practiced upon her by Siegfried and Gunther; nay, worse, corroborated her statement by displaying both ring and girdle that Brunhild had lost. The altercation came to the ears of the kings. Gunther made complaint to Siegfried. Then, ... "Women must be instructed," said Siegfried, the good knight, "To leave off idle talking and rule their tongues aright. Keep thy fair wife in order, I'll do by mine the same. Such overweening folly puts me indeed to shame." But it was too late to mend the matter. With devilish intent Brunhild plotted vengeance. Siegfried, the author of her mortification, must die the death. The foes of Siegfried persuaded his wife, unaware of their design, to embroider in his vesture a silken cross over the one spot where the hero was vulnerable. Then the crafty Hagen, who had been suborned by Brunhild to the baleful deed, bided his time. One day, Gunther, Hagen, and Siegfried, heated in running, stayed by a brook to drink. Hagen saw his chance. ... Then, as to drink, Sir Siegfried down kneeling there he found, He pierced him through the crosslet, that sudden from the wound Forth the life-blood spurted, e'en o'er his murderer's weed. Nevermore will warrior dare so foul a deed.... ... With blood were all bedabbled the flowerets of the field. Some time with death he struggled as though he scorned to yield E'en to the foe whose weapon strikes down the loftiest head. At last prone in the meadow lay mighty Siegfried dead. Brunhild glories in the fall of Siegfried and exults over the mourning widow. Kriemhild, sitting apart, nurses schemes of vengeance. Her brothers affect to patch up the breach in order that they may obtain the hoard of the Nibelungs. But this treasure, after it has been brought to Worms, is sunk, for precaution's sake, by Hagen, in the Rhine. Although in time Kriemhild becomes the wife of King Etzel (Atli, Attila) of Hunland, still she does not forget the injury done her by her kin. After thirteen years she inveigles her brothers and their retainers, called now Nibelungs because of their possession of the hoard, to Etzel's court, where, after a desperate and dastardly encounter, in which their hall is reduced to ashes, they are all destroyed save Gunther and Hagen. Immediately, thereafter, Gunther's head is cut off at her orders; and she herself, with Siegfried's sword Balmung, severs the head of the hated Hagen from his body. With these warriors the secret of the hidden hoard passes. Kriemhild, having wreaked her vengeance, falls by the hand of one of her husband's knights, Hildebrand, who, with Dietrich of Bern, had played a prominent part among the associates of King Etzel. "I cannot say you now what hath befallen since; The women all were weeping, and the Ritters and the prince, Also the noble squires, their dear friends lying dead: Here hath the story ending; this is the Nibelungen's Need."[373] FOOTNOTES: [369] For the Sagas, see § 300; and for translations, etc., see § 282 of the Commentary. [370] The extracts in verse are from William Morris' Sigurd the Volsung. [371] For Records of German Mythology, see § 301, below; for literature and translations, see §§ 283 and 301 of the Commentary. [372] The extracts in verse are, unless otherwise stated, from the translation by W. N. Lettsom, London, 1890. Werner Hahn's Uebersetzung has also been used. [373] From Carlyle's translation of fragments of the poem. CHAPTER XXIX THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG =284. Wagner's Tetralogy.= In his famous Ring of the Nibelung the German composer, Richard Wagner, returns to the Norse version of the stories recounted in the chapter preceding this. He is responsible not only for the musical score of the four operas of which the Ring consists, but for the text and scenic arrangement as well. As musical dramas the four plays constitute the grandest series of the kind that the world possesses. But even if they were not wedded to such music, the _Rhine-gold_, the _Valkyrie_, the _Siegfried_, and the _Twilight_ (or _Dusk_) _of the Gods_ would be entitled, for creative invention, imaginative insight and power, and poetic diction, to rank with notable dramas, ancient or modern. The tetralogy (or series of four) presents the whole story of the accursed Nibelung gold, from that dawn when it was wrested from the daughters of the Rhine to that dusk when it was restored, having wrought meanwhile the doom of Nibelungs, Volsungs, and the gods themselves. =285. The Rhine-gold.= We are at the bottom of the Rhine: a greenish twilight, and moving water, and everywhere sharp points of rocks jutting from the depths. Around the central rock three Rhine-daughters swim, guarding it carefully, but laughing and playing, and chasing one the other as they guard. To them from a chasm climbs Alberich, the Nibelung, he who in the old Norse lay was known as Andvari. He views the maidens with increasing pleasure. He addresses them, he clambers after them, he strives to catch them; they lure him on, they mock him and escape his grasp; he woos them each in turn, all unsuccessfully. He gazes upward--"Could I but catch one"; then once more failing, remains in speechless rage. Rage soon transformed to wonder: for through the water from above there filters a brightening glow, a magical light, streaming from the summit of the central rock where in the splendor of the morning sun the Rhine-gold laughs a-kindle. "What is it, ye sleek ones, That there doth gleam and glow?"[374] Has he never heard of the Rhine-gold? they ask. Of the wondrous star whose glory lightens the waves? He has not. He scorns it. "The golden charm," cries one of the maidens,-- "The golden charm Wouldst thou not flout Knewest thou all of its wonders." "The world's wealth," jeers another, "Could be won by a man If out of the Rhine-gold He fashioned the Ring That measureless might can bestow... He who the sway Of love forswears, He who delight Of love forbears, Only he can master the magic That forces the gold to a ring!" "But we fear not thee--oh, no--for thou burnest in love for us." So, lightly sing the Rhine-daughters; but Alberich, with his eyes on the gold, has heeded well their chatter. "The world's wealth," he mutters; "might I win that by the spell of the gold? Nay, though love be the forfeit, my cunning shall win me delight." Then terribly loud he cries, "Mock ye, mock on! The Nibelung neareth your toy;--" then, clambering with haste to the summit, "My hand, it quenches your light; I wrest from the rock your gold; I fashion the ring of revenge; Now, hear me, ye floods-- Accursèd be love henceforth." Tearing the gold from the rock, he plunges into the depths and disappears. After him dive the maidens. In vain. Far, far below, from Nibelheim rises the mocking laughter of Alberich, Lord of the Gold. The scene changes. An open space on a mountain height becomes visible. The dawning day lights up a castle, glittering with pinnacles, on the top of a cliff. Below flows silent the Rhine. At one side, on a flowery bank, Wotan (Odin), king of the gods, lies sleeping, and Fricka (Frigga) his wife. They wake. Wotan turns toward his castle, new-built by the giants, and exults; but Fricka reminds him of the terrible price that is yet to be paid for its building,--none other, forsooth, than the person of Freia, the fair one, the goddess of spring and love, she who tends the garden of the gods, and whose apples, eaten from day to day, confer eternal youth,--she is the wage that the giants will claim. "I mind me well of the bargain," returns Wotan, "but I give no thought to fulfill it. My castle stands; for the wage--fret not thyself." "Oh, laughing, impious lightness," reproves him Fricka, "thy bargain is fast, and is still to rue." Nay, on the moment rushes Freia to them, pleading, pursued by the giants. "Give her to us!" they cry,--Fasolt and Fafner, mighty twain that unslumbering had reared the walls of Wotan's castle, to win them a woman, winsome and sweet. "Now pay us our wage!" "Nay," coolly answers Wotan, "other guerdon ask. Freia may I not grant!" But the giants insist. They accuse the god of faithlessness. He jests with them, temporizing, awaiting anxiously the arrival of Loge (Loki), spirit of cunning, at whose suggestion that bargain had been struck. For even then Loge had secretly assured Wotan that Freia should in the emergency be ransomed. The giants, indignant at the delay, press on Freia. She calls on her brothers, Froh (Freyr) and Donner (Thor). They rush to her rescue: Froh clasps the fair one; Donner plants himself before the importunates. "Know ye the weight of my hammer's blow?" thunders he. There is battle in the air. Then enters Loge, demon of fire, mischief-maker, traitor, and thief, whom long ago Wotan had lifted from his evil brood and of him made a friend and counselor. "Now hear, crabbèd one; keep thy word," says Wotan, sharply. Loge appears to be nonplussed. He has restlessly searched to the ends of the world to find a ransom for Freia; "but naught is so rich that giant or man will take it as price for a woman's worth and delight." He has sought amid the forces of water and earth and air; "but naught is so mighty that giant or man will prefer it above a woman's worth and delight!" And yet,--slyly Loge lets fall the word,--there is the ruddy Gold: "Yea, one I looked on, but _one_, who love's delights forswore, for ruddy gold renouncing the wealth of woman's grace." And he recounts the marvels of the Rhine-gold. The giants offer to take it in lieu of Freia; nay, gods and goddesses as well are held by the charm of the glittering hoard; by the lure, and the dread too, of the Ring that, once fashioned, gives measureless might to its lord. Even now, doubtless, he who has forsworn love has muttered the magic rune and rounded the sovereign circlet of gold. If so, the gods themselves shall be his slaves,--slaves of the Nibelung Alberich. "The ring I must win me," decides Wotan. "But at the cost of love?" queries Froh. Loge counsels the theft of the gold from Alberich and its restoration to the daughters of the Rhine. But the gods are not thus far-sighted, and the giants insist upon the hoard as their due. They seize Freia, and bear her away as pledge till that ransom be paid.... "Alack, what aileth the gods?" It is Loge who speaks. A pale mist falls upon the scene, gradually growing denser. The light of the heavenly abodes is quenched. Wotan and all his clan become increasingly wan and aged. Freia of the Garden is departed: the apples of youth are decaying; "old and gray, worn and withered, the scoff of the world, dies out the godly race!" "Up, Loge," calls Wotan, dismayed, "descend with me. To Nibelheim go we together. To win back our youth, the golden ransom must I gain." The scene changes to Nibelheim, the subterranean home of the Nibelungs. Wotan and Loge find Mime, Alberich's brother, bewailing the fate of the Nibelungs--for Alberich has fashioned the Ring and all below groan under his tyranny. Even now, reluctantly indeed, Mime is forging the _Tarnhelm_ for his tyrant brother,--a wishing-cap by whose magic the wearer may transfer himself through space and assume whatever form he please, or make himself invisible, at will. Alberich, in the flush of power, enters, driving before him with brandished whip a host of Nibelungs from the caverns. They are laden with gold and silver handiwork. At Alberich's command they heap it in a pile. He draws the Ring from his finger; the vanquished host trembles and, shrieking, cowers away. "What seek ye here?" demands he, looking long and suspiciously at Wotan and Loge. They have heard strange tidings, says Wotan, and they come to see the wonders that Alberich can work. Then Loge induces the Nibelung lord to exhibit the virtues of the Tarnhelm. Readily beguiled, he displays his necromantic power. First he transforms himself into a loathly dragon. The gods pretend dismay:--he can make himself great; can he make himself small, likewise? "Pah, nothing simpler! Look at me now!" He dons the Tarnhelm, and lo, a toad! "There, grasp quickly," says Loge. Wotan places his foot on the toad, and Loge seizes the Tarnhelm. Alberich becomes visible in his own form, writhing under Wotan's foot. The gods bind him and drag him to the chasm by which they had descended. The scene changes to the open space before Valhalla. Alberich, dragged in by Loge, is forced to deliver up the hoard and the Tarnhelm and the Ring. Wotan contemplates the Ring and puts it on. Alberich is set at liberty. "Am I now free?" cries he, "free in sooth? Thus greets you then my freedom's foremost word: As by curse it came to me, accursed forever be this Ring! As its gold gave measureless might, let now its magic deal death to its lord. Its wealth shall yield pleasure to none. Care shall consume him who doth hold it. All shall lust after its delights; yet naught shall it boot him who wins the prize! To its lord no gain let it bring; and forever be murder drawn in its wake, till again once more in my hand, rewon, I hold it!" So the baffled Nibelung curses, and departs. Then enter Fricka, Donner, and Froh, followed soon by the giants, who bring Freia back. They refuse, Fasolt and Fafner, to release the fair goddess until she is fully redeemed; and they claim not only Tarnhelm and gold, but Ring as well. With the Ring Wotan refuses to part. In that moment rises from a rocky cleft the goddess of the earth, Erda, the beloved of heaven's god, and mother by him of the Valkyries. "Yield it, Wotan, yield it," she cries warningly. "Flee the Ring's dread curse." "What woman warneth me thus?" "All that e'er was, know I," pronounces Erda: "How all things are; How all things shall be. Hear me! hear me! hear me! All that e'er was, endeth: A darksome day Dawns for your godhood! Be counseled; give up the Ring." She vanishes, the all-wise one; and Wotan surrenders the Ring. Freia is redeemed, and the gods glow again with youth. No sooner have the giants gained possession of the Ring than they proceed to quarrel over it. Fafner strikes out with his staff and stretches Fasolt on the ground. From the dying man he hastily wrests the Ring, puts it into his sack, and goes on quietly packing the gold. In a solemn silence the gods stand horrified. Care and fear fetter the soul of Wotan. That he may shake himself free of them he determines to descend to Erda; she yet can give him counsel. But first,--for Donner has cleared with his thunder and lightning the clouds that had overspread the scene,--he will enter "Valhalla," his castle, golden-gleaming in the evening sunlight. "What meaneth the name, then?" asks Fricka, as they cross the rainbow bridge. Wotan evades the question, for he still dreads the curse pronounced by the Nibelung upon all who have owned the Ring; and that name, "Valhalla," indicates just the means by which he hopes to escape the curse. He has thought to avert the doom of the gods by gathering in this Valhalla, or Hall of the Slain, the spirits of heroes fallen in battle--especially of heroes of a race that shall spring from himself, the Volsungs (or Wälsungs) yet to be born. They shall do battle for the gods when sounds the crack of doom. But of all this Wotan says naught. He will say in the hour of his triumph. As the gods enter Valhalla the plaints of the Rhine-maidens for the loss of their gold arise from the river below. =286.= In =The Valkyrie= Wotan proceeds with his plan. During his wanderings on earth, under the name of Wälse, he has become the father of twin children, Siegmund and Sieglinde. These have, in early youth, been separated by the murderous turmoil of warring clans, but now they are to be reunited; and Wotan, with a primitive disregard of the fact that they are brother and sister, intends to make them man and wife, in order that from them may issue the heroic race that, in the latter days, shall defend Valhalla from the onslaught of the powers of evil. The play opens with the interior of a woodland lodge. In the center rises the stem of a mighty ash tree, about which has been built an apartment of roughly hewn logs. It is toward evening and a violent thunderstorm is just subsiding. This is the home of Hunding, chieftain of the Neiding clan. The door opens, and Siegmund, flying from his enemies, wounded and weaponless, enters. Seeing no one, he closes the door, strides toward the fire, and throws himself wearily down on a bearskin: "Whoe'er own this hearth, Here must I rest me." He remains stretched out motionless. A woman enters from an inner chamber. It is Sieglinde. She takes compassion on the helpless fugitive, admires his noble bearing, gives him drink, and bids him tarry till her husband be home. They gaze upon each other with ever-increasing interest and emotion. Suddenly Siegmund starts up as if to go. "Who pursues thee?" she inquires. "Ill fate pursues where'er I go. To thee, wife, may it never come. Forth from thy house I fly." She calls him back. "Then bide thou here. Thou canst not bring ill fate where ill fate already makes its home." He leans against the hearth. Again the eyes of the twain meet. Hunding enters, regards the stranger with suspicion, notes the resemblance between him and Sieglinde; but he consents to harbor him for the night. "Thy name and fortune?" "Wehwalt," says Siegmund, "for woe still waits on my steps; Wehwalt, the son of Wolfe." And thus concealing his race, he tells a story in other respects true: how in his childhood a cruel host had laid waste his home and killed his mother and carried away the sister who was his twin, and how he and his father, the Wolf, for years had battled in the woodlands against the Neidings. The Neidings! They are Hunding's clan. "My house holds thee, Wölfing, to-night. To-morrow defend thee; with death thou shalt pay for this life!" And Hunding withdraws, Sieglinde with him. Siegmund is weaponless. The firelight sends a sudden glow upon the ash tree, and a sword-hilt there sends back an answering gleam. But Siegmund knows not what it means. Clad in white, Sieglinde steals from the inner room. She has left Hunding asleep, overcome by a slumberous draft. "Thy coming is life," cries Siegmund. "A weapon, now, let me show thee," she replies. And she tells how, on the day of her unhappy wedding, a stranger, all in gray, low-hatted and one-eyed, had entered the Hunding hall and struck into the ash stem a sword that none but the bravest of heroes could win, and how all in turn had tried in vain to draw forth the sword. Now she knows for whom it was ordained,-- "It was for thee, my deliverer, my hero held in my arms!" They embrace. He declares his lineage. He is son of him whose eye proudly glistened from under the low-brimmed hat,--son of Wälse, the wanderer. He is Siegmund, the Victorious. For him, the sword Nothung.--And he draws it easily forth. "Art thou Siegmund?" she cries; "Sieglinde am I. Thine own twin sister thou winnest at once with the sword." "Bride and sister be to thy brother; then nourish the Wälsungs for aye!" So the twain make their compact. In the second act we are transported to a wild and rocky place. Before Wotan, fully armed and carrying his spear, stands Brünnhilde, the warrior maid, likewise fully armed. She is one of the nine Valkyries, daughters of Wotan and Erda, fostered for battle that they might forfend the doom foretold by Erda herself,--the shameful defeat of the gods. Well have the Valkyrs, choosers of the slain, performed their task, stirring mortal hearts to battle and riding through the air above to designate the bravest for death, and with their spirits to fill the halls on Valhalla's height. Now, however, Wotan is ordering Brünnhilde to haste to the fray,--not on death's errand but on errand of life,--to shield Siegmund the Wälsung in the fight. The Valkyrie springs shouting from rock to rock, and disappears behind the mountain crags. All seems to be arranged. But lo, Fricka, in her ram-drawn car! She descends and strides toward her scheming spouse. The goddess has heard the cry of Hunding, calling for vengeance on the twinborn pair who have rashly wrought him wrong; and as guardian of wedlock she demands the death of Siegmund in the coming conflict. Wotan tries to persuade her that Siegmund's success is needful to the gods,--the warrior band of mortal souls gathered by the Valkyries in the heights of Valhalla cannot alone suffice to avert the onslaught of the powers of darkness. "Needed is one who, free from help of godhood, fights free of the godhead's control. Only such an one is meet for the deed which is denied to a god to achieve." But Fricka is not to be deceived nor thwarted in her aim. She brushes aside the plea of Wotan and his subterfuge,--who has ever heard that heroes can accomplish what the gods cannot? And as for heroes unaided--none such is Siegmund. "Who was it," she asks, "that brought him his conquering sword? and whose shield is ordained to cover him in the fight?" "I cannot o'erthrow him," breaks out Wotan; "he has found my sword." "Destroy its magic then," retorts the implacable queen. "Give word to thy shouting war-maid that Siegmund fall!" Wotan is conquered. Sadly he revokes the order given to Brünnhilde. "Then takest thou from Siegmund thy shield?" cries that one in amazement. And the god: "Yea! though Alberich's host threaten our downfall; though again the Ring be won by the Nibelung, and Valhalla be lost forever. By bargains bound myself, I may not wrest the Ring from the foeman, from Fafner the giant. Therefore, to fulfill my purpose, I had thought to create a Free One who for me should fight. Now, with loathing, I find ever myself in all my hand has created. The Other for whom I have longed, that Other I never shall find. Himself must the Free One create him; my hand shapes nothing but slaves. For when this hand of mine touched Alberich's Ring, my heart grew greedy of gold. I fled from the curse, but the curse flies not from me. What I love best must I surrender; whom most I cherish, I must slay. One thing awaits me yet--the downfall! Yea, that portended Erda,--Erda, the all-wise. "'When the dusky foe,' she said,-- 'When the dusky foe of love Grimly getteth a son, The doom of the gods Delays not long!' And of late I have heard that the Nibelung has bought him a wife. Their son shall inherit,--their son, the child of spite, shall inherit the empty pomp of the gods!" It was of Hagen, yet unborn, the baleful curse of the Volsungs, of Hagen, the traitor, that Erda had prophesied. And thus dimly is foreshadowed the Twilight of the Gods. But Brünnhilde? "Siegmund thou hast taught me to love," murmurs the Valkyrie. Then boldly,-- "For his sake thy wavering word I defy!" The war-father turns in wrath upon this new rebellion, and on pain of eternal penalty enjoins upon his daughter her new duty: "Fight truly for Fricka! Siegmund strike thou! Such be the Valkyrie's task!" The war-maid seeks out Siegmund and announces to him his approaching death. But that hero's distress at the thought of parting from Sieglinde stirs her to the quick. And, in the moment of battle, Brünnhilde disobeys the All-father's injunction;--she shields the warrior whom she loves. Then suddenly appears Wotan, standing over Hunding and holding his spear across in front of Siegmund. "Go back from the spear! In splinters the sword!" shouts the god. In terror Brünnhilde sinks back. Siegmund's sword breaks on the outstretched spear, and Hunding pierces the Volsung's breast. Brünnhilde hastily gathers the bits of the broken sword, lifts Sieglinde to horse, and escapes through the gorges behind. The scene changes to the Valkyries' rocky home. Through the drifting clouds come riding the eight sisters of Brünnhilde, in full armor each, and each bearing before her the body of some slain hero. They await Brünnhilde. She, fleeing from Wotan's pursuit, at last arrives. She implores them to shield Sieglinde from the wrath of the god, but unsuccessfully; and then she urges Sieglinde to fly. At first, benumbed by despair, the widowed woman refuses; but when Brünnhilde mentions the child that is to be born--the world's most glorious hero--she consents. "Him thou shalt bear, thy son and Siegmund's. For him ward thou well these mighty splinters of his father's sword. He shall weld them anew and swing the victorious blade! His name from me let him take--'Siegfried'; for Siegfried in _triumph_ shall live!" Comforted and hopeful, Sieglinde betakes herself to that forest far to the east, where the Nibelung's hoard had been borne by Fafner. There, in dragon's form, he guarded the gold and the Ring; and thither Wotan is not likely to pursue. It thunders and lightens. Wotan, raging terribly, strides from crag to crag. The other Valkyries are driven from the scene. Brünnhilde hears her doom: "The heavenly host No more shall know thee; Outcast art thou From the clan of the gods: The bond by thee has been broken; Henceforth from sight of my face art thou banned!" Immortal, she had followed the might of love; mortal, now she shall sleep, and that sleep shall endure till one comes to awaken her; and to him, whosoe'er it may be, she shall be subject thenceforth. The Valkyrie drops to her knees: "Ah, let no craven awake me!" she cries. "Surround me with horrors, with fires that shall fright: that none but the most fearless of heroes may find me here on the fell!" Wotan accedes to her petition. He kisses her on both eyes and lays her unconscious, asleep, in the shade of a broad-branching fir tree. Then,-- "Appear! Come, waving fire, And wind thee in flames round the fell! Loge, Loge, appear!" A sea of flames encircles the spot, and Wotan proclaims: "He who my spear-point's Sharpness feareth Shall cross not this flaming fire!" Alone, under her long steel shield, sleeps the Valkyrie. =287. Siegfried.= The drama of Siegfried opens in the cavern of Mime, in the forest "far to the east" to which Sieglinde had fled. Mime, the dwarf, is he whom erstwhile his Nibelung brother, Alberich, then lord of the Ring, had held in thrall at the bottom of the Rhine. Some years before the events represented in this play, the dwarf had found Sieglinde dying in the woods, and had received from her Siegfried, her new-born son, and with him the pieces of Siegmund's broken sword, Nothung. Young Siegfried, noble, proud, and strong, has been nurtured in ignorance of his lineage and destiny, as Mime's son. But of that lineage and destiny the cunning dwarf is well aware; and while he trains Siegfried to doughty deeds, he ceaselessly forges at the splinters of the sword, hoping to reweld them himself and through Siegfried's might to win victory over Fafner, the present lord of the Ring, and so achieve unmeasured wealth and the mastery of the world. But Siegfried despises his foster-father and seeks ever to discover the story of his own descent. The attempts of Mime to shape anew the pieces of Nothung fail; and he daily forges other swords, which Siegfried scorns and breaks at the first trial. In the course of time, however, there comes to Mime's cave a "Wanderer"--it is Wotan himself--and tells the dwarf that only one, a man who knows not fear, can remake the all-conquering sword. He tells him, too, of the mighty spear, fashioned of the world ash tree's hallowed branches, with which he, Wotan, rules the earth. But no word he says of the doom that is to befall that spear at the blow of the conquering sword,--the doom, forsooth, of the gods themselves. Mime, after trying in vain to arouse in Siegfried the sense of fear, suggests to the youth that he try to reforge Nothung. Siegfried seizes the splinters, pounds them, and files them to powder; melts them over the charcoal of the ash tree's stem, and, singing at his work, refashions the sword. While this is doing, through the pauses of Siegfried's song can be heard the voice of Mime, muttering: "The sword will be forged ... and Fafner vanquished.... When Siegfried has slain that dragon ... he will be athirst.... I will brew him a drink.... One drop will lay him in sleep.... With the sword that he forges I'll kill him.... Mine, then, the Ring and the hoard!" At last the sword is shaped and sharpened. Siegfried swings it before him: "Nothung, Nothung, conquering sword; again to life have I woke thee! Strike at the traitor, cut down the knave! See, Mime, thou smith; so sunders Siegfried's sword!" and he strikes the anvil in twain from top to bottom. It falls asunder with a great noise, and the dwarf drops with terror to the ground. The scene changes to the forest in front of Fafner's cave. Alberich is watching gloomily by, and the Wanderer rides in to taunt him with false hope of the Ring. "A hero nears to set free the hoard," says the Wanderer. "Fafner will fall. Perchance if Alberich warn the dragon, he may win the Ring in token of gratitude." Alberich makes the approaches. Fafner yawns: "I have and I hold; let me slumber!" With scornful laughter the Wanderer rides away. But "one day," snarls Alberich,--"one day shall I see you all fade, ye light-hearted eternals. The wise one keepeth his watch and surely worketh his spite!" As the day breaks Siegfried and Mime enter, Siegfried wearing his sword hung in a girdle of rope, and blithely blowing a horn. Fafner, in the shape of a huge lizardlike dragon, comes out of his cave and forward to the stream for water. At sight of the nonchalant youth piping his wood-notes gay, the monster emits a snort that serves his need of a laugh,--"I came for drink; now, too, I find food." The conflict is speedily joined. More than once Siegfried is well-nigh lost; but his chance comes. The dragon exposes his heart, and Siegfried sinks his sword into it up to the hilt. In the moment of death, Fafner warns the young hero to beware of him who stirred him to the fight. But Siegfried pays little heed. The blood of the dragon bespatters his hand; it burns. Siegfried involuntarily carries his hand to his lips. There is a wood bird singing. Siegfried regards him with astonishment. "Almost," he says, "it seems as wood birds were speaking to me," and he hearkens. "Hei!" sings the wood bird; "now Siegfried owns all the Nibelung's hoard. Let him but search the cavern, and hoard, Tarnhelm, and Ring will make him the lord of the world!" "Thanks, dearest birdling," Siegfried replies, and possesses himself of Tarnhelm and Ring. The hoard he leaves where it was. "Hei!" sings the wood bird; "Ring and Tarnhelm Siegfried has won. Now let him not trust the treacherous tongue of the falsest of friends!" No sooner is that warning given than Mime, who has meanwhile been wrangling with Alberich over the division of the spoils, creeps forward. "See, thou art weary; drink of the broth I have brewed, and take rest," he says smilingly to Siegfried. But under his breath he is muttering, "Drink, and choke thee to death," as he pours the draft into the drink horn and offers it. "Taste thou my sword, loathsome babbler!" cries the young hero, and strikes him dead at a blow; then pitches his body on top of the hoard and stops up the mouth of the cave with the grinning corpse of the dragon. "Thanks, friendliest birdling! But happiness yet have I not. Brothers and sisters hast thou; but I--am so alone; nor brother nor sister, nor father nor mother. One comrade had I; he laid out to catch me, and now I have slain him, perforce. Ah, birdling, find me a comrade true!" "Hei!" chatters the wood bird; "a glorious bride for Siegfried have I. On a rocky fastness she sleeps, and guarded by fire is her home. Who fighteth the flames wakens the maid; Brünnhilde, Brünnhilde, he wins for his own!" "Where'er thou fliest, follows my foot," shouts Siegfried, bubbling with joy. The scene changes. In a wild spot at the foot of a rocky mountain Wotan, the Wanderer, desiring the success of Siegfried and still knowing that that success involves the doom of the gods, seeks counsel from Erda. The all-wise one refuses to answer,--refers him to the Norns. "The Norns are waking, they wind the rope. The Norns will give thee answer!" "Ah, no!" replies the Wanderer. "Their weaving is ever in thrall to fate. To thee I come that I may learn how to stay the wheel that is already rolling." "Ask Brünnhilde!" "In vain, All-wise One; the piercing sting of care was planted by thee. Ruin and downfall were foretold by thee. Say to me, now, how a god may conquer his care!" "Thou art--_not_ what thou hast said." No more will Erda vouchsafe. Not what he has said! Then, surely, the gods are beyond redemption. But not even so shall the harvest be reaped by the Nibelungs. "Nay, to the Volsung shall be my heritage," decrees Wotan: "to him who has known me never, though chosen by me; to the lad of dauntless daring, though untaught by my counsel. Pure from greed, gladdened by love-dreams, he has won the Nibelung's Ring. Against him the curse of Alberich cannot avail." While yet the Wanderer is speaking, Erda descends to endless sleep. Dawn illumines the scene. Siegfried's bird comes fluttering to the foreground, but, frighted by vision of the god, takes wing and disappears. Siegfried presses on. "My birdling has flown from my eyes," he remarks. "I needs must find out the rock for myself." "The way that the wood bird pointed," announces Wotan, encountering him, "shalt thou not pass!" "Ho ho! Wouldst thou stay me? Who art thou, then, that here withstandest?" "Fear the fell's defender! By my might the slumbering maid is held enchained. He who should wake her, he who should win her, mightless would make me forever. Go back, then, foolhardy boy!" As the Wanderer speaks, the splendor spreads from the flame-girdled rock above. "Go back thyself, thou babbler! There where the fires are blazing,--to Brünnhilde now must I hie!" And Siegfried pushes forward. The Wanderer bars the way to the mountain: "Once already that sword of thine, Nothung, has broken on the haft of this sacred spear!" "'Tis, then, my father's slayer!" thinks Siegfried; and nothing loath to face that foe, he raises the new-forged sword and strikes to pieces the All-father's spear! "Fare on," says Wotan, quietly picking up the fragments, "I cannot withstand thee." The god vanishes in darkness. The hero, light-hearted, blowing his horn, scales the cliffs, passes the fire,--wakes Brünnhilde. She, at first, with maidenly might struggles against his passion for her and her growing tenderness for him. She deplores the byrnie, shield and helm, symbols of her godhead, that he has torn from her. But, mortal now, she surrenders to a mortal's love: "O Siegfried, Siegfried, child of delight, Love thyself,--and turn thee from me; Oh, bring not thine own to naught!" And Siegfried: "I--love thee: didst thou but love me! Mine am I no more: oh, would that thou wert mine!... Waken, O maid; live in laughter: Sweetest delight, be mine, be mine!" Then she, with a joyful cry: "Oh, child of delight! Oh, glorious hero! Thou foolish lord of loftiest deeds! Laughing must I love thee, Laughing welcome my blindness; Laughing let us be lost, With laughter go down to death.... Farewell, Valhalla's light-giving world: Thy stately towers let fall in dust! Farewell, O glittering pomp of the gods! Complete your bliss, eternal host! Now rend, ye Norns, your rope of runes: Dusk of Gods in darkness arise; Night of downfall dawn in mist!" And thus, turning their backs on Valhalla, and radiant with the light of human love, the twain, laughing, face toward death. =288. The Twilight of the Gods.= The play opens with a prelude. By the Valkyrie's rock sit the three Norns and sing of past, present, and future, weaving through the night their rope of runes. As they foretell the burning of Valhalla and the end of the gods, the rope breaks, and the Norns disappear into the earth. The sun rises, and in the first act of the play Siegfried and Brünnhilde enter from their cave. She sends him forth in quest of heroic adventures in the world, giving him her horse, Grane, and receiving from him the Ring as a pledge of his love. The scene changes, and we behold the interior of the Gibichungs' hall on the Rhine. Gunther and Gutrune, his sister, are in converse with Hagen, their half brother,--dark and treacherous son of Grimhilde, their mother, and of Alberich the Nibelung, erstwhile owner of the Ring. Hagen alone knows, it would seem, that Siegfried has already ridden through the flames and won Brünnhilde. The others know merely that that hero has slain Fafner and is lord of the Tarnhelm, hoard, and Ring. Hagen, anxious to regain the heritage of the Nibelungs, urges marriage on Gunther, naming Brünnhilde as a fitting bride for him. As, however, Siegfried alone can pass through the fire to come at her, he proposes that Gutrune shall win Siegfried's love and induce him to serve Gunther. Siegfried's horn is heard, and he presently enters and is made welcome. Gutrune, at the instigation of Hagen, brings Siegfried a potion which causes him to love her, and drives clean out of his mind all memory of Brünnhilde. In the madness of his passion for Gutrune, Siegfried swears blood-brotherhood with Gunther, and promises by the aid of the Tarnhelm to make Brünnhilde Gunther's wife, if only in return Gutrune shall be his. The newly sworn "brothers" depart for Brünnhilde's rock. In the next scene we are again before the home of Brünnhilde. Waltraute, a Valkyrie, comes to beg Brünnhilde to give back the Ring to the Rhine-maidens, and so avert the doom of the gods. "What, then, aileth the immortals?" cries Brünnhilde in alarm. "Since Wotan doomed thee, no more hath he sent us to war," replies Waltraute. "No more hath he gathered the souls of the slain about him in Valhalla. Alone he has ridden unceasing through the world. But, one day, home he came bearing his spear all splintered in his hand. Wordless, with a sign he bade Valhalla's heroes hew the world ash tree in pieces and pile it like firewood around the Hall of the Blest. And from that hour silent he sits on his throne, about him the awe-struck gods and heroes, the war-maids cowering at his knees. None tastes the apples of youth. To-day Wotan remembered thee; his eye grew soft and, as dreaming, he spake: 'If once more the daughters of Rhine Should win from her finger the Ring, Of the load of the curse Were the world and immortals made free.' Brünnhilde, yield up the Ring, and end all the grief of the world!" "The Ring?" wails Brünnhilde. "Knowest thou what 'tis to me? One flash of its fire outvalues all heaven's delight; for the gleam of that Ring is Siegfried's love! "From love I never shall turn; Of his love they never shall rob me, Though into ruins Valhalla's splendor should fall!" Thus Brünnhilde refuses, and sends Waltraute away to take her defiance to Valhalla. But retribution is swift, for on the moment Siegfried, changed to Gunther's shape by the Tarnhelm, comes and claims Brünnhilde as his bride. She resists and threatens him with the Ring. But now Siegfried, forgetful of the past, struggles for another with his own dear wife, overcomes her, and wrests the Ring from her. He then commands her to go into the cave, whither, after drawing his sword to lay between them as symbol of his loyalty to Gunther, he follows her. The second act is outside the Gibichungs' hall. It is early morning of the next day. After a short scene in which the ever-plotting Alberich urges Hagen to get the Ring, Siegfried returns and tells Hagen and Gutrune of the winning of Brünnhilde and her approach with Gunther. Hagen calls together the vassals to welcome Gunther and his bride. The royal pair presently arrive and are received with loud acclaim. Straightway Brünnhilde recognizes Siegfried (who, however, does not know her) and, seeing the Ring on Siegfried's finger, she asks Gunther what he has done with the ring he took from her. His confusion reveals the truth to her, and she proclaims that she is wedded to Siegfried and not to Gunther. Siegfried swears on the point of Hagen's spear that her accusation is false. She repeats it, taking the same oath. Siegfried, Gutrune, and their vassals go out to prepare for the double wedding celebration; Gunther, Hagen, and Brünnhilde remaining solemnly condemn Siegfried to death for what seems treachery to one and all. Hagen, left alone, glories in the prospect of regaining the Ring. The third act discloses an open place on the banks of the Rhine. The three Rhine-maidens pray to the sun for the return of the Rhine-gold. Siegfried, who has strayed from his companions on a hunting expedition, comes to the river bank. The maidens unsuccessfully attempt, by wiles and warnings of ill fate, to get the Ring from him, and finally swim away, foretelling his death that very day. Gunther, Hagen, and their vassals come to the place, and all sit down to rest. At Hagen's suggestion Siegfried relates the story of his life. But, lo! when he comes to the episode of his first passage through the fire, a draft given him by Hagen restores his memory, and innocently he tells of the waking and winning of Brünnhilde. All start up in amaze; Hagen stabs Siegfried in the back with his spear, and steals away. Siegfried falls, and after a few words sung to Brünnhilde, whom he sees as in a vision, he dies. His body is placed on a bier and borne away by the vassals with great pomp and state as the sun sets. In the last scene we have the interior of the Gibichungs' hall as before. It is night. Gutrune comes from her chamber anxious for Siegfried. Presently Hagen's voice is heard calling for torches to light the returning hunters. He enters and, in reply to Gutrune's questions, tells her that Siegfried has been slain by a wild boar. Then come the vassals, bearing Siegfried's body. It is placed on a bier in the center of the hall. Hagen claims the Ring as his right for slaying Siegfried, but Gunther defies him to touch Gutrune's heritage. They fight and Gunther falls. As Hagen approaches the corpse to take the Ring, the dead Siegfried raises his arm threateningly. All start back in horror, and just then Brünnhilde enters and comes down to the bier. Here, after ordering a pyre to be built on the river bank, she sings a funeral song over Siegfried. The body, from which she has taken the Ring, is then placed on the pyre. Setting the Ring on her own finger, Brünnhilde calls on the Rhine-maidens to take it in turn from her ashes: "Let fire, burning this hand Cleanse, too, the Ring from its curse." She applies the torch: "So cast I the brand On Valhall's glittering walls.-- When ye see in the kindling fire, Siegfried and Brünnhild' consumed; When ye see the river-daughters Bear the Ring away to the deep: To northward then Look through the night! When the heaven there gleams With a holy glow, Then know ye all That Valhall's end ye behold!" Her horse is brought. She mounts it and springs into the flames, which flare up and seize on the hall itself. The river overflows and rolls over the fire. The Rhine-maidens swim up and regain the Ring. Hagen rushes into the flood to get it from them, but is dragged down to the depths by their arms as they swim away. In the sky is seen a vision of Valhalla in flames. The breed of the gods is gone like breath. The loveless Ring has worked its curse. Each in his turn its lords have bitten the dust. And Brünnhilde reads the moral: "Not goods nor gold Nor glory of gods Can fashion a blessing for weal, Can win a blessing from woe,-- But Love alone!" FOOTNOTES: [374] For the translations of the Ring, especially the verse, I am indebted to the edition of Frederick Jameson (Schott & Co., London). PART II THE HISTORY OF MYTH. CHAPTER XXX THE ORIGIN AND ELEMENTS OF MYTH =289. Kinds of Myth.= If we classify the preceding stories according to the reason of their existence, we observe that they are of two kinds,--explanatory and æsthetic. (1) _Explanatory myths_ are the outcome of naïve guesses at the truth, of mistaken and superstitious attempts to satisfy the curiosity of primitive and unenlightened peoples, to unveil the mysteries of existence, make clear the facts of the universe and the experiences of life, to account for religious rites and social customs of which the origin is forgotten, to teach the meaning and the history of things. There are certain questions that nearly every child and every savage asks: What is the world and what is man? Who made them? What else did the maker do? and what the first men? Whence came the commodities of life? Why do we celebrate certain festivals, practice certain ceremonials, observe solemnities, and partake of sacraments, and bow to this or the other god? What is death, and what becomes of us after death? The answers to such questions crystallized themselves gradually into stories of the creation, of the gods, and of the heroes--forefathers of men, but magnified, because unfamiliar, mysterious, and remote. Old literatures abound in explanatory myths of so highly imaginative a character that we moderns are tempted to read into them meanings which probably they never possessed. For the diverse and contradictory significations that have in recent years been proposed for one and the same myth could not all, at any one time, have been entertained by the myth-makers. On the other hand, the current explanations of certain myths are sufficiently apparent to be probable. "To the ancients," says John Fiske,[375] "the moon was not a lifeless body of stones and clods; it was the horned huntress Artemis, coursing through the upper ether, or bathing herself in the clear lake; or it was Aphrodite, protectress of lovers, born of the sea foam in the East, near Cyprus. The clouds were not bodies of vaporized water; they were cows, with swelling udders, driven to the milking by Hermes, the summer wind; or great sheep with moist fleeces, slain by the unerring arrows of Bellerophon, the sun; or swan-maidens, flitting across the firmament; Valkyries hovering over the battle field to receive the souls of falling heroes; or, again, they were mighty mountains, piled one above another, in whose cavernous recesses the divining wand of the storm-god Thor revealed hidden treasures. The yellow-haired sun, Ph[oe]bus, drove westerly all day in his flaming chariot; or, perhaps, as Meleager, retired for awhile in disgust from the sight of men; wedded at eventide the violet light ([OE]none, Iole) which he had forsaken in the morning; sank as Hercules upon a blazing funeral pyre, or, like Agamemnon, perished in a blood-stained bath; or, as the fish-god, Dagon, swam nightly through the subterranean waters to appear eastward again at daybreak. Sometimes Phaëthon, his rash, inexperienced son, would take the reins and drive the solar chariot too near the earth, causing the fruits to perish, and the grass to wither, and the wells to dry up. Sometimes, too, the great all-seeing divinity, in his wrath at the impiety of men, would shoot down his scorching arrows, causing pestilence to spread over the land." (2) _Æsthetic myths_ have their origin in the universal desire for amusement, in the revulsion of the mind from the humdrum of actuality. They furnish information that may not be practical, but is delightful; they elicit emotion--sympathy, tears, and laughter--for characters and events remote from our commonplace experience but close to the heart of things, and near and significant and enchanting to us in the atmosphere of imagination that embraces severed continents, inspires the dead with life, bestows color and breath upon the creatures of a dream, and wraps young and old in the wonder of hearing a new thing. The æsthetic myth, first, removes us from the sordid world of immediate and selfish needs, and then unrolls a vision of a world where men and things exist simply for the purpose of delighting us. And the enduring measure of delight which the æsthetic myth affords is the test of what we call its _beauty_. A myth, whether explanatory or æsthetic, is of unconscious growth, almost never concocted with a view to instruction. According to their subjects, æsthetic myths are either historic or romantic. (_a_) If _historic_, they utilize events which have a skeleton of fact. They supply flesh and sinew of divine or heroic adventure and character, blood and breath of probability and imagination. In historic myths the dependence of gods, heroes, and events upon the stern necessity of an overruling power, of fate or providence, is especially to be observed. Of this class is the Iliad of Homer. (_b_) If _romantic_, the myths are characterized by bolder selection or creation of fundamental events; indeed, events appear to be chosen with a view to displaying or developing the character of the hero. In such myths circumstances are not so important as what the hero does with circumstances. The hero is more independent than in the historic myth; his liberty, his choice,--in judgment, in conduct, and in feeling,--his responsibility, are the center of interest. In romantic myths like the Odyssey this sense of freedom does not impel the poet to capricious use of his material. But lesser bards than Homer have permitted their heroes to run riot in adventures that weary the imagination and offend the moral judgment. =290. Divisions of Inquiry.= We are next led to ask how these myths came into existence, and how it is that the same myth meets us under various forms in literatures and among peoples widely separate in time and place. These are questions of the _Origin_ and _Distribution_ of myths; and in this chapter we shall discuss the former. =291. Elements of the Myth.= The myths preserved in the literatures of many civilized nations, such as the Greek, present to the imaginative and the moral sense aspects fraught with contradiction. In certain myths the gods display themselves as beautiful, wise, and beneficent beings; in others they indulge in cruel, foolish, and unbeautiful practices and adventures. These contradictory elements have been called the reasonable and the senseless. A myth of Mother Earth (Demeter) mourning the loss of her daughter, the Springtide, is reasonable; a myth of Demeter devouring, in a fit of abstraction, the shoulder of the boy Pelops, and replacing it with ivory, is capricious, apparently senseless. "It is this silly, senseless, and savage element," as Max Müller says, "that makes mythology the puzzle which men have so long found it." =292. Reasonable Myths.= If myths were always reasonable, it would not be difficult to reach an agreement concerning some way by which they may have come into existence. _Imagination._ If we assume that the peoples who invented these stories of supernatural beings and events had, with due allowance for the discrepancy in mental development, imaginations like our own, there is nothing in the history of reasonable myths to baffle our understanding. For, at the present time, not only children and simple-minded men, like sailors or mountaineers, but cultivated men of ordinary poetic sensibility, bestow attributes of life upon inanimate things and abstract ideas. The sun is nowadays thirsty, the ship is a woman, the clouds threaten, charity suffereth long, the waves are angry, time will tell, and death swallows all things. The sun still rises, and, as Mr. Jasper maintains, "do move." By personification we, every day, bestow the attributes of human beings upon inanimate nature, animals, and abstractions. By our metaphors we perpetuate and diffuse the poetic illusion; we talk not perhaps of the arrows of Apollo, but of a sunstroke; our poetry abounds in symbols of the moon, of the swift-wingèd wind, of the ravening sea. In our metonymies we use the sign for the thing signified, the crown for the king, the flag for the honor of the country; and the crown and the flag are to-day possessed of attributes and individuality just as efficient as those that endowed the golden handmaids of Vulcan or the eagle of Jove. Nor is hyperbole any less in use among us than it was among the ancients; we glorify our political heroes with superlatives, they dignified theirs with divinity. _Belief._ But this resemblance in habits of imagination, while it may help us to appreciate the mental condition of primitive peoples, accentuates the distinction between our imagination and theirs. They, at some time or other, believed in these personifications. We do not believe. But their belief is easier to comprehend when we remember that the myths of savages are not a deliberate invention of any one individual, but are constructed by generations of people, and that many of them cluster about beings who were actually worshiped. Among primitive nations the sense of awe in the presence of magnificent objects of nature--mountains, the sky, the sun, the sea--is universal. It springs from the fact that savages do not deem themselves superior to nature. They are not conscious of souls whose flight is higher than that of nature. On the contrary, since sun, sea, and winds move, the savage invests them with free will and personality like man's. In proportion, however, as their size is grander or their movement more tremendous, these objects must be possessed of freedom, personality, and power exceeding those of man. Why, then, should not the savage believe, of beings worthy of worship and fear and gratitude, all and more than all that is accredited to man? Why not confer upon them human and superhuman passions and powers? If we were living, like the Greek of old, close to the heart of nature, such personification of natural powers would be more easy for us to appreciate. "If for us also, as for the Greek," says Ruskin,[376] "the sunrise means daily restoration to the sense of passionate gladness and of perfect life--if it means the thrilling of new strength through every nerve,--the shedding over us of a better peace than the peace of night, in the power of the dawn,--and the purging of evil vision and fear by the baptism of its dew;--if the sun itself is an influence, to us also, of spiritual good,--and becomes thus in reality, not in imagination, to us also, a spiritual power,--we may then soon overpass the narrow limit of conception which kept that power impersonal, and rise with the Greek to the thought of an angel who rejoiced as a strong man to run his course, whose voice, calling to life and to labor, rang round the earth, and whose going forth was to the ends of heaven." Regarding thus the religious condition of the savage, we may comprehend the existence of myths and his acceptance of them. =293. Unreasonable Myths.= But he would maintain this attitude of acceptance only in the matter of good and beneficent gods and of righteous or reasonable myths. For how could a human being believe of the god whom he worshiped and revered, deeds and attributes more silly and more shameful than man can conceive of his fellow man? When, therefore, we find senseless and shameless myths existing side by side with stories of the justice and righteousness of the same god, we must conclude that, since the worshiper could not believe both sets of attributes, he preserved his religious attitude before the good god only by virtue of rejecting the senseless myth. A man's religious belief would assist him to entertain only the reasonable myths. How, then, did the senseless and cruel stories come into existence? And were they ever believed? There are many answers to these questions. They may, however, be classified according to the theory of civilization that they assume. According to the _Theory of Deterioration_, or Human Depravity, man, although he had in the beginning knowledge of common facts, pure moral and religious ideas, and true poetic conceptions, has forgotten, with the lapse of time, the significance of words, facts, men, and events, adopted corrupt moral and religious notions, and given license to the diseased imagining of untrue and unlovely conceptions. According to the _Theory of Improvement_, or Progress, man, beginning with crude dreams and fancies about experience, life, the world, and God, has gradually developed truer and higher conceptions of his own nature, of his relation to the world about him, of duty, of art, and of religion. =294. Theory of Deterioration.= Let us consider first the interpretations of mythology that assume a backward tendency in early civilization. They are: (1) The _Historical_, or better called after its author, Euhemerus (B.C. 316), the _Euhemeristic_. This explanation assumes that myths of the gods are exaggerated adventures of historic individuals, chieftains, medicine men, heroes; and that supernatural events are distortions of natural but wonderful occurrences. In fact, it attributes to our forefathers a disease of the memory which prompted them to pervert facts. Jupiter, Odin, and Hercules were accordingly men who, after death, had been glorified, then deified, then invested with numerous characteristics and adventures appropriate to their exalted conditions of existence. The custom of worshiping ancestors, still existent in China and other countries, is adduced in support of this method of investigating myths, and it is undoubtedly true that the method explains the origin and growth of some myths. But it accounts rather for the reasonable than the senseless element of mythical adventure, while it fails to show how savages come to exaggerate their heroes into beings entirely out of the realm of that actual experience which is the basis of the historical assumption. (2) _The Philological Interpretation_[377] assumes also a disease of the memory by reason of which men misunderstand and confuse the meanings of words, and misapply the words themselves. Professor Max Müller calls this affection a disease of language. In ancient languages every such word as _day_, _night_, _earth_, _sun_, _spring_, _dawn_, had an ending expressive of gender, which naturally produced the corresponding idea of sex. These objects accordingly became in the process of generations not only persons, but male and female. As, also, the phrases expressing the existence or the activity of these natural objects lost their ancient signification under new colloquial coloring, primitive and simple statements of natural events acquired the garb and dignity of elaborate and often incongruous narratives, no longer about natural events, but about persons. Ancient language may, for instance, have said _sunrise_ follows the _dawn_. The word for sun was masculine; the word for dawn, feminine. In time the sentence came to mean, Apollo, the god of the sun, _chases_ Daphne, the maiden of the glowing dawn. But the word, _Daphne_, meant also a laurel that burned easily, hence might readily be devoted to the god of the sun. So Daphne, the maiden, assuming the form of Daphne, the laurel, escaped the pursuit of her ardent lover, by becoming the tree sacred to his worship.[378] The merit of the philological method is, that, tracing the name of a mythical character through kindred languages, it frequently ascertains for us the family of the myth, brings to light kindred forms of the myth, discovers in what language the name was born, and sometimes, giving us the original meaning of the divine name, "throws light on the legend of the bearer of the name and on its origin and first home."[379] But unfortunately there is very often no agreement among scholars about the original meaning of the names of mythical beings. The same name is frequently explained in half a dozen different ways. The same deity is reduced by different interpreters to half a dozen elements of nature. A certain goddess represents now the upper air, now light, now lightning, and yet again clouds. Naturally the attempts at construing her adventures must terminate in correspondingly dissimilar and unconvincing results. In fine, the philological explanation assumes as its starting point masculine and feminine names for objects of nature. It does not attempt to show how an object like the ocean came to be male and not female, or how it came to be a person at all. And this latter, in studying the origin of myths, is what should first be ascertained. We must not, however, fall into the error of supposing that the philologists look for the origin and growth of all myths in words and the diseases of words. Max Müller grants that mythology does not always create its own heroes, but sometimes lays hold of real history. He insists that mythologists should bear in mind that there may be in every mythological riddle elements which resist etymological analysis, for the simple reason that their origin was not etymological, but historical. (3) _The Allegorical Interpretation_ is akin to the philological in its results. It leads us to explain myths as embodiments in symbolic guise of hidden meaning: of physical, chemical, or astronomical facts; or of moral, religious, philosophical truth. The stories would at first exist as allegories, but in process of time would come to be understood literally. Thus Cronus, who devours his own children, is identified with the power that the Greeks called Chronos (Time), which may truly be said to destroy whatever it has brought into existence. The story of Io is interpreted in a similar manner. Io is the moon, and Argus the starry sky, which, as it were, keeps sleepless watch over her. The fabulous wanderings of Io represent the continual revolutions of the moon. This method of explanation rests upon the assumption that the men who made the allegories were proficient in physics, chemistry, astronomy, etc., and clever in allegory; but that, for some unknown reason, their descendants becoming stupid, knowledge as well as wit deserted the race. In some cases the myth was, without doubt, from the first an allegory; but where the myth was consciously fashioned as an allegory, in all probability it was preserved as such. It is not, however, likely that allegories of deep scientific or philosophical import were invented by savages. Where the myth has every mark of great antiquity,--is especially silly and senseless and savage,--it is safe to believe that any profound allegorical meaning, read into it, is the work of men of a later generation, who thus attempted to make reasonable the divine and heroic narratives which they could not otherwise justify and of whose existence they were ashamed. We find, moreover, in some cases a great variety of symbolic explanations of the same myth, one with as great claim to credence as another, since they spring from the same source,--the caprice or fancy of the expounder. Among the ancients Theagenes of Rhegium, six hundred years before Christ, suggested the allegorical theory and method of interpretation. In modern times he has been supported by Lord Bacon, whose "Wisdom of the Ancients" treats myths as "elegant and instructive fables," and by many Germans, especially Professor Creuzer. (4) _The Theological Interpretation._ This premises that mankind, either in general or through some chosen nationality, received from God an original revelation of pure religious ideas, and that, with the systematic and continued perversion of the moral sense, this knowledge of truth, morality, and spiritual religion fell into corruption. So in Greek mythology the attributes of the various gods would be imperfect irradiations of the attributes of the one God. A more limited conception is, that all mythological legends are derived from the narratives of Scripture, though the real facts have been disguised and altered. Thus, Deucalion is only another name for Noah, Hercules for Samson, Arion for Jonah, etc. Sir Walter Raleigh, in his "History of the World," says, "Jubal, Tubal, and Tubal-Cain were Mercury, Vulcan, and Apollo, inventors of pasturage, smithing, and music. The dragon which kept the golden apples was the serpent that beguiled Eve. Nimrod's tower was the attempt of the giants against heaven." There are doubtless many curious coincidences like these, but the theory cannot, without extravagance, be pushed so far as to account for any great proportion of the stories. For many myths antedate the scriptural narratives of which they are said to be copies; many more, though resembling the scriptural stories, originated among peoples ignorant of the Hebrew Bible. The theory rests upon two unproved assumptions: one, that all nations have had a chance to be influenced by the same set of religious doctrines; the other, that God made his revelation in the beginning once for all, and has done nothing to help man toward righteousness since then. The theological theory has been advocated by Voss and other Germans in the seventeenth century, by Jacob Bryant in 1774, and in this century most ably by Gladstone.[380] =295.= We are now ready for the explanation of myth-making based upon the =Theory of Progress=. This is best stated by Mr. Andrew Lang,[381] whose argument is, when possible, given in his own language. To the question how the senseless element got into myths, the advocates of this theory answer that it was in the minds and in the social condition of the savages who invented the myths. But since we cannot put ourselves back in history thousands of years to examine the habits of thought and life of early savages, we are constrained to examine whether anywhere nowadays there may exist "any stage of the human intellect in which these divine adventures and changes of men into animals, trees, stars, this belief in seeing and talking with the dead, are regarded as possible incidents of daily human life." As the result of such scientific investigation, numerous races of savages have been found who at this present day accept and believe just such silly and senseless elements of myth as puzzle us and have puzzled many of the cultivated ancients who found them in their inherited mythologies. The theory of development is, then, that "the savage and senseless element in mythology is, for the most part, a legacy from ancestors of civilized races who, at the time that they invented the senseless stories, were in an intellectual state not higher than that of our contemporary Australians, Bushmen, Red Indians, the lower races of South America, and other worse than barbaric people of the nineteenth century." But what are the characteristics of the mental state of our contemporary savages? First and foremost, _curiosity_ that leads them to inquire into the causes of things; and second, _credulity_ that impels them to invent or to accept childish stories that may satisfy their untutored experience. We find, moreover, that savages nowadays think of everything around them as having life and the parts and passions of persons like themselves. "The sky, sun, wind, sea, earth, mountains, trees, regarded as persons, are mixed up with men, beasts, stars, and stones on the same level of personality and life." The forces of nature, animals, and things have for these Polynesians and Bushmen the same powers and attributes that men have; and in their opinion men have the following attributes: "1. Relationship to animals and ability to be transformed, and to transform others, into animals and other objects. "2. Magical accomplishments, such as power to call up ghosts, or to visit ghosts and the region of the dead; power over the seasons, the sun, moon, stars, weather, and so forth."[382] The stories of savages to-day abound in adventures based upon qualities and incidents like these. If these stories should survive in the literature of these nations after the nations have been civilized, they would appear senseless and silly and cruel to the descendants of our contemporary savages. In like manner, "as the ancient Greeks, Egyptians, and Norsemen advanced in civilization, their religious thought and artistic taste were shocked by myths which were preserved by local priesthoods, or in ancient poems, or in popular religious ceremonials.... We may believe that ancient and early tribes framed gods like themselves in action and in experience, and that the allegorical element in myths is the addition of later peoples who had attained to purer ideas of divinity, yet dared not reject the religion of their ancestors."[383] The senseless element in the myths would, by this theory, be, for the most part, a "survival." Instead, then, of deteriorating, the races that invented senseless myths are, with ups and downs of civilization, intellectually and morally improved, to such extent that they desire to repudiate the senseless element in their mythical and religious traditions, or to explain it as reasonable by way of allegory. This method of research depends upon the science of mind--psychology, and the science of man--anthropology. It may be called the _Anthropological Method_. The theory is that of "survival." According to this theory many of the puzzling elements of myth resolve themselves into survivals of primitive philosophy, science, or history. From the first proceed the cruder systems of physical and spiritual evolution, the generations of gods and the other-world of ghosts; from the second, the cruder attempts at explaining the phenomena of the natural and animal world by endowing them with human and frequently magical powers; from the third, the narratives invented to account for the sanctity of certain shrines and rituals, and for tribal customs and ceremonials, the origin of which had been forgotten. These last are known as _ætiological_ myths; they pretend to assign the _aitía_, or _reason_, why Delphi, for instance, should have the oracle of Apollo, or why the ritual of Demeter should be celebrated at Eleusis and in a certain dramatic manner. It is of course probable that occasionally the questionable element of the myth originated in germs other than savage curiosity and credulity: for instance, in the adventures of some great hero, or in a disease of language by which statements about objects came to be understood as stories about persons, or perhaps in a conscious allegory, or, even, in the perversion of some ancient purer form of moral or religious truth. But, in general, the root of myth-making is to be found in the mental and social condition of primitive man, the confused personality that he extended to his surroundings, and the belief in magical powers that he conferred upon those of his tribesmen who were shrewdest and most influential. This mental condition of the myth-maker should be premised in all scientific explanations of myth-making. The transition is easy from the personification of the elements of nature and the acceptance of fictitious history to the notion of supernatural beings presiding over, and governing, the different objects of nature--air, fire, water, the sun, moon, and stars, the mountains, forests, and streams--or possessing marvelous qualities of action, passion, virtue, foresight, spirituality, and vice. The Greeks, whose imagination was lively, peopled all nature with such invisible inhabitants and powers. In Greece, says Wordsworth,[384] In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched On the soft grass through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose: And, in some fit of weariness, if he, When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched, Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute, And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed That timely light, to share his joyous sport: And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, Across the lawn and through the darksome grove, Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes By echo multiplied from rock or cave, Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and stars Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, When winds are blowing strong. The traveler slaked His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings, Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque, Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth In the low vale, or on steep mountain side; And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard,-- These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God. The phases of significance and beauty through which the physical or natural myth may develop are expressed with poetic grace by Ruskin, in his "Queen of the Air."[385] The reader must, however, guard against the supposition that any myth has sprung into existence fully equipped with physical, religious, and moral import. Ruskin himself says, "To the mean person the myth always meant little; to the noble person, much." Accordingly, as we know, to the savage the myth was savage; to the devotee it became religious; to the artist, beautiful; to the philosopher, recondite and significant--in the course of centuries. "If we seek," says Ruskin, "to ascertain the manner in which the story first crystallized into its shape, we shall find ourselves led back generally to one or other of two sources--either to actual historical events, represented by the fancy under figures personifying them, or else to natural phenomena similarly endowed with life by the imaginative power, usually more or less under the influence of terror. The historical myths we must leave the masters of history to follow; they, and the events they record, being yet involved in great, though attractive and penetrable, mystery. But the stars and hills and storms are with us now, as they were with others of old; and it only needs that we look at them with the earnestness of those childish eyes to understand the first words spoken of them by the children of men. And then, in all the most beautiful and enduring myths, we shall find not only a literal story of a real person--not only a parallel imagery of moral principle--but an underlying worship of natural phenomena, out of which both have sprung, and in which both forever remain rooted. Thus, from the real sun, rising and setting; from the real atmosphere, calm in its dominion of unfading blue and fierce in its descent of tempest--the Greek forms first the idea of two entirely personal and corporeal gods (Apollo and Athena), whose limbs are clothed in divine flesh, and whose brows are crowned with divine beauty; yet so real that the quiver rattles at their shoulder, and the chariot bends beneath their weight. And, on the other hand, collaterally with these corporeal images, and never for one instant separated from them, he conceives also two omnipresent spiritual influences, of which one illuminates, as the sun, with a constant fire, whatever in humanity is skillful and wise; and the other, like the living air, breathes the calm of heavenly fortitude and strength of righteous anger into every human breast that is pure and brave. "Now, therefore, in nearly every [natural] myth of importance, ... you have to discern these three structural parts--the root and the two branches. The root, in physical existence, sun, or sky, or cloud, or sea; then the personal incarnation of that, becoming a trusted and companionable deity, with whom you may walk hand in hand, as a child with its brother or its sister; and lastly, the moral significance of the image, which is in all the great myths eternally and beneficently true." What Ruskin calls, above, the historical myth may be the euhemeristic transformation of real events and personages, as of a flood and those concerned in it; or it may be the ætiological invention of a story to account for rituals of which the origin has been forgotten, as of the Dionysiac revels, with their teaching of liberation from the sordid limits of mortality. In either case, especially the latter, the imaginative and moral significance of the historical myth has in general developed with the advance of civilization. Myth, in fine, whether natural, historical, or spiritual, "is not to be regarded as mere error and folly, but as an interesting product of the human mind. It is sham history, the fictitious narrative of events that never happened."[386] But that is not the full statement of the case. Myth is also actual history of early and imperfect stages of thought and belief; it is the true narrative of unenlightened observation, of infantine gropings after truth. Whatever reservations scholars may make on other points, most of them will concur in these: that some myths came into existence by a "disease of language"; that some were invented to explain names of nations and of places, and some to explain the existence of fossils and bones that suggested prehistoric animals and men; that many were invented to gratify the ancestral pride of chieftains and clans and to justify the existence of religious and tribal ceremonials, and the common cult of departed souls, and that very many obtained consistency and form as explanations of the phenomena of nature, as expressions of the reverence felt for the powers of nature, and as personifications, in general, of the passions and the ideals of primitive mankind.[387] FOOTNOTES: [375] Myths and Myth-Makers, p. 18. Proper nouns have been anglicized. [376] Ruskin, Queen of the Air. [377] See Max Müller's Chips from a German Workshop, Science of Religion, etc.; Cox's Aryan Myths, and numerous articles by the learned authors of Roscher's Ausführliches Lexikon. [378] Max Müller, Essay on Comparative Mythology, Oxford Essays, 1856; Science of Religion, 2, 548 _n_. [379] Andrew Lang, Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 1, 24-25, and Professor C. P. Tiele, as cited by Lang. [380] W. E. Gladstone, Homer and the Homeric Age; Juventus Mundi; The Olympian Religion, _North American Review_, Feb.-May, 1892. [381] Andrew Lang, Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 2 vols., London, 1887; and Encyc. Brit., 9th ed., article, _Mythology_. Mannhardt, Antike Wald-und Feldkultus, Berlin, 1877. E. B. Tylor, Anthropology; Primitive Culture. [382] Encyc. Brit., _Mythology_. [383] Chr. A. Lobeck, Aglaophamus: On the Causes of Greek Mythology. Cited by Lang. [384] Excursion, Bk. 4. [385] Concerning which may be accepted the verdict that Mr. Ruskin passes upon Payne Knight's Symbolical Language of Ancient Art, "Not trustworthy, being little more than a mass of conjectural memoranda; but the heap is suggestive, if well sifted." [386] E. B. Tylor, Anthropology, p. 387. New York, 1881. [387] See also L. Preller, Griechische Mythologie, 1, 19. Max Müller, Comparative Mythology, Oxford Essays, 1856, pp. 1-87; also Science of Religion, 1873, pp. 335-403; Philosophy of Mythology; and Science of Language, 7th ed., 2, 421-571. Hermann Paul, Grundriss der Germanischen Philologie, Bd. 1, Lfg. 5, 982-995, Mythologie (von E. Mogk). W. Y. Sellar, Augustan Poets. Louis Dyer, Studies of the Gods in Greece. Talfourd Ely, Olympus. A. H. Petiscus, The Gods of Olympus (translated by Katherine A. Raleigh). E. Rohde, Psyche. B. I. Wheeler, Dionysos and Immortality. CHAPTER XXXI THE DISTRIBUTION OF MYTHS =296. Theories of Resemblance.= Several theories of the appearance of the same explanatory or æsthetic myth under various guises, in lands remote one from another, have been advanced; but none of them fully unveils the mystery. The difficulty lies not so much in accounting for the similarity of thought or material in different stories, as for the resemblance in isolated incidents and in the arrangement of incidents or plot. The principal theories of the distribution of myths are as follows: (1) That the resemblances between the myths of different nations are purely _accidental_. This theory leaves us no wiser than we were. (2) That the stories have been _borrowed_ by one nation from another. This will account for exchange only between nations historically acquainted with each other. It will not account for the existence of the same arrangement of incidents in a Greek myth and in a Polynesian romance. (3) That all myths, if traced chronologically backward and geographically from land to land, will be found _to have originated_ _in India_.[388] This theory fails to account for numerous stories current among the modern nationalities of Europe, of Africa, and of India itself. It leaves also unexplained the existence of certain myths in Egypt many centuries before India had any known history: such as, in all probability, the Egyptian myth of Osiris. The theory, therefore, is open to the objection made to the theory of borrowing. (4) That similar myths are based upon _historical traditions_ similar in various countries or inherited from some mother country. But, although some historical myths may have descended from a mother race, it has already been demonstrated (§ 294, (1)) that the historical (euhemeristic) hypothesis is inadequate. It is, moreover, not likely that many historical incidents, like those related in the Iliad and the Odyssey, happened in the same order and as actual history in Asia Minor, Ithaca, Persia, and Norway. But we find myths containing such incidents in all these countries.[389] (5) That the Aryan tribes (from which the Indians, Persians, Phrygians, Greeks, Romans, Germans, Norsemen, Russians, and Celts are descended) "started from a common center" in the highlands of Northern India, "and that from their ancient home they must have carried away, if not the developed myth, yet the quickening germ from which might spring leaves and fruits, varying in form and hue according to the soil to which it should be committed and the climate under which the plant might reach maturity."[390] Against this theory it may be urged that stories having only the undeveloped germ or idea in common would not, with any probability, after they had been developed independently of each other, possess the remarkable resemblance in details that many widely separated myths display. Moreover, the assumption of this common stock considers only Aryan tribes: it ignores Africans, Mongolians, American Indians, and other peoples whose myths resemble the Aryan, but are not traceable to the same original germ. The _Aryan germ-theory_ has, however, the merit of explaining resemblances between many myths of different Aryan nations. (6) That the existence of similar incidents or situations is to be explained as resulting from the common facts of human thought, experience, and sentiment. This may be called the _psychological_ _theory_. It was entertained by Grimm, and goes hand in hand with the anthropological, or "survivalist," explanation of the elements of myth. "In the long history of mankind," says Mr. Andrew Lang, "it is impossible to deny that stories may conceivably have spread from a single center, and been handed on from races like the Indo-European and Semitic to races as far removed from them in every way as the Zulus, the Australians, the Eskimos, the natives of the South Sea Islands. But while the possibility of the diffusion of myths by borrowing and transmission must be allowed for, the hypothesis of the origin of myths in the savage state of the intellect supplies a ready explanation of their wide diffusion." Many products of early art--clay bowls and stone weapons--are peculiar to no one national taste or skill, they are what might have been expected of _human_ conditions and intelligence. "Many myths may be called 'human' in this sense. They are the rough product of the early human mind, and are not yet characterized by the differentiations of race and culture. Such myths might spring up anywhere among untutored men, and anywhere might survive into civilized literature."[391] The distribution of myth, like its origin, is inexplicable by any one theory. The discovery of racial families and of family traditions narrows the problem, but does not solve it. The existence of the same story in unrelated nationalities remains a perplexing fact, towards the explanation of which the theories of "borrowing" and of "similar historic tradition," while plausible, are but unsubstantiated contributions. And until we possess the earliest records of those unrelated nationalities that have similar myths, or until we discover monuments and log books of some commercial nation that in prehistoric times circumnavigated the globe and deposited on remote shores and islands the seeds of the parent mythic plant, we must accept as our only scientific explanation the psychological, or so-called _human_, theory:--Given similar mental condition with similar surroundings, similar imaginative products, called myths, will result.[392] FOOTNOTES: [388] Benfey and Cosquin. See Lang's Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 2, 299. [389] Lang, Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 2, 300; Cox, Mythology of the Aryan Nations, 1, 100. [390] The Rev. Sir G. W. Cox, Mythology of Aryan Nations, 1, 99; also, same theory, Max Müller's Chips from a German Workshop; Andrew Lang, Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 2, 297. [391] Encyc. Brit., 9th ed. Article, _Mythology_. Cf. Tylor's Primitive Culture, 1, 369; Tylor's Anthropology, p. 397. [392] See T. C. Johnston's Did the Ph[oe]nicians Discover America? 1892. CHAPTER XXXII THE PRESERVATION OF MYTHS =297. Traditional History.= Before the introduction of writing, myths were preserved in popular traditions, in the sacred ceremonials of colleges of priests, in the narratives chanted by families of minstrels or by professional bards wandering from village to village or from court to court, and in occasional hymns sung by privileged harpists, like Demodocus of Phæacia,[393] in honor of a chieftain, an ancestor, or a god. Many of these early bards are mere names to us. Most of them are probably as mythical as the songs with which they are accredited. The following is a brief account of mythical prophets, of mythical musicians and poets, and of the actual poets and historians who recorded the mythologies from which English literature draws its classical myths,--the Greek, the Roman, the Norse, and the German. =298. In Greece.= (1) _Mythical Prophets._ To some of the oldest bards was attributed the gift of prophecy. Indeed, nearly every expedition of mythology was accompanied by one of these seers, priests, or "medicine men," as we might call them. _Melampus_ was the first Greek said to be endowed with prophetic powers. Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's nest. The old serpents were killed by the slaves, but Melampus saved the young ones. One day when he was asleep under the oak, the serpents licked his ears with their tongues, enabling him to understand the language of birds and creeping things.[394] At one time his enemies seized and imprisoned him. But Melampus, in the silence of the night, heard from the woodworms in the timbers that the supports of the house were nearly eaten through and the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors. They took his warning, escaped destruction, rewarded the prophet, and held him in high honor. Other famous soothsayers were Amphiaraüs, who took part in the War of the Seven against Thebes; Calchas, who accompanied the Greeks during the Trojan War; Helenus and Cassandra, of King Priam's family, who prophesied for the Trojan forces; Tiresias, the blind prophet of Thebes; and Mopsus, who attended the Argonauts. The stories of these expeditions are given in preceding chapters. (2) _Mythical Musicians and Poets._ Since the poets of antiquity sang their stories or hymns to an accompaniment of their own upon the harp or lyre, they were skilled in the art of music as well as in that of verse. _Orpheus_, whose adventures have been narrated, passes in tradition for the oldest of Greek lyrists, and the special favorite, even the son, of the god Apollo, patron of musicians. This Thracian bard is said to have taught mysterious truths concerning the origin of things and the immortality of the soul. But the fragments of Orphic hymns which are attributed to him are probably the work of philosophers of a much later period in Greek literature. Another Thracian bard, _Thamyris_, is said in his presumption to have challenged the Muses to a trial of skill. Conquered in the contest, he was deprived of his sight. To _Musæus_, the son of Orpheus, was attributed a hymn on the Eleusinian mysteries, and other sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of Orpheus: But, O sad Virgin! that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek.[395] Other legendary bards or musicians were Linus, Marsyas, and Amphion. (3) _The Poets of Mythology._ _Homer_, from whose poems of the Iliad and Odyssey we have taken the chief part of our chapters on the Trojan War and the return of the Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the heroes he celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a wandering minstrel, blind and old, who traveled from place to place singing his lays to the music of his harp, in the courts of princes or the cottages of peasants,--a dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his hearers. Byron calls him "the blind old man of Scio's rocky isle"; and a well-known epigram, alluding to the uncertainty of the fact of his birthplace, runs: Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead, Through which the living Homer begged his bread. These seven places were Smyrna, Chios (now Scio), Colophon, Ithaca, Pylos, Argos, and Athens. Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the work of any single mind. This uncertainty arises, in part, from the difficulty of believing that poems of such length could have been committed to writing in the age usually assigned to these, when materials capable of transmitting long productions were not yet in use. On the other hand, it is asked how poems of such length could have been handed down from age to age by means of the memory alone. This question is answered by the statement that there was a professional body of men whose business it was to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the national and patriotic legends. Pisistratus of Athens ordered a commission of scholars (about 537 B.C.) to collect and revise the Homeric poems; and it is probable that at that time certain passages of the Iliad and Odyssey, as we now have them, were interpolated. Beside the Iliad and the Odyssey, many other epics passed in antiquity under Homer's name. The so-called Homeric Hymns to the gods, which were composed by various poets after the death of Homer, are a source of valuable information concerning the attributes of the divinities addressed. The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850 B.C. The preservation and further fashioning of myths fell, after Homer's time, into the hands of the Rhapsodists, who chanted epic songs, and of the Cyclic poets, who elaborated into various epic _circles_, or completed wholes, neglected traditions of the Trojan War. Among these cyclic poems were the Cyprian Lays, which related the beginnings of the Trojan War and the first nine years of the siege, thus leading up to the Iliad; the Æthiopis, which continued the Iliad and told of the death of Achilles; the Little Iliad and the Iliupersis, which narrated the fall of Troy and magnified the exploits of Ajax and Philoctetes; and the Nostoi, or Home-Comings, which told the adventures of various Greek heroes during the period of ten years between the end of the Iliad and the beginning of the Odyssey. Most of these poems were once attributed to Homer. They are all lost, but the names of some of their authors survive. There was also a cycle which told of the two wars against Thebes. _Hesiod_ is, like Homer, one of the most important sources of our knowledge of Greek mythology. He is thought by some to have been a contemporary of Homer, but concerning the relative dates of the two poets there is no certainty. Hesiod was born in Ascra in B[oe]otia; he spent his youth as a shepherd on Mount Helicon, his manhood in the neighborhood of Corinth, and wrote two great poems, the Works and Days, and the Theogony, or Genealogy of the Gods. From the former we obtain a connected account of Greek traditions concerning the primitive commodities of life, the arts of agriculture and navigation, the sacred calendar, and the various prehistoric ages. From the latter poem we learn the Greek mythology of the creation of the world, the family of the gods, their wars, and their attitude toward primeval man. While Hesiod may have composed his works at a somewhat later period than Homer, it is noteworthy that his stories of the gods have more of the savage or senseless element than those attributed to Homer. The artist, or artists, of the Iliad and the Odyssey seem to have refined the stories into poetic gold; Hesiod has gathered them in the ore, like so many specimens for a museum. A company of _Lyric Poets_, of whom Stesichorus (620 B.C.), Alcæus (611 B.C.), Sappho (610 B.C.), Arion (600 B.C.), Simonides of Ceos (556 B.C.), Ibycus (540 B.C.), Anacreon (530 B.C.), and Pindar (522 B.C.) are the most prominent, have contributed much to our knowledge of mythology. They have left us hymns to the gods, references to mythical heroes, and accounts of more or less pathetic legendary adventures. Of the works of _Sappho_ few fragments remain, but they establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. Her story is frequently alluded to. Being passionately in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return of affection, she is said to have thrown herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that those who should take that "Lover's Leap" would, if not destroyed, be cured of their love. Of _Arion_ the greatest work was a dithyramb or choral hymn to the god of wine. It is said that his music and song were of such sweetness as to charm the monsters of the sea; and that when thrown overboard on one occasion by avaricious seamen, he was borne safely to land by an admiring dolphin. Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the train of Neptune and Amphitrite: Then was there heard a most celestial sound Of dainty music, which did next ensue Before the spouse: that was Arion crowned Who, playing on his harp, unto him drew The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew; That even yet the dolphin which him bore Through the Ægean seas from pirates' view, Stood still by him astonished at his lore, And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.[396] _Simonides_ was one of the most prolific of the early poets of Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies, and in the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His genius was inclined to the pathetic; none could touch with truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The Lamentation of Danaë, the most important of the fragments which remain of his poetry, is based upon the tradition that Danaë and her infant son were confined by order of her father Acrisius in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The myth of her son, Perseus, has already been narrated. Myths received their freest and perhaps most ideal treatment at the hands of the greatest lyric poet of Greece, _Pindar_ (522 B.C.). In his hymns and songs of praise to gods and in his odes composed for the victors in the national athletic contests, he was accustomed to use the mythical exploits of Greek heroes as a text from which to draw morals appropriate to the occasion.[397] The three great _Tragic Poets_ of Greece have handed down to us a wealth of mythological material. From the plays of _Æschylus_ (525 B.C.) we gather, among other noble lessons, the fortunes of the family of Agamemnon, the narrative of the expedition against Thebes, the sufferings of Prometheus, benefactor of men. In the tragedies of _Sophocles_ (495 B.C.) we have a further account of the family of Agamemnon, myths of [OE]dipus of Thebes and his children, stories connected with the Trojan War, and the last adventure and the death of Hercules. Of the dramas of _Euripides_ (480 B.C.) there remain to us seventeen, in which are found stories of the daughters of Agamemnon, the rare and beautiful narrative of Alcestis, and the adventures of Medea. All of these stories have been recounted in their proper places. The _Comedies of Aristophanes_, also, are replete with matters of mythological import. Of the later poets of mythology, only two need be mentioned here,--_Apollonius_ of Rhodes (194 B.C.), who wrote in frigid style the story of Jason's Voyage for the Golden Fleece; and _Theocritus_ of Sicily (270 B.C.), whose rural idyls are at once charmingly natural and romantic.[398] (4) _Historians of Mythology._ The earliest narrators in prose of the myths, legends and genealogies of Greece lived about 600 B.C. Herodotus, the "father of history" (484 B.C.), embalms various myths in his account of the conflicts between Asia and Greece. Apollodorus (140 B.C.) gathers the legends of Greece later incorporated in the Library of Greek Mythology. That delightful traveler, Pausanias, makes special mention, in his Tour of Greece, of the sacred customs and legends that had maintained themselves as late as his time (160 A.D.). Lucian, in his Dialogues of the Gods and Dialogues of the Dead, awakens "inextinguishable laughter" by his satire on ancient faith and fable. =299. Roman Poets of Mythology.= _Virgil_, called also by his surname, Maro, from whose poem of the Æneid we have taken the story of Æneas, was one of the great poets who made the age of the Roman emperor, Augustus, celebrated. Virgil was born in Mantua in the year 70 B.C. His great poem is ranked next to those of Homer, in that noble class of poetical composition, the epic. Virgil is inferior to Homer in originality and invention. The Æneid, written in an age of culture and science, lacks that charming atmosphere of belief which invests the naïve, or _popular_, epic. The myths concerning the founding of Rome, which Virgil has received from earlier writers, he has here fused into a _literary_ epic. But what the Æneid lacks of epic simplicity, it makes up in patriotic spirit, in lofty moral and civic ideals, in correctness of taste, and in stylistic form. _Ovid_, often alluded to in poetry by his other name, Naso, was born in the year 43 B.C. He was educated for public life and held some offices of considerable dignity; but poetry was his delight, and he early resolved to cultivate it. He accordingly sought the society of contemporary poets and was acquainted with Horace and saw Virgil, though the latter died when Ovid was yet too young and undistinguished to have formed his acquaintance. Ovid spent an easy life at Rome in the enjoyment of a competent income. He was intimate with the family of Augustus, the emperor; and it is supposed that some serious offense given to a member of that family was the cause of an event which reversed the poet's happy circumstances and clouded the latter portion of his life. At the age of fifty he was banished from Rome and ordered to betake himself to Tomi on the borders of the Black Sea. His only consolation in exile was to address his wife and absent friends. His letters were all in verse. They are called the "Tristia," or Sorrows, and Letters from Pontus. The two great works of Ovid are his "Metamorphoses" or Transformations, and his "Fasti," or Poetic Calendar. They are both mythological poems, and from the former we have taken many of our stories of Grecian and Roman mythology. These poems have thus been characterized: "The rich mythology of Greece furnished Ovid, as it may still furnish the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, with materials for his art. With exquisite taste, simplicity, and pathos he has narrated the fabulous traditions of early ages, and given to them that appearance of reality which only a master hand could impart. His pictures of nature are striking and true; he selects with care that which is appropriate; he rejects the superfluous, and when he has completed his work, it is neither defective nor redundant. The 'Metamorphoses' are read with pleasure by the young and old of every civilized land." In an incidental manner, _Horace_, the prince of Roman lyric poets, and the lyric and elegiac writers, _Catullus_, _Tibullus_, and _Propertius_, have liberally increased our knowledge of Greek and Roman myth.[399] _Seneca_, the teacher of Nero, is best known for his philosophical treatises; but he wrote, also, tragedies, the materials of which are well-known Greek legends. _Apuleius_, born in Africa, 114 A.D., interests us as the compiler of a clever romance, The Golden Ass;[400] the most pleasing episode of which, the story of Cupid and Psyche, has been elsewhere related.[401] =300. Records of Norse Mythology.=[402] A system of mythology of especial interest,--as belonging to the race from which we, through our English ancestors, derive our origin,--is that of the Norsemen, who inhabited the countries now known as Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Iceland. Their mythological lore has been transmitted by means of Runes, Skaldic poems, the Eddas, and the Sagas. _The Runes._ The earliest method of writing prevalent among the Norsemen was by runes. The word means _hidden lore_, or _mystery_. The earliest runes were merely fanciful signs supposed to possess mysterious power. As a synonym for _writing_, the term was first applied to the Northern alphabet, itself derived from ancient Greek and Roman coins. Of the old Scandinavian runes several specimens have been found--one an inscription on a golden horn of the third or fourth century A.D., which was dug up in Schleswig a hundred and sixty years ago; another, on a stone at Tune in Norway. From such an alphabet the Anglo-Saxon runes were derived. Inscriptions in later Scandinavian runes have been discovered in Sweden, Denmark, and the Isle of Man. The characters are of the stiff and angular form necessitated by the materials on which they were inscribed,--tombstones, spoons, chairs, oars, and so forth.[403] It is doubtful whether mythological poems were ever written in this way; dedications to pagan deities, ditties of the eleventh century, and love-spells have, however, been found. _The Skaldic Poems._ The bards and poets of the Norsemen were the Skalds. They were the depositaries of whatever historic lore there was; and it was their office to mingle something of intellectual gratification with the rude feasts of the warriors, by rehearsing, with such accompaniments of poetry and music as their skill could afford, the exploits of heroes living or dead. Such songs were called Drapas. The origin of Skaldic poetry is lost in mythic or prehistoric darkness, but the Skalds of Iceland continued to play a most important part in the literary development of the north as late as the end of the fourteenth century. Without their coöperation, the greater part of the songs and sagas of genuine antiquity could hardly have reached us. The Skaldic diction, which was polished to an artistic extreme, with its pagan metaphors and similes retained its supremacy over literary form even after the influence of Christianity had revolutionized national thought.[404] _The Eddas._ The chief mythological records of the Norse are the Eddas and the Sagas. The word _Edda_ has usually been connected with the Icelandic for _great-grandmother_;[405] it has also been regarded as a corruption of the High German _Erda_, Mother Earth, from whom, according to the lay in which the word first occurs, the earliest race of mankind sprang,[406]--or as the _point_ or _head_ of Norse poetry,[407] or as a tale concerned with _death_,[408] or as derived from Odde, the home of the reputed collector of the Elder Edda. But, of recent years, scholars have looked with most favor upon a derivation from the Icelandic _óðr_, which means mind, or poetry.[409] There are two Icelandic collections called Eddas: Snorri's and Sæmund's. Until the year 1643 the name was applied to a book, principally in prose, containing Mythical Tales, a Treatise on the Poetic Art and Diction, a Poem on Meters, and a Rhymed Glossary of Synonyms, with an appendix of minor treatises on grammar and rhetoric--the whole intended as a guide for poets. Although a note in the Upsala manuscript, of date about 1300 A.D., asserted that this work was "put together" by Snorri Sturlason, who lived 1178-1241, the world was not informed of the fact until 1609, when Arngrim Johnsson made the announcement in his Constitutional History of Iceland.[410] While the main treatises on the poetic art are, in general, Snorri's, the treatises on grammar and rhetoric have been, with more or less certitude, assigned to other writers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It is probable, too, that in the Mythical Tales, or the Delusion of Gylfi, Snorri merely enlarged and edited with poetical illustrations the work of earlier hands. The poets of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries do not speak of Snorri, but they refer continually to the "rules of Edda," and frequently to the obscurity and the conventionality of Eddic phraseology, figures, and art. Even at the present day in Iceland it is common to hear the term "void of Eddic art," or "a bungler in Eddic art." A rearrangement of Snorri's Edda, by Magnus Olafsson (1574-1636), is much better known than the original work. In 1642, Bishop Bryniolf Sveinsson discovered a manuscript of the mythological poems of Iceland. Misled by theories of his own and by a fanciful suggestion of the famous antiquary Biorn of Scardsa, he attributed the composition of these poems to Sæmund the Wise, a historian who lived 1056-1133. Henceforth, consequently, Snorri's work is called the Younger, or Prose Edda, in contradistinction to Bryniolf's find, which is known as the Elder, the Poetical Edda, or the Edda of Sæmund. The oldest manuscript of the Poetical Edda is of the thirteenth century. Its contents were probably collected not later than 1150. The composition of the poems cannot well be placed earlier than the ninth or tenth centuries after Christ; and a consideration of the habits, laws, geography, and vocabulary illustrated by the poems leads eminent scholars to assign the authorship to emigrants of the south Norwegian tribes who, sailing westward, "won Waterford and Limerick, and kinged it in York and East England."[411] The poems are Icelandic, however, in their general character and history. They are principally of heroic and mythical import: such as the stories of Balder's Fate, of Skirnir's Journey, of Thor's Hammer, of Helgi the Hunding's Bane, and the twenty lays that in fragmentary fashion tell the eventful history of the Volsungs and the Nibelungs.[412] _The Sagas._ The Eddas contain many myths and mythical features that contradict the national character of both Germans and Norsemen, but the sagas have their roots in Norse civilization and are national property.[413] Of these mythic-heroic prose compositions the most important to us is the Volsunga Saga, which was put together probably in the twelfth century and is based in part upon the poems of the Elder Edda, in part upon floating traditions, and in part upon popular songs that now are lost.[414] =301. Records of German Mythology.=[412] The story of the Volsungs and the Nibelungs springs from mythological sources common to the whole Teutonic race. Two distinct versions of the saga survive,--the Low or North German, which we have already noticed in the lays of the Elder Edda and in the Norse Volsunga Saga, and the High or South German, which has been preserved in German folk songs and in the Nibelungenlied, or Lay of the Nibelungs, that has grown out of them. The Norse form of the story exhibits a later survival of the credulous, or myth-making, mental condition. The Lay of the Nibelungs absorbed, at an earlier date, historical elements, and began sooner to restrict the personality of its heroes within the compass of human limitations.[415] Although there are many manuscripts, or fragments of manuscripts, of the Nibelungenlied that attest its popularity between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries, it was not until the Swiss critic, J. J. Bodmer, published, in 1757, portions of two ancient poems, "The Revenge of Kriemhild" and "The Lament over the Heroes of Etzel," that the attention of modern scholars was called to this famous German epic. Since that time many theories of the composition of the Nibelungenlied have been advanced. It has been held by some that the German epic is an adaptation of the Norse version;[416] by others, that the Scandinavians, not the Germans, borrowed the story; and by others still, that the epics, while proceeding from a common cradle, are of independent growth. The last theory is the most tenable.[417] Concerning the history of the Nibelungenlied, it has been maintained that since, during the twelfth century, when no poet would adopt any other poet's stanzaic form, the Austrian Von Kürenberg used the stanzaic form of the Nibelungenlied, the epic must be his.[418] It has also been urged that the poem, having been written down about 1140, was altered in metrical form by younger poets, until, in 1200 or thereabouts, it assumed the form preserved in the latest of the three great manuscripts.[419] But the theory advanced by Lachmann is still of great value: that the poem consists of a number of ancient ballads of various age and uneven worth; and that, about 1210, a collector, mending some of the ballads to suit himself, strung them together on a thread of his own invention. In fine, the materials of the poem would persuade us not only of its origin in very ancient popular lays, but of their fusion and improvement by the imaginative effort of at least one, and probably of several poets, who lived and wrote between 1120 and 1200 A.D. The metrical structure, also, would indicate derivation from the German folk song and modification due to multifarious handling on the part of popular minstrels and poets of written verse.[420] =302. Records of Oriental Mythology: Egyptian.=[421] Although the myths of Egypt, India, and Persia are of intense interest and importance, they have not materially affected English literature. The following is, however, a brief outline of the means by which some of them have been preserved. The Egyptian records are (1) _The Hieroglyphs_, or sacred inscriptions in Tombs of the Kings, and other solemn places,--conveying ideas by symbols, by phonetic signs, or by both; (2) _The Sacred Papyri_, containing hymns to the gods; (3) _The_ _Books of the Dead_ and of the _Lower Hemisphere_,--devoted to necromantic incantations, prayers for the souls of the departed, and other rituals. =303. Indian Records.= (1) _The Vedas_, or Holy Scriptures of the Hindus, which fall into four divisions. The most ancient, the Rig-Veda, consists of hymns of an elevated and spiritual character composed by families of Rishis, or psalmists, as far back, perhaps, as 3000 B.C., not later than 1400 B.C. They give us the religious conceptions of the Aryans when they crossed the Himalayas and began to push toward Southern Hindustan. The Sama-Veda is a book of solemn chants and tunes. The Yajur-Veda comprises prayers for sacrificial occasions, and interpretations of the same. The Atharva-Veda shows, as might be expected of the youngest of the series, the influence upon the purer Aryan creed of superstitions borrowed, perhaps, from the aboriginal tribes of India. It contains spells for exorcising demons and placating them. (2) _The Indian Epics_ of classical standing. They are the Mahâbhârata and the Râmâyana. Scholars differ as to the chronological precedence. The Great Feud of the Bhâratas has the air of superior antiquity because of the numerous hands and generations that have contributed to its composition. The Adventures of Râma, on the other hand, recalls a more primitive stage of credulity and of savage invention. The Mahâbhârata is a storehouse of mythical tradition. It contains several well-rounded epic poems, the most beautiful of which is the Episode of Nala,--a prince who, succumbing to a weakness common to his contemporaries, has gambled away his kingdom. The Great Feud of the Bhâratas is, indeed, assigned to an author--but his name, Vyâsa, means simply the Arranger. The Râmâyana purports to have been written by the poet Vâlmîki. It tells how Sita, the wife of Prince Râma, is carried off to Ceylon by Râvana, king of the demons, and how Râma, by the aid of an army of monkeys, bridges the straits between India and Ceylon and, slaying the demon, recovers his lovely and innocent wife. The resemblance between the plot and that of the Iliad has inclined some scholars to derive the Indian from the Greek epic. But, until the relative antiquity of the poems is established, the Iliad might as well be derived from the Râmâyana. The theory is unsubstantiated. These epics of India lack the artistic spirit and grace of the Iliad and the Odyssey, but they display a keener sympathy with nature and a more romantic appreciation of the loves and sorrows of mankind. =304. Persian Records.= _The Avesta_, or Sacred Book of the ancient Persians, composed in the Zend language and later translated into medieval Persian,--or Pahlavi,--contains the Gáthás, or hymns of Zoroaster and his contemporaries, and scriptures of as recent a date as the fifth century B.C. Zoroaster, a holy man of God, was the founder or the reformer of the Persian religion. He lived as early as the fourteenth or fifteenth century B.C., and his system became the dominant religion of Western Asia from the time of Cyrus (550 B.C.) to the conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great. The teachings of Zoroaster are characterized by beautiful simplicity, and by an unwavering faith in the ultimate victory of righteousness (Ormuzd) over evil (Ahriman). FOOTNOTES: [393] Odyssey 8, 250. [394] Cf. the experience of Sigurd. [395] Il Penseroso, II. 103-108. [396] _Faerie Queene_, 4, 11, 23. [397] See E. B. Clapp, Greek Morality and Religion as Set forth by Pindar (_Hibbert Journal_, 8, 283). [398] For other authorities and for a few standard translations of the Greek Classics, see Commentary, § 298. [399] With regard to translations of these and other Latin poets, see Commentary, § 299. [400] Based upon Lucian's Lucius or the Ass, and other Greek stories. [401] Translation in Walter Pater's Marius the Epicurean. [402] For literature, see Commentary. [403] Cleasby and Vigfusson's Icelandic-English Dictionary. [404] F. W. Horn's Geschichte d. Literatur d. Skandinavischen Nordens, 27-42. [405] Cleasby and Vigfusson's Dictionary; Lüning's Die Edda, 1859. [406] The Lay of Rig in Snorri's Edda; Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale, 2, 514. [407] Jacob Grimm. [408] The Celtic _aideadh_: Professor Rhys, _Academy_, January 31, 1880. [409] Arne Magnússon, see Morley's English Writers, 2, 336, and Murray's New English Dictionary. [410] Corpus Poeticum Boreale, 1; xxvii, etc. [411] Corpus Poeticum Boreale, 1; lxxi; lxiii-lxiv. [412] For literature, see Commentary. [413] Paul's Grundriss d. Germanischen Philologie: Bd. 1, Lfg. 5, _Mythologie_. [414] Morris and Magnusson's The Story of the Volsungs and Nibelungs. Horn's Geschichte d. Literatur d. Skandinavischen Nordens, 27-42, 58, etc. [415] Werner Hahn, Das Nibelungenlied. [416] The Grimm Brothers; v. d. Hagen; Vilmar. [417] Werner Hahn; Jas. Sime, Encyc. Brit. _Nibelungenlied_. [418] Pfeiffer. [419] Bartsch, see Encyc. Brit. [420] Werner Hahn, 18, 58-60. [421] For translations of Oriental Myths, see Commentary. For mythical personages, see Index and Dictionary. COMMENTARY[422] [It is hoped that this Commentary may be useful to general readers, to students of art, and to teachers in the secondary schools, as well as to pupils. The cross references are always to sections; and the section numbers correspond with those of the text in the body of the book. The letter C. prefixed to a number indicates Commentary.] =3. Chaos=: a gap. Compare the "Beginning Gap" of Norse mythology. =Eros=: a yearning. =Erebus=: black, from root meaning _to cover_. =4. Uranus= (Greek _Ouranos_) corresponds with the name of the Indian divinity Varunas, root _var_, 'to cover.' Uranus is the starry vault that covers the earth; Varunas became the rain-giving sky. =Titan=: the honorable, powerful; the king; later, the signification was limited to the sun. =Oceanus= probably means _flood_. =Tethys=: the nourisher, nurse. =Hyperion=: the wanderer on high;[423] the sun. =Thea=: the beautiful, shining; the moon. She is called by Homer Euryphaëssa, the far-shining. =Iapetus=: the sender, hurler, wounder. =Themis=: that which is established, law. =Mnemosyne=: memory. Other Titans were C[oe]us and Ph[oe]be, figurative of the radiant lights of heaven; Creüs and Eurybië, mighty powers, probably of the sea; Ophion, the great serpent, and Eurynome, the far-ruling, who, according to Apollonius of Rhodes, held sway over the Titans until Cronus cast them into the Ocean, or into Tartarus. =Cronus= (Greek _Kronos_) is, as his name shows, the god of ripening, harvest, maturity. =Rhea= comes from Asia Minor, and was there worshiped as the Mother Earth, dwelling creative among the mountains. Cronus (_Kronos_) has been naturally, but wrongly, identified with Chronos, the personification of _Time_, which, as it brings all things to an end, devours its own offspring; and also with the Latin Saturn, who, as a god of agriculture and harvest, was represented with pruning-knife in hand, and regarded as the lord of an ancient golden age. The three =Cyclopes= were Brontes, Steropes, and Arges. Cyclops means the round-eyed. The =Hecatonchires= were Briareus, the strong, called also Ægæon; Cottus, the striker; Gyes, or Gyges, the vaulter, or crippler. Gyges is called by Horace (Carm. 2, 17, 14) Centimanus,--the hundred-handed. =_Illustrative._= Milton, in Paradise Lost, 10, 581, refers to the tradition of Ophion and Eurynome, who "had first the rule of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driven." =Hyperion=: see Shakespeare's Hamlet, "Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself." Also Henry V, IV, i; Troilus and Cressida, II, iii; Titus Andronicus, V, iii; Gray, Progress of Poesy, "Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war"; Spenser, Prothalamion, "Hot Titans beames." On =Oceanus=, Ben Jonson, Neptune's Triumph. On =Saturn=, see Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, I, iii; 2 Henry IV, II, iv; Cymbeline, II, v; Titus Andronicus, II, iii; IV, iii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 1. 512, 519, 583, and Il Penseroso, 24. See Robert Buchanan, Cloudland, "One like a Titan cold," etc.; Keats, Hyperion; B. W. Procter, The Fall of Saturn. =_In Art._= Helios (Hyperion) rising from the sea: sculpture of eastern pediment of the frieze of the Parthenon (British Museum). Mnemosyne: D. G. Rossetti (crayons and oil). =5.= Homer makes Zeus (Jupiter) the oldest of the sons of Cronus; Hesiod makes him the youngest, in accordance with a widespread savage custom which makes the youngest child heir in chief.--LANG, Myth, Ritual, etc., 1, 297. According to other legends Zeus was born in Arcadia, or even in Epirus at Dodona, where was his sacred grove. He was in either case reared by the nymphs of the locality. According to Hesiod, Theog. 730, he was born in a cave of Mount Dicte, in Crete. =6. Atlas=, according to other accounts, was not doomed to support the heavens until after his encounter with Perseus. =8.= See Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, "Not =Typhon= huge ending in snaky twine." The monster is also called Typhoeus (Hesiod, Theog. 1137). The name means _to smoke_, _to burn_. The monster personifies fiery vapors proceeding from subterranean places. Other famous =Giants= were Mimas, Polybotes, Ephialtes, Rh[oe]tus, Clytius. See Preller, 1, 60. Briareus (really a Centimanus) is frequently ranked among the giants. =_Illustrative._= Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, I, ii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 199, and Hymn on the Nativity, 226; M. Arnold, Empedocles, Act 2; Pope, Dunciad, 4, 66. For giants, in general, see Milton, Paradise Lost, 3, 464; 11. 642, 688; Samson Agonistes, 148. =10-15. Prometheus=: forethought.[424] =Epimetheus=: afterthought. According to Æschylus (Prometheus Bound) the doom of Zeus (Jupiter) was only contingent. If he should refuse to set Prometheus free and should, therefore, ignorant of the secret, wed Thetis, of whom it was known to Prometheus that her son should be greater than his father, then Zeus would be dethroned. If, however, Zeus himself delivered Prometheus, that Titan would reveal his secret and Zeus would escape both the marriage and its fateful result. The Prometheus Unbound of Æschylus is lost; but its name indicates that in the sequel the Titan is freed from his chains. And from hints in the Prometheus Bound we gather that this liberation was to come about in the way mentioned above, Prometheus warning Zeus to marry Thetis to Peleus (whose son, Achilles, proved greater than his father,--see =191=); or by the intervention of Hercules who was to be descended in the thirteenth generation from Zeus and Io (see =161= and =C. 149=); or by the voluntary sacrifice of the Centaur Chiron, who, when Zeus should hurl Prometheus and his rock into Hades, was destined to substitute himself for the Titan, and so by vicarious atonement to restore him to the life of the upper world. In Shelley's great drama of Prometheus Unbound, the Zeus of tyranny and ignorance and superstition is overthrown by Reason, the gift of Prometheus to mankind. =Sicyon= (or Mecone): a city of the Peloponnesus, near Corinth. _=Illustrative.=_ Milton, Paradise Lost, "More lovely than =Pandora= whom the gods endowed with all their gifts." Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus, II, i, 16. _=Poems.=_ D. G. Rossetti, Pandora; Longfellow, Masque of Pandora, Prometheus, and Epimetheus; Thos. Parnell, Hesiod, or the Rise of Woman. =Prometheus=, by Byron, Lowell, H. Coleridge, Robert Bridges; Prometheus Bound, by Mrs. Browning; translations of Æschylus, Prometheus Bound, Augusta Webster, E. H. Plumptre; Shelley, Prometheus Unbound; R. H. Horne, Prometheus, the Fire-bringer; E. Myers, The Judgment of Prometheus; George Cabot Lodge, Herakles, a drama. See Byron's Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte. =The Golden Age=: Chaucer, The Former Age (_Ætas Prima_); Milton, Hymn on the Nativity. _=In Art.=_ Ancient: Prometheus Unbound, vase picture (Monuments Inédits, Rome and Paris). Modern: Thorwaldsen's sculpture, Minerva and Prometheus. Pandora: Sichel (oil), Rossetti (crayons and oil), F. S. Church (water colors). =16. Dante= (_Durante_) =degli Alighieri= was born in Florence, 1265. Banished by his political opponents, 1302, he remained in exile until his death, which took place in Ravenna, 1321. His Vita Nuova (New Life), recounting his ideal love for Beatrice Portinari, was written between 1290 and 1300; his great poem, the Divina Commedia (the Divine Comedy) consisting of three parts,--Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso,--during the years of his exile. Of the Divine Comedy, says Lowell, "It is the real history of a brother man, of a tempted, purified, and at last triumphant human soul." =John Milton= (b. 1608) was carried by the stress of the civil war, 1641-1649, away from poetry, music, and the art which he had sedulously cultivated, into the stormy sea of politics and war. Perhaps the severity of his later sonnets and the sublimity of his Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes are the fruit of the stern years of controversy through which he lived, not as a poet, but as a statesman and a pamphleteer. =Cervantes= (1547-1616), the author of the greatest of Spanish romances, Don Quixote. His life was full of adventure, privation, suffering, with but brief seasons of happiness and renown. He distinguished himself at the battle of Lepanto, 1571; but in 1575, being captured by Algerine cruisers, he remained five years in harsh captivity. After his return to Spain he was neglected by those in power. For full twenty years he struggled for his daily bread. Don Quixote was published in and after 1605. =Corybantes=: the priests of Cybele, whose festivals were violent, and whose worship consisted of dances and noise suggestive of battle. =18. Astræa= was placed among the stars as the constellation Virgo, the virgin. Her mother was Themis (Justice). Astræa holds aloft a pair of scales, in which she weighs the conflicting claims of parties. The old poets prophesied a return of these goddesses and of the Golden Age. See also Pope's Messiah,-- All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail, Returning Justice lift aloft her scale: and Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, 14, 15. In Paradise Lost, 4, 998 _et seq._, is a different conception of the golden scales, "betwixt Astræa and the Scorpion sign." Emerson moralizes the myth in his Astræa. =19-20. _Illustrative._= B. W. Procter, The Flood of Thessaly. See Ovid's famous narrative of the Four Ages and the Flood, Metamorphoses, 1, 89-415. =Deucalion=: Bayard Taylor, Prince Deukalion; Milton, Paradise Lost, 11, 12. _=Interpretative.=_ This myth combines two stories of the origin of the Hellenes, or indigenous Greeks,--one, in accordance with which the Hellenes, as earthborn, claimed descent from Pyrrha (the red earth); the other and older, by which Deucalion was represented as the only survivor of the flood, but still the founder of the race (Greek laós), which he created by casting stones (Greek lâes) behind him. The myth, therefore, proceeds from an unintended pun. Although, finally, Pyrrha was by myth-makers made the wife of Deucalion, the older myth of the origin of the race from stones was preserved. See Max Müller, Sci. Relig., London, 1873, p. 64. =21.= For genealogy of the race of Inachus, Phoroneus, Pelasgus, and Io, see Table D. Pelasgus is frequently regarded as the grandson, not the son, of Phoroneus. For the descendants of Deucalion and Hellen, see Table I of this commentary. =22.= In the following genealogical table (A), the names of the great gods of Olympus are printed in heavy-face type. Latin forms of names or Latin substitutes are used. _=Illustrative.=_ On the =Gods of Greece=, see E. A. Bowring's translation of Schiller's Die Götter Griechenlands, and Bayard Taylor's Masque of the Gods. On =Olympus=, see Lewis Morris, The Epic of Hades. Allusions abound; _e.g._ Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, III, iii; Julius Cæsar, III, i; IV, iii; Hamlet, V, i; Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 516; 7, 7; 10, 583; Pope, Rape of the Lock, 5, 48, and Windsor Forest, 33, 234; E. C. Stedman, News from Olympia. See also E. W. Gosse, Greece and England (On Viol and Flute). =23. The Olympian Gods.= There were, according to Mr. Gladstone (_No. Am._ _Rev._ April, 1892), about twenty Olympian deities:[425] (1) The five really great gods, Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Apollo, and Athene; (2) Hephæstus, Ares, Hermes, Iris, Leto, Artemis, Themis, Aphrodite, Dione, Pæëon (or Pæon), and Hebe,--also usually present among the assembled immortals; (3) Demeter, Persephone, Dionysus, and Thetis, whose claims are more or less obscured. According to the same authority, the =Distinctive Qualities of the Homeric Gods= were as follows: (1) they were immortal; (2) they were incorporated in human form; (3) they enjoyed power far exceeding that possessed by mortals; (4) they were, however (with the possible exception of Athene, who is never ignorant, never deceived, never baffled), all liable to certain limitations of energy and knowledge; (5) they were subject also to corporeal wants and to human affections. The =Olympian= =Religion=, as a whole, was more careful of nations, states, public affairs, than of individuals and individual character; and in this respect, according to Mr. Gladstone. it differs from Christianity. He holds, however, that despite the occasional immoralities of the gods, their general government not only "makes for righteousness," but is addressed to the end of rendering it triumphant. Says Zeus, for instance, in the Olympian assembly, "Men complain of us the gods, and say that we are the source from whence ills proceed; but they likewise themselves suffer woes outside the course of destiny, through their own perverse offending." But, beside this general effort for the triumph of right, there is little to be said in abatement of the general proposition that, whatever be their collective conduct, the common speech of the gods is below the human level in point of morality.[426] =24-25. Zeus.= In Sanskrit _Dyaus_, in Latin _Jovis_, in German _Tiu_. The same name for the Almighty (the Light or Sky) used probably thousands of years before Homer, or the Sanskrit Bible (the Vedas). It is not merely the blue sky, nor the sky personified,--not merely worship of a natural phenomenon, but of the Father who is in Heaven. So in the Vedas we find _Dyaus pitar_, in the Greek _Zeu_ _pater_, in Latin _Jupiter_ all meaning _father of light_.--MAX MÜLLER, Sci. Relig. 171, 172. =Oracle=: the word signifies also the answers given at the shrine. _=Illustrative.=_ Allusions to Jove on every other page of Milton, Dryden, Pope, Prior, Gray, and any poet of the Elizabethan and Augustan periods. On the =Love Affairs of Jupiter= and the other gods, see Milton, Paradise Regained, 2, 182. =Dodona=: Tennyson's Talking Oak: That Thessalian growth, On which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke.... Poem: Lewis Morris, Zeus, in The Epic of Hades. _=In Art.=_ Beside the representations of Jupiter noted in the text may be mentioned that on the eastern frieze of the Parthenon; the Jupiter Otricoli in the Vatican; also the Jupiter and Juno (painting) by Annibale Carracci; the Jupiter (sculpture) by Benvenuto Cellini. TABLE A. THE GREAT GODS OF OLYMPUS Uranus =Gæa +-- Cronus | =Rhea | +-- =Vesta= | +-- Ceres | +-- =Juno= | | +=Jupiter= | | +-- Hebe | | +-- =Mars= | | +-- =Vulcan= | +-- Pluto | +-- Neptune | +-- =Jupiter= | +-- Minerva | ==Juno= | +-- Hebe (see above) | +-- =Mars= (see above) | +-- =Vulcan= (see above) | =Latona | +-- =Apollo= | +-- =Diana= | =Dione | +-- =Venus= | =Maia | +-- =Mercury= | =Ceres | +-- Proserpina | =Semele | +-- Bacchus | =Alcmene | +-- Hercules +-- Rhea | =Cronus | +-- Vesta (see above) | +-- Ceres (see above) | +-- Juno (see above) | +-- Pluto (see above) | +-- Neptune (see above) | +-- Jupiter (see above) +-- C[oe]us | =Ph[oe]be | +-- Latona | =Jupiter | +-- Apollo (see above) | +-- Diana (see above) +-- Ph[oe]be | =C[oe]us | +-- Latona (see above) +-- Iapetus +-- Epimethius | +-- Dione | =Jupiter | +-- Venus (see above) +-- Prometheus +-- Atlas +-- Maia =Jupiter +-- Mercury (see above) =26. Juno= was called by the Romans Juno Lucina, the special goddess of childbirth. In her honor wives held the festival of the Matronalia on the first of March of each year. The Latin =Juno= is for _Diou-n-on_, from the stem _Diove_, and is the feminine parallel of Jovis, just as the Greek Dione (one of the loves of Zeus) is the feminine of Zeus. These names (and Diana, too) come from the root _div_, 'to shine,' 'to illumine.' There are many points of resemblance between the Italian Juno and the Greek Dione (identified with Hera, as Hera-Dione). Both are goddesses of the moon (?), of women, of marriage; to both the cow (with moon-crescent horns) is sacred. See Roscher, 21, 576-579. But Overbeck insists that the loves of Zeus are deities of the earth: "The rains of heaven (Zeus) do not fall upon the moon." _=Illustrative.=_ W. S. Landor, Hymn of Terpander to Juno; Lewis Morris, Heré, in The Epic of Hades. =_In Art._= Of the statues of Juno the most celebrated was that made by Polyclitus for her temple between Argos and Mycenæ. It was of gold and ivory. See Paus. 2, 17, 4. The goddess was seated on a throne of magnificent proportions; she wore a crown upon which were figured the Graces and the Hours; in one hand she held a pomegranate, in the other a scepter surmounted by a cuckoo. Of the extant representations of Juno the most famous are the Argive Hera (Fig. 9 in the text), the torso in Vienna from Ephesus, the Hera of the Vatican at Rome, the bronze statuette in the Cabinet of Coins and Antiquities in Vienna, the Farnese bust in the National Museum in Naples, the Ludovisi bust in the villa of that name in Rome, the Pompeian wall painting of the marriage of Zeus and Hera (given by Baumeister, Denkmäler 1, 649; see also Roscher, 13, 2127), and the Juno of Lanuvium. =27. Athenë= (Athena) has some characteristics of the warlike kind in common with the Norse Valkyries, but she is altogether a more ideal conception. The best description of the goddess will be found in Homer's Iliad, 5, 730 _et seq._ The derivation of =Athene= is uncertain (Preller). Related, say some, to _æth[=e]r_, #aithêr#, the clear upper air; say others, to the word _anthos_, #anthos#, 'a flower'--virgin bloom; or (see Roscher, p. 684) to _ath[=e]r_, #athêr#, 'spear point.' Max Müller derives Athene from the root _ah_, which yields the Sanskrit Ahanâ and the Greek Daphne, the Dawn (?). Hence Athene is the Dawn-goddess; but she is also the goddess of wisdom, because "the goddess who caused people to wake was involuntarily conceived as the goddess who caused people to know" (Science of Language, 1, 548-551). This is poor philology. Epithets applied to Athene are the bright-eyed, the gray-eyed, the ægis-bearing, the unwearied daughter of Zeus. The festival of the =Panathenæa= was celebrated at Athens yearly in commemoration of the union of the Attic tribes. See =C. 176-181=. The name =Pallas= characterizes the goddess as the _brandisher_ of lightnings. Her Palladium--or sacred image--holds always high in air the brandished lance. =Minerva=, or =Menerva=, is connected with Latin _mens_, Greek _ménos_, Sanskrit _manas_, 'mind'; not with the Latin _mane_, 'morning.' The relation is not very plausible between the awakening of the day and the awakening of thought (Max Müller, Sci. Lang, 1, 552). For the meaning of the Gorgon, see Commentary on the myth of Perseus. _=Illustrative=_. Byron, Childe Harold, 4, 96, the eloquent passage beginning, Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Shakespeare, Tempest, IV, i; As You Like It, I, iii; Winter's Tale, IV, iii; Pericles, II, iii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 500; Comus, 701; Arcades, 23; Lewis Morris' Athene, in The Epic of Hades; Byron, Childe Harold, 2. 1-15, 87, 91; Ruskin's Lectures entitled "The Queen of the Air" (Athene); Thomas Woolner's Pallas Athene, in Tiresias. _=In Art.=_ The finest of the statues of this goddess was by Phidias, in the Parthenon, or temple of Athena, at Athens. The Athena of the Parthenon has disappeared; but there is good ground to believe that we have, in several extant statues and busts, the artist's conception. (See Frontispiece, the Lemnian Athena, and Fig. 53, the Hope Athena, ancient marble at Deepdene, Surrey.) The figure is characterized by grave and dignified beauty, and freedom from any transient expression; in other words, by repose. The most important copy extant is of the Roman period. The goddess was represented standing; in one hand a spear, in the other a statue of Victory. Her helmet, highly decorated, was surmounted by a Sphinx. The statue was forty feet in height, and, like the Jupiter, covered with ivory and gold. The eyes were of marble, and probably painted to represent the iris and pupil. The Parthenon, in which this statue stood, was also constructed under the direction and superintendence of Phidias. Its exterior was enriched with sculptures, many of them from the hand of the same artist. The Elgin Marbles now in the British Museum are a part of them. Also remarkable are the Minerva Bellica (Capitol, Rome); the Athena of the Acropolis Museum; the Athena of the Ægina Marbles (Glyptothek, Munich); the Minerva Medica (Vatican); the Athena of Velletri in the Louvre. (See Fig. 10.) In modern sculpture, especially excellent are Thorwaldsen's Minerva and Prometheus, and Cellini's Minerva (on the base of his Perseus). In modern painting, Tintoretto's Minerva defeating Mars. =28.= While the Latin god =Mars= corresponds with Ares, he has also not a few points of similarity with the Greek Ph[oe]bus; for both names, Mars and Ph[oe]bus, indicate the quality _shining_. In Rome, the Campus Martius (field of Mars) was sacred to this deity. Here military maneuvers and athletic contests took place; here Mars was adored by sacrifice, and here stood his temple, where his priests, the Salii, watched over the sacred spear and the shield, _Ancile_, that fell from heaven in the reign of Numa Pompilius. Generals supplicated Mars for victory, and dedicated to him the spoils of war. See Roscher, pp. 478, 486, on the fundamental significance, philosophical and physical, of _Ares_. On the derivation of the Latin name _Mars_, see Roscher (end of article on Apollo). _=Illustrative in Art.=_ Of archaic figures, that upon the so-called François Vase in Florence represents =Ares= bearded and with the armor of a Homeric warrior. In the art of the second half of the fifth century B.C., he is represented as beardless, standing with spear and helmet and, generally, _chlamys_ (short warrior's cloak); so the marble Ares statue (called the Borghese Achilles) in the Louvre. There is a later type (preferred in Rome) of the god in Corinthian helmet pushed back from the forehead, the right hand leaning on a spear, in the left a sword with point upturned, over the left arm a _chlamys_. The finest representation of the deity extant is the _Ares Ludovisi_ in Rome, probably of the second half of the fourth century B.C.,--a sitting figure, beautiful in form and feature, with an Eros playing at his feet. (See Fig. 11.) Modern sculpture: Thorwaldsen's relief, Mars and Cupid. Modern painting, Raphael's Mars (text, Fig. 12). =29.= On the derivation of =Hephæstus=, see Roscher, p. 2037. From Greek _aph[=e]_, 'to kindle,' or _pha_, 'to shine,' or _spha_, 'to burn.' The Latin =Vulcan=, while a god of fire, is not represented by the Romans as possessed of technical skill. It is said that Romulus built him a temple in Rome and instituted the Vulcanalia,--a festival in honor of the god. The name _Vulcanus_, or _Volcanus_, is popularly connected with the Latin _fulgere_, 'to flash' or 'lighten,' _fulgur_ a 'flash of lightning,' etc. It is quite natural that, in many legends, fire should play an active part in the creation of man. The primitive belief of the Indo-Germanic race was that the fire-god, descending to earth, became the first man; and that, therefore, the spirit of man was composed of fire. Vulcan is also called by the Romans Mulciber, from _mulceo_, 'to soften.' _=Illustrative.=_ Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, V, i; Much Ado About Nothing, I, i; Troilus and Cressida, I, iii; Hamlet, III, ii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 740: From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star, On Lemnos, the Ægean isle. _=In Art.=_ Various antique illustrations are extant of the god as a smith with hammer, or at the forge (text, Fig. 13); one of him working with the Cyclopes; a vase painting of him adorning Pandora; one of him assisting at the birth of Minerva; and one of his return to Olympus led by Bacchus and Comus. Of modern paintings the following are noteworthy: J. A. Wiertz, Forge of Vulcan; Velasquez, Forge of Vulcan (Museum, Madrid) (text, Fig. 56); the Forge of Vulcan by Tintoretto. Thorwaldsen's piece of statuary, Vulcan forging Arrows for Cupid, is justly famous. =30. Castalia=: on the slopes of Parnassus, sacred to Apollo and the Muses. =Cephissus=: in Phocis and B[oe]otia. (Another Cephissus flows near Athens.) _=Interpretative.=_ The birth, wanderings, return of =Apollo=, and his struggle with the Python, etc., are explained by many scholars as symbolic of the annual course of the sun. Apollo is born of Leto, who is, according to hypothesis, the Night from which the morning sun issues. His conflict with the dragon reminds one of Siegfried's combat and that of St. George, The =dragon= is variously interpreted as symbolical of darkness, mephitic vapors, or the forces of winter, which are overcome by the rays of the springtide sun. The dragon is called Delphyne, or Python. The latter name may be derived simply from that part of Phocis (Pytho) where the town of Delphi was situate, or that again from the Greek root _p[=u]th_, 'to rot,' because there the serpent was left by Apollo to decay; or from the Greek _p[)u]th_, 'to inquire,' with reference to the consultation of the Delphian or Pythian oracle. "It is open to students to regard the =dolphin= as only one of the many animals whose earlier worship is concentrated in Apollo, or to take the creature for the symbol of spring when seafaring becomes easier to mortals, or to interpret the dolphin as the result of a _volks-etymologie_ (popular derivation), in which the name _Delphi_ (meaning originally a hollow in the hills) was connected with _delphis_, the dolphin."--LANG, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 197. Apollo is also called =Lycius=, which means, not the wolf-slayer, as is sometimes stated, for the wolf is sacred to Apollo, but either the wolf-god (as inheriting an earlier wolf-cult) or the golden god of Light. See Preller and Roscher. This derivation is more probable than that from _Lycia_ in Asia Minor, where the god was said originally to have been worshiped. To explain certain rational myths of Apollo as referring to the annual and diurnal journeys of the sun is justifiable. To explain the savage and senseless survivals of the Apollo-myth in that way is impossible. =Festivals.= The most important were as follows: (1) The =Delphinia=, in May, to celebrate the genial influence of the young sun upon the waters, in opening navigation, in restoring warmth and life to the creatures of the wave, especially to the dolphins, which were highly esteemed by the superstitious seafarers, fishermen, merchants, etc. (2) The =Thargelia=, in the Greek month of that name, our May, which heralded the approach of the hot season. The purpose of this festival was twofold: to propitiate the deity of the sun and forfend the sickness of summer; to celebrate the ripening of vegetation and return thanks for first-fruits. These festivals were held in Athens, Delos, and elsewhere. (3) The =Hyacinthian= fast and feast of Sparta, corresponding in both features to the Thargelian. It was held in July, in the oppressive days of the Dog Star, Sirius. (4) The =Carnean= of Sparta, celebrated in August. It added to the propitiatory features of the Hyacinthian, a thanksgiving for the vintage. (5) Another vintage-festival was the =Pyanepsian=, in Athens. (6) The =Daphnephoria=: "Familiar to many English people from Sir Frederick Leighton's picture. This feast is believed to have symbolized the year.... An olive branch supported a central ball of brass, beneath which was a smaller ball, and thence little globes were hung." "The greater ball means the sun, the smaller the moon, the tiny globes the stars, and the three hundred and sixty-five laurel garlands used in the feast are understood to symbolize the days." (_Proclus and Pausanias._)--LANG, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2. 194, 195. Apollo is also called the =Sminthian=, or Mouse-god, because he was regarded either as the protector or as the destroyer of mice. In the Troad mice were fed in his temple; elsewhere he was honored as freeing the country from them. As Mr. Lang says (Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 201), this is intelligible "if the vermin which had once been sacred became a pest in the eyes of later generations." =Oracle of Delphi.= It had been observed at a very early period that the goats feeding on Parnassus were thrown into convulsions when they approached a certain long deep cleft in the side of the mountain. This was owing to a peculiar vapor arising out of the cavern, and a certain goatherd is said to have tried its effects upon himself. Inhaling the intoxicating air, he was affected in the same manner as the cattle had been; and the inhabitants of the surrounding country, unable to explain the circumstance, imputed the convulsive ravings to which he gave utterance while under the power of the exhalations to a divine inspiration. The fact was speedily spread abroad, and a temple was erected on the spot. The prophetic influence was at first variously attributed to the goddess Earth, to Neptune, Themis, and others, but it was at length assigned to Apollo, and to him alone. A priestess was appointed whose office it was to inhale the hallowed air, and she was named the Pythia. She was prepared for this duty by previous ablution at the fountain of Castalia, and being crowned with laurel was seated upon a tripod similarly adorned, which was placed over the chasm whence the divine afflatus proceeded. Her inspired words while thus situated were interpreted by the priests. Other famous oracles were that of =Trophonius= in B[oe]otia and that of the Egyptian =Apis=. Since those who descended into the cave at Lebadea to consult the oracle of Trophonius were noticed to return dejected and melancholy, the proverb arose which was applied to a low-spirited person, "He has been consulting the oracle of Trophonius." At Memphis the sacred bull Apis gave answer to those who consulted him, by the manner in which he received or rejected what was presented to him. If the bull refused food from the hand of the inquirer, it was considered an unfavorable sign, and the contrary when he received it. It used to be questioned whether oracular responses ought to be ascribed to mere human contrivance or to the agency of evil spirits. The latter opinion would of course obtain during ages of superstition, when evil spirits were credited with an influence over human affairs. A third theory has been advanced since the phenomena of mesmerism have attracted attention: that something like the mesmeric trance was induced in the Pythoness, and the faculty of clairvoyance called into action. Scholars have also sought to determine when the pagan oracles ceased to give responses. Ancient Christian writers assert that they became silent at the birth of Christ, and were heard no more after that date; Milton adopts this view in his Hymn on the Nativity, and in lines of solemn and elevated beauty pictures the consternation of the heathen idols at the advent of the Saviour: The Oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. _=Illustrative.=_ Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 2, 2; 1, 2, 29; 1, 11, 31; 1, 12, 2. Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella; as, for instance, the pretty conceit beginning Ph[oe]bus was judge between Jove, Mars, and Love, Of those three gods, whose arms the fairest were. Dekker, The Sun's Darling; Burns (as in the Winter Night) and other Scotch song-writers find it hard to keep Ph[oe]bus out of their verses; Spenser, Epithalamion; Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, II, i (Apollo and Daphne); Cymbeline (Cloten's Serenade); Love's Labour's Lost, IV, iii; Taming of the Shrew, Induction ii; Winter's Tale, II, i; III, i; III, ii; Titus Andronicus, IV, i; Drayton, Song 8; Tickell, To Apollo making Love; Swift, Apollo Outwitted; Pope, Essay on Criticism, 34; Dunciad, 4, 116; Prologue to Satires, 231; Miscellaneous, 7, 16; Armstrong, The Art of Preserving Health. _=Poems.=_ Drummond of Hawthornden, Song to Ph[oe]bus; Keats, Hymn to Apollo; A. Mary F. Robinson, A Search for Apollo, and In Apollo's Garden; Shelley, Homer's Hymn to Apollo; Aubrey De Vere, Lines under Delphi; Lewis Morris, Apollo, in The Epic of Hades; R. W. Dixon, Apollo Pythius. =The Python.= Milton, Paradise Lost, 10, 531; Shelley, Adonais. =Oracles.= Milton, Paradise Lost, 1. 12, 515; 5, 382; 10, 182; Paradise Regained, 1. 395, 430, 456, 463; 3, 13; 4, 275; Hymn on the Nativity, 173. In Cowper's poem of Yardley Oak there are mythological allusions appropriate to this subject. On Dodona, Byron, Childe Harold, 2, 53; Tennyson, The Talking Oak. Byron alludes to the oracle of Delphi when speaking of Rousseau, whose writings he conceives did much to bring on the French Revolution: Childe Harold, 3, 81,-- For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more. _=In Art.=_ One of the most esteemed of all the remains of ancient sculpture is the statue of Apollo, called the Belvedere from the name of the apartment of the Pope's palace at Rome in which it is placed (see Fig. 15). The artist is unknown. It is conceded to be a work of Roman art, of about the first century of our era (and follows a type fashioned by a Greek sculptor of the Hellenistic period, probably in bronze). A variation of the type has been discovered in a bronze statuette which represents Apollo holding in the left hand an ægis. Some scholars have therefore surmised that the Apollo of the original was similarly equipped. The Belvedere Apollo, however, is a standing figure, in marble, more than seven feet high, naked except for the cloak which is fastened around the neck and hangs over the extended left arm. It is restored to represent the god in the moment when he has shot the arrow to destroy the monster Python. The victorious divinity is in the act of stepping forward. The left arm which seems to have held the bow is outstretched, and the head is turned in the same direction. In attitude and proportion the graceful majesty of the figure is unsurpassed. The effect is completed by the countenance, where, on the perfection of youthful godlike beauty, there dwells the consciousness of triumphant power. To this statue Byron alludes in Childe Harold, 4, 161: Or view 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 hath 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. The standing figure in our text reproduces this conception.[427] Also famous in sculpture are the "Adonis" Apollo of the Vatican (Fig. 14, text); the Greek bronze from Thessaly (Fig. 16, text); the Palatine Apollo in the Vatican (Fig. 66, text); the Apollo Cithar[oe]dus of the National Museum, Naples, and the Glyptothek, Munich; the Lycian Apollo; the Apollo Nomios; Apollo of Thera; the Apollo of Michelangelo (National Museum, Florence). A painting of romantic interest is Paolo Veronese's St. Christina refusing to adore Apollo. Of symbolic import is the Apollo (Sunday) by Raphael in the Vatican. Ph[oe]bus and Boreas by J. F. Millet. =32. Latona.= A theory of the numerous =love-affairs= of Jupiter is given in =24= of the text. =Delos= is the central island of the Cyclades group in the Ægean. With its temple of Apollo it was exceedingly prosperous. _=Interpretative.=_ Latona (Leto), according to ancient interpreters, was night,--the shadow, therefore, of Juno (Hera), if Hera be the splendor of heaven. But the early myth-makers would hardly have reasoned so abstrusely. It is not at all certain that the name _Leto_ means darkness (Preller 1, 190, note 4); and even if light is born of or after darkness, the sun (Apollo) and the moon (Artemis, or Diana) can hardly be considered to be twins of Darkness (Leto), for they do not illuminate the heavens at the same time.--LANG, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 199. _=Illustrative.=_ Byron's allusion to Delos in Don Juan, 3, 86: 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 Ph[oe]bus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. See Milton's Sonnet, "I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs," for allusion to Latona. _=In Art.=_ In the shrine of Latona in Delos there was, in the days of Athenæus, a shapeless wooden idol. =Diana.= The Latin =Diana= means either "goddess of the bright heaven," or "goddess of the bright day." She is frequently identified with Artemis, Hecate, Luna, and Selene. According to one tradition, Apollo and Diana were born at =Ortygia=, near Ephesus. =Diana of the Ephesians=, referred to (Acts xix, 28), was a goddess of not at all the maidenly characteristics that belonged to the Greek Artemis (Roscher, p. 591; A. Lang, 2, 217). Other titles of Artemis are Munychia, the moon-goddess; Calliste, the _fair_, or the _she-bear_; Orthia, the _severe_, worshiped among the Taurians with human sacrifices; Agrotera, the _huntress_; Pythia; Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth; Cynthia, born on Mount Cynthus. _=Illustrative.=_ Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 7, 5; 1, 12, 7; Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, V, i, "Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn," etc.; Twelfth Night, I, iv; Midsummer Night's Dream, I, iv; All's Well that Ends Well, I, iii; IV, ii; IV, iv; Butler, Hudibras, 3, 2, 1448. _=Poems=_: B. W. Procter, The Worship of Dian; W. W. Story, Artemis; E. W. Gosse, The Praise of Artemis; E. Arnold, Hymn of the Priestess of Diana; Wordsworth, To Lycoris; Lewis Morris, Artemis, in The Epic of Hades; A. Lang, To Artemis. =Ph[oe]be= (Diana): Spenser, Epithalamion; Keats, To Psyche. =Cynthia= (Diana): Spenser, Prothalamion, Epithalamion; Milton, Hymn on the Nativity; H. K. White, Ode to Contemplation. _=In Art.=_ In art the goddess is represented high-girt for the chase, either in the act of drawing an arrow from her quiver or watching her missile in its flight. She is often attended by the hind. Sometimes, as moon-goddess, she bears a torch. Occasionally she is clad in a _chiton_, or robe of many folds, flowing to her feet. The Diana of the Hind (_à la Biche_), in the Palace of the Louvre (see Fig. 18), may be considered the counterpart of the Apollo Belvedere. The attitude much resembles that of Apollo, the sizes correspond and also the styles of execution. The Diana of the Hind is a work of a high order, though by no means equal to the Apollo. The attitude is that of hurried and eager motion, the face that of a huntress in the excitement of the chase. The left hand of the goddess is extended over the forehead of the hind which runs by her side, the right arm reaches backward over the shoulder to draw an arrow from the quiver. Fig. 19 in the text is the Artemis Knagia (Diana Cnagia), named after Cnageus, a servant of Diana who assisted in transferring the statue from Crete to Sparta. In Dresden there is a statue of Artemis in the style of Praxiteles (Fig. 68, text); and in the Louvre an ancient marble called the Artemis of Gabii (Fig. 77, text). In modern painting, noteworthy are the Diana and her Nymphs of Rubens; Correggio's Diana (Fig. 17); Jules Lefebvre's Diana and her Nymphs; Domenichino's Diana's Chase. Note also the allegorical Luna (Monday) of Raphael in the Vatican; and D. G. Rossetti's Diana, in crayons. =34. _Interpretative._= The worship of =Aphrodite= was probably of Semitic origin, but was early introduced into Greece. The Aphrodite of Hesiod and Homer displays both Oriental and Grecian characteristics. All Semitic nations, except the Hebrews, worshiped a supreme goddess who presided over the moon (or the Star of Love), and over all animal and vegetable life and growth. She was the Istar of the Assyrians, the Astarte of the Ph[oe]nicians, and is the analogue of the Greek Aphrodite and the Latin Venus. See Roscher, p. 390, etc. The native Greek deity of love would appear to have been, however, =Dione=, goddess of the moist and productive soil (=C. 26=), who passes in the Iliad (5. 370, 428) as the mother of Aphrodite, is worshiped at Dodona by the side of Zeus, and is regarded by Euripides as _Thyone_, mother of Dionysus (Preller I, 259). The epithets and names most frequently applied to Aphrodite are the Paphian, Cypris (the Cyprus-born), Cytherea, Erycina (from Mount Eryx), Pandemos (goddess of vulgar love), Pelagia (Aphrodite of the sea), Urania (Aphrodite of ideal love), Anadyomene (rising from the water); she is, also, the sweetly smiling, laughter-loving, bright, golden, fruitful, winsome, flower-faced, blushing, swift-eyed, golden-crowned. She had temples and groves in Paphos, Abydos, Samos, Ephesus, Cyprus, Cythera, in some of which--for instance, Paphos--gorgeous annual festivals were held. See Childe Harold, I, 66. =Venus= was a deity of extreme antiquity among the Romans, but not of great importance until she had acquired certain attributes of the Eastern Aphrodite. She was worshiped as goddess of love, as presiding over marriage, as the goddess who turns the hearts of men, and, later, even as a goddess of victory. A festival in her honor, called the Veneralia, was held in Rome in April. =_Illustrative._= See Chaucer's Knight's Tale for frequent references to the goddess of love; also the Court of Love; Spenser's Prothalamion, and Epithalamion, "Handmaids of the Cyprian queen"; Shakespeare, Tempest, IV, i; Merchant of Venice, II, vi; Troilus and Cressida, IV, v; Cymbeline, V, v; Romeo and Juliet, II, i; Milton, L'Allegro; Paradise Regained, 2, 214; Comus, 124; Pope, Rape of the Lock 4, 135; Spring, 65; Summer, 61; Thomas Woolner, Pygmalion (Cytherea). =_Poems._= Certain parts of Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis and occasional stanzas in Swinburne's volume, Laus Veneris, may be adapted to illustrative purposes. Chaucer, The Complaint of Mars and Venus; Thomas Wyatt, The Lover prayeth Venus to conduct him to the Desired Haven. See the melodious chorus to Aphrodite in Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon; Lewis Morris, Aphrodite, in The Epic of Hades; Thomas Gordon Hake, The Birth of Venus, in New Symbols; D. G. Rossetti, Sonnets; Venus Verticordia, Venus Victrix. =35. _In Art._= One of the most famous of ancient paintings was the Venus rising from the foam, of Apelles. The Venus found (1820) in the island of Melos, or of Milo (see text, opp. p. 32), now to be seen in the Louvre in Paris, is the work of some sculptor of about the fourth century B.C. Some say that the left hand uplifted held a mirrorlike shield; others, an apple; still others, a trident; and that the goddess was Amphitrite. A masterpiece of Praxiteles was the Venus of Cnidos, based upon which are the Venus of the Capitoline in Rome and the Venus de' Medici in Florence. Also the Venus of the Vatican, which is, in my opinion, superior to both. The Venus of the Medici was in the possession of the princes of that name in Rome when, about two hundred years ago, it first attracted attention. An inscription on the base assigns it to Cleomenes, an Athenian sculptor of 200 B.C., but the authenticity of the inscription is doubtful. There is a story that the artist was employed by public authority to make a statue exhibiting the perfection of female beauty, and that to aid him in his task the most perfect forms the city could supply were furnished him for models. Note Thomson's allusion in the Summer: So stands the statue that enchants the world; So bending tries to veil the matchless boast, The mingled beauties of exulting Greece. And Byron's There too the goddess loves in stone, and fills The air around with beauty.--Childe Harold, 4, 49-53. One of the most beautiful of the Greek Aphrodites is the Petworth (opp. p. 126, text). Of modern paintings the most famous are: the Sleeping Venus and other representations of Venus by Titian; the Birth of Venus by Bouguereau; Tintoretto's Cupid, Venus, and Vulcan; Veronese's Venus with Satyr and Cupid. Modern sculpture: Thorwaldsen's Venus with the Apple; Venus and Cupid; Cellini's Venus; Canova's Venus Victrix, and the Venus in the Pitti Gallery; Rossetti's Venus Verticordia (crayons, water colors, oil). =36. _Interpretative._= Max Müller traces =Hermes=, child of the Dawn with its fresh breezes, herald of the gods, spy of the night, to the Vedic Saramâ, goddess of the Dawn. Others translate Saramâ, _storm_. Roscher derives from the same root as Sarameyas (son of Saramâ), with the meaning _Hastener_, the _swift wind_. The invention of the syrinx is attributed also to Pan. =_Illustrative._= To Mercury's construction of the lyre out of a tortoise shell, Gray refers (Progress of Poesy), "Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell!" etc. See Shakespeare, King John, IV, ii; Henry IV, IV, i; Richard III, II, i; IV, iii; Hamlet, III, iv; Milton, Paradise Lost, 3, "Though by their powerful art they bind Volatile Hermes"; 4, 717; 11, 133; Il Penseroso, 88; Comus, 637, 962. =_Poems_=: Sir T. Martin, Goethe's Ph[oe]bus and Hermes; Shelley's translation of Homer's Hymn to Mercury. =_In Art._= The Mercury in the Central Museum, Athens; Mercury Belvedere (Vatican); Mercury in Repose (National Museum, Naples). The Hermes by Praxiteles, in Olympia (text, opp. p. 150), and the Hermes Psychopompos leading to the underworld the spirit of a woman who has just died (text, Fig. 20; from a relief sculptured on the tomb of Myrrhina), are especially fine specimens of ancient sculpture. In modern sculpture: Cellini's Mercury (base of Perseus, Loggia del Lanzi, Florence); Giov. di Bologna's Flying Mercury (bronze, Bargello, Florence: text, opp. p. 330); Thorwaldsen's Mercury. In modern painting: Tintoretto's Mercury and the Graces; Francesco Albani's Mercury and Apollo; Claude Lorrain's Mercury and Battus; Turner's Mercury and Argus; Raphael's allegorical Mercury (Wednesday), Vatican, Rome; and his Mercury with Psyche (Farnese Frescoes). =37. _Interpretative._= The name =Hestia= (Latin _Vesta_) has been variously derived from roots meaning _to sit_, _to stand_, _to burn_. The two former are consistent with the domestic nature of the goddess; the latter with her relation to the hearth-fire. She is "first of the goddesses," the holy, the chaste, the sacred. =_Illustrative._= Milton, Il Penseroso (Melancholy), "_Thee_ bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore," etc. =38.= (1) =Cupid= (Eros). References and allusions to Cupid throng our poetry. Only a few are here given. Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I, iv; Merchant of Venice, II, vi; Merry Wives, II, ii; Much Ado About Nothing, I, i; II, i; III, ii; Midsummer Night's Dream, I, i; II, ii; IV, i; Cymbeline, II, iv; Milton, Comus, 445, 1004; Herrick, The Cheat of Cupid; Pope, Rape of the Lock, 5, 102; Dunciad, 4, 308; Moral Essays, 4, 111; Windsor Forest,--on Lord Surrey, "In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre To the same notes of love and soft desire." =_Poems._= Chaucer, The Cuckow and Nightingale, or Boke of Cupid (?); Occleve, The Letter of Cupid; Beaumont and Fletcher, Cupid's Revenge, and the Masque, A Wife for a Month; J.G. Saxe, Death and Cupid, on their exchange of arrows, "And that explains the reason why Despite the gods above, The young are often doomed to die, The old to fall in love"; Thomas Ashe, The Lost Eros; Coventry Patmore, The Unknown Eros. Also John Lyly's Campaspe: Cupid and my Campaspe playd, At cardes for kisses, Cupid payd; He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and teeme of sparows; Looses them too; then, downe he throwes The corrall of his lippe, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the cristall of his brow, And then the dimple of his chinne: All these did my Campaspe winne. At last hee set her both his eyes; Shee won, and Cupid blind did rise. O love! has shee done this to thee? What shall (alas!) become of mee? See also Lang's translation of Moschus, Idyl I, and O. Wilde, The Garden of Eros. =_In Art._= Antique sculpture: the Eros in Naples, ancient marble from an original perhaps by Praxiteles (text, Fig. 21); Eros bending the Bow, in the Museum at Berlin; Cupid bending his Bow (Vatican); Eros with his Bow, in the Capitoline (text, opp. p. 136). Modern sculpture: Thorwaldsen's Mars and Cupid. Modern paintings: Bouguereau's Cupid and a Butterfly; Raphael's Cupids (among drawings in the Museum at Venice); Burne-Jones' Cupid (in series with Pyramus and Thisbe); Raphael Mengs' Cupid sharpening his Arrow; Guido Reni's Cupid; Van Dyck's Sleeping Cupid. See also under _Psyche_, =C. 101=. =Hymen.= See Sir Theodore Martin's translations of the _Collis O Heliconii_, and the _Vesper adest, juvenes_, of Catullus (LXI and LXII); Milton, Paradise Lost, 11, 591; L'Allegro, 125; Pope, Chorus of Youths and Virgins. (2) =Hebe.= Thomas Lodge's Sonnet to Phyllis, "Fair art thou, Phyllis, ay, so fair, sweet maid"; Milton, Vacation Exercise, 38; Comus, 290; L'Allegro, 29; Spenser, Epithalamion. =_Poems_=: T. Moore, The Fall of Hebe; J. R. Lowell, Hebe. =_In Art_=: Ary Scheffer's painting of Hebe; N. Schiavoni's painting. =Ganymede.= Chaucer, Hous of Fame, 81; Tennyson, in the Palace of Art, "Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down," etc.; Shelley in the Prometheus (Jove's order to Ganymede); Milton, Paradise Regained, 2,353; Drayton, Song 4, "The birds of Ganymed." =_Poems_=: Lord Lytton, Ganymede; Bowring, Goethe's Ganymede; Roden Noël, Ganymede; Edith M. Thomas, Homesickness of Ganymede; S. Margaret Fuller, Ganymede to his Eagle; Drummond on Ganymede's lament, "When eagle's talons bare him through the air." =_In Art_=: The Rape of Ganymede, marble in the Vatican, probably from the original in bronze by Leochares (text, Fig. 22). Græco-Roman sculpture: Ganymede and the Eagle (National Museum, Naples). Modern sculpture: Thorwaldsen's Ganymede. (3) =The Graces.= Rogers, Inscription for a Temple; Matthew Arnold, Euphrosyne. These goddesses are continually referred to in poetry. Note the painting by J. B. Regnault (Louvre), also the sculpture by Canova. (4) =The Muses.= Spenser, The Tears of the Muses; Milton, Il Penseroso; Byron, Childe Harold, 1, 1, 62, 88; Thomson, Castle of Indolence, 2, 2; 2, 8; Akenside, Pleasures of Imagination, 3. 280, 327; Ode on Lyric Poetry; Crabbe, The Village, Bk. 1; Introductions to the Parish Register, Newspaper, Birth of Flattery; M. Arnold, Urania. =Delphi=, =Parnassus=, etc.: Gray, Progress of Poesy, 2, 3. =Vale of= =Tempe=: Keats, On a Grecian Urn; Young, Ocean, an ode. =_In Art._= Sculpture: Polyhymnia, ancient marble in Berlin (text, Fig. 23); Clio and Calliope, in the Vatican in Rome; Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, and Urania, in the Louvre, Paris; Terpsichore by Thorwaldsen. Painting: Apollo and the Muses, by Raphael Mengs and by Giulio Romano; Terpsichore (picture), by Schützenberger. (5) =The Hours=, in art: Raphael's Six Hours of the Day and Night. (6) =The Fates.= Refrain stanzas in Lowell's Villa Franca, "Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!" =_In Art_=: The Fates, painting attributed to Michelangelo, but now by some to Rosso Fiorentino from Michelangelo's design (text, Fig. 24, Pitti Gallery, Florence); painting by Paul Thumann. (7) =Nemesis.= For genealogy see Table B, =C. 49=. (8) =Æsculapius.= Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 5, 36-43; Milton, Paradise Lost, 9, 507. (9) (10) =The Winds=, =Helios=, =Aurora=, =Hesper=, etc. =Æolus=: Chaucer, Hous of Fame, 480. See =C. 125= and genealogical tables H and I. =Hippotades= is Æolus (son of Hippotes). In Lycidas, 96, Milton calls the king of the winds Hippotades, because, following Homer (Odyssey, 10, 2) and Ovid (Metam. 14, 224), he identifies Æolus II with Æolus III. =Boreas and Orithyia=: Akenside, Pleasures of Imagination, 1, 722. =_In Art._= The fragment, Helios rising from the Sea, by Phidias, south end, east pediment of the Parthenon. Boreas and Zetos, Greek reliefs (text, Figs. 25 and 26); Boreas and Orithyia (text, Fig. 27), on a vase in Munich. (11) =Hesperus.= Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 605; 9, 49; Comus, 982; Akenside, Ode to Hesper; Campbell, Two Songs to the Evening Star, Tennyson, The Hesperides. (12) "=Iris= there with humid bow waters the odorous banks," etc., Comus, 992. See also Milton's Paradise Lost, 4, 698; 11, 244. =_In Art_=: Fig. 28, text; and painting by Guy Head (Gallery, St. Luke's, Rome). She is the swift-footed, wind-footed, fleet, the Iris of the golden wings, etc. =39. Hyperborean.= _Beyond the North_. Concerning the Elysian Plain, see =46.= =_Illustrative_=: Milton, Comus, "Now the gilded car of day," etc. =40. Ceres. _Illustrative._= Pope, Moral Essays, 4, 176, "Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope ... And laughing Ceres reassume the land"; Spring, 66; Summer, 66; Windsor Forest, 39; Gray, Progress of Poesy; Warton, First of April, "Fancy ... Sees Ceres grasp her crown of corn, And Plenty load her ample horn"; Spenser, Faerie Queene, 3, 1, 51; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 268; 9, 395. =_Poems_.= Tennyson, Demeter and Persephone; Mrs. H. H. Jackson, Demeter. =_Prose_=: W. H. Pater, The Myth of Demeter (_Fortn. Rev._ Vol. 25, 1876); S. Colvin, A Greek Hymn (_Cornh. Mag._ Vol. 33, 1876); Swinburne, At Eleusis. The name _Ceres_ is from the stem _cer_, Sanskrit _kri_, 'to make.' By metonomy the word comes to signify _corn_ in the Latin. Demeter (#Gê mêtêr#, #da matêr#) means _Mother Earth_. The goddess is represented in art crowned with a wheat-measure (or _modius_), and bearing a horn of plenty filled with ears of corn. Demeter (?) appears in the group of deities on the eastern frieze of the Parthenon. Also noteworthy are the Demeter from Knidos (text, Fig. 29, from the marble in the British Museum); two statues of Ceres in the Vatican at Rome, and one in the Glyptothek at Munich; and the Roman wall painting (text, Fig. 30). =41. Rhea= was worshiped as =Cybele=, the Great Mother, in Phrygia and at Pessinus in Galatia. During the Second Punic War, 203 _B.C._, her image was brought from the latter place to Rome. In 191 B.C. the Megalesian Games were first celebrated in her honor, occupying six days, from the fourth of April on. Plays were acted during this festival. The Great Mother was also called Cybebe, Berecyntia, and Dindymene. =The Cybele of Art.= In works of art, Cybele exhibits the matronly air which distinguishes Juno and Ceres. Sometimes she is veiled, and seated on a throne with lions at her side; at other times she rides in a chariot drawn by lions. She wears a mural crown, that is, a crown whose rim is carved in the form of towers and battlements. Rhea is mentioned by Homer (Iliad, 15, 187) as the consort of Cronus. =_Illustrative._= Byron's figure likening Venice to Cybele, Childe Harold, 4, 2, "She looks a sea-Cybele, fresh from ocean," etc. Also Milton's Arcades, 21. =42. _Interpretative._= It is interesting to note that Homer (Iliad and Odyssey) recognizes Dionysus neither as inventor, nor as exclusive god of wine. In Iliad, 6, 130 he refers, however, to the Dionysus cult in Thrace. Hesiod is the first to call wine the gift of Dionysus. =Dionysus= means the Zeus or _god_ of Nysa, an imaginary vale of Thrace, B[oe]otia, or elsewhere, in which the deity spent his youth. The name =Bacchus= owes its origin to the _enthusiasm_ with which the followers of the god lifted up their voices in his praise. Similar names are Iacchus, Bromius, Evius (from the cry _evoe_). The god was also called Lyæus, the _loosener_ of care, Liber, the _liberator_. His followers are also known as Edonides (from Mount Edon, in Thrace, where he was worshiped), Thyiades, the _sacrificers_, Lenæa and Bassarides. His festivals were the Lesser and Greater Dionysia (at Athens), the Lenæa, and the Anthesteria, in December, March, January, and February, respectively. At the first, three dramatic performances were presented. _=Illustrative.=_ A few references and allusions worth consulting: Spenser, Epithalamion; Fletcher, Valentinian, "God Lyæus, ever young"; Randolph, To Master Anthony Stafford (1632); Milton, L'Allegro, 16; Paradise Lost, 4, 279; 7, 33; Comus, 46, 522; Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, V, i; Love's Labour's Lost, IV, iii; Antony and Cleopatra, II, vii, song; Shelley, Ode to Liberty, 7, Rome--"like a Cadmæan Mænad"; Keats, To a Nightingale, "Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards." On =Semele=, Milton, Paradise Regained, 2, 187; Spenser, Faerie Queene, 3, 11, 33. _=Poems.=_ Ben Jonson, Dedication of the King's New Cellar; Thomas Parnell, Bacchus, or the Drunken Metamorphosis; Landor, Sophron's Hymn to Bacchus; Swinburne, Prelude to Songs before Sunrise; Roden Noël, The Triumph of Bacchus; Robert Bridges, The Feast of Bacchus; others given in text. See Index. _=In Art.=_ Of ancient representations of the Bacchus, the best examples are the marble in the British Museum (text, Fig. 31); the Silenus holding the child Bacchus (in the Louvre); the head of Dionysus found in Smyrna (now in Leyden--see text, Fig. 143), from an original of the school of Scopas; the head (now in London) from the Baths of Caracalla, of the later Attic school; the Faun and Bacchus (Museum, Naples); a standing bronze figure in Vienna, and the statue of the Villa Tiburtina (Rome). The bearded or Indian Bacchus is represented as advanced in years, grave, dignified, crowned with a diadem and robed to the feet. See also Figs. 82-87, in text. In modern sculpture note especially the Drunken Bacchus of Michelangelo. Among modern paintings worthy of notice are Bouguereau's Youth of Bacchus, and C. Gleyre's Dance of the Bacchantes. See also under _Ariadne_. =43.= The invention of the syrinx is attributed also to Mercury. For poetical illustrations of Pan see =C. 129-138=. So also for Nymphs and Satyrs. _=In Art.=_ Pan the Hunter (text, Fig. 32); the antique, Pan and Daphnis (with the syrinx) in the Museum at Naples. See references above. =44-46.= It was only in rare instances that mortals returned from Hades. See the stories of Hercules, Orpheus, Ulysses, Æneas. On the tortures of the condemned and the happiness of the blessed, see =254-257= in The Adventures of Æneas. _=Illustrative.=_ Lowell, addressing the Past, says: Whatever of true life there was in thee Leaps in our age's veins; ... Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife and care Float the green Fortunate Isles Where all thy hero-spirits dwell, and share Our martyrdom and toils; The present moves attended With all of brave and excellent and fair That made the old time splendid. Milton, Paradise Lost, 3, 568, "Like those Hesperian gardens," etc. See also the same, 2, 577 ff.,--"Abhorrèd =Styx=, the flood of deadly hate,"--where the rivers of Erebus are characterized according to the meaning of their Greek names; and L'Allegro, 3. =Charon=: Pope, Dunciad, 3, 19; R. C. Rogers, Charon. =Elysium=: Cowper, Progress of Error, Night, "The balm of care, Elysium of the mind"; Milton, Paradise Lost, 3, 472; Comus, 257; L'Allegro; Shakespeare, 3 Henry VI, I, ii; Cymbeline, V, iv; Twelfth Night, I, ii; Two Gentlemen of Verona, II, vii; Shelley, To Naples. =Lethe=: Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, IV, i; Julius Cæsar, III, i; Hamlet, I, v; 2 Henry IV, V, ii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 583. =Tartarus=: Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 858; 6, 54. =47. _Interpretative._= The name =Hades= means "the invisible," or "he who makes invisible." The meaning of Pluto (_Plouton_), according to Plato (Cratylus), is _wealth_,--the giver of treasure which lies underground. Pluto carries the cornucopia, symbol of inexhaustible riches; but careful discrimination must be observed between him and Plutus (_Ploutos_), who is merely an allegorical figure,--a personification of wealth and nothing more. =Hades= is called also the Illustrious, the Many-named, the Benignant, _Polydectes_ or the Hospitable. _=Illustrative.=_ Milton, L'Allegro, and Il Penseroso; Paradise Lost, 4, 270; Thomas Kyd, Spanish Tragedy (Andrea's descent to Hades;--this poem deals extensively with the Infernal Regions); Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV, II, iv; Troilus and Cressida, IV, iv; V, ii; Coriolanus, I, iv; Titus Andronicus, IV, iii. _=Poems.=_ Buchanan, Ades, King of Hell; Lewis Morris, Epic of Hades. =48. Proserpina.= Not from the Latin _pro-serpo_, 'to creep forth' (used of herbs in spring), but from the Greek form Persephone, _bringer of death_. The later name =Pherephatta= refers to the doves (_phatta_), which were sacred to her as well as to Aphrodite. She carries ears of corn as symbol of vegetation, poppies as symbol of the sleep of death, the pomegranate as the fruit of the underworld of which none might partake and return to the light of heaven. Among the Romans her worship was overshadowed by that of =Libitina=, a native deity of the underworld. _=Illustrative.=_ Keats, Melancholy, 1; Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 2, 2; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 269; 9, 396. _=Poems.=_ Aubrey De Vere, The Search after Proserpine; Jean Ingelow, Persephone; Swinburne, Hymns to Proserpine; L. Morris, Persephone (Epic of Hades); D. G. Rossetti, Proserpina. (Also in crayons, in water colors, and in oil.) _=In Art.=_ Sculpture: Eastern pediment of Parthenon frieze. Painting: Lorenzo Bernini's Pluto and Proserpine; P. Schobelt's Abduction of Proserpine. =49. _Textual._= (1) For Æacus, son of Ægina, see =61= and =C. 190=, Table O; for Minos and Rhadamanthus, see =59. Eumenides=: euphemistic term, meaning the _well-intentioned_. =Hecate= was descended through her father Perses from the Titans, Creüs and Eurybië; through her mother Asteria from the Titans, C[oe]us and Ph[oe]be. She was therefore, on both sides, the granddaughter of Uranus and Gæa. The following table is based upon Hesiod's account of =The Family of Night=. (Theogony.) According to other theogonies, the Fates were daughters of Jove and Themis, and the Hesperides daughters of Atlas. The story of the true and false =Dreams= and the horn and ivory gates (Odyssey, 19, 560) rests on a double play upon words: (1) #elephas# (_elephas_), 'ivory,' and #elephairomai# (_elephairomai_), 'to cheat with false hope'; (2) #keras# (_keras_), horn, and #krainein# (_krainein_), 'to fulfill.' See Mortimer Collins, The Ivory Gate, a poem. =_Illustrative._ Hades=: Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 964; L. Morris, Epic of Hades. =Styx=: Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, V, iv; Titus Andronicus, I, ii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 577; Pope, Dunciad, 2, 338. =Erebus=: Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, V, i; 2 Henry IV, II, iv; Julius Cæsar, II, i. =Cerberus=: Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 11, 41; Shakespeare, Love's Labour's Lost, V, ii; 2 Henry IV, II, iv; Troilus and Cressida, II, i; Titus Andronicus, II, v; Maxwell, Tom May's Death; Milton, L'Allegro, 2. =Furies=: Milton, Lycidas; Paradise Lost, 2, 597, 671; 6, 859; 10, 620; Paradise Regained, 9, 422; Comus, 641; Dryden, Alexander's Feast, 6; Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, V, i; Richard III, I, iv; 2 Henry IV, V, iii. =Hecate=: Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV, i. =Sleep and Death=: Shelley, To Night; H. K. White, Thanatos. =_In Art._= Vase-painting of Canusium of the Underworld (text, Fig. 34); painting of a =Fury= by Michelangelo (Uffizi, Florence); also Figs. 35-39 in text. =50-52.= See next page for Genealogical Table, Divinities of the Sea. For stories of the Grææ, Gorgons, Scylla, Sirens, Pleiades, etc., consult Index. =_Illustrative._ Oceanus=: Milton, Comus, 868. =Neptune=: Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 11, 54; Shakespeare, Tempest, I, ii; Midsummer Night's Dream, II, ii; Macbeth, II, ii; Cymbeline, III, i; Hamlet, I, i; Milton, Lycidas; Paradise Regained, 1, 190; Paradise Lost, 9, 18; Comus, 869; Prior, Ode on Taking of Namur; Waller's Panegyric to the Lord Protector. =Panope=: Milton, Lycidas, 99. =Harpies.= Milton, Paradise Lost, 3, 403. =Sirens=: Wm. Morris, Life and Death of Jason--Song of the Sirens. =Scylla= and Charybdis (see Index): Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 660; Arcades, 63; Comus, 257; Pope, Rape of the Lock, 3, 122. =Sirens=: Rossetti, A Sea-Spell; A. Lang, "They hear the Sirens for the second time." TABLE B. THE FAMILY OF NIGHT =Night= +-- Goddesses of Destiny and Fate (_Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos_) +-- Death (_Thanatos_) +-- Sleep | +-- Morpheus | +-- Icelus | +-- Phantasus +-- Dreams +-- Momus (god of ridicule--adverse criticism) +-- Care +-- Hesperides +-- Nemesis =Naiads.= Landor, To Joseph Ablett; Shelley, To Liberty, 8; Spenser, Prothalamion, 19; Milton, Lycidas; Paradise Regained, 2, 355; Comus, 254; Buchanan, Naiad (see =134=); Drummond of Hawthornden, "Nymphs, sister nymphs, which haunt this crystal brook, And happy in these floating bowers abide," etc.; Pope, Summer, 7; Armstrong, Art of Preserving Health, "Come, ye Naiads! to the fountains lead." TABLE C. DIVINITIES OF THE SEA Gæa =Uranus +-- =Oceanus= | ==Tethys= | +-- Inachus and other river-gods | +-- Oceanids | +-- Doris (the Oceanid) | =Nereus | +-- =Amphitrite= | | ==Neptune= | | +-- Proteus (_acc. to Apollodorus_) | | +-- Triton | +-- =Galatea= | +-- Thetis | =Peleus | +-- Achilles +-- Cronus | =Rhea | +-- =Neptune= | ==Amphitrite= | +-- Proteus (_acc. to Apollodorus_) (see above) | +-- Triton (see above) +-- Rhea =Cronus +-- =Neptune= (see above) Gæa =Pontus +-- Nereus | =Doris (the Oceanid) | +-- Amphitrite (see above) | +-- Galatea (see above) | +-- Thetis (see above) +-- Thaumas | +-- Iris | +-- Harpies +-- Phorcys | =Ceto | +-- Grææ | +-- Gorgons | +-- Sirens | +-- Scylla +-- Ceto =Phorcys +-- Grææ (see above) +-- Gorgons (see above) +-- Sirens (see above) +-- Scylla (see above) =Proteus.= Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, I, i; II, ii; III, ii; IV, iv; Pope, Dunciad, 1, 37; 2, 109. The Water Deities are presented in a masque contained in Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid's Tragedy. =_In Art._= Poseidon: see text, Figs. 40 and 41 (originals in the British Museum and the Glyptothek, Munich); also the Isthmian Poseidon, Fig. 95. The Atlas (Græco-Roman sculpture) in National Museum, Naples; the Triton in Vatican (text, Fig. 42). Modern painting: J. Van Beers, The Siren; D. G. Rossetti, The Siren. =_Textual._ Consus=, from _condere_, 'to stow away.' The sisters of =Carmenta=, the forward-looking Antevorta and the backward-looking Postvorta, were originally but different aspects of the function of the Muse. =54. _Illustrative._ Saturn=: Milton, Il Penseroso; Keats, Hyperion; Peele, Arraignment of Paris. =Janus=, as god of civilization: Dryden, Epistle to Congreve, 7. =Fauns=: Milton, Lycidas; R. C. Rogers, The Dancing Faun. See Hawthorne's Marble Faun. =Bellona=: Shakespeare, Macbeth, "Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof"; Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 922. =Pomona=: Randolph, To Master Anthony Stafford; Milton, Paradise Lost, 9, 393; 5, 378; Thomson, Seasons, Summer, 663. =Flora=: Milton, Paradise Lost, 5, 16; Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 4, 17; R. H. Stoddard, Arcadian Hymn to Flora; Pope, Windsor Forest, 38. =Janus=: Jonathan Swift, To Janus, on New Year's Day, 1726; =Egeria=, one of the Camenæ; Childe Harold, 4, 115-120; Tennyson, Palace of Art, "Holding one hand against his ear," etc. =Pan=, etc.: Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 707; 4, 329. =_In Sculpture._= The Satyr, or so-called Faun, of Praxiteles in the Vatican (text, Fig. 106); Dancing Faun (Lateran, Rome); Dancing Faun, Drunken Faun, Sleeping Faun, and Faun and Bacchus (National Museum, Naples); The Barberini Faun, or Sleeping Satyr (Glyptothek, Munich). =Flora.= Painting by Titian (Uffizi, Florence). =55.= The first love of Zeus was =Metis=, daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. She is Prudence or Foreknowledge. She warned Zeus that if she bore him a child, it would be greater than he. Whereupon Zeus swallowed her; and, in time, from his head sprang Athene, "the virgin of the azure eyes, Equal in strength, and as her father wise" (Hesiod, Theog.). On =Latona=, see =32=, =73=, and Commentary. =56.= For Danaë see =151=; for Alemene, =156=; for Leda, =194=. =57.= In the following general table of the =Race of Inachus= (see p. 488), marriages are indicated in the usual manner (by the sign =, or by parentheses); the more important characters mentioned in this work are printed in heavy-faced type. While numerous less important branches, families, and mythical individuals have been intentionally omitted, it is hoped that this reduction of various relationships, elsewhere explained or tabulated, to a general scheme, may furnish the reader with a clearer conception of the family ties that motivate many of the incidents of mythical adventure, and that must have been commonplaces of information to those who invented and perpetuated these stories. It should be borne in mind that the traditions concerning relationships are by no means consistent, and that consequently the collation of mythical genealogies demands the continual exercise of discretion, and a balancing of probabilities. Notice that from the union of Jupiter and Io (Table D), Hercules is descended in the thirteenth generation. =Inachus= is the principal river of Argolis in the Peloponnesus. _=Interpretative.=_ =Io= is explained as the horned moon, in its various changes and wanderings. =Argus= is the heaven with its myriad stars, some of them shut, some blinking, some always agleam. The wand of Hermes and his music may be the morning breeze, at the coming of which the eyes of heaven close (Cox, 2, 138; Preller 2, 40). The explanation would, however, be just as probable if Mercury (Hermes) were a cloud-driving wind. =Pan and the Syrinx=: naturally the wind playing through the reeds, if (with Müller and Cox) we take Pan to be the all-purifying, but yet gentle, wind. But see p. 181. _=Illustrative.=_ Shelley, To the Moon, "Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth?" Milton's "To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray, Through the heaven's wide pathless way" (Il Penseroso). See also for Io, Shelley's Prometheus Bound. =Argus=: Milton, Paradise Lost, 11, 131; Pope, Dunciad, 2, 374; 4, 637. =_In Art._= Fig. 47 in the text, from a wall-painting of Herculaneum (Museum, Naples). Correggio's painting, Jupiter and Io; not a pleasant conception. =58. _Interpretative._= The myth of =Callisto= and =Arcas= is of Arcadian origin. If the Arcadians, in very remote times, traced their descent from a she-bear, and if they also, like other races, recognized a bear in a certain constellation, they might naturally mix the fables and combine them later with the legend of the all-powerful Zeus (Lang, 2, 181). According to another account, Callisto was punished for her love of Jupiter by Diana (Artemis). Her name has been identified with the adjective _Calliste_, 'most fair,' which was certainly applied to Artemis herself. That Artemis was protectress of she-bears is known; also that, in Attica, she was served by girls who imitated, while dancing, the gait of bears. It is quite possible, therefore, that Artemis inherited a more ancient worship of the bear that may have been the _totem_, or sacred animal, from which the Arcadians traced a mythological descent. Others hold that the word _arksha_, 'a star,' became confused with the Greek _arktos_, 'a bear.' So the myth of the son Arcas (the star and the bear) may have arisen (Max Müller). The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Polestar, or =Cynosure= (dog's tail). TABLE D. THE RACE OF INACHUS AND ITS BRANCHES =Oceanus= +-- =Inachus= +-- Phoroneus | +-- Apis | +-- Niobe | ==Jupiter= | +-- Argus | | +-- (Tiryns, Epidaurus, and other founders of | | Peloponnesian cities) | +-- Pelasgus | +-- Lycaon | +-- Sons destroyed for impiety | +-- =Callisto= | ==Jupiter= | +-- =Arcas= (ancestor of The Arcadians) | +-- Elatus | +-- Pereus | +-- Neæra | +-- Lycurgus | +-- =Ancæus= (Calyd. Hunt) | +-- Amphidamas | | | (an Argonaut) | | +-- Antimache | | ==Eurystheus= | +-- Jasus | +-- =Atalanta= of | Arcadia (Calyd. Hunt) +-- =Argus= Panoptes (slain by Mercury) +-- Phegeus | +-- Arsinoë | =Alcmæon +-- =Io= ==Jupiter= +-- Epaphus +-- Libya =Neptune +-- Agenor | +-- =Cadmus= | | =Harmonia | | +-- =Semele= | | | ==Jupiter= | | | +-- =Bacchus= | | +-- =Ino= | | | =Athamas | | | +-- =Melicertes= | | +-- =Autonoë= | | | =Aristæus | | | +-- =Actæon= | | +-- =Agave= | | | =Echion | | | +-- =Pentheus= | | | +-- Men[oe]ceus | | | +-- =Creon= | | | | +-- Men[oe]ceus II | | | | +-- Hæmon | | | +-- =Jocasta= | | | ==Laïus= | | | +-- =[OE]dipus= | | | +-- =Eteocles= | | | +-- =Polynices= | | | | +-- Thersander | | | +-- =Antigone= | | | +-- =Ismene= | | +-- Polydorus | | +-- Labdacus | | +-- =Laïus= | | ==Jocasta= | | +-- =[OE]dipus= (see above) | +-- Ph[oe]nix | +-- Cilix | +-- Phineus (the Soothsayer) | +-- =Europa= | ==Jupiter= | +-- =Minos I= | | +-- Lycastus | | +-- =Minos II= | | =Pasiphaë | | +-- Crateus | | | +-- Aërope | | | =Atreus | | | +-- =Agamemnon= | | | | =Clytemnestra | | | +-- =Menelaüs= | | | =Helen | | +-- =Phædra= | | | =Theseus | | +-- =Ariadne= | | =Theseus | +-- =Rhadamanthus= | +-- =Sarpedon= +-- Belus +-- Ægyptus | +-- 49 sons | +-- =Lynceus= | ==Hypermnestra= | +-- Abas | +-- Acrisius | | +-- =Danaë= | | ==Jupiter= | | +-- =Perseus= | | ==Andromeda= | | +-- Perses | | +-- Electryon | | | +-- Alcmene | | | ==Jupiter= | | | +-- =Hercules= | | | =Amphitryon | | | +-- =Iphicles= | | +-- Alcæus | | | +-- Amphitryon | | | =Alcmene | | | +-- =Iphicles= | | | (see above) | | +-- Sthenelus | +-- Pr[oe]tus | +-- Megapenthes +-- Danaüs | +-- =Hypermnestra= | ==Lynceus= | +-- Abas (see above) +-- Cepheus =Cassiopea +-- =Andromeda= ==Perseus= +-- Perses (see above) +-- Electryon (see above) +-- Alcæus (see above) +-- Sthenelus (see above) _=Illustrative.=_ Milton's "Let my lamp, at midnight hour, Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft _outwatch the Bear_" (Il Penseroso); and his "Where perhaps some beauty lies The cynosure of neighbouring eyes" (L'Allegro); also his "And thou shalt be our star of Arcady, Or Tyrian Cynosure" (Comus). Note Lowell's "The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den" (Prometheus). See also the song beginning, "Hear ye, ladies, that despise What the mighty Love had done," in Beaumont and Fletcher's drama, Valentinian,--for Callisto, Leda, and Danaë. =59. The Descendants of Agenor.= For further details, see Table D. TABLE E Mars =Venus +-- Harmonia ==Cadmus= +-- =Semele= | =Jupiter | +-- Bacchus +-- Ino | =Athamas | +-- Melicertes +-- Autonoë | =Aristæus | +-- Actæon +-- Agave | +-- Pentheus +-- Polydorus +-- Labdacus +-- Laïus +-- [OE]dipus (royal family of Thebes) =Agenor= +-- =Cadmus= | =Harmonia | +-- =Semele= (see above) | +-- Ino (see above) | +-- Autonoë (see above) | +-- Agave (see above) | +-- Polydorus (see above) +-- =Europa= | =Jupiter | +-- Minos | +-- Rhadamanthus | +-- Sarpedon +-- Ph[oe]nix +-- Cilix =_Textual._ Moschus= lived about the close of the third century B.C. in Syracuse. He was a grammarian and an idyllic poet. He calls himself a pupil of Bion,--whose Lament for Adonis is given in =100=. Both Bion and Moschus belong to the School of Theocritus--the Idyllic or Pastoral School of Poetry. =Cypris=: Venus, by whom the island of Cyprus was beloved. =Mygdonian flutes=: the ancients had three species or modes of music, depending, respectively, upon the succession of musical intervals which was adopted as the basis of the system. The Lydian measures were shrill and lively; the Dorian deep in tone, grave, and solemn; the Mygdonian, or Phrygian, were supposed by some to have been the same as the Lydian, but more probably they were a combination of Lydian and Dorian. =Shaker of the World=: Neptune. =Crete=: where Jupiter had been concealed from his father Cronus, and nourished by the goat Amalthea. =_Interpretative._= Herodotus says that =Europa= was a historical princess of Tyre, carried off by Hellenes to Crete. =Taurus= (the bull) was euhemeristically conceived to be a king of Crete who carried off the Tyrian princess as prize of war. Others said that probably the figurehead of the ship in which Europa was conveyed to Crete was a _bull_. It is not improbable that the story indicates a settlement of Ph[oe]nicians in Crete and the introduction by them of cattle. Modern critics, such as Preller and Welcker, make Europa a goddess of the moon = Diana or Astarte, and translate her name "the dark, or obscured one." But she has undoubtedly a connection with the earth, perhaps as wife of Jupiter (the Heaven). H. D. Müller connects both Io and Europa with the wandering Demeter (or Ceres), and considers Demeter to be a goddess both of the moon and of the earth (Helbig, in Roscher). Cox, after his usual method, finds here the Dawn borne across the heaven by the lord of the pure ether. Europa would then be the broad-spreading flush of dawn, seen first in the purple region of morning (Ph[oe]nicia). Her brother Cadmus, who pursues her, would be the sun searching for his lost sister or bride. Very fanciful, but inconclusive. =The bull= occurs not infrequently in myth as an incarnation of deity. =_Illustrative._= W. S. Landor, Europa and her Mother; Aubrey De Vere, The Rape of Europa; E. Dowden, Europa; W. W. Story, Europa (a sonnet). See also a graceful picture in Tennyson's Palace of Art. =_In Art._= Fig. 48, in text, from vase found at Cumæ; the marble group in the Vatican, Europa riding the Bull; painting by Paolo Veronese, The Rape of Europa; Europa, by Claude Lorrain. =60.= See Tables D and E. =_Interpretative._= According to Preller, =Semele= is a personification of the fertile soil in spring, which brings forth the productive vine. In the irrational part of the myth, Jove takes the child Dionysus (Bacchus), after Semele's death, and sews him up in his thigh for safe-keeping. Preller finds here "the wedlock of heaven and earth, the first day that it thunders in March." Exactly why, might be easy to guess, but hard to demonstrate. The thigh of Jupiter would have to be the cool moist clouds brooding over the youthful vine. The whole explanation is altogether too conjectural. See A. Lang's Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 221-225, for a more plausible but less poetic theory. =_Illustrative._= Milton, Paradise Regained, 2, 187; Bowring's translation of Schiller's Semele; E. R. Sill, Semele, of which a part is given in the text. =_In Art._= Fig. 50, in text. =61. _Textual._= The son of Ægina and Jove was Æacus (for genealogy, see Table O (1)). =Ægina=: an island in the Saronic Gulf, between Attica and Argolis. =Asopus=: the name of two rivers, one in Achaia, one in B[oe]otia, of which the latter is the more important. The Greek traveler, Pausanias, tells us that Asopus was the discoverer of the river which bears his name. =Sisyphus=, see =255=. This description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account which Thucydides gives of the plague of Athens. That account, much fuller than is here given, was drawn from life and has been the source from which many subsequent poets and novelists have drawn details of similar scenes. The =Myrmidons= were, during the Trojan War, the soldiers of Achilles, grandson of this king Æacus. =_Interpretative._= The name =Ægina= may imply either the shore on which the waves break (Preller), or the sacred goat (_Ægeus_) which was the _totem_ of the Ægeus family of Attica. The worship of Athene was introduced into Athens by this family. In sacrifices the goddess was clad in the skin of the sacred goat, but no goat might be sacrificed to her. Probably another example of the survival of a savage ritual (Lang, Myth, Ritual, etc., 1, 280). =_Illustrative._ Myrmidons=: No, no, said Rhadamant, it were not well, With loving souls to place a martialist; He died in war, and must to martial fields, Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain, And Achilles' Myrmidons do scour the plain. Kyd, Spanish Tragedy On =Sisyphus=, read Lewis Morris' poem in The Epic of Hades. =62. _Textual._ Mænad=: the Mænades, from #mainomai# (_mainomai_), 'to rage,' were women who danced themselves into a frenzy in the orgies or festivals of Bacchus. =Cithæron=: a mountain range south of Thebes and between B[oe]otia and Attica. =_Interpretative._ Antiope=, philologically interpreted, may indicate the moon with face turned full upon us. That Antiope is a personification of some such natural phenomena would also appear from the significance of the names associated with hers in the myth: =Nycteus=, the _night-man_; =Lycus=, the _man of light_. Amphion and Zethus are thought, in like fashion, to represent manifestations of light; see also Castor and Pollux. Perhaps the method employed by Zethus and Amphion in building Thebes may merely symbolize the advantage of combining mechanical force with well-ordered or harmonious thought. =_In Art_=: The Farnese Bull group (text, opp. p. 74): marble, maybe by Tauriscus and Tralles, in Naples Museum. Fig. 51: a relief in the Palazzo Spada, Rome. Modern painting: Correggio's Antiope. =63. _Textual._ Phrygia=: a province in Asia Minor. For =Minerva's= protection of the olive, see =65=. =Tyana= is a town in Cappadocia, Asia Minor. =64. _Textual._ Argos=: the capital of Argolis in the Peloponnesus. Of =Cydippe=, it is told, in Ovid's Heroides and elsewhere, that, when a girl sacrificing in the temple of Diana in Delos, she was seen and loved by a youth, Acontius. He threw before her an apple, on which these words were inscribed, "I swear by the sanctuary of Diana to marry Acontius." The maiden read aloud the words and threw the apple away. But the vow was registered by Diana, who, in spite of many delays, brought about the marriage of Cydippe and her unknown lover. =Polyclitus= =the Elder=, of Argos, lived about 431 B.C., and was a contemporary of two other great sculptors, Phidias and Myron. His greatest work was the chryselephantine statue of Hera for her temple between Argos and Mycenæ. =_Illustrative._= Beside Gosse's Sons of Cydippe, see verses by L. J. Richardson, in _The Inlander_, Ann Arbor, Vol. 2, p. 2. For the story of Acontius and Cydippe, see William Morris' Earthly Paradise; and Lytton's Cydippe, or The Apples, in The Lost Tales of Miletus. =_In Art._= The severe design in clay by Teignmouth, of which prints may be obtained, was made to illustrate Gosse's poem. =65-66. _Textual._= For =Cecrops=, see =174=. He named the city that he founded Cecropia,--a name which afterwards clung to Athens. For an excellent description of ancient weaving, see Catullus, LXIV, 304-323 (The Peleus and Thetis). For translation, see =191. Leda=, mother of Castor, Pollux, Helen, and Clytemnestra (see =194= and Commentary). =Danaë=, mother of Perseus (see =151=). =_Interpretative._= The waves were the coursers of Neptune,--the horses with which he scours the strand. =Arachne=: a princess of Lydia. It is probable that the myth symbolizes the competition in products of the loom between Attica and Asia Minor and the superior handicraft of the Athenian weavers. =_Illustrative._ Arachne=: Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, V, ii; Pope, Dunciad, 4, 590. =_Poem_=: Garrick, Upon a Lady's Embroidery. =_In Art._= Fig. 52, in text: from a vase in St. Petersburg. =68. _Textual._ Diomede=: for his genealogy, see Table K. =Taslets=: armor worn about the thighs. =Cyprian=: Venus. =Pæan= (Pæon, or Paiëon), classed by Homer among the Olympian gods, of whom he is, as his name implies, the "healer." Later, the name was applied to Æsculapius, then to any god who might repair or avert evil of any kind, as, for instance, to Apollo and to Thanatos (Death). See Armstrong's Art of Health, "So Pæan, so the powers of Health command," etc., and "the wise of ancient days Adored one power of physic, melody, and song." =Pæans= were chants in honor of Apollo, sung to deprecate misfortune in battle or to avert disease. =Lower than the sons of Heaven=: lower than the Titans, sons of Uranus (Heaven), who were plunged into Tartarus. =69. _Textual._= Lessing points out in his Laocoön the skill with which Homer, stating the size of the stone hurled by Minerva and the measure of the space covered by Mars, suggests the gigantic proportions of the warring divinities. =70. _Textual._= Family of =Cadmus=: see Tables D and E. =Castalian Cave= of Mount Parnassus, Phocis; here was the famous Delphic oracle of Apollo. =Cephissus=: a river running through Doris, Phocis, and B[oe]otia into the Eub[oe]an Gulf; the valley of the Cephissus was noted for its fertility. =Panope=: a town on the Cephissus. =Tyrians=: Cadmus and his followers came from Tyre in Ph[oe]nicia. The =Necklace of Harmonia= was a fateful gift. It brought evil to whomsoever it belonged: to all the descendants of Cadmus; to Eriphyle, wife of Amphiaraüs of Argos, to whom Polynices gave it; and to the sons of Eriphyle. It was finally dedicated to Apollo in Delphi. Harmonia's robe possessed the same fatality, =187, 189. Enchelians=: a people of Illyria. For the myths of =Semele=, see =60=; of =Ino, 144=; of =Autonoë= and her son, =Actæon, 95=; of =Agave= and her son, =Pentheus,= =112=; of =Polydorus=, the =Labdacidæ=, =[OE]dipus=, etc., =182=. =Eight years=: the usual period of penance. Apollo, after slaying the Python, had to clear himself of defilement by a period of purification. =_Interpretative._ Cadmus and his Tyrians=: according to the usual explanation, this myth is based upon an immigration of Ph[oe]nicians, who settled B[oe]otia and gave laws, the rudiments of culture (alphabet, etc.), and industrial arts to the older races of Greece. Many Theban names, such as Melicertes, Cadmus, point to a possible Ph[oe]nician origin; _cf._ Semitic Melkarth, and Kedem, the _East_. But Preller holds that two mythical personages, a Greek Cadmus and a Ph[oe]nician Cadmus, have been confounded; that the Theban Cadmus is merely the representative of the oldest Theban state; that the selection of the spot on which a heifer had lain down was a frequent practice among settlers, superstitious about the site of their new town; that the dragon typifies the cruel and forbidding nature of the uncultivated surroundings; and that the story of the dragon's teeth was manufactured to flatter the warlike spirit of the Thebans, the teeth themselves being spear points. =Harmonia=, daughter of the patron deities of Thebes, is the symbol of the peace and domesticity that attend the final establishment of order in the State. According to the Sun-and-Cloud theory of Cox, Cadmus, the Sun, pursues his sister, Europa, the broad-flushing light of Dawn, who has been carried off on a spotless cloud (the Bull). The Sun, of course, must journey farther west than Crete. The heifer that he is to follow is, therefore, still another cloud (like the cattle of the Sun,--clouds). The dragon of Mars is still a third cloud; and this the Sun dissipates. A storm follows, after which new conflicts arise between the clouds that have sprung up from the moistened earth (the harvest of armed men!). This kind of explanation, indiscriminately indulged, delights the fancy of the inventor and titillates the risibles of the reader. =_Illustrative._= Milton, Paradise Lost, 9, 506. The serpent that tempted Eve compared with the serpents Cadmus and "Hermione." See Byron, Don Juan, 3, 86, "You have the letters Cadmus gave--Think you he meant them for a slave?" =_In Art._= Fig. 54, in text: from a vase in the Naples Museum. Fig. 55 is of a vase-painting from Eretria. =71. _Textual._ Eurynome= is represented by some as one of the Titans, the wife of Ophion. Ophion and Eurynome, according to one legend, ruled over heaven before the age of Saturn (Cronus). So Milton, Paradise Lost, 10, 580, "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." According to Vulcan's statement (Iliad, 18), Eurynome was daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. She was mother, by Jupiter, of the Graces. =Thetis=: see =50=. =Xanthus=: the principal river of Lycia in Asia Minor. =72-73. _Interpretative._ Latona= (=Leto=): according to Homer, one of the deities of Olympus; a daughter of the Titans C[oe]us and Ph[oe]be, whose names indicate phenomena of radiant light. She belonged, perhaps, to an ancient theogony of Asia Minor. At any rate she held at one time the rank of lawful wife to Zeus. Preller and, after him, Cox take Leto as _the dusk_ or _darkness_. Cox traces the word to the root of Lethe (the forgetful), but Preller is doubtful. Possibly Leto and Leda, the mother of the bright Castor and Pollux, have something in common. The wanderings of Latona may be the weary journey of the night over the mountain tops, both before and after the Sun (Apollo) is born in Delos (the land of Dawn). =_Illustrative._= Milton, Arcades, 20, and Sonnet XII, "On the detraction which followed upon my writing certain treatises." =74. _Textual._ Hyperboreans=: those who dwell in the land beyond the North. Pæan, see =C. 68=. =Tityus=: an earthborn giant; condemned to the underworld, he lay stretched over nine acres while two vultures devoured his liver. =_Interpretative._ Python=: in many savage myths, a serpent, a frog, or a lizard that drinks up all the waters, and is destroyed by some national hero or god. As Mr. Lang says: "Whether the slaying of the Python was or was not originally an allegory of the defeat of winter by sunlight, it certainly, at a very early period, became mixed up with ancient legal ideas and local traditions. It is almost as necessary for a young god or hero to slay monsters as for a young lady to be presented at court; and we may hesitate to explain all these legends of a useful feat of courage as nature myths" (Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 196). Compare the feats of Hercules, Jason, Bellerophon, Perseus, St. George and the Dragon, Sigurd, and Jack the Giant Killer. Commentators take Python to be the rigor of winter, or the darkness of night, or a "black storm-cloud which shuts up the waters" (Cox). It is not impossible that the Python was the sacred snake of an older animal worship superseded by that of Apollo. (See also =C. 38=.) =75. _Textual._= The Tyrian hue is purple, made from the juice of the _murex_, or purple shellfish. On the leaves of the hyacinth were inscribed characters like Ai, Ai, the Greek exclamation of woe. It is evidently not our modern hyacinth that is here described, but perhaps some species of iris, or of larkspur, or pansy. The meaning of the name is also uncertain, but the best authorities favor _youthful_. A festival called the =Hyacinthia= was celebrated, in commemoration of the myth, over a large part of the Peloponnesus. It lasted three days, probably in the first half of July. It consisted of chants of lamentation and fasting during the first and last days; during the second day, of processions, a horse race, joyous choral songs, dances, feasting, and sacrifice. =_Interpretative._= Most scholars consider Hyacinthus to be the personification of the blooming vegetation of spring, which withers under the heats of summer. The Hyacinthian festival seems to have celebrated--like the Linus festival and the Eleusinian--the transitory nature of life and the hope of immortality. =_Illustrative._= Keats, Endymion, "Pitying the sad death Of Hyacinthus, when the cool breath Of Zephyr slew him" (see context); Milton, Lycidas, "Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe"; On the Death of a Fair Infant, 4. =_In Art._= Fig. 58, in text, is of a marble group in the Hope Collection. =76. _Textual._ Clymene=: a daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. =Chrysolite=: or _gold stone_, our topaz. =Daystar=: Phosphor, see =38= (II). =Ambrosia= (#ambrosios#, #ambrotos#, #a-brotos#), _immortal_,--here, "food for the immortals." =Turn off to the= =left=: indicating the course of the sun, west by south. The =Serpent=, or =Dragon=: a constellation between the Great and Little Bears. =Boötes=: the constellation called the Wagoner. The limits of the =Scorpion= were restricted by the insertion of the sign of the Scales. =Athos=: a mountain forming the eastern of three peninsulas south of Macedonia. =Mount Taurus=: in Armenia. =Mount Tmolus=: in Lydia. =Mount [OE]te=: between Thessaly and Ætolia, where Hercules ascended his funeral pile. =Ida=: the name of two mountains,--one in Crete, where Jupiter was nurtured by Amalthea, the other in Phrygia, near Troy. =Mount Helicon=: in B[oe]otia, sacred also to Apollo. =Mount Hæmus=: in Thrace. =Ætna=: in Sicily. =Parnassus=: in Phocis; one peak was sacred to Apollo, the other to the Muses. The Castalian Spring, sacred to the Muses, is at the foot of the mountain; Delphi is near by. =Rhodope=: part of the Hæmus range of mountains. =Scythia=: a general designation of Europe and Asia north of the Black Sea. =Caucasus=: between the Black and Caspian seas. =Mount Ossa=: associated with =Mount Pelion= in the story of the giants, who piled one on top of the other in their attempt to scale Olympus. These mountains, with =Pindus=, are in Thessaly. =Libyan= desert: in Africa. Libya was fabled to have been the daughter of Epaphus, king of Egypt. =Tanaïs=: the Don, in Scythia. =Caïcus=: a river of Greater Mysia, flowing into the sea at Lesbos. =Xanthus= and =Mæander=: rivers of Phrygia, flowing near Troy. =Ca ster=: a river of Ionia, noted for its so-called "tuneful" swans. For Nereus, Doris, Nereïds, etc., see =50= and =52=. =Eridanus=: the mythical name of the river Po in Italy (amber was found on its banks). =Naiads=, see =52= (6). _=Interpretative.=_ Apollo assumed many of the attributes of Helios, the older divinity of the sun, who is ordinarily reputed to be the father of Phaëthon (ordinarily anglicized Phaëton). The name _Phaëthon_, like the name _Ph[oe]bus_, means _the radiant one_. The sun is called both Helios Phaëthon and Helios Ph[oe]bus in Homer. It was an easy feat of the imagination to make Phaëthon the incautious son of Helios, or Apollo, and to suppose that extreme drought is caused by his careless driving of his father's chariot. The drought is succeeded by a thunderstorm; and the lightning puts an end to Phaëthon. The rain that succeeds the lightning is, according to Cox, the tears of the Heliades. It is hardly wise to press the analogy so far, unless one is prepared to explain the _amber_ in the same way. _=Illustrative.=_ Milman in his Samor alludes to the story. See also Chaucer, Hous of Fame, 435; Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 4, 9; Shakespeare, Richard II, III, iii; Two Gentlemen of Verona, III, i; 3 Henry VI, I, iv; II, vi; Romeo and Juliet, III, ii. _=Poems=_: Prior, Female Phaëton; J. G. Saxe, Phaëton; and G. Meredith, Phaëton. For description of the palace and chariot of the Sun, see Landor, Gebir, Bk. I. _=In Art=_: Fig. 59, in text: a relief on a Roman sarcophagus in the Louvre. =77. _Textual._= For the siege of Troy, see Chap. XXII. =Atrides= (=Atreides=): the son of Atreus, Agamemnon. The ending _-ides_ means _son of_, and is used in patronymics; for instance, Pelides (Peleides), Achilles; Tydides, Diomede, son of Tydeus. The ending _-is_, in patronymics, means _daughter of_; as Tyndaris, daughter of Tyndarus (Tyndareus), Helen; Chryseïs, daughter of Chryses. _=Interpretative.=_ Of this incident Gladstone, in his primer on Homer, says: "One of the greatest branches and props of morality for the heroic age lay in the care of the stranger and the poor.... Sacrifice could not be substituted for duty, nor could prayer. Such, upon the abduction of Chryseïs, was the reply of Calchas the Seer: nothing would avail but restitution." =78. The Dynasty of Tantalus and its Connections.= (See also Table I.) TABLE F =Jupiter= +-- =Tantalus= (k. of Phrygia) =Dione +-- =Niobe= | ==Amphion= | +-- 7 sons and 7 daughters +-- =Pelops= =Hippodamia +-- =Atreus= | =Aërope | +-- =Agamemnon= | +-- =Menelaüs= +-- Thyestes | +-- Ægisthus +-- Pittheus (k. of Tr[oe]zen) +-- Æthra =Ægeus +-- Theseus =Antiope +-- =Amphion= ==Niobe= +-- 7 sons and 7 daughters (see above) =Atlas= +-- Dione | ==Tantalus= (k. of Phrygia) | +-- =Niobe= (see above) | +-- =Pelops= (see above) +-- Sterope II =Mars +-- [OE]nomaüs +-- Hippodamia ==Pelops= +-- =Atreus= (see above) +-- Thyestes (see above) +-- Pittheus (k. of Tr[oe]zen) (see above) Minos II +-- Aërope ==Atreus= +-- =Agamemnon= (see above) +-- =Menelaüs= (see above) =Pelops.= It is said that the goddess Demeter in a fit of absent-mindedness ate the shoulder of Pelops. The part was replaced in ivory when Pelops was restored to life. =Mount Cynthus=: in Delos, where Apollo and Diana were born. =_Interpretative._= Max Müller derives =Niobe= from the root _snu_, or _snigh_, from which come the words for _snow_ in the Indo-European languages. In Latin and Greek, the stem is _Niv_, hence Nib, Niobe. The myth, therefore, would signify the melting of snow and the destruction of its icy offspring under the rays of the spring sun (Sci. Relig. 372). According to Homer (Iliad, 24, 611), there were six sons and six daughters. After their death no one could bury them, since all who looked on them were turned to stone. The burial was, accordingly, performed on the tenth day after the massacre, by Jupiter and the other gods. This petrifaction of the onlookers may indicate the operation of the frost. Cox says that Niobe, the snow, compares her golden-tinted, wintry mists or clouds with the splendor of the sun and moon. Others look upon the myth as significant of the withering of spring vegetation under the heats of summer (Preller). The latter explanation is as satisfactory, for spring is the child of winter (Niobe). =_Illustrative._= Pope, Dunciad, 2, 311; Lewis Morris, Niobe on Sipylus (Songs Unsung); Byron's noble stanza on fallen Rome, "The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe," etc. (Childe Harold, 4, 79); W. S. Landor, Niobe; Frederick Tennyson, Niobe. On =Tantalus=, see Lewis Morris, Tantalus, in The Epic of Hades. On Sir Richard Blackmore, a physician and poor poet, Thomas Moore writes the following stanza: 'T was in his carriage the sublime Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme, And, if the wits don't do him wrong, 'Twixt death and epics passed his time, Scribbling and killing all day long; Like Ph[oe]bus in his car at ease, Now warbling forth a lofty song, Now murdering the young Niobes. =_In Art._= The restoration of the statue of Niobe, Mount Sipylus; of extreme antiquity. The St. Petersburg relief (Fig. 61, in text) is probably the best group. Figs. 60 and 62 are from the ancient marbles in the Uffizi, Florence. The fragments of the latter group were discovered in 1583 near the Porta San Giovanni, Rome. The figure of the mother, clasping the little girl who has run to her in terror, is one of the most admired of the ancient statues. It ranks with the Laocoön and the Apollo Belvedere among the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue: To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain; The sculptor's art has made her breathe again. There is also a fine figure of a daughter of Niobe in the Vatican, Rome; and there are figures in the Louvre. Reinach in his _Apollo_ attributes the originals to Scopas. =79. _Interpretative._= The month in which the festival of =Linus= took place was called the =Lambs' Month=: the days were the =Lambs' Days=, on one of which was a massacre of dogs. According to some, Linus was a minstrel, son of Apollo and the Muse Urania, and the teacher of Orpheus and Hercules. =80. Centaurs.= Monsters represented as men from the head to the loins, while the remainder of the body was that of a horse. Centaurs are the only monsters of antiquity to which any good traits were assigned. They were admitted to the companionship of men. =Chiron= was the wisest and justest of the Centaurs. At his death he was placed by Jupiter among the stars as the constellation Sagittarius (the Archer). =Messenia=: in the Peloponnesus. =Æsculapius=: there were numerous oracles of Æsculapius, but the most celebrated was at Epidaurus. Here the sick sought responses and the recovery of their health by sleeping in the temple. It has been inferred from the accounts that have come down to us that the treatment of the sick resembled what is now called animal magnetism or mesmerism. Serpents were sacred to Æsculapius, probably because of a superstition that those animals have a faculty of renewing their youth by a change of skin. The worship of Æsculapius was introduced into Rome in a time of great sickness. An embassy, sent to the temple of Epidaurus to entreat the aid of the god, was propitiously received; and on the return of the ship Æsculapius accompanied it in the form of a serpent. Arriving in the river Tiber, the serpent glided from the vessel and took possession of an island, upon which a temple was soon erected to his honor. =_Interpretative._= The healing powers of nature may be here symbolized. But it is more likely that the family of Asclepiadæ (a medical clan) invented Asklepios as at once their ancestor and the son of the god of healing, Apollo. =_Illustrative._= Milton, Paradise Lost, 9, 506; Shakespeare, Pericles, III, ii; Merry Wives, II, iii. =_In Art._= Æsculapius (sculpture), Vatican; also the statue in the Uffizi, Florence (text, Fig. 63). Thorwaldsen's (sculpture) Hygea (Health) and Æsculapius, Copenhagen. =81. _Interpretative._= Perhaps the unceasing and unvarying round of the sun led to the conception of him as a servant. Max Müller cites the Peruvian Inca who said that if the sun were free, like fire, he would visit new parts of the heavens. "He is," said the Inca, "like a tied beast who goes ever round and round in the same track" (Chips, etc., 2, 113). Nearly all Greek heroes had to undergo servitude,--Hercules, Perseus, etc. No stories are more beautiful or more lofty than those which express the hope, innate in the human heart, that somewhere and at some time some god has lived as a man among men and for the good of men. Such stories are not confined to the Greeks or the Hebrews. =_Illustrative_=. R. Browning, Apollo and the Fates; Edith M. Thomas, Apollo the Shepherd; Emma Lazarus, Admetus; W. M. W. Call, Admetus. =83. _Textual._ Alcestis= was a daughter of the Pelias who was killed at the instigation of Medea (=167=). In that affair Alcestis took no part. For her family, see Table G. She was held in the highest honor in Greek fable, and ranked with Penelope and Laodamia, the latter of whom was her niece. To explain the myth as a physical allegory would be easy, but is it not more likely that the idea of _substitution_ finds expression in the myth?--that idea of atonement by sacrifice, which is suggested in the words of [OE]dipus at Colonus (=185=), "For one soul working in the strength of love Is mightier than ten thousand to atone." =Koré= (the daughter of Ceres): Proserpina. =Larissa=: a city of Thessaly, on the river Peneüs. =_Illustrative._= Milton's sonnet, On his Deceased Wife: Methought I saw my late espousèd saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Chaucer, Legende of Good Women, 208 _et seq._; Court of Love (?), 100 _et seq._ =_Poems._= Robert Browning's noble poem, Balaustion's Adventure, purports to be a paraphrase of the Alcestis of Euripides, but while it maintains the classical spirit, it is in execution an original poem. The Love of Alcestis, by William Morris; Mrs. Hemans, The Alcestis of Alfieri, and The Death Song of Alcestis; W. S. Landor, Hercules, Pluto, Alcestis, and Admetus; Alcestis: F. T. Palgrave, W. M. W. Call, John Todhunter (a drama). =_In Art._= Fig. 64, in text, Naples Museum; also the relief on a Roman sarcophagus in the Vatican. =84. _Textual._= This Laomedon was descended, through Dardanus (the forefather of the Trojan race), from Jupiter and the Pleiad Electra. For further information about him, see =119=, =161=, and Table I. =_Interpretative._= Apollo evidently fulfills, under Laomedon, his function as god of colonization. =85-86. _Textual._= For Pan, see =43=; for Tmolus, =76=. =Peneüs=: a river in Thessaly, which rises in Mount Pindus and flows through the wooded valley of Tempe. =Dædal=: variously adorned, variegated. Midas was king of Phrygia (see =113=). =_Illustrative._= The story of King Midas has been told by others with some variations. Dryden, in the Wife of Bath's Tale, makes Midas' queen the betrayer of the secret: This Midas knew, and durst communicate To none but to his wife his ears of state. =87. _Illustrative._= M. Arnold, Empedocles (Song of Callicles); L. Morris, Marsyas, in The Epic of Hades; Edith M. Thomas, Marsyas; E. Lee-Hamilton, Apollo and Marsyas. =_In Art._= Raphael's drawing, Apollo and Marsyas (Museum, Venice); Bordone's Apollo, Marsyas, and Midas (Dresden); the Græco-Roman sculpture, Marsyas (Louvre); Marsyas (or Dancing Faun), in the Lateran, Rome. =89. _Textual._= Daphne was a sister of Cyrene, another sweetheart of Apollo's (=145=). =Delphi=, in Phocis, and =Tenedos=, an island off the coast of Asia Minor, near Troy, were celebrated for their temples of Apollo. The latter temple was sacred to =Apollo Smintheus=, the Mouse-Apollo, probably because he had rid that country of mice as St. Patrick rid Ireland of snakes and toads. =Dido=: queen of Carthage (=252=), whose lover, Æneas, sailed away from her. =_Interpretative._= Max Müller's explanation is poetic though not philologically probable. "Daphne, or Ahanâ, means the Dawn. There is first the appearance of the dawn in the eastern sky, then the rising of the sun as if hurrying after his bride, then the gradual fading away of the bright dawn at the touch of the fiery rays of the sun, and at last her death or disappearance in the lap of her mother, the earth." The word _Daphne_ also means, in Greek, a _laurel_; hence the legend that Daphne was changed into a laurel tree (Sci. Relig., 378, 379). Others construe Daphne as the _lightning_. It is, however, very probable that the Greeks of the myth-making age, finding certain plants and flowers sacred to Apollo, would invent stories to explain why he preferred the laurel, the hyacinth, the sunflower, etc. "Such myths of metamorphoses" are, as Mr. Lang says, "an universal growth of savage fancy, and spring from a want of a sense of difference between men and things" (Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 206). =_Illustrative._= Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, II, ii; Taming of the Shrew, Induction ii; Troilus and Cressida, I, i; Milton, Comus, 59, 662; Hymn on the Nativity, II. 176-180, Vacation, 33-40; Paradise Lost, 4, 268-275; Paradise Regained, 2, 187; Lord de Tabley (Wm. Lancaster), Daphne, "All day long, In devious forest, Grove, and fountain side, The god had sought his Daphne," etc.; Lyly, King Mydas; Apollo's Song to Daphne; Frederick Tennyson, Daphne. Waller applies this story to the case of one whose amatory verses, though they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet widespread 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 Ph[oe]bus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He caught at love and filled his arms with bays. =_In Art._= Fig. 67, in text; Bernini's Apollo and Daphne, in the Villa Borghese, Rome (see text, opp. p. 112). Painting: G. F. Watts' Daphne. =91. _Illustrative._= Hood, Flowers, "I will not have the mad Clytia, Whose head is turned by the sun," etc.; W. W. Story, Clytie; Mrs. A. Fields, Clytia. The so-called bust of Clytie (discovered not long ago) is possibly a representation of Isis. =93. _Textual._ Elis=: northwestern part of the Peloponnesus. =Alpheüs=: a river of Elis flowing to the Mediterranean. The river Alpheüs does in fact disappear under ground, 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 Alpheüs appeared again in the Arethusa. It is, possibly, this fable of the underground course of Alpheüs that Coleridge has in mind in his dream 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 alludes to the practice of throwing garlands or other light objects on the stream of Alpheüs, to be carried downward by it, and afterward reproduced at its emerging, "as an offering To lay at Arethusa's feet." =The Acroceraunian Mountains= are in Epirus in the northern part of Greece. It is hardly necessary to point out that a river Arethusa arising there could not possibly be approached by an Alpheüs of the Peloponnesus. Such a criticism of Shelley's sparkling verses would however be pedantic rather than just. Probably Shelley uses the word _Acroceraunian_ as synonymous with _steep_, _dangerous_. If so, he had the practice of Ovid behind him (Remedium Amoris, 739). =Mount Erymanthus=: between Arcadia and Achaia. The =Dorian= deep: the Peloponnesus was inhabited by descendants of the fabulous Dorus. =Enna=: a city in the center of Sicily. =Ortygia=: an island on which part of the city of Syracuse is built. =_Illustrative._= Milton, Arcades, 30; Lycidas, 132; Margaret J. Preston, The Flight of Arethusa; Keats, Endymion, Bk. 2, "On either side out-gushed, with misty spray, A copious spring." =95.= See genealogical table =E= for =Actæon=. In this myth Preller finds another allegory of the baleful influence of the dog days upon those exposed to the heat. Cox's theory that here we have large masses of cloud which, having dared to look upon the clear sky, are torn to pieces and scattered by the winds, is principally instructive as illustrating how far afield theorists have gone, and how easy it is to invent ingenious explanations. =_Illustrative._= Shakespeare, Merry Wives, II, i; III, ii; Titus Andronicus, II, iii; Shelley, Adonais, 31, "Midst others of less note, came one frail Form," etc., a touching allusion to himself; A. H. Clough, Actæon; L. Morris, Actæon (Epic of Hades). =96. Chios=: an island in the Ægean. =Lemnos=: another island in the Ægean, where Vulcan had a forge. =_Interpretative._= The ancients were wont to glorify in fable constellations of remarkable brilliancy or form. The heavenly adventures of =Orion= are sufficiently explained by the text. =_Illustrative._= Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 3, 31; Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 299, "Natheless he so endured," etc.; Longfellow, Occultation of Orion; R. H. Horne, Orion; Charles Tennyson Turner, Orion (a sonnet). =97. Electra.= See genealogical table I. See same table for =Merope=, the mother of Glaucus and grandmother of Bellerophon (=155=). =_Illustrative._ Pleiads=: Milton, Paradise Lost, 7, 374; Pope, Spring, 102; Mrs. Hemans has verses on the same subject; Byron, "Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." In modern sculpture, The Lost Pleiad of Randolph Rogers is famous; in painting, the Pleiades of Elihu Vedder (Fig. 72, in text). =98. Mount Latmos=: in Caria. Diana is sometimes called =Ph[oe]be=, the shining one. For the descendants of Endymion, the Ætolians, etc., see Table I. =_Interpretative._= According to the simplest explanation of the =Endymion= myth, the hero is the setting sun on whom the upward rising moon delights to gaze. His fifty children by Selene would then be the fifty months of the Olympiad, or Greek period of four years. Some, however, consider him to be a personification of sleep, the king whose influence comes over one in the cool caves of Latmos, "the Mount of Oblivion"; others, the growth of vegetation under the dewy moonlight; still others, euhemeristically, a young hunter, who under the moonlight followed the chase, but in the daytime slept. =_Illustrative._= The Endymion of Keats. Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess, tells, "How the pale Ph[oe]be, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion," etc. Young, Night Thoughts, "So Cynthia, poets feign, In shadows veiled, ... Her shepherd cheered"; Spenser, Epithalamion, "The Latmian Shepherd," etc.; Marvel, Songs on Lord Fauconberg and the Lady Mary Cromwell (chorus, Endymion and Laura); O. W. Holmes, Metrical Essays, "And, Night's chaste empress, in her bridal play, Laughed through the foliage where Endymion lay." =_Poems._= Besides Keats' the most important are by Lowell, Longfellow, Clough (Epi Latmo, and Selene), T. B. Read, Buchanan, L. Morris (Epic of Hades). John Lyly's prose drama, Endymion, contains quaint and delicate songs. =_In Art._= Fig. 73, in text; Diana and the sleeping Endymion (Vatican). =_Paintings._= Carracci's fresco, Diana embracing Endymion (Farnese Palace, Rome); Guercino's Sleeping Endymion; G. F. Watts' Endymion. =100. _Textual._ Paphos= and =Amathus=: towns in Cyprus, of which the former contained a temple to Venus. =Cnidos= (Cnidus or Gnidus): a town in Caria, where stood a famous statue of Venus, attributed to Praxiteles. =Cytherea=: Venus, an adjective derived from her island Cythera in the Ægean Sea. =Acheron=, and =Persephone= or =Proserpine=: see =44-48=. The wind-flower of the Greeks was of bloody hue, like that of the pomegranate. It is said the wind blows the blossoms open, and afterwards scatters the petals. =_Interpretative._= Among the P[oe]nicians Venus is known as Astarte, among the Assyrians as Istar. The =Adonis= of this story is the Ph[oe]nician _Adon_, or the Hebrew _Adonai_, 'Lord.' The myth derives its origin from the Babylonian worship of Thammuz or Adon, who represents the verdure of spring, and whom his mistress, the goddess of fertility, seeks, after his death, in the lower regions. With their departure all birth and fruitage cease on the earth; but when he has been revived by sprinkling of water, and restored to his mistress and to earth, all nature again rejoices. The myth is akin to those of Linus, Hyacinthus, and Narcissus. Mannhardt (Wald-und Feld-kulte, 274), cited by Roscher, supplies the following characteristics common to such religious rites in various lands: (1) The spring is personified as a beautiful youth who is represented by an image surrounded by quickly fading flowers from the "garden of Adonis." (2) He comes in the early year and is beloved by a goddess of vegetation, goddess sometimes of the moon, sometimes of the star of Love. (3) In midsummer he dies, and during autumn and winter inhabits the underworld. (4) His burial is attended with lamentations, his resurrection with festivals. (5) These events take place in midsummer and in spring. (6) The image and the _Adonis_ plants are thrown into water. (7) Sham marriages are celebrated between pairs of worshipers. =_Illustrative._= The realistic Idyl XV of Theocritus contains a typical Psalm of Adonis, sung at Alexandria, for his resurrection. Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis; Taming of the Shrew, Induction ii; 1 Henry VI, I, vi. In Milton, Comus, 998: Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound, In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen. Drummond, The Statue of Adonis; Pope, Summer, 61; Winter, 24; Miscel. 7, 10; Moral Essays, 3, 73; Dunciad, 5, 202. See C. S. Calverley, Death of Adonis (Theocritus); L. Morris, Adonis (Epic of Hades). =_In Art._= Fig. 74, in text, from a Roman sarcophagus. The Dying Adonis, (sculpture), Michelangelo; the Adonis of Thorwaldsen in the Glyptothek, Munich. =101-102. _Textual._ Psyche= does not eat anything in Hades, because, by accepting the hospitality of Proserpina, she would become an inmate of her household. The scene with the lamp and knife probably indicates the infringement of some ancient matrimonial custom. =Erebus=: the land of darkness, Hades. For =Zephyr=, =Acheron=, =Cerberus=, =Charon=, etc., see Index. =_Interpretative._= The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually regarded as allegorical. The Greek name for _butterfly_ is Psyche, and the same word means the _soul_. There is no illustration of the immortality of the soul so striking and beautiful as that of the butterfly, bursting on brilliant wings from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull, groveling, caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day and feed on the most fragrant and delicate productions of the spring. Psyche, then, is the human soul, which is purified by sufferings and misfortunes, and is thus prepared for the enjoyment of true and pure happiness. It is probable that the story allegorizes a philosophical conception concerning _three_ stages of the soul's life: first, a former existence of bliss; second, an earthly existence of trial; third, a heavenly future of fruition. Cox, by his usual method, finds here a myth of the search for the Sun (Eros) by the Dawn (Psyche). Many of the incidents of the story will be found in modern fairy tales and romances, such as Beauty and the Beast, Grimm's Twelve Brothers; the Gaelic stories: The Three Daughters of King O'Hara; Fair, Brown, and Trembling; The Daughter of the Skies; and the Norse tale--East of the Sun and West of the Moon. See Cox 1, 403-411. =_Illustrative._= Thomas Moore, Cupid and Psyche; Mrs. Browning, Psyche, Paraphrase on Apuleius; L. Morris, in The Epic of Hades; Frederick Tennyson, Psyche; Robert Bridges, Eros and Psyche. Most important is W. H. Pater's Marius the Epicurean, which contains the story as given by Apuleius. =_In Art._= Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings of a butterfly, in the different situations described in the allegory. The Græco-Roman sculpture of Cupid and Psyche, in the Capitol at Rome, is of surpassing beauty; so also is Canova's Cupid and Psyche. =_Paintings._= Raphael's frescoes in the Farnesina Villa, twelve in number, illustrating the story; François Gérard's Cupid and Psyche; Paul Thumann's nine illustrations of the story (see Figs. 75, 76, in text); R. Beyschlag's Psyche with the Urn, Psyche Grieving, and Psyche and Pan; W. Kray's Psyche and Zephyr; Psyche: by A. de Curzon; by G. F. Watts, a series of three illustrations by H. Bates. The Charon and Psyche of E. Neide is a sentimental, simpering conception. A. Zick also has a Psyche. =_103._= According to another tradition, =Atalanta's= love was Milanion. The nuptial vow was ratified by Hera (Juno). This, the B[oe]otian, Atalanta is sometimes identified with the Arcadian Atalanta of the Calydonian Hunt. (See =168= and Table D). It is better to discriminate between them. The genealogy of this Atalanta will be seen in Tables G and I. =_Illustrative._= W. Morris, Atalanta's Race (Earthly Paradise); Moore, Rhymes on the Road, on Alpine Scenery,--an allusion to Hippomenes. =_In Art._= Painting by E. J. Poynter, Atalanta's Race (Fig. 78, in text); and Guido Reni's brilliant picture of the same subject. =104. _Textual_= and =_Illustrative._= The story of =Hero and Leander= is the subject of a romantic poem by Musæus, a grammarian of Alexandria, who lived in the fifth century A.D. This author, in distinction from the mythical poet of the same name, is styled the Pseudo-Musæus. The _epyllion_ has been translated by Sir Robert Stapylton, Sir Edwin Arnold, and others. The feat of swimming the Hellespont was performed by Lord Byron. The distance in the narrowest part is not more than a mile, but there is a constant dangerous current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the Archipelago. For an allusion to the story see Byron, Bride of Abydos, Canto II. For Byron's statement concerning the breadth of the water see footnote to "Stanzas written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos." =_Poems._ Hero and Leander=: by Leigh Hunt, by Tom Hood, by Moore; sonnet by D. G. Rossetti, Hero's Lamp (House of Life); a poem not in later editions of Tennyson, Hero to Leander, 1830; Chapman's continuation of Marlowe's Hero and Leander. =_Paintings._= G. von Bodenhausen; F. Keller (Fig. 79, in text). =105. _Interpretative._= Another illustration of the vivifying influence of love. Preller deems Pygmalion's story nearly akin to the Adonis myth. He regards the festival of Venus, during which the statue of Galatea (or passive love) receives life, as the usual Adonis-festival. TABLE G. THE CONNECTIONS OF ATALANTA THE B[OE]OTIAN =Prometheus= +-- Deucalion =Pyrrha +-- Hellen +-- Æolus | +-- Other sons (See Table I) | +-- Athamas | | =Nephele | | +-- =Helle= | | +-- Phryxus | | =Ino | | +-- Melicertes | | =Themisto | | +-- =Sch[oe]nus= of B[oe]otia | | +-- =Atalanta= (Hippomenes) | +-- Sisyphus (Merope) | | +-- =Glaucus= | | +-- =Bellerophon= | +-- Salmoneus | | +-- Tyro | | =Neptune | | +-- Neleus | | | +-- Nestor | | | | +-- Antilochus | | | +-- Pero | | | =Bias | | | +-- Talaüs | | | +-- Adrastus | | | +-- Eriphyle | | | =Amphiaraüs | | | +-- Alcmæon | | | | =Arsinoë | | | +-- Amphilochus | | +-- Pelias | | +-- =Evadne= | | +-- Acastus | | | +-- =Laodamia= | | | =Protesilaüs | | +-- =Alcestis= | | ==Admetus= | | =Cretheus | | +-- Pheres | | | +-- =Admetus= | | | ==Alcestis= | | +-- Æson | | | +-- =Jason= | | +-- Amythaon | | +-- Bias | | | =Pero | | | +-- Talaüs (see above) | | +-- Melampus (the Prophet) | | +-- Antiphates | | +-- Oïcles | | =Hypermnestra | | +-- Amphiaraüs | | =Eriphyle | | +-- Alcmæon (see above) | | +-- Amphilochus (see above) | +-- Cretheus | =Tyro | +-- Pheres (see above) | +-- Æson (see above) | +-- Amythaon (see above) +-- Dorus +-- Xuthus +-- Achæus +-- Ion =Epimetheus= ==Pandora= +-- Pyrrha =Deucalion +-- Hellen (see above) =_Illustrative._= Thomson, Castle of Indolence, 2, 12; R. Buchanan, Pygmalion the Sculptor; Morris, and Lang, as in text; Pygmalion: by T. L. Beddoes, by W. C. Bennett. The seventeenth-century satirist, Marston, wrote a Pygmalion, of no great worth. Frederick Tennyson, Pygmalion (in Daphne and other Poems); Arthur Henry Hallam, Lines spoken in the Character of Pygmalion; Thomas Woolner, Pygmalion. =_In Art._= The Pygmalion series of four scenes, by E. Burne-Jones. =106. _Textual._ Semiramis=: wife of King Ninus and the queen of Assyria. Famous for her administrative and military ability. A mythical character with features of historic probability. =_Illustrative._= Chaucer, Thisbe, the Martyr of Babylon (Legende of Good Women). Allusions in Surrey, Of the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt; Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, III, ii; V, i; Merchant of Venice, V, i. Moore, in the Sylph's Ball, draws a comparison between Thisbe's wall and the gauze of Davy's safety lamp. Mickle's translation of the Lusiad (Island of Love). =_In Art._= Burne-Jones' three paintings, Cupid, Pyramus, and Thisbe (Fig. 80, in text); E. J. Paupion's painting, Thisbe. =107. _Textual._ Lesbos= and =Chios=: islands in the Ægean. For =Sappho= see =298= (3). =_Illustrative._= The second lyric of Sappho, beginning "Like to the gods he seems to me, The man that sits reclined by thee," has been translated by Phillips, by Fawkes, and by recent poets. The reference is probably to Phaon. Allusions in Pope, Moral Essays, 3, 121; 2, 24; Prologue to Satires, 309, 101; Byron's Isles of Greece, already referred to. Compare the translation in Catullus, LI. =_Poems_= on Sappho or on Phaon: Charles Kingsley, Sappho; Buchanan, Sappho on the Leucadian Rock; Landor,--Sappho, Alcæus, Anacreon, and Phaon; Frederick Tennyson, Kleïs or the Return (in the Isles of Greece). See also Lyly's amusing prose drama, Sappho and Phao. =109. _Textual._ Mount Cyllene=: between Arcadia and Achæa. =Pierian Mountains=: in Macedonia, directly north of Thessaly; the birthplace of the Muses. =Pylos=: an ancient city of Elis. =_Interpretative._= On the supposition that the herds of Apollo are the bright rays of the sun, a plausible physical explanation of the relations of =Mercury= (Hermes) to Apollo is the following from Max Müller: "Hermes is the god of the twilight, who betrays his equivocal nature by stealing, though only in fun, the herds of Apollo, but restoring them without the violent combat that (in the analogous Indian story) is waged for the herds between Indra, the bright god, and Vala, the robber. In India the dawn brings the light; in Greece the twilight itself is supposed to have stolen it, or to hold back the light, and Hermes, the twilight, surrenders the booty when challenged by the sun-god Apollo" (Lect. on Lang., 2 Ser., 521-522). Hermes is connected by Professor Müller with the Vedic god _Sarameya_, son of the twilight. Mercury, or Hermes, as morning or as evening twilight, loves the Dew, is herald of the gods, is spy of the night, is sender of sleep and dreams, is accompanied by the cock, herald of dawn, is the guide of the departed on their last journey. To the conception of twilight, Cox adds that of _motion_, and explains Hermes as the _air in motion_ that springs up with the dawn, gains rapidly in force, sweeps before it the _clouds_ (here the cattle of Apollo), makes soft music through the trees (lyre), etc. Other theorists make Hermes the Divine Activity, the god of the ether, of clouds, of storm, etc. Though the explanations of Professor Müller and the Rev. Sir G. W. Cox are more satisfactory here than usual, Roscher's _the swift wind_ is scientifically preferable. =_Illustrative._= See Shelley, Homeric Hymn to Mercury, on which the text of this section is based, and passages in Prometheus Unbound; Keats, Ode to Maia. =_In Art._= The intent of the disguise in Fig. 81 (text) is to deceive Demeter with a sham sacrifice. =110-112. _Textual._= See Table E, for Bacchus, Pentheus, etc. =Nysa= "has been identified as a mountain in Thrace, in B[oe]otia, in Arabia, India, Libya; and Naxos, as a town in Caria or the Caucasus, and as an island in the Nile." =Thebes=: the capital of B[oe]otia. =Mæonia=: Lydia, in Asia Minor. =Dia=: Naxos, the largest of the Cyclades Islands in the Ægean. =Mount Cithæron=: in B[oe]otia. The =Thyrsus= was a wand, wreathed with ivy and surmounted by a pine cone, carried by Bacchus and his votaries. =Mænads= and =Bacchantes= were female followers of Bacchus. =Bacchanal= is a general term for his devotees. =_Interpretative._= "=Bacchus= (Dionysus) is regarded by many as the _spiritual form_ of the new vernal life, the sap and pulse of vegetation and of the new-born year, especially as manifest in the vine and juice of the grape."--LANG, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 221 (from Preller 1, 554). The =Hyades= (rain-stars), that nurtured the deity, perhaps symbolize the rains that nourish sprouting vegetation. He became identified very soon with the _spirituous effects_ of the vine. His sufferings may typify the "ruin of the summer year at the hands of storm and winter," or, perhaps, the agony of the bleeding grapes in the wine press. The orgies would, according to this theory, be a survival of the ungoverned actions of savages when celebrating a festival in honor of the deity of plenty, of harvest home, and of intoxication. But in cultivated Greece, Dionysus, in spite of the surviving orgiastic ceremonies, is a poetic incarnation of blithe, changeable, spirited youth. See Lang, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 221-241. That =Rhea= taught him would account for the Oriental nature of his rites; for Rhea is an Eastern deity by origin. The opposition of =Pentheus= would indicate the reluctance with which the Greeks adopted his doctrine and ceremonial. The Dionysiac worship came from Thrace, a barbarous clime;--but wandering, like the springtide, over the earth, Bacchus conquered each nation in turn. It is probable that the Dionysus-Iacchus cult was one of evangelical enthusiasm and individual cleansing from sin, of ideals in this life and of personal immortality in the next. By introducing it into Greece, Pisistratus reformed the exclusive ritual of the Eleusinian Mysteries. Of the =Festivals of Dionysus=, the more important in Attica were the Lesser Dionysia, in December; the Lenæa, in January; the Anthesteria, or spring festival, in February; and the Great Dionysia, in March. These all, in greater or less degree, witnessed of the culture and the glories of the vine, and of the reawakening of the spirits of vegetation. They were celebrated, as the case might be, with a sacrifice of a victim in reminiscence of the blood by which the spirits of the departed were supposed to be nourished, with processions of women, profusion of flowers, orgiastic songs and dances, or dramatic representations. =_Illustrative._ Bacchus=: Milton, Comus, 46. =Pentheus=: Landor, The Last Fruit of an Old Tree; H. H. Milman, The Bacchanals of Euripides; Calverley's and Lang's translations of Theocritus, Idyl XXVI; Thomas Love Peacock, Rhododaphne: The Vengeance of Bacchus; B. W. Procter, Bacchanalian Song. =Naxos=: Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 275. _=In Art.=_ Figs. 31, 82-87, 143, in text. =113. _Textual._= Hesperides, see Index. =River Pactolus=: in Lydia. =Midas=: the son of one Gordius, who from a farmer had become king of Phrygia, because he happened to fulfill a prophecy by entering the public square of some city just as the people were casting about for a king. He tied his wagon in the temple of the prophetic deity with the celebrated =Gordian Knot=, which none but the future lord of Asia might undo. Alexander the Great undid the knot with his sword. _=Interpretative.=_ An ingenious, but not highly probable, theory explains the golden touch of Midas as the rising sun that gilds all things, and his bathing in Pactolus as the quenching of the sun's splendor in the western ocean. =Midas= is fabled to have been the son of the "great mother," Cybele, whose worship in Phrygia was closely related to that of Bacchus or Dionysus. The =Sileni= were there regarded as tutelary _genii_ of the rivers and springs, promoting fertility of the soil. =Marsyas=, an inspired musician in the service of Cybele, was naturally associated in fable with Midas. The ass being the favorite animal of Silenus, the ass's ears of Midas merely symbolize his fondness for and devotion to such habits as were attributed to the Sileni. The ass, by the way, was reverenced in Phrygia; the acquisition of ass's ears may therefore have been originally a glory, not a disgrace. _=Illustrative.=_ John Lyly, Play of Mydas, especially the song, "Sing to Apollo, god of day"; Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, III, ii (casket scene); Pope, Dunciad, 3, 342; Prologue to Satires, 82; Swift, The Fable of Midas; J. G. Saxe, The Choice of King Midas (a travesty). =Gordian Knot=: Henry V, I, i; Cymbeline, II, ii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 348; Vacation, 90. =Pactolus=: Pope, Spring, 61; allusions also to the sisters of Phaëthon. =Silenus=, by W. S. Landor. =114-117. _Textual._ Mount Eryx=, the vale of =Enna=, and =Cyane= are in Sicily. =Eleusis=: in Attica. For =Arethusa= see Index. =_Interpretative._= The Italian goddess Ceres assumed the attributes of the Greek Demeter in 496 B.C. Proserpine signifies the seed-corn which, when cast into the ground, lies there concealed,--is carried off by the god of the underworld; when the corn reappears, Proserpine is restored to her mother. Spring leads her back to the light of day. The following, from Aubrey De Vere's Introduction to his Search for Proserpine, is suggestive: "Of all the beautiful fictions of Greek Mythology, there are few more exquisite than the story of Proserpine, and none deeper in symbolical meaning. Considering the fable with reference to the physical world, Bacon says, in his Wisdom of the Ancients, that by the Rape of Proserpine is signified the disappearance of flowers at the end of the year, when the vital juices are, as it were, drawn down to the central darkness, and held there in bondage. Following up this view of the subject, the Search of her Mother, sad and unavailing as it was, would seem no unfit emblem of Autumn and the restless melancholy of the season; while the hope with which the Goddess was finally cheered may perhaps remind us of that unexpected return of fine weather which occurs so frequently, like an omen of Spring, just before Winter closes in. The fable has, however, its moral significance also, being connected with that great mystery of Joy and Grief, of Life and Death, which pressed so heavily on the mind of Pagan Greece, and imparts to the whole of her mythology a profound interest, spiritual as well as philosophical. It was the restoration of Man, not of flowers, the victory over Death, not over Winter, with which that high Intelligence felt itself to be really concerned." In Greece two kinds of =Festivals=, the =Eleusinia= and the =Thesmophoria=, were held in honor of Demeter and Persephone. The former was divided into the lesser, celebrated in February, and the greater (lasting nine days), in September. Distinction must be made between the Festivals and the Mysteries of Eleusis. In the Festivals all classes might participate. Those of the Spring represented the restoration of Persephone to her mother; those of the Autumn the rape of Persephone. An image of the youthful Iacchus (Bacchus) headed the procession in its march toward Eleusis. At that place and in the neighborhood were enacted in realistic fashion the wanderings and the sufferings of Demeter, the scenes in the house of Celeus, and finally the successful conclusion of the search for Persephone. The =Mysteries= of Eleusis were witnessed only by the initiated, and were invested with a veil of secrecy which has never been fully withdrawn. The initiates passed through certain symbolic ceremonies from one degree of mystic enlightenment to another till the highest was attained. The Lesser Mysteries were an introduction to the Greater; and it is known that the rites involved partook of the nature of purification from passion, crime, and the various degradations of human existence. By pious contemplation of the dramatic scenes presenting the sorrows of Demeter, and by participation in sacramental rites, it is probable that the initiated were instructed in the nature of life and death, and consoled with the hope of immortality (Preller). On the development of the Eleusinian Mysteries from the savage to the civilized ceremonial, see Lang, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 275, and Lobeck, Aglaophamus, 133. The =Thesmophoria= were celebrated by married women in honor of Ceres (Demeter), and referred to institutions of married life. That Proserpine should be under bonds to the underworld because she had partaken of food in Hades accords with a superstition not peculiar to the Greeks, but to be "found in New Zealand, Melanesia, Scotland, Finland, and among the Ojibbeways" (Lang, Myth, Ritual, etc., 2, 273). =_Illustrative._= Aubrey De Vere, as above; B. W. Procter, The Rape of Proserpine; R. H. Stoddard, The Search for Persephone; G. Meredith, The Appeasement of Demeter; Tennyson, Demeter and Persephone; Dora Greenwell, Demeter and Cora; T. L. Beddoes, Song of the Stygian Naiades; A. C. Swinburne, Song to Proserpine. See also notes under Persephone, =44=, Demeter and Pluto. =Eleusis=: Schiller, Festival of Eleusis, translated by N. L. Frothingham; At Eleusis, by Swinburne. See, for poetical reference, Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 269, "Not that fair field Of Enna," etc.; Hood, Ode to Melancholy: Forgive if somewhile I forget, In woe to come the present bliss; As frighted Proserpine let fall Her flowers at the sight of Dis. _=In Art.=_ Bernini's Pluto and Proserpine (sculpture); P. Schobelt's Rape of Proserpine (picture). Eleusinian relief: Demeter, Cora, Triptolemus (Athens); and other figures, as in text. =118. _Textual._ Tænarus=: in Laconia. For the crime of =Tantalus=, see =78=. In Hades he stood up to his neck in water which receded when he would drink; grapes hanging above his head withdrew when he would pluck them; while a great rock was forever just about to fall upon him. =Ixion=, for an insult to Juno, was lashed with serpents or brazen bands to an ever-revolving wheel. =Sisyphus=, for his treachery to the gods, vainly rolled a stone toward the top of a hill (see =255=). For the =Danaïds=, see =150=; =Cerberus=, =44=, =255=. =The Dynast's bond=: the contract with Pluto, who was Dynast or tyrant of Hades. =Ferry-guard=: Charon. =Strymon= and =Hebrus=: rivers of Thrace. =Libethra=: a city on the side of Mount Olympus, between Thessaly and Macedonia. =_Interpretative._ The loss of Eurydice= may signify (like the death of Adonis and the rape of Proserpine) the departure of spring. Max Müller, however, identifies _Orpheus_ with the Sanskrit _Arbhu_, used as a name for the Sun (Chips, etc., 2, 127). According to this explanation the Sun follows Eurydice, "the wide-spreading flush of the dawn who has been stung by the serpent of night," into the regions of darkness. There he recovers Eurydice, but while he looks back upon her she fades before his gaze, as the mists of morning vanish before the glory of the rising sun (Cox). It might be more consistent to construe _Eurydice_ as the _twilight_, first, of evening which is slain by night, then, of morning which is dissipated by sunrise. Cox finds in the music of Orpheus the delicious strains of the breezes which accompany sunrise and sunset. The story should be compared with that of Apollo and Daphne, and of Mercury and Apollo. The Irish tale, The Three Daughters of King O'Hara, reverses the relation of Orpheus and Eurydice. See Curtin, Myths and Folk-Lore of Ireland, Boston, 1890. =_Illustrative._ Orpheus=: Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, III, ii; Merchant of Venice, V, i; Henry VIII, III, i (song); Milton, Lycidas, 58; L'Allegro, 145; Il Penseroso, 105; Pope, Ode on St. Cecilia's Day (Eurydice); Summer, 81; Southey, Thalaba (The Nightingale's Song over the Grave of Orpheus). =_Poems._= Wordsworth, The Power of Music; Shelley, Orpheus, a fragment; Browning, Eurydice and Orpheus; Wm. Morris, Orpheus and the Sirens (Life and Death of Jason); L. Morris, Orpheus, Eurydice (Epic of Hades); Lowell, Eurydice; E. Dowden, Eurydice; W.B. Scott, Eurydice; E.W. Gosse, The Waking of Eurydice; R. Buchanan, Orpheus, the Musician; J.G. Saxe, Travesty of Orpheus and Eurydice. On =Tantalus= and =Sisyphus=, see Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 5, 31-35; L. Morris, Epic of Hades. _=In Art.=_ A Relief on a tombstone in the National Museum, Naples, of Mercury, Orpheus, and Eurydice. There is also a copy in Paris of the marble in the Villa Albani, Rome. (See Fig. 94, text.) Paintings: Fig. 93, in text, by Sir Frederick Leighton; by Robert Beyschlag; by G.F. Watts; The Story of Orpheus, a series of ten paintings, by E. Burne-Jones. =119-120. _Textual._ Troy=: the capital of Troas in Asia Minor, situated between the rivers Scamander and Simois. Famous for the siege conducted by the Greeks under Agamemnon, Menelaüs, etc. (See Chap. XXII.) =Amymone=: a fountain of Argolis. =Enipeus=: a river of Macedonia. _=Interpretative.=_ The monsters that wreak the vengeance of Neptune are, of course, his destructive storms and lashing waves. =121.= For genealogy of Pelops, etc., see Tables F and I. For the misfortunes of the Pelopidæ, see =193=. _=Illustrative in Art.=_ Pelops and Hippodamia; vase pictures (Monuments inédits, Rome, and Paris). East pediment, Temple of Zeus, Olympia. =123-124. _Textual._ Cephalus=, the son of Mercury (Hermes) and Herse, is irretrievably confounded with Cephalus, the son of Deïon and grandson of Æolus I. The former should, strictly, be regarded as the lover of Aurora (Eos); the latter is the husband of Procris, and the great-grandfather of Ulysses. (See Tables H, I, and O (4).) =_Interpretative._ Procris= is the dewdrop (from Greek _Pr[=o]x_, 'dew') which reflects the shining rays of the sun. The "head of the day," or the rising sun, Cephalus, is also wooed by Aurora, the Dawn, but flies from her. The Sun slays the dew with the same gleaming darts that the dew reflects, or gives back to him. According to Preller, Cephalus is the morning-star beloved alike by Procris, the moon, and by Aurora, the dawn. The concealment of Procris in the forest and her death would, then, signify the paling of the moon before the approaching day. Hardly so probable as the former explanation. =_Illustrative._ Aurora=: Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 2, 7; 1, 4, 16; Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, III, ii; Romeo and Juliet, I, i; Milton, Paradise Lost, 5, 6, "Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing," etc.; L'Allegro, 19; Landor, Gebir, "Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds, The sacred gates of orient pearl and gold ... Expanded slow," etc. =Cephalus= and =Procris=: in Moore, Legendary Ballads; Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, "Shafalus and Procrus"; A. Dobson, The Death of Procris. =_In Art._ Aurora=: Figs. 97 and 99, as in text; paintings, by Guido Reni, as Fig. 98 in text, and by J.L. Hamon, and Guercino. Procris and Cephalus, by Turner. L'Aurore et Céphale, painted by P. Guérin, 1810, engraved by F. Forster, 1821. =125. _Textual._ Cimmerian= country: a fabulous land in the far west, near Hades; or, perhaps, in the north, for the people dwell by the ocean that is never visited by sunlight (Odyssey, 11, 14-19). Other sons of Somnus are =Icelus=, who personates birds, beasts, and serpents, and =Phantasus=, who assumes the forms of rocks, streams, and other inanimate things. The accompanying table will indicate the connections and descendants of Aurora. =_Interpretative._= According to one account, =Ceyx= and =Halcyone=, by likening their wedded happiness to that of Jupiter and Juno, incurred the displeasure of the gods. The myth springs from observation of the habits of the Halcyone-bird, which nests on the strand and is frequently bereft of its young by the winter waves. The comparison with the glory of Jupiter and Juno is suggested by the splendid iris hues of the birds. Halcyone days have become proverbial as seasons of calm. =Æolus I=, the son of Hellen, is here identified with =Æolus III=, the king of the winds. According to Diodorus, the latter is a descendant, in the fifth generation, of the former. (See Genealogical Table I.) _=Illustrative.=_ Chaucer, The Dethe of Blaunche; E. W. Gosse, Alcyone (a sonnet in dialogue); F. Tennyson, Halcyone; Edith M. Thomas, The Kingfisher; Margaret J. Preston, Alcyone. =Morpheus=: see Milton, Il Penseroso; Pope, Ode on St. Cecilia's Day. =126-127. _Interpretative._ Tithonus= may be the day in its ever-recurring circuit of morning freshness, noon heat, final withering and decay (Preller); or the gray glimmer of the heavens overspread by the first ruddy flush of morning (Welcker); or, as a solar myth, the sun in his setting and waning,--_Tithonus_ meaning, by derivation, the illuminator (Max Müller). The sleep of Tithonus in his ocean-bed, and his transformation into a grasshopper, would then typify the presumable weariness and weakness of the sun at night. =_Illustrative._= Spenser, Epithalamion; Faerie Queene, 1, 11, 51. =128. _Textual._ Mysia=: province of Asia Minor, south of the Propontis, or Sea of Marmora. There is some doubt about the identification of the existing statue with that described by the ancients, and the mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there is not wanting modern testimony to their being still audible. It has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making its escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given some ground for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a traveler of the highest authority, examined the statue itself, and discovered that it was hollow, and that "in the lap of the statue is a stone, which, on being struck, emits a metallic sound that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who was predisposed to believe its powers." TABLE H. THE ANCIENT RACE OF LUMINARIES AND WINDS =Hyperion= ==Thea= +-- Helios | =Perseïs | +-- Æetes | | =Hecate | | +-- Medea | | +-- Absyrtus | +-- Circe +-- Selene (Diana) | =Endymion +-- =Eos (Aurora)= =Astræus +-- Zephyrus W. Winds +-- Boreas N. " +-- Notus S. " +-- Eurus E. " ==Cephalus= +-- Phosphor (Morning Star) +-- =Ceyx= ==Halcyone= ==Tithonus= +-- =Memnon= Hermes =Herse +-- =Cephalus= ==Eos (Aurora)= +-- Phosphor (Morning Star) (see above) Æolus I +-- =Halcyone= ==Ceyx= =_Interpretative._ Memnon= is generally represented as of dark features, lighted with the animation of glorious youth. He is king of the mythical Æthiopians who lived in the land of gloaming, where east and west met, and whose name signifies "dark splendor." His birth in this borderland of light and darkness signifies either his existence as king of an eastern land or his identity with the young sun, and strengthens the theory according to which his father Tithonus is the gray glimmer of the morning heavens. The flocks of birds have been explained as the glowing clouds that meet in battle over the body of the dead sun. =_Illustrative._= Milton, Il Penseroso; Drummond, Summons to Love, "Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed"; Akenside, Pleasures of the Imagination (analogy between Memnonian music and spiritual appreciation of truth); Landor, Miscellaneous Poems, 59, "Exposed and lonely genius stands, Like Memnon in the Egyptian sands," etc. =_In Art._= Fig. 101, from a vase in the Louvre. =129-130. _Textual._ Doric pillar=: the three styles of pillars in Greek architecture were Dorian, Ionic, Corinthian (see English Dictionary). =Trinacria=: Sicily, from its _three promontories_. =Ægon= and =Daphnis=: idyllic names of Sicilian shepherds (see Idyls of Theocritus and Virgil's Eclogues). =Naïs=: a water-nymph. For Cyclops, Galatea, Silenus, Fauns, Arethusa, see Index. Compare, with the conception of Stedman's poem, Wordsworth's Power of Music. =_Illustrative._= Ben Jonson, =Pan's= anniversary; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4. 266, 707; Paradise Regained, 2, 190; Comus, 176, 268; Pope, Autumn, 81; Windsor Forest, 37, 183; Summer, 50; Dunciad, 3, 110; Akenside, Pleasures of Imagination, "Fair Tempe! haunt beloved of sylvan Powers," etc.; On Leaving Holland, 1, 2. =_Poems_=: Fletcher, Song of the Priest of Pan, and Song of Pan (in The Faithful Shepherdess); Landor, Pan and Pitys, "Pan led me to a wood the other day," etc.; Landor, Cupid and Pan; R. Buchanan, Pan; Browning, Pan and Luna; Swinburne, Pan and Thalassius; Hon. Roden Noël, Pan, in the Modern Faust. Of course Mrs. Browning's Dead Pan cannot be appreciated unless read as a whole; nor Schiller's Gods of Greece. =131. Fauns.= Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 708; 10. 573, 597; 11. 472, 788; Paradise Regained, 2, 257; Mrs. Browning, Flush or Faunus (sonnet). =Dryads=: Pope, Moral Essays, 4, 94; Winter, 12; Collins, The Passions; Keats, Nightingale, Psyche. =Satyrs=: Milton, Lycidas; Dryden, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, 6; Hawthorne, Marble Faun. =_In Art._ Fauns= (sculpture): The Barberini Faun (Munich); the Drunken Faun, Sleeping Faun, Faun and Bacchus, and Dancing Faun (National Museum, Naples); the Dancing Faun (Lateran, Rome); the so-called Faun of Praxiteles or Marble Faun (Fig. 106 in text--a Satyr--best copy in the Capitoline, Rome). =Pan= and =Apollo=: Græco-Roman sculpture (Museum, Naples). =Pan=: Fig. 102, in text; and Fig. 103, from an original perhaps of the School of Scopas or Praxiteles (Florence). Silenus and Bacchus (Glyptothek, Munich). =Nymphs= (pictures): Bouguereau, Nymphs and Satyr, and Nymphs; Burne-Jones, Nymphs; Giorgione, Nymphs pursued by a Satyr. =Satyrs=: Michelangelo (picture) (Uffizi, Florence), Mask of a Satyr; Rubens, Satyrs (Munich); Satyrs (sculpture), relief from theater of Dionysus; Satyr playing a flute (Vatican); and Figs. 103, 104, and 106-108 in the text. =132-133. _Textual._ Cephissus=: four rivers in Phocis, Attica, and Argolis bear this name. The most famous runs near Athens. =_Illustrative._ Echo=: Chaucer, Romaunt of the Rose, 1468 _et seq._; Spenser, Prothalamion; Milton, Comus, 237; Collins, The Passions. =_Poems_=: L. Morris (Epic of Hades), Narcissus; Goldsmith, On a Beautiful Youth, etc.; Cowper, On an Ugly Fellow; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 449-470 (illus.); and Comus. =_In Art_=: Narcissus (sculpture), and Fig. 109, in text (Museum, Naples). =137. Dryope= (poem), by W. S. Landor. =138. Rh[oe]cus.= Poems by Landor, The Hamadryad; Acon and Rhodope. =139. Pomona.= Phillips, a poem on Cider. See Index. =_In Art_=: the painting by J. E. Millais. =_Interpretative._= The various guises and transformations of Vertumnus signify the succession of the seasons and the changing characteristics of each. The name itself implies _turning_, or _change_. =140. _Textual._= In order to understand the story of Ibycus, it is necessary to remember, first, that the theaters of the ancients were immense fabrics, capable of containing from ten to thirty thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal occasions and admission was free to all, they were usually filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and performances were in the daytime. Secondly, that the appalling representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It is fabled that Æschylus, the tragic poet, having on one occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers, the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like representation for the future (Pollux, 4, 110). Usually the chorus in a single tragedy consisted of only fifteen performers. =_Illustrative._= On the =Furies= see =C. 49=. On =Ibycus= see translation of Schiller's Cranes of Ibycus, by E. A. Bowring. =141. _Textual._= The adventures of the water-divinities turn largely on the idea of metamorphosis, which would readily be suggested to the imaginative mind by contemplation of the ever-changing aspect of fountain, stream, lake, or ocean. For genealogies of water-deities, see Table C. =_Interpretative._= The Cyclops, =Polyphemus=, does not possess much in common with Steropes, Brontes, and Arges, the offspring of Uranus and Gæa, save his one eye and his monstrous size. The sons of Gæa are personifications of thunder and lightning; Polyphemus is the heavy vapor that rolls its clouds along the hillside. The clouds are the sheep that he pastures; the sun glowering through the vapor is his single eye (Cox). More probably he is a mere giant of folklore. =_Illustrative._= John Gay, Song of Polypheme (in Acis and Galatea); A. Dobson, A Tale of Polypheme; R. Buchanan, Polypheme's Passion; Shelley, The Cyclops of Euripides; Translations of Theocritus by Mrs. Browning and by Calverley; J. S. Blackie, Galatea; B. W. Procter, The Death of Acis. See also on the =Cyclops=, Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus, IV, iii; Hamlet, II, ii. =_In Art._= Fig. 112, text; Carracci's frescoes in the Farnese Palace, Rome, of Polyphemus, Acis and Galatea; Claude Lorrain's painting, Evening, Acis and Galatea; Raphael's Triumph of Galatea. =142. _Textual._= For descent of Glaucus, see Tables G and I. For Scylla's descent, see Table C. See Keats, Endymion, Bk. 3. =_Interpretative._= Glaucus is explained by some as the calm gleaming sea; by others, as the angry sea that reflects the lowering heavens (see Roscher, p. 1690). Scylla is a personification of treacherous currents and shallows among jagged cliffs and hidden rocks. =144.= For genealogy of Ino, see Table E. "Leucothea waked, and with fresh dews embalmed The Earth" (Milton, Paradise Lost, 11, 135). =145. Cyrene= was sister to Daphne. Honey must first have been known as a wild product, the bees building their structures in hollow trees, or holes in the rocks, or any similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the carcass of a dead animal would be occupied by the bees for that purpose. It was no doubt from some such incident that the superstition arose that bees were engendered by the decaying flesh of the animal. Virgil assigns to Proteus the isle of Carpathus, between Crete and Rhodes; Homer, the isle of Pharus, near the river Nile. =_Illustrative._= See =C. 50=. Proteus, a poem by R. Buchanan. On =Aristæus=, Cowper's Task, comparison of the ice-palace of Empress Anne of Russia with Cyrene's palace. Milton probably thought of Cyrene in describing Sabrina (Comus). He calls Proteus "the Carpathian Wizard." =146-147. _Textual._ Acheloüs=: the largest river in Greece, rose in Mount Lacmon, flowed between Acarnania and Ætolia, and emptied into the Ionian Sea. It was honored over all Greece. =Calydon=: a city of Ætolia, famed for the Calydonian Hunt. =Parthenope=, see =238. Ligea= (Ligeia): the _shrill-sounding maiden_; here a Siren; sometimes a Dryad. =_Interpretative._= Even among the ancients such stories as this were explained on a physical basis: the river Acheloüs flows through the realm of Dejanira, hence Acheloüs loves Dejanira. When the river winds it is a snake, when it roars it is a bull, when it overflows its banks it puts forth new horns. Hercules is supposed to have regulated the course of the stream by confining it within a new and suitable channel. At the same time the old channel, redeemed from the stream, subjected to cultivation, and blossoming with flowers, might well be called a _horn of plenty_. There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia. Jupiter at his birth was committed by his mother Rhea to the care of the daughters of Melisseus, a Cretan king. They fed the infant deity with the milk of the goat Amalthea. Jupiter, breaking off one of the horns of the goat, gave it to his nurses, and endowed it with the power of becoming filled with whatever the possessor might wish. =148.= (5) TABLE I. THE RACE OF IAPETUS, DEUCALION, ATLAS, AND HELLEN =Uranus= =Gæa +-- =Iapetus= +-- =Epimethius= | ==Pandora= | +-- =Pyrrha= | =Deucalion | +-- =Hellen= | +-- =Æolus I= | | +-- Calyce | | | +-- =Endymion= | | | +-- Eurycyde | | | | +-- Eleüs | | | | +-- =Augeas= | | | +-- =Ætolus= | | | +-- Calydon | | | | +-- Epicaste | | | | =Agenor | | | | +-- Demonice | | | | | =Mars | | | | | +-- Thestius | | | | | +-- Hypermnestra | | | | | | =Oïcles | | | | | | +-- =Amphiaraüs= | | | | | | ==Eriphyle= | | | | | | +-- =Alcmæon= | | | | | | | =Arsinoë | | | | | | +--Amphilochus | | | | | +-- =Althæa= | | | | | | ==[OE]neus= | | | | | | +-- =Meleager= | | | | | | +-- =Dejanira= | | | | | | =Hercules | | | | | | +-- Hyllus | | | | | +-- =Leda= | | | | | | ==Tyndareus= | | | | | | +-- =Castor= | | | | | | +-- =Clytemnestra= | | | | | | ==Agamemnon= | | | | | | =Jove | | | | | | +-- =Pollux= | | | | | | +-- =Helen= | | | | | | =Paris | | | | | +-- Plexippus | | | | | +-- Toxeus (?) | | | | +-- Porthaon | | | | +-- Agrius | | | | | +-- Melanippus | | | | | +-- Thersites | | | | +-- =[OE]neus= | | | | =Perib[oe]a | | | | +-- =Tydeus= | | | | +-- =Diomedes= | | | | ==Althæa= | | | | +-- =Meleager= | | | | | (see above) | | | | +-- =Dejanira= | | | | (see above) | | | +-- Pleuron | | | +-- Agenor | | | =Epicaste | | | +-- Demonice (see above) | | | +-- Porthaon (see above) | | +-- =Alcyone= | | | ==Ceyx= | | +-- Canace | | | =Neptune | | | +-- Al[oe]us | | | =Iphimedia | | | +-- =Otus= | | | +-- =Ephialtes= | | +-- Perieres | | | +-- Icarius | | | | +-- =Penelope= | | | | ==Ulysses= | | | | +-- =Telemachus= | | | +-- =Tyndareus= | | | ==Leda= | | | +-- =Castor= (see above) | | | +-- =Clytemnestra= (see above) | | +-- Mimas | | | +-- Hippotes | | | +-- Æolus II | | | +-- Arne | | | =Neptune | | | +-- =Æolus III= | | | | (King of the Winds) | | | +-- 6 sons | | | +-- 6 daughters | | +-- Magnes | | | +-- Dictys | | | +-- Polydectes | | +-- Deïon | | | +-- =Cephalus= | | | | =Procris | | | | +-- Arcesius | | | | +-- Laërtes | | | | +-- =Ulysses= | | | | ==Penelope= | | | | +-- =Telemachus= (see above) | | | +-- Actor | | | +-- Men[oe]tius | | | +-- =Patroclus= | | +-- =Athamas= | | | =Nephele | | | +-- =Helle= | | | +-- =Phryxus= | | | =Ino | | | +-- =Melicertes= | | | =Themisto | | | +-- Sch[oe]neus of B[oe]tia | | | +-- =Atalanta= | | | =Hippomenes | | +-- =Sisyphus= | | | ==Merope= | | | +-- =Glaucus= | | | +-- =Bellerophon= | | | +-- Hippolochus | | | | +-- Glaucus (Iliad, 6, 155) | | | +-- Laodamia | | | =Jove | | | +-- =Sarpedon= | | +-- Salmoneus | | | +-- Tyro | | | =Neptune | | | +-- Neleus | | | | +-- =Nestor= | | | | | +-- Antilochus | | | | +-- Pero | | | | ==Bias= | | | | +-- Talaüs | | | | +-- =Adrastus= | | | | +-- =Eriphyle= | | | | ==Amphiaraüs= | | | | +-- =Alcmæon= (see above) | | | | +-- Amphilochus | | | | (see above) | | | +-- =Pelias= | | | +-- Evadne | | | +-- Acastus | | | | +-- =Laodamia= | | | | =Protesilaüs | | | +-- =Alcestis= | | | ==Admetus= | | | =Cretheus | | | +-- Pheres | | | | +-- =Admetus= | | | | ==Alcestis= | | | +-- Æson | | | | +-- =Jason= | | | +-- Amythaon | | | +-- =Bias= | | | | =Pero | | | | +-- Talaüs (see above) | | | +-- =Melampus= (the Prophet) | | | +-- Antiphates | | | +-- Oïcles | | | =Hypermnestra | | | +-- =Amphiaraüs= | | | (see above) | | +-- Cretheus | | =Tyro | | +-- Pheres (see above) | | +-- Æson (see above) | | +-- Amythaon (see above) | +-- Xuthus | | +-- Diomede | | +-- Achæus | | +-- Ion | +-- Dorus | +-- Tectamus +-- Prometheus | =Clymene | +-- Deucalion | ==Pyrrha= | +-- =Hellen= (see above) +-- Men[oe]tius +-- =Atlas= =Pleione +-- =Merope= | ==Sisyphus= | +-- =Glaucus= (see above) +-- Sterope II | =Mars | +-- =[OE]nomaüs= | +-- =Hippodamia= | =Pelops | +-- =Atreus= | | =Aërope | | +-- =Agamemnon= | | | ==Clytemnestra= | | +-- =Menelaüs= | | =Helen | +-- Thyestes | | +-- Ægisthus | +-- Pittheus | +-- Æthra | +-- =Theseus= +-- Electra | =Jove | +-- =Dardanus= | +-- Ilus I | +-- Erichthonius | +-- Tros | +-- Ilus II | +-- =Laomedon= | +-- =Priam= +-- The other =Pleiades= =Æthra +-- =The Hyades= =Hesperis +-- =The Hesperides= =Sterope I +-- =Maia= =Jove +-- Mercury _=Illustrative.=_ The name _Amalthea_ is given also to the mother of Bacchus. It is thus used by Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 275: That Nyseian isle, Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham, Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove, Hid Amalthea, and her florid son, Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye. See also Milton, Paradise Regained, 2, 356. =148.= For the general genealogy of the race of Inachus, see Table D. For the general race of Iapetus, Deucalion, Hellen, Æolus, Ætolus, etc., see below, Table I (based in part on the table given in Roscher, article _Deukalion_). For the descendants of Agenor, see Table E. For the houses of Minos and of Labdacus, see Tables L and N. For the descendants of Belus (house of Danaüs), see Tables I and J; of Cecrops and Erechtheus, Table M. (1) =The race of Inachus= | +--------------------------+----------------------+ | | | The descendants of Pelasgus, of Belus, of Agenor | | House of Danaüs Houses of Minos and Labdacus (2) =The race of Deucalion= (Table G), and of his son, Hellen | The descendants of Æolus, of Dorus, of Xuthus, | | | (Achæans and Ionians) The descendants of Endymion, Perieres, Deïon, Sisyphus, Cretheus, Athamas (3) =The descendants of Ætolus=, son of Endymion (Table K) | Houses of Porthaon and Thestius (4) =The race of Cecrops= | The descendants of Erichthonius | House of Pandion and Ægeus =149-154. _Textual._ Seriphus=: an island of the Ægean. The House of Danaüs is as follows: TABLE J. THE HOUSE OF DANAÜS =Inachus= +-- Io =Jupiter +-- Epaphus +-- Libya =Poseidon (Neptune) +-- Agenor | +-- Cadmus | +-- Europa +-- Belus of Egypt +-- Ægyptus | +-- 49 other sons | +-- Lynceus | =Hypermnestra | +-- Abas | +-- Acrisius | +-- =Danaë= | =Jupiter | +-- =Perseus= | ==Andromeda= | +-- Perses | +-- Electryon | | +-- =Alcmene= | | =Jupiter | | +-- =Hercules= | | ==Amphitryon= | | +-- Iphicles | +-- Alcæus | +-- =Amphitryon= | ==Alcmene= | +-- Iphicles | (see above) +-- =Danaüs= | +-- Hypermnestra | | =Lynceus | | +-- Abas (see above) | +-- 49 other drs. +-- Cepheus =Cassiopea +-- =Andromeda= ==Perseus= +-- Perses (see above) +-- Electryon (see above) +-- Alcæus (see above) =_Interpretative._= While =Danaüs= is, in fact, a native mythical hero of Argos, the story of his arrival from Egypt is probably an attempt to explain the influence of Egyptian civilization upon the Greeks. The name _Danaüs_ means _drought_, and may refer to the frequently dry condition of the soil of Argos. The fifty daughters of Danaüs would then be the nymphs of the many _springs_ which in season refresh the land of Argolis. Their suitors, the fifty sons of Ægyptus, would be the streams of Argolis that in the rainy months threaten to overflow their banks. But the springs by vanishing during the hot weather deprive the streams of water and consequently of life. That is to say, when the sources (Danaïds) choose to stop supplies, the heads of the streams (the fifty youths of Argolis) are cut off. The reference to Ægyptus and the sons of Ægyptus would indicate a reminiscence of the Nile and its tributaries, alternately overflowing and exhausted. The unsuccessful toil of the Danaïds in Tartarus may have been suggested by the sandy nature of the Argive soil, and the leaky nature of the springs, now high, now low. Or it may typify, simply, any incessant, fruitless labor. The name =Hypermnestra= signifies _constancy_ and _love_. =Danaë=, the daughter of Acrisius, has been regarded as the dry earth, which under the rains of the golden springtime bursts into verdure and bloom; or as the dark depths of the earth; or as the dawn, from which, shot through with the golden rays of heaven, the youthful Sun is born.[428] Advocates of the last theory would understand the voyage of Danaë and Perseus as the tossing of the sunbeams on the waters of the eastern horizon. The young Sun would next overcome the =Gray-women=, forms of the gloaming, and then slay with his sword of light the black cloud of the heavenly vault, the =Gorgon=, whose aspect is night and death. The =Grææ= and the Gorgons may, with greater probability, be taken as personifications of the hidden horrors of the unknown night-enveloped ocean and the misty horizon whence storms come. In that case the Grææ will be the gray clouds, and their one tooth (or one eye) the harmless gleam of the lightning; the Gorgons will be the heavy thunderclouds, and their petrifying gaze the swift and fatal lightning flash. But there are still others who find in the Gorgon =Medusa= the wan visage of the moon, empress of the night, slain by the splendor of morning. The sandals of Hermes have, accordingly, been explained as the morning breeze, or even as the chariot of the sun. The invisible helmet may be the clouds under which the sun disappears. Compare the cloak of darkness in the Three Daughters of King O'Hara; and the Sword of Sharpness in the Weaver's Son and the Giant of White Hill (Curtin, Myths of Ireland). =Andromeda= is variously deciphered: the tender dawn, which a storm-cloud would obscure and devour; the moon, which darkness, as a dragon, threatens to swallow; or some historic character that has passed into myth. Compare the contests of Perseus and the Dragon, Apollo and Pytho, Hercules and the Serpents, Cadmus and the Dragon of Mars, St. George and the Dragon, Siegfried and the Worm (Fafnir). For a Gaelic Andromeda and Perseus, see The Thirteenth Son of the King of Erin (Curtin, Myths of Ireland). Perseus' flight to the =Gardens of the Hesperides= suggests, naturally, the circuit of the sun toward the flushing western horizon; and, of course, he would here behold the giant =Atlas=, who, stationed where heaven and earth meet, sustains upon his shoulders the celestial vault. The =Doom of Acrisius= reminds one of that of Hyacinthus. The quoit suggests the rays of the sun, and the name _Acrisius_ may be construed to mean the "confused or gloomy heavens" (Roscher, Preller, Müller, etc.). =_Illustrative._= "The starred Æthiope queen": Cassiopea (Cassiepea, or Cassiope) became a constellation. The sea-nymphs, however, had her placed in a part of the heavens near the pole, where she is half the time held with her head downward to teach her humility. =Danaë.= Tennyson, Princess, "Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me." Translations of Simonides' Lament of Danaë, by W. C. Bryant and by J. H. Frere. =Danaïd=: Chaucer, Legende of Good Women, 2561 (Hypermnestra and Lynceus). =Gorgons= and =Medusa=. Spenser, Epithalamion, "And stand astonished like to those which read Medusa's mazeful head"; Milton, Paradise Lost, 2. 611, 628; Comus (on Ægis and Gorgon); Drummond, The Statue of Medusa; Gray, Hymn to Adversity; Armstrong, The Art of Preserving Health; D. G. Rossetti, Aspecta Medusa; L. Morris, in The Epic of Hades; Thomas Gordon Hake, The Infant Medusa (a sonnet); E. Lee-Hamilton, The New Medusa; Lady Charlotte Elliot, Medusa. =Andromeda.= Milton, Paradise Lost, 3, 559 (the constellation); L. Morris in The Epic of Hades; W. Morris, Doom of King Acrisius; E. Dowden, Andromeda (The Heroines). =Atlas.= Shakespeare, 3 Henry VI, 5, 1; Milton, Paradise Lost, 4, 987; 11, 402, comparison of Satan and Atlas. =_In Art._= Fig. 116, in text: vase in the Hermitage, St. Petersburg. Titian's painting, Danaë and the Shower of Gold; Correggio's Danaë. Ancient sculpture: a Danaïd in the Vatican; the Danaïds on an altar in the Vatican (Fig. 115, in text). =Perseus and Andromeda.= Figs. 119-121, and opp. p. 212, in text; painting by Rubens (Berlin). Sculpture: Benvenuto Cellini's Perseus (Loggia de' Lanzi, Florence), and Perseus saving Andromeda; Canova's Perseus (Vatican). =Medusa.= Græco-Roman sculpture: Head of Dying Medusa (Villa Ludovisi, Rome); the beautiful Medusa Rondanini in the Glyptothek, Munich (Figs. 117 and 118, text); numerous illustrations of abhorrent Gorgons in Roscher, p. 1707 _et seq._, from vases, seals, marbles, etc. =_Modern Painting._= Leonardo da Vinci, Head of Medusa. =155. _Textual._= The descent of Bellerophon is as follows. (See also Table I.) Deucalion = Pyrrha | Hellen | Æolus I Atlas | | Sisyphus = Merope (Pleiad) | Glaucus | Bellerophon =Lycia=: in Asia Minor. The fountain =Hippocrene=, on the Muses' mountain, Helicon, was opened by a kick from the hoof of Pegasus. This horse belongs to the Muses, and has from time immemorial been ridden by the poets. From the story of Bellerophon being unconsciously the bearer of his own death-warrant, the expression "=Bellerophontic letters=" arose, to describe any species of communication which a person is made the bearer of, containing matter prejudicial to himself. =Aleian field=: a district in Cilicia (Asia Minor). =_Interpretative._ Bellerophon= is either "he who appears in the clouds," or "he who slays the cloudy monster." In either sense we have another sun-myth and sun-hero. He is the son of Glaucus, who, whether he be descended from Sisyphus or from Neptune, is undoubtedly a sea-god. His horse, sprung from Medusa, the thundercloud, when she falls under the sword of the sun, is =Pegasus=, the rain-cloud. In his contest with the =Chimæra= we have a repetition of the combat of Perseus and the sea monster. Bellerophon is a heavenly knight errant who slays the powers of storm and darkness. The earth, struck by his horse's hoof, bubbles into springs (Rapp in Roscher, and Max Müller). At the end of the day, falling from heaven, this knight of the sun walks in melancholy the pale fields of the twilight. =_Illustrative._= Wm. Morris, Bellerophon in Argos and in Lycia (Earthly Paradise); Longfellow, Pegasus in Pound; Bowring's translation of Schiller's Pegasus in Harness. Milton (=Bellerophon and Pegasus=), Paradise Lost, 7, 1; Spenser, "Then whoso will with virtuous wing assay To mount to heaven, on Pegasus must ride, And with sweet Poet's verse be glorified"; also Faerie Queene, 1, 9, 21; Shakespeare, Taming of the Shrew, IV, iv; 1 Henry IV, IV, i; Henry V, III, vii; Pope, Essay on Criticism, 150; Dunciad, 3, 162; Burns, To John Taylor; Young's Night Thoughts, Vol. 2 (on Bellerophontic letters). =Hippocrene=: Keats, To a Nightingale. =_In Art._= Bellerophon and Pegasus, vase picture (Monuments inédits, etc., Rome and Paris, 1839-1874); ancient relief, Fig. 122, in text. =156-162.= For genealogy of Hercules, see Table J. =Rhadamanthus=: brother of Minos. (See Index.) =Thespiæ= and =Orchomenos=: towns of B[oe]otia. =Nemea=: in Argolis, near Mycenæ. =Stymphalian= lake: in Arcadia. =Pillars of Hercules.= The chosen device of Charles V of Germany represented the Pillars of Hercules entwined by a scroll that bore his motto, "Plus Ultra" (still farther). This device, imprinted upon the German dollar, has been adopted as the sign of the American dollar ($). _Dollar_, by the way, means _coin of the_ _valley_,--German _Thal_. The silver of the first dollars came from Joachimsthal in Bohemia, about 1518. =Hesperides=: the western sky at sunset. The apples may have been suggested by stories of the oranges of Spain. The =Cacus= myth is thoroughly latinized, but of Greek origin. The =Aventine=: one of the hills of Rome. =Colchis=: in Asia, east of the Euxine and south of Caucasus. =Mysia=: province of Asia Minor, north of Lydia. The river =Phasis= flows through Colchis into the Euxine. For genealogy of =Laomedon=, see Table O (5). =Pylos=: it is doubtful what city is intended. There were two such towns in Elis, and one in Messenia. The word means _gate_ (see Iliad, 5, 397), and in the case of Hercules there may be some reference to his journey to the gate or _Pylos_ of Hades. For =Alcestis=, see =83=; for =Prometheus=, =15=; for the family of Dejanira, Table K. =Alcides=: _i.e._ Hercules, descendant of Alcæus. =[OE]chalia=: in Thessaly or in Eub[oe]a. =Mount= =[OE]ta=: in Thessaly. The =Pygmies=: a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek word meaning the cubit, or measure of about thirteen inches, which was said to be the height of these people. They lived near the sources of the Nile, or, according to others, in India. Homer tells us that the cranes used to migrate every winter to the Pygmies' country, where, attacking the cornfields, they precipitated war. H. M. Stanley, in his last African expedition, discovered a race of diminutive men that correspond fairly in appearance with those mentioned by Homer. The =Cercopes=: the subject of a comic poem by Homer, and of numerous grotesque representations in Greek literature and sculpture. =_Interpretative._= All myths of the sun represent that luminary as struggling against and overcoming monsters, or performing other laborious tasks in obedience to the orders of some tyrant of inferior spirit, but of legal authority. Since the life of Hercules is composed of such tasks, it is easy to class him with other sun-heroes. But to construe his whole history and all his feats as symbolic of the sun's progress through the heavens, beginning with the labors performed in his eastern home and ending with the capture of Cerberus in the underworld beyond the west, or to construe the subjects of the twelve labors as consciously recalling the twelve signs of the Zodiac is not only unwarranted, but absurd. To some extent Hercules is a sun-hero; to some extent his adventures are fabulous history; to a greater extent both he and his adventures are the product of generations of æsthetic, but primitive and fanciful, invention. The same statement holds true of nearly all the heroes and heroic deeds of mythology. As a matter of interest, it may be noted that the serpents that attacked Hercules in his cradle are explained as powers of darkness which the sun destroys, and the cattle that he tended, as the clouds of morning. His choice between pleasure and duty at the outset of his career enforces, of course, a lesson of conduct. His lion's skin may denote the tawny cloud which the sun trails behind him as he fights his way through the vapors that he overcomes (Cox). The slaughter of the Centaurs may be the dissipation of these vapors. His insanity may denote the raging heat of the sun at noonday. The Nemean lion may be a monster of cloud or darkness; the Hydra, a cloud that confines the kindly rains, or at times covers the heavens with numerous necks and heads of vapor. The Cerynean Stag may be a golden-tinted cloud that the sun chases; and the Cattle of the Augean stables, clouds that, refusing to burst in rain, consign the earth to drought and filth. The Erymanthian boar and the Cretan bull are probably varied forms of the powers of darkness; so also the Stamphalian (Stymphalian) birds and the giant Cacus. Finally, the scene of the hero's death is a "picture of a sunset in wild confusion, the multitude of clouds hurrying hither and thither, now hiding, now revealing the mangled body of the sun." In this way Cox, and other interpreters of myth, would explain the series. But while the explanations are entertaining and poetic, their very plausibility should suggest caution in accepting them. It is not safe to construe all the details of a mythical career in terms of any one theory. The more noble side of the character of Hercules presents itself to the moral understanding, as worthy of consideration and admiration. The dramatist Euripides has portrayed him as a great-hearted hero, high-spirited and jovial, rejoicing in the vigor of manhood, comforting the downcast, wrestling with Death and overcoming him, restoring happiness where sorrow had obtained. No grander conception of manliness has in modern times found expression in poetry than that of the Hercules in Browning's transcript of Euripides, Balaustion's Adventure. =_Illustrative._= Lang's translation of the Lityerses song (Theocritus, Idyl X). The song, like the Linus song, is of early origin among the laborers in the field. For =Hercules=, see Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella; Spenser, Faerie Queene, 1, 11, 27; Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, II, i; III, ii; Taming of the Shrew, I, ii; Coriolanus, IV, i; Hamlet, I, ii; Much Ado About Nothing, II, i; III, iii; King John, II, i; Titus Andronicus, IV, ii; Antony and Cleopatra, IV, x; 1 Henry VI, IV, vii; Pope, Satires, 5, 17; Milton, Paradise Lost, 11, 410 (Geryon). =Amazons=: Shakespeare, King John, V, ii; Midsummer Night's Dream, II, ii; 1 Henry VI, I, iv; 3 Henry VI, I, iv; Pope, Rape of the Lock, 3, 67; =Hylas=: Pope, Autumn; Dunciad, 2, 336. =_Poems._= S. Rogers, on the Torso of Hercules; Browning, Balaustion's Adventure, and Aristophanes' Apology; L. Morris, Dejaneira (Epic of Hades); William Morris, The Golden Apples (Earthly Paradise); J. H. Frere's translation of Euripides' Hercules Furens, and Plumptre's, or R. Whitelaw's (1883), of Sophocles' Women of Trachis; George Cabot Lodge, Herakles. =Pygmies=: James Beattie, Battle of the Pygmies and the Cranes. =Dejanira=: Fragment of Chorus of a "Dejaneira," by M. Arnold. =Hylas=: Moore (song), "When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount," etc.; Bayard Taylor, Hylas; R. C. Rogers, Hylas; translation of Theocritus, Idyl XIII, by C. S. Calverley, 1869. =Daphnis=: Theocritus, Idyl I. According to this, Daphnis so loves Naïs that he defies Aphrodite to make him love again. She does so, but he fights against the new passion, and dies a victim of the implacable goddess. This song is sung by Thyrsis. Also on Daphnis, read E. Gosse's poem, The Gifts of the Muses. =_In Art._= Fig. 65, of a statue reproducing the style of Scopas; figs. 123-129, and opp. p. 226, in text; Heracles in the eastern pediment of the Parthenon (?); the Torso Belvedere; Farnese Hercules (National Museum, Naples); Hercules in the metopes of the Temple of Silenus (Museum, Palermo); the Infant Hercules strangling a Serpent (antique sculpture), in the Uffizi at Florence; C. G. Gleyre's painting, Hercules at the Feet of Omphale (Louvre); Bandinelli (sculpture), Hercules and Cacus; Giovanni di Bologna (sculpture), Hercules and Centaur; Amazon (ancient sculpture), in the Vatican; and Figs. 162, 185 and opp. p. 306, in text; Centaur (sculpture), Capitol, Rome; the Mad Heracles, vase picture (Monuments inédits, Rome and Paris, 1839-1878). =163-167.= For the descent of Jason from Deucalion, see Table G. =Iolcos=: a town in Thessaly. =Lemnos=: in the Ægean, near Tenedos. =Phineus=: a son of Agenor, or of Poseidon. For the family of Medea, see Table H. =_Interpretative._ Argo= means _swift_, or _white_, or commemorates the ship-builder, or the city of Argos. The Argo-myth rests upon a mixture of traditions of the earliest seafaring and of the course of certain physical phenomena. So far as the tradition of primitive seafaring is concerned, it may refer to some half-piratical expedition, the rich spoils of which might readily be known as the =Golden Fleece=. So far as the physical tradition is concerned, it may refer to the course of the year (the =Ram= of the Golden Fleece being the fructifying clouds that come and go across the Ægean) or to the process of sunrise and sunset (?): =Helle= being the glimmering twilight that sinks into the sea; =Phrixus= (in Greek _Phrixos_), the radiant sunlight; the voyage of the Argo through the Symplegades, the nocturnal journey of the sun down the west; the oak with the Golden Fleece, a symbol of the sunset which the dragon of darkness guards; the fire-breathing bulls, the advent of morning; the offspring of the dragon's teeth, an image of the sunbeams leaping from eastern darkness. =Medea= is a typical wise-woman or witch; daughter of Hecate and granddaughter of Asteria, the starry heavens, she comes of a family skilled in magic. Her aunt Circe was even more powerful in necromancy than she. The robe of Medea is the fleece in another form. The death of =Creüsa=, also called Glauce, suggests that of Hercules (in the flaming sunset?). =Jason= is no more faithful to his sweetheart than other solar heroes--Hercules, Perseus, Apollo--are to theirs. The sun must leave the colors and glories, the twilights and the clouds of to-day, for those of to-morrow. See Roscher, pp. 530-537. The physical explanation is more than commonly plausible. But the numerous adventures of the Argonauts are certainly survivals of various local legends that have been consolidated and preserved in the artistic form of the myth. Jason, Diáson, is another Zeus, of the Ionian race, beloved by Medea, whose name, "the counseling woman," suggests a goddess. Perhaps Medea was a local Hera-Demeter, degraded to the rank of a heroine. The =Symplegades= may be a reminiscence of rolling and clashing icebergs; the dove incident occurs in numerous ancient stories from that of Noah down. If Medea be another personification of morning and evening twilight, then her dragons are rays of sunlight that precede her. More likely they are part of the usual equipage of a witch, symbolizing wisdom, foreknowledge, swiftness, violence, and Oriental mystery. =_Illustrative._= The =Argo=, see Theodore Martin's translation of Catullus, LXIV (Peleus and Thetis), for the memorable launch; Pope, St. Cecilia's Day. =Jason=: Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, I, i; III, ii; =Æson=: Merchant of Venice, V, i; =Absyrtus=: 2 Henry VI, V, ii. _=Poems=_: Chaucer, Legende of Good Women, 1366 (Ysiphile and Medee); W. Morris, Life and Death of Jason; Frederick Tennyson, Æson and King Athamas (in Daphne and Other Poems). Thos. Campbell's translation of the chorus in Euripides' Medea, beginning "Oh, haggard queen! to Athens dost thou guide thy glowing chariot." Translations of the Medea of Euripides have been made by Augusta Webster, 1868; by W. C. Lawton (Three Dramas of Euripides) 1889; and by Wodhull. _=In Art.=_ The terra-cotta relief (Fig. 130, text) in the British Museum; the relief from Naples, now in Vienna (Fig. 131). Figs. 132 and 133 as explained in text. Also the splendid Vengeance of Medea in the Louvre; relief on a Roman sarcophagus. =168. _Textual._= TABLE K. THE DESCENDANTS OF ÆTOLUS (SON OF ENDYMION) =Endymion= +-- =Ætolus= +-- Calydon | +-- Epicaste | =Agenor | +-- Porthaon | | +-- =[OE]neus= | | =Perib[oe]a | | +-- =Tydeus= | | +-- =Diomedes= | | ==Althæa= | | +-- =Meleager= | | +-- =Dejanira= | | =Hercules | +-- Demonice | =Mars | +-- Thestius | +-- =Althæa= | | ==[OE]neus= | | +-- =Meleager= (see above) | | +-- =Dejanira= (see above) | +-- Plexippus | +-- Toxeus (?) | +-- =Leda= | =Tyndareus (Sparta) | +-- Castor | +-- Clytemnestra | =Jupiter | +-- Pollux | +-- Helen +-- Pleuron +-- Agenor =Epicaste +-- Porthaon (see above) +-- Demonice (see above) Also, in general, Table I. For =Calydon=, see Index. The Arcadian =Atalanta= was descended from the Arcas who was son of Jupiter and Callisto. (See Table D.) _=Interpretative.=_ Atalanta is the "unwearied maiden." She is the human counterpart of the huntress Diana. The story has of course been allegorically explained, but it bears numerous marks of local and historic origin. _=Illustrative.=_ Swinburne, Atalanta in Calydon; Margaret J. Preston, The Quenched Branch; Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV, II, ii; 2 Henry VI, I, i. _=In Art.=_ The Meleager (sculpture), in the Vatican; the Roman reliefs as in text. The original of Fig. 135 is in the Louvre. =169.= The =Merope= story has been dramatized by Maffei (1713), Voltaire (1743), Alfieri (1783), and by others. =170-171.= C. S. Calverley's The Sons of Leda, from Theocritus. =Leda=: Spenser, Prothalamion; Landor, Loss of Memory. =Talus=: the iron attendant of Artegal, Spenser, Faerie Queene, 5, 1, 12. =172. The Descendants of Minos I=. (See also Table D.) TABLE L Europa =Jupiter +-- =Minos I= =Itone +-- Lycastus +-- =Minos II= ==Pasiphaë= +-- Crateus | +-- Aërope | =Atreus +-- Phædra | =Theseus +-- Ariadne =Theseus Helios =Perseïs +-- =Pasiphaë= | ==Minos II= | +-- Crateus (see above) | +-- Phædra (see above) | +-- Ariadne (see above) +-- Circe +-- Æetes =Hecate +-- =Medea= Asteria =Perses +-- Hecate =Æetes +-- =Medea= (see above) _=Interpretative.=_ Discrimination between Minos I and Minos II is made in the text, but is rarely observed. =Minos=, according to Preller, is the solar king and hero of Crete; his wife, =Pasiphaë=, is the moon (who was worshiped in Crete under the form of a cow); and the =Minotaur= is the lord of the starry heavens which are his labyrinth. Others make Pasiphaë, whose name means _shiner upon_ _all_, the bright heaven; and Minos (in accordance with his name, the Man, _par_ _excellence_), the thinker and measurer. A lawgiver on earth, the Homeric Minos readily becomes a judge in Hades. Various fanciful interpretations, such as storm cloud, sun, etc., are given of the bull. Cox explains the Minotaur as night, devouring all things. The tribute from Athens may suggest some early suzerainty in politics and religion exercised by Crete over neighboring lands. For =Mæander=, see Pope, Rape of the Lock, 5, 65; Dunciad, 1, 64; 3, 55. =173. _Interpretative._ Dædalus= is a representative of the earliest technical skill, especially in wood-cutting, carving, and the plastic arts used for industrial purposes. His flight from one land to another signifies the introduction of inventions into the countries concerned. The fall of Icarus was probably invented to explain the name of the =Icarian= Sea. =_Illustrative._ Dædalus=: Chaucer, Hous of Fame, 409. =Icarus=: Shakespeare, 1 Henry VI, IV, vi; IV, vii; 3 Henry VI, V, vi; poem on Icarus by Bayard Taylor; travesty by J. G. Saxe. =_In Art._= Sculpture: Fig. 138, in text: Villa Albani, Rome; Canova's Dædalus and Icarus; painting by J. M. Vien; also by A. Pisano (Campanile, Florence). =174. The descendants of Erichthonius= are as follows: TABLE M Jupiter +-- Tantalus +-- Pelops +-- =Pittheus= | +-- =Æthra= | ==Ægeus= | +-- =Theseus= | =Ariadne d. of Minos II | =Antiope (Hippolyta) | +-- =Hippolytus= | =Phædra d. of Minos II +-- Atreus +-- Thyestes =Erichthonius= +-- Pandion I +-- Erechtheus | +-- Pandion II | | +-- =Ægeus= | | ==Æthra= | | +-- =Theseus= (see above) | +-- Creüsa | =Apollo | +-- =Ion= | =Xuthus +-- =Procne= +-- =Philomela= =Cecrops= (see =65=). According to one tradition, Cecrops was autochthonous and had one son, Erysichthon, who died without issue, and three daughters, Herse, Aglauros, and Pandrosos (personifications of Dew and its vivifying influences). According to another, he was of the line of Erichthonius, being either a son of Pandion I, or a son of Erechtheus and a grandson of Pandion I. Apollodorus makes him father of Pandion II. He was regarded as founder of the worship of Athene and of various civic institutions. He is probably a hero of the Pelasgian race. =Ion.= According to one tradition, the race of Erechtheus became extinct, save for Ion, a son of Apollo and Creüsa, daughter of Erechtheus. This son, having been removed at birth, was brought up in Apollo's temple at Delphi, and, in accordance with the oracle of Apollo, afterwards adopted by Creüsa and her husband Xuthus (see the Ion of Euripides). Ion founded the new dynasty of Athens. But, according to Pausanias and Apollodorus, the dynasty of Erechtheus was continued by =Ægeus=, who was either a son, or an adopted son, of Pandion II. By Æthra he became father of Theseus, in whose veins flowed, therefore, the blood of Pelops and of Erichthonius. _=Interpretative.=_ The story of =Philomela= was probably invented to account for the sad song of the nightingale. With her the swallow is associated as another much loved bird of spring. Occasionally Procne is spoken of as the nightingale, and Philomela as the swallow, and Tereus as taking the form of a red-crested hoopoe. _=Illustrative.=_ Chaucer, Legende of Good Women (Philomene of Athens); Milton, Il Penseroso; Richard Barnfield, Song, "As it fell upon a day"; Thomson, Hymn on the Seasons; Swinburne, Itylus; Oscar Wilde, The Burden of Itys; Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd's drama, Ion. =176-181. Tr[oe]zen=: in Argolis. According to some the Amazonian wife of Theseus was =Hippolyta=, but her Hercules had already killed. =Theseus= is said to have united the several tribes of Attica into one state, of which Athens was the capital. In commemoration of this important event, he instituted the festival of =Panathenæa=, in honor of Athene, the patron deity of Athens. This festival differed from the other Grecian games chiefly in two particulars. It was peculiar to the Athenians, and its chief feature was a solemn procession in which the Peplus, or sacred robe of Athene, was carried to the Parthenon, and left on or before the statue of the goddess. The Peplus was covered with embroidery, worked by select virgins of the noblest families in Athens. The procession consisted of persons of all ages and both sexes. The old men carried olive branches in their hands, and the young men bore arms. The young women carried baskets on their heads, containing the sacred utensils, cakes, and all things necessary for the sacrifices. The procession formed the subject of the bas-reliefs which embellished the frieze of the temple of the Parthenon. A considerable portion of these sculptures is now in the British Museum among those known as the "Elgin Marbles." We may mention here the other celebrated national games of the Greeks. The first and most distinguished were the =Olympic=, founded, it was said, by Zeus himself. They were celebrated at Olympia in Elis. Vast numbers of spectators flocked to them from every part of Greece, and from Asia, Africa, and Sicily. They were repeated every fifth year in midsummer, and continued five days. They gave rise to the custom of reckoning time and dating events by Olympiads. The first Olympiad is generally considered as beginning with the year 776 B.C. The =Pythian= games were celebrated in the vicinity of Delphi, the =Isthmian= on the Corinthian isthmus, the =Nemean= at Nemea, a city of Argolis. The exercises in these games were chariot-racing, running, leaping, wrestling, throwing the quoit, hurling the javelin, and boxing. Besides these exercises of bodily strength and agility, there were contests in music, poetry, and eloquence. Thus these games furnished poets, musicians, and authors the best opportunities to present their productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide. =_Interpretative._ Theseus= is the Attic counterpart of Hercules, not so significant in moral character, but eminent for numerous similar labors, and preëminent as the mythical statesman of Athens. His story may, with the usual perilous facility, be explained as a solar myth. =Periphetes= may be a storm cloud with its thunderbolts; the =Marathonian Bull= and the =Minotaur= may be forms of the power of darkness hidden in the starry labyrinth of heaven. Like Hercules, Theseus fights with the =Amazons= (clouds, we may suppose, in some form or other), and, like him, he descends to the underworld. =Ariadne= may be another twilight-sweetheart of the sun, and, like Medea and Dejanira, she must be deserted. She is either the "well-pleasing" or the "saintly." She was, presumably, a local nature-goddess of Naxos and Crete, who, in process of time, like Medea, sank to the condition of a heroine. Probably from her goddess-existence the marriage with Bacchus survived, to be incorporated later with the Attic myth of Theseus. As the female semblance of Bacchus, she appears to have been a promoter of vegetation; and, like Proserpina, she alternated between the joy of spring and the melancholy of winter. By some she is considered to be connected with star-worship as a moon-goddess. =_Illustrative._= Chaucer, The Knight's Tale (for Theseus and Ypolita); The Hous of Fame, 407, and the Legende of Good Women, 1884, for Ariadne; Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, IV, i; Midsummer Night's Dream, II, ii (Hippolyta and Theseus); Shakespeare and Fletcher, Two Noble Kinsmen. In Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid's Tragedy, II, ii, a tapestry is ordered to be worked illustrating Theseus' desertion of Ariadne. Landor, To Joseph Ablett, "Bacchus is coming down to drink to Ariadne's love"; Landor, Theseus, and Hippolyta; Mrs. Browning, Paraphrase on Nonnus (Bacchus and Ariadne), Paraphrase on Hesiod; Sir Theodore Martin, Catullus, LXIV. Other poems: B. W. Procter, On the Statue of Theseus; Frederick Tennyson, Ariadne (Daphne and Other Poems); Mrs. Hemans, The Shade of Theseus; R. S. Ross, Ariadne in Naxos; J. S. Blackie, Ariadne; W. M. W. Call, Ariadne; Mrs. H. H. Jackson, Ariadne's Farewell. =Phædra and Hippolytus=: The Hippolytus of Euripides; Swinburne, Phædra; Browning, Artemis Prologizes; M. P. Fitzgerald, The Crowned Hippolytus; A. Mary F. Robinson, The Crowned Hippolytus; L. Morris, Phædra (Epic of Hades). On =Cecrops=: J. S. Blackie, The Naming of Athens; Erechtheus, by A. C. Swinburne. =_In Art._= Theseus: the original of Fig. 140, text is in the Hermitage, St. Petersburg; of Fig. 141 in the Naples Museum. The Battle with the Amazons frequently recurs in ancient sculpture. The sleeping Ariadne, of the Vatican, Fig. 142, text. Also the Revels as in text, Fig. 144. Modern Sculpture: the Theseus of Canova (Volksgarten, Vienna); the Ariadne of Dannecker. Paintings: Tintoretto's Ariadne and Bacchus; Teschendorff's Ariadne; Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne. =182-189. The Royal Family of Thebes.= TABLE N Agenor +-- Cadmus +-- =Agave= | =Echion | +-- Pentheus | +-- Men[oe]ceus I | +-- =Creon= | | +-- Men[oe]ceus II | | +-- Hæmon | +-- =Jocasta= | ==Laïus= | +-- =[OE]dipus= | ==Jocasta= | +-- =Eteocles= | +-- =Polynices= | +-- =Antigone= | +-- Ismene | ==[OE]dipus= | +-- =Eteocles= (see above) | +-- =Polynices= (see above) | +-- =Antigone= (see above) | +-- Ismene (see above) +-- Polydorus +-- =Labdacus= +-- =Laïus= ==Jocasta= +-- =[OE]dipus= (see above) =_Illustrative._ [OE]dipus=: Plumptre's translation of [OE]dipus the King, [OE]dipus Coloneus, and Antigone; Shelley, Swellfoot the Tyrant; E. Fitzgerald, The Downfall and Death of King [OE]dipus; Sir F. H. Doyle, [OE]dipus Tyrannus; Aubrey De Vere, Antigone; Emerson, The Sphinx; W. B. Scott, The Sphinx; M. Arnold, Fragment of an "Antigone." =Tiresias=: by Swinburne, Tennyson, and Thomas Woolner. =_In Art._= Ancient: [OE]dipus and the Sphinx (in Monuments Inédits, Rome and Paris, 1839-1878). Modern paintings: Teschendorff's [OE]dipus and Antigone, Antigone and Ismene, and Antigone; [OE]dipus and the Sphinx, by J. D. A. Ingres; The Sphinx, by D. G. Rossetti. Of the stories told in these and the following sections no systematic, allegorical, or physical interpretations are here given, because (1) the general method followed by the unravelers of myth has already been sufficiently illustrated; (2) the attempt to force symbolic conceptions into the longer folk-stories, or into the artistic myths and epics of any country, is historically unwarranted and, in practice, is only too often capricious; (3) the effort to interpret such stories as the Iliad and the Odyssey must result in destroying those elements of unconscious simplicity and romantic vigor that characterize the early products of the creative imagination. =190-194. Houses concerned in the Trojan War.= TABLE O (1) =Family of Peleus= and its connections: Asopus +-- Ægina =Jupiter +-- =Æacus= +-- Telamon | =Erib[oe]a | +-- Ajax | =Hesione | +-- =Teucer= +-- =Peleus= =Thetis +-- =Achilles= +-- Pyrrhus (Neoptolemus) =Hermione _d._ of Menelaüs and Helen Nereus =Doris +-- Thetis ==Peleus= +-- =Achilles= (see above) (2) =Family of Atreus= and its connections: Jupiter +-- Minos I | +-- Lycastus | +-- Minos II | +-- Crateus | +-- Aërope | ==Atreus= | +-- =Agamemnon= | | ==Clytemnestra= | | +-- =Iphigenia= | | +-- =Electra= | | +-- Chrysothemis | | +-- =Orestes= | | =Hermione | +-- =Menelaüs= | ==Helen= | +-- Hermione | =Neoptolemus | ==Orestes= +-- Tantalus +-- Pelops =Hippodamia +-- =Atreus= | =Aërope | +-- =Agamemnon= (see above) | +-- =Menelaüs= (see above) +-- Thyestes | +-- =Ægisthus= +-- Pittheus +-- Æthra =Ægeus +-- Theseus +-- Hippolytus (3) =Family of Tyndareus= and its connections: Æolus +-- Perieres +-- Icarius | +-- =Penelope= +-- =Tyndareus= ==Leda= +-- Castor +-- =Clytemnestra= Thestius +-- =Leda= ==Tyndareus= +-- Castor (see above) +-- =Clytemnestra= (see above) =Jupiter +-- Pollux +-- =Helen= ==Menelaüs= ==Paris= Castor and Pollux are called sometimes Dioscuri (sons of Jove), sometimes Tyndaridæ (sons of Tyndareus). Helen is frequently called Tyndaris, daughter of Tyndareus. (4) =Descent of Ulysses and Penelope=: Hellen +-- Æolus I +-- Perieres | +-- Icarius | | +-- =Penelope= | | ==Ulysses= | | +-- =Telemachus= | +-- =Tyndareus= | ==Leda= | +-- Castor | +-- =Clytemnestra= +-- Deïon +-- Cephalus | =Procris | +-- Arcesius | +-- Laërtes | +-- =Ulysses= | ==Penelope= | +-- =Telemachus= (see above) +-- Actor +-- Men[oe]tius +-- =Patroclus= (5) =The Royal Family of Troy=: Iapetus (Titan) +-- Atlas +-- Electra (Pleiad) =Jupiter +-- =Dardanus= =Batea +-- Erichthonius +-- Tros +-- Ilus II | +-- =Laomedon= | +-- Tithonus | | =Aurora | | +-- Memnon | +-- Hesione | | =Telamon | | +-- =Teucer= | +-- =Priam= | =Hecuba | +-- =Hector= | | =Andromache | | +-- Astyanax | +-- =Paris= | | =[OE]none | | ==Helen= | +-- Deiphobus | +-- Helenus | +-- Troilus | +-- Cassandra | +-- Creüsa | | ==Æneas= | | +-- =Ascanius= | | =Iulus | +-- Polyxena +-- Assaracus +-- Capys +-- Anchises =Venus +-- =Æneas= =Creüsa +-- =Ascanius= (see above) =Teucer= +-- Batea ==Dardanus= +-- Erichthonius (see above) =195.= On the =Iliad= and on =Troy=: Keats, Sonnet on Chapman's Homer; Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 578; 9, 16; Il Penseroso, 100; Hartley Coleridge, Sonnet on Homer; T. B. Aldrich, Pillared Arch and Sculptured Tower; the Sonnets of Lang and Myers prefixed to Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation of the Iliad. On the =Judgment of Paris=: George Peele, Arraignment of Paris; James Beattie, Judgment of Paris; Tennyson, Dream of Fair Women; J. S. Blackie, Judgment of Paris. See, for allusions, Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well, I, ii, iii; Henry V, II, iv; Troilus and Cressida, I, i; II, ii; III, i; Romeo and Juliet, I, ii; II, iv; IV, i; V, iii. On =Helen=: A. Lang, Helen of Troy, and his translation of Theocritus, Idyl XVIII; Landor, Menelaüs and Helen; John Todhunter, Helena in Troas; G. P. Lathrop, Helen at the Loom (_Atlantic Monthly_, Vol. 32, 1873). See Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream, I, i; III, ii; IV, i; All's Well that Ends Well, I, i, iii; II, ii; Romeo and Juliet, II, iv; Troilus and Cressida, II, ii; Marlowe, Faustus (Helen appears before Faust). =_In Art._ Homer=: the sketch by Raphael (in the Museum, Venice). =Paris and= =Helen.= Paintings: Helen of Troy, Sir Frederick Leighton; Paris and Helen, by David; The Judgment of Paris, by Rubens; by Watteau. Sculpture: Canova's Paris. Crayons: D. G. Rossetti's Helen; see also Fig. 150, as in text (ancient relief, Naples). =196. Iphigenia and Agamemnon.= Sometimes, in accordance with Goethe's practice, the name _Tauris_ is given to the land of the Tauri. To be correct one should say, "Iphigenia among the Tauri," or "Taurians." (See Index.) Iphigenia and Agamemnon by W. S. Landor; also his Shades of Agamemnon and Iphigenia; Dryden, Cymon and Iphigenia; Richard Garnett, Iphigenia in Delphi; Sir Edwin Arnold, Iphigenia; W. B. Scott, Iphigenia at Aulis. Any translations of Goethe's Iphigenia in Tauris, and of Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulis and Among the Tauri; also of Æschylus' Agamemnon,--such as those by Milman, Anna Swanwick, Plumptre, E. A. Morshead, J. S. Blackie, E. Fitzgerald, and Robert Browning. For Agamemnon, see Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, I, iii; II, i, iii; III, iii; IV, v; V, i; and James Thomson, Agamemnon (a drama). The =Troilus and= =Cressida= story is not found in Greek and Latin classics. Shakespeare follows Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde, which is based upon the Filostrato and the Filocolo of Boccaccio. =Pandarus=: the character of this name, uncle of Cressida, to be found in Lydgate, Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde, and Shakespeare's play of the same title, enjoys an unsavory reputation for which medieval romance is responsible. On =Menelaüs=, see notes to Helen and Agamemnon. =_In Art._ Iphigenia.= Paintings: Fig. 152, text (Museum, Naples); E. Hübner; William Kaulbach; E. Teschendorff. =199. Achilles.= Chaucer, Hous of Fame, 398; Dethe of Blaunche, 329; Landor, Peleus and Thetis; Robert Bridges, Achilles in Scyros; Sir Theodore Martin, translation of Catullus, LXIV; translation by C. M. Gayley as quoted in text. See also Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida; 2 Henry VI, V, i; Love's Labour's Lost, V, ii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 9, 15. =_In Art._= In general, Figs. 151, 153, 155-156, 159-162, in text; Wiertz, Fight for the Body of Achilles (Wiertz Museum, Brussels); Burne-Jones, The Feast of Peleus (picture). =204. Ajax.= Plumptre, Ajax of Sophocles; Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, Love's Labour's Lost, IV, iii; V, ii; Taming of the Shrew, III, i; Antony and Cleopatra, IV, ii; King Lear, II, ii; Cymbeline, IV, ii; George Crabbe, The Village. _=In Art.=_ The ancient sculpture, Ajax (or Menelaüs) of the Vatican. Modern sculpture, The Ajax of Canova. Flaxman's outline drawings for the Iliad. =207. Hector and Andromache.= Mrs. Browning, Hector and Andromache, a paraphrase of Homer; C. T. Brooks, Schiller's Parting of Hector and Andromache. See also Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida; Love's Labour's Lost, V, ii; 2 Henry IV, II, iv; Antony and Cleopatra, IV, viii. _=In Art.=_ Flaxman's outline sketches of the Fight for the Body of Patroclus, Hector dragged by Achilles, Priam supplicating Achilles, Hector's Funeral, Andromache fainting on the Walls of Troy; Canova's Hector (sculpture); Thorwaldsen's Hector and Andromache (relief) (Fig. 154, text). Hector, Ajax, Paris, Æneas, Patroclus, Teucer, etc., among the Ægina Marbles (Glyptothek, Munich). The Pasquino group (Fig. 158, in text) is from a copy in the Pitti, Florence. =216. Priam and Hecuba.= The translations of Euripides' Hecuba and Troades; Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida; Coriolanus, I, iii; Cymbeline, IV, ii; Hamlet, II, ii; 2 Henry IV, I, i. =219-220. Polyxena.= W. S. Landor, The Espousals of Polyxena. =Philoctetes=: translation of Sophocles by Plumptre; sonnet by Wordsworth; drama by Lord de Tabley. =221. [OE]none.= See A. Lang, Helen of Troy; W. Morris, Death of Paris (Earthly Paradise); Landor, Corythos (son of [OE]none), the Death of Paris, and [OE]none, Tennyson, [OE]none, also the Death of [OE]none, which is not so good. The pathetic story of the death of Corythus, the son of [OE]none and Paris, at the hands of his father, who was jealous of Helen's tenderness toward the youth, is a later myth. =223. Sinon.= Shakespeare, 3 Henry VI, III, ii; Cymbeline, III, iv; Titus Andronicus, V, iii. =224. Laocoön.= L. Morris, in The Epic of Hades. See Frothingham's translation of Lessing's Laocoön (a most important discussion of the Laocoön group and of principles of æsthetics). See also Swift's Description of a City Shower. _=In Art.=_ The original of the celebrated group (statuary) of Laocoön and his children in the embrace of the serpents is in the Vatican in Rome. (See text, opp. p. 310.) =226. Cassandra.= Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde; Dethe of Blaunche, 1246. Poems by W. M. Praed and D. G. Rossetti. See Troilus and Cressida, I, i; II, ii; V, iii; Lord Lytton's translation of Schiller's Cassandra. _=In Art.=_ The Cassandra of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (in ink). =228-230. Electra and Orestes.= Translations of the Electra of Sophocles, the Libation-pourers and the Eumenides of Æschylus, by Plumptre; and of the Orestes and Electra of Euripides, by Wodhull. Lord de Tabley, Orestes (a drama); Byron, Childe Harold, 4; Milton, sonnet, "The repeated air Of sad Electra's poet," etc. =_In Art._= Græco-Roman sculpture: Fig. 169, in text, Orestes and Pylades find Iphigenia among the Taurians. Pompeian Fresco; Orestes and Electra (Villa Ludovisi, Rome); Orestes and Electra (National Museum, Naples). Vase-paintings: Figs. 167-168 in text; also Orestes slaying Ægisthus; Orestes at Delphi; Purification of Orestes. Modern paintings: Electra, by Teschendorff and by Seifert. =Clytemnestra=, The Death of, by W. S. Landor; Clytemnestra, by L. Morris, in The Epic of Hades. =Troy=: Byron, in his Bride of Abydos, thus describes the appearance of the deserted scene where once stood Troy: The winds are high, and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main; And Night's descending shadows hide That field with blood bedew'd in vain, The desert of old Priam's pride; The tombs, sole relics of his reign, All--save immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle! On Troy the following references will be valuable: H. W. Acland, The Plains of Troy, 2 vols. (London, 1839); H. Schliemann, Troy and its Remains (London, 1875); Ilios (London, 1881); Troja, results of latest researches on the site of Homer's Troy (London, 1882); W. J. Armstrong, _Atlantic Monthly_, Vol. 33, p. 173 (1874), Over Ilium and Ida; R. C. Jebb, _Jour. Hellenic Studies_, Vol. 2, p. 7, Homeric and Hellenic Ilium; _Fortn. Review_, N. S. Vol. 35, p. 4331 (1884), Homeric Troy. =231-244.= The =Odyssey=: Lang, Sonnet, "As one that for a weary space has lain," prefixed to Butcher and Lang's Odyssey. Translations by W. Morris, G. H. Palmer, Chapman, Bryant, Pope. =Ulysses=: Tennyson; Landor, The Last of Ulysses. See also Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida; 3 Henry VI, III, ii; Coriolanus, I, iii; Milton, Paradise Lost, 2, 1019; Comus, 637; R. Buchanan, Cloudland; Pope, Rape of the Lock, 4, 182; Stephen Phillips, Ulysses; Robert Bridges, The Return of Ulysses; R. C. Rogers, Odysseus at the Mast, Blind Polyphemus, Argus. =_In Art._= Statuettes, vase-paintings, and reliefs as in text, Figs. 170-180; also Ulysses summoning Tiresias (in Monuments Inédits, Rome and Paris, 1839-1878); Meeting with Nausicaa (Gerhard's vase pictures); outline drawings of Ulysses weeping at the song of Demodocus, boring out the eye of Polyphemus, Ulysses killing the suitors, Mercury conducting the souls of the suitors, Ulysses and his dog, etc., by Flaxman. =Penelope=: Poems by R. Buchanan, E. C. Stedman, and W. S. Landor. In ancient sculpture, the Penelope in the Vatican. Modern painting by C. F. Marchal. In crayons by D. G. Rossetti. =Circe=: M. Arnold, The Strayed Reveller; Hood, Lycus, the Centaur; D. G. Rossetti, The Wine of Circe; Saxe, The Spell of Circe. See Shakespeare, Comedy of Errors, V, i; 1 Henry VI, V, iii; Milton, Comus, 50, 153, 253, 522; Pope, Satire 8, 166; Cowper, Progress of Error; O. W. Holmes, Metrical Essay; Keats, Endymion, "I sue not for my happy crown again," etc. Circe and the Companions of Ulysses, a painting by Briton Rivière. Circe, in crayons. On =Sirens= and =Scylla= see =C. 50-52=; S. Daniel, Ulysses and the Siren; Lowell, The Sirens. Scylla and Charybdis have become proverbial to denote opposite dangers besetting one's course. Siren, in crayons; Sea-Spell, in oil, D. G. Rossetti. =Calypso=: Pope, Moral Essays, 2, 45; poem by Edgar Fawcett (_Putnam's Mag._, 14, 1869). Fénelon, in his romance of Telemachus, has given us the adventures of the son of Ulysses in search of his father. Among other places which he visited, following on his father's footsteps, was Calypso's isle; as in the former case, the goddess tried every art to keep the youth with her, and offered to share her immortality with him. But Minerva, who, in the shape of Mentor, accompanied him and governed all his movements, made him repel her allurements. Finally, when no other means of escape could be found, the two friends leaped from a cliff into the sea and swam to a vessel which lay becalmed offshore. Byron alludes to this leap of Telemachus and Mentor in the stanza of Childe Harold beginning "But not in silence pass Calypso's isles" (2, 29). Calypso's isle is said to be Goza. Homer's description of the ships of the Phæacians has been thought to look like an anticipation of the wonders of modern steam navigation. See the address of Alcinoüs to Ulysses, promising "wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind," etc. (Odyssey, 8). Lord Carlisle, in his Diary in the Turkish and Greek Waters, thus speaks of Corfu, which he considers to be the ancient Phæacian island: "The sites explain the Odyssey. The temple of the sea-god could not have been more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of the most elastic turf, on the brow of a crag commanding harbor, and channel, and ocean. Just at the entrance of the inner harbor there is a picturesque rock with a small convent perched upon it, which by one legend is the transformed pinnace of Ulysses. "Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper distance from the probable site of the city and palace of the king, to justify the princess Nausicaa having had resort to her chariot and to luncheon when she went with the maidens of the court to wash their garments." =245-254.= Poems: Tennyson, To =Virgil=, of which a few stanzas are given in the text; R. C. Rogers, Virgil's Tomb. =Æneas= and =Anchises=: Chaucer, Hous of Fame, 165; 140-470 (pictures of Troy); Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida; Tempest, II, i; 2 Henry VI, V, ii; Julius Cæsar, I, ii; Antony and Cleopatra, IV, ii; Hamlet, II, ii; Waller, Panegyric to the Lord-Protector (The Stilling of Neptune's Storm). =Dido=: Chaucer, Legende of Good Women, 923; Sir Thomas Wyatt, The Song of Iopas (unfinished); Marlowe, Tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage; Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, IV, xii; Titus Andronicus, II, iii; Hamlet, II, ii. =Palinurus=: see Scott's Marmion, Introd. to Canto I (with reference to the death of William Pitt). The =Sibyl=. The following legend of the Sibyl is fixed at a later date. In the reign of one of the Tarquins there appeared before the king a woman who offered him nine books for sale. The king refused to purchase them, whereupon the woman went away and burned three of the books, and returning offered the remaining books for the same price she had asked for the nine. The king again rejected them; but when the woman, after burning three books more, returned and asked for the three remaining the same price which she had before asked for the nine, his curiosity was excited, and he purchased the books. They were found to contain the destinies of the Roman state. They were kept in the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, preserved in a stone chest, and allowed to be inspected only by especial officers appointed for that duty, who on great occasions consulted them and interpreted their oracles to the people. There were various Sibyls; but the Cumæan Sibyl, of whom Ovid and Virgil write, is the most celebrated of them. Ovid's story of her life protracted to one thousand years may be intended to represent the various Sibyls as being only reappearances of one and the same individual. =_Illustrative._= Young, in the Night Thoughts, alludes to the Sibyl. See also Shakespeare, 1 Henry VI, II, ii; Othello, III, iv. =_In Art._= Figs. 181-183, in text. The Virgil of Raphael (drawing in the Museum, Venice); the Æneas of the Ægina Marbles (Glyptothek, Munich). P. Guérin's painting, Æneas at the Court of Dido; Raphael, Dido; Turner, Dido building Carthage. The Sibyls in Michelangelo's frescoes in the Sistine Chapel, Rome; the Cumæan Sibyl of Domenichino; Elihu Vedder's Cumæan Sibyl. =255-257. Rhadamanthus=: E. W. Gosse, The Island of the Blest. =Tantalus=: Cowper, The Progress of Error; L. Morris, Epic of Hades; W. W. Story, Tantalus. =Ixion=: poem by Browning in Jocoseria. See Pope, St. Cecilia's Day, 67; Rape of the Lock, 2, 133. =Sisyphus=: Lord Lytton, Death and Sisyphus; L. Morris, in The Epic of Hades. =The teachings of Anchises= to Æneas, respecting the nature of the human soul, were in conformity with the doctrines of the Pythagoreans. Pythagoras (born about 540 B.C.) was a native of the island of Samos, but passed the chief portion of his life at Crotona in Italy. He is therefore sometimes called "the Samian," and sometimes "the philosopher of Crotona." When young he traveled extensively and is said to have visited Egypt, where he was instructed by the priests, and afterwards to have journeyed to the East, where he visited the Persian and Chaldean Magi, and the Brahmins of India. He established himself at Crotona, and enjoined sobriety, temperance, simplicity, and silence upon his throngs of disciples. _Ipse dixit_ (Pythagoras said so) was to be held by them as sufficient proof of anything. Only advanced pupils might question. Pythagoras considered _numbers_ as the essence and principle of all things, and attributed to them a real and distinct existence; so that, in his view, they were the elements out of which the universe was constructed. As the numbers proceed from the monad or unit, so he regarded the pure and simple essence of the Deity as the source of all the forms of nature. Gods, demons, and heroes are emanations of the Supreme, and there is a fourth emanation, the human soul. This is immortal, and when freed from the fetters of the body, passes to the habitation of the dead, where it remains till it returns to the world, to dwell in some other human or animal body; at last, when sufficiently purified, it returns to the source from which it proceeded. This doctrine of the transmigration of souls (metempsychosis), which was originally Egyptian and connected with the doctrine of reward and punishment of human actions, was the chief reason why the Pythagoreans killed no animals. Ovid represents Pythagoras saying that in the time of the Trojan War he was Euphorbus, the son of Panthus, and fell by the spear of Menelaüs. Lately, he said, he had recognized his shield hanging among the trophies in the Temple of Juno at Argos. On =Metempsychosis=, see the essay in the Spectator (No. 343) on the Transmigration of Souls; Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice (Gratiano to Shylock). =Harmony of the Spheres.= The relation of the notes of the musical scale to numbers, whereby harmony results from proportional vibrations of sound, and discord from the reverse, led Pythagoras to apply the word _harmony_ to the visible creation, meaning by it the just adaptation of parts to each other. This is the idea which Dryden expresses in the beginning of his song for St. Cecilia's Day, "From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This everlasting frame began." In the center of the universe (as Pythagoras taught) there was a central fire, the principle of life. The central fire was surrounded by the earth, the moon, the sun, and the five planets. The distances of the various heavenly bodies from one another were conceived to correspond to the proportions of the musical scale. See Merchant of Venice, Act V (Lorenzo and Jessica), for the Music of the Spheres; also Milton, Hymn on the Nativity. See Longfellow's Verses to a Child, and Occultation of Orion, for Pythagoras as inventor of the lyre. =260. Camilla.= Pope, illustrating the rule that "the sound should be an echo to the sense," says: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line, too, labors and the words move slow; Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, or skims along the main. Essay on Criticism. =268-281.= On Norse mythology, see R. B. Anderson, Norse Mythology, or the Religion of our Forefathers (Chicago, 1875); Anderson, Horn's Scandinavian Literature (Chicago, S. C. Griggs & Co., 1884); Dasent, Popular Tales from the Norse (transl. from P. C. Asbjörnsen, New York, 1859); Thorpe's translation of Sæmund's Edda, 2 vols. (London, 1866); Icelandic Poetry or Edda of Sæmund, transl. into English verse (Bristol, A. S. Cottle, 1797); Augusta Larned, Tales from the Norse Grandmother (New York, 1881); H. W. Mabie, Norse Stories (Boston, 1882). A critical edition of the Elder Edda is Sophus Bugge's (Christiania, 1867). The Younger Edda: Edda Snorra Sturlasonar, 2 vols. (Hafniae, 1848-1852); by Thorleif Jonsson (Copenhagen, 1875); Translation: Anderson's Younger Edda (Chicago, S. C. Griggs & Co., 1880) (see references at foot of pp. 458-461 and in =C. 282=). Illustrative poems: Gray, Ode on the Descent of Odin, Ode on the Fatal Sisters; Matthew Arnold, Balder Dead; Longfellow, Tegnér's Drapa, on Balder's Death; William Morris, The Funeral of Balder, in The Lovers of Gudrun (Earthly Paradise); Robert Buchanan, Balder the Beautiful; W. M. W. Call, Balder; and Thor. Sydney Dobell's Balder does not rehearse the Norse myth. It is a poem dealing with the spiritual maladies of the time, excellent in parts, but confused and uneven. Longfellow's Saga of King Olaf (the Musician's Tale, Wayside Inn) is from the Heimskri[.n]gla, or Book of Stories of the Kings, edited by Snorri Sturlason. Many of the cantos of the Saga throw light on Norse mythology. See also the Hon. Roden Noël's Ragnarok (in the Modern Faust), for an ethical modification of the ancient theme. =Anses= (the Asa-folk, Æsir, etc.). The word probably means _ghost_, _ancestral_ _spirit_,--of such kind as the Manes of the Romans. The derivation may be from the root _AN_, 'to breathe,' whence _animus_ (Vigfusson and Powell, Corp. Poet. Bor. 1, 515). According to Jordanes, the Anses were demigods, ancestors of royal races. The main cult of the older religion was ancestor-worship, Thor and Woden being worshiped by a tribe, but each family having its own _anses_, or deified ancestors (Corp. Poet. Bor. 2, 413). =Elf= was another name used of spirits of the dead. Later it sinks to the significance of "fairy." Indeed, say Vigfusson and Powell, half our ideas about fairies are derived from the heathen beliefs as to the spirits of the dead, their purity, kindliness, homes in hillocks (cf. the Irish "folk of the hills," _Banshees_, etc.) (Corp. Poet. Bor. 2, 418). The =Norse Religion= consists evidently of two distinct strata: the lower, of gods, that are personifications of natural forces, or deified heroes, with regular sacrifices, with belief in ghosts, etc.; the upper, of doctrines introduced by Christianity. To the latter belong the Last Battle to be fought by Warrior-Angels and the Elect against the Beast, the Dragon, and the Demons of Fire (Corp. Poet. Bor. 2, 459). =Odin= or =Woden= was first the god of the heaven, or heaven itself, then husband of earth, god of war and of wisdom, lord of the ravens, lord of the gallows (which was called Woden's tree or Woden's steed). =Frigga= is Mother Earth. =Thor= is the lord of the hammer--the thunderbolt, the adversary of giants and all oppressors of man. He is dear to man, always connected with earth,--the husband of _Sif_ (the Norse Ceres). His goat-drawn car makes the rumbling of the thunder. =Freyr= means _lord_; patron of the Swedes, harvest-god. =Balder= means also _lord_ or _king_. On the one hand, his attributes recall those of Apollo; on the other hand, his story appeals to, and is colored by, the Christian imagination. He is another figure of that radiant type to which belong all bright and genial heroes, righters of wrong, blazing to consume evil, gentle and strong to uplift weakness: Apollo, Hercules, Perseus, Achilles, Sigurd, St. George, and many another. =Höder= is the "adversary." =Nanna=, Balder's wife, is the ensample of constancy; her name is _maiden_. =282.= The =Volsunga Saga=. The songs of the Elder Edda, from which Eirikr Magnússon and William Morris draw their Story of the Volsungs and the Nibelungs (London, 1870), are The Lay of Helgi the Hunding's-Bane, The Lay of Sigrdrifa, The Short Lay of Sigurd, The Hell-Ride of Brynhild, The Lay of Brynhild, The Ancient Lay of Gudrun, The Song of Atli, The Whetting of Gudrun, The Lay of Hamdir, The Lament of Oddrun. For translations of these fragments, see pp. 167-270 of the volume mentioned above. For the originals and literal translations of these and other Norse lays of importance, see Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale; and Vigfusson's Sturlunga Saga, 2 vols. For the story of Sigurd, read William Morris' spirited epic, Sigurd the Volsung. Illustrative of the Norse spirit are Motherwell's Battle-Flag of Sigurd, the Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim, and the Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi; also Dora Greenwell's Battle-Flag of Sigurd; and Charles Kingsley's Longbeard's Saga, in Hypatia. Baldwin's Story of Siegfried (New York, 1888) is a good introduction for young people. =283.= The =Nibelungenlied=. The little book entitled Echoes from Mist Land, by Auber Forestier (Chicago, Griggs & Co., 1877) will be of value to the beginner. Other translations are made by A. G. Foster-Barham (London, 1887) and by W. N. Lettsom, The Fall of the Nibelungers (London, 1874), both in verse. See also T. Carlyle, Nibelungenlied (Crit. Miscell.), Essays, 2, 220. Modern German editions by Simrock, Bartsch, Marbach, and Gerlach are procurable. The edition by Werner Hahn (Uebersetzung d. Handschrift A, Collection Spemann, Berlin u. Stuttgart) has been used in the preparation of this account. The original was published in part by Bodmer in 1757; later, in full by C. H. Myller, by K. K. Lachmann (Nibelunge Nôt mit der Klage, 1826); by K. F. Bartsch (Der Nibelunge Nôt, 2 vols. in 3, 1870-1880), and in Pfeiffer's Deutsch. Classik. des Mittelalt., Vol. 3, (1872); and by others (see James Sime's _Nibelungenlied_, Encyc. Brit.). Of some effect in stimulating interest were Dr. W. Jordan's Studies and Recitations of the Nibelunge, which comprised the Siegfried Saga, and Hildebrandt's Return. Especially of value is Richard Wagner's series of operas, The Ring of the Nibelung, =284-288=. In painting, Schnorr von Carolsfeld's wall pictures illustrative of the Nibelungenlied, in the royal palace at Munich, are well known; also the illustrations of the four operas by J. Hoffmann, and by Th. Pixis. =282-283.= Historically, =Siegfried= has been identified, variously, with (1) the great German warrior Arminius (or Hermann), the son of Sigimer, chief of the tribe of the Cherusci, who inhabited the southern part of what is now Hanover and Brunswick. Born 18 B.C. and trained in the Roman army, in the year 9 A.D. he overcame with fearful slaughter the Roman tyrants of Germany, defeating the Roman commander Varus and his legions in the Teutoburg Forest in the valley of the Lippe; (2) Sigibert, king of the Ripuarian Franks, who in 508 A.D. was treacherously slain while taking a midday nap in the forest; (3) Sigibert, king of the Austrasian Franks whose history recalls more than one event of the Sigurd and Siegfried stories; for he discovered a treasure, fought with and overcame foreign nations,--the Huns, the Saxons, the Danes,--and finally in consequence of a quarrel between his wife Brünhilde and his sister-in-law Fredegunde, was, in 576 A.D., assassinated by the retainers of the latter; (4) Julius, or Claudius Civilis, the leader of the Batavi in the revolt against Rome, 69-70 A.D. It is probable that in Sigurd and Siegfried we have recollections combined of two or more of these historic characters. Mythologically, =Sigurd= (of the shining eyes that no man might face unabashed) has been regarded as a reflection of the god Balder. =Gunnar= and =Gunther= are, historically, recognized in a slightly known king of the Burgundians, Gundicar, who with his people was overwhelmed by the Huns in 437 A.D. =Atli= and =Etzel= are poetic idealizations of the renowned Hunnish chieftain, Attila, who united under his rule the German and Slavonic nations, ravaged the Eastern Roman Empire between 445 and 450 A.D., and, invading the Western Empire, was defeated by the Romans in the great battle of Châlons-sur-Marne, 451. He died 454 A.D. =Dietrich of Berne= (Verona) bears some very slight resemblance to Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, who, between 493 and 526 A.D., ruled from Italy what had been the Western Empire. In these poems, however, his earlier illustrious career is overlooked; he is merely a refugee in the court of the Hunnish king, and, even so, is confounded with uncles of his who had been retainers of Attila; for the historic Theodoric was not born until two years after the historic Attila's death. These historic figures were, of course, merely suggestions for, or contributions to, the great heroes of the epics, not prototypes; the same is true of any apparently confirmed historic forerunners of Brynhild, or Gudrun, or Kriemhild. The mythological connection of these epics with the Norse myths of the seasons, Sigurd being Balder of the spring, and Hogni Höder of winter and darkness, is ingenious; but, except as reminding us of the mythic material which the bards were likely to recall and utilize, it is not of substantial worth. In the Norse version, the name =Nibelung= is interchangeable with the patronymic =Giuking=,--it is the name of the family that ruins Sigurd. But, in the German version, the name is of purely mythical import: the Nibelungs are not a human race; none but Siegfried may have intercourse with them. The land of the Nibelungs is equally vague in the German poem; it is at one time an island, again a mountain, and in one manuscript it is confounded with Norway. But mythically it is connected with Niflheim, the kingdom of Hela, the shadowy realm of death. The earth, that gathers to her bosom the dead, cherishes also in her bosom the hoard of gold. Naturally, therefore, the hoard is guarded by Alberich, the dwarf, for dwarfs have always preferred the underworld. So (according to Werner Hahn, and others) there is a deep mythical meaning in the Lay of the Nibelungs: beings that dwell far from the light of day; or that, possessing the riches of mortality, march toward the land of death. =284-288.= Wagner finished this series of operas in 1876. For a translation the reader is referred to the four librettos, Englished by Frederick Jameson (Schott & Co., London); or to the series published by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., New York. =298. Homer= is also called Melesigenes, son of Meles--the stream on which Smyrna was built. The Homeridæ, who lived on Chios, claimed to be descended from Homer. They devoted themselves to the cultivation of epic poetry. =Arion.= See George Eliot's poem beginning Arion, whose melodic soul Taught the dithyramb to roll. =Other Greek Poets of Mythology= to be noted are =Callimachus= (260 B.C.), whose Lock of Berenice is reproduced in the elegiacs of Catullus, and from whose Origins (of sacred rites) Ovid drew much of his information. Also =Nicander= (150 B.C.), whose Transformations, and =Parthenius=, whose Metamorphoses furnished material to the Latin poet. With Theocritus should be read =Bion= and =Moschus=, all three masters of the idyl and elegy. See Andrew Lang's translation of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus; and the verses by Dobson and Gosse with which Lang prefaces the translation. =Lycophron= (260 B.C.) wrote a poem called Alexandra, on the consequences of the voyage of Paris to Sparta. The Loves of Hero and Leander were probably written by a grammarian, =Musæus=, as late as 500 A.D. =Translations of Greek Poets.= The best verse translations of Homer are those of Chapman, Pope, the Earl of Derby, Cowper, and Worsley. An excellent prose translation of the Iliad is that of Lang, Leaf, and Myers (London, Macmillan & Co., 1889); of the Odyssey, that by Butcher and Lang (London, Macmillan & Co., 1883); or the translation into rhythmical prose by G. H. Palmer (Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1892). =The Tragic Poets.= Plumptre's translations of Æschylus and Sophocles, 2 vols. (New York, Routledge, 1882); A. S. Way's translation of Euripides, into verse (London, 1894); Wodhull, Potter, and Milman's translation of Euripides in Morley's Universal Library (London, Routledge, 1888); Potter's Æschylus, Francklin's Sophocles, Wodhull's Euripides, 5 vols. (London, 1809). Other translations of Æschylus are J. S. Blackie's (1850); T. A. Buckley's (London, Bohn, 1848); E. A. A. Morshead's (1881); and Verrall's;--of Sophocles: Thos. Dale's, into verse, 2 vols. (1824); R. Whitelaw's, into verse (1883); Lewis Campbell's Seven Plays, into verse (1883);--of Euripides: T. A. Buckley's, 2 vols. (London, Bohn, 1854-1858); and Verrall's. =Other Poets.= Lang's prose translation of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus; C. S. Calverley's verse translation of Theocritus (Boston, 1906). Pindar,--Odes, transl. by F. A. Paley (London, 1868); by Ernest Myers (London, 1874). Translations of Greek Lyric Poets,--Collections from the Greek Anthology, by Bland and Merivale (London, 1833); The Greek Anthology, by Lord Neaves, Ancient Classics for English Readers Series (London, 1874); Bohn's Greek Anthology, by Burges (London, 1852). On Homer, Hesiod, Theocritus, the tragic poets, Pindar, etc., see also Collins' excellent series of Ancient Classics for English Readers, Philadelphia (Lippincott); and the series entitled "English Translations from Ancient and Modern Poems," by Various Authors, 3 vols. (London, 1810). Also W. C. Wilkinson's College Greek Course, and College Latin Course, in English (1884-1886). Of Æschylus read the Prometheus Bound, to illustrate =15=; the Agamemnon, Choëphori, and Eumenides, to illustrate =193=, =228-230=; and the Seven against Thebes, for =187=. Of Sophocles read [OE]dipus Rex, [OE]dipus at Colonus, Antigone, with =182-185=, etc.; Electra, with =228=; Ajax and Philoctetes, with the Trojan War; Women of Trachis, with =162=. Of Euripides read Medea, Ion, Alcestis, Iphigenia in Aulis and in Tauris, Electra. =299. Roman Poets. Horace= (65 B.C.) in his Odes, Epodes, and Satires makes frequent reference and allusion to the common stock of mythology, sometimes telling a whole story, as that of the daughters of Danaüs. =Catullus= (87 B.C.), the most original of Roman love-poets, gives us the Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis (for selections in English hexameters, see =177= and =191=), the Lock of Berenice, and the Atys. =Manilius= of the age of Augustus wrote a poem on Astronomy, which contains a philosophic statement of star-myths. =Valerius Flaccus= (d. 88 A.D.) based his Argonautics upon the poem of that name by Apollonius of Rhodes. =Statius= (61 A.D.) revived in the brilliant verses of his Thebaid and his Achilleïd the epic myths and epic machinery, but not the vigor and naturalness of the ancient style. To a prose writer, =Hyginus=, who lived on terms of close intimacy with Ovid, a fragmentary work called the Book of Fables, which is sometimes a useful source of information, and four books of Poetical Astronomy, have been attributed. The works, as we have them, could not have been written by a friend of the cultivated Ovid. =Translations and Studies.= For a general treatment of the great poets of Rome, the student is referred to W. L. Collins' series of Ancient Classics for English Readers (Philadelphia, Lippincott). For the Cupid and Psyche of =Apuleius=, read Walter Pater's Marius the Epicurean (London, 1885). Of translations, the following are noteworthy: Ovid,--the Metamorphoses, by Dryden, Addison, and others; into English blank verse by Ed. King (Edinburgh, 1871); prose by Riley (London, 1851); verse by Geo. Sandys (London, 1626). Virgil: complete works into prose by J. Lonsdale and S. Lee (New York, Macmillan); Æneid, translations,--into verse by John Conington (London, 1873); into dactylic hexameter by Oliver Crane (New York, 1888); the Æneids into verse by Wm. Morris (London, 1876); and by Theodore C. Williams (Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co.); Bks. 1-4, by Stanyhurst (Arber's Reprint) (1582); Æneis, by Dryden. Catullus: transl. by Robinson Ellis (London, 1871); by Sir Theodore Martin (Edinburgh, 1875). Horace: transl. by Theodore Martin (Edinburgh, 1881); by Smart (London, 1853); Odes and Epodes in Calverley's translations (London, 1886); Odes, etc., by Conington (London, 1872); Odes and Epodes, by Lord Lytton (New York, 1870); complete, by E. C. Wickham (Oxford, Clarendon Press); Odes, by A. S. Way (London, 1876) and Epodes (1898). Statius: Thebaid, transl. by Pope. =300.= For =Scandinavian literature=, see footnotes to =300=, and references in =C. 268-282=. =Runes= were "the letters of the alphabets used by all the old Teutonic tribes.... The letters were even considered magical, and cast into the air written separately upon chips or spills of wood, to fall, as fate determined, on a cloth, and then be read by the interpreters.... The association of the runic letters with heathen mysteries and superstition caused the first Christian teachers to discourage, and, indeed, as far as possible, suppress their use. They were therefore superseded by the Latin alphabet, which in First English was supplemented by retention of two of the runes, named 'thorn' and 'wen,' to represent sounds of 'th' and 'w,' for which the Latin alphabet had no letters provided. Each rune was named after some object whose name began with the sound represented. The first letter was F, Feoh, money; the second U, Ur, a bull; the third Th, Thorn, a thorn; the fourth O, Os, the mouth; the fifth R, Rad, a saddle; the sixth C, Cen, a torch; and the six sounds being joined together make Futhorc, which is the name given to the runic A B C."--MORLEY, English Writers, 1, 267. See also Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale, 2, 691, under Runes and Rune-Stones; Cleasby and Vigfusson's Icelandic-English Dictionary; and George Stephens' Old Northern Runic Monuments, 2 vols. (London, 1866-1868). =301.= For =Translations of the Nibelungenlied=, see =C. 283=. For other German lays of myth,--the Gudrun, the Great Rose Garden, the Horned Siegfried, etc.,--see Vilmar's Geschichte der deutschen National-Litteratur, 42-101 (Leipzig, 1886). See also, in general, Grimm's Deutsche Mythologie (Göttingen, 1855); Ludlow's Popular Epics of the Middle Ages, 2 vols. (London, 1865); George T. Dippold's Great Epics of Mediæval Germany (Boston, 1891). =302. Egyptian.= See Birch's Guide to the First and Second Egyptian Rooms, British Museum; Miss A. B. Edwards' A Thousand Miles up the Nile (London, 1876). _For the principal divinities, see Index to this work._ =303. Indian.= Max Müller's translation of the Rig-Veda-Sanhita; Sacred Books of the East, 35 vols., edited by Max Müller,--the Upanishads, Bhagavadgita, Institutes of Vishnu, etc., translated by various scholars (Oxford, 1874-1890); Müller's History of Sanskrit Literature (London, 1859); Weber's History of Indian Literature (London, 1878); H. H. Wilson's Rig-Veda-Sanhita, 6 vols. (London, 1850-1870), and his Theatre of the Hindus, 2 vols. (London, 1871); Muir's Sanskrit Texts, and his Principal Deities of the Rig-Veda, 5 vols. (London, 1868-1873); J. Freeman Clarke's Ten Great Religions (Boston, 1880); the Mahâbhârata, translated by Protap Chundra Roy, Nos. 1-76 (Calcutta, 1883-1893). See Indian Idylls, by Edwin Arnold; The Episode of Nala,--Nalopákhyánam,--translated by Monier Williams (Oxford, 1879). Of the Râmâyana, a paraphrase (in brief) is given by F. Richardson in the Iliad of the East (London, 1870). Sir William Jones' translation of the Sakuntala; E. A. Reed's Hindu Literature, with translations (Chicago, 1891), W. Ward's History, Literature, and Mythology of the Hindoos, 3 vols. (London, 1822). On Buddhism, read Arnold's Light of Asia. _For the chief divinities of the Hindus, see Index to this work._ =304. Persian.= J. Freeman Clarke's Ten Great Religions; Johnson's Oriental Religions; Haug's Essays on the Sacred Language, Literature, etc., of the Parsis, by E. W. West (Boston, 1879). In illustration should be read Moore's Fire-Worshipers in Lalla Rookh. FOOTNOTES: [422] For assistance in collecting references to English poetry the author is indebted to Miss M. B. Clayes, a graduate of the University of California. [423] Popular etymology. The suffix _[=i]on_ is patronymic. [424] Popular etymology. The root of the name indicates _Fire-god_. [425] For Latin names, see Index or Chapters II-V. [426] The Olympian Religion (_No. Am. Rev._ May, 1892). See his Juventus Mundi. [427] Furtwängler (Meisterw. d. gr. Plastik) condemns the ægis. [428] This _dawn_ theory is certainly far-fetched. A FEW RULES FOR THE ENGLISH PRONUNCIATION OF GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMES [These rules will cover most cases, but they are not intended to exhaust the subject. The reader is referred to the Latin grammars and the English dictionaries.] I. _Quantity._ The reader must first ascertain whether the second last syllable of the word is long. In general a syllable is long in quantity: (1) If it contains a diphthong, or a long vowel: _Bau_-cis, Ac-_tae_-on, _M[=e]_-tis, O-_r[=i]_-on, _Fl[=o]_-ra. (2) If its vowel, whether long or short, is followed by _j_, _x_, or _z_, or by any two consonants except a mute and a liquid: _A´_-jax, Meg-a-_ba´_-zus, A-_dras´_-tus. _Note (a)._ Sometimes two vowels come together without forming a diphthong. In such cases the diæresis is, in this volume, used to indicate the division: _e.g._ Men-e-l[=a]'-_üs_, Pe-n[=e]'-_üs_. _Note (b)._ The _syllable_ formed by a short vowel before a mute with _l_ or _r_ is sometimes long and sometimes short: _e.g._ Cle-o-_p[=a]'_-tra, or Cle-op´-_[)a]_-tra; Pa-_tr[=o]'_-clus, or Pat´-_r[)o]_-clus. II. _Accent._ (1) The accent may be principal, or subordinate: Hel^{2}-les-pon´-tus. (2) =The principal accent falls on the second last syllable (_penult_): Am-phi-tri´-te; or on the third last syllable (_antepenult_): Am-phit´-ry-on.= _Note (a)_ In words of two syllables, it falls on the _penult_: Cir´-ce. _Note (b)_ =In words of more than two syllables, it falls on the _penult_ when that syllable is long; otherwise, on the _antepenult_: Æ-n[=e]'-as, Her´-c[)u]-les.= (3) The subordinate accent: _Note (a)_ If only two syllables precede the principal accent, the subordinate accent falls on the first syllable of the word: _Hip^{2}-po_-cr[=e]'ne. _Note (b)_ If more than two syllables precede the principal accent, the laws governing the principal accent apply to those preceding syllables: _Cas^2-s[)i]-o_-p[=e]'-a. =_Note._ In the Index of this work, when the _penult_ of a word is long, it is marked with the accent; when the penult is short, the _antepenult_ is marked.= The reader should however bear in mind that a _syllable_ may be long even though it contain a short vowel, as by Rule I, (2), above. III. _Vowels and Consonants._ These rules depend upon those of Syllabication: (1) A vowel generally has its _long_ English sound when it ends a syllable: _He´-ro_, _I´-o_, _Ca´-cus_, _I-tho´-me_, _E-do´-ni_, _My-ce´-næ_. (2) A vowel generally has its _short_ English sound in a syllable that ends in a consonant: _Hel´-en_, _Sis´_-y-_phus_, _Pol_-y-phe´-_mus_. But _e_ in the termination _es_ has its long sound: Her´_mes_, A-tri´-_des_. (3) The vowel _a_ has an _obscure_ sound when it ends an unaccented syllable: A-chæ´-_a_; so, also, the vowel _i_ or _y_, not final, after an accented syllable: Hes-per´-_i_-des; and sometimes _i_ or _y_ in an unaccented first syllable: _Ci_-lic´-i-a. (4) Consonants have their usual English sounds; but _c_ and _g_ are soft before _e_, _i_, _y_, _æ_, and _[oe]_: _Ce´_-to, _Ge´_-ry-on, _Gy´-ges_; _ch_ has the sound of _k_: _Chi´_-os; and _c_, _s_, and _t_, immediately preceded by the accent and standing before _i_ followed by another vowel, commonly have the sound of _sh_: _Sic´_-y-on (but see Latin grammars and English dictionaries for exceptions). IV. _Syllabication._ (1) The penultimate syllable ends with a vowel: _e.g._ Pe-_ne´_-us, I-_tho´_-me, _A´_-treus, Hel´-_e_-nus; _Except when_ its vowel is followed by _x_ or by two consonants (not a mute with _l_ or _r_), then the vowel is joined with the succeeding consonant: _Nax_-os, _Cir_-ce, Aga-_mem_-non. (2) Other syllables (not ultimate or penultimate) end with a vowel: _e.g._ _Pi_-ræ-us; _Except when (a)_ the vowel is followed by _x_ or any two consonants (not a mute with _l_ or _r_): _e.g._ _Ix_-i´-on, Pel-o-_pon_-ne´-sus; _and when (b)_ the syllable is accented and its vowel followed by one or more consonants: _e.g._ _An_^2-ax-_ag´_-o-ras, Am-_phic´_ty-on, [OE]d-'i-pus. _Note (a)._ But an accented _a_, _e_, or _o_ before a single consonant (or a mute with _l_ or _r_), followed by _e_, _i_, or _y_ before another vowel, is not joined with the succeeding consonant, and consequently has the long sound: Pau-_s[=a]'_-ni-as; De-_m[=e]'_-tri-us. _Note (b)._ An accented _u_ before a single consonant (or mute with _l_ or _r_) is not joined with the succeeding consonant, and consequently has the long sound: _J[=u]'_-pi-ter. (3) =All words have as many syllables as they have vowels and diphthongs.= INDEX OF MYTHOLOGICAL SUBJECTS AND THEIR SOURCES [Ordinary figures refer to pages of the Text. Figures in italics preceded by _C._ refer to sections of the Commentary and incidentally to the corresponding sections in the Text. In the case of words of which the correct pronunciation has not seemed to be clearly indicated by their accentuation and syllabication, the sounds of the letters have been denoted thus: [=a], like _a_ in _gr[=a]y_; [='a], like _[=a]_, only less prolonged; [)a], like _a_ in _h[)a]ve_; ä, like _a_ in _fär_; [.a], like _a_ in _sof[.a]_; [a:] and au like _a_ in _[a:]ll_; æ, [=e], and [oe], like _ee_ in _meet_; [='e], like _[=e]_, only less prolonged; [)e], like _e_ in _[)e]nd_; ê, like _e_ in _thêre_; [~e], like _e_ in _[~e]rr_; [=i], like _i_ in _p[=i]ne_; [)i], like _i_ in _p[)i]n_; [=o], like _[=o]_ in _n[=o]te_; [='o], like _[=o]_, only less prolonged; [)o], like _o_ in _n[)o]t_; ô, like _o_ in _ôrb_; [)oo], like _oo_ in _f[)oo]t_; [=oo], like _oo_ in _m[=oo]n_; ou, as in _out_; [=u], like _u_ in _[=u]se_; ü, like the French _u_; [-c] and [-c]h, like _k_; th, as in _the_; ç, like _s_; [=g], like _g_ in _[=g]et_; [.g], like _j_; [s+], like _z_; [.c]h, as in German _ach_; G, small capital, as in German _Hamburg_.] A´bas, 207 Ab-syr´tus, 232; _C. 163-167_ (Illustr.) [.A]-by´d[)o]s, 32, 142; _C. 34_ Ab´y-la, 219 [.A]-çes´t[=e][s+], 352, 368, 369 [.A]-çe´t[=e][s+], 152; the vengeance of Bacchus, 154, 155 [.A]-[-c]hæ´[.a]ns, their origin, 16; 274, 288; _C. 148_ (2) [.A]-[-c]ha´t[=e][s+], 366 [)A][-c]h-e-lo´us, myth of, 203, 204; _C. 146-147_ [)A][-c]h´e-r[)o]n, 47, 127, 327 [.A]-[-c]hil´l[=e][s+], 75, 91, 179, 237; his descent, 269, 272, 275, 276; character of, 274; in the Trojan War, 279-308; in Scyros, 279, 280; wrath of, 283; and Patroclus, 296; remorse of, 299; reconciliation with Agamemnon, 300; slays Hector and drags his body, 301-303; and Priam, 304-306; death of, 307, 308, 313, 328, 345, 453; _C. 190-194_ (1), _199, 207_ A´çis, 198, 200; _C. 141_ A´c[)o]n, _C. 138_ Acontius ([.a]-con´sh[)i]-us), _C. 64_ [.A]-cris´[)i]-us, 207; doom of, 208-214; _C. 149-154_ Ac-ro-çe-rau´nian Mountains, 118; _C. 93_ Ac-tæ´on, 89; myth of, 120-122, 261; _C. 59_, table E; _95_ Ad-me´ta, 218 Ad-me´tus, 104, 230; Lowell's Shepherd of King A., 105, 106; and Alcestis, 106-110 [.A]-do´nis, myth of, 126-128; Lang's translation of Bion's Lament for A., 126-128; _C. 100_ Ad-ras-te´a, 5 [.A]-dras´tus, 264, 265 Æ-aç´[)i]-d[=e][s+], Achilles, 272 Æ[.a]-cus, 51, 53, 246, 269; king of Ægina, 73, 75; _C. 190-194_ (1) Æ-æ´a, isle of, 318, 324, 328 Æ-e´t[=e][s+], 230-232; genealogy, _C. 172_ Æ´[.g]æ, palace of Neptune near, 56 Æ-[.g]æ´[)o]n, _C. 4_ Æ-[.g]e´[.a]n Sea, 177 Ægeus (e´j[=u]s), 235, 250, 251, 252, 256; _C. 61, 148_ (4), _174_ Æ-[.g]i´na, island of, 53; daughter of Asopus, myth of, 64, 73-75, 169; plague of the island, 73-75; _C. 61_ Æ[.g]is, of Jupiter, 21; of Minerva, 23, 213 Æ-[.g]is´thus, 275, 276, 314, 315; _C. 190-194_ (2), _228-230_ (In Art) Ægl[=e], a nymph in pastoral poetry Æg[)o]n, 185; _C. 129-130_ Æ-[.g]yp´tus, 207; _C. 149-154_ Æ-ne´[.a]s, 126, 168, 206, 265, 276, 280, 289, 290, 299-301; _C. 190-194_ (5), _207, 245-254_. See _Æneid_ Æ-ne´[.a]s Syl´vius, king of Alba Longa, third in descent from Æneas Æ-ne´id, 456; the narrative of, 346-372; from Troy to Italy, 346; the departure from Troy, the promised empire, 347; the Harpies, 348; Epirus, the Cyclopes, 349; resentment of Juno, 350; sojourn at Carthage, Dido, 350-352; Palinurus, Italy, 352; the Sibyl of Cumæ, 352-354, 361; the infernal regions, 354-358; the Elysian Fields, 358, 359; the valley of oblivion, 359; war between Trojans and Latins, 362-372; gates of Janus opened, 363; Camilla, 364; alliance with Evander, 365-367; site of future Rome, 366; Turnus' attack, 367; Nisus and Euryalus, 368-370; death of Mezentius, 370, 371; of Pallas and of Camilla, 371, 372; the final conflict, 372; _C. 245-260, 299_ Æ-o´l[)i]-a, 39 Æo-lus, of Thessaly, 16, 206, 214; myths of his family, 229-236; quest of the Golden Fleece, 230-233; connection with Medea, 233-236; _C. 38_ (9), _125, 148_ (5), table I. Æo-lus (wind god), 39, 170, 175, 177, 323, 324, 350; _C. 38_ (9), _125, 148_, (5), table I. See _Hippotades_ Æpytus (ep´[)i]-tus), 241 [.A]-[)e]r´o-p[=e], 275; genealogy, _C. 172, 190-194_ (2) Æschylus (es´k[)i]-lus), 455; references to, 265, 314-316, _C. 10-15_; translations, _C. 298_ Æsculapius (es-k[=u]-la´p[)i]-us), attributes of, 38; myth of, 104; 260, 296; _C. 38_ (8), _80_ Æ-se´pus, 179 Æs[)o]n, 230, 233, 234; _C. 163-167_ (Illustr.) Æsop, 2 Æther, 3; or Light, 4 Æ-th[)i]-o´p[)i]-a, 43, 97, 179, 211; _C. 128_ Æ-th[=i]'o-pis, 453 Æthra, 250, 251; _C. 174, 190-194_ (2) Ætna (et´na), Mount, 25, 96, 104, 159, 223; _C. 76_ Æ-to´l[)i]-a, 237 Æ-to´lus, 206; family of, 237-245; _C. 148_ (3), (5), table I; _168_ Africa, 350, 447, 448 Ag-[.a]-mem´n[)o]n, 99; family of, 275, 276, 455; in the Trojan War, 280-300; quarrel with Achilles, 284, 285; reconciliation, 300; return to Greece, and death, 314; 328; _C. 190-194_ (2), _196_ [.A]-ga´v[=e], 89, 153, 156, 261; _C. 57_, table D; _182-189_, table N Age of Gold. See _Golden Age_ [.A]-[.g]e´n[)o]r, father of Cadmus, 68, 87, 206, 207; genealogy, _C. 59, 148_ (1), _149-154_ [.A]-[.g]e´n[)o]r, son of Priam, 301 Aglaia ([.a]-gla´ya or [.a]-gla´[)i]-a), one of the Graces, 26, 36; wife of Vulcan, 26 Aglauros ([.a]-glô-r[)o]s), daughter of Cecrops, _C. 174_. See _Herse_ Agni (ag´n[=e]). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) [.A]-grot´[~e]-ra, _C. 32_. See _Diana_ Äh´r[)i]-m[.a]n, 463 A´jax the Great, son of Telamon, 237, 275, 276, 280, 286, 288, 293-299, 308, 328, 453; _C. 190-194_ (1), _204, 207_ A´jax the Less, son of Oïleus, king of the Locrians, a leader in the Trojan War, 286 Al´ba Lon´ga, 372 Alberich (äl´b[~e]r-[)i]G), in Wagner's Ring, 410-414, 419-428. See also _Andvari_ Al-çæ´us, 216, 453 Al-çes´tis, 106-110, 225, 282, 455; _C. 83_ Al-çi´d[=e][s+], 216; _C. 156-162_; genealogy, _149-154_, table J Al-çin´o-us, 332-337 Alc-mæ´[)o]n, 268 Alc-me´n[=e], 64, 107, 214, 215, 328 Alcyoneus (al-si´o-n[=u]s), 7. See _Giants, Greek_ [.A]-le[-c]'t[=o], 54, 363 Aleian ([.a]-le´y[.a]n) field, 215; _C. 155_ Alexander. See _Paris_ [.A]-lex´is, a beautiful youth in Virgil's second Eclogue Alfadur (äl´fä-d[=oo]r), 375, 395, 404. See _Odin_ [.A]-lo´[.a]-dæ, or [)A]l-o-[=i]'dæ. See _Aloeus_ Aloeus ([.a]-lo´[=u]s), or [.A]-lo´as, 93 Al-phe´n[)o]r, son of Niobe, 100 Alphesib[oe]us (al-fes-[)i]-be´us), an ideal singer in pastorals Al-phe´us, 118, 119, 218; _C. 93_ Alps, 97 Al-thæ´a, 237, 238, 240, 241, 242, 275; _C. 168_, table K Am-al-the´a, 5; _C. 146-147_ Amaryllis (am-[.a]-ril´is), a fair shepherdess of pastoral poetry (Theocritus, Virgil) Am-[.a]-se´nus river, 364 [.A]-ma´ta, 363 Am´[.a]-thus, 126, 149, 182; _C. 100_ Am´[.a]-zons, and Hercules, 219; and Theseus, 258; at Troy, 307; C. _156-162_ (Illustr.), _176-181_ (Interpret.) Ambrosia (am-bro´zh[)i]-a), 95; _C. 76_ Am´m[)o]n (Jupiter Ammon), temple and oracle of, 20; _C. 146-147_. See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) A´mor. See _Cupid_ Am-ph[)i]-[.a]-ra´us, 239, 265, 268, 451; _C. 148_ (5) Am-phil´o-[-c]hus, 268 Am-phi´[)o]n, 99, 100, 206, 451; myth of, 75-77; from Tennyson's Amphion, 76, 77; _C. 62_ Am-ph[)i]-tri´t[=e], the Nereïd, wife of Neptune, 55, 198, 454 Am-phit´ry-[)o]n, 216 Amphrysus (am-fri´sus) river, 105 Am-y-mo´n[=e], 170, 217; _C. 119-120_ Amyntas ([.a]-min´t[.a]s), a lovely boy in pastoral poetry. See _Virgil, Bucolics 3_ [.A]-nac´re-[)o]n, 453, 454 An-[.a]-dy-om´[)e]-n[=e] (_rising_ from the water), _C. 34_. See _Venus_ An-ax-[)a]r´e-t[=e], 195 An-çæ´us, 239 Ancestor worship in China, 437 An-[-c]hi´s[=e][s+], 125, 276, 280, 346-348, 353, 359, 360; _C. 190-194_ (5), _245-257_ An-çi´l[=e], _C. 28_ An-dræ´m[)o]n, 192 An-dro´[.g]e-us, 252 An-drom´[.a]-[-c]h[=e], 280, 291-293, 303, 313, 349; _C. 207_ An-drom´e-da, 169; and Perseus, 211-214, 215, 216; lines from Kingsley's Andromeda, 212; _C. 149-154_ Andvari (änd´vä-r[=e]), 401-405; as Alberich, 410-414, 419-428; _C. 282-283_ Angerbode (äng´[~e]r-bo´d[~e]), 387 An´s[=e][s+] (Æ´s[)i]r, Ä´sä-folk), 374, 376; _C. 268-281_ An-tæ´us, 170, 220 An-te´a, 214 An-te´n[)o]r, 288 An´t[='e]-r[)o]s, 35 An-thes-te´r[)i]-a, _C. 42, 110-112_ Anthology, Greek, translations of, _C. 298_ Anthropological method, 442 An-ti[=g]'o-n[=e], 263, 264, 266, 267; _C. 182-189_ An-til´o-[-c]hus, 179, 299 An-tin´o-us, 343 An-ti´o-p[=e], daughter of Asopus, 64, 328; myth of, 75-77; _C. 62_ An-ti´o-p[=e], wife of Theseus, 258, 259; _C. 174_, table M An-to´r[=e][s+], 370 [.A]-n[=u]'bis. See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) [.A]-pel´l[=e][s+], a Greek painter of the time of Alexander the Great. See _John Lyly's Alexander and Campaspe_ Apennines, 97 Aph-ro-di´t[=e] (foam-born). See _Venus_ A´pis, oracle of, _C. 308_. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) [.A]-pol´lo, Ph[oe]bus, and his lyre, 18; son of Latona, 19; meaning of names, 26; attributes, 26-29; among the Hyperboreans, the Delphians, his victory over Python, 26; the Pythian games, his oracles, patronage of music, etc., 27; favorite animals, 28; Shelley's Hymn of Apollo, 28; myths of, 91-117; the Pæan of victory, 92; victory over Tityus and the Aloadæ, 92, 93; A. and Hyacinthus, 93, 94; and Phaëthon, 94-98; sends a plague upon the Greeks before Troy, 98, 99; A. and Niobe, 99-103; and Psamathe and Linus, 103, 104; and Coronis and Æsculapius, 104; and the Cyclopes, 104; in exile, serves Admetus, 104-110; Lowell's Shepherd of King Admetus, 105, 106; serves Laomedon, 110; as a musician, Pan, Midas, Marsyas, 110-112; Shelley's Hymn of Pan, 111, 112; loves of A., Calliope, Cyrene, Daphne, 112-114; Lowell's lines upon Daphne, 114; Marpessa, 115, 116; quotations from Stephen Phillips' Marpessa, 115, 116; Clytie, 116, 117; quotation from Moore's Clytie, 117; A. and Orion, 122; and Mercury, 150, 151; and Neptune, 169; and Hercules, 216; and Daphnis, 223; in Trojan War, 283-285, 290, 296-304, 307, 308; Cassandra, 313; the Sibyl, 353, 361; interpretations of, 432, 434, 437, 440, 442, 445; _C. 30, 68, 72-73, 76-89, 109_ [.A]-pol-lo-do´rus, 455; references to, 75, 115, 122, 125, 160, 169, 177, 201, 207, 208, 214, 215, 230, 241, 242, 246, and footnotes _passim_ Ap-ol-lo´n[)i]-us (of Rhodes), 455; references to, 125, 193, 230, 242, 269; _C. 4_ Apuleius (ap-[=u]-le´yus), 457; references to, 128, 137; translation of, _C. 298_ Aquilo (ak´w[)i]-lo), 38 [.A]-rach´n[=e], myth of, 82-84; _C. 65-66_ Är-ca´di-a, 67, 110, 217, 218, 241, 265, 365, 366 Är´c[)a]s, son of Callisto, 67, 241; _C. 58_ and table D [=A]-re-op´[.a]-gus, Mars' Hill, on which the highest Athenian tribunal held its meetings. See _St. Paul's address, Acts 17, 22_ A´r[=e][s+]. See _Mars_ [)A]r-e-th[=u]´sa, myth of, 117-120; Shelley's poem, 118-120; and Ceres, 162; _C. 93_ Är´[.g][=e][s+], _C. 4_ Är´[.g]ives, 308 Är´go, the, 223, 230, 233; _C. 163-167_ Är´go-lis, _C. 149-154_ Ar-go-nau´tic expedition, 39, 222, 230-233, 269, 348; quotation from Dyer's Fleece, 230, 231 Argonauts (är´go-nôts), the, 222, 230-233, 242; W. Morris' Life and Death of Jason, 232, 233; _C. 163-167_ Är´g[)o]s (city and district), 22, 23, 103, 169, 206, 207, 214, 217, 264, 265, 268, 315, 370, 452; _C. 64, 149-154_ Är´gus, builder of the Argo, 230 Är´gus (Pan-op´tes), 34; myth of Io, Mercury, and A., 65-67, 439; _C. 57_ Är´gus, Ulysses' dog, 341 [=A]-r[)i]-ad´n[=e], 152; myth of, 156, 252-258, 259, 270; _C. 172_, table L, _176-181_ [.A]-ri´[)o]n, identified with Jonah, 440; account of, 453, 454; _C. 298_ [.A]-ri´[)o]n, the horse, 170 [)A]r-is-tæ´us, 112, 121, 165; myth of, 202, 203; _C. 145_ [)A]r-is-toph´[.a]-n[=e][s+], 455 [)A]r´is-t[)o]tle, reference to, 241 Är´n[=e], 170 Är-sin´o-[=e], 104, 150 Är´te-mis. See _Diana_ A´run[s+], 371, 372 Är´y[.a]n germ-theory, 448 Är´y[.a]n tribes and modern descendants, 448, 462 Ä´sä-folk. See _Anses_ As-ca´n[)i]-us, _C. 190-194_ (5). See _Iulus_ As-cle-pi´[.a]-dæ (As-cle´pi-os), _C. 80_. See _Æsculapius_ As´cra, 453 As´gärd, 2, 374, 389-392, 396, 397 Asia, 68, 153, 252, 448 Äsk, 374 [.A]-so´pus, 73, 75; _C. 61_ As´pho-del, the meads of, 49, 120 As-s[)a]r´[.a]-cus, grandfather of Anchises, _C. 190-194_ (5) As-syr´i-ans, the, _C. 34_ As-tär´t[=e], _C. 34, 59_ As-te´r[)i]-a, _C. 163-167_ As-træ´a, 15; _C. 18_ As-ty´[.a]-nax, 291-293, 303; _C. 190-194_ (5) At-[.a]-lan´ta (the Arcadian), daughter of Iasius, in the Calydonian hunt, 237-241; selections from Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon, 237-240; A. and Mars, 265; _C. 168_ At-[.a]-lan´ta (daughter of Sch[oe]neus of B[oe]otia), 139-141; extract from Landor's Hippomenes and Atalanta, 140, 141; cousin of Jason, 230; genealogy, _C. 103_ and table G, _148_ (5), table I A´t[=e], 300 Ath´[.a]-m[)a]s, 202, 229; _C. 103_, table G, _148_ (2), (5), table I [.A]-the´na or A-the´n[=e], 445; _C. 27_. See _Minerva_ Ath´ens, 23, 81, 82, 235, 246, 249, 250, 252, 258, 263, 308, 317, 452 A´th[)o]s, Mount, 96; _C. 76_ At-lan´tis, legend of, 52. See _Plato's Timæus_ At´l[.a]s, 6, 41; described, 57; his offspring, the Atlantides, 57; and Perseus, 211; and Hercules, 220; _C. 6_; genealogy, _148_ (5), table I, and _149-154_ Atli (ät´l[=e]). See _Attila_ Atmu (ät´m[=oo]). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) A´trax, 259 Atreus (a´tr[=oo]s), house of, 269, 275, 276; _C. 78, 190-194_ (2) [.A]-tri´d[=e][s+], 98; _C. 77_ At´ro-p[)o]s, a Fate, 38 At´t[)i]-ca, 207, 243, 249, 256 At´t[)i]-la, Atli, Etzel, 404, 409; _C. 282-283_ Audhumbla (ou´th[=oo]m-bla), 373 Au-[.g]e´[.a]s, Au-[.g]e´[.a]n stables, 218; _C. 156-162_ (Interpret.) Au-[.g]i´[.a]s. See _Augeas_ Au-gus´tan Age, 2, 456 Au-gus´tus, 61, 456 Au´lis, 280 Au´ra, 172, 173 Au-ro´ra, 39, 40, 43, 95, 123, 125, 148, 160, 172, 175, 176, 269; and Tithonus, 177-179; mother of Memnon, 179, 180; _C. 38_ (10), _123-124_, and table H Au-ro´ra Bo-re-a´lis, 376 Aus´ter, 38 Australians, mental state of contemporary native, 441; myths among, 448 Au-ton´o-[=e], 89, 121, 156, 261 Av-[.a]-tär´. See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Av´en-tine, Mount, 221; _C. 156-162_ (Textual) [.A]-v[~e]r´nus, Lake, 354 [.A]-ves´ta, 463 Bab-y-lo´ni-a, 147 B[)a]c´[-c]h[.a]-n[.a]ls, 44, 154, 155; _C. 110-112_ B[.a]c-[-c]h[)a]n´t[=e][s+], 44, 153, 258; _C. 110-112_ Bac´[-c]hus (Dionysus), 20; descent and attributes, 44, 45; quotation from Dryden's Alexander's Feast, 45; worshipers of, 44; the Roman Liber, 59; his mother, Semele, 72; B. and Vulcan, 91; myths of, 152-158; his wanderings, 152, 153; Pentheus, 153-156; story of Acetes, 154, 155; lines from Edmund Gosse's Praise of Dionysus, 156, 157; choice of Midas, 157, 158; B. and Neptune, 169; Ariadne, 257, 258; interpretation of ritual, 445; _C. 42, 60, 110-112_ Balaustion (b[.a]-l[a:]s´chon). See _Browning's Balaustion's Adventure_, Index of Authors B[a:]l´d[~e]r, 376, 460; death of, 387-393; extracts from M. Arnold's Balder Dead, 388-397; _C. 268-281, 282-283_ Balmung (bäl´m[)oo]ng), 409 Bards, 450, 458 Bas-s[)a]r´[)i]-d[=e][s+], _C. 42_ Bat´tus, a peasant who informed Apollo of Mercury's robbery of his cattle; or who, having promised secrecy to Mercury, told the whole story to Mercury disguised, and was petrified by the offended deity Bau´çis, 77-80 Bear, Great and Little, 43, 96; myth of, 67, 68 Beauty and the Beast, analogy of incident, _C. 101-102_ Bel-l[)e]r´o-ph[)o]n, 230, 290, 298, 432; and the Chimæra, 214, 215; _C. 155_ Bel-lo´na, 61; _C. 54_ Be´lus, king of Tyre, 206, 207, 351; genealogy, _C. 57_, table D, _148_ (1), _149-154_. Compare the deity Baal Belvedere (bel-v[='e]-d[=e]r´ or bel-v[='a]-d[=a]'r[=a]), the Apollo, _C. 30_ Berecyntia (b[)e]r-[)e]-sin´sh[)i]-a), _C. 41_. See _Cybele_ Berg-risar (b[)e]rG'r[=e]-sär), 376 B[)e]rne, Dietrich of, 409; _C. 282-283_ B[)e]r´o-[=e], 71 Bible, the Hebrew, 440 Bifrost (b[=e]f´r[)o]st), 374, 377, 389, 395 Bi´[)o]n, Lang's translation of his Lament for Adonis, 126-128; _C. 59, 298_ Biorn (b[+e]-ôrn´) of Scärd´sa, 459 Bi´t[)o]n, 80, 81; _C. 64_ B[oe]otia (be-o´sh[)i]-a), 139, 280, and _passim_ B[oe]otians (be-o´sh[)i]-ans), 170 Bo´na De´a, 61 Books of the Dead and of the Lower Hemisphere, 462 Bo-o´t[=e]s, 96; _C. 75_ B[=o]r, 373 Bo´re-as, 38, 350; _C. 38_ (9) Bori (bo´r[=e]), 373 Bos´pho-rus (the heifer's ford), a Thracian strait, crossed by Io Bragi (brä´[=g][=e]), 376 Bräh´ma and Bräh´m[.a]n-ism. See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Brän´stock, 398-400, 405 Brazen Age, the, 15 Breidablick (br[=a]'d[.a]-blik or br[=i]t´ap-lik), the home of Balder Briareus (bri´[.a]-r[=oo]s or bri-a´re-us), 354; _C. 4, 8_ Bri-se´is, 284; _C. 199_ Bro´mi-us, _C. 42_. See _Bacchus_ Bron´t[=e][s+], _C. 4_ Brunhild (br[)oo]n´h[)i]lt), 405-409; _C. 282-283_ Brünnhilde (brün-h[)i]l´d[~e]), in Wagner's Ring, 418-421, 424-430. See also _Brunhild_, _Brynhild_ Bru´tus, a mythical grandson of Æneas; fabled to have colonized the island called, after him, Britain Brynhild (brün´h[)i]lt), 402-404; _C. 282-283_ Buddha (b[)oo]d´[~e]). Family name, Gautama; given names, Siddartha ("in whom wishes are fulfilled") and Buddha ("he who knows"). Born 628 B.C., son of the king of Kapilavastu, north of Oude, India; died in his eighty-fifth year. Founder of Buddhism, which, in opposition to the dead creed and forms of Brahmanism, taught: "(1) Existence is only pain or sorrow. (2) The cause of pain or sorrow is desire. (3) In Nirvana all pain and sorrow cease. (4) Nirvana is attainable by the 'noble path´ of virtuous self-discipline." _Nirvana_ is both a means and an end. As a means, it is the process of renunciation by which the love of life and self are extinguished; as an end, it is the heaven of the Buddhist, a negative bliss consisting in absorption of the soul into the Infinite. The soul is the _Karma_, the sum total of a man's deeds, good and evil,--his character, by which is determined his state of future existence. The Karma passes through various earthly existences in the process of renunciation described above. See _Edward Clodd's Childhood of Religions_, _John Caird's Oriental Religions_ (Humboldt Library), _Encyc. Brit._, _Sir Edwin Arnold's Light of Asia_ Budlung (b[)oo]d´l[)oo]ng), 404, 405 Bull, Jupiter as the, 69; _C. 59_ Bur´gun-dy, 405, 407 Bush´men, mental state of, 441 B[=u]-si´ris, an Egyptian despot, who sacrificed all strangers entering his realm, but was put to death by Hercules B[=u]'t[=o], an Egyptian goddess, identified by the Greeks with Leto Byrsa (b[~e]r´sa), 351 Ca´cus, myth of, 221; _C. 156-162_ Cad´mus, 17, 71, 206, 207; and the dragon, 87-90, 231; builds Thebes, 87, 89; marries Harmonia, 89; curse upon his family, 89, 90, 120, 153, 202, 229, 261, 265, 268; _C. 57_, table D, _59_, table E, _70_ Ca-d[=u]'çe-us, the, 34, 151 Ca-i´cus, 97; _C. 76_ Cal´a-is, 39, 230 Cal´[-c]h[.a]s, 281, 294, 311, 451 Cal-lim´[.a]-[-c]hus, _C. 298_ Cal-li´o-p[=e], the muse of epic poetry, 37; mother of Orpheus, 112, 165; _C. 38_ (4) Cal-l[)i]r´rho-[=e]. See _Chrysaor_ Cal-lis´t[=e], _C. 32, 58_ Cal-lis´t[=o], 64, 237, 241; myth of, 67, 68; _C. 58_ Cal´p[=e], 219 Cal´y-d[)o]n, 203, 225, 237, 265, 275; _C. 146-147_ Cal-y-do´ni-an Boar, the, 206, 237 Cal-y-do´ni-an Hunt, the, 225, 237-240 Calypso (c[.a]-lip´so), 331; _C. 231-244_ C[.a]-me´næ (Antevorta, Postvorta, Carmenta, and Egeria). The name comes from the root of _carmen_, song of prophecy, 62 C[.a]-mil´la, 364, 371, 372; _C. 260_ Cam´pus Martius (mar´sh[)i]-us), _C. 28_ Capaneus (cap´[.a]-n[=u]s), 265, 266 Cap´[)i]-to-line Hill, 114 Capys (ca´pis), father of Anchises, _C. 190-194_ (5) Ca´r[)i]-a, 125 Cär-men´ta, 62, 90; _C. 50-52_ Cär-ne´a, _C. 30_ Cär´p[.a]-th[)o]s, 203, 204; _C. 145_ Cär´thage, 350, 351 Cas-san´dra, 276, 313, 314, 451; _C. 190-194_ (5), _226_ Cas-s[)i]-o-pe´a, Cas-s[)i]-e-pe´a, or Cas-s[=i]'o-p[=e], 211; quotation from Milton's Il Penseroso, 211; _C. 149-154_ Cas-ta´l[)i]-a, 26, 87; _C. 30, 70, 76_ Cas´tor, 206, 230, 237, 242-245, 275, 289; _C. 190-194_ (3), (4) C[.a]-tul´lus, 457; translations of his Peleus and Thetis, 253-258, 269-273; note and translations, _C. 299_; of poems LXI and LXII, _38_ (under _Hymen_); of poem LI, _107_ Cau´c[.a]-sus, 11, 97, 192; _C. 76_ Caÿster (ca-is´ter), 97; _C. 76_ Çe-bri´o-n[=e][s+], 298 Çe-cro´p[)i]-a, _C. 65-66_ Çe´crops, 17, 82, 207, 249; _C. 65-66, 176-181_ (Illustr.); genealogy, _148_ (4); _174_ Çe-da´l[)i]-[)o]n, 122 Çe-læ´n[=o], (1) a Pleiad; (2) a Harpy Çe´le-us, 160, 161, 164 Celts, 448 Çen´taurs, the, 104, 259, 274; _C. 80, 156-162_ (Interpret.) Çen-tim´[.a]-nus, _C. 4_ Çe´[)o]s, an island in the Ægean Çeph´[.a]-lus, 40; and Procris, 172-175; father of Phosphor, 175; _C. 123-124, 190-194_ (4) Çepheus (ç[=e]'f[=u]s), 211, 213 Çe-phis´sus, 26, 88, 188, 250; _C. 30, 70, 132-133_ Ç[~e]r´b[~e]r-us, 47, 135, 167, 355; and Hercules, 220; _C. 49, 156-162_ (Interpret.) Ç[~e]r-co´p[=e][s+], 222; _C. 156-162_ Çe´r[=e][s+], 5; or Demeter, 19; attributes of, 43, 44; favorite animals, etc., 44; Eleusinian mysteries, 44, 165; the Roman, 59; and Psyche, 133; wanderings of, 152, 160-165; C. and Neptune, 170; Erysichthon, 191, 192; _C. 40, 59, 114-117_ Ç[)e]r-y-ne´an stag, 218; _C. 156-162_ (Interpret.) Çes-tus, the, 295 Çe´t[=o], 57 Ceylon, 463 Ceyx (se´[)i]x), 175-177; _C. 125._ See _Halcyone_ [-C]ha´[)o]s, 3, 4; _C. 3_ [-C]ha´ris, youngest of the Charites, called also Aglaia (Aglaïa), wife of Vulcan [-C]h[)a]r´[)i]-t[=e][s+]. See _Graces_ [-C]ha´r[)o]n, 47, 135, 354, 355, 377; _C. 44-46_ Charybdis ([-c]h[.a]-rib´dis), 255, 329, 330, 350; _C. 50-52_ [-C]h[)i]-mæ´ra, 214, 215, 354; _C. 155_ [-C]hi´[)o]s (Scio), 122, 149, 452; _C. 96, 107_ [-C]hi´r[)o]n, 104, 231, 269, 271, 274; _C. 10-15, 80, 199_ [-C]ho´rus, 196 Christ, 1, 181 [-C]hro´nus or [-C]hro´n[)o]s, 439; _C. 4_ Chrysaor ([-c]hr[=i]-sa´[)o]r or [-c]hr[)i]s´a-ôr), son of Poseidon; sprang with Pegasus from the head of Medusa; by Callirrhoë he was father of Geryones and Echidna. See Michael Field's _Callirrhoë_, a drama, 1884 Chryseïs ([-c]hri-se´is), 98, 283, 284; _C. 77_ Chryses ([-c]hri´s[=e][s+]), 98, 283, 284 Chrysothemis ([-c]hris-oth´e-mis), daughter of Agamemnon, 275; _C. 190-194_ (2) Cic´e-ro, references to the works of, 104, 196 Ç[)i]-co´ni-ans, the, 318 Çi´lix, son of Agenor; brother of Cadmus and Ph[oe]nix; settled in Cilicia Çim-me´ri-an, 176, 338; _C. 125_ Çim-me´ri-ans, the, 47, 328 Çin´y-r[.a]s, 126 Çir´ç[=e], 201, 318, 324-330; _C. 172, 231-244_ Cir´cus Max´i-mus, 60 Ç[)i]-thæ´r[)o]n, Mount, 75, 155, 261; _C. 62, 110-112_ Cla´r[)o]s, 175 Cle´o-bis, 80, 81; _C. 64_ Cle-om´e-n[=e][s+], a sculptor of about 200 B.C., _C. 35_ Cli´o, the muse of history, 37; _C. 38_ (4) Clo´tho, a Fate, 38 Clymene (clim´[)e]-n[=e]), 94; _C. 76_ Cly-tem-nes´tra, 237, 242, 275, 314, 315; _C. 190-194_ (3), _228-230_ Clytië (cl[)i]sh´[)i]-[=e] or cl[=i]'t[)i]-[=e]), 116, 117; Thomas Moore's verses, Believe me, if all ..., 117; _C. 91_ Clytius (clish´[)i]-us), _C. 8_ Cnageus (na´j[=u]s), _C. 32_ Cnidos (ni´d[)o]s), 32, 126; _C. 35, 100_ Cnosus (n[=o]´sus) or Cnossus (n[)o]s´us). See _Gnossus_ C[)o][-c]'[.a]-lus, 247 Cocytus (co-si´tus), 47, 327, 354 C[oe]us (se´us), a Titan, 64; _C. 4_ Col´[-c]his, 222, 229, 231, 242; _C. 156-162_ (Textual) Co-lo´nus, 263 Col´o-ph[)o]n, 452 Co´mus, in later mythology a god of festivity, drunkenness, and mirth. See _Milton's Masque of Comus_ Con-siv´i-us, 60 Con´sus, 59, 60, 88; _C. 50-52_ Co´ra (Ko´r[=e]). See _Proserpina_ Cor´inth, 32, 124, 169, 196, 214, 235, 252, 261, 453 Cor-nu-co´pi-a, 53, 204; _C. 146-147_ Cor[oe]bus (co-re´bus), 103 Co-ro´nis, 104. See _Æsculapius_ Cor-y-ban´t[=e][s+], references to, 14, 44; _C. 16_ Cor´y-d[)o]n, an ideal singer of pastoral poetry. _See Theocritus, Idyl 4_; _Virgil, Bucolics 7_ Cor´y-thus, _C. 221_ C[)o]s, an island off the coast of Caria Cot´tus, _C. 4_ Cra´n[)o]n or Cran´n[)o]n, a town in the vale of Tempe, in Thessaly Creation, Greek myths of, 3; Virgil's account of, 360; the Norse account of, 373, 374 Cre´[)o]n, 263, 266, 267; _C. 182-189_, table N Cres-phon´t[=e][s+], 241, 242 Cres´s[)i]-da, _C. 196_ Cre´tan Bull, the, 218, 246; _C. 156-162_ (Interpret.) Crete, Cre´ta, 53, 70, 71, 132, 201, 207, 242, 246, 249, 252, 256, 275, 286, 288, 348; _C. 59_ Cretheus (cre´th[=u]s), _C. 148_ (2), (5) Cre´us, _C. 4_ Cre-[=u]´sa, mother of Ion, _C. 174_ Cre-[=u]´sa, wife of Æneas, 347; _C. 190-194_ (5) Cre-[=u]´sa, wife of Jason, 235 Croc´[.a]-l[=e], 120 Cro´nus, 4, 5, 6, 8, 19; rule of, 5, 10; in the Fortunate Isles, 52; confounded with Chronos, 439; _C. 4_ C[=u]'mæ, 352 C[=u]-mæ´an Sibyl, 352-361 C[=u]'pid or C[=u]-pi´d[=o] (Eros), attributes of, 35, 36, 126; Edmund Gosse's Eros, 36; Lyly's Cupid and Campaspe, _C. 38_; in the story of Apollo and Daphne, 112, 113; C. and Psyche, 128-139, 457; extracts from Wm. Morris' Earthly Paradise, 131, 135; from Bridges' Eros and Psyche, 132; from Pater's Marius, 133; T. K. Hervey's Cupid and Psyche, 136, 137; Keats' Ode to Psyche, 137-139; in the story of Hero and Leander, 142-144; Pluto and Proserpine, 159; _C. 38_ (1), _101-102_ C[=u]-re´t[=e][s+], inhabitants of Crete, noisy worshipers of Jupiter; later identified with the Corybantes (worshipers of Cybele) Cy´[.a]-n[=e] river, 160, 162; _C. 114-117_ Cy´[.a]-n[=e], a Sicilian nymph Cybele (sib´e-l[=e]) or Cybebe (si-be´b[=e]), attributes and worship of, 44, 141; the Roman Magna Mater, 59; _C. 16, 41_. See also _Rhea_ Cyclic (sik´lik) Poets, the, 452 Çy-clo´p[=e][s+], Çy´cl[)o]ps, 4, 6, 7, 53, 122, 170, 185, 198-200, 332; and Apollo, 104; and Ulysses, 320-323; and Æneas, 349; _C. 4, 141_ Çy[-c]'nus. (1) Son of Apollo. With his mother, Thyri[.a], he leaped into lake Canope, where both were changed into swans. (2) Son of Poseidon, a king of Colonæ in Troas. He assisted the Trojans, but was killed by Achilles; changed into a swan. (3) Son of Ares, killed by Hercules; changed into a swan. (4) A friend of Phaëthon. While lamenting his friend's fate, Cycnus was changed by Apollo into a swan, and placed among the stars. Çy-dip´p[=e] and her sons, 80, 81; quotation from Edmund Gosse's The Sons of Cydippe, 81; _C. 64_ Çyl-le´n[=e], Mount, 34, 150; _C. 109_ Cynosure (s[=i]'no-sh[=oo]r or s[)i]n´o-sh[=oo]r), the, _C. 58_ Çyn´th[)i]-a (Diana), 31, 118, 125, 139; _C. 32_ Çyn´thus, Mount, in Delos, _C. 32, 78_ Çyp´ri-an, the, 85; _C. 68_ Çyp´ri-an Lays, 452 Çy´pris (Venus), 68, 69, 126, 127, 133, 140; _C. 34, 59_ Çy´prus, island of, 31, 32, 140, 145, 314, 432; _C. 34_ Çyp´se-lus, 241 Çy-re´n[=e], 112, 202, 203; _C. 145_ Çy-the´ra, island of, 31, 32; _C. 100_ Çyth-[~e]r-e´a (Venus), 127, 128, 134; _C. 34, 100_ Çyz´[)i]-cus, King of Cyzicus on the Propontis. Received the Argonauts, but by mistake was slain by Hercules or Jason. Dædalus (d[)e]d´[.a]-lus or d[=e]'d[.a]-lus) and Icarus, 246-248; _C. 85-86, 173_ Da´g[)o]n, 432 Dam[oe]tas (d[.a]-me´t[.a]s), a herdsman in pastoral poetry. See _Virgil, Bucolics 3_ Da´m[)o]n, an ideal singer of love in pastorals. See _Virgil, Bucolics 8_ Dan´a-[.a]ns or Dan´a-[=i], 98, 99 Dan´a-[=e], 64; myth of, 208, 213; woven by Arachne, 84; Lamentation of Danaë, 454; _C. 149-154_ Dan´a-[)i]ds or Da-na´[)i]-d[=e][s+], 207; _C. 149-154_ Dan´a-us, daughters of, 166, 170; house of, 206-228; _C. 57_, table D, _148_ (1) _149-154_ Daphne (daf´n[=e]), myth of, 112-114; explanations of myth, 437; _C. 89_ Daph-ne-pho´r[)i]-a, _C. 30_ Daphnis (daf´nis), 185, 222, 223-225, 240; lines from M. Arnold's Thyrsis, 224, 225; _C. 129-130, 156-162_ Där´d[.a]-nus, 124, 348; _C. 190-194_ (5) Darkness, 3, 4 Daughter of the Skies, story of; analogy of incident, _C. 101-102_ Dau´lis, 249, 250 Dawn, goddess of, _C. 36_. See _Aurora_ Day, 4 Death (Than´a-tos), 54, 298; Hercules' struggle with, 107-110; _C. 49_ De-[)i]d-[.a]-mi´a. (1) Also called Laodam[=i]'a, daughter of Bellerophon, and mother of Sarpedon. (2) Daughter of Lycomedes of Scyros, and mother of Pyrrhus by Achilles. (3) Also called Hippodam[=i]'a, wife of Pirithoüs, and daughter of Atrax Deimos (d[=i]'m[)o]s), Dread, a son and attendant of Mars, 24 De´[)i]-[)o]n, _C. 123-124_; genealogy, _148_ (2), (5) Deïphobus (de-if´o-bus), 280, 302; _C. 190-194_ (5) De-j[.a]-ni´ra or Deianira (de-y[.a]-ni´ra), 203, 225, 227, 237, 275; _C. 146-147, 168_ De´l[)i]-a, a name for Diana of Delos De´l[)o]s, 29, 247, 347; _C. 32_ Del´phi, 5, 113, 169, 262; oracle of, 27, 268, 315, 317, 442; center of the world, 42; _C. 30, 38_ (4), _89_ Del-phin´i-a, _C. 30_ Del-phy´n[=e], _C. 30_ Delusion of Gylfi ([=g]il´f[=e]), 459 De-me´ter, 263, 442; and Pelops, 434; and Springtide, 434; _C. 40_. See _Ceres_ Demigods and Heroes, age of, 16, 17; in the Theban and Trojan Wars, 17 De-mod´o-cus of Phæacia, 337, 450 Destinies. See _Fates_ Deterioration, theory of, 436-440 Deucalion (d[=u]-ca´l[)i]-[)o]n), with Pyrrha repeoples the world, 16; descendants of, 16, 206, 207, 229; interpretation of myth, 440; _C. 19-20, 148_ (2), (5) Devas (d[=a]'v[.a][s+]). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Di´a, island of, 154, 254; old name for Naxos, _C. 110-112_ Di-[=a]'na, usually pronounced Di-[)a]n´a (Artemis), moon-goddess, 2, 432; daughter of Latona, 19, 29; meaning of names, 29; attributes, 29-31; identified with Selene, 29, 39, 117; her vengeance on Agamemnon, Orion, and Niobe, 30, 117, and _ad loc._; favorite animals, 31; Ben Jonson's Hymn to Cynthia (Diana), 31; among the Romans, 59; Lucina, 61; D. and Syrinx, 66; punishes Niobe, 99-103; myths of, 117-125; Tityus, Python, Daphne, Callisto, 117 and _ad loc._; [OE]neus, 117, 237; Alpheüs and Arethusa, 117-120; the fate of Actæon, 120-122; of Orion, 122, 123; the Pleiads, 123, 124; Endymion, 124, 125; Procris, 172; Echo, 188; the Naiads, 189-191; Hippolytus, 260; Agamemnon and Iphigenia, 280, 281, 316; Æneas, 290; Camilla, 364, 372; _C. 32, 58, 95-98_ Di[-c]'t[=e], _C. 5_ Di[-c]-tyn´na: Diana (Artemis) as protectress of fishermen Di[-c]'tys, a fisherman of Seriphus who rescued Danaë and Perseus from the waves, and intrusted them to Polydectes, his brother Di´d[=o], 114, 346, 350-352, 356; _C. 89, 245-254_ Dietrich (de´triG), 409; _C. 282-283_ Di´k[=e], personification of justice Din-dy-me´n[=e], a surname of Cybele; from Mount Dindymus in Phrygia; _C. 41_ Di´-o-m[=e]de, son of Tydeus; contest with Mars, 84-86; in Trojan War, 280, 289, 290, 297, 309, 310, 314; _C. 68_ Di-o-me´d[=e][s+], son of Mars, owner of the man-eating mares, 218 Di-o´n[=e], mother of Venus (Aphrodite), 19, 290; _C. 26, 34_ Dionysia (di-o-nish´[)i]-a), _C. 42, 110-112_ Dionysus (di-o-ni´sus). See _Bacchus_ Di-os-c[=u]'r[=i]. See _Tyndaridæ_ Di´ræ. See _Furies_ Dir´ç[=e], 75 D[)i]s, 83. See _Pluto_ Discord, Dis-cor´d[)i]-a (Eris), 24, 41; apple of, 277, 278 Dith´y-ramb, of Arion, 454 Division of the world among Greek gods, 6 Do-do´na, oracle of, 19, 20; _C. 24-25, 30_ Dol´phin and Apollo, _C. 30_ D[='o]n´n[~e]r, Thôr, 412, 415 Do´ris, 55, 97, 198, 269 Do´rus, Do´r[)i]-an, 16, 119, 120; _C. 93_; genealogy, 103, table G, _148_ (2), (5) Drä´p[.a][s+], the, 458 Dreams, gates of, 54; _C. 49_ Dry´ads, the, 45, 138, 186; myths of, 191-195; _C. 131_ Dry´o-p[=e], 191, 192; _C. 137_ Dwarfs, 401 Dyaus (_cf._ Zeus, Jupiter). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Dy´nast, the (Pluto), 167; _C. 118_ Earth, 3, 4, 5, 8, 97; Greek gods of, 42-46; Greek conception of world, 42, 43; myths of great divinities of, 152-158; of divinities of earth and the underworld, 159-168; of lesser divinities of, 181-197. See also _Gæa_ East of the Sun and West of the Moon, story of; analogy of incident, _C. 101-102_ E-[-c]hid´na, half serpent, half woman, who by Typhon bore Cerberus, the Nemean lion, and the Lernæan Hydra E[-c]h´o (according to rule, [=E]'[-c]ho), 188, 189; _C. 132-133_ Ed´d[.a][s+], 373, 394; derivation of name, history of poems, 458-460; translations and authorities, 458-460, notes, and _C. 268-282_ E-don´[)i]-d[=e][s+], Mount E´don, _C. 42_. See _Bacchus_ Eëtion (e-e´sh[)i]-[)o]n or e-et´[)i]-[)o]n), 291 E-[.g]e´r[)i]-a, 63, 260; _C. 54_ Egypt, 207, 249, 447; _C. 149-154_ Egyptians, 442; records of myths, 462; studies on, _C. 302_ Egyptian divinities, (1) Those of Memphis were Phtha, Ra, Shu and Tefnet, Seb and Nut, Osiris and Isis, Seth and Nephthys, Horus and Hathor. (2) Those of Thebes were Amen (Ammon), Mentu, Atmu, Shu and Tefnet, Seb and Nut, Osiris and Isis, Seth and Nephthys, Horus and Hathor, Sebek, Tennet, and Penit. See _Encyc. Brit._, and authorities referred to in _C. 302_. The following lists are genealogically arranged: (1) Phtha, Seb, Ra; (2) Amen, etc. (1) _Phtha_ or _Ptah_: chief deity of Memphis; perhaps of foreign origin. His name means the "opener," or the "carver." He is called "the Father of the Beginning," and as the prime architect, or artificer, recalls the Greek Hephæstus. He is the activity of the "Spirit," Neph, Chnuphis. He is represented as a mummy or a pygmy. _Pakht_ and _Bast_: a goddess of two forms, lioness-headed or cat-headed. At Memphis, Pakht was worshiped as wife of Phtha; at Bubastis, Bast was adored as daughter of Isis. _Nefer Atum_: worshiped at Heliopolis as the son of Phtha. Like Osiris (see below), he is the sun of the underworld. _Seb_: the father of the Osirian gods. He is the god of earth and its vegetation; represented as a man with the head of a goose; he corresponds with the Greek Cronus; his consort was Nut. _Nut_: wife of Seb, mother of the Osirian gods; the vault of heaven; she may be likened to the Greek Rhea. _Osi´ris_, or _Hesiri_: the good principle. Identified with the vivifying power of the sun and of the waters of the Nile. In general, the most human and most beneficent of the Egyptian deities. He is the son of Seb (or, according to some, of Neph, Chnuphis). He may be likened to the Greek Apollo, as a representative of spiritual light; to Dionysus in his vivifying function. He wages war with his brother Seth (Set), the principle of Evil, but is vanquished by him, boxed in a chest, drowned, and finally cut into small pieces. His sister-wife, Isis, recovers all but one piece of the body of O., and buries them. He becomes protector of the shades, judge of the underworld, the sun of the night, the tutelary deity of the Egyptians. He is avenged by his son Horus, who, with the aid of Thoth (reason), temporarily overcomes Seth. The myth may refer to the daily struggle of the sun with darkness, and also to the unending strife of good with evil, the course of human life, and of the life after death. O. is represented as a mummy crowned with the Egyptian miter. _I´sis_, or _Hes_: the wife and feminine counterpart of Osiris. Represented as a woman crowned with the sun's disk or cow's horns, bearing also upon her head her emblem, the throne. _Ho´rus_, or _Har_: son of Osiris and Isis, who, as the strong young sun of the day, avenges his father, the sun of the underworld. He is Horus the child, Horus the elder (as taking the place of his father on earth), or sometimes Horus Harpocrates, the god of silence. As the latter, he holds a finger to his lips. He may be compared with the Greek Apollo. _Harpoc´ra-tes_: see _Horus_ _Ha´thor_, or _Athor_: a goddess often identified with Isis. She had the head of a cow and wears the sun's disk, and plumes. Her name means "Home of Horus." She has characteristics of the Greek Aphrodite. _Seth_, or _Set_: the principle of physical, and later of moral, darkness and evil. He is the opponent of his brother, or father, Osiris. Represented as a monster with ass's body, jackal's ears and snout, and the tail of a lion. _Nephthys_: a goddess of the dead; the sister of Isis, and wife of Seth. She aided Isis to recover the drowned Osiris. _A´pis_: the sacred bull, into which the life of Osiris was supposed to have passed. The name also indicates the Nile. The bull Apis must have certain distinguishing marks; he was treated like a god; and on his death (he was drowned at twenty-five years of age) the land went into mourning until his successor was found. He was worshiped with pomp in Memphis. See _Serapis_ _Sera´pis_ (or _Ser´apis_; see _Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 720_): as Apis represents the living Osiris, so S. the Osiris who had passed into the underworld. _Ra_: originally the deity of the physical attributes of the sun; but ultimately the representative of supreme godhead. Worshiped through all Egypt, and associated with other gods who are then manifestations of his various attributes. He is the victorious principle or light, life, and right, but rules over, rather than sympathizes with, mankind. He is of human form, sometimes hawk-headed, always crowned with the sun's disk. His Greek counterpart is not Apollo, but Helios. _Mentu_: Ra, as the rising sun _Atmu_: Ra, as the setting sun _Shu_: the solar light; son of Ra, Mentu, or Atmu (2) _Ammon_, or _Amen_: "the hidden," a deity of the Egyptian Thebes; generally associated in attributes with some other god. As Amen-Ra he is the king of Theban gods, the divinity of the sun. He is of human form; rarely with a goat's head, as represented by the Greeks. He corresponds to the Greek Zeus. As Amen-Khem he is the god of productivity, and is represented with a flail in his hand. His consort is Mut, or Maut, and their son is Khuns. _Mut_, or _Maut_: the mother; the Theban goddess of womanhood, wife of Amen-Ra. She corresponds to the Greek Demeter. _Khuns_: son of Ammon and Maut; a divinity of the moon. He is sometimes hawk-headed; generally invested with the disk and crescent of the moon. _Neph_, _Chnuphis_, _Khnum_, _Num_, or _Nu_: the soul of the universe; the word or will of Ammon-Ra; the creator. Represented with the head of a ram. _Khem, Chem_ (_cf._ Milton's _Cham_), called also _Min_: the energizing principle of physical life. Associated with both Ammon and Osiris. His counterpart in classical mythology is Pan, or, as god of gardens, Priapus. _Neith_: goddess of the upper heaven; self-produced; mother of the sun; goddess, consequently, of wisdom, the arts of peace and of war. Likened by the Greeks to Athena. Worshiped in Lower Egypt as a woman in form, with bow and arrows in her hand. _Ma-t_: goddess of truth; her emblem is the ostrich feather, which signifies truth. She is the wife of Thoth. _Thoth_: the chief moon-god; characterized by his wisdom, and his patronage of letters. Husband of Ma-t _Anubis_: son of Osiris. Guide of ghosts Eileithyia ([=i]-l[=i]-th[=i]'ya) or Ilithyia ([)i]l-[)i]-th[=i]'ya), the name of a goddess, or of goddesses, of childbirth; later identified with Diana; _C. 32_ E-lec´tra, daughter of Agamemnon, 275, 276, 315; _C. 190-194_ (2), _228-230_ E-lec´tra, a Pleiad, 123, 124; _C. 97, 148_ (5), _190-194_ (5) E-lec´try-[)o]n, 214, 215 Elegiac ([)e]-le´j[)i]-ak or el-e-ji´ak) poets of Rome, 457 Eleusinia (el-[=u]-sin´[)i]-a), Eleusinian mysteries; Eleusis (e-l[=u]´sis), 44, 165, 442; _C. 114-117_ Eleusis. See _Eleusinia_ Eleutho (e-l[=u]'th[=o]). See _Eileithyia_ Elfheim (elf´h[=a]m or elf´h[=i]m), 377, 394 Elgin Marbles, _C. 27, 176-181_ E´l[)i]s, 117, 170, and _passim_; _C. 93_ Eliudnir ([)e]l-[)i]-[)oo]d´n[=e]r), 377 Elli ([)e]l´l[=e]), 384, 386 Elves, 394; _C. 268-281_ Elysium (e-lizh´[)i]-[)u]m or e-liz´[)i]-[)u]m), Elysian (e-lizh´[.a]n or e-liz´[)i]-[.a]n) Plain, 43, 274, 356, 360; description of Elysian Fields, 51, 52, 358, 359; Andrew Lang's Fortunate Islands, 52; _C. 44-46_ E-ma´th[)i]-a: Thessaly, or Pharsalia Em´bla, 374 En-çel´[.a]-dus, a Giant, 7 En-[+c]he´l[)i]-ans, country of the, 89; _C. 70_ Endymion (en-dim´[)i]-[)o]n), 2, 117, 237; myth of, 124, 125, 201; _C. 98_; genealogy, _148_ (3), (5), _168_ Enipeus (e-ni´p[=u]s), 170; _C. 119-120_ En´na, 120, 160, 163; _C. 93, 114-117_ En-y-a´l[)i]-us: the horrible, the warlike; an epithet of Mars Enyo (e-ni´o), mother, daughter, sister, or wife of Mars; the horror, 24; also one of the three Grææ E´[)o]s, 39. See also _Aurora_ Ep´[.a]-phus, 94, 207; _C. 76_ E-pe´us, the artificer of the Wooden Horse Eph´esus, Diana of, _C. 32_; Venus of, _C. 34_ Eph-[)i]-al´t[=e][s+], 93; _C. 8_ Ep´ics. See _Homer_, _Virgil_, _V[.o]lsunga Saga_, _Nibelungenlied_, _Mahâbhârata_, _Râmâyana_ Ep-[)i]-dau´rus, 251 Ep-ig´o-n[=i], 268 Ep-[)i]-men´[)i]-d[=e][s+], a Cretan herdsman, who awoke from a sleep of fifty-seven years to find himself endowed with gifts of prophecy, purification, and priestcraft Epimetheus (ep-[)i]-me´th[=u]s), 9; marries Pandora, 11; _C. 10-15_ E-pi´rus, 349 [)E]r´[.a]-t[=o], the muse of love poetry, 37 [)E]r´da, in Wagner's Ring, 415, 418, 419, 424, 425 [)E]r´e-bus, 4, 135, 162, 259, 363; _C. 3, 49, 101-102_ Erechtheus (e-rek´th[=u]s), 249; _C. 174_ [)E]r-i[-c]h-tho´n[)i]-us, 207; descendants of, 249-260; _C. 148_ (4), _174_ [)E]r-i[-c]h-tho´n[)i]-us, son of Dardanus and fourth king of Troy, _C. 190-194_ (5) E-r[)i]d´[.a]-nus, 98; _C. 76_ Erinys (e-rin´is or e-ri´nis), E-rin´y-[=e][s+]. See _Furies_ [)E]r-[)i]-phy´l[=e], 265, 266, 268; _C. 70_ E´ris, 24, 41. See _Discord_ E´r[)o]s, 3, 4; _C. 3, 38_ (1). See _Cupid_ [)E]r-y-çi´na, Venus, to whom Mount Eryx and the city of that name, with its temple of Venus, were sacred, 255; _C. 34_ [)E]r-y-man´thus, Mount, 119; boar of, 217; _C. 93, 156-162_ [)E]r-y-si[-c]h´th[)o]n, myth of, 191, 192 [)E]r-y-the´a, island of, 219 [)E]r-y-the´is, one of the Hesperides E´ryx, Mount, 32, 159; _C. 114-117_ Eskimos, 449 E-te´o-cl[=e][s+], 264, 266; _C. 182-189_, table N Etruscans, 63, 367 Etzel (et´sel), Lament over the Heroes of, 461. See _Attila_ Eub[oe]a ([=u]-be´a), 56 Eu-he´m[~e]r-us or Eu-hem´[~e]r-us (Eue-merus), Eu-he-m[~e]r-is´tic or Eu-hem-[~e]r-is´tic, 436 Eu-mæ´us, 339, 340, 343 Eu-men´[)i]-d[=e][s+], 256; _C. 49_. See _Furies_ Eu-mol´pus, Eu-mol´p[)i]-dæ, a Thracian singer and his descendants, priests of Demeter in the Eleusinian mysteries Eu-phra´t[=e][s+], 97 Eu-phros´y-n[=e], one of the Graces, 36 Eu-rip´[)i]-d[=e][s+], 455; references to, 110, 215, 242, 261, 265, 266, 281, 313, 315, 316; translations, _C. 298_ Eu-ro´pa, 64, 207, 246; myth of, 68-71; portrayed by Arachne, 84; _C. 57_, table D; _59_ and table E Eu-ro´t[)a]s, 253 Eu´rus, 38 Eu-ry´[.a]-l[=e], one of the Gorgons Eu-ry´[.a]-lus, 368-370 Eu-ryb´[)i]-[=e], a Titan, wife of Creüs, _C. 4_ Eu-ry-cle´a, 341 Eu-ryd´[)i]-ç[=e], 165-168, 202, 203; _C. 118_ Eu-ryl´o-[-c]hus, 324, 325 Eu-ryn´o-m[=e], 36, 90; _C. 4, 71_ Eu-ry-ph[.a]-es´sa, _C. 4_ Eurystheus ([=u]-ris´th[=u]s), 216-220 Eurytion ([=u]-rish´[)i]-[)o]n or [=u]-rit´[)i]-[)o]n), 219, 259 Eu-t[~e]r´p[=e], the muse of lyric poetry, 37; _C. 38_ (4) Euxine ([=u]k´s[)i]n) Sea, 231 E-vad´n[=e], 266 E-van´der, 365-367 Eve and the apple, 440 E-ve´nus, 115 E´v[)i]-us, _C. 42_. See _Bacchus_ Fable, definition of, 1; distinguished from myth, 1-2; some writers of, 2 Fafner (fäv´n[~e]r), Fafnir, 412, 415, 419, 420, 422, 423, 427 Fafnir (fäv´n[=e]r), Fafner, 400, 401. In Wagner's Ring, see _Fafner_ Fair, Brown, and Trembling, story of; analogy of incident, _C. 101-102_ Famine, personified, 192 Farbauti (fär´bou-te), 377 Fä´[s+][=ó]lt, 412, 415 Fas´t[=i], Ovid's, 456 Fate (Greek _A-nan´ke_, Latin _Fa´tum_), the necessity above and behind gods as well as men Fates, the (Greek _M[oe]'ræ_, Latin _Par´cæ_), subject to Jupiter; their office, 38, 106, 107, 163, 167, 237, 240, 269; daughters of Themis, or of Night, 38; song of, 272; _C. 38_ (6), _49_ Fau´na, 61 Fau´n[=i], Fauns, 61, 153, 185, 186, 190, 195; _C. 54, 131_ Fau´nus, 61, 198, 362 F[.a]-vo´n[)i]-us, 38 Fen´ris, 377, 378, 387, 395, 396 Fensalir (fen-sä-l[=e]r´), 387, 389 Fe-ro´n[)i]-a, 63; also worshiped in the mart as a goddess of commerce; a Sabine deity Fi´d[=e][s+], 63 Flood, the, in Greece, 15 Flo´ra, 61; loved by Zephyrus, 39; _C. 54_ Fon-t[)i]-na´l[)i]-a, 62 Fon´tus, 62 For-t[=u]'na, 63 Fox and Grapes, reference to, 1 Freia (fr[=e]'a), Freya, 412-415. See _Freya_ Freki (fr[=a]'k[=e]), 375 Freya (fr[=a]'a), Freia, 377-380, 393 See _Freia_ Freyr (fr[=a]''r) or Froh (fr[=o]), 377, 386, 387, 393-395, 412; _C. 268-281_ Frick´a or Frig´ga, 412, 415, 418, 420 Frig´ga or Frick´a, 374, 387, 389, 393; _C. 268-281_ Froh (fr[=o]) or Freyr (fr[=a]''r), 412, 413, 415 Frost giant (Ymir), 373 Frost giants, 376, 378, 380, 393, 395 Furies, F[=u]'r[)i]-æ (E-rin´y-[=e][s+], Di´ræ, Eu-men´[)i]-d[=e][s+], Sem´næ: A-lec´to, T[)i]-siph´-o-n[=e], Me-[.g]æ´ra), 5, 51, 354, 357; attendants of Proserpine, 53, 54; mollified by Orpheus, 166; avengers of Ibycus, 196, 197; Orestes pursued by, 316; _C. 49, 140_ Gæa (je´a), [.G][=e], or T[)e]r´ra, 4, 5, 6, 44, 220; the Roman Tellus, 59. See _Earth_ Gal-[.a]-te´a, the Nereid, 55, 185; myth of Acis, Polyphemus, and G., 198-200; _C. 141_ Gal-[.a]-te´a and Pyg-m[=a]'l[)i]-[)o]n, 147; _C. 105_ Gandharvas (gund-hur´w[.a][s+]). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Gan´[.g][=e][s+], 97 Gan-y-me´da, a name of Hebe Gan´y-m[=e]de, 36; _C. 38_ (2) Gardens of the Hesperides, _C. 149-154_ Gáthás (gä´tä[s+]), 463 Gautama (gou´t[.a]-m[.a]). See _Buddha_ [.G]e. See _Gæa_ and _Earth_ [.G]el´l[)i]-us, reference to, 60 [.G]em´[)i]-n[=i]. See _Tyndaridæ_ [.G]e´nius, the Roman tutelary spirit, 62, 181 [=G][)e]r´da, 387 Geri ([=g][=a]'r[=e]), 374 German heroes, myths, and lays, 2, 405-409; _C. 283-288, 301_ German mythology, narrative of, 405-409; records of, 448, 460, 461; translations and authorities, _C. 283-288_ [=G][)e]r´n[=ó]t, 407 Geryon (je´r[)i]-[)o]n), son of Chrysaor and Callirrhoë, 219 Giallar ([=g][)i]äl´lär), 395 Giants, Greek ([.G][=i]-gan´t[=e][s+]), 2, 5; war of, 7, 8, 159; interpretation of, 440; _C. 8_ Giants, Norse, 373, 376, 412 Gibichungs ([=g][=e]'biG-[)oo]ng[s+]), 426-429 Ginnungagap ([=g]in´n[=oo]n-gä-gäp´), 373 Giselher ([=g][=e]'zel-h[)e]r), 407 Giuki ([=g][)i][=u]'k[=e]), 403 Gladsheim (gläts´h[=a]m or gläts´h[=i]m), 374 Glau´ç[=e] (or Cre-[=u]´sa), 235; _C. 163-167_ (Interpret.) Glau´cus, formerly a fisherman of B[oe]otia, afterward a sea-god, 58, 204; _C. 142_. Sometimes confused in mythology with the following: Glau´cus of Corinth, son of Sisyphus and father of Bellerophon, 200, 201, 214 Glau´cus, grandson of Bellerophon, in the Trojan War, 280, 290 Gleipnir (gl[=a]p´n[=e]r), 378 Glis´ten-heath, 401 Glyptothek (glip-to-t[=a]k´) at Munich, of King Louis I of Bavaria; one of the finest collections of ancient statuary in the world Gnossus (nos´us), Cnosus, Cnossus, the ancient capital of Crete; home of Minos, 256 Gods, the Egyptian. See _Egyptian divinities_ Gods, the great, of Greece, origin of, 4, 8; home of, 18; enumerated, 19; number of, discussed by Gladstone, _C. 23_; attributes of gods of Olympus, 19-41; lesser divinities of Olympus, 35-41; Greek gods of the earth, 42-46; Greek gods of the underworld, 47-54; Greek gods of the waters, 55-58; gods common to Greece and Italy, 59; distinctively Roman, 59-63; derived from the Etruscans, 63; myths of the great Greek divinities of heaven, 64-151; of earth, 152-158; of earth and underworld, 159-168; of waters, 169-171; of lesser divinities of heaven, 172-180; of lesser divinities of earth and underworld, 181-197; of lesser divinities of waters, 198-205; _C. 22, 23_ Gods, the Hindu. See _Hindu divinities_ Gods, the Norse, 373-397 Golden Age, the, 10, 11, 59, 366; _C. 10-15_ Golden Ass, the, 457 Golden Fleece, quest of, 206, 229-233, 455; _C. 163-167_ Gol´[.g][=i], a city of Cyprus, beloved by Venus, 253 Gor´d[)i]-an Knot (Gor´d[)i]-us), _C. 113_ Gor´gons (Sthe´no, Eu-ry´[.a]-l[=e], Me-d[=u]´sa), described, 57; _C. 149-154_. See _Medusa_ Goth´land, Goths, 398, 399 Graces, Gratiæ (gra´sh[)i]-[=e]), [-C]h[)a]r´[)i]-t[=e][s+], 30, 31, 40, 69, 181; attributes of, and names, 36; lines by Spenser on the Graces, 36, 37; _C. 38_ (3) Græ´æ, Gray-women (Di´no, Pe-phre´do, E-ny´o), described, 57; and Perseus, 209; _C. 149-154_ Gräm, 401, 404, 405 Grä´n[~e], 426 Greek, Greeks, 2, 442, 447, 448; myths of creation, 3; view of nature, 181, 435, 443. See also _Gods_, _Heroes_, _Myths_ Grey´fell, 401, 403, 405 Grimhild (gr[)i]m´h[)i]lt), 403 Grim-hil´d[~e], 427 Gudrun (g[=oo]d´r[=oo]n or g[=oo]-dr[=oo]n´), 403-405. See _Gutrune_ Gullinbursti (g[=oo]l-in-b[=oo]r´st[=e]), 393 Gulltop (g[=oo]l´top), 393 Gunnar (g[=oo]n´när), 403-405. See _Gunther_ Gunther (g[)oo]n´t[~e]r), 405-409; in Wagner's Ring, 426-429; _C. 282-283_ Gutrune (g[)oo]-tr[=oo]'n[~e]), in Wagner's Ring, 426-429 Guttorm (g[=oo]t´tôrm), 403, 404 [.G]y´[=e][s+] or [.G]y´[.g][=e][s+], Çen-tim´[.a]-nus, _C. 4_ [.G]y´[.g][=e][s+], first King of Lydia; famous for his riches Gyoll ([=g][)i][[='o]]l), 391 Ha´d[=e][s+], _C. 44-46, 47, 49_. See _Pluto_ Ha´d[=e][s+], realm of, 35, 47; _C. 44-46_. See _Underworld_ Hæ´m[)o]n, 267; _C. 182-189_, table N Hæ-mo´n[)i]-a, 177 Hæ´mus, Mount, 96; _C. 76_ Hä´[=g]en, 405, 408, 409; in Wagner's Ring, 419, 426-430 Hal-çy´o-n[=e], 172; and Ceyx, myth of, 175-177; _C. 125_ Ham-[.a]-dry´ads, 186; myths of, 191-195 Happy Isles, the, 345 Har-mo´n[)i]-a, 24, 71, 153; and Cadmus, 89, 90; necklace of, 89, 265, 268; _C. 70_ Har´pies, Harpyiæ (har´p[)i]-y[=e] or har-p[=i]'y[=e]), described, 56, 57, 348, 362; _C. 50-52_ and table C Har-poc´r[.a]-t[=e][s+]. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Hä´th[)o]r, Ä´th[)o]r. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Heaven, abode of Greek Gods, 4, 5, 6, 18; attributes of Greek gods of, 19-41; myths of greater Greek gods of, 64-151; of lesser Greek gods of, 172-180. See _Olympus_ Heaven, personified, 3. See _Uranus_ He´b[=e], 18, 86, 234; daughter of Juno, 19, 22; attributes of, wife of Hercules, 36, 227; _C. 38_ (2) He´brus, 168; _C. 118_ Hec´[.a]-b[=e]. See _Hecuba_ Hec´[.a]-t[=e], described, 54, 232, 233, 234, 354; _C. 49_ Hec-[.a]-ton-[-c]hi´r[=e][s+], 4, 6; _C. 4_ Hec´tor, 275, 276, 280-306, 313; _C. 190-194_ (5), _207_ Hec´[=u]-ba, 280, 291, 292, 301-305, 312, 313; _C. 190-194_ (5), _216_ Heidrun (h[=a]d´r[=oo]n or h[=a]-dr[=oo]n´), 376 Heimdall (h[=a]m´däl or h[=i]m´däl), 377, 389, 393, 395 H[)e]l, 389, 391, 395 H[)e]l´a, 377, 387, 389-392, 395, 397 Helen, Hel´[='e]-na, 237, 242, 243, 259, 275-279, 287-289, 291, 301, 313, 314; _C. 190-194_ (3), _195_ Hel´[)e]-nus, 313, 349, 350, 451; _C. 190-194_ (5) Helgi (hel´[=g][=e]) the Hunding's Bane, 460 He-li´[.a]-d[=e][s+], 98; _C. 76_ Hel´[)i]-c[)o]n, Mount, 96, 453; _C. 76_ He´l[)i]-[)o]s, confounded with Apollo, 27, 39; family of, 39; the sun, 43; contest with Neptune, 169; cattle of, 330; _C. 4, 38_ (10), _75_ Hel´l[=e], 229; _C. 163-167_ Hel´len, ancestor of the Hellenes, 16; sons of, 214, 229; _C. 148_ (5), table I Hel´l[)e]s-pont, 142, 229, 272; _C. 104_ Hem´[~e]r-a, Day, sister of Æther and daughter of Erebus and Night, 4 Hephæstus (he-f[)e]s´tus), _C. 29_. See _Vulcan_ H[)e]r´[.a]-cl[=e][s+]. See _Hercules_ H[~e]r´c[~u]-l[=e][s+], H[)e]r´[.a]-cl[=e][s+], 7, 17, 20, 206, 230, 237; frees Prometheus, 12; passage from G. C. Lodge's Herakles, 12; son of Alemene, 64, 107; saves Alcestis from death, 107-110; passages from Browning's Balaustion's Adventure, 107-110; visits Tartarus, 168, 259; rescues Hesione, 170; contest with Acheloüs, 203, 204; myth of, 215-228; choice of, 216; youth and labors, 216-221; later exploits, 221-225; loss of Hylas, 222, 223; rescue of Daphnis, 223-225; expedition against Laomedon, 225; death, 225-228, 455; the Cretan bull, 246; constellation of, 258; arrows of, 309; interpretations of, 432, 437, 440; _C. 10-15, 156-162_ H[~e]r´m[=e][s+], _C. 36, 109_. See _Mercury_ H[~e]r-mi´o-n[=e], daughter of Menelaüs and Helen, 276, 314, 349; corruption of Harmonia, _C. 70_ (Illustr.) H[)e]r´mod, 389-397 _passim_ He´ro and Le-an´der, story of, 141-145; extracts from Marlowe's Hero and Leander, 142-144; Keats' sonnet, On a Picture of Leander, 145; _C. 104_ He-rod´o-tus, 455; reference to, 268, 452 Heroes, the older Greek, 16, 17; myths of, 206-264; the younger Greek, myths of, 265 _et seq._; the Norse and the old German, 398-409 H[~e]r´s[=e], sister of Aglauros and Pandrosos, personifications of the dew, daughters of Cecrops, _C. 123-124, 174_ He´s[)i]-[)o]d (He-si´o-dus), cited, 4, 10, 16, 26, 31, 38, 51, 246, and footnotes _passim_; account of, and of his Works and Days, and Theogony, 453; translation by Thomas Cooke in Vol. II of English Translations from Ancient and Modern Poems, 3 vols., London, 1810; see also _C. 5, 298_ He-si´o-n[=e], 169, 170, 225, 276, 280; _C. 190-194_ (5) Hes´p[~e]r, Hes´p[~e]r-us, 31, 40, 41, 160, 272; _C. 38_ (11) Hes-pe´r[)i]-a, 348 Hes-p[)e]r´[)i]-d[=e]s, Hes´p[~e]r-ids, the sisters, the garden of, 40, 41, 57, 211, 219, 220; quotation from Milton's Comus, 40; from Tennyson's Hesperides, 40, 41; _C. 49_ and table B, _149-154, 156-162_ Hes´p[~e]r-is, 57 Hes´p[~e]r-us. See _Hesper_ Hes´t[)i]-a. See _Vesta_ Hieroglyphs, the, 462 Hil-[.a]-i´ra. (1) Daughter of Apollo. (2) Sister of Ph[oe]be, daughter of Leucippus; carried off with her sister by Castor and Pollux. (3) The _cheerful_, the moon Hil´de-brand, 409 Him´[~e]r-[)o]s, personification of the longing of love, companion of Eros, 36 H[)i]nd´fell, 401, 403 Hindu divinities: arranged logically as (1) Vedic, (2) Brahmanic. For Buddhism see _Buddha_ (1) Vedic: the Aryan, and earliest form of Hindu religion; dealing primarily with elemental powers that, in time, acquired spiritual signification _Vedas_: the Sanskrit scriptures; from root, to know, to be wise; see p. 462. _Devas_: the shining ones, the gods (Gk. _theos_, Lat. _deus_) _Dyaus_: the shining sky, the elemental overruling spirit of the primitive Aryans (Gk. _Zeus_, Lat. _Jovis_) _Prithivi_: goddess Earth, spouse of Dyaus _Indra_: son of Dyaus and Prithivi; the atmospheric region; chief of the gods, and strongest; wielder of the thunderbolt, lord of the plains, bull of the heavens, conqueror of the malignant, thirsty Vritra, gatherer of clouds, dispenser of rain; adored in heaven and on earth _Varuna_: god of the vault of heaven (root _var_, to cover; Gk. _Ouranos_, Lat. _Uranus_); the all-seeing, the pardoner, merciful even to the guilty _Ushas_: the dawn, mother of mornings, brilliant of raiment, golden-colored, spreading far and wide, everywhere awakening men, preparing the pathway of the sun, and leading his white steed (Gk. _Eos_) _Surya_: the god who dwells in the sun (Gk. _Helios_) _Savitar_: the golden-handed sun in his daily course; the shining wanderer, comforter of men _Soma_: a deification of the spirituous "extract" of the moon-plant; giver of strength to gods and men, and of radiant light and joyous immortality _Vayu_: god of the wind _Maruts_: deities of the storm _Agni_: the youngest and one of the most important of the Vedic gods; lord of fire, born of two pieces of wood rubbed together; youngest of the deities, giver of prosperity to men, their guardian and companion, passing between heaven and earth "like a messenger between two hamlets" (Lat. _ignis_; _cf._ Gk. _Hephæstus_) _Vach_: goddess of speech, teacher of spiritual worship, promoter of wisdom and holiness _Vritra_: the monstrous snake, drinker of rain-clouds, dark, evil, and malicious, overcome by Indra (_cf._ Apollo and the Python) _Rakshasas_: powers of darkness, combated by Indra _Yama_, and his sister _Yami_: the first man and woman; leaving this life they prepared for those that should follow them blissful abodes in the other world, of which they are king and queen (2) Brahmanic: a philosophical outgrowth of the Vedic religion, which, on the one hand, was refined into logical subtleties, intelligible only to the learned; on the other hand, crystallized into symbols, rites, and unending conventionalities _Trimurti_: the Brahmanic Trinity, consisting of the following three persons: _Brahma_: in the Rig-Veda, a word for devotion, prayer; later, for the supreme principle of the universe, its source, its essence, and its sustenance. Brahma is the _creative energy_ of the godhead, calm, passionless, remote from man and the world. He is four-headed and four-handed. _Vishnu_: originally a benevolent Vedic deity, with certain attributes of the sun; adopted by a sect as its special god, and then annexed by the Brahmans as a manifestation of the supreme being in his work of _preservation_. He has nine times assumed human form, each incarnation having for its purpose the redemption of mankind from oppression or error. These incarnations are his _Avatars_. His ninth _Avatar_, say some, was as Buddha; in his tenth he will end this world, and reproduce Brahma, who will create things anew. _Siva_: originally a bloodthirsty deity, not of the Vedic, but of some aboriginal Hindu religion; absorbed in the Brahmanic godhead as the manifestation of _destructive power_. He is adorned with a necklace of skulls and earrings of serpents. _Sarasvati_: goddess of speech (see _Vach_); spouse of Brahma _Sri_, or _Lakshmi_: goddess of beauty; spouse of Vishnu _Uma_, or _Parvati_ (Kali, Durga): the inaccessible, the terrible; spouse of Siva _Gandharvas_: genii of music (_cf._ Centaurs); retainers of Indra _Lokapalas_: generic name for the Vedic deities when degraded by Brahmanism to the position of tutelary spirits Hiordis (h[=é]-ôr´dis), 400 Hip-po-cre´n[=e] (anglicized in poetry as Hip´po-cr[=e]ne, three syllables), _C. 155_ Hip-po-d[.a]-mi´a, daughter of Atrax, 259 Hip-po-d[.a]-mi´a, daughter of [OE]nomaüs, 170, 171, 275; _C. 121_ Hip-pol´y-ta and Hercules, 219; _C. 176-181_ (Textual) Hip-pol´y-tus, 150, 259, 260; _C. 174_, table M; _176-181_ (Illustr.) Hip-p[)o]m´e-d[)o]n, 265 Hip-pom´e-n[=e][s+] (or Mi-lan´[)i]-[)o]n), 139-141, 230; _C. 103_ Hip-pot´[.a]-d[=e][s+], primarily Æolus II, son of Hippotes, but in poetry generally Æolus III, king of the winds, _C. 38_ (9), _125_ Historians of mythology, in Greece, 455; in Norway, 458-460. See _Myth, Preservation of_ Höder (h[~e]'d[~e]r), 376, 387-389, 397; _C. 268-281_ H[oe]nir (h[~e]'n[=e]r), 400 Hogni (h[=ó]g´n[=e]), 403-405; _C. 282-283_. See _Hagen_ Ho´mer (Ho-me´rus), cited, 3, 4, 18, 21, 23, 25, 31, 35, 47, 51, 75, 84-87, 91, 99, 104, 110, 115, 123, 150, 169, 180, 202, 214, 215, 246, and footnotes _passim_; story of Iliad and Odyssey, 283-345; relation to myth, 433; account of, 451, 452; _C. 5, 23, 195, 298_ Ho-m[)e]r´ic Hymns, 150, 177, 452 Ho-m[)e]r´[)i]-dæ, "sons of Homer," lived in Chios, and claimed to be descended from Homer. They were hereditary epic poets; _C. 298_ Horace (Ho-ra´tius), 2, 457; references to his poems, 77, 177, 207, 214; note on, and translations, _C. 299_ Ho´ræ. See _Hours_ Ho´rus, son of Osiris. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Hours, or Seasons, the, 18, 22, 28, 31, 38, 40, 94, 95, 178, 179, 181; _C. 38_ (5) Hrim-thursar (r[=e]m´th[~e]r-sär), 376 Hringham (r[=e]ng´h[.a]m), 392 Hugi (h[=oo]'[=g][=e]), 383, 385 Hugin (h[=oo]'[=g][=é]n), 374 Hunding (h[)oo]n´ding), 400, 401; in Wagner's Ring, 416-420 Hun´land, Huns, 398, 404, 409; _C. 282-283_ Huns, the, 398 Hy-[.a]-çin´th[)i]-a, _C. 30, 75_ Hy-[.a]-çin´thus, 93, 94, 103; _C. 75_ Hy´[.a]-d[=e][s+], the, daughters of Atlas, 57, 152, 344; _C. 110-112_ Hy´[.a]-l[=e], 121 Hy´dra, 51, 354, 357; the Lernæan, 217; _C. 156-162_ (Interpret.) Hy-[.g]e´a, Hy-[.g]i´a, daughter of Æsculapius; the goddess of health Hyginus (h[)i]-ji´nus), references to, 75, 123, 160, 170, 208, 215, 241, 243, 246, 249, 265, 269; _C. 299_ Hy´l[.a]s, the loss of, 222, 223; _C. 156-162_ (Illustr.) Hy´men (Hy-m[)e]-næ´us), 36, 165; _C. 38_ (1) Hy-p[~e]r-bo´re-ans (Hy-p[~e]r-bo´re-i), 26, 42, 92; Thomas Moore's Song of a Hyperborean, 43; _C. 39, 74_ Hy-pe´r[)i]-[)o]n or Hy-p[~e]r-[=i]'[)o]n, 4; _C. 4_ Hy-p[~e]r-mnes´tra, 207; _C. 149-154_ Hypnos (hip´n[)o]s). See _Sleep_ I-ac´[-c]hus, _C. 114-117_. See _Bacchus_ I-ap´e-tus, 4, 5, 6, 8; _C. 4_; descendants of, _148_ (5), table I Iasius (i-a´sh[)i]-us), 237 Ib´y-cus, 196, 197, 453; _C. 140_ I-ca´r[)i]-us, 279, 338; _C. 190-194_ (3) Ic´[.a]-rus, 222, 246, 247; _C. 173_ Iç´e-lus, a producer of dreams, son of Somnus, _C. 125_ I´da, Mount, 96, 110, 278; _C. 76_ I´da, the nymph, 5 I´da, the plain, 397 I-dæ´us, 305 I-da´l[)i]-um, a mountain and city of Cyprus, dear to Venus, 253 I´d[)a]s, 115, 116, 243 Idomeneus (i-dom´e-n[=u]s), 286, 288 Iduna (e-d[=oo]n´a), 376 Il´[~i]-[.a]d, narrative of, 283-306; a kind of myth, 433, 448; history of, 452, 453, 463; illustrative of, _C. 195_; translations, _298_; cited, see footnotes _passim_, and _Cowper_, _Derby_, _Gladstone_, _Lang_, _Pope_, in Index of Authors Il´[)i]-[.a]d, the Little, 453 Il´[)i]-[)o]n, Il´[)i]-um, 179. See _Troy_ Ilioneus ([)i]-li´o-n[=u]s), 100 Ilithyia (il-[)i]-thi´ya). See _Eileithyia_ Il-[)i]-[=u]-p[~e]r´sis, the, 453 I´lus, son of Dardanus, died without issue I´lus, son of Tros, _C. 190-194_ (5) In´[.a]-[-c]hus, son of Oceanus, ancestor of the Argive and Pelasgic races, 17, 206; father of Io, 65, 207; ancestor of Minos, 246; Theban descendants of, 261; _C. 57_ and table D, _148_ (1) India, 153, 447, 448; records of myths of, 462, 463; epics, 153, 462, 463; studies and translations of literature of, _C. 303_ Indians, red, mental state of, 441; myths of, 448 Indo-Europeans, 448 In´dra, _C. 109_. See _Hindu divinities_ (1) I´no, 89, 156, 202, 229, 261; _C. 144_ I´o, 64, 94, 207; myth of, 65-67; Ionian Sea, 67; interpretation of myth, 439; genealogy, etc., _C. 57, 149-154_ I-ob´[.a]-t[=e][s+], 214, 215 I-o-la´us, 217, 221 I-ol´c[)o]s or I-ol´cus, 230; _C. 163-167_ I´o-l[=e], daughter of Eurytus, who refused to give her to Hercules, although the hero had fairly won her by his success in archery. Eurytus assigned as the reason for his refusal the apprehension lest Hercules might a second time become insane, and in that condition destroy Iole in spite of his love for her. By some she is made the half-sister of Dryope, 192, 225, 432 I´on, _C. 174_ I-o´n[)i]-a, 175 I-o´n[)i]-an Sea, 67 I-o´n[)i]-ans, origin of, 16; _C. 148_ (2) Iph´[)i]-cl[=e][s+], 216, 221 Iph-[)i]-[.g]e-ni´a, 275, 276; in Aulis, 280, 281; in Tennyson's Dream of Fair Women, 281; among the Taurians, 316; _C. 190-194_ (2), _196, 228-230_ (In Art) Iph-[)i]-me-di´a, 93 I´phis, 195 Iph´[)i]-tus, 221 I´ris, 40, 41, 176, 287, 296, 304, 367; _C. 38_ (12) Iron Age, the, 15 I´sis. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Islands of the Blest, 51, 52. See _Elysium_ Isles, the Fortunate, 52. See _Elysium_ Is´m[.a]-rus, 318 Is-me´n[=e], 263; _C. 182-189_ Is-me´nos, son of Niobe, 100 Is´tär, _C. 34_. See _Venus_ Isthmian Games, 202; _C. 176-181_ (Textual) Italian gods, 59-63 Italy, 260, 348, 352, 360 Ith´[.a]-ca, 278, 279, 318, 337, 338, 448, 452 It´y-lus. See _Itys_ I´tys (i´tis), 249 I-[=u]'lus, As-ca´n[)i]-us, 362, 363, 369, 372 Ix-i´[)o]n, 166, 167, 358; _C. 118, 255-257_ Ja´na, 61 J[.a]-ni[-c]'[=u]-lum, 366 Ja´nus, 60, 61, 363, 366; _C. 54_ Jarnvid (yärn´v[=e]d), 392 Ja´sius, Ja´sus, I-a´sius, I-a´sus, father of Atalanta the Arcadian. See _Iasius_ Ja´son, 206; myth of, 230-235; quest of the golden fleece, 230-233, 455; _C. 163-167_ Jo-cas´ta, 262, 263; _C. 182-189_, table N Jonah and Arion, 440 Jonakr (yôn´[.a]-k[~e]r), 405 Jormunrek (yôr´m[)oo]n-rek), 405 Jotham, 1. See _Judges_ 9, 7 Jötunheim (y[~e]'t[)oo]n-h[=a]m or y[~e]'t[)oo]n-h[=i]m), 374, 379, 380, 394 J[=u]'b[.a]l, 440 Ju´no (He´ra, He´r[=e]), 5, 7, 19; meaning of her names, 22; attributes of, her descent and marriage, 22; favorite cities and animals, 22; among the Romans, 59; Lucina, 61; protectress of women in Rome, 62; myths of Juno and Jupiter, 64-81; J. and Latona, 64; Io, 65-67; Callisto, 67, 68; Semele, 71; Ægina, 73; the sons of Cydippe, 80, 81; Vulcan, 90, 91; Bacchus, 152; Neptune, 169; Halcyone and Iris, 176; Echo, 188; Hercules, 216, 219, 227; Paris, 278; in Trojan War, 284, 285, 289, 295-298; Æneas, 350, 363-367, 372; _C. 26_ Ju´p[)i]-ter (Zeus), 5; war with Titans, 5, 6; sovereign of the world, 6; reign of, 6-8; creation of woman, 11; sends a flood to destroy men, 15; his abode, 18; his family, 19; signification of names, 19, _C. 24_; attributes, 19-21; his oracles, 19, 20; explanation of his love affairs, 20; other children of, 20; Greek conceptions of, 21; in art, statue of Olympian Jove by Phidias, 21; J. and Juno, 22; and Minerva, 23; and Metis, _C. 55_; and Vulcan, 25; and Latona, 26, 29, 64; and Dione, 31; and Maia, 34; and Vesta, 35; and Ganymede, 36; and Eurynome, 36; and Mnemosyne, 37; and Themis, 38; and Æsculapius, 38; and Semele, 44, 64, 71-73, 288; among the Romans, 59; myths of, 64-80; Danaë, 64, 208; Alcmene, 64, 215; Leda, 64, 242, 275; Io, 64-67; Callisto, 64, 67, 68, 241; Europa, 64, 68-71, 246; Ægina, 64, 73-75; Antiope, 64, 75-77; Baucis and Philemon, 77-80; treatment of Mars, 85, 86; the Aloadæ, 93; Phaëthon, 98; Æsculapius, 104; the Pleiads, 123; Cupid and Psyche, 136; Bacchus, 152; Ceres, 162; Neptune, 169; Ceyx and Halcyone, 177; Tithonus, 177, 180; the Cercopes, 222; Hercules, 227; Castor and Pollux, 243; Amphiaraüs, 265; Capaneus, 266; Peleus and Thetis, 269; in Trojan War, 278, 285-305, 312; Ulysses, 331; Æneas, 351, 356, 372; Salmoneus, 357; interpretations of, 434, 437; _C. 5, 10-15, 24-25, 55, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61_ Ju-tur´na, 62, 245 Ju-ven´t[)a]s. See _Hebe_ Ju-ven´tus, 63 Kali (kä´l[=e]). See Uma under _Hindu divinities_ (2) Kär´ma: in Buddhism, the sum of a man's deeds, good and evil, which determines the nature of his future existence. See _Buddha_ and _Metempsychosis_ Khem (k[)e]m). See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) Khuns (k[=oo]nz). See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) Kle´is, _C. 107_ Ko´ra, Ko´r[=e] (Proserpina), 107; _C. 83_ Kriemhild (kr[=e]m´h[)i]lt), The Revenge of, 405-409, 461 Kro´n[)o]s. See _Cronus_ Lab´d[.a]-cus, house of, 206, 207, 261-264; _C. 57_, table D; _148_ (1); _182-189_, table N Lab´y-rinth, the, of Crete, 246, 253; _C. 172_ L[)a]ç-e-dæ´m[)o]n. See _Sparta_ La[-c]h´e-sis, a Fate, 38 L[.a]-co´n[)i]-a, 51, 110 La´d[)o]n, the serpent that guarded the apples of the Hesperides; slain by Hercules La-[=e]r´t[=e][s+], 278, 339; genealogy, _C. 190-194_ (4) Læstrygonians (les-tr[)i]-go´n[)i]-[.a]n[s+]), the, 170, 324 La´[)i]-us, 261, 262; _C. 182-189_, table N Lakshmi (l[)a]ksh´m[=e]). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Lamb's month, _C. 79_ Lampetia (lam-pe´sh[)i]-a), 330 Language, disease of, 437, 438, 446 La-oc´o-[)o]n, 311, 312; _C. 224_ La-od-[.a]-mi´a, daughter of Bellerophon, 298 La-od-[.a]-[=m]i´a, wife of Protesilaüs, 282; lines from Wordsworth, 282, 283; _C. 83_ La-om´e-d[)o]n, 110, 169, 170, 177, 276, 280; expedition against, 206, 225; _C. 84, 190-194_ (5) Lap-[)i]-thæ, 259 La´r[=e][s+], distinguished from Penates, Manes, Larvæ, etc., 62 L[.a]-ris´sa, 108, 214; _C. 83_ Lär´væ, 62 L[.a]-ti´nus, 362 Lat´m[)o]s, Mount, 124; _C. 98_ L[.a]-to´na, Le´t[=o], children of, 19; and Delos, 29; and Jupiter, 64; wanderings of, 91, 92; and Niobe, 99-103; heals Æneas, 290; _C. 32, 72-73_ Lau´sus, 364, 370, 371 L[.a]-vin´[)i]-a, 362, 372 Le-an´der, 141-145; _C. 104_. See _Hero_ Leb-[.a]-de´a, _C. 30_ Le-byn´thos, 247 Le´da, 64, 237, 242, 259, 275; myth of, represented by Arachne, 84; _C. 168_, table K; _170-171, 190-194_ (3). See _Castor_ and _Pollux_ Le´laps, 175 Lem´n[)o]s, 25, 122, 231, 309; _C. 96, 107, 163-167_ Lem´[=u]-r[=e][s+], 62 Le-næ´a, _C. 42, 110-112_ L[~e]r-næ´an Hy´dra, 217 Le[s+]'b[)o]s, 149; _C. 107_ Lesser divinities of heaven among the Greeks, 35-41 Le´th[=e], 51, 176, 359, 360; _C. 44-46_ Le´t[=o], _C. 30, 32_. See _Latona_ Leucadia (l[=u]-ca´d[)i]-a), 454; _C. 107_ Leucippus (l[=u]-sip´us), 243 Leucothea (l[=u]-coth´e-a), a sea-divinity, 58, 202, 205, 331; _C. 144_ Li´ber, 59. See _Bacchus_ Lib´[~e]r-a, 59. See _Proserpina_ Li-beth´ra, 168; _C. 118_ Lib-[)i]-ti´na, _C. 48_ Lib´y-a, 97, 219; _C. 76_ Li´[-c]h[.a]s, 226 Lidskialf (lids´k[=é]-älf), 388, 389 Li-[.g]e´a, 205; _C. 146-147_ Light, 3, 4 Li´nus, 216, 451; lamentation for, 103, 104; _C. 75, 79_ Lit-y-[~e]r´s[=e][s+], 222, 223-225 Log, King, referred to, 1 Lo´[=g][~e], 412-414, 421. See _Loki_ Logi (lo´[=g][=e]), 382, 385 Lo-k[.a]-pä´lá[s+]. See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Loki (lo´k[=e]), Lo´[=g][~e], 377-397 _passim_, 400, 412 Lo´tis, 192 Lo´t[)o]s, lotos-eaters, 318, 319; extract from Tennyson's poem, 319, 320 Love, 3, 4 Lucian (l[=u]´sh[.a]n), 455, 457 _n_ L[=u]'ç[)i]-fer. See _Phosphor_ L[=u]'çi´na, 61; _C. 26_ L[=u]'na, 63. See _Diana_ and _Selene_ Ly-æ´us, _C. 42_ Ly-ca´[)o]n, 300 Lycia (lish´[)i]-a), 214, 298; _C. 155_ Lycians (lish´[)i]-[.a]n[s+]), 71 Lycidas (lis´[)i]-d[.a]s), a goatherd of pastoral poetry. See _Theocritus, Idyl 7_; _Virgil, Bucolics 9_; _Milton's Elegy on Edward King_, etc. Lycius (lish´[)i]-us), Apollo, _C. 30_ Lycomedes (lik-o-me´d[=e][s+]), 260, 279 Ly´co-phr[)o]n, _C. 298_ Ly-cur´gus, a king of the Edones, who, like Pentheus, resisted the worship of Bacchus Ly´cus, 75; _C. 62_ Ly´d[=e], 189 Lynceus (lin´s[=u]s), 207, 243 Lyngi (lin´[=g][=e]), 400 Lyric poets, Greek, 453, 454; translations of, _C. 298_; Roman, 457 Lytyerses (lit-[)i]-[~e]r´s[=e][s+]). See _Lityerses_ M[.a]-[-c]ha´[)o]n, 296, 297, 309 M[.a]-cro´b[)i]-us, referred to, 60 Mæ-an´der, 97, 222, 246; _C. 76, 172_ Mænades (men´[.a]-d[=e][s+]), Mænads (me´-nads), 44, 45, 75, 254; _C. 62, 110-112_ Mænalus (men´[.a]-lus), a range of mountains in Arcadia, sacred to Pan, 112 Mæ-o´n[)i]-a, 154; _C. 110-112_ Mæ-[=o]n´[)i]-d[=e][s+]: a native of Mæonia; Homer Mag´na Ma´ter, 59 Mahâbhârata (m[.a]-hä-bä´r[.a]-t[.a]), 462; translation, _C. 303_ Maia (ma´y[.a]), mother of Mercury (Hermes), 19, 34, 150; _C. 109_ Maia (ma´y[.a]), Ma´ja, or Ma-jes´ta: a name for Fauna, or for the daughter of Faunus and wife of the Roman Vulcan. In either case, called Bona Dea Man, origin of, Greek, 8, 9 Ma´n[=e][s+], 62 M[.a]-nil´[)i]-us, _C. 299_ Man´t[=u]-a, 456 M[)a]r´[.a]-th[)o]n, 258 M[)a]r-[.a]-tho´n[)i]-[.a]n Bull, 252; _C. 176-181_ (Interpret.) Ma´ro. See _Virgil_ Mär-pes´sa, 115, 116 Mars (A´r[=e][s+]), one of the great gods, 19; meaning of names, 23; attributes, 23, 24; his retinue, his mistress, his favorite abode and animals, 24; among the Romans, 59; father of Harmonia, 71, 89; myths of, 84-90; and Diomede, 84-86, 290; and Minerva, 86, 87; and Cadmus, 87-90, 261; and Vulcan, 91; father of [OE]nomaüs, 170; M. and Atalanta, 265; in Trojan War, 285, 287, 290; _C. 28_ Marsyas (mär´s[)i]-[)a]s), 112, 138, 451; _C. 87, 113_ Maruts (mur´[)oo]ts). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Mass, 4 Mä-t. See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) Ma´ter Ma-t[=u]'ta, the goddess of the dawn, Aurora; among the Romans the name was applied also to Ino (Leucothea), 63 Ma´ter Tur´r[)i]-ta: Cybele, or Cybebe, with the mural crown, as protectress of walled cities Mat-ro-na´l[)i]-a, _C. 26_ Me-co´n[=e]. See _Sicyon_ Me-de´a, myth of, 232-236, 242, 243, 252, 455; _C. 163-167_; genealogy, _172_, table L Medici (med´[=é]-ch[=e]), the Venus of, 32, 33; _C. 35_ Me-d[=u]´sa, myth of, 208-211; extract from William Morris' Doom of King Acrisius, 209, 210; from Shelley's Medusa of Da Vinci, 210; _C. 149-154_ Me-[.g]æ´ra, 54 Meg-[.a]-len´sian Games, _C. 41_ Meg´[.a]-ra, 201, 202, 246 Meg´[.a]-ra, wife of Hercules, 216, 220 Me-lam´pus, 450 Mel-e-a´[.g]er or Me-le´[.a]-[.g]er, 206, 225, 231, 242, 265, 275; myth of, 237-241; as the sun, 432; _C. 168_ Mel-e-si[.g]'e-n[=e][s+], _C. 298_ Melib[oe]us (mel-[)i]-be´us), a herdsman of pastoral poetry. See _Virgil, Bucolics 1_ Mel´ic Nymphs, 5 Mel-[)i]-ç[~e]r´t[=e][s+], a sea-god, 58, 202, 261; _C. 70_ Melisseus (me-lis´[=u]s), _C. 146-147_ Me´l[)o]s, the Venus of, 32; _C. 35_ Mel-pom´e-n[=e], the muse of tragedy, 37; _C. 38_ (4) Mem´n[)o]n, myth of, extract from Darwin's Botanic Garden, 179, 180, _C. 128_; family connections, 276, _C. 190-194_ (5); at Troy, 307 Mem´phis, a city in middle Egypt, _C. 30_ Me-nal´c[.a]s, a herdsman of pastoral poetry Men-e-la´us, 275, 278-299, 313, 314; _C. 190-194_ (2), _195, 196_ Me-ne´n[)i]-us, 2 Men[oe]ceus (me-ne´s[=u]s), 266; _C. 182-189_, table N Men[oe]tius (me-ne´sh[)i]-us), son of Actor and father of Patroclus; an Argonaut; _C. 190-194_ (4) Men´tor, _C. 231-244_ Mentu (men´t[=oo]). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Mer´c[=u]-ry, Mer-c[=u]'r[)i]-us (Herm´es), son of Maia, 19; meaning of name, 34; attributes, 34, 35; conductor of ghosts, 35, 47; among the Romans, 59; Argus and Io, 66, 67; his story of Pan and Syrinx, 66, 67; with Philemon and Baucis, 77; and Psyche, 136; myths of, Homeric Hymn to, 150, 151; aids Perseus, 209; aids Hercules, 220; father of Daphnis, 223, 224; M. and Nephele, 229; and Priam, 305; and Ulysses, 325, 331; and Æneas, 351; interpretations of, 432, 440; _C. 36, 109_ M[)e]r´o-p[=e], of Arcadia, 241; _C. 169_ M[)e]r´o-p[=e], daughter of [OE]nopion, 122 M[)e]r´o-p[=e], the Pleiad, 124; _C. 97, 155_, table Mes-se´n[=e], 115, 243 Mes-se´n[)i]-a, 241; _C. 80_ Met´[.a]-bus, 364 Met-[.a]-môr´pho-s[=e][s+], Ovid's, 456, 457 Me-temp-sy-[-c]ho´sis, 360; _C. 255-257_ Me´tis, _C. 55_ Mezentius (me-zen´sh[)i]-us), 364, 367, 370, 371 Mi´d[.a]s, with Apollo and Pan, 110, 111; with Bacchus and Pan, 152, 157, 158; the choice of, 157; _C. 85-87, 113_ Mid´gärd, 373, 374, 378, 389, 392, 394 Mid´gärd serpent, 377, 386, 387, 395 Mi-lan´[)i]-[)o]n (or Hip-pom´e-n[=e][s+]), _C. 103_ Mi´lo. See _Melos_ Mi´m[.a]s, _C. 8_ Mime (m[=e]'m[~e]), in the Rhine-gold, 414, 421-424; in the Volsunga Saga, see _Regin_ Mimir (m[=e]'m[=e]r), 374 M[)i]-n[~e]r´va ([.A]-the´na, [.A]-the´n[=e]), 7; quotation from Odyssey, 18; daughter of Jupiter, 19; attributes, 23; meaning of her names, 23; her _ægis_, 23; favorite cities and animals, 23; among the Romans, 59; myths of, 81-84; contest with Neptune, 81, 82, 249; with Arachne, 82-84; quotation from Spenser's Muiopotmos, 83; contests with Mars, 84-86; helps Cadmus, 88, 89; inventor of the flute, 112; M. and Medusa, 208; Perseus, 209, 213; Bellerophon, 215; Hercules, 216, 220; Perdix, 248; Erichthonius, 249; Theseus, 256; Tiresias, 266; Paris, 278; in Trojan War, 284, 289, 290, 300, 302, 308-311; Orestes, 317; Ulysses, 332-340; _C. 10-15, 27_ M[)i]-no´id (M[)i]-no´is), Ariadne, daughter of Minos, 254 Mi´n[)o]s I, judge of the shades, 51, 53, 356; son of Europa, 71, 207; the house of, 206, 246-248; _C. 57_, table D, _148_ (1), _172_ Mi´n[)o]s II, 201; myths of, 242, 246, 247, 252, 259, 275 Minotaur (min´o-tôr), 246, 252, 256; _C. 172, 176-181_ Minyæ (min´[)i]-[=e]): descendants of Minyas, king of Thessaly; Argonauts Mist, 3 Mnemosyne (ne-mos´[)i]-n[=e]), 4; mother of the Muses, 37; _C. 4_ M[oe]ræ (me´r[=e]), Par´çæ. See _Fates_ M[oe]ragetes (me-r[)a]j´e-t[=e][+s]): name applied to Zeus as leader of the Fates Mo´ly, 319, 325 Mo´mus, _C. 49_, table B Mongolians, 448 Mop´sus, attendant of the Argonauts, 451 Mop´sus, an ideal singer of elegies. See _Virgil, Bucolics 5_ Morpheus (môr´f[=u]s), 177; _C. 125._ See _Somnus_ Môr[+s], Than´[.a]-t[)o]s, Death, 298 Mos´[-c]hus, Lang's translation of Idyl II, 68-70; of Idyl VI, 189; _C. 59, 298_ Mountain giants, 376, 378-386, 393 Mul´ç[)i]-b[~e]r, 59; _C. 29_ Munin (m[=oo]'n[='e]n), 374 Munychia (m[=u]-nik´[)i]-a), _C. 32_. See _Diana_ M[=u]-sæ´us, a mythical poet, 451 M[=u]-sæ´us, writer of Hero and Leander, 141; translation by Fawkes in English Translations from Ancient and Modern Poems, Vol. II; _C. 104, 298_ M[=u]-sa[.g]'e-t[=e][s+]: name of Apollo as leader of the Muses Muses (M[=u]´sæ), 18, 30; names and attributes, 37; _C. 38_ (4) Music, Lydian, Dorian, etc., _C. 59_ Muspelheim (m[=oo]s´pel-h[=a]m or m[=oo]s´-pel-h[=i]m), 373, 395 Mut (m[=oo]t), or Maut. See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) My-çe´næ:, 22, 216, 275, 280, 316 Myg-do´n[)i]-an flutes, 69; _C. 59_ Myrmidons (m[~e]r´m[)i]-d[)o]n[s+]), 75, 269, 297; _C. 61_ My´r[)o]n, a sculptor, _C. 64_ Myr´rha (m[)i]r´a), 126, 150 Myrtilus (m[~e]r´t[)i]-lus), 171 Mysia (mish´[)i]-a), 179, 222, 231; _C. 128, 156-162_ Mysteries of Eleusis, _C. 114-117_ Myth, stages of mythological philosophy, study of myth, see Introduction; definition of, 1; compared with fable, 1, 2; of existent races, 2; Greek myths of creation, 3-17; of great divinities of heaven, 64-151; of great divinities of earth, 152-158; of earth and underworld, 159-168; of waters, 169-171; of lesser divinities of heaven, 172-180; of lesser divinities of earth and underworld, 181-197; of lesser divinities of waters, 198-205; of the older heroes, 206-264; of the younger heroes, 265 _et seq._; of the Norse gods, 373-397; of Norse and Old German heroes, 398-409. Kinds of myth, 431; explanatory, 431; æsthetic, 432; æsthetic myth is _historic_ or _romantic_, 433; of unconscious growth, 433; divisions of inquiry, 433. Origin and Elements of myth, 433-446; the reasonable element, 434; part played by imagination, 434; and by belief, 435; the unreasonable element, 436; theories of, 436; theory of deterioration, 436-440; theory of progress, 440-446. Interpretation, methods of: _historical_ or Euhemeristic, 436; _philological_, 437; _allegorical_, 438; _theological_, 439; the mental state of savages, 440-442; senseless element, a survival, 442; anthropological method of study, _ætiological_ origin, 442; other germs than savage curiosity and credulity, 442; phases of myth-development, 443-445; physical, religious and moral import, 444; myth more than sham history, 446; general conclusion concerning elements of myth, 446. Distribution of myth, 447-449; theories of _accident_, _borrowing_, _origination in India_, _historical tradition_, 447; _Aryan germ_, _psychological basis_, 448; the state of the problem, 449. Preservation of myth, 450-463; in Greece, 450-455; in Italy, 456, 457; in Scandinavian lands, 457-460; in Germany, 460, 461; in the Orient, 462, 463. Interpretation and illustration of myths, see Commentary sections corresponding to those of the Text. Mythical musicians and poets, 451 Mythical prophets, 450, 451 Mythical tales of the Younger Edda, 459 Naiad (na´yad), the poem by R. Buchanan, 190, 191 Naiads (na´yads), Naiades (na´y[.a]-d[=e][s+]), 58, 98, 186, 189-191, 198, 204, 222, 224; _C. 50-52_ Na´is, 185; _C. 129-130_ N[.a]'l[.a], episode of, 461, 462 Nalopákhyánam (n[.a]-lo-pä-kyä´n[.a]m), translation of, _C. 303_ Names, Greek and Latin, system of transliteration of, see Preface; pronunciation of, 541, 542, and Index Nän´nä, 390-392; _C. 268-281_ Nar-çis´sus, 188, 189; _C. 132-133_ Nausicaa (nô-sik´[=a]-[.a]), 332-336; _C. 231-244_ Nausithoüs (nô-sith´o-us), 332 Nax´[)o]s, 153, 154, 155, 156, 169, 257; _C. 110-112_ Ne-æ´ra, a maiden of pastoral song. See _Virgil, Bucolics 3_ Nefer Atum (na´f[)e]r ä´t[=oo]m). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Neidings (ni´ding[s+]), 416 Neith (na´ith). See _Egyptian divinities_, (2) Neleus (ne´l[=u]s), 170 Ne´me-a, the city, the valley, and the lion of, 216; _C. 156-162_ Ne-me´an, or Ne´me-an, Games, founded by Hercules; held in honor of Jupiter; _C. 176-181_ (Textual) Nem´e-sis, 38; _C. 38_ (7) Ne-op-tol´e-mus, 276, 293, 309, 313, 314, 349 Ne-pen´th[=e], 314 Neph (n[)e]f), Chnuphis (kn[=oo]'fis), Khnum (kn[=oo]m), Num or Nu (n[=oo]m, n[=oo]). See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) Nephele (nef´e-l[=e]), 121, 229 Nephthys (nef´this). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Nep´tune, Nep-t[=u]'nus (Po-sei´d[)o]n), 5, 6, 15, 204, 454; sometimes reckoned as one of the great gods, 19; founder of the younger dynasty of the waters, 55, 56; among the Romans, 59; contest with Minerva, 81, 82, 249; N. and Iphimedia, 93; and Phaëthon, 97; and Laomedon, 110, 169, 170; and Idas, 115; father of Orion, 122, 170; myths of, 169-171; N. and Andromeda, 169; sons of N., 170; N. and Amymone, and Ceres, and Arne, and Tyro, and Pelops, 170, 171; and Erysichthon, 192; his sea calves pastured by Proteus, 202; his son Antæus, 220; and Minos, 246; and Hippolytus, 260; in Trojan War, 285, 293-296, 301, 311; and Ulysses, 337; and Æneas, 350, 352; _C. 50-52_, table C Ne´re-ids (Ne-re´[)i]-d[=e][s+]), the, 55, 69, 97, 247 Nereus (ne´r[=u]s), 55, 97, 198, 204, 269 Nes´sus, 225 Nes´tor, 179, 231, 237, 239; in Trojan War, 280, 285, 286, 294-297 Netherlands, 405, 406 Nibelheim (ne´bel-h[=a]m or ne´bel-h[=i]m), 412 _et seq._ Nibelung (ne´b[~e]-l[)oo]ng), Wagner's Ring of the, 410-430 Nibelungenlied (ne´b[~e]-l[)oo]ng´en-l[=e]t´), 405-409; theories of origin, 460, 461; _C. 283_ Niblungs (ne´bl[)oo]ng[s+]), Nibelungs (ne´-b[~e]-l[)oo]ngs), Nibelungen (ne´b[~e]-l[)oo]ng-en), 403-430; lay of the, 405-409, 460, 461; Wagner's Ring of the, 410-430; _C. 282, 283, 282-283_ Ni-can´der, _C. 298_ Nidhogg (n[=e]d´h[)o]g), 374 Niflheim (n[=e]v´'l-h[=a]m or n[)i]f´l-h[=i]m), 373, 374, 377, 379, 394; _C. 282-283_ Night, Nyx (n[)i]x), Nox, a prime element of Nature, 3, 4; mother of the Fates and of Nemesis, 38, 176, 196; family of, _C. 49_, table B Ni´k[=e], 41. See _Victoria_ Nile, the river, 97, 180; _C. 149-154_ Nimrod and the giants, 440 Ni´nus, 148 Ni´o-be, 77, 170; the punishment of, 99-103; quotation from Landor's Niobe, 102, 103; genealogy, interpretation, etc., _C. 78_ Nirvana (n[=e]r-vä´na): annihilation, or absorption into the Infinite, of the Karma (human character, or soul) after it has passed through innumerable existences, and learned the virtuous life. See _Buddha_ Ni´sus, father of Scylla, 201, 202 Ni´sus, friend of Euryalus, 368-370 Noah and Deucalion, 440 No´m[)i]-[)o]s, No´m[)i]-us, an epithet applied to Apollo as the pasturer or herdsman; see 104-106, 110; _C. 30_ (In Art) Nôrns, 374, 375, 388, 402; in Wagner's Ring, 424, 426 Norse gods, myths of, 2, 373-397; _C. 268-281_ Norse heroes, myths of, 398-405; _C. 268-282_ Norse mythology, narrative of, 373-405; records of, 457-460; translations and authorities, 458-460 notes, and _C. 268-282_ North American Indians, mental state of, 441; myths of, 448 Norway, Norsemen, 442, 448; _C. 268-281_ Nos´toi, the, 453 Nothung (no´t[)oo]ng), 418, 421-425 No´tus, 38 N[)o]x, Nyx (n[)i]x). See _Night_ N[=u]'ma Pom-pil´[)i]-us, 61, 63; _C. 28_ Nut (n[=oo]t). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Nycteus (nik´t[=u]s), 75; _C. 62_ Nymphs, the, 45, 46, 97, 180, 189, 205; _C. 131_ Ny´sa, an ideal maiden in pastoral poetry Ny´sa, Nysian-born (nish´[)i]-an), 258. Three cities bore the name of Nysa,--in Caria, in Palestine, and in India; the last is here referred to; _C. 42, 110-112_ Nysæan (ni-se´an) nymphs, 152 Nyx (n[)i]x), N[)o]x. See _Night_ O-a´sis or O´[.a]-sis, in Libya, oracle of Jupiter Ammon at, 20 Oblivion, valley of, 359, 360 Ocean, O-çe´[.a]-nus, the river, 3, 35, 42, 43, 327, 328 O-çe´[.a]-nids, 55, 58 O-çe´[.a]-nus, the Titan, 4, 5, 22; older dynasty of the waters, 55, 67, 68, 204, 207; _C. 4, 50-52_ Ocyrrhoë (o-s[)i]r´o-[=e]), 104 O´din, 373-377, 386-405 _passim_; in Wagner's Ring, 412-430; interpretation of, 437; _C. 268-281_ Odysseus (o-dis´[=u]s). See _Ulysses_ and _Odyssey_ Odyssey (od´[)i]-s[)i]), cited, 18, 35, 47, 51, and footnotes _passim_; hero of, 275, 276; narrative of, 318-345; Lang's sonnet, 318; a kind of myth, 433, 448; history of, 452; translations and authorities, _C. 231-244, 298_ [OE]chalia (e-ka´l[)i]-a), 225, 226; _C. 156-162_ [OE]dipus (ed´[)i]-pus), mentioned, 90, 206, 207, 455; myth of, 261-264, 268; and the Sphinx, 262; is made king, 262; at Colonus, 263; extracts from Plumptre's translation of Sophocles' [OE]dipus the King and [OE]dipus Coloneus, 262-264; _C. 182-189_ [OE]neus (e´n[=u]s), 225, 237 [OE]nomaüs (en-o-ma´us), 170, 171 [OE]none (e-no´n[=e]), 310, 432; _C. 221_ [OE]nopion (e-no´p[)i]-[)o]n), father of Merope and king of Chios. See _Orion_ [OE]te ([=e]'t[=e]), or [OE]'ta, Mount, 96, 226, 227; _C. 76, 156-162_ O-i´cl[=e][s+], father of Amphiaraüs and grandfather of Alcmæon Oïleus (o-i´l[=u]s), 286 Olympian religion, the, 20; _C. 23_ and table A Olympic Games, _C. 178-181_ (Textual) O-lym´pus, Mount, 93, 97 O-lym´pus, home of the Greek gods of heaven, 2, 6; located and described, 18; Homer's conception of, 18, 19, 42; myths of greater gods of, 64-151; of lesser gods of, 172-180; dynasty of, dethroned, 181; _C. 22_ Om´ph[.a]-l[=e], 221 O-phi´[)o]n, _C. 4, 71_ [)O]ps, 59 Oracle, at Delphi, 5, 27, 42; at Dodona, 19, 20; of Jupiter Ammon in the Oasis, 20; of Trophonius, _C. 30_; of the dead, 51; of Apollo, consulted, 128, 130, 175, 315, 316, 347; _C. 24-25, 30_ Or-[-c]hom´e-n[)o]s, Or-[-c]hom´e-nus, 216; _C. 156-162_ Or´cus, 83. See _Pluto_ O´re-ads (O-re´[.a]-d[=e][s+]), 46, 186, 188, 192 O-res´t[=e][s+], 196, 268, 275, 315-317; _C. 190-194_ (2), _228-230_ Oriental mythology, records of, 462, 463 Origin, of the world, Greek, 3; of the gods, 4, 8; of man, 8, 9; Norse, 373, 374 O-ri´[)o]n, 41, 170; myth of, 122, 123; _C. 96_ Orithyia (or-[)i]-thi´ya), daughter of Erechtheus, king of Athens, loved by Boreas, 38, 39; _C. 38_ (9) Or´m[)u]zd, 463 Orpheus (or´f[=u]s), 112, 206, 230, 232, 233, 242, 359, 451; and Eurydice, 165-168, 203; quotation from Landor's Orpheus and Eurydice, 167, 168; _C. 118_; cited, 3 Orphic hymns, 451 Or´th[)i]-a, _C. 32_. See _Diana_ Ortygia (or-tij´[)i]-a), 120; _C. 32, 93_ O-si´ris, 447. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Os´sa, Mount, 93, 97; _C. 76_. It is in Thessaly. By piling Ossa on Pelion the Titans C[oe]us and Iapetus and the monster Typhoeus thrice attempted to scale Olympus, but were as often beaten back by the lightnings of Jove. See _Virgil, Georgics 1, 281_ Othrys (oth´ris), the mountain in Thessaly occupied by the Titans in their war with Jupiter and the other Olympians Ot´ter, 400, 401 O´tus, 93 Ov´id (O-vid´[)i]-us), account of, and of his poems, 456, 457; references to his works, 54, 60, 65, 68, 72, 73, 79, 82, 84, 90, 92, 94, 96, 98, 102, 110, 112, 116, 117, 120, 123, 125, 126, 139, 141, 145, 147, 150, 153, 157, 159, 160, 165, 172, 175, 180, 188, 191, 195, 200, 202, 203, 207, 208, 215, 230, 233, 235, 237, 243, 246, 249, 250, 269; translations, _C. 299_; also of the Metamorphoses in 15 books by various authors, published by Sir Samuel Garth, in Vol. II of English Translations from Ancient and Modern Poems, 3 vols., London, 1810 Pac-to´lus, 158; _C. 110-112_ Pa´dus, or Po, the river, 359 Pæ´[.a]n, Pæ´[)o]n, Paiëon (pi-e´[)o]n), heals Mars, 86, 290; _C. 68_ Pæ´[.a]n, the chant, 26, 92; _C. 68_ Pakht (pä[.c]ht) and Bäst. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) P[.a]-læ´m[)o]n, 202. See _Melicertes_ Pal-[.a]-me´d[=e][s+], 279 Pa´l[=e][s+], 61 Pal-[)i]-n[=u]'rus, 352, 355; _C. 245-254_ Pal-la´d[)i]-um, the, 310, 314; _C. 27_ Pal´l[.a]s, Athena, 7, 23; _C. 27_. See _Minerva_ Pal´l[.a]s, a Giant, 7 Pal´l[.a]s, son of Evander, 365-367, 371, 372 Pan, described, 45; Pandean pipes, 66, 67; contest with Apollo, 110, 111; father of Silenus, 152; P. and the personification of nature, 181-187; extracts from Milton, Schiller, Mrs. Browning, reference to Wordsworth, 181-183; E. C. Stedman's Pan in Wall Street, 183-185; love of Echo, 189; in Buchanan's Naiad, 190; P. and Pomona, 195; _C. 43, 54, 57, 129-130, 131_ Pan-ath-e-næ´a, _C. 27, 176-181_ Pan´d[.a]-rus, 289; _C. 196_ Pan-de´m[)o]s, _C. 34_. See _Venus_ Pan-di´[)o]n, 249; _C. 148_ (4), _174_ Pan-do´ra, 2; creation of, 11, 25; wife of Epimetheus, her casket, 11; _C. 10-15_ Pan´dro-s[)o]s, daughter of Cecrops. See _Herse_ Pan´o-p[=e], 88; _C. 70_ Pan´o-p[=e], a Nereid, 55; _C. 50-52_ Pa´ph[)i]-an, 128; _C. 34_. See _Venus_ Pa´ph[)o]s, 32, 126, 147, 149; _C. 34, 100_ Papyri (p[.a]-p[=i]'r[=i]), the sacred, 462 Parcæ (pär´s[=e]), M[oe]ræ (m[=e]'r[=e]). See _Fates_ P[)a]r´is (should be P[=a]'ris, by rule), 276, 296; the judgment of, 278, 350; P. and Helen, 278, 279, 289, 313; and Menelaüs, 286-289; and Achilles, 308; and [OE]none, 309, 310; _C. 190-194_ (5), _195, 207, 221_ Pär-nas´sus, Mount, in Phocis, 26, 27, 97, 112; _C. 30, 38_ (4), _76_ Pa´r[)o]s, 198 Pär-the´n[)i]-us, _C. 298_ Pär´the-n[)o]n, _C. 4, 24-25, 27, 38_ (10), _40, 48, 176-181_ Pär-then-o-pæ´us, 265 Pär-then´o-p[=e], 205, 329 Pär´the-n[)o]s, the Virgin, a title of Athene Parvati (pär´w[.a]-t[=e] or pär´v[.a]-t[=e]). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Pasiphaë (p[.a]-sif´a-[=e]), 246; _C. 172_ P[.a]-sith´e-a. (1) A Nereid. (2) One of the Graces P[.a]-tro´clus or Pat´ro-clus, 275, 296-299, 303; _C. 190-194_ (4), _207_ Patronymics, _C. 77_ Pau-sa´n[)i]-[.a]s, 455; references to, 75, 125, 180, 207, 208, 241, 246, 249, 265, 268; _C. 26_ Peg´[.a]-sus, myth of, 211, 214, 215; _C. 155_ Peitho (pi´tho), Suadela (sw[.a]-d[=e]'la), goddess of Persuasion Pe-la´[.g][)i]-a, _C. 34_. See _Venus_ Pe-las´[.g]ic division of the Greeks, 16 Pe-las´[=g]us, son or grandson of Phoroneus, 17, 206, 207; _C. 21, 57_, table D Peleus (pe´l[=u]s), 206, 225, 231, 237, 239, 274; myth of Peleus and Thetis, 269-272, 277, 279; translation of Catullus, LXIV, by C. M. Gayley, 269-272, family of Peleus, 275, 276; _C. 190-194_ (1), _199_ Pe´l[)i]-[.a]s, 106, 170, 230, 233; daughters of, 235, _C. 83_ Pe-li´d[=e][s+], 272; _C. 77_ Pe´l[)i]-[)o]n, Mount, 93, 111, 271, 274; _C. 76_. See _Ossa_ Pel-o-pon-ne´sus, 16, 207 Pe´lops, 99, 206, 250, 434; and Hippodamia, 170, 171, 275; genealogy, etc., _C. 78, 190-194_ (2) Pe-na´t[=e][s+], described, 61, 62 Pe-nel´o-p[=e], 275, 276, 279, 328, 338-344; _C. 190-194_ (3), (4), _231-244_ Pe-ne´us river, 111, 113, 218, 271; _C. 85-86_ Pen-thes-[)i]-le´a, 307 Pentheus (pen´th[=u]s), 89, 152-156, 261; _C. 110-112, 182-189_, table N Pe-phre´d[=o], one of the Grææ P[~e]r´dix, 248 P[)e]r-[)i]-e´r[=e][s+], _C. 148_ (2), (5) P[)e]r-[)i]-phe´t[=e][s+] or P[)e]r-[)i]-pha´t[=e][s+], 251; _C. 176-181_ P[~e]r-se´is, daughter of Perses, wife of Helios, and mother of Pasiphaë, Ariadne, Phædra, and Æëtes, _C. 125_, table H P[~e]r-seph´o-n[=e], 53, 127, 327. See _Proserpina_ Perseus (p[~e]r´s[=u]s), 17, 206; myth of, 208-214; and Medusa, 208-211; and Atlas, 211; and Andromeda, 211-214, 215, 216; and Acrisius, 214; lines from Kingsley and Milman, 212, 213; _C. 149-154_ Persia, 448; records of myth, 463; studies on, _C. 304_ Personification, to-day, 434; among savages, 435 Pes´s[)i]-nus, Pes´[)i]-nus, _C. 41_ Pet´[.a]-sus, the, 34 Phæacia (fe-a´sh[)i]-a), 332-338; Lang's Song of, 335, 336; _C. 231-244_ Phæ´dra, 259, 260, 328; _C. 172_, table L; _176-181_ (Illustr.) Phæ´drus, 2 Pha´e-th[)o]n, Pha´e-t[)o]n, myth of, 94-98, 432; _C. 76_ Pha-e-th[=u]´sa, 330 Phan´t[.a]-sus, son of Somnus, _C. 125_. See _Sleep_ Pha´[)o]n, 139; myth of, 149, 454; _C. 107_ Pha´r[)o]s, island, 203; _C. 145_ Phar-sa´lus, a city in Thessaly; Phar-sa´l[)i]-a, the region thereabout Pha´sis, the river, 223; _C. 156-162_ Phe´ræ, capital of Thessalia Pelasgiotis, home of Admetus Phid´[)i]-[.a]s, Olympian Jove of, 21; Homer's lines in Iliad, 21; _C. 27, 38_ (10), _64_ Ph[)i]-le´m[)o]n and Bau´çis, myth of, 77-80; Swift's burlesque, 79, 80 Phil-oc-te´t[=e][s+], 227, 309, 453; _C. 219-220_ Phil-o-me´la, 249, 250; _C. 174_ Phineus (fi´n[=u]s), 213, 231, 348; _C. 163-167_ Phle[=g]'e-th[)o]n, 47, 356 Pho´b[)o]s or Ph[)o]b´[)o]s, Fear, son and attendant of Mars, 24 Pho´çis, 249, 315 Ph[oe]'b[=e] (the shining one), a name of Diana, 138; _C. 32, 98_ Ph[oe]'b[=e], one of the Titans, 64; _C. 4_ Ph[oe]'bus, _C. 28, 30_. See _Apollo_ Ph[oe]nicians (fe-nish´ans) as disseminators of cults, 20 Ph[oe]'nix, 274, 294 Pho´lus, 217 Phor´b[.a]s, 352 Phorcys (fôr´sis) and Çe´t[=o], offspring of, 57, 201 Phoroneus (fo-ro´n[=u]s), son of Inachus, 17, 207; _C. 57_, table D Phos´phor, 40, 172, 175 Phrixus (frix´us), 229, 230; _C. 163-167_ (Interpret.) Phrygia (frij´[)i]-a), 77, 99, 152, 223, 448; _C. 63_ Phtha (fthä), Ptah (p´tä). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Phthia (thi´a), 269, 274 Phyllis (fil´is), an ideal maiden of pastoral poetry Pi-[)e]r´[)i]-d[=e][s+]: the Muses as daughters of Pierus, king of Thessaly, or as frequenters of Mount Pierus Pi´[~e]r-us, Mount, in Thessaly, 150; _C. 109_ Pillars of Hercules, 219; _C. 156-162_ Pin´d[.a]r (Pin´d[.a]-rus), 453, 454; references to, 51, 170, 180; translations, _C. 298_ Pin´dus, Mount, 97; _C. 76_ Pip-le´a, 223 Pi-ræ´us, 253 Pi-re´n[=e], a fountain in Corinth, said to have started from the ground (like Hippocrene) under a kick of Pegasus, 215 Pi-rith´o-us, 237, 243, 258, 259 P[)i]-sis´tr[.a]-tus, 452 Pittheus (pit´th[=u]s), 251; _C. 78_, table F; _148_ (5) B, table I; _174_, table M; _190-194_ (2), table O Pleasure, 136 Pleiads (ple´yads), Pleiades (ple´y[.a]-d[=e][s+] or ple-i´[.a]-d[=e][s+]), daughters of Atlas, 57, 180; myth of, 123, 124; _C. 97_ Plenty, goddess of, 204 Plex-ip´pus, 238, 240 Plutarch (pl[=oo]'tärk), referred to, 250, 252 Pluto (pl[=oo]'t[=o]), A´[)i]-d[=e][s+], A´d[=e][s+], Ha´d[=e][s+], 5, 6, 20, 234, 355; his abode, 47-50, 353; attributes, 52, 53; the Roman Orcus, 53, 59; and Æsculapius, 104; carries off Proserpine, 159, 160; mollified by Orpheus, 166; and Neptune, 170; helmet of, 209; and Hercules, 220; Theseus and Pirithoüs, 259; _C. 47_ Plutus (pl[=oo]'tus), _C. 47_ P[oe]as (pe´[.a]s), 227 P[oe]na (pe´na). (1) Greek, an attendant, with Di´ke and Erinys, of Nemesis. (2) Latin, goddess of punishment. P[oe]næ: sometimes the Furies Poets of mythology, in Greece, 451-455; in Rome, 456, 457; _C. 298, 299_. See, in general, under _Myth, Preservation of_ Po-li´t[=e][s+], 312 Pol´lux, Polydeuces (pol-[)i]-d[=u]´s[=e][s+]), 206, 230, 237, 242-245, 275, 289; _C. 190-194_ (3) Pol-y-bo´t[=e][s+], _C. 8_ Pol´y-bus, 261, 262 Pol-y-cli´tus, Pol-y-cle´tus, 81; _C. 26, 64_ Pol-y-de[-c]'t[=e][s+], 208; punished by Perseus, 213 Pol-y-de[-c]'t[=e][s+], a name applied to Pluto, _C. 47_ Pol´y-döre (Pol-y-do´rus), son of Cadmus, 89, 261; _C. 182-189_, table N Pol´y-döre (Pol-y-do´rus), son of Priam, 347 Pol-y-hym´n[)i]-a (Po-lym´n[)i]-a), the muse of sacred poetry, 37; _C. 38_ (4) Pol-y-i´dus, 215 Polynesian (pol-[)i]-ne´shan) savages, mental development of, 441; myths among, 447, 449 Pol-y-ni´ç[=e][s+], 264, 265, 266, 268; _C. 182-189_, table N Pol-y-phe´mus, 170; and Galatea, Lang's translation of Theocritus, Idyls VI and XI, 198-200; P. and Ulysses, 320-323; and Æneas, 349; _C. 141, 231-244_ Pol-y-phon´t[=e], 150 Pol-y-phon´t[=e][s+], 241 Polyxena (po-lix´e-na), 272, 276, 307, 313; _C. 190-194_ (5), _219-220_ Po-mo´na, quotation from Macaulay's Prophecy of Capys, 61; and Vertumnus, myth of, extract from Thomson's Seasons, 195; _C. 54, 139_ Pon´tus, region near the Black Sea, Ovid's Letters from, 456 Pon´tus, a sea-god, 55, 201 Porphyrion (pôr-f[)i]r´[)i]-[)o]n), a Giant, 7 Pôr-tha´[)o]n, genealogy of, _C. 148_ (3), (5), _168_ Pôr-tum´nus, 202. See _Melicertes_ Poseidon (po-si´d[)o]n). See _Neptune_ Prax-it´[='e]-l[=e][s+], a Greek sculptor, _C. 35, 36, 38_ (1), _54, 100, 131_ Pri´am (Pri´[.a]-mus), 179, 225, 276; in Trojan War, 278-307, 312, 313; _C. 190-194_ (5), _207, 216_ Pri-a´pus, a Roman god of increase, promoter of horticulture and viticulture Prithivi (pr[)i]-t[=e]'v[)i]). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Proc´n[=e], Prog´n[=e], 249, 250; _C. 174_ Pro´cris, 172-175; Dobson's Death of, 174, 175, 328; _C. 123-124_ Pro-crus´t[=e][s+], 170, 251 Prod´[)i]-cus of Chios, a contemporary of Socrates; author of the story of the Choice of Hercules Pr[oe]tus (pr[=e]'tus), 214 Progress, theory of, in mythology, 436, 440-446 Prometheus (pro-me´th[=u]s), 2, 6, 206, 207, 269, 271, 455; a creator, 8, 10 _n_; champion of man, 10; chained on Mount Caucasus, 11, 225; his secret, 11, 12; quotations from G. C. Lodge, Byron, and Longfellow, 12-15; _C. 10-15_ Propertius (pro-p[~e]r´sh[)i]-us), 457 Pro-s[~e]r´p[)i]-na, Pros´[~e]r-p[)i]ne, P[~e]r-seph´o-n[=e], 20, 43, 44, 234, 318; Swinburne's Garden of Proserpine, 49, 50; attributes, 53; the Roman Libera, 59; P. and Psyche, 134, 135; the rape of, 159, 160; Shelley's Song of Proserpine, 160; Ceres' search for, 160-163; quotation from G. E. Woodberry's Proserpine, 163, 164; mollified by Orpheus, 166; Theseus' attempt to abduct, 220; Æneas, 354; _C. 48, 114-117_ Pro-tes-[)i]-la´us, 282. See _Laodamia_ Proteus (pro´t[=u]s), 56, 58; and Aristæus, 202, 203; _C. 50-52_ and table C; _145_ Psamathe (sam´[.a]-th[=e]), 103 Pseudo-M[=u]-sæ´us, _C. 104_. See _Musæus_ Psyche (si´k[=e]), myth of, 128-139, 457; extracts from William Morris' Earthly Paradise, 131, 135; Bridge's Eros and Psyche, 132; Pater's Marius, 133; T. K. Hervey's Cupid and Psyche, 136, 137; Keats' Psyche, 137-139; _C. 101-102_ Psychopompus (si-ko-pom´pus): Mercury as guide of ghosts to the underworld, 35, 47; _C. 36_ Ptah (p´tä). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Purpose of this work, 1 Py-[.a]-nep´s[)i]-a, _C. 30_ Pygmalion (pig-ma´l[)i]-[)o]n), fabled sculptor, 139; and the statue, 145-147; extracts from Lang's New Pygmalion, 145, 146, 147; from William Morris' Pygmalion and the Image, 146, 147; _C. 105_ Pygmalion (pig-ma´l[)i]-[)o]n), king of Tyre, 351 Pygmies, 221; _C. 156-162_ Pylades (pil´[.a]-d[=e]s), 315, 316; _C. 228-230_ Py´l[)o]s, 150, 225, 285, 452; _C. 109, 156-162_ Pyramus (p[)i]r´[.a]-mus), 139; and Thisbe, 147-149; _C. 106_ Pyriphlegethon (p[)i]r-[)i]-fle[=g]'e-th[)o]n), 327. See _Phlegethon_ Pyrrha (p[)i]r´a) and Deucalion, 16, 207; _C. 19-20_; genealogy, _148_ (5) Pyrrhus (p[)i]r´us), or Ne-op-tol´e-mus, 312, 313; _C. 190-194_ (1). See _Neoptolemus_ Pythagoras (p[)i]-thag´o-r[.a]s), a philosopher of Samos, about 550 B.C.; his doctrine of metempsychosis, 360 and _C. 255-257_ Pythia (pith´[)i]-a), _C. 30, 32_. See _Diana_ Pythian Games, 27; _C. 176-181_ (Textual) Py´th[)o]n, 26, 92; _C. 30, 74_ Pythoness (pith´o-ness), _C. 30_ Qu[)i]-ri´nus, 61 Rä. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) R[.a]g´n[.a]-r[)o]k´, 394 Rakshasas (r[)u]k´sh[.a]-s[.a][s+]). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Râmâyana (rä-mä´y[.a]-n[.a]), 462, 463; compared with Iliad, 463; paraphrase of, _C. 303_ Râvana (rä´v[.a]-n[.a]), 463 Re-[.g]il´lus, 243 Regin (r[=a]'g[)i]n), 400, 401 Reim-thursar (r[=a]m´th[~e]r-sär), Rime or Frost giants. See _Hrim-thursar_ Re´mus, 372 Rerir (r[=a]'r[=e]r), 398 Rhadamanthus (rad-[.a]-man´thus), 51, 53, 216, 357; son of Europa, 71, 246; _C. 255-257_ Rhamnusia (ram-n[=u]´sh[)i]-a): Nemesis, from Rhamnus in Attica, where she was specially worshiped Rhapsodists, the, 452 Rhea (re´a), 4, 5, 19, 44, 152; the Roman Magna Mater, 59; _C. 4, 41, 110-112, 146-147_. See _Cybele_ Rhine, 404-406, 409, 410-430 _passim_ Rhine-daughters, in Wagner's Ring, 410, 411, 416, 427-430 Rhine-gold, Wagner's opera of the, 410-416 Rhodope (rod´o-p[=e]), a mountain range in Thrace, 97; _C. 76_ Rhodope (rod´o-p[=e]), A´c[)o]n and, Landor's poem, _C. 138_ Rh[oe]cus, (re´kus), myth of, 193, 194; extracts from Lowell's Rh[oe]cus, 193, 194; _C. 138_ Rh[oe]tus (re´tus), _C. 8_ Ring of the Nibelung, Wagner's, 410-430 R[)i]´sh[)i][s+], 462 River ocean, 3. See _Ocean_ Rock, the White, 47 Rod´mär, 400, 401 Roman divinities, 2, 3, 59-63 Rome, 365, 366, 372, 448, 456 Rom´[=u]-lus, 60, 372; as Quirinus, 61 Runes, 375, 394, 413, 457, 458; _C. 300_ Russians, 448 Rut´[=u]-l[=i], Rutulians (r[=oo]-t[=oo]'l[)i]-ans), 362, 365-370 Rymer (r[=e]'m[~e]r), 396 S[.a]-bri´na, a nymph in Milton's Comus, 204 Sæmund (s[=a]'m[=oo]nd) the Wise, 459 Sä´g[.a][s+], the, 460; of the Volsungs, 398-405, 460; _C. 282_ Sal´[.a]-mis, 308 Sa´l[)i]-[=i], _C. 28_ Salmoneus (sal-mo´n[=u]s), 357 Sa´m[)o]s, 247; _C. 34_ Sam-o-thra´ç[=e], or Samothracia (sam-o-thra´sh[)i]-a), an island near the coast of Thrace, 242 Samson and Hercules, 440 Sanskrit, studies and translations, _C. 303_ Sappho (saf´o), 149, 453, 454; _C. 107_ Saramâ (s[.a]-r[.a]'mä), _C. 36_ Sarameyas (s[.a]-r[.a]-m[=a]'y[.a]s), _C. 36_ Sarasvati (s[)a]r´[.a]s-w[.a]-t[=e]). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Sär-pe´d[)o]n, son of Jove and Europa, 71 Sär-pe´d[)o]n, son of Jove and Laodamia, in the Trojan War, 280, 290, 298 Sat´urn (S[.a]-tur´nus), the attempts to identify Cronus and, 59; his rule in Latium, 59, 362, 366; _C. 4, 54_ Sat-ur-na´l[)i]-a, 59 S[.a]-tur´n[)i]-a, 366 Satyrs (s[)a]t´[~e]rs or s[=a]'t[~e]rs), 44, 152, 189, 190, 195, 258; described, 46, 186; extract from R. Buchanan's Satyr, 186, 187; _C. 131_ S[)a]v´[)i]-t[.a]r. See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Sc[.a]-man´d[~e]r, 272 S[-c]he´r[)i]-a, 332 Sch[oe]neus (ske´n[=u]s), 139 Sco´p[)a]s, a Greek sculptor of Paros, first half of the 4th century B.C.; he made the Niobe group; see also _C. 42, 78, 131_ Scylla (sil´a), described, 57, 255; and Glaucus, 200, 201; and Nisus, 201, 202; and Ulysses, 329, 330; and Æneas, 350; _C. 50-52_ and table C; _142, 231-244_ Scyros (si´r[)o]s), 260, 270, 279 Scythia (sith´[)i]-a), 97, 192, 316; _C. 76_ Sea. See _Waters_ Sea-monsters, and Hesione, 170; and Andromeda, 212. See _Waters, Greek gods of_ S[)e]b. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) S[)e]-le´n[=e], 29, 39, 43, 117; and Endymion, 124, 125; _C. 98_. See _Diana_ Sem´e-l[=e], 44, 64, 89, 152; myth of, 71-73, 261, 288; E. R. Sill's poem, Semele, 72, 73; _C. 42, 60_ S[)e]-m[)i]r´[.a]-mis, 147; _C. 106_ S[)e]-mit´ic races, 448 Sem´næ. See _Furies_ Sen´e-ca, 457; references to tragedies of, 215 Se-ra´pis, S[.a]-ra´pis. See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Serimnir (s[=a]-r[=e]m´n[=e]r), 376, 388 S[)e]-ri´phus, 208, 213; _C. 149-154_ Ses´t[)o]s, 142 S[)e]t or Seth (s[)e]t). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Shu (sh[=oo]). See _Egyptian divinities_ (1) Sibyl (sib´il), 352-361; _C. 245-254_ S[)i]-[-c]hæ´us, 351 Sicily, 118, 161, 201, 247, 349, 350, 352 Sicyon (sish´[)i]-[)o]n), or Me-co´n[=e], 10; _C. 10-15_ Siegelind (s[=e][=g]'[~e]-lind), 405; in Wagner's Ring, 416-421 Siegfried (s[=e][=g]'fr[=e]d), 405-409, 420-429; Wagner's opera of, 421-426; _C. 282-283_ Sieglinde (s[=e][=g]'lin-d[~e]), 416-421. See _Siegelind_ Siegmund (s[=e][=g]'mund), 405, 416-421. See _Sigmund_ Siggeir (s[)i][=g]'g[=a]r), 398-400 Sigi (s[=e]'[=g][=e]), 398, 405 S[)i][=g]'mund, 398-401, 405; in Wagner's Ring, 416-421 Signy (s[)i][=g]'n[=e]), 398-400 Siguna (s[=e]-g[=oo]'na), 393 Sigurd (z[=e]'g[)oo]rt), 400-405, 450 _n_; _C. 282, 282-283_. See _Siegfried_ Si-le´n[=i], 44, 186, 258; _C. 113_ Si-le´nus, 152, 157, 185, 186, 187; _C. 113, 131_ Sil-va´nus. See _Sylvanus_ Silver Age, the, 10 Sil´v[)i]-a, 363 Si-mon´[)i]-d[=e][s+] of Çe´[)o]s, 208, 453, 454 Sinfiotli (sin´fy[='o]t-l[=e]), 399, 400 Si´n[)o]n, 311, 312; _C. 223_ Si´rens, described, 57, 205, 232, 233; and Ulysses, 328, 329; _C. 50-52_ and table C; _231-244_ S[)i]r´[)i]-us, 123 S[)i]s´y-phus, 214, 229; betrays Jove, 73; marries Merope, 124; in Tartarus, 166, 200, 358; _C. 118, 255-257_; genealogy, _103_, table G, _148_ (2), (5) Sita (se´ta), 463 Siva (se´va). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Sk[a:]ldic poetry, Sk[a:]lds, 457, 458 Skidbladnir (skid-bläd´n[=e]r), 394 Skirnir's Journey (sk[)i]r´n[=e]r), 386, 460 Skrymir (skr[=e]'m[=e]r), 380, 381 Skuld (sk[)oo]ld), 374 Sleep (Som´nus, Hyp´nos), 54, 298, 352; cave of, 176; _C. 49, 125_ Sleipnir (sl[=a]p´n[=e]r), 388-391, 401 Smintheus (smin´th[=u]s), Apollo, _C. 30, 89_ Smin´th[)i]-a, _C. 30_ Smyrna (sm[=e]r´na), 452 S[)o]l (He´lios), 61, 63 So´ma. See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Som´nus. See _Sleep_ Soph´o-cl[=e][s+], 455; references to, 47, 215, 227, 228, 261, 266, 267, 268, 308, 309, 315; translations, _C. 298_ So´phr[)o]n, _C. 42_ South American savages, mental state of, 441 Spär´ta (Laç-e-dæ´m[)o]n), 22, 23, 225, 242, 243, 275, 289, 314 Sphinx, 262; _C. 182-189_ Sri (sr[=e]). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Stars, the, 172, 175; _C. 125_, table H Statius (sta´sh[)i]-us), references to the Thebaid of, 141, 265; to the Silvæ, 196; to the Achilleid, 269, 308; _C. 299_ St[)e]r´o-p[=e], one of the Pleiads St[)e]r´o-p[=e][s+], _C. 4_ Ste-si[-c]h´o-rus, 313, 453 Stheneb[oe]a (sthen-e-be´a), or Sthenob[oe]a, daughter of Iobates, enamored of Bellerophon Sthen´e-lus, 110 Sthe´no, daughter of Phorcys and Ceto; one of the Gorgons Stro´ph[)i]-us, 315 Stry´m[)o]n, 168; _C. 118_ Sturlason, Snorri (sn[)o]r´r[=e] st[=oo]r´l[.a]-sun), connection with the Prose Edda, 459; _C. 268-281_ Stym-pha´l[)i]-an birds, 218; and lake, _C. 156-162_ Styx (st[)i]x), 47, 71, 94, 151, 189, 274, 308, 327; _C. 44-46, 49_ Suadela (sw[.a]-de´la). See _Peitho_ Sun, cattle of the, 328, 330. See _Helios_ and _Sol_ Sun-myth, 432, 435 Surter (s[)oo]r´t[~e]r), 395 Survival, theory of myth, 442 Surya (s[=oo]r´ya). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Svadilfari (swä-dil-f[.a]'r[=e]), 378, 379 Swanhild (sw[)o]n´h[)i]ld), 405 Syl´v[.a]ns, 186 Syl-va´nus, 61, 195 Sym-ple[=g]'[.a]-de[s+], 231; _C. 163-167_ (Interpret.) Syr´inx and Pan, 66, 67; _C. 43, 57_ Syrtis (s[~e]r´tis), 255 Tænarus (ten´[.a]-rus), or Tænarum, 51, 166; _C. 118_ Ta´gus, 97 Ta´lus, 242, 243; _C. 170-171_ Tan´a-is river, 97; _C. 76_ Tan´t[.a]-lus, 77, 99, 166, 275, 358; _C. 78_ and table I; _118, 255-257_ Tär´[-c]h[)o]n, 367 Tärn´helm, 414, 415, 423, 427, 428 Tärn´käp-p[~e], 406 Tarpeian (t[.a]r-pe´y[.a]n) Rock, 366 Tär´t[.a]-rus, 5, 6, 7, 51, 97, 159, 357; name of Pluto, 53; _C. 44-46_ Tau´r[=i], Tau´r[)i]-ans, a people of what is now the Crimea; Iphigenia among the Taurians, 281, 316; _C. 196_ Tau´rus, Mount, 96, 253; _C. 76_ Tel´[.a]-m[)o]n, 75, 222, 225, 237, 239, 276, 280; _C. 190-194_ (1) Te-lem´[.a]-[-c]hus, 279, 314, 328, 339-345; _C. 190-194_ (4), _231-244_ Tel´e-phus, son of Hercules and Au´g[=e]; wounded by Achilles, but cured by the rust of the spear Tel´lus, 59, 233. See _Gæa_ Tem´p[=e], a vale in Thessaly, through which ran the river Peneüs, III, 270; _C. 38_ (4) Ten´e-d[)o]s, 113; _C. 89_ Tereus (te´r[=u]s), 249 T[~e]r´m[)i]-nus, 61 T[~e]r-pan´der, _C. 26_ T[~e]rp-si[-c]h´o-r[=e], the muse of choral dance and song, 37; _C. 38_ (4) T[)e]r´ra. See _Earth_ and _Gæa_ Tethys (te´this), 4, 22, 55, 67, 204; _C. 4_ Teucer (t[=u]´s[~e]r), son of the river-god Scamander and the nymph Idæa; first king of Troy; _C. 190-194_ (5) Teucer (t[=u]´s[~e]r), son of Telamon and Hesione, 276; _C. 190-194_ (1), (5), _207_ Teucri (t[=u]'cr[=i]): the Trojans Th[.a]-las´s[)i]-[)o]s: an epithet applied to Hymen because he brought safely over the sea to their home a shipload of kidnaped Athenian maidens Th[.a]-li´a, one of the Graces, 36 Th[.a]-li´a, the muse of comedy, 37 Tham´y-ris, or Tham´y-r[.a]s, 451 Than´[.a]-t[)o]s, Mors. See _Death_ Th[:a]r-[.g]e´l[)i]-a, _C. 30_ Thau´m[)a]s, father of the Harpies and of Iris, 57; _C. 50-52_, table C The´a, 4; _C. 4_ The-a[.g]'e-ne[s+] of Rhegium (re´ji-um), 439 The´ba-is, an epic by Statius on the Seven against Thebes; Pope's translation, _C. 299_. See _Statius_ Thebes (th[=e]b[s+]), Th[=e]'bæ, in B[oe]otia, 71, 75, 207, 216; founded, 87, 89, _C. 70_; Bacchus at, 153-155; misfortunes of, 261, 262, 265-268; _C. 110-112_ Thebes (th[=e]b[s+]), The´bæ, in Egypt, 20 Thebes (th[=e]b[s+]), the Seven against, 206, 264, 265-268, 453, 455 The´mis, 4; attributes of, 38; _C. 4, 18_ The-oc´r[)i]-tus, 215, 243, 455; selections from translations by Lang of various idyls, 198-200, 222, 223; Lityerses song, 224; _C. 298_. See _Andrew Lang_ and _Calverley_, in Index of Modern Authors Th[~e]r-san´der, 268 Th[~e]r-si´t[=e][s+], 286, 307 Theseus (the´s[=u]s), 17, 168, 206, 220, 231, 235, 237, 239, 243, 246, 263, 275; myth of, 250-260; early adventures, 251, 252; and Ariadne, 252 _et seq._, 270; translation of Catullus, LXIV, by C. M. Gayley, 253-257; later adventures, 258-260; _C. 174, 176-181_ Thes-mo-pho´r[)i]-a, _C. 114-117_ Thes´p[)i]-æ, lion of, 216; _C. 156-162_ Thes´s[.a]-ly, 6, 104, 110, 175, 192, 193, 206, 207, 214, 229, 231, 258, 269 Thes´t[)i]-us, 275; _C. 148_ (3), (5), _168_ Thes´ty-lis, a maid in the pastorals of Theocritus and Virgil The´tis, the Nereïd, 55, 90, 198, 205, 269-272, 277, 279, 285, 299, 300, 304, 308; _C. 10-15, 50-52_, table C, _190-194_ (1) Thialfi (th[+e]-äl´f[=e]), 380, 383, 385 Thi[s+]'b[=e], 147-149; _C. 106_ Th[)o]k, 392 Thôr, 376, 432, 460; deeds of, 378-386, 393-396; recovery of his hammer, 379, 380; visit to Jötunheim, 380-386; as Donner in Wagner's Ring, 412, 415; _C. 268-281_ Thoth (th[)o]th or t[=o]t). See _Egyptian divinities_ (2) Thrace, 24, 218, 231, 249, 347 Three Daughters of King O´Hara; analogy of incident, _C. 101-102, 118, 149-154_ Thrinacia (thr[)i]-na´sh[)i]-a), 328, 330. See _Trinacria_ Thrym (thrüm), 379, 380 Thucydides (th[=u]-sid´[)i]-d[=e][s+]), _C. 61_ Thy-es´t[=e][s+], 275, 314; _C. 190-194_ (2) Thy-i´[.a]-d[=e][s+], _C. 42_. See _Bacchus_ Thy-o´n[=e], _C. 34_ Thyrsis (th[~e]r´sis), an ideal shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry. See _Theocritus, Idyl 1_; _Virgil, Bucolics 7_; and _M. Arnold's elegy_ Thyrsus (th[~e]r´sus), the, 45, 153, 156; _C. 110-112_ Ti´ber, 362, 365 Ti´ber, Father, the river-god, 62, 365 T[)i]-bul´lus, 457; reference to, 200 Time, 3 Tiresias (ti-re´sh[)i]-[)a]s or ti-re´s[)i]-[)a]s), 266, 268, 327, 328, 330, 451; _C. 182-189, 231-244_ Tiryns (ti´rins), a city in Argolis, where Hercules was brought up T[)i]-siph´o-n[=e], 54, 357 Ti´t[.a]ns, 4, 5, 7; war of, 5, 6; in Tartarus, 51, 357; in the Fortunate Isles, 52; _C. 4_ T[)i]-tho´nus, and Aurora, 177, 179; Tennyson's poem, 177-179; family connections, 276, 280; _C. 126-127, 190-194_ (5) Tit´y-rus, an ideal goatherd of Greek and Latin pastorals. See _Theocritus, Idyl 3_, and _Virgil, Bucolics 1_ Tit´y-us, slain by Apollo, 27, 92, 357; _C. 74_ Tmo´lus, Mount, 96, 110, 111; _C. 76_ To´m[=i], 456 Toxeus (tox´[=u]s), 238, 240 Tra´[-c]his, 175 Tragic poets of Greece, 455 Trident, Neptune's, 56, 170 Tr[)i]-na´cr[)i]-a, Thr[)i]-na´cr[)i]-a, Thrinacia (thr[)i]-na´sh[)i]-a): the island of Sicily, having three promontories Trip-tol´e-mus, 161; and the Eleusinian mysteries, 164, 165 Tris´t[)i]-a, Ovid's, 456 Trit-o-[.g]e-ne´a, Tr[)i]-t[=o]'n[)i]-a: an epithet of Minerva (Athene), meaning born near Lake Tritonis, or headborn, or born on the third day Tri´t[)o]n, 56, 58, 204, 350 Tri´t[)o]ns, the, 70 Triv´[)i]-a, Hecate, or Diana of the Crossways, 54 Tr[oe]zen (tre´zen), a city in Argolis, 251; _C. 176-181_ Tro´[)i]-lus, son of Priam, killed by Achilles, 276; _C. 190-194_ (5), _196_ Trojan War, mentioned, 75, 84, 86, 98, 179, 206, 237, 259, 265, 451, 452, 455; houses concerned in, 269-276; origin, 277-279; narrative of, 279-306; fall of Troy, 307-312; survivors of the war, 313-317 Tro-pho´n[)i]-us, oracle of, _C. 30_ Tr[=o]s, son of Erichthonius of Troy, and grandson of Dardanus, _C. 190-194_ (5) Troy, 23, 110, 169, 170, 177, 206, 225; royal family of, 276, _C. 190-194_ (5); the war at, 277-313 and _passim_; _C. 119-120, 195, 228-230_ T[=u]'b[.a]l, 440 Tubal-Cain (t[=u]'b[.a]l-c[=a]n´), 440 Tur´nus, 362-364, 367-372 Twelve Brothers, story of the; analogy of incident, _C. 101-102_ Twilight of the Gods, Wagner's opera of the, 426-430 Ty-a´ne-an, 79; _C. 63_ Ty´[-c]h[=e]. See _Fortuna_ Tydeus (ti´d[=u]s), 84, 265, 280; _C. 168_, table K Tydides (t[)i]-di´d[=e][s+]), _C. 77_. See _Diomede_ Tyndareus (tin-da´re-us), or Tyndarus (tin´d[.a]-rus), 242, 269, 338; family of, 275, _C. 190-194_ (3) Tyndaridæ (tin-d[)a]r´[)i]-d[=e]), Castor and Pollux, 243; _C. 76_ Tyndaris (tin´d[.a]-ris): patronymic of a female descendant of Tyndareus; Helen or Clytemnestra; _C. 77_ Typhoeus (ti-fo´[=u]s), youngest son of Gæa, later identified with Typhon Ty´ph[)o]n, 6, 7, 350; also called the son of Typhoeus and a hurricane; _C. 8_ Tyr (t[=e]r), or Z[)i][=u], 377, 378, 396 Tyrian dye, 82, 111; _C. 75_ Tyrian flowers, 94, 137 Tyrians, of Cadmus, 88; of Dido, 351 Ty´ro, 170 Tyrrheus (t[)i]r´[=u]s), 363 Ulysses ([=u]-lis´[=e][s+]), wanderings of, mentioned, 168, 206, 265; descent of, 275, _C. 190-194_ (4); in Trojan War, 278-314; and Penelope, 279, 338-344; arms of Achilles, 308; U. and Philoctetes, 309; the Palladium, the Wooden Horse, 310, 314; Telemachus, 314, 339-345; wanderings of U. (Odyssey), 318-345; the Lotos-eaters, 318, 319; Tennyson's Lotos-eaters, 319, 320; the Cyclopes, 320-323, 349; Æolus and the bag of winds, 323; the Læstrygonians, 324; the isle of Ææa, Circe, 324-327; Dobson's Prayer of the Swine to Circe, 325, 326; visit to Hades, 327, 328; the Sirens, 328, 329; Scylla and Charybdis, 329, 330; cattle of the Sun, 330; Calypso, 331; the Phæacians, 332-337; Lang's Song of Phæacia, 335, 336; Nausicaa, 332 _et seq._; return to Ithaca, 337; fate of the suitors, 338-344; Tennyson's Ulysses, 344, 345; _C. 231-244_ Underworld (Hades), described, 47-52; the garden of Proserpine, 49, 50; Greek divinities of, 47, 52-54; rivers of, 47; inhabitants of, and communication with them, 51; judges of, 51, 53, 71, 246; myths of greater gods, 159-168; Hercules' visit, 220; Ulysses' visit, 327, 328; Æneas' visit, 353-361; _C. 44-46, 47, 49_. For the Norse Underworld, see _Hel_ [=U]-ra´n[)i]-a, the muse of astronomy, 37, _C. 38_ (4); also the Aphrodite of ideal love, _C. 34_. See _M. Arnold's Urania_ [=U]'r[.a]-nus, Ouranos ([=oo]'r[.a]-n[)o]s), father of Cronus, 4, 5, 6; _C. 4_. See _Heaven_ Urd ([=oo]rd), 374 Ushas ([)oo]´sh[.a]s). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Utgard-Loki ([)oo]t´gärd-lo´k[=e]), 382-386 Väch. See _Hindu divinities_ (1) and (2) Vä´l[.a], _C. 109_ V[.a]-le´r[)i]-us Flac´cus, reference to, 269; _C. 299_ V[)a]l-h[)a]l´la, 374-376, 378, 387-390, 394, 414-419, 426-430 Valkyrias (v[)a]l-k[)i]r´y[.a][s+]), Valkyrs (v[)a]l´-k[~e]r[s+]), or Valkyries. See _Valkyries_ Valkyrie (v[)a]l-k[)i]r´[)i]), Wagner's opera of the, 416-421 Valkyries (v[)a]l-k[)i]r´[)i][s+]), Valkyrs (v[)a]l´-k[~e]r[s+]), or Valkyrias, 376, 388, 393, 402, 415, 418, 420, 421, 432 Vâlmîki (väl-m[=e]'k[=e]), 463 Varuna (v[)a]r´[)oo]-na). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Vayu (vä´y[=oo]). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Ve (v[=a]), 373, 374 Vedas (v[=a]'d[.a][s+]), the, 462 Vedic (v[=a]'dik) religion. See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Ven-[~e]r-a´l[)i]-a, _C. 34_ Ve´nus (Aphrodite), daughter of Dione, 19; wife of Vulcan, 26; foam-born, 31; attributes, 31-34; her various influence, 31, 32; favorite animals and cities, 32; artistic conceptions of, 32; E. R. Sill's poem, The Venus of Milo, 32-34; attendants of, 35, 36; star of, 40; among the Romans, 59; Cypris, 68, 69, and _ad loc._; mother of Harmonia, 71, 89; myths of, 125-150; love for Mars, and Anchises, 125, 280; Adonis, 126-128; Lang's translation of Bion's Lament for Adonis, 126-128; Cupid and Psyche, 128-139; Atalanta and Hippomenes, 139-141; Hero and Leander, 141-145; Pygmalion and Galatea, 145-147; Pyramus and Thisbe, 147-149; Phaon, 149; her vengeance, 150; Pluto and Proserpine, 159; Paris, 278, 279; in Trojan War, 284, 289, 295, 313; Æneas, 346, 352, 354, 372; as a moon-goddess, 432; _C. 34, 35, 100-106_ Verdandi (v[)e]r-dän´d[=e]), 374 Vergelmir (v[)e]r-g[)e]l´m[=e]r), 373 V[~e]r-tum´nus, 61, 195; _C. 139_ Ves´per, 138 Ves´ta (Hestia), 5, 19, 35, 59; _C. 37_ Vestal Virgins, 35 Victoria (Ni´ke), 41 Vidar (v[=e]'där), 376, 395, 396 Vigrid (v[=e][=g]'r[=e]d), 395 Vili (v[=e]'l[=e]), 373, 374 V[)i]n´g[)o]lf, 374 Vir´gil (V[~e]r-[.g]il´[)i]-us), account of, and of the Æneid, 456; references to Georgics, 141, 202; to Æneid, 47, 51, 246, 308, 310-312, 349-353, 367, 370; to Bucolics, 223; outline of Æneid, 346-372; Tennyson's poem to Virgil, 346; the Æneid, _C. 245-260_; translations, 299 Vishnu (vish´n[=oo]). See _Hindu divinities_ (2) Vitharr (v[=e]'thär). See _Vidar_ Void, 4 Volscens (v[)o]l´sen[s+]), 369, 370 Volsung (v[)o]l´s[)oo]ng), Volsungs, the saga of, 398-405, 460; in the Ring of the Nibelung, 416, 418-430; _C. 282_ Volsunga Saga (v[~e]l-s[)oo]n´[=g]ä sä´gä). See _Volsung_ Vr[)i]t´ra. See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Vul´c[.a]n (Vul-ca´nus, Hephæstus), one of the great gods, 19; meaning of name, 24; attributes, 24-26; his lameness, 25, 90; his wife, 26, 61; among the Romans, Mulciber, 59; Harmonia's necklace made by, 89, 265; myths of, 90, 91; chariot of the Sun made by, 95; V. and Orion, 122; Talus, 242; father of Periphetes, 251; Ariadne, 253; armor of Achilles, 300; of Æneas, 372; interpretations of, 434, 440; _C. 29_ Vyâsa (vyä´s[.a]), 463 Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung, 410-430 Wälse (v[=á]l´s[~e]), 416, 418 Wälsungs (v[=á]l´s[)oo]ng[s+]), 416. See _Volsung_ Waltraute (väl´trou-t[~e]), 427, 428 Water-Nymphs, 46, 58, 189, 211 Waters, Greek gods of, 55-58; older dynasty, 55; younger dynasty, 55, 56; lesser divinities, 56-58; Wordsworth's "The world is too much with us," 58; myths of Neptune, 169-171; of lesser divinities, 198-205; _C. 141_ Winds, the, Greek names and attributes of, 38, 39; myths of, 172, 179; _C. 38_ (9), _125_, table H Wo´d[.a]n, Wo´t[.a]n, Wo´den, 375, 412-430. See _Odin_ Woman, origin of, Greek, 11 Wooden Horse, the, 310-312, 337 World, conception of, among the Greeks, 42, 43 World egg, 3 Worms, 407, 409 Wo´t[.a]n. See _Wodan_ Xanten (zän´ten), 405, 406 Xanthus (zan´thus) river, 91, 97; _C. 71, 76_ Xuthus (z[=u]'thus), son of Hellen, 16; genealogy, _C. 103_, table G; _132_ (2), (5), _174_ Yam´a and Yami (yam´[=e]). See _Hindu divinities_ (1) Yggdrasil ([)i][=g]'dr[.a]-sil), 374 Ymir (ü´m[=e]r or [=e]'m[=e]r), 373, 374, 394 Yssel-land ([)i]s´el), 406 Zan´t[=e], 153 Zeph´y-rus, 38, 39, 270; and Hyacinthus, 94; Zephyr and Psyche, 129-132; _C. 38_ (9) Ze´t[=e][s+], 39, 230 Ze´thus, 75; _C. 62_ Zeus (z[=u]s). See _Jupiter_ Zeuxis (z[=u]x´is), a Greek painter of Heraclea; flourished about 424 B.C. Z[)i][=u] or Tyr (t[=e]r). See _Tyr_ Zodiac, _C. 156-162_ (Interpret.) Zo-ro-as´t[~e]r, 463 Zulus, myths among, 448 INDEX OF MODERN AUTHORS AND ARTISTS [Ordinary figures refer to pages of the Text. Figures in italics preceded by _C._ refer to sections of the Commentary and incidentally to the corresponding sections in the Text. For explanation of the diacritical marks see p. 543.] Acland, H. W. _C. 228-230_, Plains of Troy Addison, Joseph, 1672-1719. _C. 255-257_ Spectator, No. 343; _299_, transl. Metamorphoses Akenside (a´ken-s[=i]d), Mark, 1721-1770. _C. 38_ (4), (9), _128, 129-130_, Pleasures of Imagination; _C. 38_ (4), (11), Ode on Lyric Poetry, Ode to Hesper; _49_, Ode to Sleep Albani (äl-bä´n[=e]), Francesco, 1578-1660 (paint.). _C. 36_, Mercury and Apollo; _95_, Diana and her Nymphs, Actæon (two pictures, Dresden); _141_, Galatea and Cupids Aldrich, T. B., 1836-1907. _C. 195_, Pillared Arch and Sculptured Tower Alfieri (äl-fy[=a]'r[=e]), Vittorio, 1749-1803. _C. 169_, Merope Anderson, R. B. _C. 268-281_, Norse Mythology; Horn's Scandinavian Literature; Younger Edda Armstrong, John, 1709-1779. _C. 30, 50-52, 68, 149-154_, The Art of Preserving Health Armstrong, W. J. _C. 228-230_, Over Ilium and Ida Arnold, Sir Edwin, 1832-1904. Reference to, 126; _C. 303_, Indian Idylls, Light of Asia; _32_, Hymn of the Priestess of Diana; _104_, transl. Musæus; _196_, Iphigenia Arnold, M., 1822-1888. Quotation from Thyrsis, 224, 225; from Dejaneira, 228; his Merope, 242; from The New Philomela, 250; from Empedocles on Etna, 274; from Balder Dead, 388-397; _C. 8, 87_, Empedocles; _38_ (3), (4), Euphrosyne, Urania; _42_, Bacchanalia; _50-52_, The New Sirens; _156-162_, Fragment of a Dejaneira, Merope, Thyrsis; _174_, The New Philomela; _182-189_, Fragment of an Antigone; _231-244_, The Strayed Reveller; _268-281_, Balder Dead Ashe, Thomas, 1836-1889. _C. 38_ (1), The Lost Eros Bacon, Lord, 1561-1626. Wisdom of the Ancients; his method of explaining Greek Myths, 439, _C. 114-117_ Baldwin, James. _C. 282_, The Story of Siegfried, New York, 1888 Bandinelli (bän-d[='e]-nel´l[=e]), B., 1487-1559 (sculpt.). _C. 156-162_, Hercules and Cacus Banks, J. Transl. Hesiod, Callimachus, and Theognis (Bohn's Library) Barnfield, Richard, 1574-1627. _C. 174_, Song, "As it fell upon a day" (Philomela) Bartsch (bärtsh), K. F. Der Nibelunge Nôt, 461 _n_; _C. 283_ Bates, H. (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Psyche Baumeister (bou´m[=i]-st[~e]r). Denkmäler d. klassischen Altertums; see _List of Illustrations_ Beattie (b[=e]'t[)i]), James, 1735-1803. _C. 156-162_, Battle of Pygmies and Cranes; _195_, Judgment of Paris Beaumont (bo´m[)o]nt), Francis, 1584-1616, and John Fletcher, 1579-1625. _C. 38_ (1), Cupid's Revenge; _50-52, 176-181_, Maid's Tragedy Beddoes (bed´[=o]z), Thomas Lovell, 1803-1849. _C. 105_, Pygmalion; _114-117_, Stygian Naiades Benfey (ben´f[=i]) and Cosquin (co-k[)a]n´). Cited by Lang, 447 _n_ Bennett, W. C., 1820 ----. _C. 105_, Pygmalion Bernini (b[)e]r-n[=e]'n[=e]), Lorenzo, 1598-1680 (sculpt). _C. 48, 114-117_, Pluto and Proserpine; _89_, Apollo and Daphne Beyschlag (b[=i]´shlä[.c]h), J. R., 1838 ---- (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Psyche; _118_, Orpheus and Eurydice Birch, R., _C. 302_, Guide to Egyptian Rooms Blackie, J. S., 1809-1895. _C. 141_, Galatea; _176-181_, Ariadne, The Naming of Athens; _195_, Judgment of Paris; _196, 298_, transl. Æschylus Blake, William, 1757-1827. To the Muses, iii Bland and Merivale. _C. 298_, transl. Greek Anthology Bodenhausen (bo´den-hou´zen), C. von (paint.). _C. 104_, Hero and Leander Bodmer, J. J. Referred to, 461; publ. Nibelungenlied, _C. 283_ Bologna (b[=ó]-l[=o]n´yä), Giovanni di, 1524-1608 (sculpt.). _C. 36_, Flying Mercury; _156-162_, Hercules and Centaur Bordone (b[=ó]r-d[=o]'n[=a]), Paris, 1500-1571 (paint.). _C. 87_, Apollo, Marsyas, and Midas Bouguereau (b[=oo]-[=g][~e]-ro´), A. W., 1825-1905 (paint.). _C. 35_, Birth of Venus; _38_ (1), Cupid and a Butterfly; _42_, Youth of Bacchus; _131_, Nymphs and Satyr Bowring, E. A. _C. 22_, transl. Schiller; _38_ (2), Goethe's Ganymede; _60_, Schiller's Semele; _140_, Schiller's Cranes of Ibycus; _155_, Schiller's Pegasus in Harness Brandi (brän´d[=e]), Giacinto, 1623-1691 (paint.). _C. 173_, Dædalus fastening Wings on Icarus (Dresden) Bridges, Robert, 1844 ----. Extract from Eros and Psyche, 132; _C. 10-15_, Prometheus; _42_, Feast of Bacchus; _101_, Eros and Psyche; _199_, Achilles in Scyros; _231-244_, Return of Ulysses Brooks, C. T., 1813-1883. _C. 207_, Schiller's Parting of Hector and Andromache Browning, E. B., 1806-1861. Reference to, 126; extract from The Dead Pan, 183; _C. 10-15_, Prometheus Bound; _101-102_, Psyche; _131_, Flush, or Faunus; _141_, transl. Theocritus; _176-181_, paraphrases of Nonnus and Hesiod; _207_, paraphrase of Homer Browning, R., 1812-1889. Passage from his Balaustion's Adventure, 107-110; _C. 81_, Apollo and the Fates; _83, 156-162_, Balaustion's Adventure; _118_, Eurydice and Orpheus; _129-130_, Pan and Luna; _156-162_, Aristophanes' Apology; _176-181_, Artemis Prologizes; _196_, Agamemnon; _255-257_, Ixion Bryant, Jacob. Advocate of _theological_ interpretation, 440 Bryant, W. C., 1794-1878. _C. 149-154_, transl. Simonides' Lament of Danaë; _C. 231-244_, transl. Odyssey (1871) Buchanan, R., 1841-1901. Cited or quoted: from his Satyr, 186, 187; from his Naiad, 189-191; _C. 4_, Cloudland; _47_, Ades, King of Hell; _50-52_, Naiad; _98_, Selene, the Moon; _105_, Pygmalion the Sculptor; _107_, Sappho on the Leucadian Rock; _118_, Orpheus; _129-130_, Pan; _141_, Polypheme's Passion; _145_, Proteus; _231-244_, Cloudland, Penelope; _268-281_, Balder the Beautiful Buckley, T. A. _C. 298_, transl. Æschylus and Euripides Bugge (b[)oo]g´[~e]), Sophus. _C. 268-281_, edition of Elder Edda Bulfinch, S. G., 1809-1870. Extract from his translation of Schiller's Ideal and Life, 227, 228 Bulfinch, Thomas, 1796-1867. The Age of Fable; see Preface to this volume Burges (b[~e]r´j[)e]s), G. _C. 298_, transl. Greek Anthology Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, 1833-1898 (paint.). His Thisbe, 148; _C. 38_ (1), Cupid; _101-102_, Pan and Psyche; _105_, Pygmalion; _106_, Cupid, Pyramus, Thisbe; _118_, Orpheus and Eurydice; _131_, Nymphs; _149-154_, Perseus and the Graiæ; _199_, Feast of Peleus; _231-244_, The Wine of Circe Burns, R., 1759-1796. _C. 30_, The Winter Night; _155_, To John Taylor Butcher, S. H., and A. Lang. _C. 231-244, 298_, transl. Odyssey Butler, Samuel, 1612-1680. _C. 32_, Hudibras Byron, George Gordon, Lord, 1788-1824. Quoted or referred to, 452; Prometheus, 13; Age of Bronze, 15; Childe Harold, 311; _C. 10-15_, Prometheus, Ode to Napoleon; _32, 70_, Don Juan; _104, 228-230_, Bride of Abydos; _27, 30, 34, 35, 38_ (4), _41, 54, 78, 97, 228-230, 231-244_, references to Childe Harold Call, W. M. W., 1817-1890. _C. 81_, Admetus; _83_, Alcestis; _176-181_, Ariadne; _268-281_, Balder, Thor Calverley, C. S. (Blayds), 1831-1884. _C. 100_, Death of Adonis; _110-112, 141, 156-162, 170-171, 298_, transl. Theocritus; _299_, transl. Horace Campbell, Lewis, 1830-1908. _C. 298_, transl. Sophocles Campbell, Thomas, 1777-1844. _C. 38_ (11), Two Songs to the Evening Star; _163-167_, transl. of part of Euripides' Medea Canova (cä-nô´vä), Antonio, 1757-1822 (sculpt.). _C. 35_, Venus Victrix; _38_ (3), Graces; _101-102_, Cupid and Psyche; _149-154_, Perseus; _173_, Dædalus and Icarus; _176-181_, Theseus; _195_, Paris; _204_, Ajax; _207_, Hector Carlisle, Lord, 1802-1864. _C. 231-244_, Diary, note on Corfu and the Phæacians Carlyle, Thomas, 1795-1881. Transl. of fragments of Nibelungenlied, 409; _C. 283_ Carracci (cär-rät´ch[=e]), Annibale, 1560-1609 (paint.). _C. 24-25_, Jupiter and Juno Carracci (cär-rät´ch[=e]), Lodovico, 1555-1619, and Annibale (paint.). _C. 98_, Diana and Endymion; _141_, Polyphemus, Galatea, Acis Cellini (chel-l[=e]'n[=e]), Benvenuto, 1500-1571 (sculpt.). _C. 24-25_, Jupiter; _27_, Minerva; _35_, Venus; _36_, Mercury; _149-154_, Perseus, Perseus saving Andromeda Ç[~e]r-van´t[=e][s+], Miguel de, 1547-1616. Reference to, 14; _C. 16_ Chapman, G., 1559-1634. _C. 231-244, 298_, transl. Iliad and Odyssey; _104_, Marlowe's Hero and Leander; Sonnet on Chapman's Homer, see _Keats_ Chaucer, Geoffrey, 1340 (or 1328)-1400. References in _C._: The Former Age, _10-15_; The Knight's Tale, _34, 95, 176-181_; The Hous of Fame, _38_ (2), (9), _75, 173, 176-181, 199, 245-254_; The Legende of Good Women, _83, 106, 149-154, 163-167, 174, 176-181, 245-254_; The Complaint of Mars, _34, 83_; The Complaint of Venus, _34_; The Dethe of Blaunche, _125, 199, 226_; The Court of Love (?), _34, 83_; The Cuckow and Nightingale, or Boke of Cupid (?), _38_ (1); The Romaunt of the Rose (?), _132-133_; Troilus and Criseyde, _196, 226_ Church, F. S. _C. 10-15_, Pandora Clapp, E. B. Greek Morality, etc., 455 _n_ Clarke, J. F. _C. 303, 304_, Ten Great Religions Cleasby and Vigfusson (vig´f[=oo]-sun). Icelandic-English Dictionary, 458 _n_; _C. 300_ Clough, A. H., 1819-1861. _C. 95_, Actæon; _98_, Epi Latmo, Selene Coleridge, Hartley, 1796-1849. _C. 10-15_, Prometheus; _195_, Sonnet on Homer Coleridge, S. T., 1772-1834. _C. 93_, Kubla Khan Collins, Mortimer, 1827-1876. _C. 49_, The Ivory Gate Collins, William, 1721-1759. _C. 131, 132-133_, The Passions Collins, W. L. _C. 298, 299_, Ancient Classics for English Readers Colvin, S., 1845 ----. _C. 40_, A Greek Hymn Conington, J., 1825-1869. _C. 299_, transl. Æneid, Horace's Odes, etc. Correggio (c[=ó]r-red´jo), A. A., 1494-1534 (paint.). _C. 32_, Diana; _57_, Jupiter and Io; _62_, Antiope; _149-154_, Danaë Cottle, A. S. _C. 268-281_, Icelandic Poetry Cowper, William, 1731-1800. Transl. Homer, 18, 299, 331, 340, 341; _C. 30_, Yardley Oak; _44-46, 231-244, 255-257_, Progress of Error; _131-132_, On an Ugly Fellow; _145_, The Task; _298_, transl. Homer Cox, the Rev. Sir G. W., 437 _n_, 448 _n_; _C. 57, 59, 70, 72-73, 74, 76, 78, 95, 101-102, 109, 118, 141, 156-162, 172_ Crabbe, George, 1754-1832. _C. 38_ (4), Village, Parish Register, Newspaper, Birth of Flattery (Invocations of the Muse); _204_, Village Crane, Oliver. _C. 299_, transl. Æneid Creuzer (croi´ts[~e]r), Professor, and the _allegorical_ interpretation, 439 Curtin, Jeremiah. _C. 118, 149-154_, Myths and Folk-Lore of Ireland Curzon (cür-zôn´), A. de (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Psyche Dale, Thos. _C. 298_, transl. Sophocles Daniel, Samuel, 1562-1619. _C. 231-244_, Dialogue of Ulysses and the Siren Dannecker (dän´ek-[~e]r), J. H. von, 1758-1841 (sculpt.). _C. 176-181_, Ariadne Dante (dan´t[='e]) Alighieri, 1265-1321. Reference to, 14; _C. 16_ Darwin, Erasmus, 1731-1802. Extract from his Botanic Garden, 180, 247 Da´sent, Sir G. W., 1820-1896. _C. 268-281_, Popular Tales from the Norse David (dà-v[=e]d´), J. L., 1748-1825 (paint.). _C. 195_, Paris and Helen Dekker, Thomas, 1570-1641. _C. 30_, The Sun's Darling Derby, the Earl of. Transl. Homer, 21; _C. 298_ Dippold, G. T. _C. 301_, Great Epics of Mediæval Germany Dixon, R. W., 1833-1901. _C. 30_, Apollo Pythius Dobell (d[=o]-bel´), Sydney, 1824-1874. _C. 268-281_, Balder Dobson, Austin, 1840 ----. Procris, 174, 175; extract from Prayer of the Swine to Circe, 325, 326; _C. 123-124_, Procris; _141_, Polypheme Domenichino (d[='o]-m[=a]-n[='e]-k[=e]'n[=o]), Z., 1581-1641 (paint.). _C. 32_, Diana's Chase; _245-254_, Cumæan Sibyl Dosso Dossi (dôs´s[=o] dôs´s[=e]) (Giovanni di Lutero), 1479-1542 (paint.). _C. 98_, Diana and Endymion (Dresden) Dowden, E., 1843 ----. _C. 59_, Europa; _118_, Eurydice; _149-154_, Andromeda Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings, 1810-1888. _C. 182-189_, transl. [OE]dipus Tyrannus Drayton, Michael, 1563-1631. _C. 30_, Song 8 (on Apollo); _38_ (2), Ganymede Drummond, William, of Hawthornden, 1585-1649. _C. 30_, Song to Ph[oe]bus; _38_ (2), Ganymede; _50-52_, "Nymphs, sister nymphs," etc.; _100_, Statue of Adonis; _128_, Summons to Love; _149-154_, Statue of Medusa Dryden, J., 1631-1700. Extract from Alexander's Feast, 45; _C. 298_, transl. Metamorphoses and the Æneis; _49_, Alexander's Feast; _54_, Epistle to Congreve; _85-86_, Chaucer's Wife of Bath's Tale; _131_, To Mrs. Anne Killigrew; _196_, Cymon and Iphigenia; _255-257_, St. Cecilia's Day Dyer, John, 1700(?)-1758. Extracts from The Fleece, 230, 231, 314 Dyer, Louis, 1851 ----. Studies of the Gods in Greece, 446 _n_ Edwards, Miss A. B. _C. 302_, A Thousand Miles up the Nile Eliot, George (Mary Ann Cross), 1819-1880. _C. 298_, Arion Elliot, Lady Charlotte. _C. 149-154_, Medusa, 1878 Ellis, Robinson. _C. 299_, transl. Catullus Ely, Talfourd. Olympus, 446 _n_ Emerson, R. W., 1803-1882. _C. 18_, Astræa; _182-189_, The Sphinx Fawcett, Edgar, 1847-1904. _C. 231-244_, Calypso Fawkes, Francis, 1721-1777. _C. 107_, transl. Sappho Fénelon (f[=a]-n´-lôn´), François de la Mothe, 1651-1715. _C. 231-244_, Télémaque Field, Michael. Callirrhoë, 1884 Fields, A. _C. 91_, Clytia Fiske, John, 1842-1901. Citation from Myths and Myth-Makers, 432 FitzGerald, Edward, 1809-1883. _C. 182-189_, The Downfall and Death of King [OE]dipus; _196_, Agamemnon Fitzgerald, M. P. _C. 176-181_, The Crowned Hippolytus Flaxman, John, 1755-1826. _C. 199, 204, 207, 231-244_, Sketches Fletcher, John, 1579-1625 (see _Beaumont_). _C. 38_ (1), A Wife for a Month; _42_, "God Lyæus" (from Valentinian); _58_, "Hear ye ladies" (Valentinian); _50-52, 176-181_, The Maid's Tragedy; _98_, The Faithful Shepherdess; _129-130_, Song of Priest of Pan; Song to Pan (Faithful Shepherdess); _176-181_, The Two Noble Kinsmen Forestier, Auber (pseudonym for Annie A. Moore). _C. 283_, Echoes from Mist Land Forster, F. _C. 123-124_, Procris and Cephalus Foster-Barham, A. G. _C. 283_, transl. Nibelungenlied Franceschini (frän-ches-k[=e]'n[=e]), M. A., 1648-1729 (paint.). _C. 100_, Birth of Adonis (Dresden) Francklin, Thomas. _C. 298_, transl. Sophocles Frere (fr[=e]r), J. Hookham, 1769-1846. _C. 149-154_, transl. Simonides' Lament of Danaë; _156-162_, transl. Euripides' Hercules Furens Frothingham, N. L. _C. 114-117_, transl. Schiller's Festival of Eleusis; _224_, transl. Lessing's Laocoön Fuller, S. Margaret, 1810-1850. _C. 38_ (2), Ganymede to his Eagle. Garnett, Richard, 1835-1906. _C. 57_, Io in Egypt; _196_, Iphigenia in Delphi Garrick, David, 1717-1779. _C. 65-66_, Upon a Lady's Embroidery Gay, John, 1685-1732. _C. 141_, Polypheme's Song (Acis and Galatea) Gayley, C. M. Extracts from translation of Schiller's Gods of Greece, 182; from hexameter translation of Catullus' Peleus and Thetis, 253-258, 269-273 Gérard (zh[=a]-r[.a]r´), François, 1770-1837 (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Cupid and Psyche Giordano (j[='o]r-dä´n[=o]), Luca, 1632-1705 (paint.). _C. 149-154_, Perseus and Phineus; _156-162_, Hercules and Omphale; _176-181_, Bacchantes and Ariadne (Dresden) Giorgione (j[='o]r-j[=o]'n[=a]) (Giorgio Barbarelli), 1477-1511 (paint.). _C. 131_, Nymphs and Satyr; _195_, The Judgment of Paris (Dresden) Gladstone, W. E., 1809-1898. Translation from Iliad, 285. Works referred to or cited, 440 _n_; his theory of myths, 440; _C. 23_, on the number of the Olympians, and on the Olympian religion; _77_, on the Chryseïs incident Gleyre (glêr), Charles G., 1807-1874 (paint.). _C. 42_, Dance of the Bacchantes; _156-162_, Hercules at the feet of Omphale Goethe (g[~e]'t[~e]), J. W. von, 1749-1832. _C. 196_, Iphigenia in Tauris; see also under _Bowring_ and _Martin_ Goldsmith, Oliver, 1728-1774. _C. 132-133_, on a beautiful youth struck by blindness (Narcissus) Gosse, E. W., 1849 ----. Quoted: Eros, 36; from the Sons of Cydippe, 81; from the Praise of Dionysus, 156, 157; _C. 22_, Greece and England; _32_, The Praise of Artemis; _64_, Sons of Cydippe; _118_, The Waking of Eurydice; _125_, Alcyone (a sonnet in dialogue); _156-162_, Gifts of the Muses; _255-257_, Island of the Blest Gray, Thomas, 1716-1771. The Fatal Sisters referred to, 376; _C. 4_, _36_, _38_ (4), _40_, Progress of Poesy; _149-154_, Hymn to Adversity; _268-281_, Ode on the Descent of Odin, Ode on the Fatal Sisters Greene, Robert, 1560-1592. _C. 56_, Arraignment of Paris Greenwell, Dora, 1821-1882. _C. 114-117_, Demeter and Cora; _282_, Battle-Flag of Sigurd Grimm, Jakob Ludwig, 1785-1863, and Wilhelm Karl, 1786-1859. Theory of distribution of myth, 448; derivation of word Edda, 458 _n_; _C. 101-102_, The Twelve Brothers; _301_, Deutsche Mythologie Guercino (gw[)e]r-ch[=e]'n[=o]), Francesco, 1590-1666 (paint.). _C. 98_, Sleeping Endymion; _100_, Three Pictures of Adonis (Dresden); _123-124_, Aurora Guérin (g[=a]-r[)a]n´), Pierre Narcisse, 1774-1833 (paint.). _C. 123-124_, L´Aurore et Céphale; _245-254_, Æneas at the Court of Dido Hahn (hän), Werner. Modern German edition of Nibelungenlied, 407, 460 _n_, 461 _n_; _C. 283_ Hake, Thomas Gordon, 1809-1895. _C. 34_, The Birth of Venus; _149-154_, The Infant Medusa Hallam, Arthur Henry, 1811-1833. _C. 105_, Pygmalion Hamon ([.a]-môn´), J. L., 1821-1874 (paint.). _C. 123-124_, Aurora Haug (hou[.c]h), M. _C. 304_, Sacred Language and Literature of the Parsis Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864. _C. 54, 131_, The Marble Faun Head, Guy, d. 1801 (paint.). _C. 38_ (12), Iris Hem´[.a]n[s+], Felicia D., 1793-1835. _C. 83_, Alfieri's Alcestis, Death Song of Alcestis; _97_, Pleiads; _176-181_, Shade of Theseus Herrick, R., 1591-1674. _C. 38_ (1), The Cheat of Cupid, or The Ungentle Guest Hervey, Thomas Kibble, 1799-1859. Poem on Cupid and Psyche, 136, 137 Hoffmann (h[='o]f´män), J. (paint.). _C. 283_, Illustrations of the Ring of the Nibelungen Holmes, O. W., 1809-1894. _C. 98, 231-244_, Metrical Essays Hood, Thomas, 1798-1845. _C. 30_, To the Sun; _32_, To the Moon; _91_, Flowers; _104_, Hero and Leander; _114-117_, Ode to Melancholy; _231-244_, Lycus the Centaur Horn, F. W. Geschichte d. Literatur d. Skandinavischen Nordens, 458 _n_, 460 _n_ Horne, Richard Henry (Hengist), 1803-1884. _C. 10-15_, Prometheus, the Fire-bringer; _96_, Orion Hübner (hüp´n[~e]r), E., 1842 ---- (paint.). _C. 196_, Iphigenia Hunt, Leigh, 1784-1859. _C. 104_, Hero and Leander Ingelow, Jean, 1820-1897. _C. 48_, Persephone Ingres (an´gr'), J. A. D., 1780-1867 (paint.). _C. 182-189_, [OE]dipus and the Sphinx Jackson, Helen Hunt, 1831-1885. _C. 40_, Demeter; _176-181_, Ariadne's Farewell Jameson, Frederick. Translation of Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung, 411-430; _C. 284-288_ Jebb, R.C., 1841-1905. _C. 228-230_, articles on Troy Johnson, Biorn, of Scardsa, 1575-1656. On the Elder Edda, 459 Johnson, Francis, d. 1876. _C. 304_, Oriental Religions Johnson, Samuel, 1709-1784. Definition of Fable, 1 Johnsson (y[)o]ns´sun), Arngrim, 1568-1648. On the authorship of the Younger Edda, 459 Johnston, T. C. Did the Ph[oe]nicians discover America? 449 _n_ Jones, Sir William, 1746-1794. _C. 303_, transl. Sakuntala Jonson, B., 1574-1637. Hymn to Cynthia, 31; _C. 4_, Neptune's Triumph; _129-130_, Pan's Anniversary; _42_, Dedication of the King's new cellar to Bacchus Jonsson (y[)o]ns´sun), Thorleif. _C. 268-281_, edition of the Younger Edda Jordaens (yôr´däns), Jakob, 1593-1678 (paint.). _C. 110-112_, Silenus and Bacchante; _176-181_, Ariadne, Fauns, etc. (Dresden) Jordan (y[='o]r´dän), W. _C. 283_, Studies and Recitations of the Nibelunge Kaulbach (koul´bä[.c]h), W., 1805-1874 (paint.). _C. 196_, Iphigenia Keats, John, 1795-1821. Quotation from "I stood tiptoe upon a little hill," 67; from Endymion, Bk. 3, 125, 200, 201; Ode to Psyche, 137-139; Picture of Leander, 145; Sonnet on Chapman's Homer, 283; _C. 4, 54_, Hyperion; _30_, Hymn to Apollo; _32, 131_, To Psyche; _38_ (4), On a Grecian Urn; _42, 131, 155_, To a Nightingale; _48_, Melancholy; _75, 93, 98, 142, 231-244_, Endymion; _109_, Ode to Maia Keller, F., 1842 ---- (paint.). _C. 104_, Hero and Leander King, Ed. _C. 299_, transl. Metamorphoses Kingsley, Charles, 1819-1875. Extract from the Andromeda, 212; _C. 107_, Sappho; _282_, Longbeard's Saga Knight, Payne, 1750-1824. Symbolical Language of Ancient Art, 444 _n_ Kray (kr[=i]), W. (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Psyche and Zephyr Kürenberg, von (f[='o]n kü´ren-b[)e]rG), and the Nibelungenlied, 461 Kyd (kid), Thomas, end of the sixteenth century. _C. 47, 61_, Spanish Tragedy Lachmann (lä[.c]h´män), K. K., 1793-1851. Theory of Nibelungenlied, 461; _C. 283_, Nibelunge Nôt La Fontaine (l[.a] fôn-ten´), Jean de, 1621-1695. Mentioned, 2 Landor, W. S., 1775-1864. Quotations from the Niobe, 102, 103; Hippomenes and Atalanta, 140, 141; from Orpheus and Eurydice (Dry Sticks), 167, 168; _C. 26_, Hymn of Terpander to Juno; _42_, Sophron's Hymn to Bacchus; _50-52, 176-181_, To Joseph Ablett; _59_, Europa and her Mother; _76, 123-124_, Gebir; _78_, Niobe; _83_, Hercules, Pluto, Alcestis, etc.; _107_, Sappho, Alcæus, etc.; _110-112_, Last Fruit of an Old Tree; _113_, Silenus; _128_, Sonnet on Genius; _129-130_, Pan and Pitys, Cupid and Pan; _137_, Dryope; _138_, The Hamadryad, Acon and Rhodope; _170-171_, Loss of Memory; _176-181_, Theseus and Hippolyta; _195_, Menelaüs and Helen; _196_, Iphigenia and Agamemnon; _199_, Peleus and Thetis; _219-220_, The Espousals of Polyxena; _221_, Corythos, Death of Paris and [OE]none; _228-230_, Death of Clytemnestra; _231-244_, The Last of Ulysses, Penelope Lang, Andrew, 1844 ----. Quotation from The Fortunate Isles, 52; from The New Pygmalion, 145, 146, 147; Sonnet on the Odyssey, 318; A Song of Phæacia, 335, 336; transl. from Moschus, 68-70, 189; transls. from Iliad (w. Leaf and Myers), and from Odyssey (w. Butcher), see below; from Bion, 126-128; from Theocritus, 198-200, 222, 223, 224; Myth, Ritual, and Religion, and article on Mythology in Encyc. Brit, cited or referred to, Preface, 438 _n_, 440 _n_, 441 _n_, 447 _n_, 448, 449, and _C. 5, 30, 32, 58, 60, 61, 74, 89, 110-112, 114-117_. Transls. of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus referred to, _C. 38_ (1), _110-112, 156-162, 195, 298_. Poems referred to: _C. 32_, To Artemis; _50-52_, Sirens; _195, 221_, Helen of Troy; _195_, Sonnet on Iliad Lang, Andrew (Leaf and Myers). Transl. Iliad, 84-87, 104, 291, 292; _C. 298_ Lang, Andrew (Butcher and). Transl. Odyssey, 35, 327, 328; _C. 231-244_, _298_ Larned, Augusta. _C. 268-281_, Tales from the Norse Grandmother Lathrop, G. P., 1851-1898. _C. 195_, Helen at the Loom Lawton, W. C. _C. 163-167_, transl. Euripides Lazarus, Emma, 1849-1887. _C. 81_, Admetus Lee-Hamilton, E., 1845 ----. _C. 87_, Apollo and Marsyas; _149-154_, The New Medusa Lefebvre (l[~e]-fev´r'), Jules (paint.). _C. 32_, Diana and her Nymphs Leighton, Frederick, Lord, 1830-1896 (paint.). _C. 48_, The Garden of Proserpine; _83_, Hercules wrestling with Death for the Body of Alcestis; _101-102_, The Bath of Psyche; _114-117_, The Return of Proserpine; _118_, Orpheus and Eurydice; _149-154_, Perseus and Andromeda; _195_, Helen of Troy Lessing, Gotthold E., 1729-1781, _C. 69, 224_, Laocoön Lettsom, W. N. The Fall of the Nibelungers, 407-409; _C. 283_ Linton, William James, 1812-1897. _C. 118_, Eurydice; _196_, Iphigenia at Aulis Lo´beck, Chr. A., 1781-1860. Aglaophamus, 442 _n_; _C. 114-117_ Lodge, G. C., 1873-1909. Herakles, 12; _C. 10-15, 156-162_ Lodge, Thomas, 1558-1625. _C. 38_ (2), Sonnet to Phyllis Longfellow, H. W., 1807-1882. Quoted or referred to: Prometheus, 13-15; Drinking Song, 153; _C. 10-15_, Masque of Pandora, Prometheus, and Epimetheus; _96, 255-257_, Occultation of Orion; _98_, Endymion; _155_, Pegasus in Pound; _255-257_, Verses to a Child; _268-281_, Tegnér's Drapa, Saga of King Olaf Lonsdale, J., and Lee, S. _C. 299_, transl. Virgil Lorrain (l[='o]-r[=a]n´), Claude (Gel['e]e), 1600-1682 (paint.). _C. 36_, Mercury and Battus; _59_, Europa; _141_, Evening, Acis, and Galatea Lowell, J. R., 1819-1891. Quotations from The Shepherd of King Admetus, 105, 106; from Fable for Critics (Daphne), 114; from Rh[oe]cus, 193, 194; _C. 10-15, 58_, Prometheus; _36_, Finding of the Lyre; _38_ (2), (6), Hebe, Villa Franca; _44-46_, to the Past; _50-52_, The Sirens; _98_, Endymion; _118_, Eurydice Ludlow, J. M. _C. 301_, Popular Epics of the Middle Ages Lü´ning. Die Edda, 458 _n_ Lydgate, John, 1370(?)-1451(?). _C. 196_, The Troy Book Lyly (lil´[)i]), John, 1553-1606. _C.38_ (1), Cupid and Campaspe; _89, 113_, King Midas; _98_, Endymion; _107_, Sappho and Phao Lytton, Edward G. E. L. Bulwer, Lord, 1803-1873. _C. 38_ (2), Ganymede; _64_, Cydippe, or the Apples; _226_, transl. Schiller's Cassandra; _255-257_, Death and Sisyphus; _299_, transl. Horace Mabie, H. W. _C. 268-281_, Norse Stories Macaulay, T. B., 1800-1859. Quotation from Prophecy of Capys, 61; from Lake Regillus, 243-245 Maffei (mäf-f[=a]'[=e]), F. S. di, 1675-1755. _C. 169_, Merope Magnússon (mäg´n[=oo]s-s[='o]n), Arne. Derivation of word Edda, 459 _n_ Magnússon (mäg´n[=oo]s-s[='o]n), Eirikr (and William Morris). Story of the Volsungs and Nibelungs, 460 _n_; _C. 282_ Mannhardt (män´härt), W. Antike Wald- und Feld-kulte, 440 _n_; _C. 100_ Marchal, C. F., 1828-1878. _C. 231-244_, Penelope Marlowe, Christopher, 1564-1593. Extract from Hero and Leander, 142-144; from Faustus, 287, 288; _C. 245-254_, Tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage Marston, J., 1575(?)-1634. _C. 105_, Pygmalion Martin, Sir Theodore, 1816-1898. _C. 36_, Goethe's Ph[oe]bus and Hermes; _38_ (1), _163-167, 176-181, 199, 299_, transl. Catullus; _299_, transl. Horace Marvell, Andrew, 1621-1678. _C. 98_, Lord Fauconberg, Lady Mary Cromwell Maxwell. _C. 49_, Tom May's Death Mengs (menks), Anton Raphael, 1728-1779 (paint.). _C. 38_ (1), Cupid; _38_ (4), Apollo and Muses Meredith, George, 1828-1909. _C. 76_, Phaëton; _114-117_, The Appeasement of Demeter Merivale, J. H., 1779-1844 (and R. Bland). _C. 298_, transl. Greek Anthology Mi-[-c]hel-an´[.g][='e]-lo Buonarroti, 1475-1564 (sculpt. and paint.). Three Fates, 38; Cumæan Sibyl, 353; _C. 30_, Apollo; _38_ (6), The Fates; _42_, Drunken Bacchus; _49_, A Fury; _100_, Dying Adonis; _131_, Mask of a Satyr; _245-254_, Sibyls Mickle, William Julius, 1735-1788. _C. 106_, transl. of Camoens' Lusiad Millais (m[)i]-l[=a]'), Sir John Everett, 1829-1896 (paint.). _C. 139_, Pomona Millet (m[=e]-l[)e]'), Jean François, 1814-1875 (paint.). _C. 30_, Ph[oe]bus and Boreas Milman, Henry Hart, 1791-1868. Lines from the Samor, 213; _C. 76_, Samor; _110-112_, Bacchanals of Euripides; _196_, Agamemnon of Æschylus; _298_, transl. Euripides Milton, John, 1608-1674. Reference to, 14. Quoted: lines from Il Penseroso, 211, 451; from the Hymn on the Nativity, 181; from Comus, 40, 204, 205, 213, 314; from Paradise Lost, 226; _C. 16, 4-257 passim_, references to Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, Lycidas, Comus, Il Penseroso, L´Allegro, Sonnets, Arcades, Vacation Excursion, Hymn on the Nativity, Samson Agonistes Mogk, E. Article _Mythologie_ in Paul's Grundriss d. Germ. Philol., 446 _n_, 460 _n_ Molinari (mo-l[='e]-nä´r[=e]), Antonio, 1665-1727 (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Psyche and Sleeping Cupid (Dresden) Moore, Thomas, 1779-1852. Quoted: Song of Hyperborean, 43; Clytie, 117; _C. 38_ (2), Fall of Hebe; _78_, Sir R. Blackmore; _80_, Lycus the Centaur; _93, 101-102_, Cupid and Psyche; _103_, Rhymes on the Road; _104_, Hero and Leander; _106_, The Sylph's Ball; _123-124_, Legendary Ballads; _156-162_, Hylas; _304_, The Fire-Worshipers Morley, H., 1822-1894. _C. 300_, extract (on Runes) from English Writers Morris, Sir Lewis, 1833-1907. The Epic of Hades, _C. 22, 24-25_ (Zeus); _26_ (Heré); _27_ (Athene); _30_ (Apollo); _32_ (Artemis); _34_ (Aphrodite); _47, 49_ (Hades); _48_ (Persephone); _61_ (Sisyphus); _78, 118_ (Tantalus); _87_ (Marsyas); _95_ (Actæon); _98_ (Endymion); _100_ (Adonis); _101-102_ (Psyche); _118_ (Orpheus, Eurydice); _132-133_ (Narcissus); _149-154_ (Medusa, Andromeda); _156-162_ (Dejaneira); _176-181_ (Phædra); _224_ (Laocoön); _228-230_ (Clytemnestra); _78_, Niobe on Sipylus Morris, William, 1834-1896. Extracts from The Earthly Paradise, Story of Cupid and Psyche, 131, 135; Pygmalion and the Image, 146, 147; Doom of King Acrisius, 209, 210; Life and Death of Jason, 232, 233; Sigurd the Volsung, 398-404; _C. 50-52, 118, 163-167_, Life and Death of Jason; _64_, Earthly Paradise; _83_, The Love of Alcestis; _103_, Atalanta's Race; _149-154_, The Doom of Acrisius; _155_, Bellerophon; _156-162_, The Golden Apples; _221_, Death of Paris; _231-244_, transl. Odyssey; _268-281_, The Funeral of Balder; _282_, Sigurd the Volsung; _299_, transl. the Æneids Morris, William, and E. Magnússon (mäg´n[=oo]s-s[='o]n). The Story of the Volsungs and Nibelungs, 460 _n_; _C. 282_ Morshead, E. A. A. _C. 196, 298_, transl. Æschylus Motherwell, W., 1797-1835. _C. 282_, Battle-Flag of Sigurd; Jarl Egill Skallagrim; Sword Chant of Thorstein Muir (m[=u]r), J. _C. 303_, Sanskrit Texts; Principal Deities of the Rig-Veda Müller (mül´[~e]r), F. Max, 1823-1900. Cited, 434, 437, 438, 448 _n_; Oxford Essays, etc., referred to, 446 _n_; Preface and _C. 303_, Sacred Books of the East, History Sanskrit Literature, Science of Religion, Chips from a German Workshop, etc.; _C. 19-20, 24-25, 27, 36, 57, 58, 78, 81, 89, 109, 118, 126-127, 149-154, 155_, references to works in general Müller (mül´[=e]r), H. D. _C. 59_, theory about Demeter Murray, A. S. Manual of Mythology, referred to, Preface and 150 Myers, E., 1844 ----. _C. 10-15_, Judgment of Prometheus; _195_, Sonnet on the Iliad; _298_ (w. Lang and Leaf), transl. Iliad, transl. Odes of Pindar Myller, C. H. _C. 283_, edition of Nibelungenlied Neaves, Charles, Lord, 1800-1876. _C. 298_, transl. Greek Anthology Neide (n[-i]'d[~e]), E., 1842 ---- (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Charon and Psyche No´el, Hon. Roden, 1834 ----. _C. 38_ (2), Ganymede; _42_, Triumph of Bacchus; _129-130_, Pan (in the Modern Faust); _268-281_, Ragnarok (Modern Faust) Occleve, Thomas, 1370-1454. _C. 38_ (1), The Letter of Cupid Olafsson (o´läfs-sun), Magnus, 1574-1636. Edition of Snorri's Edda, 459 Paley, F. A., 1816-1888. _C. 298_, transl. Pindar's Odes Palgrave, F. T., 1824-1897. _C. 83_, Alcestis Palmer, G. H., 1842 ----. _C. 231-244, 298_, transl. Odyssey Parmigiano (pär-m[='e]-jä´n[=o]) (Francesco Mazzuoli), 1504-1540 (paint.). _C. 38_ (2), The Rape of Ganymede (Dresden) Parnell, Thomas, 1679-1718. _C. 10-15_, Hesiod, or the Rise of Woman; _42_, Bacchus Pater, Walter H., 1839-1894. Extract from Marius the Epicurean, 133; the story of Cupid and Psyche, 157, 457 _n_; _C. 40_, Myth of Demeter; _101-102, 299_, Marius the Epicurean Patmore, Coventry, 1823-1896. _C. 38_ (1), The Unknown Eros Paul (poul), Hermann. Grundriss d. Germ. Philol., referred to, 446 _n_, 460 _n_ Paupion (p[=o]-p[='e]-ôn´) E. J. (paint.). _C. 106_, Thisbe Peacock, Thomas Love, 1785-1866. _C. 110-112_, Vengeance of Bacchus Peele, George, 1558-1598. _C. 54, 195_, Arraignment of Paris Petiscus, A. H. The Gods of Olympus, 446 _n_ Phillips, Ambrose, 1671-1749. _C. 107_, transl. Sappho; _139_, Cider Phillips, Stephen, 1868 ----. Extract from Marpessa, 115, 116; from Ulysses, 338; _C. 231-244_, Ulysses Pisano (p[='e]-zä[']n[=o]), Andrea, 1270-1349 (paint.). _C. 173_, Dædalus and Icarus Pix[']is, Th., 1831 ---- (paint.). _C. 283_, Illustrations of the Ring of the Nibelungen Plump[']tr[=e], E. H., 1821-1891. Transl. Sophocles, 262-264, 267, 268; _C. 156-162, 182-189, 196, 204, 219-220, 228-230, 298_, transl. Æschylus and Sophocles Pope, Alexander, 1688-1744. Transl. Homer, 286-288, 292, 293, 306, _C. 231-244, 298_; transl. Statius' Thebaid, _299_; references to Dunciad, the Messiah, Rape of the Lock, Windsor Forest, Essay on Criticism, Prologue to Satires, Spring, Summer, Moral Essays, Miscellaneous, _8, 18, 22, 30, 34, 38_ (1), _40, 44-46, 49, 50-52, 54, 57, 65-66, 78, 97, 100, 107, 113, 118, 125, 129-130, 131, 155, 156-162, 163-167, 172, 231-244, 255-257, 260_ Potter, R., 1721-1804. _C. 298_, transl. Æschylus and Euripides Poussin (p[=oo]-s[)a]n[']), Nicolas, 1594-1665 (paint.). _C. 54_, The Kingdom of Flora; _57_, Pan and Syrinx (Dresden); _132-133_, Narcissus Poynter, Sir E. J., 1836 ---- (paint.). _C. 103_, Atalanta's Race. Note also his Andromeda, Perseus, and Andromeda and Helen Praed (pr[=a]d), Winthrop Mackworth, 1802-1839. _C. 226_, Cassandra Preller (pr[)e]l['][~e]r), L., 1809-1861. Griechische Mythologie, cited or referred to, Preface and 4 _n_, 6 _n_, 446 _n_; _C. 8, 27, 30, 32, 34, 57, 59, 60, 61, 70_, _72-73_, _78_, _95_, _105_, _110-112_, _114-117_, _123-124_, _126-127_, _149-154_, _172_ Preston, Margaret J., 1825-1897. _C. 93_, Flight of Arethusa; _125_, Alcyone; _168_, The Quenched Branch Prior, Matthew, 1664-1721. _C. 50-52_, On taking of Namur; _76_, Female Phaëton Procter, Bryan Waller, 1787-1874. _C. 4_, Fall of Saturn; _19-20_, The Flood of Thessaly; _32_, The Worship of Dian; _110-112_, Bacchanalian Song; _114-117_, Rape of Proserpine; _141_, Death of Acis; _176-181_, On the Statue of Theseus Raleigh, Sir Walter, 1552-1618. Citation from History of the World, 440 Randolph, Thomas, 1605-1634. _C. 42_, _54_, To Master Anthony Stafford Raphael (r[)a]f['][='a]-[)e]l) (Sanzio, of Urbino), 1483-1520 (paint.). _C. 28_, Mars; _30_, Apollo; _32_, Luna; _36_, Mercury; _38_, Cupids, Six Hours of Day and Night; _87_, Marsyas; _101-102_, Cupid and Psyche; _141_, Triumph of Galatea; _195_, Sketch of Homer; _245-254_, Virgil, Dido Read, T. B., 1822-1872. _C. 98_, Endymion Reed, E. A. _C. 303_, Hindu Literature Regnault (r[)e]-ny[=o]'), J. B., 1754-1829 (paint.). _C. 38_ (3), The Graces. Note also his Education of Achilles, Pygmalion and Venus, Death of Priam, and Orestes and Iphigenia Reinach (ri[']nä[.c]h), Salomon, 1858 ----. _C. 78_, Apollo Rembrandt (r[)e]m[']br[)a]nt) van Ryn, 1606-1669 (paint.). _C. 38_ (2), Ganymede carried off by Jove's Eagle (Dresden) Reni, Guido (gw[=e][']d[=o] r[=a][']n[=e]) 1575-1642 (paint.). _C. 38_ (1), Cupid; _103_, Atalanta's Race; _123-124_, Aurora Rhys (r[=e]s), John. Article in the _Academy_, 458 _n_ Richardson, F. _C. 303_, Iliad of the East Richardson, L. J. _C. 64_, Biton and Cleobis Rivière (r[=e]-vyêr[']), Briton, 1840 ---- (paint.). _C. 231-244_, Circe and the Companions of Ulysses. Note also his Argus and Actæon Robinson, A. Mary F. (Madame James Darmesteter), 1857 ----. _C. 30_, A Search for Apollo, In Apollo's Garden; _176-181_, The Crowned Hippolytus Rogers, Randolph, 1825-1892 (sculpt.). _C. 97_, The Lost Pleiad Rogers, Robert Cameron, 1862 ----. Poems: _C. 44_, Charon; _54_, The Dancing Faun; _141_, Blind Polyphemus; _159_, Hylas; _231-244_, Odysseus at the Mast, the Death of Argus Rogers, Samuel, 1763-1855. _C. 38_ (3), Inscription for a Temple dedicated to the Graces; _156-162_, On the Torso of Hercules Rohde (ro[']d[~e]), E. Psyche, 446 _n_ Romano (ro-mä[']no), Giulio Pippi, 1492-1546 (paint.). _C.38_(4), Muses; _129-130_, Pan and the Young Olympos (Dresden) Roscher (r[='o]sh['][~e]r), W. H. Ausführliches Lexikon d. griech. u. röm. Mythologie, referred to or cited, 7 _n_, 75 _n_, 93 _n_, 437 _n_; see Preface, and _C. 26_, _27_, _28_, _29_, _30_, _32_, _34_, _36_, _59_, _100_, _109_, _142_, _148_, _149-154_, _155_, _163-167_ Ross, R. S. _C. 176-181_, Ariadne in Naxos, London, 1882 Rossetti (r[='o]-set['][='e]), D. G., 1828-1882. _C. 4_, Mnemosyne; _10-15_, Pandora; _32_, Diana; _34_, _35_, Venus Victrix, Venus Verticordia; _48_, Proserpina; _50-52_, A Sea-Spell, The Siren; _104_, Hero's Lamp; _149-154_, Aspecta Medusa; _182-189_, The Sphinx (a painting); _195_, Helen; _226_, Cassandra (drawing and poem); _231-244_, Penelope, The Wine of Circe (for painting by E. Burne-Jones) Roy, Protap Chundra. _C. 303_, transl. Mahâbhârata Rubens (r[=oo][']benz), Peter Paul, 1577-1640 (paint.). _C. 32_, Diana and her Nymphs; _131_, Satyrs; _149-154_, Perseus and Andromeda; _156-162_, Hercules intoxicated; _168_, Meleager and Atalanta (Dresden); _195_, Judgment of Paris Ruskin, J., 1819-1900. The Queen of the Air, 435, 444, 445; _C. 27_ Sæmund (s[=a][']m[=oo]nd) the Wise, 1055-1133. His connection with the Elder Edda, 459 Sandys (s[)a]ndz), George, 1577-1644. _C. 299_, transl. Metamorphoses Saxe, J. G., 1816-1887. _C. 38_ (1), Death and Cupid; _76_, Phaëton; _113_, Choice of King Midas; _118_, Orpheus; _173_, Icarus; _231-244_, The Spell of Circe Scheffer (sh[)e]f['][~e]r), Ary, 1795-1858 (paint.). _C. 38_ (2), Hebe Schiavoni (skyä-vo[']n[=e]), N., 1777-1858 (paint.). _C. 38_ (2), Hebe Schiller (sh[)i]l['][~e]r), J. C. F. von, 1759-1805. Extract from his Gods of Greece, transl. by C. M. Gayley, 182; from Ideal and Life, transl. by S. G. Bulfinch, 227, 228. See under _Bowring, Lytton, S. G. Bulfinch, Frothingham, Brooks_ Schliemann (shl[=e][']män), H., 1822-1890. _C. 228-230_, Troy and its Remains, Ilios, Troja Schnorr von Carolsfeld (shn[='o]r f[='o]n kä[']-r[='o]ls-felt), Julius, 1794-1872. _C. 283_, The Nibelungen Frescoes Schobelt (sho[']belt), P., 1838 ---- (paint.). _C. 48_, _114-117_, Rape of Proserpine Schützenberger (shütz[']en-b[)e]r['][=g][~e]r), L. F., 1825 ---- (paint.). _C. 38_ (4), Terpsichore Scott, Sir Walter, 1771-1832. _C. 245-254_, Marmion (Palinurus) Scott, William Bell, 1811-1890. _C. 118_, Eurydice; _182-189_, The Sphinx; _196_, Iphigenia at Aulis Seifert (zi[']f[~e]rt), A. (paint.). _C. 228-230_, Electra Sellar, W. Y., 1825-1890. Augustan Poets, 446 _n_ Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. Extract from Macbeth, 236; _C. 4-257_ _passim_, references to works in general Shelley, P. B., 1792-1822. Quotations from Hymn of Apollo, 28, 29; Hymn of Pan, 111, 112; Arethusa, 118-120; Song of Proserpine, 160; Lines on the Medusa of Leonardo Da Vinci, 210; _C. 10-15_, _38_ (2), _57_, _109_, Prometheus Unbound; _30_, Homer's Hymn to Apollo, Adonaïs; _36_, _109_, Homer's Hymn to Mercury; _42_, _50-52_, Ode to Liberty; _44-46_, To Naples; _49_, To Night; _57_, To the Moon; _93_, Arethusa; _95_, Adonaïs; _118_, Orpheus; _141_, Cyclops of Euripides; _182-189_, Swellfoot the Tyrant Sichel (ziG[']el), N., 1844 ---- (paint.). Reference to, _C. 10-15_ Sidney, Sir P., 1554-1586. _C. 30, 156-162_, Astrophel and Stella Sill, E. R., 1841-1887. Quoted: Venus of Milo, 32-34; Semele, 72, 73 Sime (s[=i]m), James. Nibelungenlied (in Encyc. Brit.), 461 _n_ Smart, Chr., 1722-1771. _C. 299_, transl. Horace Solimena (so-le-m[=a][']nä), Francesco, 1657-1747 (paint.). _C. 121_, Rape of Hippodamia; _176-181_, Battle of Centaurs and Lapithæ Southey, R., 1774-1843. _C. 118_, Thalaba Spenser, Edmund, 1552-1599. Quoted: Verses on the Graces, 36, 37; from the Muiopotmos, 83; Faerie Queene, 454; referred to: Epithalamion, _C. 30_, _32_, _34_, _38_ (2), _42_, _98_, _126-127_, _149-154_; Prothalamion, _4, 32, 34, 50-52, 132-133, 170-171_; Tears of the Muses, _38_ (4); Faerie Queene, _30, 32, 38_ (8), _40_, _42_, _48_, _49_, _50-52_, _54_, _76_, _96_, _118_, _123-124_, _126-127_, _155_, _156-162_, _170-171_ Stanyhurst, R., d. 1618. _C. 299_, transl. Æneid, 1-4 Stapylton, Sir R., d. 1669. _C. 104_, transl. Musæus Stedman, E. C., 1833-1908. Pan in Wall Street, quoted, 183-185; _C. 22_, News from Olympia; _231-244_, Penelope Stephens, George, 1851 ----. _C. 300_, Old Runic Monuments Stoddard, R. H., 1825-1903. _C. 54_, Arcadian Hymn to Flora; _114-117_, The Search for Persephone Story, W. W., 1819-1895. _C. 32_, Artemis; _59_, Europa; _91_, Clytie; _255-257_, Tantalus Sturlason, Snorri (sn[)o]r[']r[=e] st[=oo]r[']l[.a]-sun), 1179-1241. Connection with the Prose Edda, 459; _C. 268-281_ Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of, 1517-1547. _C. 106_, Death of Sir T. Wyatt Sveinsson (sv[=i]ns[']sun), Bp. Bryniolf, 1605-1675. His connection with the Elder Edda, 459 Swanwick (sw[)o]n´ik), Anna, 1813-1899. _C. 196_, transl. Æschylus Swift, Jonathan, 1667-1745. His burlesque verses on Philemon and Baucis, 79, 80; _C. 30_, Apollo Outwitted; _54_, To Janus; _113_, Fable of Midas; _224_, A City Shower Swinburne, A. C., 1837-1909. Quoted: His Garden of Proserpine, 49, 50; from Atalanta in Calydon, 237 _et seq._; _C. 32_, Chorus to Artemis; _34_, Chorus to Aphrodite (in Atalanta in Calydon); Laus Veneris; _40_, At Eleusis; _42_, Prelude to Songs before Sunrise; _48_, To Proserpine; _114-117_, Song to Proserpine, At Eleusis; _129-130_, Pan and Thalassius; _168_, Atalanta in Calydon; _174_, Itylus; _176-181_, Phædra, Erechtheus; _182-189_, Tiresias Tabley, Lord de (pseud. Wm. P. Lancaster), 1835 ----. _C. 10-15_, Pandora; _57_, Minos; _60_, Semele; _89_, Daphne; _129-130_, Ode to Pan; _219-220_, Philoctetes; _228-230_, Orestes Talfourd (tôl[']f[~e]rd), Sir Thomas Noon, 1795-1854. _C. 174_, Ion Taylor, Bayard, 1825-1878. _C. 19-20_, Prince Deukalion; _22_, Masque of the Gods; _156-162_, Hylas; _173_, Icarus Teignmouth (t[)i]n[']muth) (English artist). _C. 64_, Cydippe Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 1809-1892. Quotations from the Hesperides, 40; Amphion, 76, 77; Locksley Hall, 124; his Tithonus, 177-179; Dream of Fair Women (Helen), 277, (Iphigenia) 281; [OE]none, 278; Lotos-eaters, 319, 320; Ulysses, 344-345; To Virgil, 346; _C. 24-25_, _30_, The Talking Oak; _38_ (2), _54_, _59_, Palace of Art; _38_, (11) The Hesperides; _40_, _114-117_, Demeter and Persephone; _104_, Hero to Leander; _149-154_, The Princess; _182-189_, Tiresias; _195_, Dream of Fair Women; _221_, [OE]none, and Death of [OE]none; _245-254_, To Virgil Tennyson, Frederick, 1807-1898. _C. 78_, Niobe; _89_, Daphne; _101-102_, Psyche; _105_, Pygmalion; _107_, Kleïs (in Isles of Greece); _125_, Halcyone; _163-167_, Æson, and King Athamas; _176-181_, Ariadne Teschendorff (tesh´en-dôrf), E., 1823 ---- (paint.). _C. 176-181_, Ariadne; _182-189_, [OE]dipus, Antigone, Ismene; _196_, Iphigenia; _228-230_, Electra Thomas, Edith M., 1854 ----. _C. 38_ (2), Homesickness of Ganymede; _81_, Apollo the Shepherd; _87_, Marsyas; _125_, The Kingfisher Thomson, James, 1700-1748. Extract from the Seasons, 195; _C. 35_, _54_, Seasons; _38_ (4), _49_, _105_, Castle of Indolence; _174_, Hymn to the Seasons; _196_, Agamemnon, a Tragedy Thorpe, B. _C. 268-281_, transl. of Sæmund's Edda Thorwaldsen (tôr[']wôld-sen), Albert Bertel, 1770-1844 (sculpt.). _C. 10-15_, Minerva and Prometheus (on vase of the Perseus); _28_, Mars and Cupid; _29_, Vulcan forging Arrows for Cupid; _35_, Venus with the Apple; _36_, Mercury; _38_, Mars and Cupid, Ganymede, Terpsichore; _80_, Hygea and Æsculapius; _100_, Adonis; _207_, Hector and Andromache Thumann (t[=oo]'män), Paul, 1834 ---- (paint.). _C. 38_ (6), The Fates; _101-102_, Cupid and Psyche Tickell, Thomas, 1686-1740. _C. 30_, To Apollo making love, transl. of Iliad, Bk. 1 (1715) Tiele (t[=e]'l[~e]), Professor C. P. Cited by Lang, 438 Tintoretto (t[=e]n-t[='o]-ret´t[=o]), Giacomo, 1518-1594 (paint.). _C. 27_, Minerva defeating Mars; _29_, Forge of Vulcan; _35_, Cupid, Venus, and Vulcan; _36_, Mercury and the Graces; _176-181_ Ariadne and Bacchus; _38_ (4), The Muses and Apollo (Dresden) Tisio (t[=e]'z[='e]-[=o]), Benvenuto, 1481-1559 (paint.). _C. 68_, Venus showing her wounded hand to Mars (Dresden) Titian (tish´[.a]n) (Tiziano Vecellio), 1477-1576 (paint.). _C. 35_, Venus; _38_ (1), Cupid and Venus (Dresden); _54_, Flora; _100_, Venus and Adonis (copy, Dresden); _149-154_, Danaë and the Shower of Gold; _176-181_, Bacchus and Ariadne Todhunter, John, 1839 ----. _C. 83_, Alcestis; _195_, Helena in Troas Translators: English Translations from Ancient and Modern Poems, by various authors (Vol. II including Rowe's Lucan's Pharsalia; Fawkes' Theocritus, Bion, Moschus, Argonautics of Apollonius Rhodius, Anacreon, Sappho; Ovid's Metamorphoses by Dryden, Addison, Garth, etc.; Lewis' Thebais of Statius; Cooke's Hesiod, etc.). 3 vols. London, 1810. For other translators, see _C. 195-244, 298-303_ Turchi (t[=oo]r´k[=e]), Alessandro (l´Orbetto), 1582-1648 (paint.). _C. 100_, Venus holding the body of Adonis (Dresden) Turner, Charles Tennyson, 1808-1879. _C. 96_ Orion Turner, J. M. W., 1775-1851 (paint.). _C. 36_, Mercury and Argus; _123-124_, Procris and Cephalus; _245-254_, Dido building Carthage Tylor, E. B., 1832-1909. Works cited or referred to, 440 _n_, 446, 449 _n_ Van Beers (vän b[=a]rs´), J., 1821-1888 (paint.). _C. 50-52_, The Siren Van der Werff (vän d[~e]r v[)e]rf´), Adrian, 1659-1722 (paint.). _C. 195_, Judgment of Paris (Dresden) Van Dyck (v[)a]n d[=i]k´), Sir Anthony, 1599-1641. _C. 38_ (1), Sleeping Cupid; _149-154_, Jupiter and Danaë (Dresden) Van Haarlem (vän här´lem), Cornelis, 1562-1638 (paint.). _C. 190-194_ (1), Wedding of Peleus and Thetis (Hague) Van Mieris (vän me´ris), Willem, 1662-1747 (paint.). _C. 123-124_, Cephalus and Procris (Dresden) Vedder, Elihu, 1836 ---- (paint.). _C. 97_, Pleiades; _245-254_, Cumæan Sibyl Velasquez (v[=a]-läs´k[=a]th), D. R. de Silva y, 1599-1660 (paint.). _C. 29_, Forge of Vulcan Vere (v[=e]r), Aubrey Thomas De, 1814-1902. _C. 30_, Lines under Delphi; _48_, Search after Proserpine; _59_, Rape of Europa; _114-117_, on the myth of Proserpine; _182-189_, Antigone Veronese (v[=a]-r[='o]-n[=a]'z[=a]) (Paolo Cagliari), 1528-1588 (paint.). _C. 30_, St. Christina, etc.; _35_, Venus, Satyr, Cupid; _59_, Rape of Europa Verrall, Arthur W. _C. 298_, transl. Æschylus and Euripides Vien (vy[)a]n), J. M., 1716-1809 (paint.). _C. 173_, Dædalus and Icarus Vigfusson (vig´f[=oo]-sun), G., and F. Y. Powell. Corpus Poeticum Boreale, 458-460 _n_; _C. 268-281, 282, 300_ Vilmar, A. F. C. Geschichte d. deutschen National-Litteratur, 461 _n_; _C. 301_ Vinci, Da (dä v[=e]n´ch[=e]), Leonardo, 1452-1519 (paint.). _C. 149-154_, Head of Medusa Voltaire (v[='o]l-têr´), 1694-1778. _C. 169_, Merope Voss (f[='o]s), G. J., 1577-1649. Advocate of _theological_ interpretation, 440 Wade, Thomas, 1805-1875. _C. 26_, The Nuptials of Juno Wagner (väg´n[~e]r), Richard, 1813-1883. The Ring of the Nibelung, 410-430; _C. 283, 284-288_ Waller, Edmund, 1605-1687. _C. 50-52, 89, 245-254_, Panegyric on Lord Protector Ward, W. _C. 303_, History, Literature, and Mythology of the Hindoos Warton, Joseph, 1722-1800. _C. 40_, First of April Watteau (v[.a]-t[=o]'), Antoine, 1684-1721 (paint.). _C. 195_, Judgment of Paris Watts, G. F., 1817-1904 (paint.). _C. 89_, Daphne; _98_, Endymion; _101-102_, Psyche; _118_, Orpheus and Eurydice. Note also his Ariadne, and The Wife of Pygmalion Way, A. S. _C. 298_, transl. Euripides; _299_, transl. Horace Weber (v[=a]'b[~e]r), A. F. _C. 303_, History of Indian Literature Webster, Augusta, 1840 ----. _C. 10-15_, transl. Æschylus' Prometheus Bound; _163-167_, transl. Euripides' Medea Welcker (v[)e]l´k[~e]r), F. G. _C. 59, 126-127_, interpretations of myths West, E. W. See _Haug_ Wheeler, B. I. Dionysos and Immortality, 446 _n_ White, Henry Kirke, 1785-1806. _C. 32_ Ode to Contemplation; _49_, Thanatos Whitelaw, R. _C. 156-162, 298_, transl. Sophocles Wickham, E. C. _C. 299_, transl. Horace Wiertz (v[=e]rts), A. J., 1806-1865 (paint.). _C. 29_, Forge of Vulcan; _199_, Fight for the Body of Achilles Wilde, Oscar, 1856-1900. _C. 38_ (1), The Garden of Eros; _174_, The Burden of Itys Wilkinson, Sir Gardner, 1797-1875. _C. 128_, on the statue of Memnon Wilkinson, W. C. _C. 298_, College Greek Course, and College Latin Course, in English Williams, Sir M. Monier, 1819-1899. _C. 303_, transl. Nalopákhyánam Williams, T. C. _C. 299_, transl. Æneid Wilson, H. H., 1786-1860. _C. 303_, transl. Rig-Veda-Sanhita; Theatre of the Hindus Wodhull, Michael, 1740-1816. _C. 163-167, 228-230, 298_, transl. Euripides Woodberry, George E. Extracts from Proserpine, 163, 164 Woolner, Thomas, 1825-1892. _C. 27_, Tiresias (Pallas Athene); _34_, Pygmalion (Cytherea); _105_, Pygmalion; _182-189_, The Sphinx Wordsworth, W., 1770-1850. Quoted: Sonnet, "The World is too much with us," 58; Laodamia, 282, 283; Excursion, 443, 444; _C. 32_, To Lycoris; _118, 129-130_, Power of Music; _219-220_, Philoctetes Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 1503-1542. _C. 34_, The Lover prayeth, etc.; _245-254_, Song of Iopas Young, Edward, 1683-1765. _C. 38_ (4), Ocean; _54, 98, 155, 245-254_, Night Thoughts Zick (ts[)i]k), A. (paint.). _C. 101-102_, Psyche Transcriber's Notes: Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. Punctuation normalized. Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. Bold markup is enclosed in =equals signs=. Greek text is transliterated and enclosed in #number signs#. Item # 108 on p. 505 is missing in original. Latin small letter c with bar is denoted by [-c]. Superscripts are indicated with a single caret (^) followed by the superscripted text. If the superscript continues for more than one character, then the text is surrounded by curly braces { and } as well. Proofreading Symbols for Diacritical Marks (In the table below, the "x" represents a letter with a diacritical mark.) diacritical mark sample above below macron (straight line) ¯ [=x] [x=] 2 dots (dieresis, umlaut) ¨ [:x] [x:] 1 dot · [.x] [x.] acute accent (aigu) ' ['x] [x'] circumflex [^x] [x^] breve (u-shaped symbol) [)x] [x)] tilde [~x] [x~] plus sign + [+x] [x+]